Chapter XXVII

Daphne was never sure in what proportion her feelings were mixed in the days between her engagement and her marriage. Doubt would tinge her happiness; but it was never very active, and the period, as a whole, was flooded with a bright light of pleasure. The brightness put out every ember of annoyance at the reception of "Madame Rolland." If ever she desired a glowing press, she got it now. "Mr. Tenter Bruno's daughter to wed War Hero," the paragraphs were headed; "The Hero of Wittfontein to Wed." Two of the papers mentioned, "Miss Daphne Bruno is herself an authoress, having produced in her twenty-second year an artless and charming little story." But most, thank goodness, seemed never to have heard of "Madame Rolland."

She was too happy with it all, imagining Miss Vidella, Miss Sims, Trudy Wayne, Winnie Chatterton, and all her scattered friends reading the news, to be more than palely jealous when the majority of the papers occupied themselves with Roger's career or her father's. But in her mind she hid the resolve to create a work that one day--if only after death--would make Roger chiefly famous as the husband of Daphne Bruno.

Roger took her to Porth Wannick, the Muirheads' house in Cornwall. Of the romantic character of this house on the rocks Roger had often spoken; and when she saw it, she declared that it was far more amazing than he had painted it. You turned aside from the Penzance Road, by the ruins of a disused mine, and went down and down a narrow lane, passing the Porth Wannick land on your left, till you reached a smuggler's cove, where you saw in the very rocks the tiny harbours and docks cut by that fine buccaneering scoundrel, old Captain Helco, for his guilty craft. The house, grey like the rocks, rose above the largest of the tiny harbours, which was now a swimming bath for the residents. It was not large, being but a two-storied, rectangular mansion, under a hipped roof. But the windows were mullioned, the central hall door was an antique purchased from a fifteenth-century house, the gardens were laid in terraces above the rocks, and behind them swept the farm-lands of the estate. Here, for seven months of the year, Sir Roger played Lord Bountiful to the natives, experimenting on his soil to see if he could make all their fortunes by growing beet for sugar there; or by trying to cure the conservatism of the pilchard fishers by introducing improvements in their methods and their boats.

The placid Lady Muirhead and he received Daphne with a parental delight. It seemed that their son, who treated his father with a sort of feudal respect, had long told them of the girl in Sussex whom he was determined to capture. And now he brought her there with a hint of triumph. Lady Muirhead, probably thinking that such was her expected part, fell in love with "the new daughter" at once; and Sir Roger, who, when you lived with him like this, was found to be surprisingly old, mingled in his attitude jocosity, patronal tenderness, and a garrulous intolerance. Daphne liked them both, only feeling ill at ease at the amount of religion Sir Roger maintained in his house. Never did she dare to shock him or his acquiescent lady by confessing that she had no religion at all.

In truth, she was afraid of Sir Roger, who steam-rolled you out with his talk, though your brain saw a hundred weaknesses in his argument. But you didn't answer him with the incisive replies that occurred to you. It would have been like fighting against a steam-roller with a scalpel. He was only seventy-three, but she suspected that after his retirement from active part in the Muirhead Traders, which was his life's creation, senility was setting in early. She wondered what her father would think.

Mr. Bruno came down to Forth Wannick for a month, and appeared to think a good deal, as his host tossed bits of walnut into his mouth (one bit following another before it was really due), and, chewing them rapidly, announced to his guest the truth on all subjects. Little doubt he annoyed Mr. Bruno by seeing a comparison between the creation of books and his own creation of the Muirhead Traders, and between the fame of a great critic and the fame of a trading firm. "I suppose some of you writers, Bruno, make a good thing of it," said he, chewing one walnut and prospecting in the dish for another.

Mr. Bruno said it depended on what was meant by "making a good thing of it."

"Why, making a living, of course," explained Sir Roger. "What else?"

There were those who interpreted it differently, suggested Mr. Bruno.

"Oh, stuff and nonsense, Bruno, stuff and nonsense," Sir Roger buffered. "I know all that gammon backwards--knew it when I was sixteen. A clever fellow like you knows at the back of your mind that the impulse to acquire shekels and power is what makes the world go round. Give me those fellows who acknowledge it frankly and get on with the job."

"You can have them," answered Mr. Bruno, concealing his restiveness behind a smile; "and no doubt they'll join your Liberal Association down here, and the parish church."

"Yes, and why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they?" snapped the host, the red light appearing in his eyes.

"Why shouldn't they," echoed Mr. Bruno, "if the harmony is complete?"

"Of course it's complete--complete as you make 'em. Liberalism and Christianity, it's all the same; it's just _Noblesse oblige_." Sir Roger repeated the phrase: "_Noblesse oblige_."

As became the wiser man, Mr. Bruno retired from the developing battle with a shrug. And Sir Roger rolled on.

Her father summed up Sir Roger to Daphne, when he met her next morning before breakfast, walking on the terrace-gardens above the rocks.

"Uncouth, dear," said he sadly. "Uncouth."

Daphne nodded, and hinted that Sir Roger was getting old.

Mr. Bruno agree, and continued without a smile:

"But what an honourable life he can look back upon! He's created the Muirhead Traders, who operate in the East, where very large profits are consistent with Christianity. He was telling me all about it last night. And he's been able to retire with a great income. He's been able to keep his boy out of it--though why he should have wanted to I don't know--and he's going to give him three thousand a year when he marries you."

"Golly!" exclaimed Daphne.

"Yes, a wonderful old man," reflected Mr. Bruno. "I think he must have gone up Sinai once and been given God's final opinion on every subject under the sun."

"Daddy!" laughed his daughter.

"Well, what else can it be, when to criticise anything he says is to verge on blasphemy? It's a marvellous state of mind to get into, when you can so believe in your commercialism that any questioning of it is about equivalent to saying that Christ might have sinned. But the boy's all right--your boy's all right. He has the grace to mix shame with reverence in his attitude towards his parents."

Daphne was looking at the peacock which had appeared on the terrace above.

"Gracious goodness, Duffy!" exclaimed her father, "is that a peacock? What a very appropriate pet for Sir Roger! ... I am afraid your father-in-law's a little vulgar. Don't you think so?"

It was quite a new idea to Daphne, and worried her for a day or two. But the scales fell to Roger's side again when the news came through of his adoption as Liberal Candidate for the Middle East Division of Sussex. Eagerly they read together the little stack of Sussex papers that reported the meeting of the Liberal Council, or commented on its choice. The Radical _Gazetteer_ was gushing:

"The Middle East Division is to be congratulated on their new Liberal candidate. This constituency, predominantly agricultural, is one of the most difficult for Liberalism to win. But now with the adoption of Captain Muirhead, all the signs point to a great and resounding Liberal victory at the next general Election. That desirable event, we hope, will not be long delayed, believing that the Balfour administration is as much discredited here as it is in the great industrial centres. All that was needed was to secure a popular and able candidate. Captain Muirhead has everything in his favour. He has been familiar with the district since childhood, one of his father's houses being situated within its bounds. He is engaged to the daughter of one of its most distinguished residents. His war reputation will effectually quench any pro-Boer nonsense...."

And another paper said:

"If Captain Muirhead is able to wrest this stronghold from its Tory masters it will give him a magnificent start in his Parliamentary career."

And another:

"One must not omit the signal advantages possessed by Mr. Muirhead in his beautiful fiancée. All the world knows that he is engaged to the talented and charming Miss Daphne Bruno. Perhaps it is not for us to express our hope that, when the election comes she will be, not his _fiancée_, but his wife. If she inherits her father's gifts, and his witty radicalism, she will be an invaluable lieutenant for the gallant captain."

"Oh, I shall never be able to speak in public," interjected Daphne, "if that's what they mean. But I shall love doing everything else."

"By Jove!" said Roger, who did not always listen to his _fiancée_. "We simply must win, after all this puff."

"Oh, rather!" agreed Daphne. "Let's begin nursing the constituency at once."

He gave her a kiss in acknowledgment of her enthusiasm.

"When will there be a general election?" she asked, while still in his arms.

He grinned down at her proudly.

"A question that interests me much more is, when will you marry me?"

"Oh, not yet. I'm much more interested in politics. It's such fun being engaged. There's no hurry, is there?"

At this Roger released his hold and turned away.

"I can't understand girls," said he. "They seem differently made from men."

Daphne knew that he was slightly hurt about something.

"Why, what's the matter now?" she laughed. "Oh, I know I've said something wrong."

"Oh, if you don't understand, you don't.... That's where the trouble lies. If you wanted me in the way I want you, you would understand."

"Of course I want you, Roger."

"My dear, you don't understand the meaning of 'want.'"

"But Daddy said we weren't to get married at once."

"We could have got over that.... Well, never mind; it's only another way of saying you're cold."

"Oh, I'm not," denied she, for it was one of her prides that she was an ardent nature. The "Oh, I'm not," a Cockneyism into which she fell when indignant, made Roger frown.

"Yes," she added hastily, "I know I said that like a Cockney serving girl." (She would borrow her father's phrases, and air them as her own.) "I got it from talking too much to the servants when I was a kid. However, what were we saying? I'm not cold. I'm ardent."

Once again he took her into his arms and smiled down tolerantly upon her.

"Surely you're the most innocent girl that ever got engaged."

It was rather annoying, this assumption that she was a fool, and she retorted:

"I'm not innocent at all. I know everything and exactly what you mean."

His hold relaxed a shade, and she realised that this, too, had disappointed him. She was seeing in his mingled thoughts what he himself hardly knew to be there: that while he desired her much, he wanted her to be innocent--for somehow an innocent girl gave more to men's desire.

Panic stirred sometimes as (she supposed) with every engaged girl; but she was too excited and happy, on the whole, to let it come far into consciousness. Once, however, it escaped her guard, and ran about riotously. She had spoken lightly of religion. Roger was annoyed--less, she suspected, from the strength of his own religion than because he thought she ought to be converted, like a princess marrying a foreign king, to the traditional religion of her sovereign's house. And she said forthwith:

"I know I'm going to shock you, Roger; but this is the truth. The only reason I want to be married in church is because it's always done, and a registry office sounds horrid. And I want to wear a white dress and have a crowd of people there."

Roger's features palpably tightened.

"It's no good being angry.... You ought to be pleased with me for trusting you and being so open. I could quite easily lie about it. But the plain truth is, that I haven't got any religion."

Roger then began an irreproachable homily on the necessity of some religion in life, but before he got very far, Daphne, irritated, burst in:

"But, Roger dear, frankly now. What's the sense of you preaching Christianity to me? I know you for what you are, and I'm fond of you for what you are. And I know you to be ambitious (just as I am), and that you like everything of the best (as I'm sure I do), and that you like to be on top and to flatter yourself you don't easily play second-fiddle. Well, that's all perfectly delightful, but it's not Christianity."

Roger wrinkled his brow to think out an answer; but she had thought it out quicker, and knew what he was going to say.

"I don't know that you're right, Duffy. There must be 'top-men' in the world. Only it's the duty of the men on top to care for their workers and servants all they can, and so to serve them."

"Well, I'll be a Christian, if that's all it is--so long as I'm one of the top-dogs."

He let her rebelliousness pass, only grinning, as if he could afford to wait in the knowledge that the time would come when he, with his stronger mind, would be able to mould her to the pattern he desired. It was rather like the grin one might give to a pet dog who tried to get a stick out of one's hand.

Panic was running in Daphne, while she thought that life seemed to be made up of making mistakes, going too far with them, being too gentle to turn back, and accepting as punishment a ruthless life-sentence.

She was rather frightened, though pretending to be delighted, with the big house in Fettes Gardens, South Kensington, which Sir Roger had offered them as a wedding present. As she walked up its four or five stories, and calculated that it would require a butler and four or five women servants, she wondered how ever she would be able to manage them. She felt very little different from what she had done in Miss Vidella's form-room; and how could a schoolgirl command this battleship? The similar houses to left and right frightened her with a picture of their wealthy and competent ladies. So did the tall well-bred houses opposite, on the other side of the railed-in gardens. "I feel like a pea in a pod too big for it," she thought. But she was careful not to show her feelings to Roger, lest he found her even more inadequate.

"I'll do it. I'll manage it. After all, these terrible women next door, and the dowagers over the road, must have started somewhere."

They married Daphne at St. Patrick's, Fettes Gardens, in the August after the signing of peace with the Boers, when Owen had returned to play an exceedingly important and well-dressed part in the ceremonies. She was very proud of her men. Who there looked like her father, on whose arm she was, or Roger, who took her at the chancel steps, or Owen, who had appointed himself vicar's warden and master pew-opener? At sixty-two her father's hair, not at all to his displeasure, had gone quite white, but his tall figure was as slender and neat as Owen's. She enjoyed the excitements to the full, and only felt a warming of the eyes when, on going to her carriage to drive to the station, Hollins, who had hardly taken her eyes from the bride all the afternoon, cried as she hugged and kissed her, saying: "The meaning 'll have gone of life, Miss Duffy, with you gone. The meaning 'll sort have somehow gone out of life. God bless you, dear. God bless you." Her father just kissed her, patted her on the shoulder, and made a joke.

He delayed on the steps, however, to watch the carriage receding along the road towards the first corner. That carriage, of which he could see only the hinderparts and the horse's twinkling heels, was taking Daphne out of his range and beyond his call. His jaw jerked forward at the thought. The stream of life, so he put it, had brought her to him where he drifted, and running rapidly on, like the unsentimental thing it was, had floated her away before he had hardly touched her; and he would never catch her now. Pain and bewilderment sat uncomfortably at his heart. "I missed her. I missed her somehow." A variant of something Daphne had often uttered of late, with crumpled brow, seemed the best expression of what he was feeling: "I don't know. One doesn't learn how to adjust oneself to life till it's nearly time to die."

The carriage turned the corner, and old Sir Roger called: "Come on, Bruno; it's all over now." (Detestable the way he called you "Bruno," as if he were your equal!) He turned and walked over the doormat into the house. The chaff and laughter of the guests was beginning to sound hollow, and the whole assembly to show its fractures, now that its centre had been driven away. Mr. Bruno thought of his home, and his study, and his books; and made an excuse for returning to them.