Chapter XVIII

Up at the house no one knew anything of the wonderful news, for Mr. Bracknel did not telephone to his wife, nor did he come home to announce it to her. Rusk, coming out on to the lawn, found Denis playing a game of croquet with his sisters. As both May and Amy were much more brilliant players than their brother, when the tutor proposed that he should join them the match promised to become a fairer one. May, who had been playing the other two, naturally took him for her partner, but when she declared that they must start all over again Amy demurred. She evidently was not enchanted with the prospect of having Denis for a whole game, and appeared to think Rusk had waited to make sure that it was May who was playing single-handed before he had offered to join in. She could make no objection, however, because at present she had adopted a policy of treating Rusk with polite and exaggerated coldness; nevertheless the game began inauspiciously. In her second shot Amy took all the hoops she wanted to take, but when she turned round it was to discover Rusk and May apparently too absorbed in conversation to notice that she had finished her break. She would not have interrupted them for the world, and in sombre silence marched over to a bench at the other side of the green.

Presently May looked up. “Oh, you’ve finished!” She glanced round to see what Amy had done. “We’re red and yellow, aren’t we?” she asked. “It’s your shot, Mr. Rusk. Just try for the blue.”

Rusk tried, and succeeded in making a happy cannon off the post. “Oh, good!” May encouraged him. “Now we must be very careful. What hoop is Denis for, Amy?”

“You can see the clips, can’t you? I suppose you’re not blind!”

Croquet is a pastime in which a vast amount of advice may be requested and given, and as Rusk and May discussed each of the former’s shots for about five minutes beforehand, and then promptly became totally oblivious to the game, Amy began to get more and more annoyed. She grew sulky and indifferent, and no longer helped Denis to go through his hoops. Several times the boy was obliged to shout to their opponents from the other side of the green that it was their turn: Amy would have waited in freezing wrath for a quarter of an hour rather than do so. At last, when May had played the wrong ball twice in succession, her patience gave way, and she flung down her mallet and stalked off to the house. Rusk and May did not even notice that she was gone till they saw Denis alone, and apparently wrapped in slumber, stretched full length on a bench. May glanced round quickly.

“Where is Amy?” she called out.

“She’s gone.”

“Gone! Where has she gone to? Has she stopped playing?”

“I should rather think so.” And Denis closed his eyes expressively.

“But what’s the matter?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s in a wax with me, I suppose.”

“With you! Why what have you done?”

“You’d better ask her. Somebody always gets like that over croquet, any way. It’s the most interesting thing in the game--trying to pick out who it will be.” He happened to glance at Rusk. “She’s angry with me, because I missed the same hoop three times. She says I spoil everything.”

May sat down beside him. “Well, what shall we do now?” She tapped the toe of her shoe with her mallet, and looked up at her partner.

“I’ll play against you and Mr. Rusk, if you like,” her brother suggested. “But you’ll have to give me lots of bisques--twelve.” And he went over to take his shot.

The game now proceeded more pleasantly, till by and by Mrs. Bracknel made her appearance.

“Where is Amy?” she asked as she settled herself. “Run and tell her tea is ready, dear,” she added to Denis. “It is just being brought out now. I thought it would be nicer to have it in the garden.”

Denis went off, but returned without his sister. “She’s going to have tea in her own room,” he announced. “She’s got a headache.”

“Got a headache?” his mother questioned anxiously. “Why I thought I saw her out here only a few minutes ago. It must be the hot sun. I am sure it would be better to wait till the evening to play your games.... Dear, do take your hands out of your pockets. It makes you look so--so I don’t know what. And give Mr. Rusk his tea. Where are your manners? You never see Mr. Rusk lounging about like that, I’m sure.”

Denis did as he was told. “Manners make the man,” he agreed. “Mr. Rusk, please accept this cup of tea, and select some grub.” Then he sat down on the grass at his mother’s feet.

“I wonder what is the matter with her?” Mrs. Bracknel went on anxiously. “I’m afraid she can’t be well. I wish she would see a doctor. Don’t you think she is looking very white?”

“Amy never had much colour,” May replied indifferently.

“She had a better colour than she has now. She isn’t looking at all well.”

“Why doesn’t she go away for a bit?” Denis suggested.

“I wish she would. I have been trying to persuade her to. I want her to go to her Aunt Lizzie, who, I’m sure, would be delighted to have her. But she says she hates going away, and that she is much better here. And she’s so headstrong there’s no getting her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. I shall speak to her again.... Denis, dear, wouldn’t you be better with a hat? You shouldn’t sit in the sun like that; you’ll get a sunstroke.”

“Do you say you have spoken to her already?” May asked.

“I spoke to her this morning; but she’s getting so irritable that----”

“I shouldn’t advise you to say anything more about it then. If you do, she’ll think we all want to get rid of her. You know what she’s like.”

Mrs. Bracknel’s gentle eyes opened wider. “As if she could possibly think such a thing!”

“It’s exactly the sort of thing she _would_ think, or say, at any rate.”

“But why should we want to get rid of her?”

“Oh, we don’t, of course,” said May, a little impatiently. “I’m only telling you what she’ll think. You know yourself the extraordinary notions she gets hold of.”

“We might all go away, for that matter,” her mother murmured, “only your father doesn’t like the idea. It seems to him to be a waste of the garden.”

“He’s quite right,” Rusk interposed. “The garden couldn’t be nicer than it is at present.”

“Oh, for my part, I’m perfectly content to be here,” Mrs. Bracknel replied hastily. “It’s only that a change might do the children good.”

“But Amy and I were away all the spring,” said May, to whom this unexpected inclusion of herself in the plan was by no means agreeable. “I don’t in the least want to go away again. Amy can go if she likes--she gets on much better with Aunt Lizzie than I do.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t wish to make any of you go against your will,” said Mrs. Bracknel, plaintively. “Only you never _used_ to be so averse to leaving home.”

“Don’t you think we had better finish the game, or something?” said Denis, coming to the rescue. “It’s Mr. Rusk’s shot with yellow.”

Rusk took up his mallet and strolled across the green. May bent forward at the same time and kissed her brother. Neither Rusk nor Mrs. Bracknel saw her, and Denis made no sign. He stood there, smiling a little, beside, and slightly behind, his mother, his hands once more in his pockets.

“I knew you would do that,” he cried gaily, as Rusk, failing to get his hoop, left everything in beautiful position for the next player. “It was rather nice of you, all the same. As papa says, it is so difficult to trust people nowadays!”

Rusk returned to the bench where the two ladies were sitting, and Mrs. Bracknel smiled upon him. “You are so good to Denis, Mr. Rusk!” she murmured. “He is looking so much better since you came!”

“I’m afraid we all impose upon Mr. Rusk’s good-nature,” said May, as the young man murmured something inaudible. “We never give him a moment’s peace.” She moved away toward a corner of the ground where Denis had just knocked her ball, and Mrs. Bracknel went on:

“Don’t you think yourself he is really better, Mr. Rusk? I was beginning to be a little anxious about him. I wonder if it is only that he is happier with you. I know he _is_ happier, very much happier, of course, but don’t you think there is something more than that? Don’t you think he is really better, physically, too?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” said Rusk, hopefully. “I think he is a good deal better.”

Mrs. Bracknel’s dark eyes rested upon him in gentle confidence. “I am very fond of Denis, Mr. Rusk,” she said softly.

Rusk smiled. “I am sure you are,” he answered. Then, after a slight pause: “I am, too. He’s a ripping little chap.”

Mrs. Bracknel was silent a moment. “I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you for all your kindness to him.”

“Oh, the kindness is all on his side,” laughed Rusk, rather awkwardly. “I mean, for not exposing me. He’s about ten times cleverer than I am, you know.”

Mrs. Bracknel looked at him in mild surprise, as if doubtful whether to take this as a personal confession or not. In the end she decided to see it in a humorous light, and smiled a little.

It always embarrassed Rusk to be thanked for anything. He would much have preferred, so far as he himself was concerned, that people should take things for granted. The next moment, however, Denis came up and saved him any further expression of gratitude. The boy sat down on the bench beside them. He took up a book his mother had brought out from the house with her, and began to turn the leaves.

“Miss Birch sent me that a day or two ago,” Mrs. Bracknel murmured. “I can’t say I find it very interesting. It is by James. I remember reading some of his books when I was a girl, but this is not so good. The others were more historical. Perhaps you have read it, Mr. Rusk?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. What is it called?” asked Rusk, whose thoughts had been wandering.

“It is called--oh, I never can remember names.” She took the volume from her son and consulted the title-page--“‘Princess Casamassima.’”

“No; I don’t think I have read it.”

“There is such a strange person in it--a Madame something or other----” She turned the leaves. “Madame Grandoni. A most peculiar character, and not at all natural. She says that she is a hundred and twenty. It seems so odd, for she appears to be quite active and intelligent.”

“A hundred and twenty!” Rusk repeated in astonishment.

“Yes. Here is the place. And she says it again somewhere else, I think.”

Rusk took the book and read a few lines. “Ah, yes.... I fancy she is speaking figuratively, don’t you think?” he remarked after a short pause.

“I suppose she must be,” Mrs. Bracknel answered gently, “but isn’t it peculiar to make anyone talk like that? I mean, so few people--even quite elderly people--want to make themselves out older than they really are.”

“Very few indeed,” Rusk agreed. Then, seeing that Mrs. Bracknel had found her place, he decided that it was an excellent opportunity to go and look at the roses with May.