Part 31

"On the contrary, it will be nice for her," Dick returned, "because many a heart is caught in the rebound."

I said that this argument was too intricate for me, but it wasn't really. I knew quite well what he meant, though of course he is absolutely mistaken, as far as Sir Lionel's feelings toward me are concerned. But I had to think quickly, and I thought maybe he was right about his aunt. She would be a woman who would make any use of an emergency. And once she had compromised poor Sir Lionel, it would be too late, for I have an idea he'd be exaggeratedly honourable.

You may smile at my saying she'd compromise him. But you know what I mean. I'm not sure I do--but anyhow, I couldn't bear to have her do it, especially if it could be prevented by me. I sat still a minute, reflecting, and then asked Dick what he meant by "being engaged."

He replied that he meant the usual thing; and I replied to this that nothing could tempt me. He saw I wouldn't go back from my word, so he promised, if I would be engaged, that he'd not try even to hold my hand until I should be willing. All he would ask was, that he might tell his aunt we had a "kind of a, sort of an understanding," which might develop into an engagement, and let her tell Sir Lionel. Nothing more than that; and why should I mind, when in any case there could never have been a question of my marrying Sir L.?

I said I did mind horribly, but not on that account, and I should never marry anyone. I was almost ready to cry, I felt so wretched. I don't think I was ever as miserable in my life, dear; though, when I come to argue it out with myself, I've pretended so much to please Ellaline, it oughtn't to matter, pretending a little more.

Just then all three of the others came along, and seeing us on the beach, joined us. Dick put on a familiar air with me, as if he had rights, and I saw Sir Lionel glance from me to him, and draw his eyebrows together.

I came indoors then, to my room, and didn't go out again till dinner time. I was half afraid Mrs. Senter might already have got in her deadly work, but if she had, Sir Lionel didn't say anything to me. Only it was a horrid dinner, in spite of nice, seaside things to eat. Nobody spoke much, and I felt so choked I could hardly swallow.

Oh, I am homesick for you, dear. I hurried upstairs, as soon as dinner was over, saying I had letters to write. To-morrow, early, we start for Sidmouth, in Devonshire, going by way of Weymouth and Dorchester. As I write, looking from my window, across which I haven't drawn the curtains, I can see Sir Lionel and Mrs. Senter strolling out of the hotel, toward the beach. There's a lovely blue dusk, which the sunset struck into a million glorious sparks, and then let fade again into a dull glow, like ashes of roses. They look a romantic couple walking together. I wonder if they are talking about each other, to each other, or--about Dick and me? I feel as if I should have to scream--"Sir Lionel, don't believe it. It isn't true!" But of course, I can't. I think I shall go to bed, and then I won't be tempted to look out of the window.

Always your own loving

Audrie.

Please write at once, and address Poste Restante, Torquay.

XIV

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

Knoll Park Hotel, Sidmouth, Devon, August 2nd. Evening

My Dear Pat: I am a fool. By this time you will soon be receiving my first letter, and saying to yourself, "He is on the way to being a fool." Well, I am already that fool. I didn't see where I was drifting, but I see now that it had begun then; and of course you, a spectator, won't be dense as I was at first. You will know.

I didn't suppose this thing could happen to me again. I thought I was safe. But at forty, it's worse with me than when I was twenty-one.

I don't need to explain. Yet I will say in self-defence that, fool as I am, I am not going to let anyone but you know that I'm a fool. Especially the girl. She would be thunderstruck. Not that girls of nineteen haven't married men of forty, and perhaps cared for them. But this girl has been brought up since her babyhood to think of me as her guardian, and an elderly person beyond the pale where love or even flirtation is concerned. Imagine a daughter and namesake of Ellaline de Nesville being in the society of a man, and not trying to flirt with him! It's almost inconceivable. But Ellaline the second shows not the slightest inclination to flirt with me. She is gentle, sweet, charming, even obedient; perhaps I might say daughterly, if I were willing to hurt my own feelings. Therefore, even without Mr. Dick Burden's oppressive respect for me, I must suppose that I am regarded as a generation behind.

By the way, that young beast made me a present of a cane the other day. Not an ordinary stick, but an old gentleman's cane, with a gold head on it. He said he saw it in a shop at Weymouth, where we stopped for lunch, and thought it so handsome, he begged that I would accept it. His aunt laughed, called him a ridiculous little boy, and advised me to have "Thou shalt not steal" engraved on a gold band, with my name and address. This was to soothe my amour propre; but, while I wonder whether the thing really is a gift suitable to my years, I long to lay it across the giver's back. He gave it to me before Ellaline, too. What an idiot I am to care! I can laugh, for my sense of humour hasn't yet jilted me, if my good sense has. But the laugh is on the wrong side of my mouth.

I feel somewhat better, having confessed my foolishness--which you would have divined without the confession. The girl doesn't suspect. I enact the "heavy father" even more ostentatiously than if I weren't ass enough to prefer a role for which time and our relationship have unfitted me. But it's rather curious, isn't it, what power one little woman can wield over a man's life, even the life of a man who is as far as possible from being a "woman's man"? Ellaline de Nesville pretty well spoiled my early youth, or would if I hadn't freed myself to take up other interests. She burdens the remainder of my young years by making me, willy nilly, the guardian of her child. And, not content with that, she (indirectly) destroys what might have been the comfortable contentment of my middle age.

Women are the devil. All but this one--and she isn't a woman yet.

The dangerous part is that I am not as grimly unhappy as I ought to be. There are moments, hours, when I forget that there's any obstacle dividing Ellaline's future from mine. I think of her as belonging to me. I feel that she is to be a part of my life always, as she is now. And until I have again drummed it into my rebellious head that she is not for me, that my business with her is to see that she gets a rich, well-born, and well-looking young husband, not more than two-thirds of my age, I enjoy myself hugely in her nearness.

But, why not, after all? Just for the length of this tour in the motor-car, which throws us so constantly together? As long as I don't betray myself, why not? Why not revel in borrowed sunshine? At Graylees, I can turn over a new leaf; I need see very little of her there. She and Emily will have plenty to do, with their social duties, and I shall have my own. Let me be a fool in peace till Graylees, then. If I can be a fool in peace!

Talking of borrowed sunshine, England seems to have borrowed an inexhaustible supply from some more "favoured clime" this summer. I dare say we shall have to pay for it later. I shall have to pay for my private supply, too--but no matter.

Next to my native Cornwall, I think I prefer Devonshire; and Devonshire is being particularly kind and hospitable, offering us her choicest gifts.

It's said that the Earth is a host who murders all his guests. But he certainly gives some of us, for some of the time, glorious innings during our visit to him. I don't complain, though my stay so far has been accompanied by a good deal of stormy weather.

I remember your once remarking that Weymouth would be a good place to hide in, if you wanted to grow a beard or anything lingering and unbecoming; but you wouldn't make that remark now: there are too many pretty women in the nice, tranquil old town. Just at this season it's far from dull, and walking along the Esplanade, while young Nick mended a tire, I understood something of George the Third's fondness for the place. Certainly vanity wouldn't permit you to show your nose on parade or beach, in these times, during the beard-growing process, for there's apparently no hour of the day when a lively scene isn't being enacted on both: the sands thickly dotted with tents; charming girls bathing, chubby children playing, pretty women reading novels under red parasols, fishermen selling silver-scaled fish, boatmen soliciting custom; the parade crowded with "trippers," soldiers and sailors; the wide road noisy with motor-cars and motor-'buses; even the sea gay with boats of all descriptions, and at least one big war vessel hovering in the distance. Besides, there is the clock-tower. I don't know why I like it so much, but I do. I have a feeling that Weymouth would be worth a visit for the sake of that clock alone; and then there's the extraordinary historical and geological interest, which no other watering-place has.

Burden was anxious to go over to Portland, lured there, no doubt, by the incipient detective talent of which he boasts; but the ladies voted it too sad a place to see, on an excursion of pleasure, and perhaps they were right. The sort of woman who would like to go and spend a happy afternoon staring at a lot of unfortunate wretches dressed in a pattern of broad arrows, would go "slumming" out of idle curiosity; and I have always thought I could not love a woman who amused herself by slumming, any more than I could love one who eagerly patronized bull-fights.

Thomas Hardy's work is too near Nature's heart to appeal to Mrs. Senter, and too clever for my good sister Emily, who will read no author, willingly, unless he calls a spade a pearl-headed hatpin. But Ellaline, strange to say, has been allowed to read him. Evidently French schools are not what they once were; and she and I particularly wanted to go through Dorchester (his Casterbridge) even though we could see nothing of Hardy's place, Max Gate, except its tree-tops. A pity more English towns haven't made boulevards of their earthworks (since there are plenty that have earthworks), planting them with chestnuts and sycamores, as Dorchester has cleverly done. It was an idea worthy of a "Mayor of Casterbridge." We lingered a bit, in the car, picking out "landmarks" of resemblance to the book, and there were plenty. You know, there's a magnificent Roman amphitheatre near by; but did we stay to look at it? My friend, we are motorists! And it happened to be a grand day with the car, which, though still very new, has "found" itself. "Apollo" seemed a steed of "pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him." He chafed against stopping, and I humoured him gladly.