"I've never heard such nonsense in my life," I said. "Perhaps she has fine eyes, but otherwise she is quite ordinary. The most ordinary person I have ever met. Why, I can say what I like to her, I can talk of anything, I don't have to put on any sort of special manner of behavior in front of her, it is the easiest thing in the whole world merely to sit down in a chair in front of her and light my pipe."

"I thought you said you had no time to talk to her?"

"Don't quibble. Of course we talked at dinner, and out upon the acres. The point I wish to make is that it required no effort."

"Evidently."

"As to being beautiful, I shall have to tell her. She will laugh at that. Naturally the people stared at her. They stared at her because she was Mrs. Ashley."

"That as well. But not entirely. Anyway, whether she be ordinary or not, she seems to have made a great impression on you. Of course she is middle-aged. Quite thirty-five I should say, wouldn't you? Or do you think her less?"

"I haven't the remotest idea, not do I care, Louise. I'm not interested in people's ages. She could be ninety-nine for all I know."

"Don't be ridiculous. Women don't have eyes like that at ninety-nine, nor that complexion. She dresses well. That gown was excellently cut, so was the mantle. Mourning certainly does not appear drab on her."

"Great heavens, Louise, you might be Mrs. Pascoe. I've never before in my life heard such woman-ish sort of gossip come from you."

"Nor I such enthusiasm from you, so it's t.i.t-for-tat. What a change in forty-eight hours. Well, one person will be relieved and that's my father. He feared bloodshed, after you saw him last, and who shall blame him?"

I was thankful the long hill had come, so that I could get out of the carriage and walk up it, with the groom, to ease the horses as was our custom. What an extraordinary att.i.tude for Louise to take. Instead of being relieved that my cousin Rachel's visit was pa.s.sing off so well she appeared quite put out, almost angry. It seemed to me a poor way to show her friendship. When we came to the top of the hill I climbed in again and sat beside her, and we did not say a word to one another the whole way. It was quite ridiculous, but if she made no attempt to break the silence I was d.a.m.ned if I would either. I could not help reflecting how much more pleasant had been the drive going down to church than the return.

I wondered how the other pair had fared in the second carriage. Pretty well, it seemed. When we descended from our carriage and Wellington had turned round to make way for them, Louise and I stood by the door and waited for my G.o.dfather and my cousin Rachel. They were chattering like old friends, and my G.o.dfather, generally rather blunt and taciturn, was holding forth upon some subject with unusual warmth. I caught the words "disgraceful" and "the country won't stand for it." I knew then that he was launched upon his favorite subject, the Government and the Opposition. I wagered to myself that he, for his part, had probably not eased the horses by walking up the hill.

"Did you have a pleasant drive?" inquired my cousin Rachel, searching my eye, a tremor at her mouth, and I could swear she knew from our stiff faces how the drive had been.

"Thank you, yes," said Louise, standing back, allowing her to pa.s.s first, in courtesy; but my cousin Rachel took her arm and said, "Come with me to my room, and take off your coat and hat. I want to thank you for the lovely flowers."

My G.o.dfather and I had barely had time to wash our hands and exchange greetings before the entire family of Pascoe was upon us, and it devolved upon me to escort the vicar and his daughters round the gardens. The vicar was harmless enough, but I could have dispensed with the daughters. As to the vicar's wife, Mrs. Pascoe, she had gone upstairs to join the ladies like a hound after quarry. She had never seen the blue room out of dustcovers... The daughters were loud in praise of my cousin Rachel, and like Louise professed to find her beautiful. It delighted me to tell them that I found her small and entirely unremarkable, and they uttered little squeals of protestation. "Not unremarkable," said Mr. Pascoe, flipping the head of a hortensia with his cane, "certainly not unremarkable. Nor would I say, as the girls do, beautiful. But feminine, that is the word, most decidedly feminine."

"But, Father," said one of the daughters, "surely you would not expect Mrs. Ashley to be anything else?"

"My dear," said the vicar, "you would be surprised how many women lack that very quality."

I thought of Mrs. Pascoe and her horselike head, and swiftly pointed out the young palms that Ambrose had brought back from Egypt, which they must have seen a score of times before, thus turning, it seemed to me with tact, the conversation.

When we returned to the house, and entered the drawing room, we discovered Mrs. Pascoe telling my cousin Rachel in loud tones about her kitchen-maid, brought to trouble by the garden boy.

"What I cannot understand, Mrs. Ashley, is where it happened? She shared a room with my cook, and as far as we know never left the house."

"How about the cellar?" said my cousin Rachel.

The conversation was instantly stifled as we came into the room. Not since Ambrose had been home two years before had I ever known a Sunday pa.s.s as swiftly. And even when he was there it had dragged many times. Disliking Mrs. Pascoe, indifferent to the daughters, and merely suffering Louise because she was the daughter of his oldest friend, he had always angled for the vicar's company alone, with my G.o.dfather's. Then the four of us had been able to relax. When the women came the hours had seemed like days. This day was different.

Dinner, when it was served, with the meats upon the table and the silver polished, seemed to spread itself before us like a banquet. I sat at the head of the table, where Ambrose had always sat, and my cousin Rachel at the further end. It gave me Mrs. Pascoe as a neighbor, but for once she did not goad me to a fury. Three-quarters of the time her large inquiring face was turned to the other end; she laughed, she ate, she forgot even to snap her jaws at her husband, the vicar, who, drawn out of his sh.e.l.l for possibly the first time in his life, flushed and with eyes afire, proceeded to quote poetry. The entire Pascoe family blossomed like the rose, and I had never seen my G.o.dfather enjoy himself so much.

Only Louise seemed silent, and withdrawn. I did my best with her, but she did not, or would not, respond. She sat stiffly on my left hand, eating little and crumbling bits of bread, with a fixed expression on her face as if she had swallowed a marble. Well, if she wanted to sulk, then sulk she must. I was too much entertained myself to worry with her. I sat hunched in my chair, resting my arms on the sides of it, laughing at my cousin Rachel, who kept encouraging the vicar with his verse. This, I thought to myself, is the most fantastic Sunday dinner I have ever sat through, eaten, and enjoyed, and I would have given the whole world for Ambrose to be there, sharing it with us. When we had finished dessert, and the port was put upon the table, I did not know whether I should rise, as I usually did, to open the door, or if, now I had a hostess opposite me, it would be her place to give some signal. There was a pause in the conversation. Suddenly she looked at me and smiled. I smiled back at her in answer. We seemed to hold each other for a moment. It was queer, strange. The feeling went right through me, never before known.

Then my G.o.dfather remarked in his gruff deep voice, "Tell me, Mrs. Ashley, does not Philip remind you very much of Ambrose?"

There was a moment's silence. She put down her napkin on the table. "So much so," she said, "that I have wondered, sitting here at dinner, if there is any difference."

She rose to her feet, the other women too, and I went across the dining room and opened the door. But when they were gone, and I had returned to my chair, the feeling was with me still.

12.

They all went off about six o'clock, as the vicar had to take evensong in another parish. I heard Mrs. Pascoe engage my cousin Rachel to pa.s.s an afternoon with her during the week, and each of the Pascoe daughters pressed their claims upon her too. One wanted advice upon a watercolor, another had a set of covers to be worked in tapestry and could not decide upon the wools, a third always read aloud to a sick woman in the village every Thursday, could my cousin Rachel possibly accompany her, the poor soul had such a wish to see her. "Indeed," said Mrs. Pascoe, as we advanced through the hall to the front door, "there are so many people who desire to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ashley, that I think you can reckon upon engagements every afternoon for the next four weeks."

"She can do that very well from Pelyn," said my G.o.dfather; "we are situated handily for visiting. More so than here. And I rather believe we are to have the pleasure of her company within a day or two."

He glanced at me, and I made haste to reply and squash the idea before further entanglement was possible.

"Not so, sir," I said, "my cousin Rachel remains here for the present. Before she becomes involved in any outside invitations she has the whole of the estate to visit. We begin tomorrow by taking tea at the Barton. The rest of the farms must be taken in their turn. Great offense will be given if she does not pay her respects to every one of the tenants in strict precedence."

I saw Louise look at me wide-eyed, but I took no notice.

"Oh, well, yes of course," said my G.o.dfather, in his turn surprised, "very right, very proper. I would have suggested conducting Mrs. Ashley myself, but if you are prepared to do so that is quite another matter. And if," he went on, turning to my cousin Rachel, "you find yourself uncomfortable here-Philip will forgive me, I know, for saying this, but they have not been used to entertaining ladies here for many years, as you doubtless know, and things may be a little rough-or if you would like a woman's company, I know my daughter will only be too ready to receive you."

"We have a guest room at the vicarage," said Mrs. Pascoe. "If at any time you should be lonely, Mrs. Ashley, always remember it is at your disposal. We should be so happy to have you with us."

"Indeed, indeed," echoed the vicar; and I wondered if another tag of poetry was ready on his lips.

"You are all very kind and more than generous," said my cousin Rachel. "When I have done my duty here, on the estate, we will talk about it again, shall we? Meanwhile, believe me grateful."

There was much clatter and chatter and saying of good-byes, and the carriages drove away down the drive.

We went back into the drawing room. The evening had pa.s.sed pleasantly enough, heaven knows, but I was glad that they had gone and the house was silent once again. She must have had the same thought, for as she stood a moment, looking around her in the drawing room, she said, "I love the stillness of a room, after a party. The chairs are moved, the cushions disarranged, everything is there to show that people enjoyed themselves; and one comes back to the empty room happy that it's over, happy to relax and say, 'Now we are alone again.' Ambrose used to say to me in Florence that it was worth the tedium of visitors to experience the pleasure of their going. He was so right."

I watched her as she smoothed the covering of a chair, and touched a cushion. "You don't have to do that," I told her. "Seecombe and John and the rest will see to it tomorrow."

"A woman's instinct," she said to me. "Don't look at me; sit down and fill your pipe. Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"I have." I lay sideways, sprawling on a stool. "I don't know why," I added, "usually I find Sundays a great bore. It's because I'm not a conversationalist. All I had to do today was to sit back in my chair and let you do the talking for me."

"That's where a woman can be useful," she said; "it's part of their training. Instinct warns them what to do if conversation flags."

"Yes, but you don't make it obvious," I said. "Mrs. Pascoe is very different. She goes on and on until one wants to scream. No man ever got a chance to talk on other Sundays. I can't think what it is you did to make it all so pleasant."

"So it was pleasant?"

"Why, yes, I've told you so."

"Then you had better hurry up and marry your Louise, and have a real hostess, not just a bird of pa.s.sage."

I sat up on the stool, and stared at her. She was smoothing her hair before the mirror.

"Marry Louise?" I said. "Don't be absurd. I don't want to marry anyone. And she isn't 'my' Louise."

"Oh!" said my cousin Rachel. "I rather thought she was. At least, your G.o.dfather gave me that impression."

She sat down on one of the chairs and took up her embroidery. Just then young John came in to draw the curtains, so I was silent. I was fuming, though. By what right did my G.o.dfather make such an a.s.sumption? I waited until John had gone.

"What did my G.o.dfather say?" I asked.

"I don't remember, specifically," she said; "I just think he felt it was an understood thing. He mentioned, driving back from church in the carriage, that his daughter had come over here to do the flowers, and that it had been such a handicap for you, brought up in a household of men; the sooner you married and had a wife to look after you the better. He said Louise understood you very well, as you did her. I hope you apologized for your bad manners on Sat.u.r.day."

"Yes, I apologized," I said, "but it did not seem to make much difference. I have never met Louise in so vile a humor. By the way, she thinks you are beautiful. And so do the Miss Pascoes."

"How very flattering."

"And the vicar does not agree with them."

"How distressing."

"But he finds you feminine. Decidedly feminine."

"I wonder in what way?"

"I suppose in a way different from Mrs. Pascoe."

A bubble of laughter escaped from her, and she glanced up from her embroidery. "How would you define it, Philip?"

"Define what?"

"The difference in our femininity, Mrs. Pascoe's and mine."

"Oh, heaven knows," I said, kicking the leg of the stool, "I don't know anything about the subject. All I know is that I like looking at you, and I don't like looking at Mrs. Pascoe."

"That's a nice simple answer, thank you, Philip."

I might have said the same about her hands. I liked watching them too. Mrs. Pascoe's hands were like boiled hams.

"It's all nonsense about Louise, anyway," I said, "so please forget it. I have never considered her as a wife, and don't intend to."

"Poor Louise."

"Ridiculous of my G.o.dfather to have got such an idea into his head."

"Not really. When two young people are of the same age, and thrown much together, and like each other's company, it is very natural that onlookers should think of marriage. Besides, she is a nice, good-looking girl, and very capable. She would make you an excellent wife."

"Cousin Rachel, will you be quiet?"

She looked up at me again, and smiled.

"And another thing you can be quiet about is this nonsense of visiting everybody," I said, "staying at the vicarage, staying at Pelyn. What is wrong with this house, and with my company?"

"Nothing, as yet."

"Well, then..."

"I will stay until Seecombe becomes tired of me."

"Seecombe has nothing to do with it," I said, "nor Wellington nor Tamlyn, nor anyone at all. I am the master here, and it has to do with me."

"Then I must do as I am bid," she answered; "that is part of a woman's training too."

I glanced at her suspiciously to see if she was laughing, but she was looking at her work and I could not see her eyes.

"Tomorrow," I said, "I shall draw up a list of the tenants, in order of seniority. The ones who have served the family longest will be the first to be visited. We will start with the Barton, as arranged on Sat.u.r.day. We will set forth at two o'clock every afternoon until there is not a single individual on the estate that you have not met."

"Yes, Philip."

"You will have to write a note of explanation to Mrs. Pascoe and those girls, explaining you are otherwise engaged."

"I will do so tomorrow morning."

"When we have finished with our own people, you will have to stay in the house three afternoons a week, I believe it is Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, in case you are called upon by the country."

"How do you know the days?"

"Because I have heard them discussed often enough by the Pascoes and Louise."

"I see. And do I sit alone here in the drawing room, or do you sit with me, Philip?"

"You sit alone. They will call upon you, not me. Receiving the county is not part of a man's work."

"Supposing I am invited out to dinner, may I accept?"

"You will not be invited. You are in mourning. If there is any question of entertaining, we shall do it here. But never more than two couples at a time."

"Is that etiquette in this part of the world?" she asked.

"Etiquette be blowed," I answered her. "Ambrose and I never followed etiquette; we made our own."

I saw her bend her head lower over her work, and I had a shrewd suspicion it was to hide laughter, though what she was laughing at I could not say. I was not trying to be funny.

"I suppose," she said, after a moment, "you would not care to draw up for me a little list of rules? A code of conduct? I could study it here, while I am waiting to be called upon. It would be very unfortunate if I made some social faux pas, according to your lights, and so disgraced myself."

"You can say what you please, to whom you please," I said; "all I ask is that you say it here, in the drawing room. Never allow anyone to enter the library, under any pretext whatsoever."

"Why? What will be happening in the library?"

"I shall be sitting there. With my feet upon the mantel."