The Lady Paramount

by Henry Harland

  IV

  "Hang it all, how she sticks in one's mind," said Anthony, withimpatience. "Am I returning to my cubhood, that the mere vision of awoman should take possession of me like this?"

  And then, having, I suppose, weighed the question, "It's the weather," hedecided. "Yes--I 'll bet you ten-and-sixpence that it's nothing morethan just this silly, sentimental, languorous June weather."

  He was seated in a shaded corner of his garden, where the day wasmurmurous with the humming of bees, and the mingled sweetness of manyflowers rose and fell in the air. Beyond the shade, the sunshine brokeinto a mosaic of merry colours, on larkspur and iris, pansies and pinkgeraniums, jessamine, sweet-peas, tulips shameless in their extravaganceof green and crimson, red and white carnations, red, white, and yellowroses. The sunshine broke into colour, it laughed, it danced, it almostrioted, among the flowers; but in the prim alleys, and on the formalhedges of box, and the quaintly-clipped yews, and the old purple brickwalls, where fruit trees were trellised, it lay fast, fast asleep.Without the walls, in the deep cool greenery of the park, there was aperpetual drip-drip of bird-notes. This was the web, upon which a chosenhandful of more accomplished birds were embroidering andcross-embroidering and inter-embroidering their bold, clear arabesques ofsong. Anthony had a table and a writing-case before him, and was tryingto write letters. But now he put down his pen, and, for the twentiethtime this afternoon, went over the brief little encounter of the morning.

  Two ladies had passed him in a dog-cart, as he was walking home from thevillage: a young lady driving, an oldish lady beside her, and a groombehind.

  That was all: the affair of ten seconds; and at first he was not aware ofany deeper or more detailed impression. He had glanced at them vaguely;he was naturally incurious; and he had been thinking of other things.

  But by-and-bye, as if his retina had reacted like a photographic plate, apicture developed itself, which, in the end, by a series of recurrences,became quite singularly circumstantial. The dog-cart and its occupants,with the stretch of brown road, and the hedge-rows and meadows at eitherside, were visible anew to him; and he saw that the young lady who wasdriving had dark hair and dark eyes, and looked rather foreign; and hesaid, but without much concern as yet, "Ah, that was no doubt MadameTorrebianca, with her friend Miss What 's-her-name;"--and proceeded againto think of other things.

  The picture faded; but presently it came back. He noticed now that theslightly foreign-looking young woman was pretty, and eveninteresting-looking; that besides its delicate modelling and its warm,rather Southern colouring, there was character in her face, personality;that there were intelligence, humour, vivacity; that she looked as if shewould have something to say. He noticed, too, that she had what theycall "a fine figure,"--that she was tall, for a woman, and slenderwithout being thin; that she bore herself well, with an air of strength,with an air of suppleness and resistance. He could even see how she wasdressed: in grey cloth, close-fitting, with grey driving-gloves, and abig black hat that carried out the darkness of her hair. And he wasintrepid enough to trust his man's judgment, and to formulate an opinionof her dress. She was very well dressed, he ventured to opine; far toocunningly and meticulously dressed for an Englishwoman. There wassomething of French unity, intention, finish, in her toilet; there was_line_ in it, the direct, crisp line, that only foreign women seemanxious to achieve.

  And he said, "I rather hope it _is_ Madame Torrebianca--since one has gotto know her. She looks as if she might have a spice of something in hernot utterly banale."

  If that was n't saying a great deal, he reflected, one seldom enough, inour staid, our stale society, meets a person of whom one can say somuch;--and again dismissed her.

  But still again, presently, back she came; and then again and again, inspite of him. And her comings now were preceded by a strange littleperturbation. A strange little vague feeling of pleasantness, as ifsomething good had happened to him would begin, and well up, and growwithin him, penetrating and intensifying his sense of the summersweetness round about, till it distracted his attention, and he mustsuspend his occupation of the moment, to wonder, "What is it?" Inresponse, the vague pleasantness, like a cloud, would draw together andtake shape; and there was the spirited grey figure in the dog-cart, withthe black hat, and the dark hair and eyes, again dashing past him.

  And little by little he discovered that she was more than merely prettyand interesting-looking. Her face, with all its piquancy, was a seriousface, a strenuous face. Under its humour and vivacity, he discovered aglow . . . a glow . . . could it be the glow of a soul? Her eyes werelustrous, but they were deep, as well. A quality shone in them rarereven than character: a natural quality, indeed, and one that shouldnaturally be common: but one that is rare in England among women--amongnice women, at least: the quality of sex. The woman in the dog-cart wasnice. About that, he recognised with instant certainty, there could beno two conjectures. But she was also, he recognised with equalcertainty, a woman: the opposite, the complement of man. Her eyes wereeyes you could imagine laughing at you, mocking you, teasing you, leadingyou on, putting you off, seeing through you, disdaining you; but constantin them was the miracle of womanhood; and you could imagine themsoftening adorably, filling with heavenly weakness, yielding in womanlysurrender, trusting you, calling you, needing you.

  Our melancholic young squire of Craford was not a man much given toquick-born enthusiasms; but now, as he put down his pen, and her faceshone before him for the twentieth time this sunny afternoon, now all atonce, "By Jove, she's unique," he cried out. "I have never seen a womanto touch her. If she _is_ Madame Torrebianca----"

  But there he checked himself.

  "Of course she is n't. No such luck," he said, in dejection.

  And yet, he speculated, who else could she be? The simultaneous presenceof _two_ young foreign women in this out-of-the-way country neighbourhoodseemed, of all contingencies, the most unlikely. Well, if she really was. . .

  He was conscious suddenly of a sensation to the last degree unfamiliar: acommotion, piercing, regretful, desirous, actually in his heart, an organhe had for years proudly fancied immune; and he took alarm.

  "Am I eighteen again? Positively, I must not think of her any more."

  But it was useless. In two minutes he was thinking of her harder thanever, and the commotion in his heart was renewed.

  "If she really is Madame Torrebianca," he told himself, with a thrill anda craving, "I shall see her on Sunday."

  The flowers, beyond there, in the sun, the droning of the bees, theliquid bird-notes, the perfumes in the still soft air, all seemed to meltand become part of his thought of her, rendering it more poignant, moreinsidiously sweet.

  At last he started up, in a kind of anger.

  "Bah!" he cried, "It's the weather. It's this imbecile, love-sickweather."

  And he carried his writing-materials indoors, to the billiard-room, anorthern room, looking into the big square court, where the light wascolourless, and the only perfume on the air was a ghost-like perfume oflast night's tobacco-smoke.

  But I don't know that the change did much good. In a few minutes--

  "Bah!" he cried again, "It's those confounded eyes of hers. It's thoselaughing, searching, haunting, promising eyes."

  "Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear."

  It was the voice of Adrian, raised in song. And repeating the samecomplaisant proffer, to a tune which I suspect was improvised, it drewnear along the outer passage, till, in due process, the door of thebilliard-room was opened, and Adrian stood upon the threshold.

  "Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine e-e-ear," he trolledrobustly--and then, espying Anthony, fell silent.

  Anthony appeared to be deep engrossed in letter-writing.

  "Ahem," said Adrian, having waited a little.

  But Anthony did not look up.

  "Well, of all unlikely places," said Adrian, wondering.

  Anthony's pen flew busily backwards and fo
rwards across his paper.

  "Remarkable power of mental concentration," said Adrian, on a key ofphilosophic comment.

  "Eh? What?" Anthony at last questioned, but absently, from the depths,without raising his eyes.

  "I 've been hunting far and wide for you--ransacking the house, turningthe park topsy-turvy," said Adrian.

  "Eh? What?" questioned Anthony, writing on.

  But Adrian lost patience.

  "Eh? What? I 'll eh-what you," he threatened, shaking his fist. "Come.Put aside that tiresome letter. 'Do you happen to know where your masteris?' says I to Wickersmith. 'Well, if you 'll pardon my saying so, sir,I think I see him agoing in the direction of the billiard-room, savingyour presence, sir,' says Wickersmith to me." Adrian pantomimed thesupposed deference of the butler. Then, loftily, "But, 'Shoo' says I.'An optical delusion, my excellent Wick. A Christian man would beincapable of such a villainy. The billiard-room, that darksome cavern,on a heaven-sent day like this? Shucks,' says I. Yet"--his attitudebecame exhortative--"see how mighty is truth, see how she prevails, seehow the scoffer is confounded. To the billiard-room I transport myself,sceptically, on the off-chance, and--here, good-lack, you are."

  "It's the weather," Anthony explained, having finally relinquished hiscorrespondence. "I was in the garden--but I could n't stand the weather."

  "The weather?" wondered Adrian. "You could n't stand the weather? Mypoor lamb. Ah, what a delicate constitution. He could n't stand theweather." Eyes uplifted, he wagged a compassionate head.

  But suddenly, from the sarcastic note, he passed to the censorious, andthen to a kind of gay rhapsodic.

  "The weather? Shame upon your insinuations. I will not hear onesyllable against it. The weather? There never _was_ such weather. Theweather? Oh, for the tongues of men and angels, to chant the glory ofthe weather. The weather is made of sugar and spice, of frankincense andmyrrh, of milk and honey, of every conceivable ingredient that's nice.The sky is an inverted bowl of Sevres--that priceless bleu-royal; andthere are appetising little clouds of whipped cream sticking to it. Theair is full of gold, like eau-de-vie de Dantzic;--if we only had aliquefying apparatus, we could recapture the first fine careless nectarof the gods, the poor dead gods of Greece. The earth is as aromatic asan orange stuck with cloves; I can't begin to tell you all the wondrouswoody, mossy, racy things it smells of. The sea is a great sheet ofwatered-silk, as blue as my blue eyes. And the birds, the robins and thethrostles, the blackbirds and the black-caps, the linnets and the littleJenny Wrens, knowing the value of silence, are hoarding it like misers;but like prodigals, they 're squandering sound. The ear of mortal neverheard such a delirious, delicious, such a crystalline, argentine,ivory-smooth, velvety-soft, such a ravishing, such an enravished tumultof sweet voices. Showers, cascades, of pearls and rubies, emeralds,diamonds, sapphires. The weather, says Anthony Rowleigh. He could n'tstand the weather. The weather is as perfect as a perfect work ofart--as perfect as one of my own incomparable madrigals. It isabsolutely perfect."

  He tossed his head, in sign of finality.

  "It appears so," Anthony discriminated gloomily; "but appearances arerisky things to judge by. It may have charms for a voluptuary like you;but I"--and he took a tone of high austerity--"I, as an Englishman, havemy suspicions of anything so flagrantly un-English."

  "Apropos of things un-English," said Adrian, "I 'm pining for a seriousword with you."

  Anthony pulled a wry face.

  "Oh, if you 've been attacked by one of your periodic spasms ofseriousness," he sighed.

  "It's about calling on Madame Torrebianca," said Adrian.

  "Oh," sighed Anthony. With a presence of mind that I can't help thinkingrather remarkable, he feigned a continuity of mood; but something went_ping_ within him.

  "Look here," said Adrian, imperatively. "I 'll thank you to drop thatair of ineffable fatigue of yours, and to sit up and listen. I don'tsuppose you wish to be deliberately discourteous, do you? And as thoseladies happen to be new-comers, and your immediate neighbours, not to sayyour tenants, I expect you are sufficiently acquainted with the usages ofpolite society to know that a failure on your part to call would betantamount to a direct affront. Furthermore, as one of them (Miss Sandusis, unhappily, still in the Goetterdaemmerung of the Establishment), asMadame Torrebianca is coming to your house, as your guest, to hear Masson Sunday morning, I sincerely hope I need n't tell you that it's simply_de rigueur_ that you should call before that occasion."

  He stood off, and raised his brown-red eyebrows, as who, from analtitude, speaking _de par le Roi_, should challenge contumacy.

  But two could play at the game of eyebrow-raising. Anthony raised his.

  "Coming as my guest? Coming as my _guest_? I like that," he exclaimed."What have _I_ to do with her coming? If every stranger to whom youchoose to extend the privilege of hearing Mass in the Chapel, is therebyto be constituted a _guest_,--_my_ guest,--I shall have my hands fullindeed. If she's a guest at all, if she's anybody's guest, she's yours;You 've created the situation. Don't try to thrust the brunt of it onme."

  Adrian flung back his head, and spoke from a still loftier altitude.

  "I believe you are the master of the house?"

  "The titular master," Anthony distinguished. "I years ago resigned allreal power into the pink and chubby hands of my mayor of the palace."And he slightly bowed.

  "I disdain to answer your silly quibble over the word _guest_," Adriancontinued, ignoring the rejoinder. "La Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebiancais a guest. And as master of the house, by your return, you _ex officio_supersede me in the capacity of host."

  "_Ex officio_?" repeated Anthony, considering. "The fashion of adorningordinary speech with classical quotations has long since passed from use."

  "And therefore,"--Adrian brought his theorem to its conclusion,--"unlessyou particularly aspire to seem--and to be--an absolute barbarian, abear, a boor, a churl, and a curmudgeon,"--each epithet received anaugmented stress,--"you must call at Craford New Manor with the leastpossible delay. As I find myself in rather good form just now, and feelthat I should shine to perhaps exceptional advantage, I suggest that wecall forthwith."

  Anthony got up, and sleepily stretched his arms.

  "Ah, well," he consented; "since your fond heart is set upon it--there.It will be an awful fag; but when Dimplechin becomes importunate, I candeny him nothing."

  He stifled a yawn.

  Adrian's round face radiated triumph.

  "You are a good child, after all," he said, "and you shall have jam withyour tea."

  "I think I have fooled that fellow to the top of his bent," was Anthony'ssilent self-gratulation.

  His pulse beat high, as they walked across the park.

  "How could I ever have contemplated waiting till Sunday?" he askedhimself, in a maze.

  Sunday, the day after the day after to-morrow, seemed, in his presenteagerness, to belong to the dim distances of futurity.

  And all the way, as they passed under the great trees, over the cool,close turf, with its powdering of daisies and buttercups and poppies,through alternations of warm sun and deep shadow, where sheep browsed,and little snow-white awkward lambkins sported, and birds piped, and theair was magical with the scent of the blossoming may,--all the way, amidthe bright and dark green vistas of lawn and glade, the summer lovelinessmixed with his anticipation of standing face to face with her, andrendered it more poignant.

  "If cats were always kittens, And rats were always mice, And elderberries were younger berries, Now would n't that be nice?"--

  Adrian, walking beside him, trilled joyously.

  "You seem in high spirits," Anthony remarked.

  "I 've been thinking of your suggestion," said Adrian.

  Anthony frowned, at a loss.

  "My suggestion--?"

  "Yes--your suggestion that I should marry her."

  Anthony stared.

  "What?" he ejaculated.

 
"Yes," said Adrian, blandly. "I think the suggestion is decidedly ahappy one. I think I shall pay my court to her."

  "_You_? Man, you 're bereft of your senses," said Anthony, with force.

  "You need n't be so violent," said Adrian. "It's your own idea."

  "I was making game of you--I was pulling your leg. Marry her? She wouldn't look at you," said Anthony, contumelious.

  "Why not, I should like to know?" Adrian haughtily enquired.

  "You 're--you 're too young," Anthony reminded him.

  "Too young?" mildly demurred Adrian, wide-eyed. "I 'm thirty, if I 'm aday."

  "You 're thirty-nine, if you 're a day," said Anthony. "But you 'llnever be thirty--not even when you 're forty. You breathe perennialspring."

  "I confess," said Adrian, with deliberation, "I freely confess that I amnot an effete and blase old thing, like--like one who shall be nameless.There is a variety of fruit (the husbandman's despair), a tough,cross-grained, sour-hearted variety of fruit, that dries up and shrivels,and never ripens. There is another variety of fruit that grows rounderand rosier, tenderer and juicier and sweeter, the longer it hangs on thetree. Time cannot wither it. The child of the sun and the zephyr, it ishoney-full and fragrant even unto its inmost ripe red core."

  He expanded his chest, and significantly thumped it.

  "Mark you," he resumed, "I name no names. The soul of delicacy anddiscretion, as of modesty and kindness, I name no names. But as formyself, that I am young I acknowledge. Those whom the gods love are everyoung. Yet I am old enough, at least, to be capable of fresh, impulsivefeelings. I am old enough to have cast the crude, harsh pessimism ofinexperience. I am old enough to have outlived my disillusions. I amold enough to have learned that the good things of life are good, and tounderstand that the rose-buds in the garden are there to be gathered.And I 'm not such a silly as to forbear to gather them. I think I shallmake Madame Torrebianca the object of my respectful solicitations."

  Anthony fixed eyes of derision on him.

  "Oh, the fatuity of the man!" he jeered. "If you could see yourself.You 're sandy-haired--and miles too fat."

  "I beg your pardon," said Adrian, with dignity. "My hair is of a veryfashionable shade--tawny, which indicates a passionate heart, withunder-waves of gold, as if the sunshine had got entangled in it. I willnot dwell upon its pretty truant tendency to curl. And as for what youcall _fat_--let me tell you that there are people who admire a rich,ample figure in a man. I admit, I am not a mere anatomy, I am not a merehungry, lean-faced, lantern-jawed, hollow-eyed, sallow-cheeked,vulture-beaked, over-dressed exiguity, like--well, mark you, I name nonames. I need not allude to my other and higher attributes--my wit, mysympathy, my charming affectations, my underlying strength of character(a lion clothed in rose-leaves--what?), my genius for the divinest of thearts. I think I shall lay myself at the feet of Donna Susanna. The restof the sex"--his gesture put them from him--"may coif St. Catherine."

  "I have n't the honour of knowing the lady in question," said Anthony,with detachment. "But if she is anything like the paragon you have ledme to expect, let me, as your sincere well-wisher, let me warn you not tocherish hopes that are foredoomed to disappointment. If, on the otherhand, she should indeed admire your style of rich, ample figure, I shalldeem it my duty to save you from her--at no matter what cost to myself.I cannot allow you to link yourself for life to a woman without taste."

  And then they rang the bell at the vast, much-bestuccoed portal of thenew house; and Anthony's heart, I think, for the minute stood stillwithin him. The door was opened, and he could look into the big, ugly,familiar marble hall;--familiar still, and yet changed and strange, andeven beautified; with new soft hangings, and Persian carpets, andflowers, and books, and bibelots about; with a new aspect of luxury andelegance; with a strange new atmosphere of feminine habitation, that wenta little to Anthony's head, that called up clearer than ever thedark-haired, strenuous-faced woman of the dog-cart, and turned hisimagination to visions and divinings of intimate feminine things. Onethought of chiffons, and faint, elusive perfumes, and the gleam andrustle of silken garments; one heard soft voices, trills of femininelaughter, the whispering of feminine secrets; one saw ladies in lowchairs, reading or embroidering by lamp-light.

  So, for an instant, Anthony stood at Susanna's threshold, looking intoher antechamber, breathless almost with his sense of her imminence;--andthen the tall flunkey said, in the fastidious accents of flunkeydom, "Netet _em_, sir;" and all my hero's high-strung emotion must spend itself inthe depositing of a card.

  As they turned away, and the summer landscape again met him with its warmbreath and radiant smile, he gloomed at it savagely, from eyes of deeprebuke, as at a thing that had beguiled him with false promises, wrongedand defrauded him. And he flew out petulantly at poor Adrian--

  "Here's a pretty dance you 've led me, for the pleasure of a word withMr. Yellowplush."

  "Oh?" said Adrian, taken aback. "I expected you 'd be relieved. You didn't want to see them. And the exigencies of the case are satisfied byleaving cards."

  "I could have sent my card by you," growled Anthony.

  "You 've had a lovely walk, with a lovely comrade, in lovely weather,"said Adrian.

  "The weather is simply brazen," Anthony declared.