The Lady Paramount

by Henry Harland

  VI

  Susanna was standing under the tree, gazing intently upwards; and shewas vehemently shaking her fist at its foliage, and making, from thepoint of her lips, a sound, sibilant, explosive (something like"Ts-s-s! Ts-s-s-s! Ts-s-s-s-s!"), that was clearly meant as anintimidation. She had on a dark-blue frock, blue flannel I think,plain to the verge of severity: a straight-falling jacket, a straight,loose skirt: plain, but appropriate to the hour no doubt; and, insteadof a hat, she wore a scarf of black lace, draped over her black hairmantilla-wise.

  Anthony, glowing with a sense that he was in great luck, and trying tothink what practical step he should take to profit by it, watched herfor a minute before she caught sight of him. An obvious practicalstep, she having evidently some trouble on her hands, might have beento approach her with an offer of assistance. But if all who love arepoets, men near to love will be poets budding; and who was it said thatthe obvious is the one thing a poet is incapable of seeing?

  When, however, she did catch sight of him, abruptly, withouthesitation, she called him to her.

  "Come here--come here at once," she called, and made an imperiousgesture. (I wonder whether she realised who he was, or thought nofurther as yet, in her emergency, than just that here, providentially,was a man who could help.)

  Marvelling, palpitating, Anthony flew to obey.

  "Look," said Susanna, breathlessly, pointing into the tree. "What isone to do? He won't pay the slightest attention to me, and I havenothing that I can throw."

  She had, in her left hand, a small leather-bound book, apparently aprayer-book, and, twisted round her wrist, a red-coral rosary; but Isuppose she would not have liked to throw either of these.

  Bewildered a little by the suddenness with which the situation had cometo pass, but conscious, acutely, exultantly conscious of it as adelectable situation,--exultantly conscious of her nearness to him, oftheir solitude together, there in the privacy (as it were) of themorning,--and tingling to the vibrations of her voice, to the freshnessand the warmth of her strong young beauty, Anthony was still able,vaguely, half-mechanically, to lift his eyes, and look in the directionwhither she pointed. . .

  The spectacle that met him banished immediately, for the moment, allpreoccupations personal.

  On one of the lower of the flowering branches, but high enough to bebeyond arm's reach, or even cane's reach, in the crook of the bough,crouched, making ready to spring, a big black cat, the tip of his tailtwitching with contained excitement, his yellow eyes fixed murderouslyon the branch next above: where, in the agitation of supreme distress,a chaffinch, a little grey hen-chaffinch, was hopping backwards andforwards, sometimes rising a few inches into the air, but alwaysreturning to the branch, and uttering a succession of terrified,agonised, despairing tweets.

  It was a hateful thing to see. It was the genius of cruelty mademanifest in a single intense tableau.

  "Why does n't the bird fly away?" Susanna painfully questioned. Shewas pale, and her lips were strained; she looked sick and hopeless."Is she fascinated? The cat will surely get her."

  "No--her nest must be somewhere there--she is guarding her nestlings,"said Anthony.

  Then he raised his stick menacingly, and, in tones of stern command,addressed the cat.

  "Patapouf! I am ashamed of you. Come down--come down from there--comedown directly."

  And he emphasised each staccato summons by a sharp rap of his stickagainst the highest point of the tree that he could reach.

  The cat turned his head, to look--and the spell was broken. Hisattitude relaxed. Anthony put his hands on the tree, and made as if toclimb it. The cat gave a resigned shrug of the shoulders, and camescrambling down. Next instant, (if you please), unabashed, tail erect,back arched, he was rubbing his whiskers against Anthony's legs,circling round them, s-shaping himself between them, and purringconciliations, as who should say, "There, there. Though you _have_spoiled sport, I won't quarrel with you, and I _am_ delighted to seeyou." The bird, twittering, flew up, and disappeared in the higherfoliage.

  Susanna breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  "Oh, thank you, thank you," she said, with fervour. Then she shook herfinger, and frowned, at Patapouf. "Oh, you bad cat! You cruel cat!"And raising eyes dark with reproach to Anthony's, "Yet he seems to be afriend of yours?" she wondered. (By this time, of course, she musthave realised who he was. Very likely she had her emotions.)

  Anthony, the bird in safety, could tingle anew to the deep notes of hervoice, could exult anew in their dual solitude.

  "Yes," he acknowledged, "Patapouf is a friend of mine--he is even amember of my household. You must try not to think too ill of him. Hereally is n't half a bad sort at bottom. But he 's English, and helives in the country. So, a true English country gentleman, he hasperhaps an exaggerated passion for the pleasures of the chase--and whenquestions touching them arise, seems simply to be devoid of the ethicalsense. He 's not a whit worse than his human neighbours--and he 's ahundred times handsomer and more intelligent."

  Susanna, smiling a little, looked down at Patapouf, and considered.

  "He is certainly very handsome," she agreed. "And--Patapouf? I likehis name. I will not think too ill of him if he will promise neveragain to try to catch a--a _fringuello_. I don't remember the Englishfor _fringuello_?"

  Her glance and her inflection conveyed a request to be reminded.

  But Anthony shook his head.

  "And I shall at once proceed to forget it. _Fringuello_ is so muchprettier."

  Susanna gave a light little trill of laughter.

  "What a delicious laugh," thought he that heard it.

  And, laughing, "But before it has quite gone from you, do, pray, for myinstruction, just pronounce it once," she pleaded.

  "How extraordinarily becoming to her that mantilla is," he thought."How it sets off her hair and her complexion--how it brings out thesparkle of her eyes."

  Her fine black hair, curling softly about her brow, and rippling away,under the soft black lace, in loose abundance; her warm, clearcomplexion; the texture of her skin, firm and smooth, with tiny blueveins faintly showing at the temples; her sparkling, spirited darkeyes, their merriment, their alertness, their graver underglow; thespirited, high carriage of her head; that dark-blue, simple,appropriate frock; and then her figure, upright, nervous, energetic,with its fluent lines, with its fragrance of youth and ofwomanhood,--oh, he was acutely conscious of them, he was thrilled byhis deep sense of their nearness to him, alone there, in the wide sunnycircle of green landscape, in the seclusion of that unfrequented hour.

  "The word comes back to me dimly," he said, "as--as something like_finch_."

  "Finch?" said Susanna. "Thank you very much. Ah, yes,"--with an airof recalling it,--"_finch_, to be sure. You are right," she smiled,"_fringuello_ is prettier."

  "What an adorable mouth," thought he. "The red of it--the curves ittakes--and those incredible little white teeth, like snow shut in arose."

  "And this is a morning meet for pretty words, is it not?" he suggested."It might strike an unprejudiced observer as rather a pretty morning."

  "Oh, I should be less reticent," said Susanna. "If the unprejudicedobserver had his eyes open, would n't it strike him as a perfectlylovely morning?"

  "We must not run the risk of spoiling it," Anthony cautioned her,diminishing his voice, "by praising it too warmly to its face."

  She gave another light trill of laughter.

  "Her laugh is like rainbow-tinted spray. It is a fountain-jet ofmusical notes, each note a cut gem," thought the infatuated fellow.

  "I trust," he hazarded, "that you will not condemn me for a swaggerer,if I lay claim to share with you a singularity. The morning is amorning like another. God is prodigal of lovely mornings. But we twoare singular in choosing to begin it at its sweeter end."

  "Yes," Susanna assented, "that is a singularity--in England. But inItaly, or in the part of Italy where my habits were formed, it is oneof our lazy custo
ms. We like always to be abroad in time to enjoy whatwe call 'the hours immaculate,'--_l'ure immacolae_, in our dialect."

  "The hours immaculate? It is an uncommonly fine description," approvedAnthony. "They will be a race of poets in your part of Italy?"

  The graver underglow in Susanna's eyes eclipsed, for an instant, theirdancing surface lights.

  "They _were_ a race of poets," she said regretfully, "before theylearned how to read and write. But now, with the introduction ofpopular education,"--she shook her head,--"the poetry is dying out."

  "Ah," said Anthony, with a meaning flourish of his stick, "there it is.The poetic spirit always dies at the advance of that ghastly fetich."Then he spoke sententiously. "Popular education is a contrivance ofthe devil, whereby he looks to extinguish every last saving grace fromthe life of the populace. Not poetry only, but all good things and allgood feelings,--religion, reverence, courtesy,--sane contentment,rational ambition,--the right sort of humility, the right sort ofpride,--they all go down before it: whilst, in the ignorance which itdisseminates, blasphemy, covetousness, bumptiousness, bad taste (andbad art and bad literature, to gratify it), every form ofwrong-headedness and wrong-heartedness flourish like the seven plaguesof Egypt. But it was all inevitable from the day that meddling Germanbusybody invented printing--if not from the day his heathenishprecursor invented letters."

  He delivered these sentiments with a good deal of warmth.

  Susanna's eyes brightened. I am not sure there was n't a quick littleflash of raillery in their brightness.

  "I would seem," she mused, "to have touched by accident upon a subjectthat is near your heart."

  Anthony threw up a deploring hand.

  "There!" he grieved. "The subjects that are near my heart, it is thestudy of my life to exclude from my conversation. But sometimes oneforgets oneself."

  Susanna smiled,--a smile, perhaps, that implied a tacit memorandum andreflection, a subdued, withheld, occult little smile. Again, I am notsure it had n't its tinge of raillery.

  "And since I _have_ forgotten myself," Anthony pursued, "I wonderwhether you will bear with me if I continue to do so twenty secondslonger?"

  "Oh, I beg of you," Susanna politely hastened to accede.

  "There is another subject equally near my heart," said he.

  Her eyes were full of expectancy.

  "Yes--?" she encouraged him.

  "I was disappointed not to find you at home when I called yesterday,"said he. "I rejoice for a hundred reasons that chance has led to ourmeeting this morning. Not to mention ninety-nine of them, I am anxiousto discharge, with as little loss of time as may be, the very onerousdebt I owe you."

  Susanna opened her eyes, in puzzlement.

  "A debt? I am your creditor unawares."

  "My debt of apologies and condolences," he explained.

  She knitted her brows, in mental effort.

  "I am ignorant alike of my grievance and of your offence," she said.

  "I am deeply sensible of your magnanimity," said he; "but I will notabuse it. They have let you the ugliest house in the United Kingdom;and, as the owner, the ultimate responsibility must come home to me."

  "Oh," cried Susanna.

  It was a gay, treble little cry, that told him he had been fortunateenough to amuse as well as to surprise her. She shook her head, whileher eyes were liquid with mirth.

  "The house is ugly?" she enquired. "I have read of it as 'a vast andimposing edifice in the style of the Renaissance.'"

  "As a confessor of the True Faith," Anthony warned her, "you must neverbelieve what you read in the _County History_. It was compiled by aProtestant clergyman; it teems with misinformation; it ought to beplaced upon the Index. The house in question is a vast and pompouscontiguity of stucco, in the style of 1830. It looks like a Rivierahotel a good deal run to seed. It looks like a shabby relation ofBuckingham Palace. It looks like a barrack decorated with thediscoloured trimmings of a bride-cake."

  "Ah, well, be it so," consented Susanna. "The house is ugly--but it iscomfortable. And, in any case, your conscience is too sensitive. Theultimate responsibility for my having taken it comes home to no one,unless--well, to be strictly just, unless to a grandfather of mine, whohas been dead these many long years."

  Which pronouncement may very possibly have struck her listener asenigmatic. But I daresay he felt that he scarcely knew her well enoughto press for an elucidation. And, anyhow, without pause, she went on--

  "Besides, everything else--the park, the country--is beyond wordsbeautiful."

  "Yes," acquiesced Anthony, "the country is beautiful, at this season.That's why everyone abandons it, and scuttles up to town."

  Susanna's face lighted, with interest.

  "Indeed? Is _that_ the reason? I had observed the fact, but I was ata loss to think what the reason for it could be."

  "No," said Anthony, eating his words, "that is not the reason. It werebase to deceive you. A normally-constituted Englishman no more objectsto beauty, than a deep-sea fish objects to dry weather or theincome-tax. He abandons the country during the three pleasantestmonths of the year, not because it is beautiful, for he is sublimelyunconscious that it's beautiful, but because, during those months, inthe country, there's nothing that he can course, hunt, or shoot."

  Susanna pondered.

  "I see," she said. "And is--is there anything that he can course,hunt, or shoot in town?"

  "Not exactly," Anthony admitted. "But there are people--to whom he cando the next best thing. There are people whom he can bore. It is aninterim sport. It is an annual national tournament. The good knightsflock together from the four corners of England, to tilt at oneanother, and try who shall approve himself the most indefatigable, themost indomitable bore."

  Susanna gazed dreamily at the distance for a moment. Then, with suddenactuality, "Apropos of interim sports," she demanded, "what are yougoing to do about that cat of yours?" A movement of her head indicatedPatapouf.

  Hovering near them, Patapouf was busy with a game ofmake-believe--pretending that the longish grass was a jungle, andhimself a tiger, stalking I know not what visionary prey: now gingerly,with slow calculated liftings and down-puttings of his feet, stealing asilent march; now, flat on his belly, rapidly creeping forward; nowhalting, recoiling, masking himself behind some inequality of theground, peering warily over it, while his tail swayed responsive to theeager activity of his brain; and now, having computed the range to anicety, his haunches wagging, now, with a leap all grace andruthlessness,--a flash of blackness through the air,--springing uponthe creature of his fancy.

  Susanna and Anthony watched him for a little without speaking.

  "You can't deny that he has imagination," said Anthony, at length,turning towards her.

  "He is beautiful and clever," said Susanna, "I could wish he were asvirtuous. This, of course, is sheer play-acting. He 's simply waitingtill our backs are turned, to renew his designs upon the bird's nest."

  "When I turn my back I 'll carry him with me," Anthony answered. Butin his soul he said: "What 's the good of telling her that that willonly be to defer the evil moment? Of course he has marked the tree.He will come back to it at his leisure."

  "I beg your pardon," said Susanna. "That will merely be to put theevil off. The cat certainly knows the tree. Directly he 's atliberty, he will come back."

  "Oh--?" faltered Anthony, a trifle disconcerted. "Oh? Do--do youthink so?"

  "Yes," she said. "There 's not a doubt of it. But I am acquaintedwith a discipline, which, if I have your sanction to apply it, willunnerve Monsieur Patapouf, so far as this particular tree is concerned,until the end of time. Cats have a very high sense of their personalfreedom--they hate to be tied up. Well, if we tie Monsieur Patapouf tothis tree, so that he can't get away, and leave him alone here for anhour or two, he will conceive such a distaste for everything connectedwith this tree that he will never voluntarily come within speakingdistance of it again."

&nb
sp; "Really? That seems very ingenious," commented Anthony.

  "'T is an old wives' remedy," said Susanna. "You don't happen to havesuch a thing as a piece of string in your pocket? It does n't matter.But you have a penknife? Thank you. Now please catch your cat."

  Anthony called Patapouf, exerting those blandishments one must exertwho would coax a hesitating cat.

  Patapouf, by a series of etapes and delours, approached, and wassecured.

  Susanna, meanwhile, having laid her rosary and prayer-book on thegrass, unbuttoned her blue flannel jacket, and removed from round herwaist, where it was doing duty as a belt, a broad band ofcherry-coloured ribbon. This, with Anthony's penknife, she slitted andripped several times lengthwise, till she had obtained a yard or two ofpracticable tether.

  "Now, first, we must make him a collar," she said, measuring off whatshe deemed ribbon sufficient for that purpose.

  Anthony held Patapouf, who, flattered by their attentions, andunsuspicious of their ulterior aim, submitted quietly, while Susannaadjusted the collar to his neck. They had to stand rather closetogether during this process; I am not sure that sometimes theirfingers did n't touch. From Susanna's garments--from her hair?--rosenever so faint a perfume, like the perfume of violets. I am quite surethat Anthony's heart was in a commotion.

  "There," she remarked, finishing the collar with a bow, and bestowingupon the bow a little tap of approbation; "red and black--it's verybecoming to him, is n't it?"

  Then she tied Patapouf to the tree, leaving him, in charity, perhapstwice his own length of tether free, and resumed possession of her bookand beads.

  An instant later, she had slightly inclined her head, smiled a good-byeinto Anthony's eyes, and was moving briskly away, in the direction ofCraford New Manor.