Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Dolly Maylands had no such illusions with regard to Brett’s conduct, though she did not again discuss the matter with Russell Vanbrugh. She was conscious that he felt as she did, that something mysterious had taken place about which neither of them knew anything, but which was seriously and permanently influencing Harry Brett’s life. Dolly, however, was more discreet than was commonly supposed, and kept her surmises to herself. When Mrs. Darche and Brett were discussed before her, she said as little as she could, and allowed people to believe that she shared the common opinion, namely, that the two people would be married before the year was out and that, in the meanwhile, both were behaving admirably.

  Vanbrugh wandered about a good deal during the summer, returning to New York from time to time, more out of habit than necessity. He made visits at various country houses among his friends, spent several days on board of several yachts, was seen more than once in Bar Harbour, and once, at least, at Newport and on the whole did all those things which are generally expected of a successful man in the summer holidays. He wrote to Brett several times, but they did not meet often. The tone of his friend’s letters tended to confirm his suspicion of some secret trouble. Brett wrote in a nervous and detached way and often complained of the heat and discomfort during July and August, though he never gave a sufficient reason for staying where he was.

  On the other hand, Vanbrugh found that where he was invited Dolly Maylands was often invited too, and that there seemed to be a general impression that they liked one another’s society and should be placed together at dinner.

  More than once, Vanbrugh felt again the strong impulse to which he had almost yielded at Tuxedo. More than once he made a serious attempt to change the tone of his conversation with Dolly. She did not fail to notice this, of course, and being slightly embarrassed generally became grave and silent on such occasions, thereby leading Vanbrugh to suppose that she was bored, which very much surprised the successful man of the world at first and very much annoyed him afterwards.

  So the summer passed away, and all concerned in this little story were several months older if not proportionately wiser.

  CHAPTER IX.

  IN THE AUTUMN, Marion Darche returned to town, feeling that since she was to begin life over again, and since her friends had accepted the fact, there was no reason for not taking the first steps at once. She intended to live very quietly, occupying herself as best she could, for she knew that some occupation was necessary to her, now that the whole busy existence of the last five years was over. She did not know what to do. She consulted Dolly, and would have liked to consult Brett, but he rarely called, and then, by design or coincidence, he always seemed to appear just when some one else was with her.

  More than once she had thought of writing to him freely, asking him to explain the cause of his conduct and to put an end to the estrangement which was growing up between them. She even went so far as to begin a letter, but it was never finished and found its way to the fire before it was half written. She could not, however, keep her thoughts from dwelling on him, since there was no longer any reason for trying to forget his existence. She was not lacking in pride, and if she had believed that Harry Brett no longer loved her, she would have still been strong enough to bury the memory of him out of sight and beyond danger of resurrection. But he did not behave in such a way as to convince her of that. A woman’s instinct is rarely wrong in telling her whether she is loved or not, unless she is confronted with a man of superior wickedness or goodness. The strength which breeds great virtues and great vices lends that perfect control of outward manner which is called diabolical or heroic according to circumstances. Harry Brett was not such a man. He could keep away from the house in Lexington Avenue, because for some reason or other he believed it necessary to avoid Mrs. Darche’s society; but he could not simulate what he did not feel, nor conceal his real feelings when he was with her. The cold, nervous hand, the quick glance, the momentary hesitation, the choice of a seat a little too far from her side — all told Marion that he loved her still, and that he believed himself obliged to stay away, and was afraid to be alone with her.

  At last she made up her mind to do something which should show him definitely that she now regarded her mourning as a mere formality, and intended before long to return to her former way of living, as though nothing had happened. She determined to ask Brett and Vanbrugh and Dolly to luncheon. It certainly was not a very wild dissipation which she proposed, but it was the first time she had invited more than one of them at the same time. And cousin Annie Willoughby petitioned for a fourth guest by a very gentle and neutral hint. She had a certain elderly friend, one James Brown, who was the only person living who seemed able to talk to her for any length of time.

  Mr. Brown had been a disappointment to his friends in his youth. He was regarded as a failure. Great things had been expected of him when he left college and during several years afterwards. But his so-called gifts had turned out to be only tastes, and he had never accomplished anything. He had not the enthusiastic, all-devouring, all-appreciative, omnivorous nature which makes some amateurs delightful companions and invaluable flatterers. Though he really knew something about several subjects no one ever had the slightest respect for his opinion or judgment. He was an agreeable man, a good-natured gossip, a harmless critic. He always seemed to have read every word of books which most people found tiresome and skimmed in half an hour, and he never was acquainted with the book of the hour until the hour was past. No one ever understood why he liked Mrs. Willoughby, nor why she liked him, but if people thought of the matter at all they thought the friendship very appropriate. Mr. Brown knew everybody in society and was useful in filling a place, because he was a bachelor, and joined in the hum if not in the conversation. In appearance he was a bald man with refined features, a fair beard turning gray, gentle blue eyes, an average figure, small feet and hands, well-made clothes, a chronic watch-chain and a ring with an intaglio. His strong point was his memory, his weak point was his absence of tact.

  Marion, who intended that the general conversation of the table should be followed by a general pairing off after the coffee, reflected that Mr. Brown would amuse Mrs. Willoughby while Vanbrugh talked to Dolly and she herself had an opportunity of speaking with Brett. So she asked Mr. Brown to join the party, and he accepted. Dolly came first, but Mr. Brown, who was punctuality itself, appeared a moment later. Vanbrugh arrived next, and last of all Harry Brett, a little late and apologising rather nervously.

  “Did you get my note?” he inquired of Vanbrugh, after the first greetings and as soon as he could exchange a word with him, unnoticed in the general conversation.

  “No. Anything important? I went out early — before eleven o’clock, and have not been at home since.”

  “There was an interesting story of a wreck in the paper this morning,” said Mr. Brown, addressing the three ladies.

  “Stop him,” said Brett to Vanbrugh in an energetic whisper. “Now Brown, my dear fellow,” he continued aloud, sitting down beside Mrs. Darche, “do not begin the day by giving us the Sunday Herald entire, because we have all read it and we know all about the wreck—”

  Mr. Brown, who was used to interruption and to being checked when he was about to bore people, looked up with mild eyes and protested a little.

  “I say, Brett, you know, you are rather abrupt sometimes, in your way of shutting people up. But as you say, they have probably all read the story. I only thought—”

  “Only thought!” cried Vanbrugh, taking his cue from his friend. “Only! As though thinking were not the most important function of the human animal, next to luncheon—”

  “I have not read the story Mr. Brown alludes to,” observed Mrs. Willoughby rather primly.

  “Oh — it is all about natural history, and cannibals and latitudes and people in a boat,” said Brett talking very fast. “All that kind of thing. As for the news I can give you lots of it. Great fire, strike, a new bacillus in postage-stamp gum — awfully dange
rous, Mrs. Willoughby. Always use a sponge for moistening your stamps or you will get something — some sort of new disease — what is it, Vanbrugh? You always know everything.”

  “Gum-boils,” suggested Vanbrugh, without hesitation.

  Brett gave him a grateful look, as Mr. Brown’s laughter assured him that the danger was over for the present. But Brett did not desist until Stubbs opened the dining-room door and they all went in to luncheon. Mrs. Darche watched him curiously, wondering what was the matter. She had never before heard him talk so nervously. Vanbrugh had not the slightest idea of what had happened, but blindly followed Brett’s lead, and helped him to annihilate Mr. Brown, whenever the latter showed the least inclination to tell a story.

  Mr. Brown, however, was an obstinate person. He was not quick on his feet mentally, so to say, and an insignificant idea had as strong a hold upon his thoughts as an important one. Somehow he managed to tell the tale of the wreck to Mrs. Willoughby and Dolly in the little shifting of companionship which always takes place on leaving table. To do him justice, he told it very shortly, and Mrs. Darche did not chance to be listening at the time. Stubbs was offering everybody coffee, and Marion had a box of cigarettes and was standing before the fireplace with Vanbrugh and Brett, exchanging a few words with the latter. Suddenly Mr. Brown’s voice rose above the rest.

  “Of course,” he was saying, “nobody ever knew positively that the man had really been drowned. But he had never turned up—”

  “And probably never will,” answered Dolly, glancing nervously at Marion. But she had caught the words and had turned a little pale.

  Vanbrugh looked over to Brown.

  “For heaven’s sake, Jim,” he said, in a low voice. “Talk about something else, if you must, you know!”

  Mr. Brown’s face fell as he realised his mistake.

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Just like me! I forgot that poor Darche drowned himself.”

  Marion recovered herself quickly and came forward, offering her box of cigarettes to everybody, while Brett carried the little silver spirit lamp.

  “You must all smoke and make yourselves happy,” she said with a smile. “Cousin Annie does not mind it in the least.”

  “Well, of course,” began Mrs. Willoughby, primly polite, “nowadays—”

  “There is nobody like you, Mrs. Darche,” said Vanbrugh, accepting the offer. “Thanks.”

  “They are your especial kind,” answered Marion.

  “I know they are — that is what I mean. How you spoil me!”

  Marion went on.

  “Mr. Brown?”

  “Yes, thank you. I do smoke sometimes,” answered Mr. Brown, hesitating in the matter between his allegiance to Mrs. Willoughby, who disapproved of smoking in the drawing-room, and his duty to his hostess, who encouraged it.

  “I hope you always do,” said Marion. “When a man does not smoke — Mr. Brett, take one.”

  She had stopped herself, remembering that her husband had not been a smoker, but Mr. Brown finished the sentence for her with his usual tact.

  “Yes,” he said, lighting his cigarette, “men who do not smoke always seem to me to be suspicious characters.”

  “Dolly, try one,” said Marion, trying not to hear him.

  “Oh, Marion!” Dolly laughed.

  “Try it,” said Vanbrugh, sitting down beside her.

  The party had paired off, and Marion found herself near the window with Brett, beside a table covered with photographs and etchings.

  “I wonder why Miss Maylands should seem shocked,” began Brett, entering into conversation rather awkwardly. “I have no doubt that she, and you, and perhaps Mrs. Willoughby, have all tried a cigarette in secret, and perhaps you have liked it?”

  “If I liked cigarettes I would smoke them,” said Mrs. Darche, with decision.

  “Do you always do what you like?”

  “In little things.”

  “And how about the big things?” inquired Brett.

  “I like to have other people take care of them for me.”

  “What people?” As he asked the question he absently took a photograph from the table and looked at it.

  “People who know me,” said Marion.

  “Meaning me?”

  “If you like.”

  “If I like!” exclaimed Brett. Then, having broken the ice, as it were, his voice suddenly changed. “There is nothing I like so much, there is nothing I would rather do than take care of you and what belongs to you.”

  “You have shown it,” answered Mrs. Darche gently. She took the photograph from Brett’s hand and looked at it, in her turn, without seeing it.

  “I have tried to, once or twice,” said Brett, “when you needed help.”

  “Indeed you have. And you know that I am grateful too.”

  “I do not care to know that,” he replied. “If I ever did anything for you — it was only what any other man would have done in my place — it was not for the sake of earning your gratitude.”

  “For what then?”

  Brett hesitated a moment before he answered, and then turned from her towards the window as he spoke.

  “It was not for the sake of anything.”

  “Mere caprice, then?” asked Marion, watching him closely.

  “No, not that.”

  “I suppose your motives are a secret?” Marion laughed a little, perhaps at her own curiosity.

  “Yes.” Brett pronounced the single word with great earnestness.

  “Dear me!” exclaimed Marion.

  “Yes. And I shall be very sorry if you ever find out what that secret is.”

  “How mysterious!”

  “Yes, is it not?”

  Brett had suddenly assumed a tone of indifference. As he spoke Vanbrugh and Dolly rose and came forwards towards the table.

  “If you have quite finished not looking at those photographs, give them to me, Brett,” said Vanbrugh. “Miss Maylands wishes to see them.”

  “Oh, take them by all means,” answered Brett, thrusting a dozen or more into his hands. “As I was saying, Mrs. Darche, I am the worst judge of architecture in the world — especially from photographs.”

  “Architecture, eh?” observed Vanbrugh, as he re-crossed the room with Dolly. “Rather hard on photographs of etchings from portraits.”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Dolly, laughing softly and looking back at Brett and Mrs. Darche. “They talk of love’s temple, you know, and building up one’s happiness — and lots of things of that sort — the architecture of the affections.”

  “You seem to care,” said Vanbrugh, sitting down and laying the photographs upon his knees.

  “Do I? Do you not?”

  “I — oh, well, in a sort of a fatherly way, I suppose.” He held up one of the photographs upside down and looked at it.

  “Yes. Now I care in a sort of a sisterly way, you know. It is very much the same thing, I fancy.”

  “Is that all?” asked Vanbrugh with a short laugh. “I thought you had made up your mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About Harry Brett.”

  Dolly looked at him in surprise and drew herself up a little stiffly. “What about him?”

  “I do not mean to be rude, nor inquisitive, nor anything of the sort — so I think I had better turn the conversation.”

  “But you do not. You are waiting for me to say something. Do you think I am afraid? Do you think I am like all the girls you meet and dance with, and repeat your pretty speeches to?”

  “Repeat is graceful,” said Vanbrugh, “considerate — so kind of you.”

  “I do not feel kind,” answered Dolly emphatically, “and I am not at all afraid of telling the truth.”

  “Considering your interest in Sunday schools that is what I should expect.”

  “I am just as fond of dancing and enjoying myself as any one else,” said Dolly, relenting, “though I do take an interest in Sunday schools.”

  “Fashionable charities and dissipations, a
s Brett calls them — I see.”

  “Do not see in that tone of voice, please — if what you see has anything to do with me.”

  “Which it has,” said Vanbrugh. “Mrs. Darche is one of your charities, I suppose — and Harry Brett is one of your dissipations.”

  “You are too complicated,” answered Dolly, really not understanding. “Say it in American, will you not?”

  “You love Brett, and you are nice to Mrs. Darche, though you hate her,” said Vanbrugh in a tone which left Dolly in doubt as to whether he was in earnest or only chaffing. She paused a moment and stared at him before she answered, and then to his great astonishment spoke with more coldness than he was accustomed to.

  “Precisely,” she said. “I love Mrs. Darche and I hate Brett because he does not ask her to marry him as he should, now that Darche has been dead so long. I am sorry, Marion,” she said, turning to Mrs. Darche, and going up to her rather suddenly, “dear — I really must be going.”

  “Already?” exclaimed Marion in surprise, “it is not three o’clock?”

  “Almost,” said Dolly, “and I have lots to do — ever so many people waiting for me at a Committee, and then a visit I must make, and a frock to try on — and then if we are to dine at seven so as to be dressed in time for the tableaux there is no afternoon at all.”

  “How busy you are! Yet you always look so fresh! How in the world do you do it?”

  “A large appetite and a clear conscience—” suggested Brett, who seemed to be more than usually absent-minded.