Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Eva did not seem to be listening very closely.

  “Tell me about your own engagement,” she said at length. “I don’t know what exactly one is supposed to feel. I have many reasons for wanting to marry Lord Hayes. I like and respect him very much. I believe he is a very good man; he is always agreeable and considerate.”

  “That is the best and surest basis for love to rest on,” broke in her mother, who was charmed to find Eva so sensible. “That is just what I have always said. Love must spring out of these things, darling, just as the leaves and foliage of a tree spring out of the solid wood. So many girls have such foolish sentimental notions, just as if they had just come away from a morning performance at the Adelphi. That is not love; it is just silly, schoolgirl sentimentality, which silly schoolgirls feel for tenor singers, and a silky moustache, and slim, weak-eyed young men. Real love is the flower of respect and admiration, and solid esteem. Aimer c’est tout comprendre; and to do that you must have no illusions — you must keep the lights dry — you must regard a man as he is, not as you think he is.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Eva, slowly; “I daresay you are right. I certainly never felt any schoolgirl sentimentality for anyone. I think I shall go for a ride, mother; it is nice to get a breath of fresh air after a long journey.”

  Mrs. Grampound rose too, and drew her arm through Eva’s.

  “Yes, darling, it will do you good,” she said. “And you can think about all this quietly. Your father is out still; he went down to the river just before you came, to see if he could get a trout or two. And Percy comes this evening. I will ring the bell in the drawing-room for your horse to come round, if you will go and get your habit on. Give me one more kiss, dear; it is so nice to have you home again.”

  Eva put her horse into a steady canter over the springy turf, and soon caught her uncle up, who was ambling quietly along on a grey pony. He was staying with his brother-in-law for a week or two, before going back to America, being a citizen of the United States. He rode for two reasons — indeed, he never did anything without a reason — both of which were excellent. Riding was a means of progressing from one place to another, and it was a sort of watch-key which wound up the mechanism of the body. He was rather hypochondriacal, and his doctor advised exercise, so he obeyed his doctor and rode. He did much more good than harm in this wicked world, but comparatively little of either.

  His sister had married Mr. Grampound early in life. She had a considerable fortune left her by her father, by aid of which, as with a golden spade, she hope to bury her American extraction. This she had succeeded in doing, with very decent success, but her golden spade had, so to speak, been broken in the act of interment, for her husband had speculated rather wildly with her money, and had lost it. Mrs. Grampound cared very little for this; her golden spade had done its work. She had married into the English aristocracy, for the Grampounds, though their accounts at banks did not at all correspond to the magnificence of their origin, and though the family estates had been sold to the last possible acre, held, in the estimation of the world, that position which, though it takes only a generation or two of great wealth to raise, requires an infinite number of generations of poverty to demolish.

  Eva found the society of her uncle very soothing on this particular afternoon. He very seldom disagreed with anybody, chiefly because he hated argument as a method of conversation, but his assent was not of that distressing order which is more irritating than a divergent view, for he always took the trouble to let it appear that he had devoted considerable thought to the question at issue, and had arrived at the same conclusions as his interlocutor.

  It was nearly eight when they reached home, and the dusk was thickening into night. Mr. Grampound had just got in, when they dismounted at the door, and he greeted Eva in his usual dignified and slightly interested manner. The extreme finish of his face suggested that the number of Grampounds who had been turned out of the same mediæval mould, was very considerable.

  Eva’s father held the door open for her to pass into the inner hall, and Eva, going to the table to take a bedroom candle, noticed that there was a note lying there for him. She turned it over quickly, and saw a coronet and “Aston House” on the back. She handed it to her father, who took it and said, —

  “From Lord Hayes. I thought he had not come home yet.”

  Eva was standing on the lowest step of the flight of stairs.

  “Yes; he came home with me to-day,” she said.

  “Was he with you at the Brabizons?”

  “Yes; we travelled together.”

  Eva went up to her room, not wishing to see the note opened in her presence. What it would contain she knew, or, at least, guessed. Five minutes later, Mr. Grampound also came upstairs and tapped at the door of his wife’s room. She had not begun to dress, and he came in with the note in his hand. His cold, clean-shaven face showed a good deal of gentlemanly and quiet satisfaction.

  “Of course there is only one answer,” he said when she had finished reading it. “It is a splendid match for her.”

  “Eva spoke to me about it this afternoon,” said his wife.

  “Well?”

  “She does not want to be hurried. She wants to have time to decide.”

  “There is no time like the present,” observed Mr. Grampound.

  “I hope you won’t press her, Charles. You will get nothing by that. She wants to marry, I know; and I said a great many very sensible things to her this afternoon. She wants more than a quiet home-life can give her, and she likes Hayes.”

  “I must send some answer to him; and I certainly shall not tell him to keep away.”

  “Give her time. Say he may come in a week. There is no harm in waiting a little. Eva will not be forced into anything against her will.”

  “I shall speak to her to-night.”

  “Yes, do; but be careful. I must send you away now; it is time to dress. Percy has come.”

  Eva, meanwhile, was thinking over the talk she had had with her mother. Mrs. Grampound’s affectionate consideration for her daughter’s feelings, Eva knew quite well, might only be the velvet glove to an iron hand. But she was distinctly conscious that there was a great deal in what her mother had said. She had decided for herself that she was not going to fall in love with anyone; men seemed to her to be very little loveable. At the same time, she knew that, in her heart of hearts, she longed for the possibilities which a great marriage would give her. Perhaps then the world would open out; perhaps it was interesting after all. Her home-life bored her considerably. They were in the country nine months out of the twelve, living in a somewhat sparsely-populated district, and Eva was totally unable to make for herself active or engrossing occupation in the direction of district-visiting or Sunday schools, or those hundred and one ways in which “nice girls” are supposed to employ themselves. Her vitality was of that still, strong sort which can only be reached through the emotions, and is too indolent or too uninitiative to stir the emotions into creating interests for themselves. The vague imperative need of doing something never wound its horn to her. She could not throw herself into the first pursuit that offered, simply because she had to be doing something, and her emotional record was a blank. The pencil and paper were there, for she was two-and-twenty, but she had nothing to write. She was quite unable to transform her diversions into aims, a faculty which accounts completely for the busy lives some women lead.

  Dinner was not till half-past eight, and, when Eva came down, the drawing-room was untenanted. The shaded lamp left the room in comparative dimness, but through the windows, which were open to let in the cool, evening air, the last glow of the sunset cast a red light on to the opposite wall. She stood at the window a moment and looked at the river, which lay like a string of crimson pools stretching west; and then, turning away impatiently, walked up and down the room, wondering where everyone was. That peaceful, sleeping landscape outside seemed to her an emblem of the quiet, deadly days that were to come. The slow to-morrow and to-
morrow seemed suddenly impossible. The door was open to her — the door leading on all that the world had to offer. Perhaps it was all as uninteresting as this, but it would be something, at any rate, to know that — to be quite certain that life was dull to the core. Then she thought she could rest quiet, and, perhaps, would not mind so much. What vexed and irritated her, was to suspect that the world was interesting and not to find it so, and she was disposed to lay the blame of that on her own particular station in life. Yet — yet — she could hardly say she had an ideal, but there was that shrouded image called love, of which she only saw the dim outline. It would be a pity to smash it up before the coverings came off. It might be worth having, after all.

  Her eye caught sight of a book on the table with a white vellum cover. Eva took it up. It was called The Crown of Womanhood, and something like a frown gathered on her face.

  It was almost a relief when her mother entered rustling elaborately across the room, and snapping a bracelet on to her comely wrist.

  “Ah! Eva, you are before me. Percy has come. I didn’t expect him till to-morrow.”

  “I’m glad,” said Eva listlessly.

  “Such a lovely evening,” continued Mrs. Grampound with a strong determination to be particularly neutral, and entirely unconscious of her talk with Eva before dinner. “Look at those exquisite tints, dear. The blue so tender as to be green,” she quoted with a fine disregard of accuracy.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Eva, not turning her head. “Ah! Percy, it’s good to see you.”

  Eva got up and walked across to meet the newcomer. Percy was a favourite of hers, from the time he had teased her about her dolls onward.

  “How long are you going to stop?” she continued. “Percy, stop here a long time; I want you.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’m going off to Scotland on the 12th, to the Davenports. I promised Reggie.”

  “Who’s Reggie?”

  “Reggie? Reggie Davenport. He’s a friend of mine. I’m very fond of him. Haven’t you ever seen him. He falls in love about once a fortnight. He’s very amusing.”

  “He must be rather a fool,” said Eva.

  “Oh, but he’s a nice fool. Really, he is very nice. He’s so dreadfully young.”

  “Well, you’re not very old, my lord,” said Eva.

  “But Reggie is much the youngest person I ever saw. He’ll never grow old.”

  “Ah! well,” said Eva. “I expect he’s very happy.”

  The gong had sounded some minutes, when Mr. Martin shuffled in. He wore a somewhat irregular white tie and grey socks, and was followed almost immediately by Mr. Grampound.

  Eva had already written a little note to Lord Hayes, and told her maid to enclose a three-and-six-penny postal order. She had also expressed a vague hope, so as not to block her avenues, that they would meet again soon. Her chief desire was to obtain a respite; the whole thing had been too sudden and she wished to think it over. Meantime, it was nice to see Percy again.

  “What have you been doing with yourself?” she asked. “I notice that whenever young men go away in novels, they always fall in love before they get back, or get married, or make their fortunes or lose them. How many of these things have you done?”

  “None of them,” said Percy; “though I’ve been to Monte Carlo, I did not play there. It doesn’t seem to me at all amusing.”

  “I suppose you haven’t got the gambling instinct,” said Eva; “that’s a great defect. You know none of the joy of telling your cabman that you will give him a shilling extra if he catches a train. It’s equivalent to saying, ‘I bet you a shilling you don’t;’ only he doesn’t pay if he loses, and you do. But that’s immaterial. The joy lies in the struggle with time and space.”

  “Do you mean that you like to keep things in uncertainty as long as possible?” asked her father, looking at her.

  Their eyes met, and they understood each other. Eva looked at him a moment, and then dropped her eyes.

  “Yes; I’m sure I do.”

  “Even when you have all the data ready, do you like not deciding?”

  “Oh! one never knows if one has all the data; something fresh may always turn up. For instance—”

  “Well?”

  “I was thinking just before dinner that I didn’t know what in the world I should do with myself all the autumn, and now you see Percy’s arrived. I shall play about with him.”

  “I go away in two days,” said Percy.

  “Oh! well, I daresay something else will turn up. I am like Mr. Micawber.”

  “No, not all,” said Mr. Grampound; “he was always doing his best to make things turn up.”

  Mrs. Grampound remarked that things were always turning up when you expected them least, and Percy hoped that his gun would turn up, because no one could remember where it was.

  The evening was so warm that Eva and her mother sat outside on the terrace after dinner, waiting for the others to join them. Mr. Grampound never sat long over his wine, and in a few minutes the gentlemen followed them. Eva was rather restless, and strolled a little way down the gravel path, and, on turning, found that her father had left the others and was walking toward her.

  “Come as far as the bottom of the lawn, Eva,” he said; “I should like a little talk with you.”

  They went on in silence for some steps, and then her father said, —

  “I heard from Lord Hayes to-day. Your mother told me that you could guess what it was about.”

  She picked up a tennis-ball that was lying on the edge of the grass.

  “How wet it is!” she said. “Yes, I suppose I know what he wrote about.”

  “Your mother and I, naturally, have your happiness very much at heart,” said he, “and we both agree that this is a very sure and clear chance of happiness for you. It is a great match, Eva.”

  Eva as a child had always rather feared her father and at this moment she found her childish fear rising again in her mind. Tall, silent, rather scornful-looking men may not always command affection, but they usually inspire respect. Her old fear for her father had grown into very strong respect, but she felt now that the converse transformation was very possible.

  “You would wish me to marry him?” she asked.

  “I wish you to consider it very carefully. I have seen a good deal of the world, so I also wish you to consider what I say to you about it. I have thought about it, and I have arrived at the very definite conclusion I have told you. I shall write to him to-night, and, with your consent, will tell him that he may come and ask you in person in a few days’ time. You know my wishes on the subject, and your mother’s. Meanwhile, dear Eva, I must congratulate you on the very good fortune which has come in your way.”

  He bent from his great height and kissed her.

  “I don’t wish to force you in any way,” he said, “and I don’t wish you to say anything to me to-night about it. Think it over by yourself. I needn’t speak of his position and wealth, because, though, of course, they are advantages, you will rate them at their proper value. But I may tell you that I am a very poor man, and that I know what these things mean.”

  “I should not marry him for those reasons,” said Eva.

  “There is no need for you to tell me that,” said he. “But it is right to tell you that I can leave you nothing. In the same way I hope that any foolish notions you may have got about love, from the trash you may have read in novels, will not stand in your way either. I will leave the matter in the hands of your own good sense.”

  His words had an unreasonable mastery over Eva, for her father never spoke idly. He was quite aware of the value of speech, but knew that it is enhanced by its rarity. “No one pays any attention to a jabbering fool,” he had said once to his wife, à propos of a somewhat voluble woman who had been staying in the house, and of whose abilities he and his wife entertained very contrary opinions. Eva had seldom heard him express his philosophy of life at such length, and she fully appreciated the weight it was intended to con
vey.

  CHAPTER II.

  Lord Hayes found Eva’s note waiting for him when he came down to breakfast next morning, but its contents did not take away his appetite at all. He was quite as willing that she should think it over as her father or mother, and he had no desire to force her to refuse. He was fairly certain that at his time of life, for he was over forty, he was not going to fall in love in the ordinary sense of the word; that sense, in fact, which Eva had herself confessed she never felt likely to experience. He had had a succession of eligible helpmeets hurled at his head by ambitious mothers for many years, and in sufficient numbers to enable him to draw the conclusion that the majority of eligible helpmeets were very much like one another.

  They had ready for him smiles of welcome, slightly diverting small-talk, pretty faces, and any number of disengaged waltzes; and after having basked in their welcoming smiles, submitted to their small-talk, looked at their pretty faces, and hopped decorously round in their disengaged waltzes, he always finished by stifling a yawn and making his exit. It would convey an entirely wrong impression to describe him as either a misanthrope or a cynic; the charms of marriageable maidenhood simply did not appeal to him. But though he was neither misanthrope nor cynic, a little vein of malevolence ran through his system, and he had more than half made up his mind that he would have none of these. He was quite rich enough to afford a wife who would bring him nothing but unpaid bills; and provided that wife brought him something which he had not yet found, he was willing to pay them all.

  That he was going to marry some time had long been a commonplace to him, but the sight of his forty-fifth milestone had lent it a loud insistence which was becoming quite distracting. The thought had begun to haunt him; he saw it in the withered flowers of his orchid house, it stuck in the corners of his coat pockets, his garden syringe gurgled it at him with its expiring efforts to emit the last drop of water; even the toad which he kept in his greenhouse had the knowledge of it lurking in its sickly eye.