CHAPTER X

'Our Master hath a garden which fair flowers adorn,

There will I go and gather, both at eve and morn:

Nought's heard therein but Angel Hymns with harp and lute,

Loud trumpets and bright clarions, and the gentle, soothing flute.

'The lily white that bloometh there is Purity,

The fragrant violet is surnamed Humility:

Nought's heard therein but Angel Hymns with harp and lute,

Loud trumpets and bright clarions, and the gentle, soothing flute.'

'Well,' cries Peggy anxiously, as, the young men having taken leave, she

sees her sister come running and jumping, and humming an air, to meet

her, 'is it all right?'

'Of course it is all right,' replies Prue, vaulting over the tennis-net

to let off a little of her steam. 'If it had not been for your long

face, I should never have doubted it.'

'Yes?'

'It was just as I expected; he was too polite to leave them. He says he

never in his life remembers spending two such tedious days; but he is so

unselfish. He says himself that he knows he is full of faults, but that

he cannot understand any one being selfish, even from the point of view

of their own pleasure. He said it so simply.'

'H'm!'

'I was so sorry for you, Peggy--saddled with that tiresome John Talbot

all morning. Of course I ought to have helped you; but you know I had

not a word to throw to a dog. It was very provoking of him, wasting all

your morning for you.'

'My morning was not wasted,' rejoins Margaret calmly. 'He may be a very

bad man, but he mows well.'

'He might as well have finished it while he was about it,' says Prue,

captiously eyeing the lawn. 'It looks almost worse than it did before,

half mown and half unmown.'

For an instant Margaret hesitates; then, with a slight though

perceptible effort over herself, she says:

'I suppose he thought so; for he has offered to come again to-morrow to

finish it. He said one could not leave it half-shaven, like a poodle.'

She looks at her sister a little doubtfully as she speaks--as one not

quite sure of the soundness of the comparison, and that would be glad to

have it confirmed by another judgment. But Prue's wings have already

carried her up again into her empyrean.

'We are to ride quite late this afternoon. He wants me to see the

reapers reaping by moonlight as we come home. He says he always

associates me with moonlight. I am to ride the bay. He says he quite

looks upon her as mine--that it gives him a sort of turn to see any one

else on her;' and so on, and so on.

Margaret smiles rather sadly; but as it is no use going to meet trouble

half-way, she allows herself to be carried away by Prue's infectious

spirits, on however rickety a foundation those spirits may be built. In

her heart she is scarcely more pleased with her own conduct than with

her sister's.

'One cannot touch pitch without being defiled,' she says to herself

severely.

She says it several times--is, indeed in the act of saying it next

morning, when, on the stroke of eleven, punctual to his minute, the poor

pitch reappears. She sets him at once to his mowing, and allows him very

short intervals for rest and conversation. Since he has come to work,

let him work. No doubt as soon as he discovers that it is honest labour

and not play that is expected of him he will trouble her with no more of

his assiduities. And yet, as he bids her good-bye, leaving behind him a

smooth sweep of short velvet for her to remember him by, he seems to

linger.

'How is Jacob?' he asks.

'No better.'

'The garden looks a little straggly,' suggests he insidiously, knowing

her weak side. 'A great many things want tying up. The beds need edging,

and the carnations ought to be layered.'

'You are very learned,' says she, smiling. 'Does the F.O. teach you

gardening?'

'Well, no; that is not included in the curriculum. That is an extra.'

'Who did teach you, then?' asks she, with an inquisitiveness which, as

soon as the words are out of her mouth, shocks and surprises herself.

Can it be Betty? A Betty that loves her children and digs in her garden!

If it is so, Peggy will have to reconstruct her altogether.

'My sister.'

His sister! What a relief! It would have been so humiliating to have had

her strongest taste degraded by a community with painted, posturing

Betty.

'You have a sister?'

'_Had._ There is a good deal of difference.'

And with that he leaves her abruptly. But he returns next day at the

same hour; and, as there has blown a boisterous wind in the night, which

has prostrated top-heavy plants, torn off leaves, and scattered

flower-petals, she has not the heart to refuse his aid in a general

tidying and sweeping up. Next day he clips the edges of the borders

very nicely with a pair of shears; and the next day they gather lavender

off the same bush. Gathering lavender, particularly off the same bush,

is a good deal more productive of talk than mowing; nor is it possible

to her to keep her new servant within the bounds of a silence to which

she had never attempted to confine her old one.

But, indeed, by the time that they have come to the lavender day the

wish for his silence has ceased. On the second--the general sweeping

day--he had told her about his sister--had told her in short dry

sentences how he had lost her; and she had cried out of sympathy for him

who did not cry, and had said to herself, 'What if it had been my Prue?'

On the third day, though assuredly no word or hint of Betty had passed

his lips, somehow, by woman's instinct, sharpened by observation, she

has sprung to a conclusion, not very erroneous, as to his garish

mock-happiness and his shattered life. On the fourth day she asks

herself why he never comes except in the forenoon; and herself answers

the question, that it is because lazy Betty lies late, and until one

o'clock has no knowledge of his comings or goings. On the fifth day she

resolves that he shall come in the afternoon. She will be visited openly

or not at all. So when, giving his bundle of lavender into her hands, he

says with a valedictory formula, 'The same hour to-morrow?' she answers

quietly:

'I am afraid not; I have an engagement with Mrs. Evans for to-morrow

morning; we must give up the garden to-morrow, unless'--as if with an

afterthought--'unless you could come later--some time in the afternoon?'

His countenance falls. What property has he in his own afternoons? His

weary afternoons of hammock and scandal and cigarettes?

'I am afraid----' he begins; but at once he sees her face hardening. She

knows. She understands. Cost what it may, he will not see again in her

mouth and eyes that contempt whose dawning he had once before detected,

to the embittering of his rest. He will not leave her with those tight

lips and that stern brow. Pay for it as he may, he will do her bidding.

'At what hour, then?' he asks readily. 'Four? five? it is all one to

me.'

She hesitates a moment. She has laid a trap for him, and he has not

fallen into it.

'Shall we say five?'

He sees the surprise in her look, and is rewarded by it. But as he walks

home he ponders. How is he to break to Betty the act of insubordination

of which he has pledged himself to be guilty? For the last week he has

been leading a double life; dissembling his happy mornings from the

monopoliser of his weary afternoons. A sense of shame and revolt comes

over him. He will dissemble no longer. Know as he may that from the

tyranny whose yoke he himself fastened about his neck--from the chain

which he himself has encouraged to eat into his life, only death or

Betty's manumission can--according to honour's distorted code--free him;

yet there is no reason why he should deny himself the solace of such a

friendship as a good woman who divines his miserable story will accord

him: a woman who lies under no delusion as to his being a free agent; in

whose clear eyes--their innocence not being a stupid ignorance--he has

read her acquaintance with his history; and whose strong heart can run

no danger from the company of one whom she despises. Nor as the time

draws near, though the natural man's aversion from vexing anything

weaker than itself, coupled with his knowledge of his lady's unusual

tear-and-invective power, may make him wince at the thought of the

coming contest, does his resolution at all flag as to asserting and

sticking to his last remnant of liberty. He might, as it happens, have

cut the knot by flight, Betty having given him the occasion by

forsaking him for a game of billiards with Freddy; but he is determined

to fight the battle out on the open field. She has rejoined him now, and

the weather being fresher than it was, and Betty the chilliest of

mortals, they are walking briskly up and down the terrace, she wrapped

in a 'fluther' of lace and feathers, and with her children frisking

round her, a good and happy young matron. She is very happy just now,

dear Betty. She has beaten Freddy at billiards, and made him break tryst

with Prue. She is going to make him break another to-morrow. Is it any

wonder that she looks bright and sweet? Little Franky has hold of her

hand; and Lily is backing along the gravel walk before her. Betty

laughs.

'Can you imagine what can be the pleasure of walking backwards with your

tongue out?' asks she of Talbot. 'Franky darling, you are pulling my

hand off; would not you like to run away and play with Lily?'

But the little spoilt fellow only clutches her fingers the tighter.

'No, no; I like to stay with you, mammy!'

'And so you shall,' cries she, hugging him; 'you shall always do

whatever you like. But Lily'--in a colder key--'you may run away; we do

not want you. What are you staring at me so for, child?'

Lily puts her head on one side, and hoisting up her shoulder to meet her

cheek, rubs them gently together, with her favourite gesture.

'I was only thinking, mammy,' replies she pensively, 'what much smaller

ears than yours Miss Lambton has. Do you think that she will grow deaf

sooner than other people because her ears are so small?'

'Nonsense!' rejoins the mother sharply; 'do not get into the habit of

asking stupid questions. Run away!'

'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,' etc. The way has been paved

for Talbot in a way that he could not have expected. Miss Harborough

walks away slowly, dragging her legs, and with a very deep reluctance.

She scents an interesting conversation in the air.

'It is odd that Lily should have mentioned Miss Lambton,' says Talbot,

taking the plunge; 'for I was just going to mention her myself.'

'It is what you do not often do,' replies Betty drily; '"out of the

abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," cannot be said of you.'

'Her gardener is ill,' continues Talbot, leaving unnoticed this little

fling, and speaking in as matter-of-fact a tone as he can assume; 'and I

promised to help her to water her garden. By the bye'--with an

unnecessary glance at the stable clock--'if you could spare me for half

an hour--I said I would be there by five--I ought to be off.'

There is an ominous silence. Then:

'How do you know that her gardener is ill? Did she think it necessary to

write and communicate that interesting fact to you?'

'No.'

'She has not been here since Monday?'

'I believe not.'

'Then you have been there?'

'Yes.'

'What day?'

He hesitates. Shall he make a clean breast of it? Yes; 'in for a penny,

in for a pound.'

'I have been there five days,' replies he slowly, and looking down.

Another pause. He keeps his eyes resolutely averted from her face, but

he hears an angry catch in her breath.

'In the morning, I suppose, before I was up?'

'Yes.'

She breaks into a rather shrill laugh.

'What an incentive to early rising! The early Blowsabel picks the

worm.'

Her tone is so inexpressibly insulting that he has to bite his lips hard

to keep in the furious retort that rises to them; but he masters

himself. Of what use to bandy words with an angry woman? And, after all,

from her point of view she has some cause of complaint. Franky has

altered his mind, and trotted off after his senior, for whose

tree-climbing, cat-teasing, general mischief-doing powers he entertains

a respect tempered with fear. They are alone.

Betty is walking along with her nose in the air, a smile of satisfied

ire at the happiness of her last shaft giving a malicious upward curve

to her pretty mouth.

'How I should have laughed,' says she presently, 'if any fortune-teller

had told me that it would be my fate to be supplanted by a sa----'

'You are going to say "a sack of potatoes,"' says he, interrupting her.

'Do not. If you must call names, invent a new one!'

'Why give myself that trouble,' asks she insolently, 'when the old one

fits so admirably? _Supplanted by a sack!_' (dwelling with prolonged

relish on the obnoxious noun). 'What a good title for a novel! Ah!

Freddy, my child!' catching sight of the young fellow, who is just

stepping out of the window of the drawing-room. 'I was afraid you had

gone to dry your skeleton's eyes. Come and dry mine instead: I assure

you they need it much more.'

As she speaks she goes hurriedly to meet Ducane, and disappears with him

round a corner of the house.

Talbot is free to pursue his scheme with what heart he may. The last ten

minutes' conversation has taken all the bloom off his project. That the

whole pleasure to himself has been eliminated from it is, however, no

reason why he should break his word to Peggy, and, if he wishes to obey

her with the punctuality that he has always hitherto shown, he must set

off at once. He begins to walk towards a turn-stile that leads into the

park!