CHAPTER IV

'Yon meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your number than your light;

You common people of the skies,

What are you when the moon shall rise?'

'Oh, Peggy! I have had such a dinner!' cries Prue, in an ecstatic voice,

drawing her sister away into a window as soon as the ladies have reached

the drawing-room.

'Have you indeed?' replies Margaret distrustfully, and wilfully

misunderstanding. 'Had you two helps of venison, like Mr. Evans?'

'Oh! I am not talking of the food!' rejoins the other impatiently. 'I do

not know whether or not I ate anything; I do not think I did. But they

were so amusing, I did not want to talk. He saw that I did not want to

talk, so he let me sit and listen.'

'That was very considerate of him.'

'She was so amusing; she told us such funny stories about Mr.

Harborough--no harm, you know, but rather making game of him. I do not

know what Mrs. Evans meant by saying that she stuck at nothing. She said

one or two things that I did not quite understand; but I am sure there

was no harm in them.'

'Perhaps not.'

'And she was so kind to me,' pursues Prue, with enthusiasm; 'trying to

draw me into the conversation, asking how long I had been out.'

But here the sisters' _tete-a-tete_ is broken in upon by the

high-pitched voice of the subject of their conversation.

'Who would like to come and see my children in bed? Do not all speak at

once. H'm! nobody? This is hardly gratifying to a mother's feelings.

Miss Lambton, I am sure you will come; you look as if you were fond of

children. And you, Miss Prue, I shall insist upon your coming, whether

you like it or not!'

So saying she puts her hand familiarly through the delighted little

girl's arm, and walks off with her, Peggy following grudgingly. She has

not the slightest desire to see the young Harboroughs, asleep or wake;

though she has already had to defend her heart against an inclination to

grow warm towards them, upon their rosy nightgowned entry before dinner.

She has to defend it still more strongly, when, the nursery being

reached, she sees them lying in the all-gentleness of perfect slumber in

their cribs. Even that not innumerous class who dislike the waking

child, the self-assertive, interrogative, climbing, bawling, smashing,

waking child, grow soft-hearted at the sight of the little sleeping

angel. Is this really Lady Betty bending over the little bed? recovering

the outflung chubby arm from fear of cold, straightening the coverlets,

and laying a light hand on the cool forehead? Peggy ought to be pleased

by such a sign of grace; but when we have formed a conception of a

person we are seldom quite pleased by the discovery of a fact that

declines to square with that conception.

'You are very fond of them?' she says in a whisper, that, without her

intending it, is interrogative; and through which pierces perhaps a tone

of more surprise than she is herself aware of.

Lady Betty stares.

'Fond of them! Why, I am a perfect fool about them; at least I am about

him! I do not care so much about her; she is a thorough Harborough! Did

you ever see such a likeness as hers to her father? He' (with a

regretful motion of the head toward the boy's bed) 'is a little like him

too; but he has a strong look of me. When his eyes are open he is the

image of me. I have a good mind to wake him to show you.'

'Oh, do not!' cries Margaret eagerly; 'it would be a sin!'

But the caution is needless. The mother had no real thought of breaking

in upon that lovely slumber.

'Did you ever see such a duck?' says she rapturously, stooping over him;

'and his hand!'--taking the little plump fist softly into her own

palm--'look at his hand! Will not he be a fine strong man? He can pummel

his nurse already, cannot he, Harris? And not a day's illness in all his

little life, bless him!'

Her eyes are almost moist as she speaks. The colour would no doubt come

and go in her cheeks, only that unfortunately it has contracted the

habit of never going, unless washed off by eau-de-Cologne. Against her

will, Peggy feels her ill opinion melting away like mist; but happily,

on her return to the drawing-room, she is able to restore it in its

entirety. For no sooner have the men appeared than Lady Betty

disappears. The exact moment of her flight and its companion Peggy has

been unable to verify; as, at the moment when it must have taken place,

she was buttonholed by Mrs. Evans on the subject of rose-rash, an

unhandsome little disorder at present rioting among the Evans's ranks;

and for which Peggy is supposed to have a specific. But though she did

not actually see the person who shared Lady Betty's evasion, she is as

sure as to who it was as if her very bodily eyes had looked upon

him,--John Talbot, of course. With John Talbot she is now dishonestly

philandering under the honest harvest-moon; to John Talbot she is now

talking criminal nonsense, with those very lips that five minutes ago

were laid upon the sacred velvet cheeks of her little children. With a

curling lip Margaret looks round the room.

Why, Prue is missing too, and Freddy! Prue, the prone to quinsy, to

throats, to delicacy of all kinds, straying over the deep-dewed grass

without cloak or goloshes! For it would be expecting something more than

human of her to suppose that when invited out by her admirer to hear all

that the poets have said of Orion and Arcturus and the sister Pleiads,

she should stop him in the full flow of his inspiration to inquire after

what the Americans prettily call her 'gums.' If she will only have the

sense to keep to the gravel paths! The elder sister has walked to the

window, and now stands straining her eyes down the long alley to see if

she can catch any glimpse of the little figure that, since its wailing

infancy seventeen years ago, has caused her so many anxious hours. Shall

she take upon herself the invidious office of spy, and follow her? or

trust to the child's common sense, and to the possibility of her

occasionally dropping her eyes from the enormous moon, now queening it

in a great field of radiance above her head, to her own thin-shod feet?

She is still hesitating when a voice, coming from behind her, makes her

start.

'What a night!'

She turns to find that the utterer of this original ejaculation is none

other than John Talbot. Is it possible that they have already returned

from their lovers' ramble? But no! there is no sign of Lady Betty. It is

clear that _he_ could not have been the companion of her stroll. For the

second time this evening Margaret has found herself in error.

'_You?_' she says, in a tone of rather vexed surprise.

'Why not?'

'I thought that you were out.'

'_I!_ no!'

A moment's silence. Whom then could she have lured into her toils?

Freddy? But Freddy must be with Prue. Mr. Evans? the diplomate? There is

not much choice.

Her speculations are again broken in upon by the voice:

'Will not you take a turn?'

'I think not; that is to say'--correcting herself--'I shall only go a

few steps, just to find my sister.'

'May I help you to find her?'

'I do not know why I should give you that trouble.'

A moment's silence, spent by both in reflections. This is the outcome of

his.

'I do not think that I have done anything fresh.'

'Anything fresh?'

'Not since we parted; nothing to earn me a new set of snubs.'

She smiles a little. 'You have not had much time.'

'And I will not do anything fresh.' Then aside, 'I am blessed if I know

what I did.'

'That is rather a rash engagement,' smiling again.

It is fortunate that her teeth are so good, for she shows a great many

of them.

'But if I keep it I may come?' pertinaciously.

'I suppose so;' and out they step together.

It cannot be helped, but it is a little perverse of fate that, after

all, it should be she who, in appearance at least, is the one to

philander in the moonlight with this despiser of the marriage law. And

whether or no it is his presence that brings her ill-luck, it is some

time before she succeeds in the object of her search. The grounds are

rather large, with meandering walks and great clumps of shrubs that hide

them from one another.

Each of Prue's favourite resorts has been visited, but without result.

The walled garden, hushed and sleeping; the trellised wall, where

ancient brick has disappeared beneath the thronged faces, diversely

dazzling, of the brown, orange, tawny and sulphur nasturtiums; the

retired seat beneath the tulip-tree. All, all are empty. Nothing remains

but the kiosk, and Peggy feels sure that Prue is not in the kiosk.

Thither, however, they bend their steps; but before they reach it a turn

of the walk reveals to them two seated figures. One is certainly the

Prue whom they seek; Prue sitting upon an uncomfortable garden bench, on

which nobody ever sits--on which she herself has never sat before. But

is it conceivable that, since dinner, Freddy can have doubled in size,

can have lost all the hair off the top of his head, and have exchanged

his cambric shirt-front and his diamond and turquoise studs for a

double-breasted waistcoat buttoned to the chin?

With a feeling akin to stupefaction Peggy realises that it is Mr. Evans,

and not Freddy, who is Prue's companion. As they approach he rises

reluctantly. He had much rather that they had not come. Prue never wants

to talk to him. She lets him sit and silently ruminate and dream beside

her; a cigarette between his lips, and a blessed oblivion of dissenters,

boys' schooling, girls' ugly faces, rickety baby, Christmas bills,

invading his lulled brain. Prue neither rises nor changes her position.

Her arms lie listlessly on her lap, and she is staring up at Cassiopeia,

the one constellation for ever exalted above its fellows by having had

Freddy Ducane for its exhibitor.

'Do you think you are quite wise to sit out here, with nothing over your

shoulders?' asks Margaret, stooping over her sister, and speaking in a

tone of such exceeding gentleness as positively to astound Talbot, who

had not calculated upon the existence of such tones in a voice which has

conscientiously employed only its harsher keys for his benefit.

'I am not cold,' replies Prue dully.

'How long have you been here? Long?'

'I do not know.'

'We were too comfortable to take note of time, were not we, Miss Prue?'

says Mr. Evans, with a sigh for his lost peace. 'A southern moon, is not

it?' to Talbot.

'Quite long enough, I am sure,' rejoined Peggy, putting her hand

persuasively on her sister's shoulder. 'Come with us! come!'

Talbot cannot help hearing that 'Come!' even while exchanging original

remarks upon the stars of the southern hemisphere with the vicar; nor

can he further help speculating as to whether, if that 'Come!' were

addressed to himself, and were inviting him to follow it to Lapland, to

Hong Kong, or to some yet hotter place, he should have the force of mind

to decline. But at all events Prue has.

'I had rather stay here,' replies she, _sotto voce_, with an accent of

miserable irritation. 'Why should I come? Nobody wants me; nobody misses

me! Please leave me alone.'

There is nothing for it but to comply. With a heavier heart than that

with which she reached it, Margaret leaves the bench and its ill-sorted

occupants. She takes little heed as to the direction of her steps until

she finds herself and her companion approaching the kiosk, whence is

plainly audible the sound of voices, which, as they advance nearer to

it, grows hushed. It is too dark to see into the interior, as above the

little gimcrack temple, memorial of the bad taste of fifty years ago,

rises a brotherhood of tall, spruce firs that project their shade over

and before it.

Just in front of it Talbot stops her to point out to her a shooting-star

that is darting its trail of glory through the immensities of space. Has

he not heard those voices--he must have been deaf if he did not--nor

observed that marked succeeding silence? He shows no sign of uneasiness

or curiosity. His eye is resting apparently, with a calmer enjoyment

than she can bring to it, on the gold mist rolling its gauzy-billows in

the hollows of the park.

It is only to those who come to her with a tranquil and disengaged mind

that the great mother gives the real key of her treasure-houses; and

Peggy's mind to-night is too ruffled to give her any claim to the great

endowment.

They are standing silently side by side, when a noise, proceeding from

the inside of the kiosk, makes itself audible--a noise apparently

intended to counterfeit the mewing of a cat, followed by the crowing of

a most improbable cock.

Talbot does not even turn his head.

'We are not at all frightened, and not much amused,' he says, in a clear

matter-of-fact voice.

'You had not an idea that we were here, had you?' cries Lady Betty,

springing out of the temple, followed by Freddy Ducane. 'Did not I mew

well? and did not Freddy crow badly? Freddy, you have no more idea of

crowing than a carp.'

'I can do better than that,' replies Freddy, in self-defence. 'I am not

in voice to-night.'

'But you had not a notion that we were here, had you?' repeats Lady

Betty pertinaciously.

'As we had heard you talking at the top of your voices for half a mile

before we came up to you, we had some slight inkling of it.'

Peggy wonders whether the cold dryness of his tone is as patent to the

person to whom it is addressed as it is to herself. She supposes that it

is, since she instantly takes possession of him; and, under the pretext

of showing him a plant which can scarcely be distinguishable from its

neighbours under the colourless moonlight, walks him off into a dusky

alley.

Margaret remains alone with Freddy.

'"Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?"'

says he familiarly, approaching her.

She looks him fully and gravely in the face. Most people find it

difficult to look at Freddy Ducane without smiling. Peggy feels no such

inclination. Between her and this image of youth and sunshine there

rises another image--a poor little image, to whom this gay weather-cock

gives its weather--a little image that expands or shrinks as this

all-kissing zephyr blows warm or cold upon it.

'Because I have nothing to say, I suppose,' replies she shortly.

'Come with me to the walled garden'--in a wheedling voice--'and show me

the stars.'

'Thank you, I can see them quite well here.'

'"My pretty Peg, my pretty Peg,

Ah, never look so shy!"'

cries he, breaking into a laugh, which she does not echo.

'I am not your pretty Peg; and I have told you several times that I will

not be called "Peg."'

'_Peggy_, then. Personally, I prefer _Peg_; but it is a matter of

opinion. Peggy, are you aware that you have been poaching?'

'I do not know what you mean.' But she does.

'Her ladyship did not much like it, I can tell you,' continues he

delightedly. 'She manifested distinct signs of uneasiness. I could not

keep her quiet, though I went through all my little tricks for her. She

_would_ make those ridiculous noises; and she whipped him off pretty

quickly, did not she? Ah, Peggy'--tenderly--'you would have done better

to have kept to me! _I_ would not have left you in the lurch.'

To this she deigns no answer.

'Where is Prue?' asks he, a moment later, with an easy change of topic.

'What have you done with Prue?'

'I have done nothing with her,' rather sadly.

'You have sent her home with her nurse to bed, I suppose?' suggests he

reproachfully. 'I sometimes think that you are a little hard upon Prue.'

_Hard upon Prue!_ She, whose one thought, waking and sleeping, is how

best to put her strong arm round that fragile body and weakling soul, so

as to shield them from the knocks of this rough world! This, too, from

him, who has introduced the one element of suffering it has ever known

into Prue's little life.

'Am I?' she answers quietly; but her cheek burns.

'There is no one that suits me so well as Prue,' says the young man

sentimentally, looking up to the sky.

'"She's like the keystone of an arch,

That doth consummate beauty;

She's like the music of a march,

That maketh joy of duty!"'

Peggy's eye relents. He may mean it--may be speaking truth--it is not

likely, as he seldom does so; but after all, the greatest liars must,

during their lives, speak more truth than lies. One is prone to believe

what one wishes, and he _may_ mean it.

'There is no one that I am so fond of as I am of Prue,' pursues he, with

a quiver in his voice.

'You have an odd way of showing it sometimes,' says she, in a softened

tone.

'Are you alluding to _that_?' asks he, glancing carelessly over his

shoulder at the kiosk. 'Pooh! I hated it. I shall get milady to pull it

down some day. I was so glad when you and Talbot came up: it was so

dark, and I felt the earwigs dropping on my head.'

'Then why did you go there?' inquires she.

He bursts into a laugh, from which sentiment and quiver are miles away.

'The woman tempted me; at least' (seeing his companion's mouth taking a

contemptuous upward curve at this mode of expression)--'at least, she

seemed to expect it. I always like to do what people seem to expect.'

And Margaret's heart sinks.