A Court of Inquiry Part 10

If Dahlia herself was conscious of this--and I'm sure she must have been--she probably ascribed it to the charm of her appearance. She is even prettier than she used to be. But, as we were wont to say of her when we had owned to all her attractiveness--"if only!"

"After all," urged Hepatica, on the homeward way, "we've no right to judge by seeing them under those conditions. Wait till we've had them alone with us. Dahlia told me on the way out that they were planning to come and see us very soon.--I suggested to-morrow night, so they will come then."

"I'll be there," accepted the Philosopher--quite before he was asked.

So on the following evening we saw them, alone with ourselves. The dear Professor seemed to us, more than before, the pitiable victim of a woman in every way unsuited to him. Yet he looked at Dahlia as if he cared for her very much, and was only a trifle bewildered by her manner with other men.

"What dear times we used to have on the river!" said Dahlia to the Philosopher, at a moment when n.o.body else happened to be speaking. She accompanied this observation by a glance. It was Dahlia's glances which gave life to her remarks.

"I haven't fished in that river for three summers," replied the Philosopher, in his most unsentimental tone.

"You used to have better luck when you went alone," said Dahlia. "Do you remember how we could never stop talking long enough to lure any fish our way?"

"Nevertheless, there has been considerable fis.h.i.+ng done on that river, first and last," a.s.serted the Skeptic, with a twinkle at the Philosopher, who looked uncomfortable. The Professor's gentle gaze was fixed upon each speaker in turn, and as he now waited upon the Philosopher's reply I saw the latter person frown slightly.

"I never considered the fis.h.i.+ng on that river very good," said he.

"Oh, it didn't need to be," cried Dahlia. "I can shut my eyes now and see the water rippling in the moonlight! Can't you?" She appealed to the Skeptic.

"I can't," said the Skeptic. "I never noticed how it rippled in the moonlight. The big porch is my favourite haunt at the Farm. The smoking is good there--keeps away the midges."

"Midges!" Dahlia gave a little shriek. "There aren't any midges in that part of the country."

"There are some kinds of little, annoying insects that come around in the evening, then," persisted the Skeptic, "just when people want to settle down and have themselves to themselves. The Philosopher was always more annoyed by them than I. He has a sensitive skin."

Once started on this sort of allusive nonsense it was difficult for us to head off the Skeptic. But presently, noting the Professor's kindly face a.s.suming a puzzled expression as he watched his wife's kittenish demeanour, the Skeptic desisted. It did not seem necessary for him to demonstrate to us that, quite as of old, he could attract Dahlia to his side and keep her there. Before the evening was over he found himself occupied--also quite as of old--with keeping out of her way. Altogether, it was certainly not Dahlia's fault if the Professor did not gain the impression that both the Skeptic and the Philosopher were rejected suitors of her own.

When they had gone, and the door had closed upon the last of the bride's backward looks at our two men, the Skeptic dropped into a chair.

"Hepatica, will you kindly mix a few drops of soothing syrup for me?"

he requested.

But the Philosopher fell to marching up and down, his hands in his pockets, and a deeper gloom on his brow than we had ever seen there.

Although a decade the Philosopher's elder, the Professor had long shared bachelor quarters with him in past days; it had been only within a year or two that the necessities of their occupations had caused them to separate.

"Why did I ever let him go off by himself?" the Philosopher muttered remorsefully. "Why didn't I keep an eye on him?"

"It would have made no difference," the Skeptic offered dismally as consolation. "'Whom the G.o.ds would destroy they first make mad!' You couldn't have prevented his madness."

"I could have seen to it that such deadly instruments as marriage licences and irresponsible clergymen were kept out of his way," groaned the Philosopher.

"Come, cheer up!" cried Hepatica, making haste to light the spirit-lamp under her tea-kettle. "I'm going to brew you all a cup of comfort with lemons and sugar and things."

"Look at her!" commanded the Skeptic, rallying, "and tell me if marriage is a failure."

The Philosopher paused. "You know well enough what I think of your marriage," he owned.

II

CAMELLIA AND THE JUDGE

I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war when they should kneel for peace.

--_Taming of the Shrew._

"We are invited to spend the week-end with Camellia," announced my hostess at the breakfast-table one morning, glancing up from a note which the hall-boy had just brought to the door.

The Skeptic jumped in his chair. "Those same old sensations come over me," he announced, digging away vengefully at his grapefruit. "What have I to wear? My only consolation now is that Camellia married a man who cares about as much what he wears as I do."

"It's not Camellia's clothes that bother me now," said Hepatica thoughtfully, "so much as the formality of her style of entertaining.

My dear, she has a butler."

"How horrible!" I agreed. "Can I hope to please the eye of the butler?"

"Camellia's husband is a downright good fellow," said the Skeptic warmly. "The fuss and feathers of his wife's hospitality can't prevent his giving you the real thing. Even Philo likes to go there--particularly when Camellia is away. I presume Philo's invited now?"

"So she says," a.s.sented Hepatica, studying her note again, with a care not to look at me which made me quite as self-conscious as if she had.

Why the dear people will all persist in thinking things which do not exist! Of course I was glad the Philosopher was to be there. What enjoyment is not the keener for his friendly sharing of it? But what of that? Has it not been so for many years?--and will be so, I trust, for all to come.

Hepatica and I packed with care, selecting the most expensive things we owned. Hepatica scrutinized the Skeptic's linen critically before she put it in. When we departed we were as correctly attired as time and thought could make us. When we arrived we were doubly glad that this was so, for the sight of the butler, admitting us, gave us much the same feeling of being badly dressed that Camellia's own presence had been wont to do.

Camellia herself was as exquisitely arrayed as ever, but she looked considerably older than I had expected. I wondered if constant engagements with her tailor and dressmaker, to say nothing of incessant interviews with those who see to the mechanism of formal entertaining, had not begun to wear upon her. But she was very cordial with us, and her husband, the Judge, was equally so. He was considerably her senior--quite as much so, I decided, as the Professor was Dahlia's--but on account of Camellia's woman-of-the-world air the contrast was not so p.r.o.nounced.

We sat through an elaborate dinner, during which I suffered more or less strain of anxiety concerning my forks. But the Judge, at whose right hand I sat, diverted me so successfully by means of his own most interesting personality and delightful powers of conversation, that in time I forgot both forks and butler, and was only conscious of the length of the dinner by the sense, toward its close, of having had more to eat than I wanted.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Camellia herself was as exquisitely arrayed as ever"]

"They have this sort of thing every night of their unfortunate lives, to a greater or less degree," murmured the Skeptic in my ear, as the men came into the impressively decorated room where Camellia and Hepatica and I were talking over common memories. "The gladdest man to get into his summer camp in Maine is the Judge, and the life of absolute abandon to freedom he lives there ought to teach his wife a thing or two--if she were wise enough to heed it. Why two people--but I've just eaten their salt," he acknowledged in reply to what I suppose must have been my accusing look, and forbore to say more.

"I think I'll give a little dinner for you to-morrow night," said Camellia reflectively, as we sat about. "A very informal one, of course--just some of our neighbours."

I felt my spirits drop. I saw those of Hepatica and the Skeptic and the Philosopher drop, although they made haste to prop their countenances up again.

But the Judge protested. "Why give anything, my dear?" he questioned. "I doubt if our friends would prefer meeting our neighbours, whom they don't know, to visiting with ourselves, whom they do--however egotistic that may sound."

"I want to make things gay for you," explained Camellia; "and the Latimers and the Elliots are very gay."--The Judge only lifted his handsome eyebrows.--"And the Lis...o...b..s are lovely," went on Camellia.

"Mrs. Lis...o...b.. sings."

The Judge ran his hand through the thick, slightly graying locks above his broad forehead. He did not need to tell us that he did not enjoy hearing Mrs. Lis...o...b.. sing, and doubted if we should.

"Harry Hodgson recites--we always have him when we want to make things go. Oh, he's not a professional, of course. He only gives readings among his special friends. I believe I'll run and telephone him now. He's so likely to have engagements." Camellia hastened away.