Antony Gray-Gardener Part 33

Should she, then, ignore Pia's letter, or should she reply to it? She weighed the pros and cons of this question for the next ten minutes, and finally decided she would write, and at once.

Returning, therefore, to the hotel, she indited the following brief missive:

"My dear Pia,--

"The incident is closed so far as I am concerned. But I don't mean to give up seeking my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I dare say most people would call it an imaginary quest. Well then, I like an imaginary quest. It helps to make me forget much that is prosaic, and a good deal that is sordid in this work-a-day world.

"Please remember me to Doctor Hilary when you see him. Best love, Pia darling,

"Trix."

Three days later Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix,

"The rainbow vanishes, and the sordidness and the prosaicness become rather horribly apparent, especially when one finds oneself obliged to look at them after having steadily ignored their existence.

"Yours affectionately, "Pia."

To which Trix replied:

"My dear Pia,

"My rainbow s.h.i.+nes after every shower, and is brightest against the darkest clouds. When I look towards the darkest clouds I wait for the rainbow.

"Yours, "Trix."

And Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix,

"What happens when there is no longer any sun to form a rainbow?

"Yours affectionately, "Pia."

And Trix wrote:

"Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny, wait till the clouds roll by."

And Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix,

"Some people wait a lifetime in vain,

"Yours affectionately, "Pia."

And Trix wrote:

"Darling Pia,

"You're twenty-eight. Trix."

After which there was a cessation of correspondence for a time, neither having anything further to say on the subject, or at all events, nothing further they felt disposed to set down in writing.

Trix spent her mornings, and the afternoons, till tea time, in her Aunt's company. After that, Mrs. Arbuthnot being engrossed in Bridge till bedtime, Trix was free to do exactly as she liked. What she liked was walking till it was time to dress for dinner, and spending the evenings in the garden.

Even before her father's death, Trix had stayed frequently with her aunt.

Her mother had died when Trix was three years old and Mrs. Arbuthnot, a widow with no children of her own, would have been quite ready to adopt Trix. But neither Mr. Devereux, nor, for that matter, Trix herself, were in the least disposed to fall in with her plans. Trix was merely lent to her for fairly lengthy periods, and it had been during one of these periods that Mrs. Arbuthnot had taken her to a farm near Byestry, in which place Mr. Devereux had spent most of his early years.

In those days Mrs. Arbuthnot's one hobby had been photography. People used to say, of course unjustly, that she never beheld any view with the naked eye, but merely in the reflector of a photographic apparatus. Yet it is entirely obvious that she must first have regarded it in the ordinary way to judge of its photographic merits. Anyhow it is true that quite a good deal of her time was spent beneath the folds of a black cloth (she never condescended to anything so amateurish as a mere kodak), or in the seclusion of a dark room.

Veritable dark rooms being seldom procurable on her travels, she invariably carried with her two or three curtains of thick red serge, several rolls of brown paper, and a bottle of stickphast. The two last mentioned were employed for covering c.h.i.n.ks in doors, etc. It cannot be said that it was entirely beneficial to the doors, but hotel proprietors and landladies seldom made any complaint after the first remonstrance, as Mrs. Arbuthnot was always ready to make handsome compensation for any damage caused. It is to be feared that at times her generosity was largely imposed upon.

In addition to the red curtains, the brown paper, and the stickphast, two large boxes were included in her luggage, one containing all her photographic necessaries, and they were not few, the other containing several dozen alb.u.ms of prints.

Of late years Bridge had taken quite as large a place in her affections as photography. Not that she felt any rivalry between the two; her pleasure in both pastimes was quite equally balanced. Her mornings and early afternoons were given to photography. The late afternoons and evenings Mrs. Arbuthnot devoted to Bridge.

One exceedingly wet afternoon, tea being recently concluded, Trix in her bedroom was surveying the weather from the window.

She was debating within her mind whether to don mackintosh and souwester and face the elements, or whether to retire to a far corner of the drawing-room with a novel, as much as possible out of earshot of the Bridge players. She was still in two minds as to which prospect most appealed to her mood, when Mrs. Arbuthnot tapped on her door, and immediately after sailed into the room. It is the only word applicable to Mrs. Arbuthnot's entry into any room.

She was a large fair woman, very distinctly inclined to stoutness. In her youth she had been both slender, and quick in her movements; but recognizing, and rightly, that quickness means a certain loss of dignity in the stout, she had trained herself to be exceedingly deliberate in her actions. There was an element of consciousness in her deliberation, therefore, which gave the impression of a rather large sailing vessel under weigh.

"Trix, dearest," she began. And then she perceived that Trix had been observing the weather.

"You were not going out, were you, dearest? I really think it would hardly be wise. It is blowing quite furiously. I know it is rather dull for you as you don't play Bridge. Such a pity, too, as you understand it so well. But I have a suggestion to make. Will you paste some of my newest prints into the latest alb.u.m? There is a table in the window in my room, and a fresh bottle of stickphast. Not in the window, I don't mean that, but in my trunk. And Maunder can find it for you." Maunder was Mrs.

Arbuthnot's maid.

Trix turned from the window. Of course Mrs. Arbuthnot's request settled the question of a walk. She had really been in two minds about it.

"Why, of course," she said. "Where are the prints?"