Second String Part 51

"Then don't tell Harry Belfield that. Think it, if you like. Don't tell him."

A look of sheer wonder came into her eyes. "He's like that?" she murmured.

"Yes, like that. That's the trouble. He'd better think you're--hopelessly disgusted."

"I'm hopelessly at sea, anyhow," she said, turning her eyes to the lake again. But she turned back to him quickly, still with her faint smile.

"Disgusted? Oh, you're thinking of the fastidiousness? Ah, that seems a long time ago! You were very kind then; you're very kind now." She laid her hand lightly on his arm; for the first time her voice shook. "You and I can sometimes talk about him as he used to be--just we two together!"

"Or as we thought he was?" Andy's tones were blunt still, and now rather bitter.

"Or as we thought he was--and, by thinking it, were so happy! Yes, we'd better not talk about him at all. I don't think I really could. You'll be seeing Mr. Belfield soon? Give him my dear love, and say I'll come and see him and Mrs. Belfield as soon as they want me. He sent me a note this morning. I can't answer it just yet."

"I'll tell him." Andy rose to go.

"Oh, but must you go just yet? I don't want you to." She glanced up at him, with a sad humour. "Curly's out, you know, and terribly big and rampageous!"

"But you're not running away now, any more than you did then."

"I'm trying to stand still, and--and look at it--at what it means about life."

"You mustn't think all life's like that--or all men either."

"That's the temptation--to think that."

"Men are tempted to think it about women too, sometimes."

She nodded. "Yes, of course, that's true. I'm glad you said that. You are good against Curly!"

They had Wellgood in their minds. It was grievance against grievance at Nutley; the charge of inconstancy is eternally bandied to and fro between the s.e.xes--_Varium et mutabile semper Femina_ against "Men were deceivers ever"--_Souvent femme varie_ against the sorrowfully ridiculous chronicles of breach of promise of marriage cases. Plenty of matter for both sides! Probably both sides would be wise to say as little as possible about it. If misogyny is bad, is misandry any better?

At all events the knowledge of Wellgood's grievance might help to prevent Vivien's from warping her mind. Hers was the greater, but his was of the same order.

The world incarnated itself to her in the image of the big retriever dog, being so alarming, meaning no harm consciously, meaning indeed affection--with its likelihood of paws soiling white raiment. Andy again stood dressed as the guardian, the policeman. He was to be "good against Curly."

"And Isobel?" she asked.

"I saw her off all right by the twelve-fifteen, Miss Wellgood--to London, you know."

"Yes, to London." To both of them London might have been spelt "Harry."

"She was never really unkind to me," said Vivien thoughtfully. "I expect it did me good."

"Never a favourite of mine--even before this," Andy p.r.o.nounced, rather ponderously.

She shot a side glance at him. "I believe you thought she beat me!"

"I think I thought that sometimes you'd sooner she had done that than stand there smiling."

"Oh, you're prejudiced! She wasn't unkind; and in this thing, you see, I know her temptation. Surely that ought to bring sympathy? Tell me--you saw her off--well--how?" She spoke in jerks, now seeming agitated.

"Very calm--quite her own mistress--seeming to know what her job was.

Confound it, Miss Wellgood, I'd sooner not talk about her any more!"

"Shall you see Harry?"

"I don't want to till--till things have settled down a bit. I shall write about what you've said."

"About part of what I've said," she reminded him. "You've convinced me about that."

Andy rose again, and this time she did not seek to hinder him.

"I'm off to town to-morrow; back to work." He paused a moment, then added, "If I get down for a week-end, may I come and see you?"

"Do--always, if you can. And remember me to Miss Flower and to Billy Foot; and tell them that I am"--she seemed to seek a word, but ended lamely--"very well, please."

Andy nodded. She wanted them to know that her courage was not broken.

On his way out he met Wellgood again, moodily sauntering in the drive by the lake.

"Well, what do you think of her?" Wellgood asked abruptly.

"She's feels it terribly, but she's taking it splendidly."

Wellgood nodded emphatically, saying again, "I never thought she had such pluck."

"I should think, you know," said Andy, in his candid way, "that you could help her a bit, Mr. Wellgood. It does her no good to be taken over it again and again. Least said, soonest mended."

Wellgood looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not going back on my terms."

"Wait and see if they are accepted. Let him alone till then. She'd thank you for that."

"I want to help her," said Wellgood. His tone was rather surly, rather ashamed, but it seemed to carry a confession that he had not helped his daughter much in the past. "You're right, Hayes. Let's be done with the fellow for good, if we can!"

From all sides came the same sentiment: from Wellgood as a hope, from Vivien as a sorrowful but steadfast resolution, from Billy Foot as a considered verdict on the facts of the case. Andy's own reflections had even antic.i.p.ated these other voices. An end of Harry Belfield, so far as regarded the circle of which he had been the centre and the ornament!

Would Harry accept the conclusion? He might tell Meriton to "go to the devil" in a moment of irritated defiance; but to abandon Meriton would be a great rooting-up, a sore break with all his life past, and with his life in the future as he had planned it and his friends had pictured it for him. Must he accept it whether he would or not? Wellgood's pistol was at his head. Would he brave the shot, or what hand would turn away the threatening barrel?

Not Lord Meriton's. When Belfield, possessed of Wellgood's terms, laid them before him, together with an adequate statement of the facts, the great man disclaimed the power. Though he softened his opinion for Harry's father, it was very doubtful if he had the wish.

"I'm sorry, Belfield, uncommon sorry--well, you know that--both for you and for Mrs. Belfield. I hope she's not too much cut up?"

"She's distressed; but she blames Wellgood and the other woman most. I'm glad she does."

Meriton nodded. "But it's most infernally awkward; there's no disguising it. You may say that any man--at any rate, many a man--is liable to come a mucker like this. But happening just now--and with Wellgood's daughter! Wellgood's our right hand man, in this part of the Division at all events. And he's as stubborn a dog as lives! Said he'd resign from the hunt if your boy showed up, did he? By Jove, he'd do it, you know!

That's the deuce of it! I suppose the question is how much opinion he'd carry with him. He's not popular--that's something; but a father fighting in his daughter's cause! They won't know the other side of it you've told me about; and if Harry marries the woman, he can't very well tell them. Then is she to come with him? Awkward again if Wellgood, or somebody put up by him, interrupts! If she doesn't come, that's at once admitting something fishy."

"The woman's certainly a serious added difficulty. Meriton, we're old friends. Tell me your own opinion."

"I don't give an opinion for all time. The affair will die down, as all affairs do. The girl'll marry somebody else in time, I suppose. Wellgood will get over his feelings. I'm not saying your son can't succeed you at Halton in due course. That would be making altogether too much of it.

But now, if the moment comes anywhere, say, in the next twelve months--well, I question if a change of air--and another const.i.tuency--wouldn't be wiser."