Scarlet and Hyssop Part 30

"No, dear," said Marie. "And one can always talk best about intimate things in the dark. If one is only a voice one's self, and the other person is only a voice, one can say things more easily. Is it not so?"

Maud drew her chair a little closer to the head of the hammock, so that both were in the dense shade of the lilac-bush. Immediately outside the shadow of the bush beneath which they sat was the pearly grayness of the third of the lawns, on which the moon shone full.

"Yes, it is about him," said Maud. "I think--I think I have changed. No, it is not because my mother or anybody has been pressing me; in fact, I think it is a good deal because they have not. I saw him here once a fortnight ago, and I liked him. I did not do that before, you know."

"Did you tell him so?" asked the other voice.

"Yes; in so many words. He asked me to put out of my mind all the prejudice which had been created in it by his being, so he said, thrown at my head. I promised him to try. And I have tried. It makes a great difference," she said gravely.

"And you have seen him once since," said Marie, with a sudden intuition.

"How did you know?" asked Maud.

"You told me--your tone told me. And what then, dear?"

"I liked him better when I saw him than I did when I remembered him. Is that nonsense?" she asked quickly.

"I feel pretty certain it is not," said Marie.

"I am glad, for it seemed to me a very--how shall I say it!--a very certain sensation. And I want to see him again--oh, I want very much to see him again! It is all changed--all changed," she repeated softly.

"And do you feel happy?" asked Marie, not without purpose.

"Yes, or miserable; I don't know which."

Marie took the soft hand that leaned on the edge of her hammock and stroked it gently.

"Dear Maud," she said, "I am very glad. It is a great privilege"--and her heart spoke--"to be able to fall in love."

"Is it that?" asked Maud, leaning her face against the other's hand.

"Yes, dear, I expect it is that," said Marie.

They sat thus for some while in silence, for there was no more to be said, yet each--Maud for her own sake, Marie for Maud's and for her own as well--wished to halt, to rest for a little on the oars. Marie was lying back in the hammock, wrapped in it like a chrysalis; the other sat crouched and leaning forward by her side, her hands interlaced with the other's. The wind whispered gently, the stencilled shadows of leaves moved on the gra.s.s, and outside on the open was an ever-brightening s.p.a.ce of moons.h.i.+ne, for the cool night air was dissolving the last webs of the heat haze. Then suddenly, without warning, came a voice from near at hand.

"I have told you the truth," it said. "I did attempt the renewal. But she does not care for me. I come back to you, if you will take me."

"I take you?" said a woman's voice. "Oh, Jack! Jack!"

The words were quickly spoken, and on the moment two figures came round the lilac-bush and out into the full blaze of the moonlight. There they stopped, and the woman threw her arms round the man's neck and kissed him.

The thing had happened so quickly that Marie could not have got out of the hammock or betrayed her presence before it was over. But she had just turned her head, half raising it, and saw. And Maud saw too.

Next moment the others had pa.s.sed behind an intervening bush, and once again there was silence but for the gentle whispering of the wind, and stillness but for the play of stencilled shadows on the gra.s.s. Marie still held Maud's hand; she still lay in the hammock, only her head was a little raised.

A minute perhaps pa.s.sed thus, and neither moved. Then Marie raised herself and sat on the side of the hammock. Her hand still held that of the other.

"You saw?" she said quietly to Maud.

"Yes, my mother!"

Marie unclasped her hand.

"Maud, dear, go indoors and go to bed," she said.

"No, no!" whispered the girl. "What am I-- Oh--oh!" and a long sobbing sigh rose in her throat.

Marie got up.

"Come, then, we will go together," she said, in a voice which she heard to be perfectly calm and hard.

"What are you going to do?" asked Maud.

"If I knew I would tell you," said Marie.

The lights were still brilliant on the lawn, and as they pa.s.sed behind the screen of bushes Arthur Naseby's voice was still shrill. Marie found herself noticing and remembering details with the most accurate observation; it was here, at this bend in the path, that there would be a smell of syringa, and a little further on a dim scent of roses. Close to the house a cedar cast a curious pattern of shade; a square of bright light fell on the gravel path from the open drawing-room windows. It was no wonder she remembered, for a very short time had pa.s.sed since she had been here. But everything not trivial was changed.

In a very few minutes' s.p.a.ce they were together in Marie's bedroom. As she went to the window to draw the blinds, she looked out for a moment.

The tents were lit; there was Bridge in one, in another the servants had nearly finished laying supper. And looking, she made up her mind as to what she should do in the immediate future. She turned back into the room.

"I shall drive up to London to-night," she said, "if I can get a carriage. Is that possible?"

"Please let me come with you," said Maud.

Marie thought a moment.

"I do not think that is wise," she said, as if discussing some detail of business.

"It does not matter much what is wise and what is not," said the girl.

"If I may not come with you, I shall go by myself. I could not stop! Oh, could you, if you were me?"

Marie's face did not soften.

"Very well," she said. "It is better you should come with me than go alone. You will come to my house, of course. Please see if you can get a carriage to the station; there is a train, I know, about one o'clock. My maid shall follow in the morning. Meanwhile I must leave a note for her, and one-- Go at once, dear," she said to Maud.

Marie wrote to her maid, telling her to follow in the morning, then drew another sheet from the writing-case, and paused. Finally; she wrote:

"I saw by accident and unavoidably a private scene between you and your mistress. I have gone back to town. I shall do nothing whatever till I have seen you. I am going because I am not prepared to see you at once. Maud is with me."

She folded and directed this to her husband, leaving it in a prominent place on her writing-table. Then she took it up and went with it to his dressing-room next door. Afterwards, returning, she began packing a small bag. In the midst of this Maud came back.

"There is a carriage ready," she said. "I saw one myself just outside, and told it to wait. I shall be ready in ten minutes."

Outside supper had begun, and the servants were occupied. The hall was deserted when they came down, and, pa.s.sing through, the two went out.

Meantime the evening progressed on the garden side of the house with ever-increasing gaiety. Everybody's characteristics, as happens so often at supper-parties which are sundered from the previous dinner only by a short interval of whiskies-and-sodas, became rather more accentuated than before; every one was at philharmonic pitch, at their best, or, at any rate, at their worst.