The Confounding of Camelia Part 6

Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the cottages were never reminded of the propriety of grat.i.tude. Indeed Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages were none too good for the rent--a saying big with implications, and perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior's forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation.

He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be "tortured" on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves to mention the criminal fanatic's name. It must be owned that Perior's love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University, one the son of the village poacher and ne'er-do-weel, a handsome lad with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior's field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes.

Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of Perior's boots; a fact rather apparent.

It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height, and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset.

The house within carried out consistently the first impression of pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and there on the peaceful s.p.a.ces a good engraving or etching; philosophical bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was s.p.a.cious; opposite it was Perior's piano--he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now, when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew.

Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge's writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it.

The old friends.h.i.+p had borne pretty sharp twinges--had survived even Perior's ruthless handling of Henge's pet measure some years ago: Henge had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in hand with a fervent churchmans.h.i.+p. He was aided towards a happy view of things by happy circ.u.mstances. He was one of the richest men in England, and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, h.o.a.ry with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many greater but less significant t.i.tles. He was young, handsome, and serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in consequence of this att.i.tude of mind, it was impossible not to trust him.

This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her influence over him was paramount.

Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to seriousness. To Perior there was something highly distasteful in the whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that her achievement of the "good match" should be canva.s.sed, infuriated him.

No blame could attach itself to Arthur's reticence; if reticence there were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world's base, materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed Camelia's merits against Arthur's. In his heart of hearts he did not consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy--and some dim foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover's resolution. Perior, however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for the world's gross view of Henge as one of the greatest "catches" in England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior's blood boiled when he thought of it,--and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own attractions, was quite aware of the world's opinion and was not angered by it.

She, too, thought Henge a great "catch," no doubt; a great catch even for Camelia Paton.

Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain of only thinly-veiled confidence.

Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were coming down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother's pleasure in coming, and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding pa.s.sages of the note quite a prophecy of future relations.h.i.+p, nearer than any they had known.

But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal--a quite unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that.

Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied, Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found in Perior's intimacy with Camelia.

Lady Henge shared her son's respect for Perior, and to her Perior's friends.h.i.+p could interpret many phases in Camelia's charming character perplexing to the anxious mother's unaided vision.

"I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the surface as yet," wrote Arthur. Arthur's love was a surety not quite trustworthy, but the lifelong friends.h.i.+p of a man like Perior must convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for Camelia's. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was nearly angry with Arthur.

CHAPTER VI

"Mrs. Jedsley is in the drawing-room," Camelia announced, "so I ran away. I am really afraid of her."

Mrs. Fox-Darriel laughed slightly; she put down the book with which she was solacing a lazy afternoon on the sofa, and, looking at Camelia's cloth dress and sailor hat, asked her if she had been out again.

"Yes, just back. I only stayed in the drawing-room long enough to show Mrs. Jedsley that she scared me. It's those eyebrows, you know, that lack of eyebrow rather, emphasized by an angry redness in the place where they should be. No, I cannot face her."

"She is rather _epatante_. I suppose you were walking with your brace of suitors."

"No, I don't know where they are. I was walking by myself. I think I must have walked eight miles," Camelia added, stretching out her feet to look at her dusty shoes.

"You certainly are an unsociable hostess, but those boys are becoming bores. Whom do you expect next week? You must have something to leaven the lump of pining youthful masculinity."

"That poet is coming--the one who writes the virile poems, you know, and whose article of faith is the _joie de vivre;_ and Lady Tramley, dear creature, Lord Tramley, and--would you specify Sir Arthur as leaven?"

"Do you mean to imply that he _isn't_ pining?"

"I imply nothing so evident."

"Wriggling, then--that you must own."

Camelia was sitting near the window, opened on its framing magnolia leaves, and said rather coolly as she took off her hat--

"No, _I_ am wriggling. _I_ must decide now."

This was a masterly a.s.surance. Mrs. Fox-Darriel reflecting that nothing succeeds like unruffled self-confidence, and that Camelia's had never shown a ripple of doubt, owned to herself that her slightly stinging question was well answered.

"Don't wriggle, my dear; decide," she said, accepting the restatement very placidly, "you could not do better. To speak vulgarly--the man is rich beyond the dreams of avarice."

"Beautifully rich," Camelia a.s.sented.

"Ah--indeed he is."

"And he himself is wise and excellent," Camelia added; "I like him very much."

"He is coming alone?"

"No, Lady Henge comes too."

Mrs. Fox-Darriel gave her friend a sharp glance.

"That's very serious, you know, Camelia. I think you must have decided--to suit Lady Henge."

Camelia smiled good-humoredly. "I will suit her--and then see if he suits me."

Mrs. Fox-Darriel lay reflecting on the sofa. Camelia accepted frankness to a certain point, beyond that point she repulsed it. It was rather sly of her, Mrs. Fox-Darriel thought, to keep up these needless pretences.

Camelia must be anxious for the match--anxious to a certain degree, and her careful preservation of the false dignity of her position was really rather mean. As for Mrs. Fox-Darriel, she desired the match with a really disinterested fervor. She felt a certain personal pride in Camelia's success; she had resigned supremacy, and only asked Camelia to uphold her own. Camelia as Lady Henge would, from a very charming person, have become a very important personage, a truly momentous friend. Her fondness for the child would ensure the child's loyalty. A near friend of the Prime Minister's wife--who knew? The thought flitted pleasantly through Mrs. Fox-Darriel's mind, and the thought, too, of all that Camelia, in an even less exalted position, could do for the impecunious Hon. Charlie, Mrs. Fox-Darriel's husband. There was really no possibility of a doubt in Camelia's mind. Mrs. Fox-Darriel simply did not believe her, and regretted her lack of candor; but at the same time she felt a little anxiety. There were certain phases in Camelia that had always baffled her investigations, an unexpectedness that Mrs.

Fox-Darriel had encountered more than once.

"It is really the very best thing you could do," she observed now, "and I wouldn't play with him if I were you. I know that he is the image of fidelity, and yet the d.u.c.h.ess of Ams.h.i.+re is very anxious for him to marry her girl, that ugly Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Henge favors that match, and he really is under his mother's thumb."

"Decidedly I must waste no time," said Camelia, laughing, "and decidedly it would be the best thing I could do, since the Marquis was snapped up by the American girl--swarming with millions. I think I should have been a Marchioness, Frances, had not that strange look, between a squint and a goggle, in his eyes made me hesitate."

"Oh, the Marquis! You know that this is far better. This man means a lot."

"He swarms with millions too," said Camelia. "Come, Frances, preach me a nice little worldly sermon on the supreme utility of riches--without the gloves now."

"I usually remove them when I approach the subject," Mrs. Fox-Darriel sighed with much sincerity. "My poor Charlie! How we keep our heads above water I really don't know, and, as it is, the sharks are nibbling at our toes! Supreme! Money, my dear, is the only thing! Once you've that foundation you may begin to erect your sentiments, your moralities."

"And how few people are honest enough to say so. You and I are honest, Frances; it buys everything, of course."

"Well, almost everything. One must thank Nature for beauty and cleverness."