The Making of a Soul Part 7

Barry, red and embarra.s.sed, said nothing, but examined the photograph with unnecessary minuteness.

"Seems a pity the place should stand idle," went on Owen musingly. "It's a jolly old house, and been in the family for centuries--built before the river became fas.h.i.+onable--and the grounds are really fine; some gorgeous old trees and shrubs in them."

"How far from town?" Barry put the first question that suggested itself.

"Oh, not far--twenty or thirty miles. You can get up easily in a car or by a fast train. Greenriver--that's the house--is really charmingly situated, with big grounds at the back, and the river just beneath the house."

"You lived there as a youngster?"

"Yes. When my father died my mother couldn't bear to live there, and we let the place. After her death I could have gone back, but somehow I didn't want to. It was only when I met Vivian----"

He broke off suddenly, and springing to his feet, began to pace up and down.

"By Jove, Barry, what fools we men make of ourselves over women! Just because Vivian was kind, smiled on me, seemed really interested in my affairs, I told her everything--all sorts of things I haven't even told you, old chap! We used to go for strolls together in the summer evenings--once or twice we motored down to Richmond and went for a walk in the park ... we used to talk about all sorts of things ... women are the very deuce for leading men on to talk. They pretend to be so interested, ask such gentle little questions, are so sympathetic, so kind ... and when it comes to sport, a girl like Vivian can talk as well as any man."

He sighed impatiently.

"We didn't talk sentiment--those days. We were chums--the best of chums ... discussed flying, motoring--she used to drive a little car of her own. Sometimes we played golf--and, by Jove, she could pretty nearly beat me! She was interested in all the things I liked, was a rattling good shot with a rifle, and hadn't a nerve in her. Clever, too; could talk on all sorts of subjects, and had read books I'd never even heard of! She spoke three or four languages ... but--but it wasn't that."

He broke off in his rambling talk to light a cigarette, and then continued, in the same musing tone.

"It was something else. She was so handsome, so--so fine, somehow. I used to think, when we were engaged, that she was like Brunhilde, or some of the other Wagnerian heroines. Sometimes I couldn't help thinking"--he coloured--"what splendid children a woman like that would have. She ... she satisfied one, somehow. You knew she was sound in every way--the sort of woman one would always be proud of--and when I thought of her as the mistress of Greenriver, I----"

He threw away his cigarette impatiently.

"What a fool I am! What a d.a.m.ned fool you must think me, raving about a woman who played me the shabbiest trick a woman could play! G.o.d! When I think of it--think how I was deceived, I--I hate the woman! I hate myself for being such a fool, but I hate her more! Well, she's married now--good luck to her!--and there's only one thing for me to do; I must get married too!"

"But why?" Barry's blue eyes were very kindly as they looked at his friend. "Why not go on as you are for a bit longer?"

"Why not?" He stretched out his arms with a curious, restless gesture.

"Because I've got unsettled, I suppose. You see, when you've looked on yourself as practically a married man, planned everything, renounced your bachelor ways and antic.i.p.ated a new and more settled existence, well, somehow you can't go back to the old state of things. There's the house, too. I feel as though I wanted to live in it again--the servants are clamouring for me to go there. I promised, you know, and the river is so lovely in the summer...."

"Well, why not go down and have a car?"

"Go there--alone?" He spoke bitterly. "No, thanks. That would be folly.

I meant to go with my wife----"

Suddenly he stopped in his restless pacing and faced Barry with gleaming eyes.

"By gad, Barry! Why shouldn't I take my wife there after all?"

"Your wife?" Even the quick-witted Barry was at fault.

"Yes. My wife." He laughed at the other man's face. "Oh, I'm not married yet, but why shouldn't I be? I swore I'd marry the first woman who'd have me, and it's just occurred to me--Barry, do you thing she _would_ have me?"

"She? _What_ she?" demanded Barry in justifiable bewilderment.

"Why, our excellent little secretary and typist--our Miss Gibbs--our Antonia, known at home as Toni!"

Barry's boyish face flushed crimson, and for a second he looked so angry that Owen stared in genuine amazement.

"Well, Barry, what's up? I a.s.sure you my intentions are strictly honourable! If she'll have me, she shall step into the shoes vacated by Miss Vivian Rees, and succeed to the house, the car, the boats, and all the rest of the worldly goods which weren't sufficient to tempt my beautiful _fiancee_!"

"See here, Owen." Barry's voice was quiet. "I suppose you're ragging, but let me tell you I think the rag's in execrable taste, and I'll be obliged if you'll drop the subject."

For a second Owen seemed about to retort in the same tone. Then, quite suddenly, his face changed.

"Say, Barry, why all these frills? You surely didn't think I meant any harm--any disrespect to the girl?"

"Of course not." He spoke rather coldly. "Only--well, I don't like to hear you joking about marrying Miss Gibbs. She's a decent little thing, and far too good to be made a cat's paw in a game of revenge."

Owen looked at his friend quietly.

"You're right, Barry, and if I were only joking it would be a bit low-down. But suppose I mean it? Suppose I ask the girl to marry me, quite quietly, not entering into any heroics or telling any condemned lies, and she accepts me, what then?"

Barry's heart gave a sudden throb of dismay. There was something behind Owen's calm manner which made him feel vaguely uneasy. Could it be that Owen too had surprised Toni's pitiful little secret--that he knew--had known all along that the girl was not so indifferent to him as she wished to appear?

For the moment Barry was nonplussed. If it were so, if Owen knew, and, knowing, chose to take the risk of the girl's acceptance, had he any right to interfere?

That Toni would accept, Barry felt almost convinced; and yet, fond as he was of his friend, fond as he was, too, of the girl with whom he had worked during these weeks of spring, Barry was clear-sighted enough to feel a.s.sured that such a marriage would not make for happiness.

It might answer for a time. If Toni wore genuinely attached to Rose, as Barry was inclined to believe, it was possible--nay, probable--that her affection for him would bring out the best in Owen's nature, and he would repay that affection with a real and kindly consideration. But when the first freshness had worn off, when Owen should have grown used to the girl's shy grat.i.tude and devotion, when her prettiness, her radiant youth, her nave simplicity should have ceased to charm, what then would remain?

For all his sporting instincts Owen was primarily a man of letters, versatile, brilliant, even distinguished in his way; and Barry foresaw a bitter disillusionment for each of the pair when the real dissimilarity of their natures should, as must inevitably happen, become apparent to both.

To Toni, who never willingly opened a book, her husband's delight and absorption in the masterpieces of literature must be a constant wonder; while to Rose, Toni's ignorance, her youthful, unashamed lack of interest in the "things which matter" would be a perpetual irritation.

Although not so brilliant as his friend, Barry experienced at times flashes of almost uncanny insight; and as he contemplated the possibility of this marriage he had a sudden clear conviction that it would not, could not, turn out successfully.

"See here, Owen"--he faced the other man resolutely--"you must know the thing is quite impossible. Miss Gibbs is a nice little girl, a pretty little thing and as straight as a die. But she is not your equal in any sense; neither socially nor intellectually; and though you may not believe it, you would regret the marriage in a week."

Owen looked at him, half-affectionately, half-quizzically, for a moment.

"Why should I, Barry? Toni may not be of very exalted birth, but she is a hundred times more ladylike than half the flappers one meets in Society nowadays, with their cigarette-cases, their bridge purses and their slangy talk. One of those loud young women would be the death of me in a week--and you know Toni's voice is delightfully soft, with quite a Southern intonation--caught in Italy, I expect."

"But what of her education--or lack of it?" Barry went on relentlessly.

"You know quite well that the girl is a little ignoramus in reality. She has read nothing, been nowhere, learned precious little; and she has no more conversation than--than a Persian cat."

"That's a bad simile," said Owen calmly. "A Persian cat doesn't talk much, I admit, but it is a most fascinating piece of mystery when it sits still and says nothing. And Miss Gibbs may in reality be just as mysterious."

"Oh, you're impossible!" Barry spoke impatiently, and Owen's manner changed.

"Come, Barry, confess the truth. You're afraid Toni will jump at me--to put it baldly. You know"--for a second he hesitated--"you know, Barry, I'm not blind, and I can't help seeing that the girl has ... well, taken a fancy to me; and if that is so, seeing that the woman I wanted wouldn't have me, why shouldn't I offer myself to the one who ... would perhaps take me if I asked her to?"

"You really mean to ask her, then?"

"Yes. I know you won't approve, old chap, but I'm going to do it all the same. The girl may refuse me, you know, and then there'll be no harm done."