The Buccaneers (37 page)

Her maid had had to take her hair down twice before each coil and ripple was placed to the best advantage of her small head, and in proper relation to the diamond briar-rose on the shoulder of her coral-pink
poult-de-soie.

When she entered the drawing-room she found it empty; but the next moment Guy Thwarte appeared, and she went up to him impulsively.

“Oh, I'm so glad you're here. I've been wanting to tell you how sorry I am to have behaved so stupidly the day you found me in the temple—” “of Love,” she had been about to add; but the absurdity of the designation checked her. She reddened and went on: “I wanted to write and tell you; but I couldn't. I'm not good at letters.”

Guy was looking at her, visibly surprised at the change in her appearance, and the warm animation of her voice. “This is better than writing,” he rejoined, with a smile. “I'm glad to see you so changed—looking so ... so much happier....”

(“Already?” she reflected guiltily, realizing that she had been away from Longlands only a few hours!)

“Yes, I am happier. Miss Testvalley says I'm always going up and down.... And I wanted to tell you—do you remember Clärchen's song?” she began in an eager voice, feeling her tongue loosened and her heart at ease with him again.

Lady Glenloe's ringing accents interrupted them. “My dear Duchess! You've been looking for us? I'm so sorry. I had carried everybody off to my son's study to see this extraordinary new thing—this telephone, as they call it. I brought it back with me the other day from the States. It's a curious toy; but to you, of course, it's no novelty. In America they're already talking from one town to another—yes, actually! Mine goes only as far as the lodge, but I'm urging Sir Helmsley Thwarte to put one in at Honourslove, so that we can have a good gossip together over the crops and the weather.... But he says he's afraid it will unchain all the bores in the county.... Sir Helmsley, I think you know the Duchess? I'm going to persuade her to put in a telephone at Longlands.... We English are so backward. They have them in all the principal hotels in New York; and when I was in St. Petersburg last winter they were actually talking of having one between the Imperial Palace and Tsarskoe—”

The old butler appeared, to announce dinner, and the procession formed itself, headed by Annabel on the arm of the son from the Petersburg Embassy.

“Yes, at Tsarskoë I've seen the Empress talking over it herself. She uses it to communicate with the nurseries,” the diplomatist explained impressively; and Nan wondered why they were all so worked up over an object already regarded as a domestic utensil in America. But it was all a part of the novelty and excitement of being at Champions, and she thought with a smile how much less exhilarating the subjects of conversation of a Longlands dinner would have been.

XXIX.

The Champions party chose a mild day of February for the drive to Honourslove. The diplomatic son conducted the Duchess, his mother and Miss Testvalley followed in the wagonette, and the others followed in various vehicles piloted by sons and daughters of the house. For two hours they drove through the tawny winter landscape bounded by hills veiled in blue mist, traversing villages clustered about silver-gray manor-houses, and a little market-town with a High Street bordered by the wool-merchants' stately dwellings, and guarded by a sturdy church-tower. The dark green of rhododendron plantations made autumn linger under the bare woods; on house-fronts sheltered from the wind, the naked jasmine was already starred with gold. This merging of the seasons, so unlike the harsh break between summer and winter in America, had often touched Nan's imagination; but she had never felt as now the mild loveliness of certain winter days in England. It all seemed part of the unreality of her sensations, and as the carriage turned in at the gates of Honourslove, she recalled her only other visit there, when she and Guy Thwarte had stood alone on the terrace before the house, and found not a word to say. Poor Nan St. George—so tongue-tied and bewildered by the surge of her feelings; why had no one taught her the words for them? As the carriage drew up before the door, she seemed to see the pitiful figure of herself at eighteen flit by like a ghost; but in a moment it vanished in the warm air of the present.

The day was so soft that Lady Glenloe insisted on a turn through the gardens before luncheon; and, as usual when a famous country-house is visited, the guests found themselves following the prescribed itinerary, saying the proper things about the view from the terrace, descending the steep path to the mossy glen of the Love, and returning by the walled gardens and the chapel.

Their host, heading the party with the Duchess and Lady Glenloe, had begun his habitual and slightly ironic summary of the family history. Lady Glenloe lent it an inattentive ear; but Annabel hung on his words, and, always quick to discover an appreciative listener, he soon dropped his bantering note to unfold the romantic tale of the old house. Annabel felt that he understood her questions, and sympathized with her curiosity, and as they turned away from the chapel he said, with his quick smile: “I see Miss Testvalley was right, Duchess—she always is. She told me you were the only foreigner she'd ever known who cared for the real deep-down England, rather than the sham one of the London drawing-rooms.”

Nan flushed with pride; it still made her as happy to be praised by Miss Testvalley as when the little brown governess had sniffed appreciatively at the posy her pupil had brought her on her first evening at Saratoga.

“I'm afraid I shall always feel strange in London drawing-rooms,” Nan answered; “but that hidden-away life of England, the old houses and their histories, and all the far-back things the old people hand on to their grandchildren—they seem so natural and home-like. And Miss Testvalley, who's a foreigner too, has shown me better than anybody how to appreciate them.”

“Ah—that's it. We English are spoilt; we've ceased to feel the beauty, to listen to the voices. But you and she come to it with fresh eyes and fresh imaginations—you happen to be blessed with both. I wish more of our Englishwomen felt it all as you do. After luncheon you must go through the old house, and let it talk to you. You hadn't enough time for it when you came before. My son, who knows it all even better than I do, will show it to you....”

“I remember a painting by Hoibein—a young man in Tudor dress, with a sensitive face.”

“Ah! Yes, the portrait of Brereton Thwarte ... Poor chap, he has his niche in history. He was one of the men accused of being Queen Anne Boleyn's lovers. He was beheaded before her eyes, before
she
was executed.”

 
“You spoke the other day about Clärchen's song—the evening my father and I drove over to dine at Champions,” Guy Thwarte said suddenly.

He and Annabel, at the day's end, had drifted out again to the wide terrace. They had visited the old house, room by room, lingering long over each picture—the Cavalier Thwarte, and the Holbein—each piece of rare old furniture or tapestry, and already the winter afternoon was fading out in crimson distances overhung by twilight. In the hall Lady Glenloe had collected her party for departure.

“Oh, Clärchen? Yes—when my spirits were always jumping up and down Miss Testvalley used to call me Clärchen, just to tease me.”

“And doesn't she, any longer? I mean, don't your spirits jump up and down any more?”

“Well, I'm afraid they do sometimes. Miss Testvalley says things are never as bad as I think, or as good as I expect—but I'd rather have the bad hours than not believe in the good ones, wouldn't you? What really frightens me is not caring for anything any more. Don't you think that's worse?”

“That's the worst, certainly. But it's never going to happen to you, Duchess.”

Her face lit up. “Oh, do you think so? I'm not sure. Things seem to last so long—as if in the end they were bound to wear people out. Sometimes life seems like a match between oneself and one's gaolers. The gaolers, of course, are one's mistakes; and the question is, who'll hold out longest? When I think of that, life, instead of being too long, seems as short as a winter day.... Oh, look, the lights already, over there in the valley ... This day's over. And suddenly you find you've missed your chance. You've been beaten....”

“No, no; for there'll be other days soon. And other chances. Goethe was a very young man when he wrote Clärchen's song. The next time I come to Champions I'll bring Faust with me, and show you some of the things life taught him.”

“Oh, are you coming back to Champions? When? Before I leave?” she asked eagerly; and he answered: “I'll come whenever Lady Glenloe asks me.”

Again he saw her face suffused with one of its Clärchen-like illuminations and added, rather hastily: “The fact is, I've got to hang about here on account of the possible bye-election at Lowdon. Ushant may have told you—”

The illumination faded. “He never tells me anything about politics. He thinks women oughtn't to meddle with such things.”

Guy laughed. “Well, I rather believe he's right. But, meanwhile, here I am, waiting rather aimlessly until
I'm
called upon to meddle.... And as soon as Champions wants me I'll come.”

 
In Sir Helmsley's study, he and Miss Testvalley were standing together before Sir Helmsley's copy of the little Rossetti Madonna. The ladies of the party had been carried off to collect their wraps, and their host had seized the opportunity to present his water-colour to Miss Testvalley. “If you think it's not too bad—”

Miss Testvalley's colour rose becomingly. “It's perfect, Sir Helmsley. If you'll allow me, I'll show it to Dante Gabriel the next time I go to see the poor fellow.” She bent appreciatively over the sketch. “And you'll let me take it off now?”

“No, I want to have it framed first. But Guy will bring it to you. I understand he's going to Champions in a day or two for a longish visit.”

Miss Testvalley made no reply, and her host, who was beginning to know her face well, saw that she was keeping back many comments.

“You're not surprised?” he suggested.

“I—I don't know.”

Sir Helmsley laughed. “Perhaps we shall all know soon. But, meanwhile, let's be a little indiscreet. Which of the daughters do you put your money on?”

Miss Testvalley carefully replaced the water-colour on its easel. “The ... the daughters?”

“Corisande or Kitty ... Why, you must have noticed. The better pleased Lady Glenloe is, the more off-hand her manner becomes. And just now I heard her suggesting to my son to come back to Champions as soon as he could, if he thought he could stand a boring family-party.”

“Ah—yes.” Miss Testvalley remained lost in contemplation of her water-colour. “And you think Lady Glenloe approves?”

“Intensely, judging from her indifferent manner.” Sir Helmsley stroked his short beard reflectively. “And I do too. Whichever of the young ladies it is,
cela sera de tout repos.
Cora's eyes are very small, but her nose is straighter than Kitty's. And that's the kind of thing I want for Guy: something safe and unexciting. Now that he's managed to scrape together a little money—the first time a Thwarte has ever done it by the work of his hands or his brain—I dread his falling a victim to some unscrupulous woman.”

“Yes,” Miss Testvalley acquiesced, a faint glint of irony in her fine eyes. “I can imagine how anxious you must be.”

“Oh, desperately; as anxious as the mother of a flirtatious daughter—”

“I understand that.”

“And you make no comment?”

“I make no comment.”

“Because you think in this particular case I'm mistaken?”

“I don't know.”

Sir Helmsley glanced through the window at the darkening terrace. “Well, here he is now. And a lady with him. Shall we toss a penny on which it is—Corisande or Kitty? Oh—no! Why, it's the little Duchess, I believe....”

Miss Testvalley still remained silent.

“Another of your pupils!” Sir Helmsley continued, with a teasing laugh. He paused, and added tentatively: “And perhaps the most interesting, eh?”

“Perhaps.”

“Because she's the most intelligent—or the most unhappy?”

Miss Testvalley looked up quickly. “Why do you suggest that she's unhappy?”

“Oh,” he rejoined with a slight shrug, “because you're so incurably philanthropic that I should say your swans would often turn out to be lame ducks.”

“Perhaps they do. At any rate, she's the pupil I was fondest of, and should most wish to guard against unhappiness.”

“Ah—” murmured Sir Helmsley, on a half-questioning note. “But Lady Glenloe must be ready to start; I'd better go and call the Duchess,” Miss Testvalley added, moving toward the door. There was a sound of voices in the hall, and among them Lady Glenloe's, calling out: “Cora, Kitty—has anyone seen the Duchess? Oh, Mr. Thwarte, we're looking for the Duchess, and I see you've been giving her a last glimpse of your wonderful view....”

“Not the last, I hope,” said Guy, smiling, as he came forward with Annabel.

“The last for today, at any rate; we must be off at once on our long drive. Mr. Thwarte, I count on you for next Saturday. Sir Helmsley, can't we persuade you to come too?”

 
 
The drive back to Champions passed like a dream. To secure herself against disturbance, Nan had slipped her hand into Miss Testvalley's, and let her head droop on the governess's shoulder. She heard one of the Glenloe girls whisper, “The Duchess is asleep,” and a conniving silence seemed to enfold her. But she had no wish to sleep; her wide-open eyes looked out into the falling night, caught the glint of lights flashing past in the High Street, lost themselves in the long intervals of dusk between the villages, and plunged into deepening night as the low glimmer of the west went out. In her heart was a deep delicious peace such as she had never known before. In this great lonely desert of life stretching out before her she had a friend—a friend who understood not only all she said, but everything she could not say. At the end of the long road on which the regular rap of the horses' feet was beating out the hours, she saw him standing, waiting for her, watching for her through the night.