Chapter 2 No.2

When Mrs. Lancing went upstairs her hostess went with her.

"So the dear motor did go wrong, after all," observed Mrs. Brenton, a trifle triumphantly. "I think I had the best of it in my despised one-horse shay."

Camilla threw off her furs with a sigh.

"Dear Agnes," she said, "I hate making you conceited, but truth compels me to admit that for once you are right. A motor is a beautiful thing if it goes smoothly, but when it goes wrong it is just the other kind of thing."

"Of course I am right," said Mrs. Brenton, as she stirred the fire briskly.

She was a plain woman with a hard-riding figure and grey hair neatly plaited, but she had a pair of handsome and kind eyes, and a delightful voice.

"Give me horses," she said. "By-and-by, when I am in my little grave, I have no doubt folk will be switchbacked to America and home again; but I hate experiments-I am a little too old for them-and the best car that is made is only a thing on trial, you know."

She helped Camilla to slip out of the big coat.

"Fortunately, you were well wrapped up," she said. "But what a weight this coat is, Camilla! How can you walk in it at all? When did you get it? I have not seen it before!"

"Oh, haven't you?" queried Mrs. Lancing, in a tone of very real astonishment. "Why, I have had it ages; got it at a Veronique sale. It was absurdly cheap."

She told these various untruths quite glibly, and then made haste to get away from the subject.

She was not a little afraid of Mrs. Brenton at times, although, indeed, she would have been singularly ungrateful-and Camilla was never ungrateful-if she had not realized that in this old friend-one who had known her when she was a mere child-she had a staunch and a loving ally-a friend who in sickness and in health gave her almost an anxious affection, and whose curiosity to know what was passing with her arose from the best motives. But Camilla always dreaded being compelled to answer questions, or having to give an account of herself; she was so weary of having good advice given her.

Of what use, so she argued to herself, would it be to let Agnes know how worried she was, and into what a hopeless muddle her pretty feet had strayed?

"Agnes cannot help me," she said to herself; "and she would only worry and think the end of all things had come if I were to tell her how I stand just now. And then she would scold, and talk about the future solemnly, and oh! I know I should scream if she started the old discussion to-night; my nerves are all on wires! If she could help me it would be another matter, but I suppose a five-pound note would be about the utmost poor old Agnes could produce in an emergency." And Camilla shrugged her shoulders. Just before leaving town for Yelverton she had spent her last available five pounds at a hair-dresser's, while, at the same time, a writ for the sables she had worn so becomingly that day had been sent to her by registered post that morning.

She threw off her hat and veil.

"I am rather anxious, Agnes," she said. "I have had no letter from nurse to-day."

Mrs. Brenton took the bait instantly.

"Anxious? What about? There is no need to fuss yourself; nurse never does write freely."

"She promised faithfully to send me word every day," said Mrs. Lancing, half fretfully.

"Well, look here, I'll go and telephone through for you," said the other woman; "with just a little luck I shall find the line clear. The rush is off about this time, as a rule."

Mrs. Lancing had slipped from her outdoor clothes into a very pretty dressing-gown by the time the telephone conversation was at an end.

"Everything is all right," Mrs. Brenton announced cheerily. "The children are just gone to bed. They have been very good, and are quite well."

"I miss them dreadfully," said Camilla, and her voice broke a little. Turning, she picked up two photographs that were on the dressing-table and kissed them passionately.

"Miss them!" said Mrs. Brenton in her brisk way, "I should think you did! Dear little souls, I can't think why on earth you didn't bring them with you; there is heaps of room, and children are never a bother to me, as you know. Well, now I'll trot away again. I expect you feel thoroughly tired out, Camilla. Dinner will be half an hour late, so you can take it easy. Why don't you have forty winks? That is a heavenly chair for a snooze."

Mrs. Lancing was already crouched up in the luxurious depths of the chintz-covered chair. She yawned as she cuddled into the cushions.

"Fancy Sammy Broxbourne turning up so suddenly. Why didn't you tell me he was coming, Agnes?" she asked, a little jerkily.

"Because I did not know it myself. He wired this morning to ask if he could run down for a day or two, and as I was not here Dick answered for me, saying, of course, he could come. I can't say that I think he is much improved, and he has put on a lot of flesh. He used to be rather a pretty boy, and now he is only a commonplace and very vulgar young man. By the way, how did he and Rupert Haverford get on?" inquired Mrs. Brenton, a little abruptly. She had made a move towards the door, and now turned back again.

Camilla Lancing shrugged her shoulders.

"A very clear case of hatred at first sight! The moral Haverford sat in a corner and scowled in silence, and, of course, Sammy used all the swear words he knows just on purpose to make things pleasant."

Mrs. Brenton compressed her lips; there was definite disappointment in her eyes.

She stood a moment as if she had something more she would have liked to say; then with an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders she turned away, and, with another command to Camilla to rest went out of the room.

Mrs. Lancing nestled herself more closely into the big chair and shut her eyes. Just as the maid was stealing softly away she called the woman back.

"Don't go downstairs, Dennis," she said, "but stay in the dressing-room. I am going to try and sleep, but I may want you."

It was a relief that Agnes Brenton had gone, but she was almost afraid of being left quite alone.

Her maid took her sewing into the dressing-room, but Mrs. Lancing had no intention of going to sleep. She lay with closed eyes, however, and after awhile some tears escaped from the thick lashes and rolled down her cheeks.

"I never thought he would come back so soon," she said to herself so wearily, so miserably; "he said he would be away for ages and ages, and ... and I had almost forgotten." She turned her face on the cushions, and bit them as if a sudden physical pang had shot through her, and so she lay, breathing in a sobbing fashion for some little time; then she lifted her head and pressed her hands to her brow and to her hot eyes.

"And of course this must come," she said, with fretful passion, "when I am so worried I don't know which way to turn! Oh, how tired I am of living, sometimes! Why didn't he write to some one, then I should have heard he was coming, and I should have been prepared!"

She unpinned her hair, thick, short, brown hair, and lay back again on the cushions.

"Why doesn't Rupert Haverford speak?" she asked herself in the same fretful way, I "simply can't go on struggling and fighting in this weary way. I was never meant to struggle and fight; and is it my fault that I make mistakes? How can I be different? I was brought up to be what I am. When other children were given twopence a week to put into a money-box, I was given a five-pound note to spend on dolls or make into kites. Of course I am extravagant! Of course I get into holes! I should be a living wonder if I didn't!"

She pushed the thick hair back from her brows, and, slipping from the chair, bunched herself on the hearth-rug, holding her hands before her face to shield it from the blaze.

"I won't believe he doesn't care," she said to herself, her thoughts reverting to Haverford again. "He does care, only he won't speak. And he makes me so nervous. I feel as if he were looking at me through a microscope. I am sure Agnes thinks he cares!" She sighed, and shut her eyes for a moment; then her mind worked into an easier groove. "I do believe Sammy was glad to see me!" was her next thought. "He wasn't a bit changed. Perhaps I am worrying myself for nothing!" Her face lightened; the lips, the eyes grew eager. As was inevitable with her, despair began to give way slowly but surely before the invulnerable optimism of her nature. She pinned up her hair, and sat gazing into the fire, humming to herself softly while her mind pieced together a dozen different possibilities, and carried her gradually but surely away from doubt and definite fear. When the clock chimed eight she sprang to her feet.

"My black gown, Dennis," she said. She had convinced herself that Rupert Haverford would like his wife to wear black and sober colours. In the same way she assured herself that he would read family prayers every morning. If she married him she determined that she would always breakfast in her room.

A little packet was lying on the dressing-table, and she opened it with a smile on her lips and pleasure in her eyes.

"Look, Dennis, what Mr. Haverford bought for the children! This is for Betty, and this for baby! Is it too late to send them to-night?... Won't they be pleased? No," she decided; "I don't think I will send them. Darling hearts, they will expect me to bring them something to-morrow. Can't you see them waiting for me, Dennis?"

"They'll be in a rare state of excitement, I expect," said the maid, with a smile.

Camilla Lancing fingered the trinkets as she sat and had her hair dressed.

"He is really kind," she said to herself.

Contrasted with the other man, he had a new and great charm for her to-night-a value he had not had before.

"And though he is dull, he is certainly not vulgar," she mused on; "it is extraordinary that he should be as he is, and that Sammy should be such a vulgarian; and yet the one is a professedly middle-class man, and the other is connected with any amount of big people. I wish I understood him a little better! But he puzzles me, and he worries me;" she sighed here fretfully. "Of course I must marry him if he asks me; yet the mere thought of living all day long in such a starchy atmosphere takes the life out of me! I thought he would have been so easy to manage when we first met! And instead of accepting our views he imposes his own. No wonder he is not popular! I only wish," said Camilla, sighing again as she got up, and looked at her pretty head critically in the mirror, "I only wish he were twenty years older, and then I would put all my troubles before him, and ask him to help me. He would help me now. I know that perfectly well, but I should lose him if I told him the truth. And I don't want to lose him. I can't lose him," she said a little feverishly, "especially now, especially now,' she whispered.

Mrs. Lancing was one of the last down that evening-in fact, she kept the rest of the party waiting for dinner, but when she did come she was so charming and so apologetic and looked so fascinating that every one forgave her.

Sir Samuel Broxbourne took her in to dinner, and she sat where she could not see Haverford.

She could hear a little of the conversation, however, that passed at the other end of the table, and she changed colour when she heard him tell Mrs. Brenton that he was going to town by the first train in the morning.

She translated this to mean a sudden retreat on his part. For there had been a half arrangement that he should take her back to London in his motor, and as the chauffeur had promised that the car would be at Yelverton either late that night or very early the next morning, there was no reason why this engagement should be broken. She ate the rest of her dinner in a subdued manner, and as she followed the other women out of the room she paused a moment by Haverford's side.

"So you won't motor back to-morrow?" she said hurriedly. "I am quite disappointed.... I was looking forward to it."

His face flushed.

"I am sorry," he answered, "but I must go up quite early; my mother is not well," he explained.

"Oh!" said Camilla; she was at once reassured "I am so sorry. I hope you are not very anxious? But you must tell me about it a little later." And gathering her clinging black draperies in her hand she smiled up at him and then fluttered through the doorway and vanished.

Whilst the other women were talking together, Mrs. Brenton found herself alone with Camilla.

"I want to say something to you," she said in a low voice.

"Is it anything nice?" asked Camilla, with a faint smile.

Mrs. Brenton touched the black chiffon that bordered Camilla's beautiful shoulders with a caressing hand.

"I don't want you to play for such heavy points to-night, darling," she said; "it is all very well if the money comes back to you, but I am afraid you have been losing rather heavily since you came down here, haven't you? Sometimes I feel tempted," Mrs. Brenton went on, "to impose a maximum sum for points here, but I suppose I should get myself well hated if I did! People would say it is a free country, and they ought to do what they like with their own."

"That is why you are scolding me," said Camilla, with her pretty smile.

Mrs. Brenton shook her head.

"You are not other people to me, and I do hate to see you risking too much, Camilla."

Camilla turned and just lightly kissed Mrs. Brenton's hand.

"Oh, we must risk something sometimes!" she said impatiently; then she added, "Don't worry about me, dear old thing, I really haven't lost very much, and I dare say I shall get it all back to-night. I feel in luck. Look"-she held out her wrist-"isn't this a sweet thing? Sammy has just given it to me to wear as a charm. He brought it from some weird place in America, and declares it is a magic stone, and that I shall have everything I want now that I wear it. I must go and show it to Ena Bayliss," Camilla said, with a wicked smile. "She will be so jealous! She rather affects Sammy, you know...."

When the men came there was no opportunity for a little chat between Mrs. Lancing and Haverford, for the card-players seated themselves immediately at the tables.

Mrs. Brenton, who was not a bridge fanatic, beckoned to Rupert Haverford to come and sit with her in her pet corner.

She teased him heartily for a little while about his breakdown that afternoon.

"You will never get me in that magnificent car of yours again," she said. "Why don't you have horses? You look just the sort of man who would have good animals, and know how to treat them well."

"I have a few horses," Haverford answered; "you must come and see them one day, if you will, Mrs. Brenton. I don't quite know why I took to motoring, except that I have a leaning towards engineering, and the mechanism of the cars interests me, and then I like rushing about. I have not yet got used to my idle life," he said, a little restlessly. "Old habits are very strong with me; I wake every morning of my life at five o'clock, Mrs. Brenton, and I can't lie in bed a moment afterwards. You see, for nearly seventeen years I was accustomed to be out and at work by six o'clock every day."

Mrs. Brenton had taken up some knitting, and her fingers were moving briskly, though her eyes were fixed on her companion.

"I should so like to know all about those days," she said; "I dare say lots of people would not believe you if you were to say it, Mr. Haverford," she added half lightly, "but I came to a conclusion about you a long time ago, and that conclusion is, that you are the sort of man who is only happy when he is working-working seriously, I mean, from morning to night. But you are not always idle now, are you?"

Haverford laughed.

"I don't think I do an hour's work in a week," he said. "Very often the old call is so strong that I turn my back on all my greatness, and I steal away to the north, to the dirty, smoky, dull old town where I lived so long. But"-he laughed again, this time half sadly-"there is nothing for me to do; another man fills my old post and fills it well. However, I am planning a different future; I have certain pet schemes of my own which I have not yet put into working order. When I have started them they will help at least to pass some of my time more profitably than I pass it now."

"What sort of schemes?" asked Mrs. Brenton. He did not answer her at once; he was looking at the card-players, at Camilla's dainty figure. The lines of her throat and shoulders were exquisite, framed in the black of her gown. She was laughing; he loved to hear her laugh, it was such young laughter.

"Oh!" he said, rousing himself, "they are just some fancies that have come to me; I will tell you about them, Mrs. Brenton, when I have them more planned out-I am going to travel," he added a little abruptly. "Ever since I was a boy I have longed to see the other side of the world! I don't quite know why I have not gone long ago." He was smoking at Mrs. Brenton's wish, and he broke off some of the cigar ash into a silver tray.

"I got my first love of wandering when I was a very little lad," he said in his rather abrupt way. "My father brought me up on travel books and books of adventure. He had so longed to know other countries and other people, but this was denied him--If he had lived--!" He broke off sharply. Agnes Brenton looked at him; he was frowning, and he was staring into the fire; he seemed to have drifted far, far away in his thoughts from the light and warmth and cosy charm of his actual surroundings.

Suddenly he turned and looked at her; his eyes were very bright.

"My father was a hero," he said-there was something in his voice that made Mrs. Brenton bite her lip nervously-"he was a doctor-a man who worked all day and sometimes all night in that crowded, tragically poor factory town where I spent so many years of my life. I worshipped my father, Mrs. Brenton; he was an enthusiast, a dreamer, a saint. He died in harness, sacrificed to the poverty and misery of the people, who were his first thought. There was a fearful outbreak of fever and diphtheria, and he did superhuman work." Haverford shrugged his shoulders; he was trying to speak evenly. "Every man's endurance has a limit, and my father paid the natural, the inevitable penalty. That was a great many years ago, but he lives with me almost as clearly as though he were really in existence now! I have only one reproach against his memory"-the young man got up restlessly. His cigar had gone out, he found a box of matches, and lit it again. "He sent me away to avoid the infection," he said In a low voice, "and he died before I could get to him! That was hard! He could never have realized how hard that was to me, or surely he would not have done it."

Mrs. Brenton's eyes were wet. It was not alone his story, the strained tones of his voice that moved her; the man himself appealed to her sharply, and for the first time. She marvelled as she listened, as she looked at him now, how she could have so misunderstood him. It had become the fashion with most people to call Rupert Haverford hard names, to find him mean, selfish, and ungenerous; Mrs. Brenton had never gone so far as that. She had, in truth, judged him leniently, recognizing in his blunt fashion of speaking, in his straightforward manner, and rather deliberate methods, only the natural influence of his former circumstances; indeed, it had always seemed to her remarkable that any man who had toiled as Haverford had done, whose life had been set for so long in one narrow groove, should have taken his new place so quietly, and have moved with such unconscious dignity in the new world which revolved about him to-day. He was distinctly out of the fashion, it was true, in many ways, but he was never uncouth, and though there was at times a North Country burr in his voice, he spoke with refinement. In physique he was refined too, and no one could find fault with the way he dressed.

Mrs. Brenton had not gushed over him, but she had always liked him. Nevertheless, there had been moments when he had chilled her; moments in which the possibility of mingling Camilla Lancing's future with his (a scheme which she cherished warmly) had seemed almost preposterous; when he had made her both impatient and angry, and she had almost longed to shake him out of his grave, stolid ways and practical outlook.

To-night all this was changed; he was a new man to her to-night; she felt drawn to him very closely. She tried to say something in answer to his last speech, but even as the words trembled on her lips Haverford spoke on in his usual quiet way.

"When I do start on my travels I think I shall bequeath the care of my motors to you, Mrs. Brenton. Though you hate them, I know you are too tender-hearted to ill-treat them."

She laughed, falling in with his change of mood.

"I will take care of them if you will promise to come back. You must come back," she said, "and marry, and go into Parliament, and generally settle down."

"Yes, I suppose I shall marry some day," Haverford answered. He had passed away entirely from that touch of emotion; indeed, his eyes twinkled. "Marriage is about the one occupation that my change of fortune has suggested to me from the very commencement. But I am not in a hurry," he added. "Do you know why I like you, Mrs. Brenton?" he said all at once.

She shook her head.

"I am only too glad that you do like me," she answered, with a smile. "I don't seek to know the cause."

"Well, you appeal to me for many reasons," said Rupert Haverford, "but particularly because you are about the only woman I know who has not insisted on finding me a wife. It is such an absurd idea if one stops to think about it," he said lightly; "one chooses one's own servants, one does not go running about to one's friends to ask them if a particular man is likely to be a good coachman or butler or gardener; but in the matter of a wife everybody seems to consider that he or she has a right to choose for another person."

Mrs. Brenton smiled, but only faintly.

"I believe I am just as bad at match-making as most people," she said; "you must not endow me with unknown qualities."

They drifted into silence after this.

It was pleasant to Rupert Haverford to sit and watch Mrs. Brenton's comely hands busying themselves with the knitting.

She wore a few good rings, but for the rest her gown was old-fashioned, not to say shabby, and she had no other jewellery except an insignificant brooch or two.

He was quite in earnest when he said that she was the one person out of all his new acquaintances whom he liked the best.

There was something so thorough about her. He could quite believe the stories of her prowess as a sportswoman and a hard rider to hounds; and yet she was very womanly.

It gave him an extraordinary sense of pleasure to-night to realize that she was Camilla Lancing's friend, and that she had a tender and even an anxious interest in the woman about whom he was struggling with himself; the woman who at once tempted and repelled him.

He smoked his cigar through, and then after a little desultory conversation he rose and said "Good night."

"Pray tell Mrs. Lancing that my motor is at her disposal if she cares to use it to-morrow," he said, "I don't think she need fear another breakdown."

"You won't use it yourself?" Mrs. Brenton asked.

"No, it will take me too long to get to town. I must see my mother before going into the City. I shall not say 'Good-bye,'" Rupert added, as he held her hand in his, "for you are coming up to town almost directly, are you not? And you have promised to dine with me, you know."

"I am longing to see your house," Agnes Brenton said. "I hear it is full of beautiful things. Camilla has raved to me about it."

"It is beautiful," he agreed, and then he just smiled; "you see, I can say that because I have had very little to do with putting it together. I inherited nearly all my treasures."

He was gone before Mrs. Lancing, in a pause of the game, realized that he was nowhere near. She got up from the card-table suddenly; there was a patch of hot colour on her cheeks.

"Give me a cigarette, Agnes," she said; "now that Mr. Bogie has gone, I can smoke in peace."

"Mr. 'Bogie,' as you call him," Mrs. Brenton said evenly, "is leaving us very early to-morrow morning. But he wants you to use his motor if you care about doing so."

"Thanks, no," said Mrs. Lancing; "I think I have had enough of a motor-car for a day or two. What have you been talking about, you two?" she asked suddenly, after a little pause. She threw away the cigarette as she spoke; smoking with her was only a pretence.

"I don't know," said Agnes Brenton, "nothing in particular. He is the sort of man one need never try to make conversation with. I mean to see as much of him as I possibly can; I like him very much."

Camilla made a moue at her.

"You are well matched-just two dear preachy people together," she said. "He ought to have been a schoolmaster. I know I shock him awfully, don't I?"

"My dear child," said Mrs. Brenton, "Mr. Haverford has not confided in me, but if I speak the truth I don't think he troubles himself about you much one way or the other."

Camilla Lancing was amazed and sharply hurt.

"Oh! don't you?" she said. "Oh! that is quite a new idea! As a matter of fact, I had a sort of notion he was thinking about me a great deal."

"You are a vain little person," said Mrs. Brenton, in the same even way; "but there, trot along; they are calling for you. Sammy has finished dealing."

No one was stirring when Rupert Haverford descended the stairs the next morning. He breakfasted alone; but just as he was about to get into the brougham and drive away, one of the maids brought him a little note. It was from Camilla.

"Thank you so much," she wrote, "for wishing me to use your motor, but I don't care to go in it without you. Do let me know how your mother is. I hope with all my heart that you will find her better. Don't forget you have promised to have tea with the children next week!

"Sincerely your friend,

"C. L."

He slipped the note into his pocket-book. It was pleasant to have that little remembrance from her.

Passing the corner of the house he bent forward unconsciously to look at the windows of the room where she was, but the blinds were drawn; in fact, as he took out the little note and read it again, he saw that it was dated at three o'clock that morning. She must have scribbled it before going to bed. He knew she had gone to her room very late, for he had sat waiting for the sound of her voice and the swish of her gown. Their rooms had been on the same landing.

He slipped his pocket-book back with a sigh, and as he drove rapidly away he found himself wishing with every turn of the wheels that he was going back again; that was the curious part of this charm which Camilla exercised over him.

When he was near to her she vexed him, she troubled him; when he was away he only felt the appealing claim of her beauty, of that simplicity, that "insouciance" that was so apart from and yet, with her, so much a part of her womanliness.

She was such a curious mixture, pre-eminently womanly, tender, sympathetic, and, at the same time, tainted unmistakably with pronounced worldliness. Much as he had studied her, he felt quite unequal to gauging her character.

Once he had heard some woman declare that Camilla was "insincere." He had felt a wholly unreasonable amount of anger against that woman. And yet he was quite unprepared to defend her this morning against such an accusation.

He had suffered, really suffered, when he had seen her with Broxbourne. It was inconceivable to him that a woman so delicately fashioned as she mentally (though not supremely intelligent, her mind had a tendency to poetry and charm evinced unconsciously a score of times) could find pleasure in the society of this young man with his rough voice, his sporting look, his peculiar manners. Nevertheless, she had laughed and sparkled and met Sir Samuel with all the ease and intimacy of a comrade.

"It is because she is alone, because she has no one to lead her," he said to himself as he sat in the train whirling to town. But ponder as he might, he could offer to himself nothing convincing or satisfying where Camilla Lancing was concerned. All he knew was that no matter how his mind might busy itself with other thoughts, it always circled back to Camilla in some fashion or other.

As he drew nearer to the smoke and the fog of the great city he closed his eyes and dreamed of the day before-of that wide expanse of restless, sun-kissed sea, with the sky fading in the distance into a glorious sweep of gold and purple and grey.

In his imagination he could hear again the break of the waves on the wet beach mingling with the musical hum of the car, and he could feel once again that sense of delight, almost of possessive delight, as he had looked back ever and anon and had met the smile of Camilla's sweet eyes and pensive lips.

She seemed to be cut away from him altogether by this darkness and heavy atmosphere.

The yellow gloom fell like a pall on all that was bright and beautiful and desirable.

He longed to go back to the country; above all, he longed to see her again, and quickly.