CHAPTER VI

I

The following Tuesday John said good-bye to the Marshs and left for "The Croft" to spend the remainder of his Easter holidays with the Vernleys. Mrs. Marsh and Teddie drove him to the station, and, as the train left and he leaned out of the window to wave farewell, he knew that once more he had found true friends and a house where his return would be welcome. At dusk he had arrived in the village station nearest to "The Croft," where he found Bobbie and his brother Tod waiting for him on the platform.

"Hello, Scissors!" shouted Tod, as the train drew in, "We've a surprise for you. Where's the luggage--give me that, I'll carry it."

"How's the great Marsh?" asked Vernley. "As supercilious as ever?"

"Yes--in great form, he sends his love and recommends Mother Wingate's syrup for fatuous persons," answered John.

"Cheek!" retorted Vernley, "and by Jove--don't you think I'm getting thin--Tod's had me out on the under track every morning at six. I'm going to pull off the 'half' and mile race next term."

John looked at him critically, and although Vernley was as delightfully substantial as ever, he had not the heart to disappoint him.

"He's wasting away like our Narcissus," said Tod, banging his way through the narrow booking hall. "Look, my son, isn't she a beauty!"

He pointed to a racing car drawn up outside the station. John noticed its long rectangular bonnet, the beautiful gleam and hidden strength of the thing, admiration showing in his eyes.

"It's mine!--the Governor's twenty-first birthday present! She was first in the trials at Brooklands last week," said Tod, dropping the bag in.

"We're going on a tour next hols--all round this giddy old island," cried Vernley. "There'll be a fringe of dead dogs and defunct old ladies around these shores, that never did and never will stand under the foot of the--how's the thing go?"

"--proud conqueror," added John. "She is a lovely thing--what's her name?"

"Haven't decided yet. I've voted for the 'Silver Slayer.' Tod suggests 'The Gleam.'"

"The Governor says '[OE]dipus Rex' would be more appropriate," added Tod, his brown hands on the steering wheel.

"Why?"

"Because of the murders at the cross roads that'll be committed. Ready?"

There was a preparatory purr of the engine, then a delightful roaring hum, and they glided forwards, imperceptibly gathering speed. The chill wind whipped John's face. He looked joyously at Vernley seated beside him and noted the disdainful pose of lordship. Vernley's utter contempt for a display of feeling always amused John. The villages tore by, fowls screeched, and flew with fluttered feathers into the hedge bottoms; they roared up the hills and ran silently down into the valleys. Half an hour later they had turned in at the familiar drive and, pulled up at the stone porch. Inside the hall Mrs. Vernley came to meet John.

"Here you are at last--we are so glad to see you, John."

"Thank you--it's good to be here, Mrs. Vernley." The dogs, as if welcoming an old friend, bounded forwards.

"Down, Tiger--down, Ruff--down, sir!" yelled Vernley, and they cowered and wagged their tails, beating a tattoo on the parquet floor.

In the library, gleaming with a rosy fire, its light shining on the silver tea service, John found Mr. Vernley.

"Hullo, my boy! well, how are you? I hear we've found a great orator at last!"

John smiled, then halted as he saw some one standing at Mr. Vernley's side.

"Ribble," said Vernley turning to him, "this is our rising hope." Then to John, "This is Mr. Ribble--you'll be great friends I'm sure, though I don't know which side of him you'll like the better. Mr. Ribble has written some very clever books, and he's in the Cabinet, so that politicians say he's a good author and a bad politician, and authors say he's a good politician and a bad author."

"And my wife says I should have been a nonconformist divine. How d'you do, John; we must hear some of these famous flights of oratory."

"He's the real stuff, sir," said Vernley enthusiastically.--"Doesn't half work 'em, makes the 'gods' boil over!"

"This empire, this realm upon which the sun has never looked--no, that's not it, sir--I'm no orator," said Tod. "Let's have tea, Mother. By Jove, Governor, you should have heard her sing up Carshott Hill--did it on top, lots in hand. When she's tuned up she'll take a houseside."

"Lord! You've done nothing but tune up since you had her," cried Bobbie.

"Now boys, sit down, tea's ready," said Mrs. Vernley, pouring out. John hoped every moment that Muriel would come in. He was disappointed when she was not in the hall to meet him, and his heart sank when he did not find her in the library. Perhaps she had gone out for a walk. He did not want to ask, for Vernley might think he had come simply to see her. It was not so, of course. He was glad to be with Vernley again, but he could not help looking forward to seeing Muriel, of whom he had been thinking through all those weeks at school. The talk at the tea-table was chiefly political. Mr. Vernley was discussing a coming election with Ribble, whom John thought was the most picturesque old man he had ever seen. He had long curly white hair, his eyes were surrounded by good-humoured wrinkles, and he beamed through his spectacles. The mouth was thin and compressed and had a ghost of a smile always hovering about it John wondered where he had seen such a face before, and then suddenly remembered a portrait of Thackeray in Mr. Fletcher's study. There was a slight resemblance, and Mr. Ribble's character seemed to John to be somewhat Thackerayish, for John was now half through "The Newcomes," after a delighted discovery of "Pendennis" and "Henry Esmond."

"Steer has just published a fine book," Mr. Ribble was saying. "I think that little poem on Muriel is masterly."

John was alert immediately, and Vernley, eating cake and drinking tea at the same moment, contrary to all laws, noticed John's interest.

"When's Muriel coming home, Mother?" he asked.

"I read you her letter this morning--to-morrow. You'll have to drive the trap to the station to meet her in the afternoon."

"Why can't we motor?"

"I'm going to Brooklands in the morning," said Tod, "and I'm taking Brown--so you'll have to drive the buggy."

"Oh, bother--I hate the old thing!"

But John would have ridden to Paradise in it if such a passenger as Muriel had awaited him. To-morrow! He looked at Vernley, and it occurred to him that his question had been what Mr. Fletcher, in debates, had called a leading one. Vernley had never shown much interest in John's affair, but he was not so unobservant as the latter thought.

When the boys were changing for dinner that evening, and while John was struggling with a bow, his glance fell upon a silver frame standing on the dressing table. It contained a beautiful portrait of Muriel who laughed at him out of the frame. John looked long at it, and finally he realised that the photograph had been placed there for his delight. It was on his dressing table and not on Vernley's. Only one person could have placed it there.

"I say, Bobbie," said John, through the open door leading to his friend's room.

"What?" asked Vernley, standing with one leg in his black trousers, the other kicking its way through.

"You're a jolly decent sort--being here, you know--and in this room again--and the--photograph--thanks awfully, old man."

"Thought you were a bit keen, you know--she's not at all bad for a sister, is she?"

"Rather not!" said John ecstatically, giving his bow a confirmatory pull.

That evening John knew Mr. Ribble much more intimately, for while one of Vernley's sisters was accompanying the aspiring prima donna, John was led off by the politician into the conservatory. The boy began asking questions about the House of Commons and Mr. Ribble had a great fund of stories. John learned of Mr. Balfour's aloof manner, Mr. Churchill's imperturbable genius, Mr. Lloyd George's subtlety, Mr. Asquith's classic weight and Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman's personal charm; then he wished to know all about Mr. Austen Chamberlain and the hereditary monocle, whether Mr. John Burn's mother really had been a washerwoman, and what tactics were legitimate in catching the Speaker's eye. Leaving these personalities, the conversation changed to political economy and John found himself on new ground and in a world of unknown names.

John felt flattered by the fact that Mr. Ribble took it for granted that he knew these persons and subjects, but the politician was deliberately whetting the boy's appetite and trying to lead him into a channel of serious study. John Stuart Mill, Walter Bagehot, Edmund Burke, Karl Marx, together with such queer names as Spinoza, Kant, Schlegel, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, all rolled off Mr. Ribble's tongue. He was now in the realm of Philosophy, and John, for the first time in his life, heard of Comte and Positivism, of Darwin and the Origin of Species, of Huxley and Russell Wallace. Mr. Ribble talked and John listened, experiencing the wonderful thrill as when Mr. Steer had shown him the world of poetry.

"I think you had better start with Ruskin's 'Unto This Last,'" said Mr. Ribble when John asked where he should begin. "He's easy to read and somewhat superficial. You'll find that philosophy and political economy are closely related--half brothers in fact, and Ruskin believes their parents were Social Morality and Private Duty."

Before going to bed that night, John had found a copy of "Unto This Last" which he took up to bed. The two boys often read before going to sleep, and Vernley was engrossed in "Kim" so that he did not see what absorbed John, until growing sleepy, he closed his book and came into John's room with its light still burning.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Ruskin," replied John, deep in the book.

"Golly--what on earth are you reading that piffle for--what's the book?"

"Unto This Last."

"Holy Moses--you're the queerest mixture I've ever known. Last hols it was "Whose dwelling is--"

--"_The light of setting suns_"--began John-- "_And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that--_"

A pillow landed on John's head. It was returned with redoubled energy. Vernley made a grand attack, John defending with a bolster. There was a frantic scuffle, the bed groaned, the electric light swung furiously, Vernley's pyjama coat was torn down the back and John was soon without a blanket or a sheet on his bed. Suddenly they were buried in a snowstorm of feathers that floated all over the room; the pillow case had split; it called for an armistice. John and Vernley subsided on the bed, silently watching the feather-laden atmosphere.

"Lord! what a mess!"

"We always seem to be smashing something in this room," said John ruefully--"last time it was the wash basin."

"It's that infernal Wordsworth--there'll be nothing left now Ruskin's on the scene too."

"Well--you shouldn't interrupt."

"Do you think I'm going to lie still while you pour out that bosh?"

"It isn't bosh--Mr. Ribble says--"

"Ribble's an old fool--'a nonconformist crank swaddled in the longclothes of infantile ignorance'--that's what the Governor's opponent called him last election."

The feathers had now settled.

"What a mess!" said Vernley surveying the room. "I've got an idea! Open the door, Scissors!" Vernley threw open the two big windows and the draught thus created swept the feathers out on to the landing. The two boys followed and peered over the banisters as the white cloud slowly settled down into the hall below. At that moment the drawing-room door opened.

"Father!--Just look at this--wherever--" came Mrs. Vernley's voice in amazement.

"Shut the door, Scissors!" They rushed into the room, switched off the light and waited breathlessly. All was quiet again.

"If you go on reading every author you're told about, there'll be nothing left in this house," said Vernley, "and I don't agree, of course, about that libel on old Ribble--he's a decent old boy. Good night, Scissors."

II

The next afternoon Vernley and John harnessed the pony and were on their way to the station to meet Muriel. Spring was in the air. The hedgerows were beginning to burst into leaf, and the birds singing in the lanes filled the country-side with hope. John's heart too was singing. It was so good to be driving through the sunlit lanes with a crisp air blowing in their faces, the friendly jog-trot of the pony beating upon their ears. He looked at Vernley, the imperturbable Vernley, who was flicking the pony's haunches with his whip. There was something comfortably solid about him. He represented tradition and the continuance of a settled conception of life. John had no difficulty in planning Vernley's future; unlike his own, it depended upon no caprice of Fate. He would go up to Oxford, travel, and then settle down to the life of a country gentleman. He would grow stout and red-cheeked, marry a healthy, unimaginative wife and be the father of a crowd of noisy, well-developed children. The hunt, a seat on the bench, June in London and August on the moors--that would be Vernley's life. And he would not bother his head about political or religious faiths. He would probably be a Conservative, despite his father, who was a family renegade, and a Churchman. Conservative, because caution and security were better than haste and revolution, and the world on the whole was a jolly old place despite Socialists and other disgruntled reformers. A Churchman, because he knew so little about religion, and a respectable ready-made creed, tried and found suitable as an accommodating policy of living was the safest and easiest to adopt. Had he been born in Constantinople he would have been a Mohammedan, in Bombay a Buddhist, in Hongkong a Confucian, and in Paris a Catholic. And whichever creed environment had caused him to accept, he would have been a credit to it, faithfully observing its tenets, a respectable, unthinking, clean-living fellow.

Vernley looked at John as the station came into sight; the far-away expression was in his face, a curious detachment that often puzzled Vernley. Sometimes John seemed to have left his body in another world. It was uncanny and he remembered that Marsh, referring to this habit, had called it "the Eastern touch," though what that quite meant Vernley did not know.

"The train's signalled," said Vernley. "We shall just get there in time. I wonder whether Muriel is bringing her friend back, she said she might--a topping girl."

"I hope not--I don't want any one monopolising Muriel," said John boldly.

"That's all right--I shall look after her friend--so don't you worry."

They pulled up just as the train ran into the station. Vernley sat still in the trap.

"I must mind the pony,--you go in, Scissors!"

Dear old Vernley, thought John, what a tactician he was! So leaping out, he went on to the platform just as Muriel descended from the carriage. There was one glad look of recognition and then a momentary shyness fell over them. Muriel had brought her friend whom she introduced with embarrassment. John, scarlet in the face, pretended to be frantically busy with the luggage, which filled the trap. Homewards turned, the pony trotted smartly. John sat opposite Muriel and kept looking at her furtively. She was beautiful. He wanted to touch her soft flesh, and press back the little strand of hair that fluttered over her ear and across the cheek. He noticed the full redness of her lips, and the wonderful beauty of her long eyelashes. The sight of her filled John with a kind of ecstasy bordering on intoxication. He was infinitely more in love with her than on the previous occasion. The absence of three months had glorified her in his imagination, but now he saw that reality transcended his most extravagant dreams of her physical perfection. He was fifteen and this first flush of love left him breathless with wonder. He did not want to talk; it was enough to sit near her, to hear her voice, to watch the elfin grace of her movements, to see her eyes shine, and the whiteness of her small teeth when she laughed. Had some one told him he was in love, he would have denied it. He was more a worshipper than a lover. This revelation of the woman, as he saw it in Muriel, was like sunrise on a new world; he was so lost in wonder that familiarity became impossible. He was filled with awe, in which ran fear, the fear that she could not always be there, that one morning he would get up and find her changed, an ordinary being, moving on the old earth as he had always known it. But this afternoon was his time of ecstasy--the friendly trotting of the pony, Bobbie talking away to Polly, and himself sitting there with Muriel near him while the birds sang in the hedgerows, and the sunset clouds in the west reddened behind a black fringe of trees.

"Polly," said Vernley, "you may think so, but my friend is not really dumb--in fact John is a fearful talker at times."

He laughed at John.

"You've got the field, so I've retired," retorted John. "And I'm waiting for Muriel to tell me what she's been doing all the holidays."

Muriel responded to this invitation, and, the ice broken, they were soon engrossed in each other. At the top of Carshott Hill, Vernley pulled up. He was enjoying himself with Polly, who was sensible, and to his great relief didn't giggle.

"I say, Scissors, shall we go round by Carshott? It is two miles out of the way, but we shall be in time for dinner."

"Oh yes," cried Muriel. "It's such a glorious afternoon."

"I'm not a bit hungry," said John tactfully; any excuse for the prolongation of the drive. So they turned off to Carshott. It was dark when they arrived at "The Croft" gates and turned up the drive, so dark that John had been able to hold Muriel's hand in his and interlace his strong fingers with her slender ones, and he was so overjoyed that he failed to notice that Vernley had done similarly.

Greetings over in the hall, they hurried off to dress for dinner. The boys had a hot bath, and John sat on the side while Vernley lathered himself.

"Polly's a very pretty girl," said John, rubbing hard with the towel.

"Of course!" cried Vernley, banging the sponge on his head, then spluttering, "and Muriel?---well I suppose you've hardly noticed her yet," he added satirically--"it was so jolly dark--but I know she has soft hands."

John coloured, rubbing his head so that Vernley should not see.

"I say, Scissors! I'll bet you I know what Muriel's going to wear to-night."

"What?"

"That white dress with the blue insertion."

John remembered it. It was all fluffy, and she looked like a fairy in a cloud. He had admired her in it and told her so.

"How do you know?"

"Why, in honour of the occasion, of course. I called it the froth and frolic dress, but probably Muriel calls it mode-a-la-Scissors."

"You are an ass!" said John.

"I am your friend," retorted Vernley. "By their companions ye shall know them."

"Are you coming out of that bath--the dressing bell went half an hour ago!"

"I'm getting boiled all over--I want to look my freshest to-night. You are not the only knight on the war-path; and I've got a deadly rival."

"Who's that?"

"Tod," said Vernley. "Personally I fear nothing from him--he's harmless, but he's got a car, and that is usually a winner."

"You are a cynic," said John.

"I've had experience--I've been thrown over for a tennis racquet. You don't know women, my boy."

"Being elderly, I suppose you know all about them."

"Almost, but there's one thing always puzzles me, Scissors, I always wonder how much these girls confide in one another and giggle at us for being such asses."

"I don't think Muriel would," said John seriously.

"Angel!" murmured Vernley, kissing the sponge ecstatically.

III

Mr. Ribble did not come down to breakfast the next morning. He was reviewing a book for the _Nation_ and kept in his room. John saw breakfast go in to him and wondered if ever the day would come that he would be so important as to have breakfast sent up to his room. He went to the window and sat there for a time enjoying the early morning scene, the light on the distant hills, the sharp sound of a passing cart down in the lane, and stray noises from the stable yard. Then he watched the country postman cycle up the drive, his fresh healthy face perspiring, a heavy mailbag on his shoulders. John got up and went out into the hall and received the letters, which he spread out on the table in neat order. There were fifteen for Mr. Vernley, six for Mr. Ribble--John paused lovingly over these. How splendid they looked!

"The Rt. Hon. Ellerton Ribble, M.P."

and as he looked the magic letters changed into--

"The Rt. Hon. John N. Dean, M.P."

Day-dreaming he did not see that Mrs. Vernley had entered the hall and was looking at him.

"Disappointed, John?" she asked. "I am always disappointed when I get no letters. I like receiving them, but detest answering them."

"Good morning, Mrs. Vernley! No--I was just thinking how splendid Mr. Ribble's address looks."

"Wondering when your own will be like it?" asked Mrs. Vernley, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. She detected the pleasure her little guess gave him.

"Well, if Muriel has anything to do with it," she added, "you'll be the youngest Cabinet minister in history."

"Muriel?" asked John.

"Yes, last night she gave Mr. Ribble the worst cross-questioning he has had for many a long hour. I believe she has planned your whole career, but I hope, John," said Mrs. Vernley, opening her letters, "that you are not going to waste yourself in politics. It is the most futile life a man can lead. I never knew a member of Parliament who wasn't a harassed mass of vanity. Their lives are made wretched by pulling wires for a thousand societies that threaten to extract a dozen votes at their next election. They are the prey of the parsons, charity organisations and vested interests--"

"But surely Mr. Vernley--" began John.

"One's husband is always excepted from general criticism, John. My husband is such a bad member of Parliament because he is such a good husband."

"The world has to be ruled, Mrs. Vernley."

"I do not deny it, but why presume that Parliament rules Britain? I'm quite sure it doesn't, any more than Congress rules the United States or the Chamber rules France. There's the gong. I wonder how many of us will appear at breakfast!"

In the breakfast room they found Tod and Muriel, and a minute later Vernley came in and took his seat.

"Let's see--this morning? Ah! it's plaice and sausage," he cried. "Lift the covers, Mother."

Sausage and plaice duly appeared.

"We have a Scotch cook with the mind of a mathematician," said Tod. "Wednesday, bacon and eggs."

"Friday--kedgeree!" added Vernley.

"Saturday--grilled ham!" supplemented Muriel.

"Sunday--two eggs," contributed Alice.

"Monday--" began Tod.

He was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Vernley.

"I suppose you children are reciting the food calendar as usual?"

"Yes, Dad,--it's your turn," cried Vernley. "Monday--?"

"Monday--liver and bacon!"

"Really," commented Mrs. Vernley, "if cook heard the way you make fun of her infinite variety--"

"She might give us sausage twice a week which would please me!" said Tod. "By the way, Mother, is Mrs. Graham coming to-day?"

"Yes, I want you to meet the 11.15, she will arrive by that."

"Let's all go!" cried Vernley. "Jove, she's a stunner, Scissors!"

"Bobbie dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Vernley, "you mustn't talk of Mrs. Graham like that!"

"Why not, Mother? I told her she was a stunner once and she pinked with delight."

"I don't know where you boys pick up all your slang," said Mr. Vernley.

"We get so many M.P.s in the house, pater," suggested Tod. "Will you play me a round of golf? I did four and seven in bogie yesterday."

"When?"

"This afternoon--three o'clock," said Tod.

"Remember, dear, we have Mr. Crimp coming to tea," urged Mrs. Vernley.

"Then I'll play you, Tod," Mr. Vernley said decisively. "My dear, why do you ask that man?"

"Because, being a tactful wife, I know he is worth two hundred votes to you."

"He turns my tea sour," complained Tod. "The pater and I will stay out to tea."

"That's not fair," cried Muriel. "It means I shall have to talk to Mr. Crimp."

"On foreign stamps," murmured Bobbie. "He'll love Scissors--don't look so glum, Scissors--you look quite crimpled up!"

Tod's aim was unerring; the tea cosy ruffled Vernley's well-plastered hair.

"Stop! I won't have my breakfast service smashed!" cried Mrs. Vernley in alarm, but protest was useless. The cosy flew back with redoubled vigour. Its flight was unimpeded by its destined objective, for Tod ducked. It went over his head. Polly who had sat very quiet all through breakfast, received it on her empty plate where it ousted an egg cup with a clatter, and the familiar sound of a crash followed as it broke into a dozen pieces.

"You awful children!" cried Mrs. Vernley.

"Never mind, Mum," said Tod, bending and kissing her. "You know you're proud of your bouncing offspring."

IV

It was no exaggeration to say that the arrival of Mrs. Graham was an event in John's life. Ever afterwards he could recall vividly the first sharp impression of that bright Easter morning when he stood on the country station platform. His impression was always clear, even in its detail. Recalling her advent and attempting analysis, he was never sure whether his first surprise was caused by beauty, by dress or by aroma. There was something distinctive in the perfume Mrs. Graham used. Only once afterwards did he encounter it, in the foyer of a Paris theatre, when it brought back in swift vision the English Easter morning, and the graceful lady extending her hand to him as he stood, cap in hand, admiring every line of her figure.

True, on the way to the station, above the purr of the car, he had heard the ecstatic praise of Tod, and the no less fervent admiration of Bobbie. But their tribute, faithful and generous, omitted the something that caught John in the mesh. Was it her voice, so rich with its quality, a speaking voice that gave such distinction to all she said, that made a trivial comment noteworthy? Was it her beauty?--that Romney-like picture of colour and contour, the shapely nose, the lovely arched lips, the delicate rose-bloom of her cheeks and the dark, quick vivacity of her eyes? Or was it her ornaments, the grace and style of their choice and use? No earrings ever hung like hers; they seemed to gather beauty from the lobes they decorated. The string of pearls that nestled about her throat, shapely as a swan's neck, in its sheen seemed to derive lustre from the sweetness of her flesh. Was it those all-expressive hands, that tapered so fascinatingly with nails that exhibited the charm of nature and art? Something perhaps of all these, yet something which, without all these, would make her a woman of memorable beauty.

Her dress was elegant, noteworthy, but women had dressed so a hundred times and achieved nothing distinctive. John had seen features as perfect, hands as lovely--but here was something not wholly extraneous. He knew now why she was always called, "the beautiful Mrs. Graham"; why, to this woman of thirty-five, clung the air of a tragedy queen; why, since that dread period of newspaper notoriety, she had never been allowed to relapse into obscurity, but was photographed and paragraphed. Would her sin ever find full expiation?

Sin! How absurd that word seemed. Was there such a thing in the presence of such perfection? John gazed at her as she sat at his side in the car, talking to Bobbie, while Tod drove. She was alluded to as a "notorious" woman, and as John thought of it, he almost laughed aloud; what chance had all the dull, dingy, respectable women at the side of this empress of life? John, of course, did not know the details of the divorce case which had made her, for six weeks, the most discussed woman in the world. The young peer who had ruined his life and hers, and who, strangely enough, had found all the sympathy while she took all the blame, who had declared himself powerless in her presence. Perhaps so, but if so, why so contemptible in that power, why the ready surrender of her character, the confession of impotence? She was unfaithful, a married experienced woman of thirty-five, and he a young boy of twenty-one. But whose was the sacrifice? She should have known better, said the world, she corrupted a boy. But if his was the ardour, if the passion of first love and the lyrical song of youth were laid at her feet, how could she resist, she a grown woman, who saw youth lapsing like a spent wave on the shore of Life, one whose elderly husband could not guess the tumult of nature beating at the doors of her heart, about to close on summer for ever?

Seven hundred years ago, such love was romance; not even the dagger of Giovanni had been needed to draw, with its blood, the tears and sympathy of lovers of all ages for Paolo and Francesca. But Francesca in the twentieth century must stand in the witness box for legal luminaries to torture, must hear every nameless act given the label of lust, and finally, hear Paolo fling the insult of age and cunning into her face, and plead the ignorance of youth.

And then, when the whole dreadful nightmare was over, another reappearance in a hopeless battle for her child; then peace again, while the world whispers of the disappearance from society of the beautiful Mrs. Graham. But Life would not leave her alone; five years might have brought some healing to a heart that asked forgetfulness. The suicide of the young Earl, with a last love declaration, set the world by the ears again. So he loved her to the last! She laughed almost. He had died for his love of her, said the world. Women envied her the compliment of his suicide. He might have loved her sufficiently to live, she reflected, and once more passed through a nightmare of picture papers; herself as a bride, bathing at Ostend; herself in the box; extracts from the trial; her tears in the last scene, then--God in heaven!--her boy at school, not in the first school he had had to leave, but another, which he would now have to leave. And through it all, as if to excite envy and scandal by obstinacy, her beauty grew, and she remained "the beautiful Mrs. Graham."

But it was not an aura of tragedy that fascinated John. He had not exchanged a dozen words when he recognised what he had heard, with mirth, the school porter call "quality." In the first place her voice--that was a revelation. What a wonderful instrument the human voice was! When she spoke her words were invested with alluring music; then also there was a hint of--no, not worldliness--of--

"Bond Street, Rumpelmeyer's--cum Papier Poudre," supplied Tod a few days later, alluding to the same hint. She was one of those women of whom one asked inwardly--was that rouge, was that carmine, did she pencil? and you were never sure. If so, it was wonderfully done and fascinating. If not, she was amazingly perfect and unbelievable. But you never knew for sure. Of her powder, she made no secret. No beautiful woman ever does, for it is an embroidery which beauty only can justify.

And as John sat there he experienced a cheap sensation. That it was cheap he knew, and despised himself for it. She was a divorced woman--notorious even. Were not the Vernleys bold? Then a hot flush of shame leapt to his face at the meanness of the thought--he was like the rest.

His sudden colouring was noticed by Mrs. Graham, who, unaware of its cause, thought the handsome lad at her side was shy. She began to talk to him and by the time they reached "The Croft," she had made a fervent disciple. At lunch he sat between her and Muriel, and felt an uncomfortable twinge of his conscience. Had Muriel felt neglected? But she would understand how fascinating it was to talk to Mrs. Graham, or rather, to hear her talk, for she seemed to have been everywhere. Big-game shooting in Africa, the wonder of Lake Louise, the views from Mons Pilatus, the charm of Copenhagen and other diversions of the Tivoli; the house-fringed shores of the Little Belt, the crowded Hohestrasse of a Sunday evening in Cologne, the colour and _gelati_ of the Piazza San Marco, the brightness of Unter den Linden on a June morning, the approach to the Brandenburg Gate, Le Touquet and its golf, the winter sports at Murren--the little glimpses of all these lighted her conversation.

She had dined at most of the Embassies in Europe; delightful little anecdotes, pointed with the witty brevity of a French phrase, scintillated in her talk. Yes, she had met "Anatole France," and told a story of his courtly grumpiness; she had crossed the Atlantic with Paderewski, who had played for her his "Romance," on the evening of its composition, played it in the lonely drawing-room while passengers were at dinner, with such elegance, delicacy of touch and strength of tone. Had she read "Mr. Polly?" asked John. That reminded her immediately; they saw Mr. Wells in a Kent house writing all the morning, playing hockey all the afternoon, and always the busy little man in a blue serge suit, pouring out a medley of history, theology, romance and hard-headed business talk. There was a flashlight of Rodin in his palatial studio. "Madame has beautiful hands--they must be immortalised," and one saw the robust personality of Roosevelt at a small dinner party at the Plaza, New York, with a later snapshot of him speechmaking from the platform of a Pullman at a wayside station in Indiana. "A lovable man--he made that speech just to enable fifty country school children to say in after life that they had heard the President."

What a luncheon hour, with Tod cross-questioning, Muriel laughing, Vernley dumb, Mr. Vernley corroborating and Mrs. Vernley beseeching her guest to get something to eat; and whenever a break in the conversation came, Mr. Ribble restarted the flow of anecdote with a query or a scholarly footnote. John would have wished that luncheon hour to last for ever, but before they had risen from the table Tod had slipped away and a few minutes later the car was purring in the drive.

"Come along, sir," he called as they rose.

"Not yet, not yet, Tod," protested Mr. Vernley.

"Yes, now--if you go upstairs for a nap, there'll be no golf this afternoon. Mrs. Graham is coming too."

"But Tod, I have no clubs," protested Mrs. Graham.

"I have--the car's waiting now. Are you coming, Mr. Ribble?"

"No thank you, my boy--I am still ink-bound. Muriel has promised me a nice cup of tea in the study at four o'clock, and we have Mr. Crimp coming, I believe."

"That's why we're going."

"Tod, dear!" protested his mother. "How rude you are!"

"I loathe the fellow!"

"And you have no reason, dear."

"Loathing," said Mrs. Graham, "is perhaps the safest of all feelings, it relies more on instinct than intellect."

"And what are you children going to do?" asked Mr. Vernley.

"Children, pater!" protested Bobbie.

"We are having a double on the lawn. Thomson says it will be quite good playing to-day. He cut it this morning," said Muriel.

"Well, when we return, if you've any steam left in you, Mrs. Graham and I will take on the winners."

"Good!" cried Bobbie. "Come on, Scissors, let's change." In his room, Vernley found John a pair of flannel trousers. There was nine inches to spare round the waist, and a serious gap above the ankles.

"If I had known I was going to look ridiculous," said John "I shouldn't have played--" He pulled out the top of the trousers. "'The expanse of spirit in a waist of shame,' that's what I look like."

"Don't be rude, Scissors--you know my figure fills you with envy. Jove, I do hate playing this game with women. Those kids have no idea how to use a racquet. They'll just stand and squeak every time they miss a ball by a yard, and you're expected to say 'Hard luck.'"

"Can Mrs. Graham play?"

"Yes, she can make Tod work. If Alice and Kitty were at home we'd get a good set. I say, Scissors, do you mind playing with Polly?"

"No--but why?"

"Because if I play with her and lose, as I shall, she'll be quite huffy, whereas if she plays against me and wins, she'll be quite nice to me," explained Vernley.

"But what about Muriel?"

"Oh--that doesn't matter. Nothing will dim you in Muriel's eyes." John bent over and tied his shoes.

"How do you mean?" he asked without looking up.

"Well, you're on a pedestal that six-love can't damage. You know you did talk brilliantly at lunch. I don't know how you do it."

"But I was listening to Mrs. Graham."

"And she to you--why, together you held the table, and old Ribble kept persuading you both to go on."

"I hope I didn't talk too--" began John.

"You old fraud, you were both soaring and you knew it. You like it, Scissors. I've seen you take the platform before."

"Rot!" commented John, a little angry at being discovered.

V

When the tea bell rang, four red-faced youngsters trooped in to find the Reverend Crimp mid-way in a monologue on the woes of the Dodenesian Islanders. On the appearance of the tennis party, he put down his cup very deliberately, rose from the comfortable depths of the divan, folded his puffy hands and beamed upon the young people.

"I think you know John," said Mrs. Vernley.

"Ah, yes," began Mr. Crimp in a minor key. "Of course I know John. I have a delightful memory of our last meeting. How d'ye do? I perceive you have grown. Fresh air, eh, and good food, I am sure. It is a true maxim, early to bed, early to rise--"

"Not much good food at Sedley, Mr. Crimp," said Bobbie. "We always go to bed hungry."

"I'm sure," commented Mr. Ribble from a corner seat, "your remarks are libellous; they are certainly belied by your figure."

"That's what I tell Bobbie," cried Muriel, "but he says the cause of stoutness is atmospheric, not gastronomic."

A few minutes later the drawing room door abruptly opened and Tod entered, followed by Mrs. Graham and Mr. Vernley.

"Any tea left, Mother?" he cried. "Mrs. Graham has led us all the way. Jove, she took the last hole in four!" Then, seeing the clergyman, "Good afternoon, Mr. Crimp." Mr. Vernley crossed the room and shook hands with him, while Tod was just about to draw up a chair for Mrs. Graham when Mr. Vernley said, "I do not think you have met Mrs. Graham, Mr. Crimp?"--and turning--"this is Mr. Crimp, our clergyman, Mrs. Graham."

Tod, still grasping the proffered chair, saw her hold out her hand to the clergyman, who moved his in response and then suddenly faltered, paused, and withdrew his hand. Mrs. Vernley, teapot in action, held it suspended. Mr. Ribble seemed intent on selecting a cake. John, Bobbie, Tod and Mr. Vernley were transfixed, waiting the blow. Surely the fellow would not be so insane, so incredibly rude, thought Mrs. Vernley. He would not dare!

Mr. Crimp was speaking in a hollow, affected voice.

"The lady's face is familiar to me--in circumstances I do not care to recall," he said stiffly.

The blow had fallen. It was followed with a painful silence. How would she take it? With suspended breath, John, his heart aching, watched her. Yes, she was superb, and dignity did not desert her. Her face was calm; there was no sign of surprise, not even embarrassment--perhaps this scene was not new to her. She looked at Mr. Crimp, the ugly little man puffed out in his asserted dignity.

"I'm sorry," she said, "to awaken your unpleasant memories. I will retire." She turned to go.

"Julie, dear," cried Mrs. Vernley, putting down the teapot and rising suddenly to intercept her, "you mustn't listen to--"

"You cad!" blazed Tod, turning on the clergyman, who had gone pale.

"Really, sir, after insulting my guest I must ask you to retire." Mr. Vernley's voice hardly restrained its anger.

"If there is any insult, it is I who have suffered," replied Mr. Crimp. "The dignity of my calling--"

"Damn your calling!" cried Tod.

"Sir!" flared Mr. Crimp.

"Tod, be quiet," pleaded Mrs. Vernley.

Mrs. Graham had now reached the door, Mrs. Vernley following, but John was there first and opened it.

"Leave me dear, please," said Mrs. Graham, turning, and the other woman saw how it was with her and stopped. Mrs. Graham passed out; John following, closed the door. He had not meant to follow her but in his confusion he had closed the door and shut himself out with her. Mrs. Graham looked at him half blindly, he thought. He dropped his hand from the handle, and followed her into the hall.

"Mrs. Graham," he called, "I--I'm--" but his lip trembled and the words choked him.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, then impulsively caught his outstretched hand, and pressed it.

"You dear boy--I know, I know!" she cried, holding his hand for a moment, and then swiftly she mounted the stairs. John watched her go, the blood singing in his ears. He heard her bedroom door close, and then silence. He turned and looked at the drawing-room door. What was happening in there? As if in answer, it opened and the Rev. Crimp emerged, alone, closing it after him with a bang. For a moment he paused in the hall, flushed, uncertain which way to turn, then, seizing his hat from the hall stand, he hurried out. When the door banged and he was gone, John started. His brow was damp with perspiration and he was trembling. Tod came out.

"Come in, Scissors, and finish your tea."

"No--no, thanks Tod, I don't want any."

"None of us do--the swine!" said Tod fiercely.

John followed him into the drawing-room.

"Has Mrs. Graham gone to her room, John?" asked Mrs. Vernley. He nodded.

"I must go up to her--poor thing," she said. Muriel, in distraction, had lifted the piano lid and struck a chord.

"For God's sake! Don't play that now! Oh hell!" cried Tod. Then seeing the reproach in his mother's eyes, "I beg your pardon, Mother--but I could murder some one! Come on, boys--I'm going to the garage."

Bobbie and John followed with alacrity.

Mrs. Graham did not appear at dinner. She kept to her room, and there was a cloud over the party throughout the evening, despite Mr. Ribble's delicious sallies of humour, and a fascinating discussion in the library afterwards between him and Mr. Vernley on Proportional Representation, a discussion very tedious to Tod and Bobbie, who slipped away into the billiard room after vehement signals to John to follow, which he ignored. He absorbed every detail, eager for a political education, and very occasionally he ventured to ask a question, which Mr. Ribble answered fully and seriously as though John had been a grown-up person. Here was a new theme for the debating society! So he sat, listening until the clock struck eleven, and Mr. Vernley and Mr. Ribble lapsed into a silence filled with tobacco smoke, whereon John rose and said good night.

He found Bobbie perched on the edge of his bed, pulling off a sock.

"Good Lord!" was the greeting. "Have you been in the library all the time?"

"Yes--isn't Mr. Ribble a wonderful man?"

"They say so," assented Vernley, "but I always want to yawn when he and the pater get going. It is an awful business having to live in a house where M.P.s are always about. They talk for ever about things nobody would give a brass button for."

"But surely the method of government--" began John.

"My dear old Scissors--what does it matter how we are governed so long as we are left alone? Judging from those fellows who come down here, you'd think the universe would cease to revolve if they went out of office, and when they do go nobody would know, if it weren't for their own newspapers which lament so over 'em. And it's all a game. I've heard these fellows abuse one another, and use the vilest terms, and, Lord bless us, they're playing bridge or golf together the next day."

"But that reveals our sporting instinct."

"That's not yours, Scissors. It's the pater's, I recognise it--he always quotes that when he throws over what he said the night before about a man." Then ploughing his hands through his thick ruffled hair, "Lord, what a mess!" he exclaimed.

"What, politics?"

"No--that filthy Crimp and Mrs. Graham."

John started; in his selfish interest he had forgotten the incident.

"There's one blessing," said Vernley, slowly squeezing out some tooth-paste onto his brush, "we shan't be worried by that swine here any more. He always made me sick. I wish I could generate a good hate like Tod's."

"Tod always did dislike him, didn't he?"

"Yes. Good night, Scissors."

"Good night."

John did not sleep for a long time. He lived over that dreadful episode in the drawing-room. Was Mrs. Graham sleeping now? Perhaps she was crying, and women hated crying, for it made their eyes red, and betrayed them in the morning. It would be awkward at breakfast to meet her as though nothing had happened. Still he looked forward to doing so. They were friends, she trusted him--that pressure on his hand told him so. Then he wondered if Crimp was asleep down at the Vicarage. Probably the beast was snoring now--he looked like a man who could snore, with those horrible protruding teeth. Then he fell asleep, and when he woke again Vernley was sitting on his chest.

"You've been snoring," said Vernley.

"I haven't," denied John indignantly. "I couldn't, I don't know how to."

"But I've heard you in my room--you woke me."

"That proves I haven't, I should have woked myself first," said John with a fine disregard of grammar. "I'm a lighter sleeper than you."

"You've been dreaming, I'm sure."

"Well, I have--of old Crimp," confessed John.

"That accounts for the snoring. Hurry up, the first gong's gone."

Downstairs, Muriel was the first to meet John.

"Mrs. Graham's going," she told him. "Isn't it a shame?"

"Going?--what, now?"

"No, soon after breakfast. She told Mother she couldn't stay. Of course she knows we're all sympathetic and all that, but she says she finds sympathy as hard to endure as the other things. There are always scenes like this wherever she goes, and she doesn't intend ever going out again. I'm dreadfully sorry for her."

"So am I, but Muriel, we mustn't show it; we must pretend nothing's happened. Let's joke with her at breakfast."

They went in together. Mrs. Graham was there, and she was not red-eyed. Indeed, to John, she seemed more beautiful than ever. She talked wittily to them all, and Muriel and John found their desperate resolution quite unnecessary. After breakfast they all walked round the grounds. Mrs. Graham was leaving in half an hour. To his delight John found himself walking with her down the rhododendron drive.

"I'm so sorry you're going, Mrs. Graham," he said.

"That's kind of you, Scissors--may I call you Scissors?" she asked, smiling at him.

"Oh, please!" he answered.

"And I hope," she added, "this will not be our last meeting. If ever you come up to town, and would care, you must call at my little flat. I will give you my address." She opened her chatelaine and extracted a card. John took it.

"I should love to, Mrs. Graham--when the next holidays come--will you be in town then?"

"Yes," and he noticed she hesitated before adding quickly, "but you must ask your guardian first."

John's heart stopped. The cruelty of it!

"I shall do nothing of the kind," he said hotly. "I--I think you're wonderful, Mrs. Graham," he added in boyish admiration, and he noticed she turned her head away. A moment later they had come out of the drive and joined the others.

BOOK III

GROWTH