Part 1

ANNE PAGE

BY NETTA SYRETT AUTHOR OF “THE CHILD OF PROMISE,” ETC.

NEW YORK JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMIX

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED LONDON AND BECCLES

_All rights reserved_

ANNE PAGE

I

At the hour between sunset and twilight Miss Page was generally to be found in her garden.

The long irregular front of Fairholme Court faced the west, and before it, through the interminable evenings of summer, was spread the pageant of the sunset, the quiet glory of the after-glow, and finally the transition, mysterious, indefinably subtle, from the light of day, to the vaporous purple of night.

It was at this quiet end of evening that the garden, always beautiful, took on an added grace, the dream-like delicate charm which belongs to the enchanted places of the earth--places such as Corot knew, and with a magic equal to their own, has transferred upon canvasses which hold for ever the glamour of the dawn or the mystic spell of twilight.

The house, built originally in the last years of Elizabeth, and enlarged in succeeding reigns, was a medley of incongruous architecture, resulting in a style delightful and fantastic enough for a dwelling in a fairy tale. The latest wing, added in Georgian days, its red brick toned now to a restful mellow colour, imparted an air of formal stateliness to the irregular but charming structure.

Roses wreathed the latticed window-panes of the older part of the house; clematis rioted over part of the roof and climbed the chimney-stacks. On the sunny walls of the later wing a vine had been trained.

The door of the panelled hall in the middle of the house opened upon a square of flagstones, and level with these, a lawn, its smoothness unspoilt by flower-beds, stretched to a sunk fence from which meadowland, whose broad expanse was broken here and there by groups of elms, extended far as the eye could see till its verge touched the sunset sky.

On the lawn to the right of the house, one magnificent beech tree swept the ground with its lower branches, and then soared majestically towards the sky. On the left there was a group of chestnuts. But, except for a small white fountain opposite the hall porch, the lawn in its velvet softness was left unadorned.

The fountain Miss Page had brought back after one of her periodical journeys to Italy. It was a slight, graceful thing, of delicate workmanship, its thread of water falling from a fluted shell into a square marble basin. It was a fountain beloved by the fan-tailed pigeons, who from their dovecote behind the kitchen garden came to it often to drink. When they perched on the edge of the shell, or walked near it on the grass, their snowy tails outspread, a hint of Italian courtyards, a sort of fragrance of Italy, was wafted into the English garden.

All the flowers grew in secluded sheltered spots, protected by high walls or hedges of yew.

Away from the lawn, behind the beech tree, a moss-grown wall into which a little gate was set, gave promise of scent and colour within--of a garden enclosed.

This particular enclosure, one of many, was known as the “lavender garden.” It was arranged in the formal Dutch fashion--divided into square beds filled with pink monthly roses, each bed surrounded by a thick border of lavender. A sundial stood in the midst, and against the sundial, her elbows resting upon its lichen-stained plate, leant Anne Page, her face turned towards the lingering sunset.

She was expecting friends to dinner, but unable to resist the temptation of the garden, she had wandered from the drawing-room into the sweet evening air. She wore a dress the colour of which, in its shades of grey-green and purple, might have been suggested by the lavender in the borders. It was a graceful flowing dress; beautiful naturally, inevitably. Anne Page possessed the gift of surrounding herself with everything that was exquisite, as simply as a flower surrounds itself with leaves and dainty buds.

She was not a young woman. She had indeed travelled quite far on the road that leads from youth to death.

It was even on record that a girl staying at the vicarage had alluded to her as an old lady.

Every one had started with shocked surprise. None of Anne Page’s friends were accustomed to consider her age.

To them, she was just “beautiful Miss Page.” In the same way, one never thought of analyzing her appearance, nor of criticizing her features. It would have seemed an impertinence. One felt vaguely that she would have been quite as lovely without any, for her beauty was like a rare effect of light that has no connection with the object it transfigures.

Certainly her face had the delicacy of a white rose. Certainly her eyes were blue; blue as cornflowers; blue as the sea. But they were Miss Page’s eyes, and one instinctively compared them to lovely natural things.

She turned her head as the gate creaked.

Burks, in a frilled apron and a becoming cap with streamers, was hurrying up the path towards the sundial.

“There’s a carriage coming up the drive, ma’am,” she said.

“Thank you, Burks, I’ll come.”

The maid hastened back, her skirts ruffling the lavender borders, and, gathering up the filmy folds of her own gown, her mistress followed her.

At the gate, she turned for a last glance at the dying sunset sky.

On her way across the lawn, she noticed, with a thrill of pleasure, the beauty of the trees, motionless, dreaming in the dusk. White and slim in the half-light, the little fountain suggested to her a strayed nymph, transfixed with surprise and fear to find herself so near the haunts of man. Smiling at the fancy, Anne entered the drawing-room by one of the long open windows, and waited for her guests.

In a few moments, Burks admitted the Vicar and his wife.

The Reverend George Carfax was of the type already somewhat _vieux jeu_, of the muscular school of Christianity.

Good-looking, clean-shaven, bullet-headed, his appearance was rather that of a country squire than of a vicar of Christ. An excellent cricketer, hearty in manner, sound in health, he was nevertheless the ideal pastor for the rising generation of youths and maidens, whose muscles were possibly better worth developing than their souls.

His wife was the dowdy little woman, who inevitably by a process of natural selection becomes the mate of the muscular Christian.

In her first youth she had possessed the undistinguished prettiness common to thousands of English girls whose character, composed of negative qualities, renders them peculiarly acceptable to the average self-assertive man.

Now, at forty-five, in spite of her family of children, her figure was as spare and meagre as it had been at twenty, and the gown she wore, a black silk, slightly cut out at the neck, and trimmed with cheap coffee lace, was as dowdy as any of the dresses of her girlhood.

Miss Page walked with a charming dignity, her long gown moving over the floor with a soft _frou-frou_ suggestive of silk, and cloudy concealed frills. Her appearance as she bent towards the dowdy little woman, made a contrast almost ludicrous, if it had not also been somewhat pathetic.

Mrs. Carfax, innocent of contrasts and all they implied, took her hand in both of hers with an affectionate movement, and in the Vicar’s firm handshake, and in his hearty words of greeting, the same evident liking for their hostess was expressed.

“Dr. and Mrs. Dakin,” said Burks, at the door, and again Miss Page’s smile welcomed the new-comers.

She particularly liked the tall thin man who entered. Dr. Dakin was a scholar and a dreamer, a man too unpractical by nature adequately to cope with a profession eminently practical. The doctor was only a partial success at Dymfield, where a man of the Vicar’s stamp, genial, a trifle blustering, always cheerful, would have inspired more confidence than the dreamy medical man, who did not treat illness in the high-handed fashion unconsciously expected by his patients.

Only his success with one or two really serious cases in the neighbourhood preserved for him some measure of respect, and a general concurrence of opinion, that absent-minded as he appeared before the milder forms of ailment, when it came to graver maladies, Dr. Dakin was presumably to be trusted. To no one was his lack of force and “push” a greater trial than to his wife, whose ambition for her husband had been a London practice, and for herself a smart amusing circle of acquaintances.

She was a pretty little woman of six or seven and twenty, with soft dark hair, and a slim figure. Endowed with all the nervous energy her husband lacked, she bore the traces of her discontent about her well-shaped mouth, and in the expression, exasperated and querulous of her brown eyes.

They softened into a wholly admiring glance however as they rested on Miss Page.

“My dear lady,” she whispered, “that’s the most lovely dress I ever saw in my life! Where _do_ you get your things? And however do you manage to look so delightful in them?”

Anne laughed.

“Let me return the compliment. You look charming, Madge.”

Mrs. Dakin blushed with pleasure, as she turned to shake hands with Mrs. Carfax.

“We are waiting for another guest,” said Miss Page, sitting down in one of the big, chintz-covered chairs. “Monsieur Fontenelle, who, as I dare say you know, has just been made President of the International Art Congress.”

Dr. Dakin looked up quickly from the examination of an eighteenth-century fan, which he recognized as a new treasure in a cabinet filled with ivories, enamel snuff-boxes, old lace, old treasures of all kinds.

“Really?” he exclaimed. “That’s most interesting. _The_ Monsieur Fontenelle, in fact?”

“He’s a very old friend of mine,” said Anne.

“In England for the opening of the show next week, of course?”

“Yes. He’s been staying for a couple of days at The Chase, and as he goes to London to-morrow I asked him to join us this evening.”

To none of Anne’s visitors but the doctor was the Frenchman’s name significant.

Dymfield was not interested in the world of art. Very few of its inhabitants had ever heard of the International Art Congress, and even if they had, it would have conveyed nothing to their minds.

Nevertheless, a tremor of excitement and curiosity passed over the faces of Mrs. Carfax and Mrs. Dakin.

Strangers at Dymfield were rare, and a visitor who was staying at The Chase, as the guest of Lord Farringchurch was on that account alone, a distinguished if not an alarming personality.

“A Frenchman!” exclaimed Mrs. Carfax. “I hope he speaks English?” she added below her breath.

“Oh, perfectly,” Anne assured her, as the door opened.

“Monsieur Fontenelle!”

Burks, who had frequently accompanied her mistress in foreign travel, delivered the name with commendable swing and correctness of accent.

The man who entered looked considerably younger than his forty-seven years. Slight, still elegant in figure, his face possessed the distinction of clear-cut features, combined with an expression which only the charm of his smile saved from a suspicion of arrogance.

His hair, a little white on the temples, was thick and slightly wavy. His blue eyes, keen above a hawk-like nose, gleamed every now and then with a trace of irony; that irony which has become habitual, the recognized medium through which its possessor views the world. A shrewd observer would have guessed the character represented by such a face to be difficult and complex. Instinctively one knew that François Fontenelle would be no very easy man to thwart; one guessed also that he might be a man apt to form his own rules of conduct, to carve his own path in life, without too much consideration for the convenience or the paths of others.

As Miss Page rose and stretched out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with the graceful ease of manner natural to a Frenchman.

Mrs. Carfax felt quite embarrassed.

“So foreign,” she thought; the phrase expressing unconscious disapprobation.

“Glad _we_ haven’t those monkey tricks!” was her husband’s half-formed mental exclamation.

Mrs. Dakin’s heart gave a curious little flutter for which she could not account, except that she liked the manners of Frenchmen, and was for the moment acutely conscious of the dulness of life.

To her husband, the action suddenly recalled the days of Madame de Pompadour.

He glanced at the fan he still held, and his mind wandered to a book of that lady’s period which he had long coveted, and had hitherto been unable to obtain.

Absorbed in reverie, he missed Miss Page’s formal introduction, and was only recalled to the present day by the general movement following the announcement that dinner was served.

The dining-room at Fairholme Court, in the older part of the house, was a long, low room with casement windows, and carved beams supporting the ceiling.

In its midst the table sparkled with glass and silver, arranged with studied care between the shaded candles in sconces of Sheffield plate, and the crystal bowls of roses. It had the look of something exquisite, something in fact which belonged to Miss Page, and was marked with her individuality.

Mrs. Dakin made anxious notes. Her dinner-table never looked a work of art, and in the intervals of her study of, and speculations concerning Monsieur Fontenelle, she wondered why. Several times her glance wandered to Miss Page, whose eyes were bright, and whose faint pink colour was rather deeper than usual.

Did the Frenchman she wondered, represent Miss Page’s romance? It was strange how little one knew about Miss Page. Nothing, in fact. Mrs. Dakin realized the fact for the first time with a little shock of surprise. But then one never expected Miss Page to talk about her own affairs. Quite naturally, inevitably as it seemed, one went to Miss Page for advice, for sympathy, for encouragement about one’s self.

But this man must belong to the past life of her hostess, whatever it had been--something charming, something gentle, since Miss Page had lived it. Of course she had been loved. She was too pretty not to have been loved. Had this man loved her perhaps? If so, why had they not married?

Mrs. Dakin roused herself, and began to pay attention to the conversation to which, so far, she had only contributed mechanical, unheeding remarks. Indefinitely she felt that it was on a higher level than usual; the sort of conversation to which Dymfield was unaccustomed.

The Frenchman talked with the vivacity, the wealth of phrase and imagery common to his race, and Miss Page talked too, eagerly, fluently, leaning a little forward, as though enjoying a much-loved rarely indulged delight.

Dr. Dakin, roused at last from his dreaming, also sat upright, glancing from one to the other, throwing in now and again a question or a comment which was often seized upon appreciatively to form fresh material for conversation. Mrs. Dakin sat and wondered, mystified, scarcely comprehending. The topics over which the talk ranged, abstract subjects for the most part, illustrated by frequent references to books;--novels, French novels mostly, of which she sometimes just knew the titles, philosophy of which she had never heard--belonged to a class of ideas which as yet had never appeared upon her mental horizon. She was interested, as well as overwhelmed, by a new view of her hostess. Miss Page, this brilliant conversationalist, this subtle reasoner, to whose words the Frenchman, himself so fluent, such an acute critic and thinker, accorded a deference so obviously spontaneous and sincere! Miss Page, who would spend hours in discussing the organization of a mothers’ meeting, of a local flower show, of a Church bazaar. Miss Page, to whom one applied for recipes for _pot pourri_, for dainty invalid dishes, for remedies against chills. Miss Page, who suggested the fashion for one’s new summer muslin, and cut out night-shirts for the children in the Cottage Hospital!

“How we must bore her!” was Mrs. Dakin’s involuntary mental exclamation. “And how well, how delightfully she disguises it,” was her next reflection.

She remembered other dinners at Fairholme Court--dinners at which the guests had discussed the new curate, the latest book of Miss Marie Corelli, the village cricket match, the fund for the new organ.

She remembered Miss Page’s gracious charm of manner on these occasions, her apparent interest in each of these trivial topics.

Even now, surprised, uncomprehending as she was with regard to most of the conversation, she did not fail to remark the tact which with a word, with a question easy to answer, she kept three of her guests, at least, ostensibly within the pale of the conversation.

“It’s quite fair. We are evenly matched, to-night. Our stupidity has always outweighed her intelligence before, so she never had a chance,” thought Mrs. Dakin. The bitterness of the reflection was caused by the conviction that it was ignorance, not lack of ability, which kept her, at least, out of discussions which interested her. Mrs. Dakin was one of those women whom mental laziness, not lack of brain quality, goes far to ruin. Her mind, naturally active and restless, was unemployed. She had never trained herself to think. To-night, with sudden self-recognition, she regretted both circumstances.

Harry, she noticed it with a curious sensation, half jealousy, half pride, was not out of the talk. He was no conversationalist, but he understood, he appreciated, he contributed. That his point of view was valuable, she knew by the brightening of Miss Page’s eyes when he spoke; by an occasional vivacious affirmative nod from Monsieur Fontenelle.

An idea, odd, staggering in its novelty, occurred to her.

“Perhaps I bore Harry?”

Never before had this aspect of affairs presented itself to her consciousness, and the notion passed like a flash.

The conviction that the exhausting mental ailment of boredom belonged by right to her alone, was too firmly established to be upset by a fugitive ridiculous fancy.

Again she listened.

The Frenchman’s eloquence and vivacity amused and excited her. He spoke rapidly, and though the words were English, pronounced with only the slightest foreign accent, their use, their handling was French.

Never before, for instance, had she heard any one utter at length a panegyric such as that to which she was now listening. It was evoked by the name of an author of whom she had never heard, and it was the sort of thing which in a book she was accustomed to skip. Spoken with the ease and certainty which indicated a natural habit of fluent speech, it amazed and impressed her.

Never before had she guessed that Miss Page was witty. Wit at Dymfield was not understood; it was ignored, passed over in silence disapproving because uncomprehended. Quicker than her neighbours, Mrs. Dakin realized that in an argument on a play of Bernard Shaw’s which Monsieur Fontenelle had recently seen in America, Miss Page was saying good things. In opposing his view, her raillery, delicate and ingenious, brought a frequent smile to his lips, and more than once an appreciative burst of laughter.

Mr. Carfax, who had never heard of Bernard Shaw, asked for the story of the play.

His hostess told it in a few words. That they were in every respect well chosen, Mrs. Dakin, who had also never read the works of the latter-day apostle, guessed from a faint smile of admiration, which at various points in the narrative lighted the Frenchman’s face. Mr. Carfax nodded his head approvingly when she ceased.

“Very good, I should say. Full of common sense and right views. We want some one to elevate the stage; and I’m glad this man, what’s his name? Ah! Shaw--is a Britisher. I believe in home-grown literature; something that expresses the character of the English people. A fine, sturdy character; the best in the world.”

Miss Page rose without looking at Monsieur Fontenelle, whose smile, for greater safety, had taken refuge in his eyes.

Mrs. Dakin and Mrs. Carfax followed her into the drawing-room, and as though stricken with fear lest the dinner-table topics had resulted in dissatisfaction for her guests, she moved close to Mrs. Carfax.

“I saw Sylvia, to-day, looking _so_ pretty,” she began in her gentle, caressing voice.

Mrs. Carfax bridled, half pleased, half unwilling to accept a compliment on behalf of a daughter who was unsatisfactory.

“Looks don’t matter so much as right behaviour,” she returned. “She displeases her father very much with what he calls her advanced ideas. I don’t know what they are, I’m sure, except wanting to get away from a good home. I wish you would speak to her, Miss Page. She thinks so much of you. You might bring her to her senses.”

“Poor little Sylvia,” said Miss Page, softly. “She’s very young, my dear--and she’s a sweet child at heart. Do ask her to come to tea with me to-morrow.”

“I think your French friend is most interesting,” remarked Mrs. Dakin, suddenly, putting down her coffee cup, and taking a seat beside Anne on the sofa.

Her hostess turned to her with a pleased smile.

“I’m so glad. You are always appreciative, Madge.”

“I never heard any one talk like you two,” continued Mrs. Dakin, slowly.

“I’m afraid we talked too much.” The quick colour sprang to her cheeks. “I hope you weren’t bored?” She included the two women in a swift, apologetic glance. “Talking too much is an old habit of mine, a habit of long ago, which revives when I see François. I----” she paused suddenly.

“I was never so interested in my life,” said Mrs. Dakin, with such obvious sincerity that Anne’s face cleared.

“Very clever, I’m sure. Very clever,” murmured Mrs. Carfax. “Tell me, my dear, what shall I do about Emma? The girl gets worse and worse. She’s no good at all as a parlourmaid. I’ve been thinking about her all dinner-time, and wondering whether I should give her notice, or whether----”

The entrance of the three men interrupted the heart-searchings of Mrs. Carfax.

Monsieur Fontenelle stood a moment just within the door. His eyes fell upon Mrs. Dakin, who sat in the corner of the sofa, her slender little figure in its white dress showing to advantage against its coloured background.

A tremor of pleasure shook her as he drew up a chair of gilded cane, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, began to talk to her.

Mr. Carfax and Dr. Dakin, who both made simultaneously for Miss Page’s corner of the room, were met by her with a little amused laugh, to which each responded.

“We can’t _both_ talk to her,” declared Mr. Carfax, “because of course we each want her advice.”

“I yield to you,” said the Doctor, characteristically. “But you mustn’t keep her too long.”

“Time passes all too quickly with Miss Page,” returned Mr. Carfax, with his hearty laugh. “I can make no promises.”

“Do you really want to consult me?” asked his hostess, turning to him with her flattering air of undivided, interested attention.

“About many things. There’s that case of Mrs. O’Malley’s. It’s really very difficult. Now, what would you advise?” He recounted at length a conversation he had lately held with the drunken old woman, on the circumstances of whose life, though upon this point she was silent, Miss Page’s knowledge was considerably fuller than his own.

She listened thoughtfully, and suggested a different method of attack.

“Thank you,” said the Vicar, his brow clearing. “I never thought of that.”

“Anything else?” asked Miss Page.