the house—southover house, farlingbridge, berks—stands terraced above formal gardens in the italian taste; ribbony borders, edged with white stone, form a maze of pattern. urns on pedestals, statues of nymphs and fauns, stone seats, stone cisterns, gleam among the carpeted flowers. beyond these is the great park, with a wall (they tell me) six miles round. the herd of fallow deer is praised by cotton in his famous book. mr. germain used to show you the passage.
the mansion, built by wyatt, is classical; an exact rectangle of pink brick faced with bath stone. it has a pediment and a balustrade, with white statues at intervals along the garden front. within, it is extremely proper, having narthex and atrium, or, if you please, vestibule and hall. the reception rooms open out of this last, and above it a gallery gives on to the chambers, about whose doors the valets are to be seen collected at seven-thirty or so of an evening. they wait for their masters, while they observe and comment in monosyllabic undertones upon the doings of their betters below. surprising how much a man-servant can get into how little. from april to june, from september to november, the hall is used for tea and after-dinner lounging. it is the core and heart of the house. during the summer months tea should be on the terrace unless nature is willing to see mr. germain vexed; in wintertime it is always in the little library where the murillo hangs.
i choose the time of tulips for our visit, when southover has had a new mistress for two years come the fall of the leaf. the family, as they say down here, has been abroad this year; has not long returned. it went to the riviera directly after christmas, to mentone; was in rome in february, and studying churches in the rhone valley in march. it eastered in seville, going thither by barcelona and granada, and came home by madrid and paris. now it is mid-may, and the italian gardens glitter with tulips. tea is served, according to custom, in the hall at a quarter before five. the footman on duty—his service passed by the butler—has retired, but the statelier functionary stands at his post, tapping his teeth with a corkscrew. the hour is now five—gone five. silver chimes have proclaimed it to an empty hall. there he stands, a solemn, florid personage, full of cares, regarding in an abstracted manner the glittering array of covered dishes, cups, and covered jugs. now and again he adjusts a teaspoon, now and again humours a spirit-flame. at a quarter past five mr. germain enters the hall from the library, his secretary, young mr. wilbraham, at his heels.
the butler, with a careful hand, placed a rack containing three triangles of toast upon a little table. he poured a cup of chocolate from a porcelain jug, and added that to the feast. the afternoon’s post, upon a salver, was held for mr. wilbraham. these things done, he waited until mr. germain was in his deep-seated chair. “the ladies are not returned, sir,” he said, and went his noiseless way.
mr. germain, who looked white and had faded eyes, munched his toast in silence. young mr. wilbraham, quick, gentlemanly, pleasantly alert, demolished envelopes and their contents while he ate muffin. three or four letters he handed to his patron.
“those look to me personal,” he said. mr. germain, having adjusted his pince-nez, inspected the envelopes and put them unopened into his pocket. toast-munching was resumed, and silence. once or twice mr. germain looked at his watch, once compared it with the hall-clock, but made no other sign.
wilbraham poured more tea, spread himself honeycomb on bread and butter, and went on with his letters. he broke the silence. “the association has written again to know whether you have decided. they hope you will come forward. sir gregory has gone to madeira. they say, he’s quite made up his mind.”
mr. germain blinked solemnly at space, without reply.
“and i’ve a note here from mr. jess—rather, from his secretary. there was a meeting at the reform on monday. your name was mentioned. mr. jess hopes that he hasn’t been indiscreet. he referred to the possibility.”
mr. germain, without turning his head or ceasing to munch, asked here, who was mr. jess’s private secretary.
“duplessis,” said brisk mr. wilbraham, adding, as if to himself,
“clever beggar.” after a pause mr. germain got up.
“i shall rest for a little, wilbraham. we will consider these things before dinner. meantime i will ask you to remember that they are between you and me. strictly so.”
“oh, of course! quite understood,” the friendly young man nodded.
the master of the house had his hand on the library door when a step on the flags of the vestibule caused him to look quickly round. there was a moment during which he could have been observed to hold his breath in suspense. a tall and sumptuously fair lady, free-moving, deep-bosomed, robed in white—all her dresses robed her—came into the hall. she wore a broad-brimmed tuscan hat, which set about her like a halo, and carried flowers. this was the honourable hertha de speyne, the last of the cantacutes.
mr. germain turned away from his refuge and stood attentive; wilbraham jumped to the upright.
“shall i have in some more tea?” he asked at large. “this has been here since five.”
“not for me,” said miss de speyne. “i hate it. but the others are coming. i saw them in the bottom. they’ve been on the lake, i think.”
“and you?” this was from mr. germain, with a courtly inclination.
“oh, i’ve been painting, of course.”
“happily, i hope.”
“miserably. deplorably. i’ve scraped out everything, and come away at least with a clean canvas. few painters can say as much of a day’s work.”
“few would confess it.”
“ah, i’ve been taught the blessing of an uncharged heart. mr. senhouse taught me that last year. what i was trying to do was perfectly impossible. one knows too much; one has botany, flower-shows, catalogues behind one. fields of asphodel! but suppose you had been shown how asphodel grows?”
“have i fields of asphodel here?” mr. germain looked his polite misgivings.
“you have a glade of poets’ narcissus—like a swiss valley. mr. senhouse could have done it—an impressionist. it’s not for me. i see them stiff in vases; i know that they have stalks.”
“so, surely, does mr. senhouse.”
“indeed he does. he knows that they have souls. but he’s ruthless with his brushes; he forgets their souls, and his own science.”
“and you——?”
“i’m so proud of mine that i could never forget it.” she looked out into the vestibule, to the sunlight beyond. “here comes mary. do get some tea for them,” she urged wilbraham—who flew to the bell.
mr. germain remained where he was—long enough to see his wife’s eyes dilate at the sight of him there, long enough to hear the laugh falter upon her lips; and then he turned and slowly gained the library. he shut the door behind him. mrs. germain, with a high colour and gleam of light in her fine eyes, came quickly to the tea-table. she was followed by two young men in flannels—self-possessed, assured, curt-spoken young men with very smooth heads.
“oh, we’re dreadfully late!” she cried. “hertha, have you been in long? have you had everything?” in a much lower key she asked, “has—was—he here when you——?”
miss de speyne looked kindly at her friend. “he was just going when i came in; but he stayed and entertained me. it was awfully kind of him. i know he’s very tired.”
mary stood by the tea-table, fidgeting a cup by the handle. she looked uncomfortable. “i’m frightfully sorry. hertha, i meant to be in by a quarter to five.”
“it’s all right, you know,” said one of the young men—the youngest of them—lengthily at ease in a chair. “you’re only an hour slow. i call that good.”
she made no answer, but went on fidgeting the teacup. the entry of butler and footman with supplies did not move her.
young lord gunner stood to his muffin, and confidently explained:
“it’s my fault, you must know. i was diving after half-crowns—and getting ’em, too.”
“he was though,” said mr. chaveney from his chair. “i ought to know. they were my half-crowns.”
“well then, of course, i had to change. i’m not a mermaid, as it happens.”
“not yet, my boy,” said the loser of half-crowns.
“so i sent a chap up for my chap with some things, and changed in the chalet. that’s why we’re late, if you must know.”
miss de speyne was pouring out tea. “i see. and the others reckoned up their losses——”
“words to that effect,” said mr. chaveney.
lord gunner put down his cup. “don’t know what they did. but i’ve brought them safe to port. wilbraham, i’ll play you squash rackets before dinner. it’ll do you good. you’re overdoing it, you know, and you’re not used to it. you’ll get a hemorrhage or a nervous breakdown, and we shall have to give you a rest-cure. chaveney shall score.”
“can’t,” said mr. chaveney. “ordered my trap. my people are going to take me out to dinner. they won’t be denied.”
“england hath need of him,” said wilbraham. “come along, gunner. my things are in the court. i’m due at the desk at seven.”
mr. chaveney—very young, very fair, and very flushed, with long and light eyelashes—was now at the piano. he swayed as he played.
“do you like that?” he said, looking at mrs. germain, who was still pensive. “it’s ‘carmen.’”
“beg pardon,” said lord gunner. “it sounded like chaveney.” the youth ran up a scale.
“go and play rackets, gunner, and leave me to my art. i’m going.”
“he’ll stay to dine—you see if he don’t,” was lord gunner’s passing shot. he was answered by a crashing chord.
miss de speyne, regarding the pianist’s back, said in a gentle voice, “he’s in the library. you’d better go to him for a minute.”
mrs. germain had the knack of making her eyes wide and round so that you got the full-orbed splendour of their brown light. “i expect he’s asleep. i’ll see him before dinner.” her friend shook her head.
“he’s walking up and down. he’ll rest after you have been.”
“do you think so—really?”
“i’m sure. you had better go.” mrs. germain stayed no longer, but went quickly, holding her head stiff.
she stood in the doorway of the library, inside the closed door, a charming figure for all her anxious eyes. she was in blue linen, with a wide straw hat; was sunburnt and fresh, looked ridiculously young. mr. germain paused in his pacing of the long carpet and waited for her to speak—which presently she did, rather breathlessly.
“oh,” she said, “i was afraid you might be resting, or i should have come——”
he shut his eyes for a moment. “no. it is not possible just now,—nor desirable. i have much to think of.”
she went quickly to him and held out her hand a little way. “aren’t you well? may i stay with you? i meant to have been in early, but——”
“but it was not convenient, you would say?”
“no, not that. i couldn’t get them to leave the water. they were absurd—like children. one was throwing money in for the other to dive after. i did try—but they went on just the same. did you expect—did you want me? i promise you that i tried to come. i tried hard.”
something of the sort had been what his self-esteem exacted of her; something of the sort must have been tendered him or he had been really ill. he was now softened, he smiled, took up her offered hand. “my little love,” he said, drew her near and kissed her forehead. for a moment she urged towards him, but then, having glanced timidly up and seen his averted eyes, she sighed and looked to the floor, her hand still held.
he led her to his escritoire, put a chair for her beside it, and sat in his own. “constantia writes to me, mary, that she and james would like us to pay them a visit—in july, as usual. what do you say?”
she considered this for some moments. her head was bent towards her hands in her lap; she looked at her weaving fingers—a habit of hers. “that would be to the rectory, i suppose?”
“obviously,” said mr. germain. “you will remember that it was a yearly custom of mine.” she had every reason to remember it; but he must hear her say so. “you will not have forgotten that, mary?”
“no! oh, no! of course i haven’t.” she looked at him for a moment—trouble in her eyes and flame in her cheeks.
“last year,” he resumed, “i had southover to show you—and there were reasons why i should not take you back so soon. this year there could be no such reason. i think that you might be pleased to see misperton again; more particularly since you and hertha de speyne have struck up such a happy friendship. she is a noble young creature in every way; nothing could have pleased me more. constantia will, of course, write to you; but, being my sister-in-law and happening to have other matters of which to speak, she mentioned it to me in the first event. i can assure you that there has been no want of respect——”
she flashed him another reproachful look—reproachful, not that he should think her offended, but that he should pretend to think her so. “oh, of course not! how could you imagine such a thing? it is absurd—really absurd.”
he made no reply, was evidently waiting for her decision. she gave it reluctantly. “we will go, if you wish it,” she said.
he was immediately piqued. “that is hardly cordial, is it? i am not sure that i should, or could, wish it, on those terms.”
she had reasons of her own for disliking it extremely; but she kept her counsels in these days. “i will tell you exactly how i feel, if you will be patient with me,” she said. “i am sure that the rector would be glad to have me there with you; and of course hertha would like it. if there was nobody else i should love to go. i shall remember misperton as long as i live. wonderful things happened to me there; don’t think that i can forget them for an hour. but mrs. james—constantia, i mean—doesn’t like me at all. why should we disguise it? she disapproves of me, doesn’t trust me, thinks me a nobody—which i am, of course——”
“i beg your pardon, my love—” he would have stopped her; but she saw what in particular had offended him, and ran on.
“i am your wife, i know. but i am a person, too; and i own that i would rather be with people who—who respect me for what i am in myself, as well as for what you have made me. forgive me for saying so; it is rather natural, i think. and it happens that i should like to see my parents again, and my sisters. it is six months since i was at blackheath. so that would be an opportunity, and a reason—while you were at the rectory.”
“you wish me to go there alone?” she could guess at the scalding spot beneath his armour-plate.
“i should love to go with you,” she said, “if—if it could be managed.”
“i may mention to you,” he said coldly, “that you will not find an old acquaintance there. since his mother’s death my young relative, tristram duplessis, has bestirred himself. he has sold the cottage.”
she had not been prepared for an attack in flank, and blenched before it. then she told her fib. “my reason against going with you had nothing to do with mr. duplessis,” she said; and, watching her, he did not believe her.
he turned to his papers. “it shall be as you wish, my love,” he said. “i will write to constantia. it may well be that i shall not care to resume a broken habit. are you going up to dress? if so, and if you should happen to see wilbraham, would you tell him that i am ready?”
she hovered about his studious back, as if on the brink of speech; but thought better of it and went slowly out of the room. intensely conscious of her going, he cowered at his desk, looking sideways—until he heard the door close. then he began to read, with lips pressed close together.
in the hall mrs. germain almost ran into the arms of wilbraham, who, scarlet in the face and wet as with rain, was racing to his room.
“by jove, i beg your pardon, mrs. germain!”
“you only made me jump,” she laughed. “have you been playing all this time?”
“i know, i know! it was gunner’s fault, upon my honour.”
“it always is lord gunner’s fault. mr. germain asked me to tell you that he was ready.”
“good lord!” cried the unhappy youth. “and i’m sw—as hot as anything.”
“go and change,” she said kindly. “i’ll go back to him.”
he was fervent. “you are an angel! but i’ve told you that before.” their eyes met; they laughed together. he pelted upstairs.
“mr. wilbraham will be with you in a second,” she said, entering the library again. had she seen him spring round as she came in? no doubt of it. “i left my book down by the lake—and i know you don’t like that. do you?”
“no, dearest, no. i confess the foible.” his eyes invited her nearer. she advanced to his table and stood by him, her hand touched his shoulder. he was inordinately happy, though he made no immediate sign. but presently his arm went about her waist, and then she bent down and leaned her cheek for his kiss. they remained together, saying nothing, until she heard wilbraham coming down, three stairs at a time. then she slipped away and just caught him outside the door.
“i had to tell a fib,” she told him. “i said that i had left my book by the lake.”
“well!” he looked at her. “i’ll bet that’s not a fib.”
“no,” she laughed. “but it was meant to be. now i’m going to get it myself.”
“you are an angel!” he said. “don’t. i’ll go presently. i should love to.”
“no. i shall go myself. i deserve it.”
“you deserve—!” he stopped himself. “look here,” he said, “send gunner. no, he’s changing. send young chaveney.”
she opened her eyes—fatal use! “is mr. chaveney here? i thought he said——”
wilbraham chuckled. “did you suppose he’d go when it came to the point? not he! why, before we’d played half a set he came to borrow some clothes off me.”
he glided smoothly into the library. mrs. germain fetched her book.
