Part 73 (1/2)

”Who's the other party?”

”In a blue soote, livin' in one of the sea-'ouses down on the beach.

Big customer. Prodooces a rousin' impression!”

”Is that his daughter that swims?... That's him--coming away.”

But it isn't. It is the Baron, wrathful, shouting, swearing, neither in German nor English, but in either or both. Where is that tamned kellner? Why does he not answer the pell? This is an _abscheuliches_ hotel, and every one connected with it is an _Esel_. What he wants is some cognac and a doctor forthwith. His friend has fainted, and he has been pressing the tamned puddon, and n.o.body comes.

The att.i.tude of the lady with the earrings epitomizes the complete indifference of a hotel-keeper to the private lives of its guests nowadays. That bell must be seen to, she says. Otherwise she is callous. The respectable waiter hurries for the cognac, and returns with a newly-drawn bottle and two gla.s.ses to the smoking-room, to find that the gentleman has recovered and won't have any. He suggests that our young man could step round for Dr. Maccoll; but the proposed patient says, ”The devil fly away with Dr. Maccoll!” which doesn't look like docility. The respectable waiter takes note of his appearance, and reports of it to his princ.i.p.al on dramatic grounds, not as a matter into which human sympathies enter.

”Very queer he looks. Doo to reaction, or the coatin's of the stomach.

Affectin' the action of the heart.... No, there's n.o.body else in the smoking-room. Party with the 'ook instead of a hand's watching of 'em play penny-pool in the billiard-room.” Surely a tale to bring a tear to the eye of sensibility! But not to one that sees in mankind only a thing that comes and goes and pays its bill--or doesn't. The lady in the bureau appears to listen slightly to the voices that come afresh from the smoking-room, but their duration is all she is concerned with. ”He's going now,” she says. He is; and he does look queer--very queer. His companion does not leave him at the door, but walks out into the air with him without his hat, speaking to him volubly and earnestly, always in German. His speech suggests affectionate exhortation, and the way he takes his arm is affectionate. The voices go out of hearing, and it is so long before the Baron returns, hatless, that he must have gone all the way to the sea-houses down on the beach.

Sally retired to her own couch in order to supply an inducement to her mother to go to bed herself, and sit up no longer for Gerry's return, which might be any time, of course. Rosalind conceded the point, and was left alone under a solemn promise not to be a goose and fidget.

But she was very deliberate about it; and though she didn't fidget, she went all the slower that she might think back on a day--an hour--of twenty years ago, and on the incident that Gerry had half recalled, quite accurately as far as it went, but strangely unsupported by surroundings or concomitants.

It came back to her with both. She could remember even the face of her mother's coachman Forsyth, who had driven her with Miss Stanynaught, her _chaperon_ in this case, to the dance where she was to meet Gerry, as it turned out; and how Forsyth was told not to come for them before three in the morning, as he would only have to wait; and how Miss Stanynaught, her governess of late, who was over forty, pleaded for two, and Forsyth _did_ have to wait; and how she heard the music and the dancing above, for they were late; and how they waded upstairs against a descending stream of muslin skirts and marked attentions going lawnwards towards the summer night, and bent on lemonade and ices; and then their entry into the dancing-room, and an excited hostess and daughters introducing partners like mad; and an excited daughter greeting a gentleman who had come upstairs behind them, with ”Well, Mr. Palliser, you _are_ late. You don't deserve to be allowed to dance at all.” And that was Jessie Nairn, of course, who added, ”I've jilted you for Arthur Fenwick.”

How well Rosalind could remember turning round and seeing a splendid young chap who said, ”What a jolly shame!” and didn't seem to be oppressed by that or anything else; also Jessie's further speech, apologizing for having also appropriated Miss Graythorpe's partner. So they would have to console each other. What a saucy girl Jessie was, to be sure! She introduced them with a run, ”Mr. Algernon Palliser, Miss Rosalind Graythorpe, Miss Rosalind Graythorpe, Mr. Algernon Palliser,” and fled. And Rosalind was piqued about Arthur Fenwick's desertion. It seemed all so strange now--such a vanished world! Just fancy!--she had been speculating if she should accept Arthur, if he got to the point of offering himself.

But a shaft from Cupid's bow must have been shot from a slack string, for Rosalind could remember how quickly she forgot Arthur Fenwick as she took a good look at Gerry Palliser, his great friend, whom he had so often raved about to her, and who was to be brought to play lawn-tennis next Monday. And then to the ear of her mind, listening back to long ago, came a voice so like the one she was to hear soon, when that footstep should come on the stair.

”I can't waltz like Arthur, Miss Graythorpe. But you'll have to put up with me.” And the smile that spread over his whole face was so like him now. Then came the allusion to _As You Like It_.

”I'll take you for pity, Mr. Palliser--'by my troth,' as my namesake Rosalind, Celia's friend, in Shakespeare, says to what's his name ...

Orlando....”

”Come, I say, Miss Graythorpe, that's not fair. It was Benedict said it to Beatrice.”

”Did he? And did Beatrice say she wouldn't waltz with him?”

”Oh, please! I'm so sorry. No--it wasn't Benedict--it _was_ Rosalind.”

”That's right! Now let me b.u.t.ton your glove for you. You'll be for ever, with those big fingers.” For both of us, thought Rosalind, were determined to begin at once and not lose a minute. That dear old time ... before...!

Then, even clearer still, came back to her the dim summer-dawn in the garden, with here and there a Chinese lantern not burned out, and the flagging music of the weary musicians afar, and she and Gerry with the garden nearly to themselves. She could feel the cool air of the morning again, and hear the crowing of a self-important c.o.c.k. And the informal wager which would live the longer--a Chinese lantern at the point of death, or the vanis.h.i.+ng moon just touching the line of tree-tops against the sky, stirred by the morning wind. And the voice of Gerry when return to the house and a farewell became inevitable.

She shut her eyes, and could hear it and her own answer.

”I shall go to India in six weeks, and never see you again.”

”Yes, you will; because Arthur Fenwick is to bring you round to lawn-tennis....”

”That won't make having to go any better. And then when I come back, in ever so many years, I shall find you....”

”Gone to kingdom come?”

”No--married!... Oh no, do stop out--don't go in yet....”