Part 34 (2/2)
”If you want to please me,” she said not without humour ”--I can't help it, Lawrence--try to look after Major Clowes. You had better not go near him yourself, because as you know he isn't very pleased with me just now, but see that Mrs. Fryar sends him in a nice lunch and ask Barry to try to get him to eat it. I ordered some oysters to come this morning, and Major Clowes will enjoy those when he won't touch anything else.”
Catherine watched her lady up the road with a disappointed eye.
It was a tame conclusion to a promising adventure. Although respectably brought up, her sympathies were all with Captain Hyde: she had foreseen herself, the image of regretful discretion, sacrificing her lifelong principles to escort Mrs. Clowes to Brighton, or Switzerland, or that place where they had the little horses that Mr. Duval made such a 'mysterious joke about--it would have been amusing to do foreign parts with Mr. Duval. But when Laura took the turning to the vicarage Catherine was invaded by a creeping chill of doubt. Was it possible that Captain Hyde was not Mrs.
Clowes's lover after all?
”I know which I'd choose,” she said to Gordon. ”I've no patience with the Major. Such a way to behave! and my poor lady with the patience of an angel, putting up and putting up-- No man's worth it, that's what I say.”
”Well, it is a bit thick,” said Gordon: ”calling his own wife a--”
”Mr. Gordon!”
The son of the Clyde was a contentious young man, and a jealous one. ”You didn't seem to mind when the French chap was talking about a fille de joy. What d'ye suppose a fille de joy is in English? but there's some of us can do no wrong.”
”French sounds so much more refined,” said Catherine firmly.
CHAPTER XVIII
Inaction was hard on Lawrence. He hated it: and he was not used to it: his impulse was to go direct to Wanhope and break down the door: but it was not to be done. When he reached the vicarage Mr. Stafford had gone out after an early lunch to take a wedding in Countisford, while Val had been obliged to ride over to a neighbouring farm. Leaving Laura to Isabel, who startled him by her cool ”So Major Clowes has done it at last?” he hurried down to the post office to telephone to Selincourt (aware on his way that every eye was staring at him: no doubt the tale was already on every lip), but Selincourt too was out, and he had to be content with despatching colourless duplicate telegrams to his rooms and club. From a hint let fall during the night he was aware that no more than the most laconic wire would be needed, but he fretted under the delay, which meant that Selincourt could not arrive before six o'clock. After that he would have liked to go to Wharton, but dared not, for, though Jack's grandfather was what Yvonne called a Romantic, the Grantchesters were old-fas.h.i.+oned straightlaced people who had better not hear of the scandal till it was over. No, till Selincourt and Val appeared there was no more to be done, and Lawrence, returned to the vicarage and flung himself into a chair to wait. He dreaded inaction: inaction meant thought: and thought meant such bitter realities as he knew not how to stand up against: but what he liked or disliked was no longer to the point.
In that easy-going household, where comfort was obtained at the expense of appearances, there was always a diningroom fire in cold weather, and on this September morning the glow of the flames had a lulling effect. Dead tired, he dropped asleep, to be roused by the feeling that there was some one in the room.
There was, it was Isabel; and in the drugged heaviness that follows daylight slumber Hyde simply held out his arms to her in oblivion of last night. ”Oh, oh!” said Isabel smiling at him and touching his palms with the tips of her fingers, ”were you dreaming of me?” Hyde drew back, a deep flush covering his face.
What had changed Isabel? she was pure fascination. ”I've been watching you a long time while you were asleep. I thought you would never wake. You're so, so tired! Here's a cup of coffee for you.”
”Thank you,” said Lawrence, entirely subdued.
He still felt half dazed: confused and shy, emotions the harder to disguise because they were so unfamiliar: and restless under Isabel's merry eyes. How near she was to him, the leaping flames flinging a dance of light and shadow over her silk s.h.i.+rt, and the bloom on her cheek, and the dark hair parted on one side (a boyish fas.h.i.+on which he had always disliked) and waved over her head! So near that without rising he could have pressed his lips to that white throat of hers. . . . Last night it had been beauty clouded, beauty averse, but this morning it was beauty in the most delicate and derisive and fleeting sunlight of pleasure; and the temperament of his race delivered Lawrence hand and foot into its power. The deep waters went over him and he ceased to struggle--”Isabel,” he heard himself saying in a level voice but without his own volition, ”should you mind if I were to kiss you?”
What a ba.n.a.lity to ask of a woman, his second self scoffed at him: a woman who should be kissed or left alone, but never asked for a kiss!
”Not very much,” said Isabel, presenting her smooth cheek. ”Not if it would do you any good.”
Oh irony, oh disenchantment! ”Thank you.” He curbed his pa.s.sion and sat still. ”I am not Val.”
”Shut your eyes then.”
He held his breath: the thick beating of his heart was like a m.u.f.fled hammer.
”This isn't the way I kiss Val.”
”Isabel!” exclaimed Lawrence. He held out his arms again but they closed on the empty firelight: she had gone dancing off, the most fugitive, the most insubstantial of mistresses, nothing left of her to him but the memory of that moth's wing touch.
”Isabel, come here!” He, sprang to his feet. From the other end of the room Isabel turned round, wistful, her head bent, glancing up at him under her eyelashes.
”Oh must you have me?--all of me? Oh Lawrence!--well then--”
She advanced step by step, slowly. Lawrence waited, convinced that if he tried to seize her she would be gone, such a vague thistledown grace there was in her slender immaturity. He waited and Isabel came to him, drifted into his arms, was lying for a moment on his breast, and then, ”Let me go: dearest, don't hold me!”
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