Part 16 (1/2)
Where did we not go! And neither of us suffered from surfeit.
”Grace,” said Rose, as we lay on our backs in my paddock, and gazed upon the white c.u.mulus clouds which floated above, ”I withdraw all I have said about your madness, and I now declare you to be particularly sane. If ever I go back to town, which is doubtful, I will describe your sanity in terms which will relieve the fears of all at No. 8. My personal appearance will give colour to my statements, and I shall probably observe, with the originality which is a mark of genius, that G.o.d made the country and man made the town. But I have not yet decided to return, although I took a ten days' ticket. Your studio seems to have served its purpose: is there any opening in Windyridge for a talented stenographer and typist?”
”The prospects would not appear to be exactly dazzling,” I replied, ”but I'm willing to keep you here on the off-chance that something may turn up.”
”Some_body_'s turning up,” said Rose, hurriedly a.s.suming a sitting posture, ”and we had better get up.”
I imitated her example, and saw that the Cynic had leaped the wall and was coming towards us.
I did the necessary introductions and we sat down again. ”I called,”
said the Cynic, ”in the hope that there might be a clock to regulate or a creeper to nail up, in which case I might earn a cup of tea. Also, to make arrangements for my photograph.”
”I couldn't expect you to do any work in those clothes,” I replied.
”Is this a visit of ceremony, or have you come in your Sunday best in order to have your portrait taken? All my local sitters insist upon putting on the clothes in which they feel and look the least comfortable.”
”No,” he said, with a glance at his black trousers--the rest of him was hidden by a light dust-coat--”the fact is, I am dining with the vicar and spending the night at the vicarage. I must go to town on Sat.u.r.day, but to-day and to-morrow are free. I propose, with your gracious permission, to spend an hour here, walk on to Fawks.h.i.+ll, and return to-morrow for the dread operation to which I have referred.”
”I am afraid it will not be convenient to-morrow,” I said; ”really I am very sorry to upset your plans, but Miss Fleming returns to town on Sat.u.r.day, and we have promised ourselves a full day on the moors. Of course, if you could come very early----”
Rose interrupted. ”Don't let me hinder business, my dear Grace, or I shall have you on my conscience, and that will be no light burden. We can modify our arrangements, of course.”
”What about my conscience, in that case?” said the Cynic. ”I am not really very particular about the photograph, especially in my 'Sunday best,' and I can easily come up some other day. But--who is going to carry the luncheon basket?”
”There is no basket,” I returned; ”our arrangements are much more primitive, and the burden grows lighter as the day proceeds. Moreover, I don't think it is very nice of you to suggest that the photograph is of slight importance. Don't you realise that it is my living?”
”I realise the truth of the poet's a.s.sertion that woman is 'uncertain, coy, and hard to please.' A moment ago you were declining business--declining it with an air of polite regret, it is true, but quite emphatically. Now, when I not only refuse to disturb your arrangements, but actually hint an offer of a.s.sistance, you scent a grievance.”
Rose was looking very hard at me, and I felt vexed with the man for placing me in such an awkward position. And to make matters worse the consciousness of Rose's stare upset my self-possession, and it was she who spoke first.
”If Mr. Derwent would join us I think it would be very nice,” she said, so demurely that I stared at her in my turn, ”and it would be an--education for him. And he certainly could carry the sandwiches and our wraps, which are a bit of a nuisance.”
What could I say? I was annoyed, but I could only mutter something incoherent which my companions construed into an a.s.sent, and Rose instructed the Cynic to be at the cottage at ten o'clock in the morning.
To add to my confusion, Mother Hubbard was manifestly excited when we went in to tea, and she telegraphed all sorts of meaning messages to Rose when the Cynic's back was turned. I was cross with myself for becoming embarra.s.sed, but I hate to be placed in a false position.
What on earth is the Cynic to me?
I thought he was rather subdued and not quite as satirical as usual, but he was obviously very much taken with Rose, who was quite brilliant in her cuts and thrusts. She soon took the Cynic's measure, and I saw how keenly he enjoyed the encounter. I left them to it very largely, much to the disappointment of Mother Hubbard, who developed a series of short, admonitory coughs, and pressed my foot beneath the table a score of times in a vain effort to induce me to s.h.i.+ne. It was not my ”night out,” and her laudable endeavours simply resulted in a sore foot--the injured member being mine!
We accompanied him a little way along the road, and when we left him Rose turned upon me:
”Now 'fess!” she said.
”Rose, don't be a goose!” I replied, whilst the stupid colour flooded my face; ”there is nothing to confess. I have seen Mr. Derwent only twice before in my life. He is little more than a stranger to me.”
”A remarkable circ.u.mstance, however, my dear Grace, is that you have never mentioned his name in your rather voluminous correspondence, and yet you seem to be on familiar and even friendly terms; and our good friend Mother Hubbard----”
”Mother Hubbard, Rose, is romantic. The moment the man turned up at Easter she designated him as my lover. Let me be quite candid with you. If I was not so const.i.tuted that blus.h.i.+ng comes as naturally to me as to a ripe cherry you would have had no reason to suspect anything. It is the innocent, I would remind you, who blush and look guilty. Mr. Derwent is a barrister--a friend of the vicar and of the squire--and he amuses himself by calling here when he is in the village--that is all. And if you are going to be as silly as Mother Hubbard it is too bad of you.”
I felt this was frightfully weak and unconvincing, as the truth so often is.