Part 14 (1/2)

By all this it can be seen that Mrs. Cricklander was a wonderful character--tenacious, indomitable, full of nerve and deserving of the greatest respect in consequence.

The only thing the least vulgar about her was her soul--if she had one--and it is not the business of society to look into such things.

Scrutiny of the sort is left for creatures like the Professor, Cheiron, who have nothing else to do--but his impressions upon this subject must come in their proper place.

Meanwhile, John Derringham had joined the party on the terrace, and was joyously acclaimed, and then minutely questioned as to the cause of his lengthy absence. He had not been to church--that was certain. He had not been out of the park, because the lodges were not in the direction from which he had been seen advancing. Where had he been, then? All alone? He would not give any account of himself, as was his way, and presently his hostess drew him on ahead and down the terrace steps. She wanted to point out to him some improvements which she contemplated. The garden must be the most beautiful in the country--and he knew so much about gardens, he could tell her exactly which style would suit the house best.

John Derringham was in a bad temper. That unaccountable sense of a discordant note with himself still stayed with him. He unconsciously, during his walk, had dwelt upon the Professor's information as to the view of the old ladies of The Chase, and then Halcyone's silence and stiffness. He felt excluded from the place which he recollected he had held in the child's regard. His memory had jumped the brief glimpse of her during her fledgling period, and had gone back with distinct vividness to the summer morning in the tree, almost seven years ago.

He answered with a carelessness which was not altogether pleasing to Cecilia Cricklander. She saw instantly that her favorite guest was ruffled by something. Although never fine, she was quick at observing all the moods of her p.a.w.ns, and had brought the faculty of watching for signs from castles, knights and kings to a science. John Derringham must be humored and cajoled by a proof of her great understanding of him--he must be left in silence for a minute, and then she would pause and look over the bal.u.s.trade, so that he might see her handsome profile and take in the exquisite simplicity of her perfect dress. She knew these things pleased him. She would look a little sad, too, and far away.

It had its effect.

”What are you dreaming about, fair chatelaine?” he asked after a while.

”Your charming mouth has its corners drooped.”

”I was wondering--” and then she stopped.

”Yes?” asked John Derringham. ”You were wondering what?”

”I was wondering if one could ever get you to really take an interest in anything but your politics, and your England's advancement? How good it would be if one could interest you for a moment in anything else.”

He leaned upon the bal.u.s.trade beside her.

”You are talking nonsense,” he said. ”You know very well that you interest me every time I see you--and it is growing upon me. That was not the only thing revolving in your clever mind.”

”Yes, indeed,” and she looked down.

”Well, then, I am interested in your garden. What do you think of doing?

Tell me.”

She explained an elaborate plan, and quoted the names of famous gardeners and their styles, with her accustomed erudition. For had not Arabella got them up for her only that morning, as she smoked her seventh cigarette in bed? She inclined to French things, and she thought that this particular part--a mere rough bit of the park--could very well be laid out as a _Pet.i.t Trianon_. She could procure copies of the plans of Mique, and even have a _Temple d'Amour_.

”I love to create,” she said. ”The place would not have amused me if everything had been complete, and if you will help me I shall be so grateful.”

”Of course I will,” he said. ”The _Temple d'Amour_ would look quite well up upon that rising ground, and you could have a small winding lake dug to complete the illusion. Nothing is impossible, and I suppose you can get permission from the old Wendover who lives in Rome to do what you wish?”

”I should like to have been able to take the park of the next place, La Sarthe Chase, too--that impa.s.sable haw-haw and the boarded-up gate irritate me. The boards have been put since I came to look over everything last autumn. I did instruct the agent, Martin, in Applewood to offer a large price for it, but he a.s.sured me it would be quite useless; it belongs, it appears, to the most ridiculous old ladies, who are almost starving, but would rather die than be sensible.”

Suddenly John Derringham was conscious that his sympathies had s.h.i.+fted to the Misses La Sarthe, and he could not imagine why.

”You told me, I think,” she went on, ”that you knew this neighborhood.

Do you happen to be aware of any bait I could hold out to them?”

”No, I do not,” he said. ”That sort of pride is foolish, if you like; but there it is--part of an inheritance of the spirit which in the past has made England great. They are wonderful old ladies. I dined with them once long ago.”

”I must really go over and see them one day. Perhaps I could persuade them to my view.”

The flicker of a smile came into the eyes of John Derringham, and she noticed it at once. It angered her, and deepened the pretty pink in her fresh cheeks.