Part 13 (1/2)
”It would be more correct to say the 'few' by the many who have disgusted me.”
”I am sorry,” she said simply: ”I wish it had not been so.”
”If you knew the world as I do, you would see that it could hardly be otherwise.”
”Still, I am sorry,” she reiterated; ”dreadfully sorry.”
He watched her a moment covertly.
She was looking her best, with the freshness of the mountain air glowing in her eyes and cheeks. He was thinking she looked as well in her tam-o'-shanter, short skirt, and blouse, with linen collar and cuffs, as anything he had ever seen her in. Compared with some of the resplendent beauties he had admired, she was as the cosy fireside is to the marble palace, or the fragrant violet is to the dazzling poppies. And then for a moment on the mountain side, with the fresh blowing winds, and the fragrance, and the loveliness of the lake and mountains, an unusually soft mood seemed to take possession of him, and something apart from her beauty to stir his pulses and rest his senses. As they moved on, he dropped the bitter, sneering tone so habitual to him, and chatted to her frankly and charmingly with unmistakably an a.s.sumption of some special link between them.
Later on, Eileen went in home with s.h.i.+ning eyes and light footsteps, feeling as if already her prayer had been answered; and Lawrence's mother glanced at him across the luncheon table, wondering to what good angel they were indebted for his amiability, instead of his more usual taciturn moodiness.
In the afternoon he drove her out himself to pay a call some miles distant, chatting pleasantly all the way; and at dinner, he condescended to discuss various matters connected with the dance, instead of preserving his customary silence.
Then he went into his den for a smoke, and so preoccupied was he for a few moments that he did not notice a large, flat piece of pasteboard lying on the table, which had evidently arrived by the evening post.
Instead, he glanced with a casual air of appreciation round his beloved bachelor domain, wondering, half-unconsciously, if perhaps the time were coming for him to settle down and give up his wanderings.
His eye roved dreamily over his fine collection of foreign swords, picked up in all quarters of the globe, and many other strange weapons of warfare, arranged fantastically upon the walls--his sporting prints, worth large sums of money as originals--his guns and riding stocks--his trophies of big game shooting.
Lastly, his books, of which he had also a fine collection, though it could not altogether be said to be a credit to his taste; and his prints and photographs strewn in all directions.
”I wonder what Eileen would think of them?” was the involuntary thought in his mind, and his thin lips parted in a slight smile.
Then he caught sight of the carefully tied pasteboard, and stepping forward picked it up with a curious expression.
”By Jove!--Queenie,” he muttered, seeing the writing, and proceeded to cut the string.
Then he drew from its wrappers the full-length portrait of a beautiful girl in fancy dress.
For a long time he stood perfectly still looking at it, then he held it at arm's length, trying it in different lights, and surveying it with keenly criticising eyes.
”Superb,” was his final verdict, muttered under his breath; then he leaned it up against another photograph in the place of honour on his writing desk, and turned his attention to a little scented note that had accompanied it. A printed slip of newspaper was enclosed in the letter, but first he read, in a bold, girlish handwriting:
”Dear Old Lawrie,--
”Read the enclosed slip and bow down--even your cynical old head owes homage to such a paragon, and foreseeing my victory, in gracious acceptance of the same homage, I send you the latest portrait of this Queen of Beauty.
”When shall we prepare your den for you, and duly banish your favourite enemies? You said you would come again in the autumn--and consequently Calcutta waits.
”Earl Selloyd haunts our door-step, and mamma has a fancy for a peer as son-in-law. _Comprenez_?
”Queenie.”
On the slip of newspaper he read:
”At the fancy dress ball last night, given in honour of Lord Kitchener, one of the most striking among the younger women was the beautiful Miss Gwendoline Grant-Carew, only daughter of the Hon. and Mrs Jack Grant-Carew. She is undoubtedly one of the reigning queens of English beauty, and as charming and vivacious as she is fair to look upon.”
Holding the letter in his hand, Lawrence again gazed critically at the portrait on his desk, and the suggestion of a pleased expression dawned on his face.