Part 9 (2/2)
said Harry; ”so the less we say about it the better. What a lovely sunset, and what a glorious colour on the cliffs at Axmouth!” And he walked down the alley with her two or three times, talking about various indifferent subjects. Somehow he had never managed to get on so well with her before. She was a very nice girl, he thought, really a very nice girl; what a pity she would never take any notice of him in any way! However, he enjoyed that quiet half-hour immensely, and was quite sorry when Lady Surrey came out a little later and joined them, exactly as if she wanted to interrupt their conversation. But what a beautiful woman Lady Surrey was too, as she came across the lawn just then in her garden hat and the pale blue Umritzur shawl thrown loosely across her shapely shoulders! By Jove, she was as handsome a woman, after all, as he had ever seen.
After dinner that evening Lady Surrey sent Gladys off to Miss Martindale's room on some small pretext, and then put Harry down on the sofa beside her to help in arranging those interminable ferns of hers.
Evening dress suited the countess best, and she knew it. She was looking even more beautiful than before, with her hair prettily dressed, and the little simple turquoise necklet setting off her white neck; and she talked a great deal to Harry, and was really very charming. No more fascinating widow, he thought, to be found anywhere within a hundred miles. At last she stopped, leaning over the ferns, and sat back a little on the sofa, half fronting him. ”Mr. Vardon,” she said suddenly, ”there is something I wish to speak to you about, privately.”
”Certainly,” said Harry, half expecting the topic.
”Do you know, I think you ought not to pay such marked attention to Lady Gladys. Two or three times I have fancied I noticed it, and have meant to mention it to you, but I thought it might be unnecessary. On many accounts, however, I think it is best not to let it pa.s.s any longer. The difference of station----”
”Excuse me,” said Harry, ”I'm sorry to differ from you, but I don't acknowledge differences of station.”
”Well,” said the countess, in a conciliatory tone, ”under certain circ.u.mstances that may be perfectly correct. A young man in your position and with your talents has of course the whole world before him. He can make himself whatever he pleases. I don't think, Mr. Vardon, I have ever under-estimated the worth of brains. I do feel that knowledge and culture are much greater things after all than mere position. Now, in justice to me, don't you think I do?”
Harry looked at her--she was really a very beautiful woman--and then said, ”Yes, I think you have certainly better and more rational tastes than most other people circ.u.mstanced as you are.”
”I'm so glad you do,” the countess answered, heartily. ”I don't care for a life of perfect frivolity and fas.h.i.+on, such as one gets in London. If it were not for Gladys's sake I sometimes think I would give it up entirely. Do you know, I often wish my life had been cast very differently--cast among another set of people from the people I have always mixed among. Whenever I meet clever people--literary people and scholars--I always feel so sorry I haven't moved all my life in their world. From one point of view, I quite recognize what you said just now, that these artificial distinctions should not exist between people who are really equals in intellect and culture.”
”Naturally not,” said Harry, to whom this proposition sounded like a familiar truism.
”But in Lady Gladys's case, I feel I ought to guard her against seeing too much of anybody in particular just at present. She is only seventeen, and she is of course impressionable. Now, you know a great many mothers would not have spoken to you as I do; but I like you, Mr.
Vardon, and I feel at home with you. You will promise me not to pay so much attention to Gladys in future, won't you?”
As she looked at him full in the face with her beautiful eyes, Harry felt he could just then have promised her anything. ”Yes,” he said, ”I will promise.”
”Thank you,” said the countess, looking at him again; ”I am very much obliged to you.” And then for a moment there was an awkward pause, and they both looked full into one another's eyes without saying a word.
In a minute the countess began again, and said a good many things about what a dreadful waste of life people generally made; and what a privilege it was to know clever people; and what a reality and purpose there was in their lives. A great deal of this sort she said, and in a low pleasant voice. And then there was another awkward pause, and they looked at one another once more.
Harry certainly thought the countess very beautiful, and he liked her very much. She was really kind-hearted and friendly; she was interested in the subjects that pleased him; and she was after all a pretty woman, still young as men count youth, and very agreeable--nay, anxious to please. And then she had said what she said about the artificiality of cla.s.s distinctions so markedly and pointedly, with such a commentary from her eyes, that Harry half fancied--well, I don't quite know what he fancied. As he sat there beside her on the sofa, with the ferns before him, looking straight into her eyes, and she into his, it must be clear to all my readers that if he had any special proposition to make to her on any abstract subject of human speculation, the time had obviously arrived to make it. But something or other inscrutable kept him back.
”Lady Surrey----” he said, and the words stuck in his throat.
”Yes,” she answered softly. ”Shall ... shall we go on with the ferns?”
Lady Surrey gave a little short breath, brought back her eyes from dreamland, and turned with a sudden smile back to the portfolio. For the rest of the evening, the candid historian must admit that they both felt like a pair of fools. Conversation lagged, and I don't think either of them was sorry when the time came for retiring.
It is useless for the clumsy male psychologist to pretend that he can see into the heart of a woman, especially when the normal action of said heart is complicated by such queer conventionalities as that of a countess who feels a distinct liking for her son's tutor: but if I may venture to attempt that impossible feat of clairvoyance without rebuke, I should be inclined to diagnose Lady Surrey's condition as she lay sleepless for an hour or so on her pillow that night somewhat as follows. She thought that Harry Vardon was really a very clever and a very pleasant fellow. She thought that men in society were generally dreadfully empty-headed and horribly vain. She thought that the importance of disparity in age had, as a rule, been immensely overrated.
She thought that rank was after all much less valuable than she used to think it when first she married poor dear Surrey, who was really the kindest of men, and a thorough gentleman, but certainly not at all brilliant. She thought that a young man of Harry's talent might, if well connected, get into Parliament and rise, like Beaconsfield, to any position. She thought he was very frank, and open, and gentlemanly; and very handsome too. She thought he had half hesitated whether he should propose to her or not, and had then drawn back because he was not certain of the consequences. She thought that if he had proposed to her--well, perhaps--why, yes, she might even possibly have accepted him.
She thought he would probably propose in earnest, before long, as soon as he saw that she was not wholly averse to his attentions. She thought in that case she might perhaps provisionally accept him, and get him to try what he could do in the way of obtaining some sort of position--she didn't exactly know what--where he could more easily marry her with the least possible shock to the feelings of society. And she thought that she really didn't know before for twenty years at least how great a goose she positively was.
Next morning, after breakfast, Lady Surrey sent for Gladys to come to her in her boudoir. Then she put her daughter in a chair by the window, drew her own close to it, laid her hand kindly on her shoulder--she was a nice little woman at heart, was the countess--and said to her gently, ”My dear Gladys, there's a little matter I want to talk to you about.
You are still very young, you know, dear; and I think you ought to be very careful about not letting your feelings be played upon in any way, however unconsciously. Now, you walk and talk a great deal too much, dear, with Mr. Vardon. In many ways, it would be well that you should.
Mr. Vardon is very clever, and very well informed, and a very instructive companion. I like you to talk to intelligent people, and to hear intelligent people talk; it gives you something that mere books can never give. But you know, Gladys, you should always remember the disparity in your stations. I don't deny that there's a great deal in all that sort of thing that's very conventional and absurd, my dear; but still, girls are girls, and if they're thrown too much with any one young man”--Lady Surrey was going to add, ”especially when he's handsome and agreeable,” but she checked herself in time--”they're very apt to form an affection for him. Of course I'm not suggesting that you're likely to do anything of the sort with Mr. Vardon--I don't for a moment suppose you would--but a girl can never be too careful. I hope you know your position too well;” here Lady Surrey was conscious of certain internal qualms; ”and indeed whether it was Mr. Vardon or anybody else, you are much too young to fill your head with such notions at your age.
Of course, if some really good offer had been made to you even in your first season--say Lord St. Ives or Sir Montague--I don't say it might not have been prudent to accept it; but under ordinary circ.u.mstances, a girl does best to think as little as possible about such things until she is twenty at least. However, I hope in future you'll remember that I don't wish you to be quite so familiar in your intercourse with Mr.
Vardon.”
”Very well, mamma,” said Gladys quietly, drawing herself up; ”I have heard what you want to say, and I shall try to do as you wish. But I should like to say something in return, if you'll be so kind as to listen to me.”
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