Part 7 (1/2)

”I'm afraid they always have been,” Harry confessed, a confession without much trace of penitence.

”Mine don't often; and they're never supposed to--in my position.”

”Oh, nonsense! Really that doesn't go down, Miss Vintry. Why, a girl like you, with such--”

”Don't attempt a catalogue, please, Mr. Harry.”

”You're right, quite right. I'm conscious how limited my powers are.”

Harry Belfield could no more help this sort of thing than a bird can help flying. In childhood he had probably lisped in compliments, as the poet in numbers. In itself it was harmless, even graceful, and quite devoid of serious meaning. Yet it was something new in his relations with Isobel Vintry; though it had arisen out of a desire to dispel that mysterious atmosphere, yet it was a sequel to it. Hitherto she had been Vivien's companion. In that brief session of theirs--alone together by the lake--she had a.s.sumed an independent existence for him, a vivid, distinctive, rather compelling one. The impressionable mind received a new impression, the plastic feelings suffered the moulding of a fresh hand. Harry, who was alert to watch himself and always knew when he was interested, was telling himself that she was such a notable foil to Vivien; that was why he was interested. Vivien was still the centre of gravity. The explanation vindicated his interest, preserved his loyalty, and left his resolve unshaken. These satisfactory effects were all on himself; the idea of effects on Isobel Vintry did not occur to him. He was not vain, he was hardly a conscious or intentional ”lady-killer.” He really suffered love affairs rather than sought them; he was driven into them by an overpowering instinct to prove his powers. He could not help ”playing the game”--the rather hazardous game--to the full extent of his natural ability. That extent was very considerable.

He said good-bye to her, laughingly declaring that after all he would prepare a catalogue, and send it to her by post. Then he went into the house, to find Vivien and pay another farewell. Left alone, Isobel rose from her chair with an abrupt and impatient movement. She was a woman of feelings not only more mature but far stronger than Vivien's; she had ambitious yearnings which never crossed Vivien's simple soul. But she was stern with herself. Perhaps she had caught and unconsciously copied some of Wellgood's anti-sentimental att.i.tude. She often told herself that the feelings were merely dangerous and the yearnings silly. Yet when others seemed tacitly to accept that view, made no account of her, and a.s.sumed to regard her place in life as settled, she glowed with a deep resentment against them, crying that she would make herself felt.

To-day she knew that somehow, to some degree however small, she had made herself felt by Harry Belfield. The discovery could not be said to bring pleasure, but it brought triumph--triumph and an oppressive restlessness.

Wellgood strolled out of the house and joined her. ”Where's Harry?” he asked.

”He went into the house to say good-bye to Vivien; or perhaps he's gone altogether by now.”

Wellgood stood in thought, his hands in his pockets.

”He's a bit inclined to be soft, but I think we shall make a man of him.

He's got a great chance, anyhow. Vivien seems to like him, doesn't she?”

”Oh, everybody must!” She smiled at him. ”Are you thinking of match-making, like a good father?”

”She might do worse, and I'd like her to marry a man we know all about.

The poor child hasn't backbone to stand up for herself if she happened on a rascal.”

Isobel had a notion that Wellgood was over-confident if he a.s.sumed that he, or they, knew all about Harry Belfield. His parentage, his position, his prospects--yes. Did these exhaust the subject? But Wellgood's downright mind would have seen only ”fancies” in such a suggestion.

”If that's the programme, I must begin to think of packing up my trunks,” she said with a laugh.

He did not join in her laugh, but his stern lips relaxed into a smile.

”Lots of time to think about that,” he told her, his eyes seeming to make a careful inspection of her. ”Nutley would hardly be itself without you, Isobel.”

She showed no sign of embarra.s.sment under his scrutiny; she stood handsome and apparently serene in her composure.

”Oh, poor Nutley would soon recover from the blow,” she said. ”But I shall be sorry to go. You've been very kind to me.”

”You've done your work very well. People who work well are well treated at Nutley; people who work badly--”

”Aren't exactly petted? No, they're not, Mr. Wellgood, I know.”

”You'd always do your work, whatever it might be, well, so you'd always be well treated.”

”At any rate you'll give me a good character?” she asked mockingly.

”Oh, I'll see that you get a good place,” he answered her in the same tone, but with a hint of serious meaning in his eyes.

His plan was quite definite, his confidence in the issue of it absolute.