IX

Juliet went sauntering home under the shadow of the high hedgerows, pink now with trailing wild rose, and half-opened buds of honeysuckle.

It was a delicious day, with sun enough to suggest the tropics, breeze enough to make one think of the Alps. The air seemed absolutely laden with flower-scents; a distant sharpening of a scythe, the faraway tinkling of a sheep-bell, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the summer air.

Juliet had many subjects for thought that morning. A little absentmindedly she turned the corner of a lane that led her at least a mile out of her way, and brought her back to the Hall by the park gates opening into the high-road.

A carriage and pair on the point of driving out pulled up at her approach.

“At last!” exclaimed a voice from out of the carriage. “You naughty child, where have you been?”

Juliet looked up to see a very tiny, very golden-haired, and very fashionably attired lady closing her sunshade, and extending a hand in greeting.

“Mrs. Glynde!” she exclaimed, “have you dropped out of the clouds? When, where, and how did you get here?”

“I caught the first train down this morning, arrived at Dering station three hours ago, called at the MacNamaras’ on my way here, and they were good enough to let me have their carriage. No, I won’t go back to the house; I’m sure your father and mother⁠—”

“Wha‑t?” exclaimed Juliet, making round eyes at her.

“Oh, I beg your pardon⁠—your father and Lady Culvers, I mean⁠—have had more than enough of my society; they have been entertaining me for the past hour and a half. If you don’t mind I’ll take a stroll round the park with you, I’ve something very special to tell you.”

She alighted as she spoke.

Juliet led the way down a cool avenue where young lime-trees arched their boughs above, and tall bracken waved its graceful fronds on either side of a stretch of greensward, smooth and springy with its undergrowth of moss.

“I’m miserable, brokenhearted, desolate!” exclaimed Mrs. Glynde, so soon as she saw that she and Juliet had the solitude to themselves.

But whatever her misery and desolateness might have caused her to neglect, it assuredly was not her toilet. That suggested, alike in its elaborateness and finish, the most artistic of Parisian modistes, and the most skilful and assiduous of maids.

Mrs. Glynde’s friends were thoroughly aware of the fact that at its lowest computation her age could not be far off fifty. Dress, however, and the use of toilet accessories, reduced it in appearance to about five-and-thirty.

“I could easily make myself look as young as she does, if I chose to spend a fortune on cosmetics,” sometimes her friends would say ill-temperedly to their husbands.

“I would much rather you did not, my dear,” those husbands as a rule would reply.

But, all the same, when the choice was offered to them, they generally preferred Mrs. Glynde’s society to that of the more sober-minded matrons, for in conversation she was invariably lively and entertaining, and in manner sympathetic.

Juliet racked her brains to find out what could have broken Mrs. Glynde’s heart.

“Let me think. You have seen someone in a bonnet that must have been ‘created’ in Paris at the same time as yours⁠—twin-sister to it, in fact.”

“Juliet, it’s far worse than that. It’s about Arthur.”

“Oh‑h! only touches you at second hand, then. He can’t find a rhyme to some pet word of his, and he scorns to pilfer one, I suppose?”

“Cruel child! Do you think a trifle like that would have made me get up at six o’clock in the morning, and sent me flying down into the wilderness when I’m due today at a luncheon, a flower-show, a dinner, and a ball afterwards, at which the Royalties will be present? Give me credit for devotion to Arthur, if for nothing, else.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll give you credit for devotion to Arthur, and for a good many other things,” answered Juliet, lightly, and with a side glance at the golden hair which appeared to have “Auricomus” written upon it.

“What sacrifice will not a mother make on behalf of a son, and an only son, like my Arthur?” continued the lady.

“What, indeed! Luncheons, flower-shows, dinners, balls, and Royalties included.”

“Juliet, you have no heart. You are a second Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and I believe if my poor Arthur were going to commit suicide, you’d⁠—”

“ ‘Hold your course without remorse, and slay him with a vacant stare,’ or something like that. But is he contemplating anything so terrible as bullets, or knives, or prussic acid?”

“Something quite as terrible. Only yesterday he came to me and announced his intention of joining an expedition to Central Africa. ‘I have lost heart, I have lost hope!’ he said. ‘Something I must do to fill my life!’ ”

She ended her sentence with a heavy sigh.

“Oh‑h, is that all he is going to do?” And Juliet drew a long breath that seemed to imply surprise and disappointment commingled.

“All! What could be worse?” cried Mrs. Glynde, despairingly.

“A great many things. Now if I were Mrs. Glynde, and Arthur were my son, I should feel that it would be a good deal worse if he had come to me and announced his intention of⁠—well, going into Parliament, or of playing first violin in the Albert Hall orchestra, because I should know that in either case his intentions would be doomed to disappointment.”

“Juliet!”

“I should, indeed. But a trip to Central Africa! Why, anybody can accomplish that. Is it a Gaze’s or a Cook’s excursion party?”

“You have a heart of stone! But I can’t believe you understand me. This is an expedition got up by a number of dreadful men⁠—the Harkers, the Ottleys, and that set⁠—who have made up their minds to ‘penetrate into the interior,’ as they call it. That means go farther into the dreadful hole than anybody has ever yet gone, and get eaten up by flies, or cannibals, or lions⁠—”

“Or ostriches, or monkeys. They all live in that part of the world, don’t they?”

“Make as much fun as you like, Juliet; but, take my word for it, if Arthur goes out with these dreadful men, he’ll never come back again.”

“Well, but other people go, and come back again, and seem to like it rather than otherwise. I should enjoy a trip there myself. I think I’ll get my future husband to promise to take me there for our wedding tour.”

The last words were said with a side-glance at Mrs. Glynde to see their effect.

They acted like a match to tinder. Mrs. Glynde came to a sudden standstill on the smooth greensward, her face the colour of the scarlet sunshade she carried.

“Juliet,” she said, excitedly, “that engagement is still ‘on,’ then? I hoped⁠—I was told, that is, by friends of yours a day or two ago, that they felt confident it would all ‘come to nothing’; one need only to see you and Mr. Redway together to make sure of it, they said.”

Juliet flushed a little.

“Dear me! How good it is of people to take such an interest in my affairs! Will you kindly tell those friends of mine that I intend to be engaged to Clive Redway till⁠—” She broke off for a moment, exclaiming: “Hark! Was that a cuckoo? What a belated little bird! Surely it’s time it went back to Central Africa.”

“Juliet, finish what you were going to say,” cried Mrs. Glynde, excitedly. “Till when do you mean to be engaged to Clive Redway? Can you fix a date for the ending of your engagement?”

“Why, of course⁠—till my wedding-day, I was going to say,” answered Juliet, coolly.

Whatever might be her opinion of Arthur Glynde, she had only one opinion of Arthur Glynde’s mother. The little lady had a reputation, which Juliet was not inclined to gainsay, of being one of the cleverest matchmakers that Society numbered in its ranks. She had married off in succession three penniless nieces to wealthy scions of aristocratic houses; and now she was spreading her toils to catch an heiress and a beauty for her son.

“How can one small head carry such a multiplicity of plots?” thought the girl, with a far-off memory of the parson of the “loveliest village of the plain.”

“Till your wedding-day!” repeated Mrs. Glynde, slowly. “Then my poor Arthur has no chance?”

She felt for her pocket-handkerchief, and for a moment it went to her eyes.

With her handkerchief, however, she pulled from her pocket a half-sheet of paper. With a sudden movement she stooped and picked it up.

“You ought to see this, Juliet,” she said, handing it to the girl. “I picked it up yesterday in Arthur’s den; it speaks for itself. If you read it you’ll see how deeply in earnest my poor boy is.”

Juliet unfolded the half-sheet, and read as follows:

My love hath solemn eyes,
Eyes that would make you weep,
Bright with the light of stars
That midnight vigil keep.

My love hath soft, cool hands,
To smooth hot, aching brows,
Soft as a plumèd breast,
Cooler than winter snows.

My love hath silent feet,
Silent as passing breath
Or sailing summer cloud;
My love’s sweet name is⁠—death.

Juliet folded and returned the half-sheet to Mrs. Glynde.

“Eyes, hands, feet! Now why did he leave out the fingernails? Tell him to add another verse something like this:

My love hath inky nails,
Nails that would make you weep.

Oh, what a lovely parody could be made out of it!”

Mrs. Glynde, with a sigh, put the verses into her pocket again.

“I can see how it will end,” she said, sadly. “My poor boy will go to Africa and never come back. You and I will say goodbye to him, and never see him again!”

“Oh, not at all,” said Juliet, cheerfully. “If I go for my wedding-trip to Central Africa, we should be sure to meet⁠—don’t you know, just as Stanley and Livingstone met in the middle of the desert. And he’d exclaim ‘Juliet,’ and I should reply, ‘I’m no longer to be called Juliet, but⁠—’ Ah! I wonder what my married name would be!”

Again Mrs. Glynde came to a standstill on the greensward.

“Why, you said only a minute ago that you intended to marry Mr. Redway.”

“I said so!” exclaimed Juliet, her manner expressing the utmost of astonishment.

“You said your engagement to him would end only on your wedding-day!”

“Ah, yes, that’s another thing. I mean to be engaged to him till the very last moment, and then I shall be sure to marry⁠—someone else. I couldn’t endure being engaged to the man I meant to marry.”

Mrs. Glynde’s face grew radiant.

“Ah, I see! I understand! Juliet, you are one of the most enigmatic of girls; but I think I’m beginning to understand you. Now will you send me back with a message for Arthur?”

“Oh yes, with a dozen, if you like! Tell him, from me, on no account to⁠—” again she broke off. “I’m confident there’s the cuckoo again! It’s quite too ridiculous!”

“On no account to start on this miserable expedition⁠—it sets off on the twentieth of next month,” said the eager mother.

“On no account to attempt to enter Parliament, or the Albert Hall orchestra; perhaps he might pass muster at the ‘Saturday Pop⁠—’ Oh, there’s a Camberwell Beauty, I declare! I wonder if I can catch it,” and off she started in pursuit of the brilliant butterfly, leaving her companion to get over her chagrin as best she might.

When she came back presently a little out of breath, Mrs. Glynde, with a very grave face, was retracing her steps in the direction of the park gates.

“I see it is useless for me to stay any longer,” she said; “will you like to keep these verses of Arthur’s?⁠—I don’t suppose he will ever send you any more.”

“Ah, yes, I may as well keep them. Tell him if I don’t see him again I will write, ‘In memoriam of A. G.’ across the top of the page; but⁠—”

“Juliet, I shall take no messages to my poor boy that will drive him to despair. If you have anything to say that will give him hope I’ll carry that.”

“You wouldn’t let me finish what I was going to say⁠—I declare there is that lovely butterfly again!”

And once more she would have started in pursuit if Mrs. Glynde had not absolutely taken both of her hands in hers and kept her rooted to the spot.

“I insist on knowing what you were going to say,” she exclaimed. “I will not stand here to be tortured as you torture Arthur.”

“Dear me,” said Juliet, in mild astonishment; “first you won’t let me speak, and then you hold both my hands, and ‘insist’ on my saying what I was going to say when you prevented me.”

“You said if you didn’t see him again you would write ‘In memoriam of A. G.’ across the top of his verses; but⁠—” said Mrs. Glynde, anxious to bring her back to the point.

“But it will give me very great pleasure if he’ll come and see me here on the twenty-first of next month. That was all I had to say when you interrupted me.”

“All!” cried the delighted Mrs. Glynde. “It is quite enough! I understand! Goodbye to the expedition that starts on the twentieth, if you want to see him on the twenty-first.”

She tiptoed, and insisted on kissing Juliet on both cheeks⁠—an embrace which Juliet received very coolly. Then she quickened her footsteps. “I must get back as soon as possible,” she said, “I told the MacNamaras I wouldn’t keep their carriage for more than an hour, and I’ve kept it for nearly three.”

It was easy to see that her haste to get back was stimulated by her fear lest the wayward girl might, in another minute, so qualify her message as to render it not worth delivering.

In order the more effectually to prevent such a catastrophe, she hastily turned the talk on other topics⁠—a recent wedding, the newest mode in hairdressing, the latest piece of gossip that had reached her ears.

“The way people talk is beyond everything⁠—no one is let alone in these days,” she said; “do you know, Juliet, actually last night when I was dining at the Adeanes, I was asked⁠—you’ll scarcely believe it⁠—if there was any truth in the report that Ida and her husband had quarrelled on their way to the station, and that Captain Culvers had gone off to Paris alone, and that Ida had returned home, and was staying with you at Dering?”

She said this with her eyes fixed on Juliet’s face.

And if she had spoken out all the truth, she would have said not only that she had been asked the question at her dinner-party of the previous night, but that her own maid that very morning, as she had assisted in her toilet, had told her of Captain Culvers’s sudden return to Glynde Lodge without his bride, and of Lady Culvers’s strange story to account for the fact.

Juliet’s calm, pale face gave no sign.

“It’s perfectly true, every word of it,” she answered, coolly; “Ida is at the present moment at the Hall⁠—in a padded room on the top storey, contrived expressly for our family lunatics of a previous generation. And Sefton has been sent to prison for marrying her, whence in due course he’ll emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis, shake his beautiful wings, and float straight away to heaven. Goodbye, Mrs. Glynde, give my love to Lily MacNamara. Tell her next time she wears that apple-green dress of hers not to put so much Condy’s flaid to her hair. The contrast of tints is quite too appalling!”