The Happy Man/Chapter 14

August came in with a week of cold and rain, during which open fireplaces blazed and the settlement read all the books with which it had provided itself in June, answered all the letters that had been staring accusingly from many tables, and, in short, did many things it ought to have done, and, possibly, left undone many things it ought not to have done. But, naturally bridge and auction and dancing flourished, and the several flirtations and the fewer love-affairs progressed rapidly. There's nothing like a spell of rainy weather to bring along a love-affair, and on the fifth day Alderbury had an engagement to talk over. Neither of the principals is known to us, however. One affair that made no perceptible progress was Allan's. He and Beryl met every day somewhere, and frankly enjoyed each other's society. They had agreed to return to the old footing, and apparently had done so, but each was conscious of a difference in their relations. An avowed lover can never quite slip back into the old rôle of friend, try as hard as he may. Beryl did her best to pretend that Allan's proposal and confession had made no difference in her feeling towards him, but she never succeeded in deceiving herself or Allan. They sat together, walked together, danced together, and, once or twice, played golf together, but Allan easily saw that Beryl was more self-conscious, more constrained, than before, and that the advent of a third person brought relief.

If Beryl had expected him to show disappointment at her refusal to marry him, she was mistaken. Her repulse had evidently cast no shadow on his spirits. Certainly, no one would have guessed that he was a despairing lover. In fact, Beryl began to wonder whether he was a lover of any kind! Of course she had meant it—or had thought she meant it, which is much the same—when she had asked him not to try to make her care for him, but she had certainly not expected him to present quite such a cheerful front to the world, nor so sedulously to refrain from even the semblance of love-making! Certainly a little latitude was permissible, in spite of her injunction; which, by the way, he had refused to obey. But Allan said no more of love, nor again alluded to their talk that evening. He was all attention, claimed as much of her society as she would allow, and up to a certain point was as gallant and admiring a cavalier as maiden could wish. But beyond that point he never ventured by look, word or deed, and Beryl, conscious of a dismay she could not understand, began to wonder whether it was possible that he had philosophically decided to give up the pursuit of the unattainable. Of course, she told herself, if he had, it was much better for him, and a relief to her, only—well, he had not seemed to her to be such a fickle person as that would imply! And then, one afternoon, a perfectly plausible explanation was supplied her.

George Smith had wandered in late, and Beryl, who had been upstairs, had heard her mother conduct him to the porch and, later, had heard the low hum of voices and the occasional rattle of a cup and saucer. There had been a shower in the middle of the afternoon, and Mrs. Vernon had countermanded the order for the carriage, and Beryl had taken a book up to her room and settled down to read. But the story had proved stupid, and when Mr. Smith had been down there for some time, and it was to be presumed that he would soon go on his way again, she went downstairs and turned into the library to gain the porch. But just short of the doorway she paused.

“Mr. Shortland!” exclaimed her mother startledly. “To be married?”

“Yes, dear lady,” replied Mr. Smith's voice. “It does sound a bit odd, doesn't it?' He laughed. “Fancy 'China' married and settled down!”

Beryl stepped back out of sight, a hand at her throat.

“Doubtless,” returned Mrs. Vernon, recovering, “he will make an excellent husband. But how queer that—well, it seems that one might have heard of it before. He never mentioned it himself.”

“Oh, he makes no secret of it. He told a crowd of us at the clubhouse one day. Major Preston asked if the lady was Chinese!” Smith giggled.

“How absurd! Did he say who she was, Mr. Smith?”

“No; rather implied that it was none of our business. Didn't even know when it was to be, I think.”

“Don't you suppose that perhaps it was just one of his jokes?” asked Mrs. Vernon, anxiety expressing itself in spite of her.

“Not a bit of it! No joke about that, dear lady! He was a bit waxy, in fact, because we didn't believe him. Well, it will be the end of a good feller!” And Smith sighed regretfully.

“But—when was this, Mr. Smith? Lately?”

“God bless you, dear lady, no! It must have been only a day or two after he came. Oh, it's no one around here; that's certain. It's some one he met on the other side somewhere; seems to me he said in Florence. Well, whoever she is, she'll have her work cut out with Shortland. 'Pon my word, Mrs. Vernon, he's likely to get up from the breakfast-table some fine morning and calmly announce that he's off to Patagonia at ten-thirty! He is, for a fact. He's a queer duffer, no two ways about it!”

Beryl went softly out of the library and up the stairs. In her room she closed the door behind her and walked slowly across to the windows. For several minutes she stood there, looking out into the dripping garden. The sun had come out gloriously, and every leaf and blade sparkled. About the dove-cot three pigeons fluttered, and a fourth stood on the ledge and busily preened its feathers. On the porch below, Mr. Smith was tapping a boot with his crop, preparatory to leaving. Beryl turned away and walked to the mirror. The face that looked back at her was white and strange and the big violet eyes were hard.

“You little fool,” she whispered contemptuously, “wasn't once enough for you?”

Presently she went back to the chair by the window, picked up her book, and methodically found her place. But instead of reading she sat looking straight over it to where a spot of sunlight trembled on the faded rose-border of the rug. After awhile she aroused herself with a shiver of her slim shoulders, closed the book, and dropped it to the floor. Her mother's footsteps sounded on the stairway. She arose wearily and began to unhook her gown. One must dress for dinner just the same.

“And he, too, was just pretending,” she murmured scornfully. “All the time he was engaged to be married. I wonder”—something like a sob escaped her—“if that's his idea of making people—happy!”