A Young Man's Year. Hope Anthony

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СКАЧАТЬ haven't any more – at least I'm afraid not! Even Arthur was quite a surprise. I believe I should never have known of him but for Esther Norton Ward."

      "Meddling woman! For a fortnight after his appearance I was obviously de trop."

      "I was afraid he'd run away again; he's very timid. I had to tie him tight at first."

      "Suppose I had run away? You don't seem to have thought of that."

      Her changeful lips pouted a little. "I might run after you, I shouldn't after Arthur – and then I could bring you back. At least, could I, Sir Oliver? Oh, dear, I've very nearly paid you another compliment!"

      "I didn't mind that one so much. It was more subtle."

      "I don't believe you mind them a bit, so long as they're – well, ingenious enough. You've been spoilt by Begums, or Ranees, or whatever they're called, I expect."

      "That's true. You must find me very hard to please, of course."

      "Well, there's a – a considering look in your eyes sometimes that I don't quite like," said Bernadette. She laughed, sipped her wine, and turned to her cutlet with good appetite.

      She spoke lightly, jestingly, but she laid her finger shrewdly on the spot. She charmed him, but she puzzled him too; and Oliver Wyse, when he did not understand, was apt to be angry, or at least impatient. A man of action and of ardour, of strong convictions and feelings, he could make no terms with people who were indifferent to the things he believed in and was moved by, and who ordered their lives – or let them drift – along lines which seemed to him wrong or futile. He was a proselytiser, and might have been, in other days, a persecutor. Not to share his views and ideals was a blunder bordering on a crime. Even not to be the sort of man that he was constituted an offence, since he was the sort of man of whom the Empire and the World had need. Of this offence Godfrey Lisle was guilty in the most heinous degree. He was quite indifferent to all Oliver's causes – to the Empire, to the World, to a man's duty towards these great entities; he drifted through life in a hazy æstheticism, doing nothing, being profoundly futile. His amiability and faithful affections availed nothing to save him from condemnation – old maids' virtues, both of them! Where were his feelings? Had he no passion in him? A poor, poor creature, but half a man, more like a pussy-cat, a well-fed old pussy-cat that basks before the fire and lets itself be stroked, too lazy to catch mice or mingle in affrays at midnight. An old house-cat, truly and properly contemptible!

      But inoffensive? No, not to Oliver's temper. Distinctly an offence on public and general grounds, a person of evil example, anathema by Oliver's gospel – and a more grievous offender in that, being what he was, he was Bernadette's husband. What a fate for her! What a waste of her! What emptiness for mind and heart must lie in existence with such a creature – it was like living in a vacuum! Her nature must be starved, her capacities in danger of being stunted. Surely she must be supremely unhappy?

      But to all appearances she was not at all unhappy. Here came the puzzle which brought that "considering look" into his eyes and tinged it with resentment, even while he watched with delight the manifold graces of her gaiety.

      If she were content, why not leave her alone? That would not do for Oliver. She attracted him, she charmed his senses. Then she must be of his mind, must see and feel things as he did. If he was bitterly discontented for her, she must be bitterly discontented for herself. If he refused to acquiesce in a stunted life for her, to her too the stunted life must seem intolerable. Otherwise what conclusion was there save that the fair body held a mean spirit? The fair body charmed him too much to let him accept that conclusion.

      "Enjoying your holiday from home cares?" he asked.

      "I'm enjoying myself, but I haven't many home cares, Sir Oliver."

      "Your husband must miss you very much."

      She looked a little pettish. "Why do you say just the opposite of what you mean? You've seen enough of us to know that Godfrey doesn't miss me at all; he has his own interests. I couldn't keep that a secret from you, even if I wanted to; and I don't particularly want. You're about my greatest friend and – "

      "About?"

      "Well, my greatest then – and don't look as if somebody had stolen your umbrella."

      He broke into a laugh for an instant, but was soon grave again. She smiled at him appealingly; she had been happier in the light banter with which they had begun. That she thoroughly enjoyed; it told her of his admiration, and flattered her with it; she was proud of the friendship it implied. When he grew serious and looked at her ponderingly, she always felt a little afraid; and he had been doing it more and more every time they met lately. It was as though he were thinking of putting some question to her – some grave question to which she must make answer. She did not want that question put. Things were very well as they stood; there were drawbacks, but she was not conscious of anything very seriously wrong. She found a great deal of pleasure and happiness in life; there were endless small gratifications in it, and only a few rubs, to which she had become pretty well accustomed. Inside the fair body there was a reasonable little mind, quite ready for reasonable compromises.

      They had finished their meal, which Bernadette at least had thoroughly appreciated. She lit a tiny cigarette and watched her companion; he had fallen into silence over his cigar. His lined bronzed face looked thoughtful and worried.

      "Oh, you think too much," she told him, touching his hand for an instant lightly. "Why don't you just enjoy yourself? At any rate when you're lunching with a friend you like!"

      "It's just because I like the friend that I think so much."

      "But what is there to think so much about?" she cried, really rather impatiently.

      "There's the fact that I'm in love with you to think about," he answered quietly. It was not a question, but it was just as disconcerting as the most searching interrogatory; perhaps indeed it differed only in form from one.

      "Oh, dear!" she murmured half under her breath, with a frown and a pout. Then came a quick persuasive smile. "Oh, no, you're not! I daresay you think me pretty and so on, but you're not in love." She ventured further – so far as a laugh. "You haven't time for it, Sir Oliver!"

      He laughed too. "I've managed to squeeze it in, I'm afraid, Bernadette."

      "Can't you manage to squeeze it out again? Won't you try?"

      "Why should I? It suits me very well where it is."

      She made a little helpless gesture with her hands, as if to say, "What's to be done about it?"

      "You're not angry with me for mentioning the fact?"

      "Angry? No. I like you, you see. But what's the use?"

      He looked her full in the eyes for a moment. "We shall have to discuss that later."

      "What's the use of discussing? You can't discuss Godfrey out of existence!"

      "Not out of existence – practically speaking?"

      "Oh, no! Nonsense! Of course not!" She was genuinely vexed and troubled now.

      "All right. Don't fret," he said, smiling. "It can wait."

      She looked at him gravely, her lips just parted. "You do complicate things!" she murmured.

      "You'd rather I'd held my tongue about it?"

      "Yes, I would – much."

      "I СКАЧАТЬ