Gwendolen Read online

  “Now, Neil, you know that is nonsense!" Gwendolen said practically. "You and Cammie have been determined to marry each other almost since you were children, and you can't let some stupid little misunderstanding like this come between you now."

  "Oh, can't I just?" Neil said wrathfully. He turned to her, the anger dying out of his face suddenly. "But I am a. brute to come down on you with all this, Gwen," he said. “You're a good fellow—always have been—you're worth a dozen of Cammie! And I could see, by the look on Belville's face, that you already have trouble in that direction—"

  "Not the least trouble in the world," Gwendolen assured him. "You may as well be the first to know, Neil, that Captain Belville and I have mutually agreed that we should not suit, so our engagement is now at an end."

  Neil whistled. "Well," he said after a moment, frankly, "I can't say I'm surprised! Never did see how the two of you were going to deal together. I mean to say, a stiff-rumped man-milliner like that—!"

  Gwendolen smiled a trifle ruefully. "No, really, you mustn't abuse the poor man!" she said. "I have the most lowering feeling that the whole affair was all my fault from the beginning: I simply couldn't stop myself, you see, from being Welsh and romantic about him, because I adored Lord Nelson, and then I would keep writing to him, so we got engaged. I don't suppose he ever really wanted to very much. But now he can go and marry Evelina Rutledge, at any rate, and I—"

  Young Lieutenant Fairhall, who in the bruised and highly distressful state in which his quarrel with Campaspe had left him was feeling rather romantically dark and Byronic himself, here interrupted to say with boyish fervour that she was a Trojan to take it like that, and that in his opinion Belville was dicked in the nob not to prefer marrying her to marrying Evelina Rutledge.

  "Yes, but I haven't any fortune and she has, you see," Gwendolen said. "It is a great drawback to a female," she went on, glad to see that her companion had been diverted at least for the moment from his wrath against Campaspe, "not to have any fortune at all. For even though it appears to me that gentlemen who are already very well to pass ought to be able to marry for love and not for money, it seems that they are just as greedy as the rest. Not," she added fairly, as she began to walk on slowly down the alley towards the pink marquee, "that you are greedy, Neil, and I do honour you very much for it."

  Young Lieutenant Fairhall, feeling confusedly that he had never seen Gwen Quarters looking so beautiful and that here was someone who really understood him, not like that little cat Campaspe, said, with an unexpected sensation not entirely unlike intoxication, that the man who could place fortune in the balance against her love was not worthy of her affection, adding that he would marry her like a shot himself if he weren't already engaged. He then recollected that he was no longer engaged and flushed scarlet; but Gwendolen smiled at him very kindly and said not to be silly, because of course he was going to marry Campaspe.

  “No, I'm not. I can't," he said gloomily. "She won't have me. She told me so. You heard her yourself." He added explanatorily and a trifle guiltily, "We had a most almighty quarrel. I'm sure Lyndale overheard us, and perhaps Miss Courtney, as well."

  "Oh, dear!" said Gwendolen. “Well, you will just have to make it up again, that is all. Here are the others. Do try to act as if nothing had happened."

  They had come out of the yew alley by this time to the Great Garden, a series of parterres made in the French style and enclosing a long formal stretch of water leading to a small Palladian pavilion built in the manner of Batty Langley. Here the marquee to which Lord Wilfrid had alluded had been set up, and the other guests had already congregated. Gwendolen, seeing white napery, crystal goblets, and masses of silver, to say nothing of a perfect horde of servants and an orchestra in attendance, thought that it was a very odd sort of picnic; but she was relieved to find that, as everyone was busy eating and the musicians, inspired by the al fresco setting, were exerting themselves to the extent that conversation was almost impossible, she and Lieutenant Fairhall were able to merge into the scene with no particular notice being paid to them.

  She was filling a plate for herself, having told Neil that under no circumstances must he think of waiting upon her, when she suddenly found Lyndale coming to her assistance.

  “You are looking rather peculiar," he said to her. "So is Belville. Has anything happened?"

  “What do you mean—has anything happened?" she parried cautiously, sitting down upon one of the French jauteuils that had been placed for the guests' comfort in the marquee, and that made it seem more than ever like an outdoor drawing room. She stole a glance at Captain Belville, who was sitting by himself, drinking champagne. There was certainly a rather addled expression upon his face, a kind of indignant-euphoric look, if the combination could be imagined.

  “You know what I mean," Lyndale said, with his disconcerting habit of refusing to beat about the bush. "Look at the man. I know he went off after you and Wilfrid. What the deuce did you do to him?"

  "I didn't do anything," Gwendolen said with dignity. "He did it. He found Lord Wilfrid trying to kiss me and said some very unkind things, so I told him we wouldn't be engaged any longer. I think he rather likes it—I mean, not being engaged."

  Lyndale gave a shout of laughter.

  “Don't do that," Gwendolen said reprovingly. “It isn't really very amusing. I mean, I came here today determined to tell him I wouldn't marry him, but still—"

  “Not wouldn't. Couldn't," Lyndale interjected. "And I told you so.”

  "Very well, then.—couldn't," Gwendolen said coldly. “No gentleman, however, would say 'I told you so' to a lady."

  "I've already informed you, I'm a bit out of practice," said Lyndale. "I'll apologise for the 'I told you so' if you like."

  “Your apology," said Gwendolen magnanimously, "is accepted. After all, I daresay in a harem a man scarcely needs manners—"

  "I regret to disillusion you, Miss Quarters," said Lyndale, “but, unfortunately, I must tell you that I never set up a harem. Not even a small one," he added, seeing a look of disbelief on her face.

  "Well," Gwendolen conceded, "I expect it would be rather expensive. And perhaps you did not feel the need of a permanent establishment."

  Lyndale, who was drinking champagne at the moment, choked slightly. "That," he assured her, when he had recovered himself, "covers the situation very nicely, Miss Quarters. And now shall we return to your affairs? You were saying that you didn't find your dismissal of Captain Belville a subject for amusement—?"

  "Well—not really," Gwendolen confessed. "Not that I think he is in the least unhappy about it, nor am I—but, after all, I had been used to being engaged for so long, and in love before that, and it feels rather strange to find I am not any longer."

  "Yes, I expect it does. But you can always fall in love with someone else," Lyndale reminded her. "Girls do it all the time."

  "Not if they are living at Brightleaves," Gwendolen said, shaking her head. "The neighbourhood is very thin of eligible men. I daresay that is why I fell in love with Belville. There wasn't a great deal of competition, you see."

  "What about Wilfrid? He seems very much smitten with you."

  "Oh yes, but I doubt that he would like to be engaged to me, much less married. Still, one never really knows. I don't suppose your friends expected you would wish to be married, either, a few months back."

  "I'm quite sure they didn't. Would you like to marry Wilfrid?"

  "What a very improper question!"

  "And what a very evasive answer!"

  "Well," said Gwendolen meditatively, "after all, he is a duke's son, and I expect I shall have to marry someone someday. But I do think I might do better—especially if I can persuade Aunt Pris to invite me to Brighton this summer. She was going to bring me out in London before she brought Jane out, you know, only I got engaged to Belville, so there didn't seem much point in it." She was interrupted by the sight of Campaspe, who had finished the large plate of food she had induced Captain Belvill
e to bring her after they had arrived at the marquee, and was now making her way towards them, passing the chair in which Lieutenant Fairhall was sitting without bestowing so much as a glance upon him. "Oh, dear— here comes Cammie," she said. "Could you be very rude to her and send her away? You see, she has had the most dreadful quarrel with Neil Fairhall over you—"

  “Yes, I know. I was privileged to hear most of it. Unfortunately, rudeness doesn't seem to serve with her; I've already tried that."

  "Then I shall simply have to take her away myself. I won't have her creating another scene."

  By this time Campaspe was upon them, smiling alluringly in Lyndale's direction. Gwendolen got up.

  "Come along, Cammie," she said, firmly taking her younger sister's arm. "I want to talk to you."

  "But I don't want-"

  “*Yes, you do," said Gwendolen, looking regretfully at her own half-finished plate. "And even if you don't, I do." She marched Campaspe off down the wide gravelled avenue, flanked with classical statues, in the direction of the white-columned pavilion at the end of the garden. "You have been behaving most improperly, you know," she said severely, as soon as they were out of earshot of the other guests. "Neil says you have broken off your engagement. That is a great piece of nonsense, of course."

  "No, it isn't. I never want to see him again," Campaspe said, putting up her chin. "He is the most unreasonable—"

  "It's not in the least unreasonable of him to disapprove of the way you have been throwing yourself at Lyndale's head. Cammie, you simply must put an end to that. You are doing Jane no good at all, and you are mortifying me to death by your want of conduct! And now it has come to breaking off your engagement. What on earth do you think Mama will have to say to that?'*

  "What do you think she will have to say to your breaking off your engagement to Belville?" Campaspe retorted. "You have done it—haven't you? He looked so Friday-faced that I made sure you must have. And if you can break off with him because he is pompous and disagreeable and you have found you don't love him any longer, why can't I do the same with Neil, when it is just the same with me and him? Oh!" She broke off, turning about suddenly, "I thought I heard someone behind us. It is Mrs. Webley and Mr. York. You won't mind if I leave you to walk with them, will you? I am dying to ask Mrs. Webley about the new hats she says are coming in; I thought I might trim up that old one of mine—"

  And with this transparent excuse to avoid further scolding she ran off to join Mrs. Webley and her companion, who were just turning off into a secluded walk and would no doubt, Gwendolen thought, turn an exceedingly cold shoulder upon anyone coming to interrupt their tête-a-tête. Not, she was well aware, that that would in the least deter Campaspe, who had a fine disregard for the nuances of social intercourse, and was quite capable of talking millinery for half an hour together to two people who had had every intention of spending that same half hour in an agreeable flirtation.

  She herself wandered on rather disconsolately towards the little pavilion at the end of the garden, conscious that she ought to go back to the others but smitten for the moment with a desire to be alone. It seemed to her that Life, which only a week before had been full of roseate plans and dreams, with wedding bells set to ring merrily and repeatedly in the near future, had suddenly become overcast and prickly with problems, if that was not mixing metaphors too badly. She was meditating gloomily on what she was to do about it when she became aware all at once that the little pavilion, which she had now got quite close to, was not deserted.

  A graceful tableau, in fact, was being enacted there before her startled eyes—a set-piece as charming as that presented by the shepherd and shepherdess she had seen not long before leaning together in their delicate, statue'd embrace in the English garden. In the present case the shepherdess was a lovely, dark-ringletted young lady in an azure-blue gown, the shepherd a slim, fair young man in a well-tailored coat of Bath superfine—her sister Jane and Alain de Combray, without a doubt, though their faces were hidden from her behind one of the pavilion's chaste white pillars.

  As she stood there, rooted in her place, a man's voice suddenly spoke behind her.

  "A charming picture—"

  She whirled about, speechless, to face Lyndale.

  "It might," he continued, with every appearance of imperturbability, "have saved everyone a good deal of trouble, however, if I had had some notion of this sooner, Miss Quarters. Or was it this that you were trying so delicately to hint of to me the day I called at Brightleaves to make my offer?"

  Into Gwendolen's head, as she stared, horror-stricken, into that bronzed, civilly impassive, yet surely, she thought, menacing face, dire visions rushed of two silent figures facing each other, right arms extended, gleaming pistols at the ready, in the dewy dawn of a summer's day on Paddington Green, or whatever might be the parallel spot in Gloucestershire to that convenient London rendezvous. She sought wildly for words, for some plausible explanation to palliate the cold thirst for vengeance that she was convinced must lie behind the cool, unreadable mask of Lyndale's face. Before she could speak, however, worse had occurred, for the lovers themselves, awakened from their dream of bliss by the sound of Lyndale's voice, had become aware that they were not alone. They sprang apart, twin blushes mantling their faces.

  "My l-lord—!" stammered young M. de Combray, while Jane, unable to speak, buried her face despairingly in her hands.

  It was a moment, Gwendolen saw, that imperatively required action of some sort, and though she had had no time to formulate a plan, she did the best thing she could think of under the circumstances, which to her romantically inclined mind included the certainty that Lyndale was about to flick his glove across Alain's face and say something like, "You will hear from my friends in the morning, sir!" Seizing his arm, she said to him forcefully, "You mustn't!"

  Lyndale looked down at her in some surprise. "I mustn't what?" he enquired.

  "Challenge him—to a duel!" Gwendolen explained desperately. And she went on, as a still more dreadful possibility occurred to her, "Or—or whatever it is that they do in Morocco!"

  "Because Miss Jane has the good taste to prefer someone else to me? Don't be an idiot. Miss Quarters!" said Lyndale bracingly.

  Jane, venturing to withdraw her hands from her face and to open her eyes at these astonishing words, stared at him imploringly, while young M. de Combray, upon whose delicate features red and white had fluctuated with alarming rapidity, took courage to draw himself up and say with all the steadiness at his command, "I—I fear, my lord, I owe you an explanation—"

  "Nonsense! You owe me nothing of the sort," said Lyndale. “Miss Jane understands very well that she is bound by no promise to me—and I think I may well take advantage of this occasion to tell her that, if she wishes to, she may now release me from any promise that I have made to her. If she wishes to," he emphasised, looking directly at Jane, who, seeing his gaze upon her, once more covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

  Gwendolen, who was herself so relieved by the entire lack of any murderous intent in Lyndale's words that she felt almost euphoric, went up and put her arms around her.

  "Now don't be a goose, my dear!" she said. "It must be quite plain to Lord Lyndale that you have formed another attachment, and it will certainly be best if you tell him that you consider him free of any obligation to you—"

  Jane's voice, muffled by sobs and by the fact that her face was pressed tightly against Gwendolen's shoulder, was heard to utter a few despairing words to the effect that she couldn't help it.

  "No, of course you can't," Gwendolen said encouragingly. "But that doesn't get us any further, does it? You must just tell Lord Lyndale—"

  "I can't! Mama!" the muffled voice made itself heard indistinctly once more.

  Gwendolen started, and suddenly released her sister.

  "Good God! Mama!" she, too, repeated blankly, as the overwhelming fact flashed into her mind that she would be obliged to face Lady Otilia, when they returned to Brightlea
ves, with not one, not two, but three broken engagements as the outcome of this fatal picnic. She looked at Lyndale. "See here," she appealed to him, "I simply can't tell Mama today that you and Jane have broken it off—not after I've just broken off with Belville and Cammie with Neil Fairhall. Would it make a great deal of difference to you if we wait a week or so before we tell people? I mean, you don't wish to get engaged to anyone else just at this very moment—do you?"

  "At this very moment—no," Lyndale conceded, looking amused. "But it might be a good deal less embarrassing for everyone concerned, after all, if you would let Lady Otilia have your entire budget of bad news in one fell swoop, wouldn't it? We are all bound to be meeting constantly—which I feel might put more of a strain upon your sister's powers of dissimulation than they could well support—"

  "Well—you could go back to London," Gwendolen suggested hopefully.

  "By no means," said Lyndale, speaking with such emphasis that Gwendolen wondered suddenly if Miss Courtney had made more inroads upon his lordship's tenderer sensibilities than she, Gwendolen, would have believed possible, so that he was determined not to leave Gloucestershire as long as she remained at Beauworth. He looked at Jane, who had stopped sobbing and was tragically regarding young M. de Combray. The latter at this point suddenly re-entered the conversation.

  "I must tell you, my lord," he said, standing very erect and looking, Gwendolen admiringly thought, as gallant as any youthful aristocrat being drawn through the streets of Paris in a tumbril on his way to the guillotine, "that at the moment you came upon us, Miss Jane and I had been making what we considered our—our last farewell. I am in no position, malheureusement, to make her an offer of marriage—"

  "My dears!" It was Miss Courtney's voice, trilling with laughter, that broke in upon this affecting scene and caused everyone involved in it to turn abruptly about with a variety of unpleasant sensations mirrored upon their faces. "How too, too naughty of me not to cough or say, ‘ahem’—but I was so entranced by what I was hearing that I literally could not utter a sound!" She went on, to a stunned Jane, "I must say I really cannot blame you, my love—such a handsome boy, and the French are tellement romantique! But how distressing for you, Lyndale—!"