The Lady Paramount

by Henry Harland

  II

  It was gay June weather, in a deep green English park: a park in thesouth of England, near the sea, where parks are deepest and greenest,and June weather, when it is n't grave, is gaiest. Blackbirds weredropping their liquid notes, thrushes were singing, hidden in thetrees. Here and there, in spaces enclosed by hurdles, sheep browsed ordrowsed, still faintly a-blush from recent shearing. The may was inbloom, the tardy may, and the laburnum. The sun shone ardently, andthe air was quick with the fragrant responses of the earth.

  A hundred yards up the avenue, Anthony Craford stopped his fly, ashabby victoria, piled with the manifold leather belongings of atraveller, and dismounted.

  "I 'll walk the rest of the way," he said to the flyman, giving him hisfare. "Drive on to the house. The servants will take charge of theluggage."

  "Yes, sir," answered the flyman, briskly, and flicked his horse:whereat, displaying a mettle one was by no means prepared for, thehorse dashed suddenly off in a great clattering gallop, and the ancientvehicle behind him followed with a succession of alarming leaps andlurches.

  "See," declaimed a voice, in a sort of whimsical recitative,

  "See how the young cabs bound, As to the tabor's sound,--"

  a full-bodied baritone, warm and suave, that broke, at the end, into anote or two of laughter.

  Anthony turned.

  On the greensward, a few paces distant, stood a man in white flannels:rather a fat man, to avow the worst at once, but, for the rest,distinctly a pleasant-looking; with a smiling, round, pink face,smooth-shaven, and a noticeable pair of big and bright blue eyes.

  "Hello. Is that you, old Rosygills?" Anthony said, with a phlegm thatseemed rather premeditated.

  "Now, what a question," protested the other, advancing to meet him. Hewalked with an odd kind of buoyant, measured step, as if he werekeeping time to a silent dance-tune. "All I can tell you is that it'ssomeone very nice and uncommonly like me. You should know at your agethat a person's identity is quite the most mysterious mystery underheaven. You really must n't expect me to vouch for mine. How-d'ye-do?"

  He extended, casually, in the manner of a man preoccupied, a plump,pink left hand. With his right hand he held up and flaunted, forexhibition, a drooping bunch of poppies, poignantly red and green: thesubject, very likely, of his preoccupation, for, "Are n't theybeauties?" he demanded, and his manner had changed to one of fervour,nothing less. "They 're the spoils of a raid on Farmer Blogrim'schalk-pit. If eyes were made for seeing, see and admire--admire andconfess your admiration."

  He shook them at Anthony's face. But as Anthony looked at them withcomposure, and only muttered, "H'm," "Oh, my little scarlet starlets,"he purred and chirped to the blossoms, "_would n't_ the apathetic manadmire you?"

  And he clasped them to his bosom with a gesture that was reminiscent ofthe grateful prima-donna.

  "They look exactly as if I had plucked them from the foreground of aFifteenth Century painting, don't they?" he went on, holding them offagain. "Florentine, of course. Ah, in those days painting was a fineart, and worth a rational being's consideration,--in those days, and injust that little Tuscan corner of the world. But you," he pronouncedin deep tones, mournfully, "how cold, how callous, you are. Have youno soul for the loveliness of flowers?"

  Anthony sighed. He was a tall young man, (thirty, at a guess), talland well set-up, with grey eyes, a wholesome brown skin, and a nose soaffirmatively patrician in its high bridge and slender aquilinity thatit was a fair matter for remark to discover it on the face of one whoactually chanced to be of the patrician order. Such a nose, perhaps,carried with it certain obligations--an obligation of fastidiousdressing, for example. Anthony, at any rate, was very fastidiouslydressed indeed, in light-grey tweeds, with a straw hat, and a tie thatbespoke a practised hand beside a discerning taste. But his generalair, none the less,--the expression of his figure and his motions, aswell as of his face and voice,--was somehow that of an indolentmelancholy, a kind of unresentful disenchantment, as if he had long agoperceived that cakes are mostly dough, and had accommodated himself tothe perception with a regret that was half amusement.

  His friend, by contrast, in loose white flannels, with a flannel shirtand a leather belt, with yellowish hair, waving, under a white flannelcricket-cap, a good inch longer than the conventional cut, was plainlya man who set himself above the modes: though, in his plump, pink waydebonair and vivacious, not so tall as Anthony, yet tall enough neverto be contemned as short, and verging upon what he was fain to call"the flower of a sound man's youth, the golden, gladsome, romantic ageof forty," he looked delightfully fresh, and wide-awake, and cheerful,and perfectly in the scheme of the blue day and the bird-notes and thesmiling country. Permit me to introduce Mr. Adrian Willes, by vocationa composer and singer of songs, and--"contrapuntally," as he wouldexplain--Anthony Craford's housemate, monitor, land-agent, and man ofbusiness.

  Anthony sighed.

  "I 'll tell you what I admire," he answered drily. "I admire thetransports of delight with which you hail my unexpected home-coming.The last you knew, I was in California; and here I might have tumbledfrom the skies."

  Adrian regarded him with an eye in which, I think, kindled a certainmalicious satisfaction.

  "Silence," he said, "is the perfectest herald of joy. Besides, youmust n't flatter yourself that your home-coming is so deucedlyunexpected, either. I 've felt a pricking in my thumbs any time thesethree months; and no longer ago than yesterday morning, I said to myimage in the glass, as I was shaving, 'I should n't wonder if Tonyturned up to-morrow,' said I."

  "That was merely your uneasy conscience," Tony expounded. "When thecat's away, the mice are always feeling prickings in their thumbs."

  "Oh, if you stoop to bandying proverbs," retaliated Adrian, "there's aproverb about a penny." He raised his bunch of poppies, and posed italoft before him, eyeing it, his head cocked a little to one side, incritical enjoyment. "Shall we set out for the house?" he asked.

  "No," said Anthony, promptly, with decision. "_I 'll_ set out for thehouse; and _you_ (unless your habits have strangely altered) will friskand gambol round about me. Come on."

  And taking Adrian's arm, he led the way, amid the summer throng ofdelicate scents and sounds, under the opulent old trees, over thegold-green velvet of the turf, on which leaves and branches werestencilled by the sun, as in an elaborate design for lace, towards ahouse that was rather famous in the neighbourhood--I was on the pointof saying for its beauty: but are things ever famous in Englishneighbourhoods for their mere beauty?--for its quaintness, and in somemeasure too, perhaps, for its history:--Craford Old Manor, a red-brickTudor house, low, and, in the rectangular style of such houses,rambling; with a paved inner court, and countless tall chimneys, likeminarets; with a secret chapel and a priests' "hiding-hole," for theCrafords were one of those old Catholic families whose boast it is thatthey "have never lost the Faith"; with a walled formal garden, and aterrace, and a sun-dial; with close-cropped bordures of box, and yewsclipped to fantastic patterns: the house so placed withal, that, whileits north front faced the park, its south front, ivy-covered, lookedover a bright lawn and bright parterres of flowers, down upon the longgreen levels of Rowland Marshes, and away to the blue sea beyond,--theblue sea, the white cliffs, the yellow sands.

  Anthony and Adrian, arm in arm, sauntered on without speaking, tillthey attained the crest of a sweeping bit of upland, and the house andthe sea came in view. Here they halted, and stood for a minute incontemplation of the prospect.

  "The sea," said Adrian, disengaging his arm, that he might be free touse it as a pointer, and then pointing with it, "the sea has put on herbluest frock, to honour your return. And behold, decked in the hues ofIris, that gallant procession of cliffs, like an army with banners,zigzagging up from the world's rim, to bid you welcome. Oh, you wereclearly not unexpected. If no smoke rises from yonder chimneys,--ifyour ancestral chimney-stone is cold,--that's merely because, despitethe season, we 're havin
g a spell of warmish weather, and we 've letthe fires go out. 'T is June. Town 's full; country 's depopulated.In Piccadilly, I gather from the public prints, vehicular traffic ispainfully congested. Meanwhile, I 've a grand piece of news for yourprivate ear. Guess a wee bit what it is."

  "Oh, I 'm no good at guessing," said Anthony, with languor, as theyresumed their walk.

  "Well--what will you give me, then, if I 'll blurt it out?" askedAdrian, shuffling along sidewise, so that he might face his companion.

  "My undivided attention--provided you blurt it briefly," Anthonypromised.

  "Oh, come," Adrian urged, swaying his head and shoulders. "Betray alittle curiosity, at least."

  "Curiosity is a vice I was taught in my youth to suppress," saidAnthony.

  "A murrain on your youth," cried Adrian, testily. "However, sincethere 's no quieting you otherwise, I suppose, for the sake of peace, I'd best tell you, and have done with it. Well, then,"--he stood off,to watch the effect of his announcement,--"Craford's Folly is let."

  "Ah?" said Anthony, with no sign of emotion.

  Adrian's face fell.

  "Was there ever such inhumanity?" he mourned. "I tell him that--thanksto my supernatural diligence in his affairs--his own particularmillstone is lifted from his neck. I tell him that a great whiteelephant of a house, which for years has been eating its head off, andkeeping him poor, is at last--by my supernatural diligence--convertedinto an actual source of revenue. And 'Ah?' is all he says, as if itdid n't concern him. Blow, blow, thou winter wind,--thou art not sounkind as Man's ingratitude."

  "Silence," Anthony mentioned, "is the perfectest herald of joy."

  "Pish, tush," said Adrian. "A fico for the phrase. I 'll bet ashilling, all the same,"--and he scanned Anthony's countenanceapprehensively,--"that you 'll be wanting money?"

  "It's considered rather low," Anthony generalised, "to offer a bet onwhat you have every ground for regarding as a certainty."

  "A certainty?" groaned Adrian. He tossed his plump arms heavenwards."There it is! He 's wanting money."

  And his voice broke, in something like a sob.

  "Do you know," he asked, "how many pounds sterling you 've had thespending of during the past twelvemonth? Do you know how many timesyour poor long-suffering bankers have written to me, with tears intheir eyes, to complain that your account was overdrawn, and would I besuch a dear as to set it right? No? You don't? I could have swornyou did n't. Well, I do--to my consternation. And it is my duty tocaution you that the estate won't stand it--to call that an estate," hedivagated, with a kind of despairing sniff, "which is already, by theextravagances of your ancestors, shrunken to scarcely more than threeacres and a cow. You 're wanting money? What do you _do_ with yourmoney? What secret profligacy must a man be guilty of, who squanderssuch stacks of money? Burst me, if I might n't as well be steward to abottomless pit. However, Providence be praised,--and my ownsupernatural diligence,--I 'm in command of quite unhoped-forresources. Craford New Manor is let."

  "So you remarked before," said Anthony, all but yawning.

  "And shall again, if the impulse seizes me," Adrian tartly rejoined."The circumstance is a relevant and a lucky one for the man you 'refondest of, since he's wanting money. If it were n't that the newhouse is let, he 'd find my pockets in the condition of Lord Tumtoddy'snoddle. However, the saints are merciful, I 'm a highly efficientagent, and the biggest, ugliest, costliest house in all thiscountryside is let."

  "Have it so, dear Goldilocks," said Anthony, with submission. "I 'llne'er deny it more."

  "There would be no indiscretion," Adrian threw out, "in your askingwhom it's let to."

  "Needless to ask," Anthony threw back. "It's let to a duffer, ofcourse. None but a duffer would be duffer enough to take it."

  "Well, then, you 're quite mistaken," said Adrian, airily swaggering."It's let to a lady."

  "Oh, there be lady duffers," Anthony apprised him.

  "It's very ungallant of you to say so." Adrian frowned disapprobation."This lady, if you can bear to hear the whole improbable truth at once,is an Italian lady."

  "An Italian lady? Oh?" Anthony's interest appeared to wake a little.

  Adrian laughed.

  "I expected that would rouse you. A Madame Torrebianca."

  "Ah?" said Anthony; and his interest appeared to drop.

  "Yes--la Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebianca. Is n't that a romantic name?A lady like the heroine of some splendid old Italian story,--likePompilia, like Francesca,--like Kate the Queen, when her maiden wasbinding her tresses. Young, and dark, and beautiful, and altogethercharming."

  "H'm. And not a duffer? An adventuress, then, clearly," said Anthony."You 'll never get the rent."

  "Nothing of the sort," Adrian asserted, with emphasis. "A lady of thehighest possible respectability. Trust me to know. A scrupulousCatholic, besides. It was partly because we have a chapel that shedecided to take the house. Father David is hand and glove with her.And rich. She gave the very best of banker's references. 'Get therent,' says he--as if I had n't got my quarter in advance. I letfurnished--what? Well, that's the custom--rent payable quarterly inadvance. And cultivated. She's read everything, and she prattlesEnglish like you or me. She had English governesses when she was akiddie. And appreciative. She thinks I 'm without exception thenicest man she 's ever met. She adores my singing, and delights in allthe brilliant things I say. She says things that are n't half badherself, and plays my accompaniments with really a great deal ofsympathy and insight. And Tony dear,"--he laid his hand impressivelyon Tony's arm, while his voice sank to the pitch of deep emotion,--"shehas a cook--a cook--ah, me!"

  He smacked his lips, as at an unutterable recollection.

  "She brought him with her from Italy. He has a method of preparingsweetbreads--well, you wait. His name is Serafino--and no wonder. Andshe has the nicest person who was ever born to live with her: a MissSandus, Miss Ruth Sandus, a daughter of the late Admiral Sir GeoffreySandus. She 's a dove, she 's a duck, she 's a darling; she 'scompletely won my heart. And I"--he took a few skipping steps, andbroke suddenly into song--

  "'And I, and I have hers!'

  We dote upon each other. She calls me her Troubadour. She has theprettiest hands of any woman out of Paradise. She 's as sweet asremembered kisses after death. She 's as sharp as a needle. She 's asbright as morning roses lightly tipped with dew. She has a house ofher own in Kensington. And she's seventy-four years of age."

  Anthony's interest appeared to wake again.

  "Seventy-four? You call that young?" he asked, with the inflection ofone who was open to be convinced.

  Adrian bridled.

  "You deliberately put a false construction on my words. I was alludingto Miss Sandus, as you 're perfectly well aware. Madame Torrebianca isn't seventy-four, nor anything near it. She's not twenty-four. Sayabout twenty-five and a fraction. With such hair too--and suchfrocks--and eyes. Oh, my dear!" He kissed his fingers, and wafted thekiss to the sky. "Eyes! Imagine twin moons rising over a tropical--"

  "_Allons donc_," Anthony repressed him. "Contain yourself. Where isMadame Torrebianca's husband?"

  "Ah," said Adrian, with a sudden lapse of tone. "Where is MadameTorrebianca's husband? That's the question. Where?" And he winkedsuggestively. "How can I tell you where he is? If I could tell youthat, you don't suppose I 'd be wearing myself to a shadow withuncongenial and ill-remunerated labour, in an obscure backwater of thecountry, like this, do you? If I could tell you that, I could tell youthe secretest secrets of the sages, and I should be making myeverlasting fortune--oh, but money hand over fist--as the oracle of ageneral information bureau, in Bond Street, or somewhere. I should bea millionaire, and a celebrity, and a regular cock-of-the-walk. Whereis Madame Torrebianca's husband? Ay! Gentle shepherd, tell me where?"

  "Ah?" wondered Anthony, off his guard. "A mysterious disappearance?"

  "Bravo!" crowed Adrian, gleefully. "I am n
ot only witty myself, butthe cause of wit in others." He patted Anthony on the shoulder. "Amysterious disappearance. The _mot_ is capital. That's it, to ahair's breadth. Oft thought before, but ne'er so well expressed. Thegentleman (as the rude multitude in their unfeeling way would put it)is dead."

  "On the whole," mused Anthony, looking him up and down with areflective eye, "you 're an effulgent sort of egotist, as egotists go;but you yield much cry for precious little wool."

  "Yes, dead," Adrian repeated, pursuing his own train of ideas. "DonnaSusanna is a widow, a poor lone widow, a wealthy, eligible widow. Youmust be kind to her."

  "Why don't you marry her?" Anthony enquired.

  "Pooh," said Adrian.

  "Why don't you?" Anthony insisted. "If she 's really rich? You don'tdislike her--you respect her--perhaps, if you set your mind to it, youcould even learn to love her. She 'd give you a home and a position inthe world; she 'd make a sober citizen of you; and she 'd take you offmy hands. You know whether you 're an expense--and a responsibility.Why don't you marry her? You owe it to me not to let such an occasionslip."

  "Pooh," said Adrian. But he looked conscious, and he laughed adeliriously conscious laugh. "What nonsense you do talk. I 'm tooyoung, I 'm far too young, to think of marrying."

  "See him blush and giggle and shake his pretty curls," said Anthony,with scorn, addressing the universe.

  By this time they had skirted the house, and come round to the southernfront, where the sunshine lay unbroken on the lawn, and the smell ofthe box hedges, strong in the still air, seemed a thing almostponderable: the low, long front, a mellow line of colour, with thepurple of its old red bricks and the dark green of its ivy, sunlitagainst the darker green of the park, and the blue of the tenderEnglish sky. The terrace steps were warm under their feet, as theymounted them. In terra-cotta urns, at intervals upon the terracebalustrade, roses grew, roses red and white; and from larger urns, oneat either side of the hall-door, red and white roses were espaliered,intertwining overhead.

  The hall-door stood open; but the hall, as they entered it from thebrightness without, was black at first, like a room unlighted. Then,little by little, it turned from black to brown, and defineditself:--"that hackneyed type of Stage-property hall," I have heardAdrian lament, "which connotes immediately a lost will, a familysecret, and the ghost of a man in armour"; "a noble apartment, squareand spacious, characteristic of the period when halls were meant toserve at need as guard-rooms," says the _County History_.

  Square and spacious it was certainly, perhaps a hackneyed type none theless: the ceiling and the walls panelled in dark well-polished oak; thefloor a pavement of broad stone flags, covered for the most part now bya faded Turkey carpet; the narrow windows, small-paned and leaded, setin deep stone embrasures; a vast fireplace jutting across a corner, theCraford arms emblazoned in the chimney-piece above; and a wide oakstaircase leading to the upper storey. The room was furnished,incongruously enough, in quite a modern fashion, rather shabbily, and Idaresay rather mannishly. There were leather arm-chairs and settles,all a good deal worn, and stout tables littered with books andperiodicals. The narrow windows let in thin slants of mote-filledsunshine, vortices of gold-dust; and on the faded carpet, by the door,lay a bright parallelogram, warming to life its dim old colours. Therest of the room seemed twilit. Someone had been too wise to defeatthat good oak panelling by hanging pictures on it.

  "Not a creature is stirring," said Adrian, "not even a mouse.Sellers--oh, what men daily do, not knowing what they do!--is shut upin the scullery, I suppose, torturing his poor defenceless fiddle.That 's what it is to be a musical boot-and-knife boy. And Wickersmithwill be at his devotions. He tells me he never gets leisure for hismorning meditation till luncheon 's cleared away. And that's what itis to be a pious butler. I 'm doubting whether there was anyone todisembarrass that flyman of yours of your luggage. So he 's probablydriven off with it all to his humble, happy home. I see none of itabout. Never mind. There 'll be some of your old things in Mrs. W.'scamphor-chest, perhaps; or if it comes to a pinch, I can lend you agarment or so of my own,--and then won't Craford of Craford cut afigure of fun! You will make her acquaintance . . . Let me see.To-day is Wednesday. We 'll call on her to-morrow."

  "On whom?" asked Anthony, looking blank.

  "Have we been talking of Queen Berengaria?" Adrian, with his nose inthe air, enquired. "On _whom?_ says you. We 'll call to-morrowafternoon."

  "Not I," said Anthony.

  "Not to-morrow?" Adrian raised his eyebrows, well-marked crescents ofreddish-brown above his ruddy face, and assumed thereby a physiognomyof almost childlike naivete. "Ah, well, on Friday, then;--thoughFriday is unlucky, and one rarely shines on a day of abstinence,anyhow. It's all a fallacy about fish being food for the brain. Meat,red meat, is what the brain requires." He slapped his forehead. "ButFriday, since you prefer it."

  Anthony seated himself on the arm of a leather chair, and, withcalculated deliberation, produced his cigarette-case, selected acigarette, returned his cigarette-case to his pocket, took out hismatchbox, struck a match, and got his cigarette alight.

  "No, dear Nimbletongue," he said at last, through a screen of smoke,"not Friday, either." He smiled, shaking his head.

  Disquiet began to paint itself in Adrian's mien.

  "Name your own day." He waited, anxious, in suspense.

  Anthony chuckled.

  "My own day is no day. I have n't the faintest desire to make the goodwoman's acquaintance, and I shall not call on her at all."

  Adrian stretched out appealing hands.

  "But Anthony--" he adjured him.

  "No," said Anthony, with determination. "I 'm not a calling man. AndI 've come down here for rest and recreation. I 'll pay no calls. Letthat be understood. Calls, quotha! And in the country, at that. Oh,don't I know them? Oh, consecrated British dulness! The smug faces,the vacuous grins; the lifeless, limping attempts at conversation; thestares of suspicious incomprehension if you chance to say a thing thathas a point; and then, the thick, sensible, slightly muddy boots. I'll pay no calls. And as for making acquaintances--save me from thoseI 've made already. In broad England I can recall but threeacquaintances who are n't of a killing sameness;--and one of those," heconcluded sadly, with a bow to his companion, "one of those is fat, andgrows old."

  "Poor lad," Adrian commiserated him. "You are tired and overwrought.Go to your room, and have a bath and a brush up. That will refreshyou. Then, at half-past four, you can renew the advantages of mysociety at tea in the garden. Oh, you 'll find your room quite ready.I 've felt a pricking in my thumbs any time these three months. ShallI send Wick?"

  "Yes, if you will be so good," said Anthony. He rose, and movedtowards the staircase.

  Adrian waited till he had reached the top.

  Then, "You 'll meet her whether you like or not on Sunday. Where onearth do you suppose she hears her Mass?" he called after him.

  "Oh, hang," Anthony called back.

  For, sure enough, unless she drove seven miles to Wetherleigh, wherecould she hear her Mass, but as his guest, in the chapel of his house?