The Lady Paramount

by Henry Harland

  XIX

  It was nearly time to dress for dinner when Anthony returned to CrafordOld Manor.

  Adrian, his collar loosened, his hair towzled, his head cockedcritically to one side, was in his business-room, seated at his piano,playing over and over again a single phrase, and now and then making alittle alteration in it, which he would hurriedly jot down in amanuscript music-book, laid open on a table at his elbow.

  "Are n't you going for a holiday this summer?" Anthony asked, withlanguor, lounging in.

  "Hush-sh-sh!" said Adrian, intent upon his manuscript, waving anadmonitory hand.

  "It's time to dress," said Anthony. He lighted a cigarette.

  Adrian strummed through his phrase again, brows knitted, lookingintensely judicial. Then he swung round on his piano-stool.

  "Hey? What did you say?" he questioned, his blue eyes vague, his pinkface blank.

  "I merely asked whether you were n't going for a holiday this summer,"Anthony repeated, between two outputs of smoke.

  "And you interrupt a heaven-sent musician, when you see the fit's uponhim, merely to ask an irrelevant thing like that," Adrian reproved him."I was holding an assize, a gaol-delivery. That phrase was on trialbefore me for its life. In art, sir, one should imitate the methods ofa hanging judge. Put every separate touch on trial for its life, anddeem it guilty till it can prove itself innocent. Yea, even thoughthese same touches be dear to you as her children to a mother. Such isthe high austerity of art. I thought you said it was time to dress."

  "So it is," said Anthony. "Are n't you going for a holiday thissummer?"

  Adrian closed his music-book, and got up.

  "Of course I am," he answered.

  "When?" said Anthony.

  "In September, as usual," said Adrian.

  "I was wondering," said Anthony, twiddling his cigarette, "whether youwould mind taking your holiday a little earlier than usual thisyear--in August, for instance?"

  "Why?" asked Adrian, with caution.

  "It would suit me better, I could spare you better," Anthony said.

  Adrian eyed him suspiciously.

  "In August? We 're in August now, are n't we?"

  "I believe so," said Anthony. "Either August or late July. One couldfind out from the almanac, I suppose. It would suit me very well ifyou could take your holiday now--at once."

  Adrian's suspicion became acute.

  "What are you up to? What do you want to get rid of _me_ for?"

  Anthony smoked.

  "I don't want to get rid of you. On the contrary--I 'll go with you,if you like."

  Adrian scrutinized him searchingly, suspicion reinforced byastonishment. All at once his eyes flashed.

  "Aha!" he cried. "I see what you 've been at. You 've been trying tophilander with the Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebianca--and she 's sent youabout your business. Oh, _I 've_ seen how things were going." Hewinked and nodded.

  "Nothing of the sort," said Anthony. "You might tell Wickersmith topack our things. We 'll take the eight-fifteen up to-morrow morning.That will get us to Victoria in time for the eleven o'clock Continentalexpress."

  "Oh? We 're going abroad?" asked Adrian.

  "I suppose so. Where else is there to go?" said Anthony.

  "I could have told you beforehand," Adrian consoled him, "that you hadn't the ghost of a chance with her. You grim, glum, laconic sort ofmen are n't at all the sort that would appeal to a rich, poetic,southern nature like Madame Torrebianca's. She would be attracted byan exuberant, expansive, warm, sunny sort of man,--a man genial andfruity, like old wine,--sweet and tender and mellow, like ripe peaches.If it were n't that I sternly discountenance the imperilling ofbusiness interests by mixing them up with personal sentiment, I shouldvery probably have paid court to her myself. And now I expect you havelost me a tenant. I expect she 'll not care to renew the lease."

  "Don't know, I 'm sure," said Anthony. "You might ask her. We 'redining with her to-night. That would make a graceful dinner-tabletopic."

  Adrian's blue eyes grew round.

  "We 're dining with her to-night?"

  That did n't at all fit his theory of the case.

  "At least I am," affirmed Anthony, dropping the end of his cigaretteinto an ash-tray. "And she said I might bring you, if you 'd promiseto be good."

  "_The--deuce_!" ejaculated Adrian, in something between a whisper and awhistle. "But--then--why--what--what under the sun are you goingabroad for?"

  "A mere whim--a sheer piece of perversity--a sleeveless errand,"Anthony answered. "So now we might set about sweeping and garnishingourselves," he suggested, moving towards the door.

  Susanna was very beautiful, I think, in a rose-coloured dinner-gown(rose-coloured chiffon, with accessories of drooping old pale-yellowishlace), a spray of scarlet geranium in her hair, pearls round herthroat, and, as you could now and then perceive, high-heeled scarletslippers on her feet.

  She was very beautiful, very pleasant and friendly; and if she seemed,perhaps, a thought less merry, a thought more pensive, than herwont--if sometimes, for a second or two, she seemed to lose herself,while her eyes gazed far away, and her lips remained slightly parted--Idoubt if Anthony liked her any the less for this.

  But what he pined for was a minute alone with her; and that appeared tobe by no means forthcoming. After dinner they all went out upon theterrace, where it was lighted by the open French windows of thedrawing-room, and reposed in wicker chairs, whilst they sipped theircoffee. He looked at her, and his heart grew big--with grief, withresentment, with delight, with despair, with hope. "She cares forme--she has said it, she has shown it. But then why does she send meon this egregious wild-goose chase? She cares for me. But then whydoes n't she arrange to give me a minute alone with her to-night?"

  In the end,--well, was it Adrian, or was it Miss Sandus, whom he had tothank for their minute alone?

  "Why does nobody say, 'Dear kind Mr. Willes, do be nice, and sing ussomething'?" Adrian plaintively inquired.

  Anthony grasped the skirts of happy chance.

  "Dear kind Mr. Willes, do be nice, and sing us something," he said atonce.

  "I 'll play your accompaniments," volunteered Miss Sandus.

  And she and the songster went into the drawing-room.

  "Thank heaven," said Anthony, under his breath, but fervently, gazinghard at Susanna.

  She gave a little laugh.

  "What are you laughing at?" he asked.

  "At your sudden access of piety," said she.

  "At any rate," said he, "I owe no thanks to _you_. For all you cared,apparently, we should have spent the whole of this last preciousevening surrounded by strangers."

  "Mamam, dites-moi ce qu'on sent Quand on aime,"

  came the voice of Adrian from within.

  "If you talk, we can't hear the music," said Susanna.

  "Bother the music," responded Anthony.

  "It was you who asked him to sing," she said.

  "Bother his singing. This is my last evening with you. Do you think awoman has the right to be as gloriously beautiful as you are to-night?Do you think it's fair to the feelings of a poor wretched man, whoadores her, and whom she, in mere wanton wickedness, is sending to theuttermost ends of the earth?"

  Susanna had her fan of white feathers in her lap. She caressed it.

  "I want to ask you something," said Anthony.

  "What is it?" said she.

  "A piece of information, to help me on my journey. Will you give itme?"

  "If I can, of course," said she, putting her fan on the table.

  "You promise?" said he.

  "If I have any information that can be of use to you, I 'll give itwith pleasure," she agreed.

  "Very good. That's a promise," said he. "Now then, for my question.I love you. Do you love me?"

  He looked hard at her.

  She laughed, in acknowledgment that she had been fairly caught. Thenher eyes softened.

  "Yes," she s
aid.

  But before he could move, she had sprung up, and disappeared throughone of the French windows, joining Miss Sandus and Adrian at the piano.

  In her flight, however, she forgot her fan. It lay where she had leftit on the table.

  Anthony picked it up, pressed it to his face. He closed his eyes, andkept it pressed to his face. Its fragrance was more than a merefragrance--there was something of herself in it, something poignantly,intimately personal.

  By and by he put the fan in his pocket, in the inside pocket of hiscoat--feathers downwards, the better to conceal it. Then he too joinedthe group at the piano.