CHAPTER XIX
The Court, the ancestral home of the Wainbridges, was purchased by the present owner’s father (with the furniture and the portraits) from a family whose possessions consisted of a very ancient title and many debts. Common sense was not included in their inheritance. That they could ever live with a plain cook and a house-parlourmaid and pay their debts never occurred to them.
The Court was built in a circular shape, with what Lady Wainbridge called “heathen pillars,” and a long flight of steps led up to the door. The gardens were beautiful and the flowers took prizes at shows. The house was dreary and not clean. The servants were celebrated for their piety, therefore other virtues were not required; most of them were “reclaimed.”
Lord Wainbridge was in the garden when his nephew arrived. Lady Wainbridge considered fresh air on Sunday a sin, except what little was imbibed when going to and from church in a brougham at eleven o’clock. She held a “Gospel Reunion” in the drawing-room after lunch, which her husband refused to attend.
For some time the two men admired the roses; they were late ones, and a new kind.
“I did not come to see Miss Archer,” said the elder man, “because you never asked me to do so. You made no formal announcement of your engagement to me.”
“Launa has been in mourning for her father. Nothing is settled—yet.”
“It will be soon? I am tired of this life,” said Lord Wainbridge. “I want to be free. I am going to make this place over to you, Hugh.”
His nephew started.
“To me? I cannot express my sense of your goodness to me.”
“Get married soon,” answered his uncle; “when there is an heir I shall feel happy. Your aunt dislikes the Court, and after you marry I shall not feel the need of being even respectable. I can live as I like.”
“You are too good to me. I cannot tell you what I feel.”
He felt his thanks were poor, stilted, and feeble, but he did not know how to express himself better.
“I should like to come and see Miss Archer.”
“Call her Launa,” said his nephew. . . . “You believe in marriage?”
“I believe in yours, of course, and in my own—we all believe in what is. Marriage exists—is it a failure? For individuals sometimes, for the many—no, I suppose not, for they still marry. You will be happy.”
“I hope so.”
“I admired Miss Archer—she is a living girl. Your aunt will also go to see her—I believe this week is a week of solitude and seclusion with your aunt, but afterwards she will go. You must prepare Miss Archer for some disagreeableness and loud prayers. Your aunt is afflicted in that way on these interesting occasions.”
“Yes,” said the other.
“I should like to have Launa here to stay for a few days; but I fear she might not be very happy. What is your opinion?”
“I will tell her. I am sure she will be grateful to you for all your kindness to us both, but—she is uncertain, and aunt Jane’s remarks might affect her.”
“Uncertain! She loves you? I felt sure when I saw her that it was love. Why is she uncertain?”
“I do not know . . . perhaps I am wrong. Girls often are . . . odd.”
“Sometimes I have hoped you would marry someone with a title, but I like that girl. I received the announcement of your engagement with indifference—it seemed to be only the binding of another man; but now—”
“You wish my marriage to take place soon? You feel as if it would leave you freer—”
“It would make you happier, and me also. I should not be backward about settlements.”
“My aunt may die, and you probably will marry again—”
Lord Wainbridge shook his head.
“No. I shall settle two thousand a year on Miss Archer. She has money, also, I understand?”
“You really desire my marriage?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I will arrange it as quickly as possible.”
“And I may come and see Launa?”
“My dear uncle, do not ask if you may. I am so grateful, more than grateful to you. I hope, and I am sure Launa will feel as I do, that you will make a second home with us.”
And so they parted.
For some days after his conversation with his uncle Mr. Wainbridge found that solitary discourse with his beloved was impossible. She eluded him, and his news grew stale and lost its power of delighting him. Launa had killed his triumph. She let him kiss her forehead sometimes, but they had no twilight walks and no talks.
Any reminder of their approaching marriage was received by her in silence, and he discovered that whereas formerly his love for a woman always cooled at the idea of the approach of matrimony—his pre-matrimonial love was but a star which paled before the heat and light of the rising hymeneal sun. Now his love was the sun, hot sun, which dried up and withered everything; it made his life one intense longing for her. His passion mastered him; everything was subservient to it. He was possessed by one idea, and longed to marry her and soon. He wanted her for his own—absolutely—body and soul. She did not love as he loved; he would kiss her into it—kiss her to know nothing but his love for her. Oh, God, that it should take so long, and need so much patience!
If Launa were only alone! There were Harvey and Bolton—and Paul he feared most of all. He was a prey to uncomfortably apprehensive thoughts, and all day long he had to talk of the garden or of croquet, while the sun of desire was burning him up, and the days were a weariness.
One day Launa was writing letters.
He came in.
“Allein,” he quoted, “zum ersten mal allein.”
She rose hurriedly and glanced at the door which he had shut. It was raining; the windows were closed.
“I am seriously thinking of looking after my affairs in Canada. It would be a long journey,” she said.
“In Canada?” he repeated. “What about your promise to me? Our marriage?”
“I thought you had forgotten about marriage. It is some time since we talked of love—we have talked very little about marriage.”
She undid her scent bottle on her chatelaine.
“Dearest,” he murmured, taking her hand while his heart beat tumultuously. He thought she was jealous, even though he knew she did not love him as he loved her, yet he believed, with the invincible belief of man, that she could be jealous of him. “You must not go to Canada alone. We will go there on our honeymoon!”
This proposition, sweet as it appeared to him, evidently did not raise any feeling of exhilaration in her.
“Canada is too far away for a honeymoon. You would have nothing to do there.”
“We will go to Paris.”
“Very well,” she replied.
Her calmness maddened him.
“Launa, darling, try to love me. I care for you so much; you are all the world to me. I love you—I love you!”
He took her in his arms, and it had all the appearance of a passionate, willing embrace. Paul was just going to open the window to come in. Launa did not see him—he turned round and walked away, and Mr. Wainbridge let her go.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “I hate it, loathe it, and if it were not for you and my pity—my pity, do you hear? I would . . . Sit there and talk rationally. I am a cold stone. I hate love-making, and you are going to be my husband. Have you forgotten the conversation you and I had at Victoria Mansions?”
He sat down by her, and did not answer her question. Instead, he told her all that Lord Wainbridge had said.
“Darling! my beloved! May I tell him it will be soon? Our marriage.”
“Soon?” she repeated drawing away her hand. . . . “I am so lonely, and you are no help. I wish I had someone to help me.”
“Let me.”
“You can’t; don’t you see that? Well, no matter. Will you wait until after lunch—until this evening? Then I will give you an answer.”
“My uncle is anxious to know you. He has been so good to us. We will repay him by being good to him. He needs it.”
“I know; I know.”
“Have you seen the Times?” asked the Member for Hackney, advancing with assurance and sitting down. The Times, he knew, was in the drawing-room; he had just put it down. He had also seen Paul Harvey’s face as he passed the window. Mr. Bolton had no particular feeling for Paul except that of wishing him out of the way. Harvey’s countenance looked as if he meant to go—somewhere. Such a resolution could only portend various developments with Mr. Wainbridge.
Mr. Bolton had just heard and seen in the Times, that he was beyond all doubt Lord Fairmouth.
Miss Cooper had hay fever for two days; no doubt this was due to the second crop of hay having just been cut. Her mother explained this at great length. Sylvia suffered intensely, and her eyes were very red. Everyone pitied her, and she stayed all day in her room; Mrs. Cooper could not stay with her for long, because hay fever is infectious.
“Poor Fairmouth is really dead,” said the Member for Hackney.
“And you are Lord Fairmouth now,” said Launa slowly.
She was thinking of something else; but it appeared to him as if her meditations were about him and his good fortune.
“Yes,” he replied.
Mr. Wainbridge left the room. The house was very quiet. He looked for Paul, but he could not find him. Paul had gone away in the canoe.
Mr. Wainbridge, therefore, was obliged to control the irresistible desire to confide in Paul, and in him only. Paul took such an interest in Launa, so did Lord Fairmouth, but Mr. Wainbridge did not fear him.
It was after dinner, during which meal Mrs. Cooper again discussed hay fever, and the depression consequent thereupon. Mr. Wainbridge was very silent. Lord Fairmouth recommended eucalyptus, and Launa looked pale, even anxious. Paul and the canoe had not returned, and it was growing dark, with a strong wind from the north-east. After dinner she was very restless and wandered about, then she began to play the piano.
Lord Fairmouth went away to write, and Mrs. Cooper retired to bed. She had old-fashioned ideas as to lovers, and regarded them as something almost indecent, requiring constant and frequent privacy.
Launa played on. The wind was shrieking, and then roaring through the tree tops. At last it gave a sudden scream and a yell. She jumped up, and her hands fell on the keys with a crash. A door banged, and a gust of wind clamoured against the window and howled outside.
“Where is Paul?”
She had been playing a Chopin study—number XI.
“Chopin is sometimes hysterical,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Here I am, Launa,” and Paul came in. “You were frightened. The wind is making a tremendous noise. When I opened the front door it was howling and shrieking, and nearly blew the lamps out.”
He took both her hands, and held them firmly. Her colour had come back, and she breathed quickly. There was a pause. Mr. Wainbridge strolled across the room.
“Launa, now is the time to tell Harvey your decision. When shall we be married?”
Paul let her hands go.
“When?” he asked. “Before I return to Canada? I am going soon.”
“In September,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Yes,” said Launa. “Paul, you have not forgotten your promise. You will give me away?”
Mr. Wainbridge gave a sigh of relieved tension. He had dreaded something different. The wind and the étude had affected his nerves also.
After he retired to his bed that night he remembered that Launa had said she was going to Canada. Paul had said so too. Had there been anything in this mutual resolve to go to Canada. Would he have lost her? The possibility—nay, the certainty—of this showed him his proposal for their marriage was only just in time. Her indifference was not the least of her attractions for him.
In two days Lord Wainbridge came to see her. They talked of the weather and of marriage, both of them changeable varieties, and of absorbing interest.
Lord Fairmouth went up to town, and as he went he remembered the Fisheries. Launa and he had talked very little about them. He had left the House of Commons, and she was going to be married.