Even when she scowled, Fair Carter was more distracting looking than any one young woman has a right to be. She was very small—absurdly small sitting bolt upright in the great dark bed—but she had enough charms to equip any six ladies of ordinary size and aspirations. There was the ruffled glory of her hair, warmer than gold, brighter than bronze, and her rain-coloured eyes—and the small, warm mouth, and the elfin tilt to her brows. There was that look about her, eager and reckless and adventurous, that made your heart contract, when you remembered what life did to the eager and reckless and adventurous. It had made a great many hearts contract. It had made one despairing young adorer from Richmond say: “Fair always looks as though she were carrying a flag—and listening to drums.” And it had wrung tribute from her father, who had been all her family and all her world, and who had adored her even more than the young man from Richmond. “She’s the bravest of all the fighting Carters, is my Fair. And never quite so brave as when she’s frightened. Panic arms her with really desperate valour!”
The bravest of the fighting Carters swallowed the dregs of the coffee bowl, pushed the tray from her, and bestowed a sudden and enchanting smile on one of the dark carved figures on the bedposts. There were four of them, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, but she liked Mark the best. He had a very stern face and a little lion.
“Morning,” she saluted him affably, and if St. Mark’s head had not been made of walnut he would have lost it. She had kept the most potent of her charms in reserve, like a true daughter of Eve. Fair’s extravagant prettiness might steel the sceptical, leading them to argue that so ornamental a head must necessarily be empty, and that no one could look that way long without becoming unbearably vain, spoiled, and capricious. But if she spoke just once—if she said any three indifferent words at random—the veriest sceptic was undone for ever. Because Fair had a Voice. Not the coloratura kind—perhaps Patti could do more justice to Caro Nome—but a voice which Galli-Curci and the nightingale and the running brook and church bells and Sarah Bernhardt might well envy. She could sing a little—small, candle-lit songs about love, and absurdly stirring things that had marched down through the centuries, and haunting bits of lullabies—she had a trick of chanting them under her breath, as though it were to herself that she was singing. But when she spoke—ah, then any coloratura that ever lived might well shed tears of bitter envy. For the voice that Fair Carter used for such homely purposes as wishing lucky mortals good day and good night and God-speed was compact of magic. It was wine and velvet and moonlight and laughter and mystery—and for all its enchantment, it was as clear and honest as a nice little boy’s. It did remarkable things to the English language. Fair would have widened her eyes in cool disdain at the idea of indulging in such far-advertised Southern tricks as “you all” and “Ah raickon” and “honey lamb,” but she managed to linger over vowels and elude consonants in a way that did not even remotely suggest the frozen North. It reduced English to such a satisfactory state of submission that she only experimented half heartedly with any other language. A Chinaman would have understood her when she said “Please”—a Polynesian would have thrilled responsive to her “Thank you.”
Therefore she had gone serenely on her way during those two terrible and thrilling years in France, those three terrible and bitter years in Germany, ignoring entirely the fact that the Teutons had a language of their own, and acquiring just enough of the Gallic tongue to enable her to indulge in the gay and hybrid banter of her beloved doughboys—a swift patter consisting largely of “Ah oui,” “ça ne fait rien” and “pas compris!” It had served her purpose admirably for a good five years, but it had proved a broken reed during the past five weeks. The De Lautrecs were capable of speaking almost any kind of French—Monsieur le Vicomte leaned toward a nice mixture of Bossuet and Anatole France, Madame his ancient and regal mother to Marivaux with sprightly touches of Voltaire, Laure and Diane, to René Bazin when they were being supervised and Gyp when they weren’t—Philippe le Gai to a racy and thrilling idiom, at once virile and graceful, as old as the Chanson de Roland, as new as Sacha Guitry’s latest comedy. But after several courteous and tense attempts to exchange amenities with Laure’s “Little American” they had abandoned the tongue of their fathers and devoted their earnest attention to mastering the English language. It was easy enough for Philippe and Laure, of course; they already knew a great deal more about English literature than Fair had dreamed existed, though they tripped over the spoken word, but the other members of the family laboured sternly and industriously, while their small guest surveyed their efforts with indulgent amusement. It seemed quite natural and reasonable to Fairfax Carter they they should continue to do so indefinitely—they wanted to talk to her, didn’t they? Well, then! They were getting on quite well, too, she reflected benevolently, still smiling at St. Mark, who stared back at her so unresponsively that she suddenly ceased to smile.
“I suppose you don’t understand English, either?” she demanded severely. “’Bout time a little old thing like you started to learn it, I should think!”
Her eye wandered to the travelling clock ticking competently away on the desk, and rested there for an electrified second.
“Mercy!” she murmured, appalled, and was out of the bed and across the room with all the swift grace of a kitten. Half-past nine, and the De Chartreuil boys were to ride over for a game of “croquo-golf” at ten! Her toes curled rebelliously at the contact of the cold flags, but she ignored them stoically, pouncing on the copper jug and whirling across the room like a small, bright tempest. What a divine day, chanted her heart, suddenly exultant, as she splashed the water recklessly and tumbled into her clothes. It was wonderful to feel almost well again—to feel weariness slipping from her like a worn-out garment. The sun came flooding in through the deep windows, gilding the faded hangings—gilding the vivid head—she could hear horses’ hoofs beneath her window, and she flung it wide, leaning far out.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Raoul—bonjour, Monsieur André! Oh, Laure, are you down already?”
“Already? This hour, small lazy one! Quick now, or we leave thee!”
“No, no,” wailed Fair. “I’ll be there—I’m almost there now, truly. Save the red mallet for me, angel darling—it’s the only one I can hit with. Don’t let her go, Monsieur André!”