"And you couldn't do district visiting and soup kitchens and mothers' meetings"—put in Mrs. Courtenay—"It would be too sordid and dull for words. In fact, you wil simply die of ennui down here when the summer is over. Now, if you married Roxmouth—-"
"There would be a gall-moon, instead of a honey one," said Maryllia, calmly,—"But there won't be either. I MUST finish my letters! Do you mind leaving me to myself?"
Mrs. Courtenay tossed her head, bit her lip, and rustled out of the room in a huff. She reported her ill-success with 'Maryllia Van' to her husband, who, in his turn, reported it to Lord Roxmouth, who straightway conveyed these and all other items of the progress or retrogression of his wooing to Mrs. Fred Vancourt. That lady, however, felt so perfectly confident that Roxmouth would,—with the romantic surroundings of the Manor, and the exceptional opportunities afforded by long afternoons and moonlit evenings,— succeed where he had hitherto failed, that she almost selected Maryllia's bridal gown, and went so far as to study the most elaborate designs for wedding-cakes of a millionaire description.
"For,"—said she, with comfortable self-assurance—"St. Rest, as I remember it, is just the dullest place I ever heard of, except heaven! There are no men in it except dreadful hunting, drinking provincial creatures who ride or play golf all day, and go to sleep after dinner. That kind of thing will never suit Maryllia. She will contrast Roxmouth with the rural boors, and as a mere matter of good taste, she will acknowledge his superiority. And she will do as I wish in the long run,—she will be Duchess of Ormistoune."
XXII
The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular summer. He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do,—nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living. All his occupations seemed to him very humdrum,—his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in punting,—the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,—the water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil—besides, why go punting when there was nobody but one's self to punt? Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated from him. Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt's guests. Everything went 'up to the Manor '—or came 'down from the Manor'—the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor— and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board—'a banner with a strange device'—painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said:
PETROL STORED HERE.
This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.
"You'll be settin' the 'ouse on fire, Mr. Netlips, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Frost, severely, putting her arms akimbo, and sniffing at the board as though she could smell the spirit it proclaimed—"You don't know nothink about petrol! An' we ain't goin' to have motor-cars often 'ere, please the Lord's goodness!"
Mr. Netlips smiled a superior smile.