Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III). William Black
the pale and clear complexion. She had crossed her feet; her fan lay idle in her lap; she regarded him from under those long, out-curving lashes.
"They cannot hear you," she said – perhaps thinking that he was silent out of politeness to the innocent young damsels who were doing their best at the piano – "and you cannot hear them, which is also fortunate. Music is either divine – or intolerable; what they are doing is not divine; I have been listening. But good music – ah, well, it is not to be spoken of. Only this; isn't it strange that the two things that can preserve longest for you associations with some one you have been fond of are music and scent? Not painting – not any portrait; not poetry – not anything you have read, or may read: but music and scent. You will discover that some day."
He laughed.
"How curiously you talk! I dare say I am older than you – though that is not saying much."
"But I have seen the world," said she, with a smile, almost of sadness.
"Not half of what I have seen of it, I'll answer for that."
"Oh, but you," she continued, regarding him with much favour and kindliness, "you are an ingénu– you have the frank English character – you would believe a good deal – in any one you cared for, I mean."
"I suppose I should," he said, simply enough. "I hope so."
"But as I say," she resumed, "the two things that preserve associations the longest – and are apt to spring on you suddenly – are music and scent. You may have forgotten in every other direction; oh, yes, forgetting is very easy, as you will find out; for 'constancy lives in realms above,' and not here upon earth at all: well, when you have forgotten the one you were fond of, and cannot remember, and perhaps do not care to remember all that happened at that too blissful period of life – then, on some occasion or another there chances to come a fragment of a song, or a whiff of scent, and behold! all that bygone time is before you again, and you tremble, you are bewildered! Oh, I assure you," she went on, with a very charming smile, "it is not at all a pleasant experience. You think you had buried all that past time, and hidden away the ghosts; you are beginning to feel pretty comfortable and content with all existing circumstances; and then – a few notes of a violin – a passing touch of perfume – and your heart jumps up as if it had been shot through with a rifle-ball. What is your favourite scent?" she asked, somewhat abruptly.
"Sandal-wood," said he (for surely that was revealing no secret?)
"Then she wore a string of sandal-wood beads," said Mrs. de Lara, with a quick look.
He was silent.
"And perhaps she gave them to you as a keep-sake?" was the next question.
Here, indeed, he was startled; and she noticed it; and laughed a little.
"No, I am not a witch," she said. "All that has happened before now: do you think you are the first? Why, I'm sure, now, you've worn those beads next your heart, in the daytime, and made yourself very uncomfortable; yes, and you've tried wearing them at night, and couldn't sleep because they hurt you. Never mind, I will tell you what to do: get them made into a watch chain, with small gold links connecting the beads; and when you wear it with evening dress, every woman will recognise it as a love-gift – every one of them will say 'A girl gave him that.'"
"Perhaps I might not wish to make a display of it," said Vincent.
"Then you're in the first stage of inconstancy," said she, promptly. "If you're not madly anxious that the whole world should know you have won her favour, then you've taken the first step on the downward road to indifference; you are regarding certain things as bygone, and your eyes are beginning to rove elsewhere. Well, why not? It's the way of the world. It's human nature. At the same time I want to hear some more about the young lady of the sandal-wood necklace."
"I have told you more than I intended," he answered her.
"You haven't told me anything: I guessed for myself."
"Well, now, I am going to ask your advice," said he – for how could he tell but that this bright, alert, intrepid person, with her varied experience of the world, might be able to help him? She was far different from Maisrie, to be sure; different as night from day; but still she was a woman; and she might perhaps be able to interpret a nature wholly alien from her own.
So she sate mute and attentive, and watching every expression of his face, while he put before her a set of imaginary circumstances. It was not his own story; but just so much of it as might enable her to give him counsel. And he had hardly finished when she said —
"You don't know where to find her; and yet you have never thought of a means of bringing her to you at once?"
"What means?" said he.
"Why, it is so simple!" she exclaimed. "Have you no invention? But I will tell you, then. As soon as you land in New York, get yourself knocked over by a tram-car. The accident to the rich young Englishman who has just arrived in America will be in all the papers, and will lose nothing in the telling. Your father's name is known; you have recently been elected a member of Parliament; they will make the most of the story – and of course you needn't say your life is not in danger. Then on the wings of love the fair one comes flying; flops down by the side of your bed, in tears; perhaps she would even consent to a marriage – if you were looking dreadfully pale; then you could get well again in double quick time – and live happy ever after."
She was still watching him from under her long, indolent lashes; and of a sudden she changed her tone.
"Are you vexed? You find me not sympathetic? Perhaps I am not. Perhaps I am a little incredulous. You have told me very little; but I surmise; and when a young lady remains away from her lover, and does not wish it to be known where she is, then I confess I grow suspicious. Instead of 'Seek the woman,' it is 'Find the man' – oh, I mean in most cases – I mean in most cases – not in all – you must not misunderstand me!"
"In this case you are mistaken, then," said Vincent, briefly.
Indeed the gay young grass-widow found that she could not get very far into Vincent's confidence in this matter; and when she indulged in a little pleasantry, he grew reserved and showed a disposition to withdraw; whereupon she thought it better to give up the subject altogether. But she did not give him up; on the contrary, she took possession of him more completely than ever; and made no secret of the favour she bestowed on him. For example, there was an amateur photographer on board; and one morning (everybody knew everybody else by this time) he came up to Mrs. de Lara, who was seated in her deck-chair, with a little band of devoted slaves and admirers surrounding her.
"Mrs. de Lara," said he, "I've taken nearly everybody on board except you. Aren't you going to give me a chance?"
"Oh, yes," said she. "Yes, certainly." Then she looked round, and added, in the most natural way in the world – "But where is Mr. Harris?"
"He's in the saloon writing letters – I saw him there a minute ago," said one of the bystanders.
"Won't somebody go and fetch him?" she continued. "We ought to be all in – if Mr. Searle can manage it."
Accordingly Vincent was summoned from below, and forthwith made his appearance.
"You come and sit by me, Mr. Harris," said the young matron. "It would look absurd to have one sitting and all the others standing."
"Oh, no – this will do," said Vincent, seating himself on a signal-cannon that was close to the rail, while he steadied himself by putting a hand on the shrouds.
"Not at all," she protested, with a certain imperious wilfulness. "You're too far over; you'll be out of the picture altogether. There is Isabel's chair over there: fetch that."
And, of course, he had to do as he was bid; though it was rather a conspicuous position to assume. Then, when that negative was taken, she would have the grouping altered; Vincent had to stand by her side, with his arm on her chair; again he had to seat himself on the deck at her feet; whatever suggestions were made by the artist, she managed somehow that she and Vincent should be together. And when, next day, the bronze-brown proofs were handed about, they were very much admired – except, perhaps, by the lady-passengers, who could not