Love's Shadow. Ada Leverson
sapphire-coloured; brilliant, frank eyes, with a subtle mischief in them, softened by the most conciliating long eyelashes. Then, her mouth was really shaped like a Cupid's bow, and her teeth were dazzling; also she had a wealth of dense, soft, brown hair and a tall, sylphlike, slimly-rounded figure. Her features were delicately regular, and her hands and feet perfection. Her complexion was extremely fair, so she was not a brunette; some remote Spanish ancestor on her mother's side was, however, occasionally mentioned as an apology for a type and a supple grace sometimes complained of by people with white eyelashes as rather un-English. So many artistic young men had told her she was like La Gioconda, that when she first saw the original in the Louvre she was so disappointed that she thought she would never smile again.
About ten minutes after the pretty creature had gone out, Anne, who had kept her eyes steadily on the clock, looked out of the window, from which she could see a small brougham driving up. She called out into the hall—
'If that's Sir Charles Cannon, tell him Miss Verney is out, but I have a message for him.'
A minute later there entered a thin and distinguished-looking, grey-haired man of about forty-five, wearing a smile of such excessive cordiality that one felt it could only have been brought to his well-bred lips by acute disappointment. Anne did not take the smile literally, but began to explain away the blow.
'I'm so sorry,' she said apologetically. 'I'm afraid it's partly my fault. When she suddenly decided to go out with that little Mrs. Ottley, she told me vaguely to telephone to you. But how on earth could I know where you were?'
'How indeed? It doesn't matter in the least, my dear Miss Yeo. I mean, it's most unfortunate, as I've just a little free time. Lady Cannon's gone to a matinée at the St. James's. We had tickets for the first night, but of course she wouldn't use them then. She preferred to go alone in the afternoon, because she detests the theatre, anyhow, and afternoon performances give her a headache. And if she does a thing that's disagreeable to her, she likes to do it in the most painful possible way. She has a beautiful nature.'
Anne smiled, and passed him a little gold box.
'Have a cigarette?' she suggested.
'Thanks—I'm not really in a bad temper. But why this relapse of devotion to little Mrs. Ottley? And why are you and I suddenly treated with marked neglect?'
'Mrs. Ottley,' said Anne, 'is one of those young women, rather bored with their husbands, who are the worst possible companions for Hyacinth. They put her off marrying.'
'Bored, is she? She didn't strike me so. A pleasant, bright girl. I suppose she amuses Hyacinth?'
'Yes; of course, she's not a dull old maid over forty, like me,' said
Anne.
'No-one would believe that description of you,' said Sir Charles, with a bow that was courtly but absent. As a matter of fact, he did believe it, but it wasn't true.
'If dear little Mrs. Ottley,' he continued, 'married in too great a hurry, far be it from me to reproach her. I married in a hurry myself—when Hyacinth was ten.'
'And when she was eighteen you were very sorry,' said Anne in her colourless voice.
'Don't let us go into that, Miss Yeo. Of course, Hyacinth is a beautiful—responsibility. People seem to think she ought to have gone on living with us when she left school. But how was it possible? Hyacinth said she intended to live for her art, and Lady Cannon couldn't stand the scent of oils.' He glanced round the large panelled-oak room in which not a picture was to be seen. The only indication of its having ever been meant for a studio was the north light, carefully obstructed (on the grounds of unbecomingness) by gently-tinted draperies of some fabric suggesting Liberty's. 'Life wasn't worth living, trying to keep the peace!'
'But you must have missed her?'
'Still, I prefer coming to see her here. And knowing she has you with her is, after all, everything.'
He looked a question.
'Yes, she has. I mean, she seems rather—absorbed again lately,' said
Anne.
'Who is it?' he asked. 'I always feel so indiscreet and treacherous talking over her private affairs like this with you, though she tells me everything herself. I'm not sure it's the act of a simple, loyal, Christian English gentleman; in fact, I'm pretty certain it's not. I suppose that's why I enjoy it so much.'
'I daresay,' said Anne; 'but she wouldn't mind it.'
'What has been happening?'
'Nothing interesting. Hazel Kerr came here the other day and brought with him a poem in bronze lacquer, as he called it. He read it aloud—the whole of it.'
'Good heavens! Poetry! Do people still do that sort of thing? I thought it had gone out years ago—when I was a young man.'
'Of course, so it has. But Hazel Kerr is out of date. Hyacinth says he's almost a classic.'
'His verses?'
'Oh no! His method. She says he's an interesting survival—he's walked straight out of another age—the nineties, you know. There were poets in those days.'
'Method! He was much too young then to have a style at all, surely!'
'That was the style. It was the right thing to be very young in the nineties. It isn't now.'
'It's not so easy now, for some of us,' murmured Sir Charles.
'But Hazel keeps it up,' Anne answered.
Sir Charles laughed irritably. 'He keeps it up, does he? But he sits people out openly, that shows he's not really dangerous. One doesn't worry about Hazel. It's that young man who arrives when everybody's going, or goes before anyone else arrives, that's what I'm a little anxious about.'
'If you mean Cecil Reeve, Hyacinth says he doesn't like her.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. If anything will interest her, that will. Yet I don't know why I should mind. At any rate, he certainly isn't trying to marry her for interested reasons, as he's very well off—or perhaps for any reasons. I'm told he's clever, too.'
'His appearance is not against him either,' said Anne dryly; 'so what's the matter with him?'
'I don't know exactly. I think he's capable of playing with her.'
'Perhaps he doesn't really appreciate her,' suggested Anne.
'Oh, yes, he does. He's a connoisseur—confound him! He appreciates her all right. But it's all for himself—not for her. By the way, I've heard his name mentioned with another woman's name. But I happen to know there's nothing in it.'
'Would you really like her to marry soon?' Anne asked.
'In her position it would be better, I suppose,' said her guardian, with obvious distaste to the idea.
'Has there ever been anyone that you thoroughly approved of?' asked
Anne.
He shook his head.
'I rather doubt if there ever will be,' Anne said.
'She's so clever, so impulsive! She lives so much on her emotions. If she were disappointed—in that way—it would mean so much to her,' Sir Charles said.
'She does change rather often,' said Anne.
'Of course, she's never really known her own mind.' He took a letter out of his pocket. 'I came partly to show her a letter from Ella—my girl at school in Paris, you know. Hyacinth is so kind to her. She writes to me very confidentially. I hope she's being properly brought up!'
'Let me read it.'
She read—
'DARLING PAPA,
'I'm having heavenly fun at school. Last night there was a ball for Madame's birthday. A proper grown-up ball, and we all danced.