A Question of Marriage. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
promised to be unusually long, for, mindful of her early departure, Vanna had refused to fill her programme beyond a certain point, and now supper arrangements had upset the sequence of dances, substituting for the printed items a number of extras, for which she had made no engagements. She had all a normal girl’s hatred of the part of wallflower, and was contemplating a retreat upstairs, when the daughter of the house suddenly approached and addressed her by name:
“Miss Strangeways, is it possible that you have a dance to spare? I have a truant here who has just made his appearance, and expects me to find partners at this hour of the night. He doesn’t deserve any mercy, but if you could take pity upon him, it would be very noble.”
Vanna looked past the speaker and beheld a tall, spare man, with a sunburnt face, out of which a pair of brown eyes smiled at her with the frankness of a lifelong friend, rather than a complete stranger. It was impossible not to smile back, and it was with a reviving thrill of interest that she held out her programme, saying laughingly:
“My partners for the regular dances are busy eating boned turkey, while I am left lamenting. I am not engaged for the extras.”
“Ah! that is fortunate! Let me introduce you, then, in due form. Mr. Gloucester—Miss Strangeways … You are a lucky man, Rob, to find Miss Strangeways disengaged.”
She rustled away, and the tall man seated himself by Vanna’s side with a sigh of content. He did not ask for dances, however, and it was she who made the first move towards conversation.
“Have you really just arrived, or is that merely a figure of speech? You have not been dancing at all?”
He shook his head.
“I have not been in the room five minutes. I am an even worse offender than you suppose, for I am staying in the house. I did not intend to come down at all. I was going to bed, but there was such a confounded noise going on that there seemed no chance of sleep—”
For the first time that evening Vanna found herself surprised into a bright, natural laugh. The man’s utter unconsciousness redeemed his remark from any hint of rudeness; and she felt nothing but pure refreshment in so unusual a point of view. She leant back in her chair, looking at him over the top of a waving fan, with a scrutiny as frankly unembarrassed as his own. The deep tan of his skin spoke of a sojourn under eastern skies, as did also the lines round the eyes—the result of constant puckerings to avoid the sun’s glare. His hair was brushed in a straight line across his forehead, the chin itself was slightly square, but the line of the jaw was finely, even delicately rounded; he was clean shaven, and his mouth was good to look at, the lips well shaped, and fitting closely together. His age might have been anything from thirty to thirty-five, but there was something inherently boyish in manner and expression.
“You evidently don’t care for dancing.”
“No! I’m out of practice. I have been abroad for the last ten years, in out-of-the-way places for the most part, where balls don’t come into the programme. I’m afraid I’m not much of a partner, but if you will be good enough to try—”
“But I am not anxious to dance any more. I am tired and hot. If you are contented to talk—”
“You mean it? Really? That is jolly!” he cried eagerly. “Then, what do you say—shall we go to the balcony? It’s quieter there, and we may get a breath of air. There are some comfortable chairs, I know, for I helped to arrange them.”
Vanna rose, nothing loath. The evening was closing more pleasantly than she had anticipated, for this Mr. Gloucester was a distinct change from the ordinary habitué of the ballroom, and his conversation promised to afford some interest. She seated herself in a corner of the balcony and put a leading question:
“You say you have lived abroad. Where does that mean? India?”
“India mostly; but I have done a lot of wandering about.”
“Are you by any chance a soldier?”
“Thank Heaven, no!”
She was both startled and amused by the vehemence of his denial, and looked at him curiously with her wide, grey eyes.
“Why this fervour? Most men would consider it a compliment to be asked such a question. Do you despise soldiers so heartily?”
“No, I don’t. As the times go, they are a necessary evil, and there are fine fellows among them—splendid fellows, one ought to be grateful to them for their self-sacrifice; but for my own part I’m unspeakably thankful to have escaped. Think of spending all one’s life preparing for, playing at, a need which may never arise—which one hopes may never arise. I couldn’t endure it. Give me active service the whole time—the more active the better.”
“Service in what capacity? As a—”
“Oh, I have no profession. I am just an ordinary business man—buying and selling, and watching the markets, like the rest.”
“Humph!” Vanna pursed her lips with a militant air. “I think a very good case might be made for the soldier versus the merchant. He works, or waits, for the good of his country. There is precious little to be made out of it from a personal point of view. A merchant’s aim is entirely selfish. He is absorbed in piling up his own fortune.”
Mr. Gloucester laughed.
“Oh, you are too down on the poor merchants, Miss Strangeways. They have their own share in helping on the country, and it’s not every man who can get a fortune to pile. I can’t, for one. The faculty of gaining money is as inherent as the writing of poetry. Some fellows like myself can never attain to it.” He held out his right hand, pointing smilingly at the hollow palm. “Look at that. Palmists would tell you that with that hand I shall never ‘hold money.’ The day may come when I should be thankful to exchange my fortune for the soldier’s shilling a day.”
Vanna did not reply. She was looking at that hollowed palm with puckered, thoughtful glance. “Palmist!” she repeated slowly, “fortune-telling! It’s not often one hears a man quoting such an authority; but you have lived in the East. I suppose that unconsciously alters the point of view. India is the land of—what should one call it?—superstition, mysticism, the occult. It is a subject which fascinates me intensely. I know very little about it; I’m not at all sure that it is good to know more; but—it beckons. Tell me, have you seen anything, had any extraordinary experiences? Are the stories true, for instance, that one hears of these native jugglers?”
“Snake-charming, you mean, the boy in the basket, the mango trick? Oh, yes. I’ve seen them often, on the deck of a ship, as well as on the open plain. People say it is hypnotism, that the fellow doesn’t really do it, only makes you think he does; but that’s rubbish. It’s sleight-of-hand, uncommonly clever, of course, but pure and simple conjuring. The mango is chosen because he can get dried-up specimens, several specimens, of different sizes, to which he attaches false roots, and it is a plant which will quickly expand beneath the water with which he deluges the ground. All that sort of tricks can be explained, but there are other things more mysterious: the transmission of news from station to station, so that it is known in the bazaars before the post can bring the letters, the power of reading others’ minds, of seeing into the future.”
“But you don’t believe, you can’t seriously believe that that is possible?”
Robert Gloucester bent forward, his elbows crossed on his knees, his brown, extraordinarily clear eyes fixed on her face.
“Why not? How shall one dare to put a limit to what is possible even in material things? Look at this new electricity, for instance. One cannot imagine all that it may mean in improved facilities for the world. Its power seems immense—illimitable. If we live to grow old, Miss Strangeways, we shall see things as everyday occurrences which would seem fairy-tale impossibilities to-day. The most conservative man would hardly deny that; then why should he be presumptuous enough to suppose that in the spiritual plane we have reached the limits of our powers? It is unthinkable. There are forces—binding