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Flaming June

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<h3>Chapter Eight.</h3> To Elma it was still a dream, but a dream growing momentarily more wonderful and thrilling. The stupor in her head was passing away, and there was nothing painful in the lassitude which remained. She was just weak and languid, content to lie still in the sunshine, her head resting on one of the cushions from the overturned cart, her eyes turning instinctively to the bronzed face which bent over her with such tender solicitude. As for Geoffrey Greville, he was realising with a curious mingling of dismay and elation that the moment was fated to be historic in the story of his life. For the last two years he had been haunted by the vision of Elma Ramsden’s flower-like face at odd, but by no means inconsequent, moments. When, for instance, his mother expatiated on the duty of marriage for a man in his position, and extolled the fascinations of certain youthful members of county society; when he walked down the long picture-gallery, and regarded the space on the wall where his wife’s portrait might some day hang beside his own; when he sat at the head of his table, and looked across at the opposite space; why was it that in such moments as these the face of this one girl flashed forward, and persistently blocked the way? Elma Ramsden!—just a little, insignificant girl, whom he had met at half a dozen garden parties, and at homes. She did not even belong to the county set, but was the daughter of a funny, dumpy little mother, who disapproved on principle of everything smart and up-to-date—himself emphatically included. The good lady evidently regarded him as a wicked, fox-like creature, whose society was fraught with danger to her tender bantling. He had seen her clucking with agitation as he had sat with Elma beneath the trees. Mrs Greville had a calling acquaintance with the Park ladies, and occasionally referred with a blighting toleration to “Goody Ramsden,” but she never by any chance mentioned Mrs Ramsden’s daughter. Geoffrey was doubtful whether she realised the fact of Elma’s existence. Up till now he himself had drifted along in the easy-going manner of bachelors approaching their thirtieth birthday before the crucial moment arrives which acts as a spark to smouldering flames. He had indulged in lazy day-dreams in which Elma played the part of heroine; had thoroughly enjoyed her society when fate placed her in his way, without, however, exerting himself to take any active steps to secure additional meetings. This afternoon as he walked across the meadow with his friend, he would have indignantly denied the accusation that he was in love, but the historic moment was at hand. A cry for help rang in his ears; above the hedge he caught a glimpse of a white, frenzied face, and saw two hands held out towards him in appeal. The anguished grip of the heart with which he realised at once Elma’s identity, and her peril, was a revelation of his own feelings which could not be reasoned away. As he knelt by her side in those first anxious moments he was perhaps almost as much stunned as herself, for in the flash of an eye his whole life had altered. Where he had doubted, he was now convinced; where he had frivoled, he was in deep, intense earnest; the fact that there would be certain difficulties to overcome only seemed to strengthen the inward determination. If Elma would accept him, she should be his wife though the whole world were against them! And Elma lay and looked at him with her dazed, lovely eyes, allowing him to arrange the cushions under her head with a simple acquiescence which seemed to him the sweetest thing in the world. Now that the first dread was relieved, he felt a guilty satisfaction in the knowledge of her prostration, and of the damage done to horse and cart. It was impossible that she could drive back to Norton without some hours’ rest, and a special providence seemed to have arranged that the accident should take place close to his own gates. He was too much engrossed in his own interests to notice the look which was exchanged between his friend and Cornelia, and as the Captain turned, away discomfited, Geoffrey eagerly addressing his remarks to the girl herself. “I want to get Miss Ramsden up to the house. She must rest and be looked after, and my mother will be delighted—I mean, she’d be awfully distressed if you didn’t come. It’s not far—only a few hundred yards up the avenue. I could carry her easily if she can’t manage to walk.” But at that Elma sat up, a spot of colour shining on her white cheeks. “Ah, but I can; I’m better! I’m really quite well. But it’s giving so much trouble. I could wait in the lodge...” “Indeed you couldn’t; I wouldn’t allow it! There’s no accommodation there, and the children would annoy you. Take my arm and lean on me. Miss—er—your friend will support you on the other side.” “Briskett!” volunteered Cornelia, bowing towards him in gracious acknowledgment. “Now then, Elma, up with you! Guess you’re about sick of that bank by this time. There’s nothing to it but nerves, and that won’t prevent you walking with a prospect of tea ahead. You’re not half as bad as you think you are.” Elma thought she was a good deal worse! The sudden rise to her feet, drawn by two strong hands, brought with it a return of the faintness, and for a moment it seemed as if Geoffrey would have to carry out his first proposition. She struggled bravely, however, and Cornelia forcibly ducked her head forward—a sensible, though on the face of it, rather a callous remedy, of which Geoffrey plainly disapproved. He drew the little hand through his arm, pressing it close to his side, and thus linked together the three made their way to the lodge-gate and up the winding avenue. As they went Cornelia kept casting quick, scrutinising glances at her companions, her brain busily at work trying to place this stranger, whose name had never been mentioned in her hearing, but who yet appeared to take such a deep interest in Elma’s welfare. Once, with a sigh, the girl had regretted that her mother disapproved of “some of the nicest people in the neighbourhood.” Was Geoffrey Greville to be regarded as representing that vague quantity? Again, with a second sigh, Elma had confessed that the county people on their side showed no desire to cultivate her own acquaintance. This afternoon, with a blush, she had maintained that the best road lay through Steadway, though a signpost persistently pointed in another direction. Two sighs, and a blush! In the court of love such evidence is weighty, while of still greater import was the manner in which Elma clung for support to the arm on the right, leaving only the gentlest pressure on that to the left. As for the man himself, there could be no doubt that he had reached the stage of entire subjugation. His whole bearing was instinct with possessive pride, his strong, bronzed features softened into a beautiful tenderness as he watched the flickering colour in Elma’s cheeks, and smiled encouragement into her eyes. He had a good face; a trifle arrogant and self-satisfied, no doubt, but these were failings which would be mitigated by the power of an honest love. For the rest, he looked strong, and brave, and true. Cornelia’s frown gave way to a smile of approval. “I guess it’s just about as ’cute a little romance as you can read for a dollar, and just as English! Her mommar don’t approve of him, ’cause he’s smart and worldly; and his mommar don’t approve of her, ’cause she lives in a row, and don’t mix with the tip-top set. She sits still and mopes, and he sets to and kills the first thing that comes handy, to distract his thoughts, and they’re going to stick right there till the door’s closed, and the lamps give out. This is where you step in, Cornelia Briskett! You’ve got to waltz round and fix up this business while you’ve a chance.—I guess I’ve been a bit too bracing. I’d better begin to feel a bit scared about Elma’s health. ... Seems to me she’s had a pretty bad shock and wants to settle right in, and not risk another move for the next three or four days!...” The scarlet lips twisted whimsically, and a dimple dipped in the white cheek. If there was one thing Cornelia loved above another, it was to feel herself a kind of Deus ex machina, and she experienced a malicious satisfaction in ranging herself on the side of the lovers, in the battle between youth and age. Presently a curve in the road brought the house into view, and the sight of its mullioned windows and old grey stone gables brought with it a sudden remembrance of her own dishevelled condition. The disengaged hand darted up to her head to set the cap at the correct angle, and from thence continued a patting, smoothing-out excursion, productive of distinctly smartening results. Fortunately the long coat had sheltered the dress from harm, so that on reaching the house she could shed it and look “just so.” As for Elma, it was a comfort to see her a little “mussed,” for in her conscientious adherence to order she sacrificed much of the picturesque nature of her beauty. The great oak door stood hospitably open. At the inner glass door an old butler appeared, and was immediately despatched by the Squire to find his mistress, and inform her that her son had brought home two ladies who had experienced a carriage accident at the gates. Meantime Geoffrey led the way into the drawing-room, and while Elma rested thankfully against the cushions on her chair, Cornelia enjoyed her first view of a room in a typical English country house. It fascinated her by its very difference from the gorgeous apartments which took its place in her own country. Space, daintiness, simplicity—these were the first impressions. Long French windows standing open to a velvet stretch of lawn; deep chairs and couches covered with chintz; pale green walls and the fragrance of many flowers. A closer inspection showed the intrinsic value and beauty of each detail which went to make up the charming whole. Sheraton cabinets holding specimens of rare old china; ivory miniatures of Grevilles, dead and gone, simpering in pink-and-white beauty in the velvet cases on the walls; water-colours signed by world-famed artists; wonderful old sconces holding altar-like lines of candles; everywhere the eye turned, something beautiful, rare and interesting, and through it all an unobtrusive good taste, which placed the most precious articles in quiet corners, and filled the foreground with a bower of flowers. “It’s just—gaudy!” said Cornelia to herself, using her favourite superlative with sublime disregard of suitability. She looked across the room to where Elma sat, resting her head against a brocaded blue cushion. One of the half-dozen cases of miniatures hung just behind the chair, and it was impossible not to notice the likeness between the living face and those portrayed on the ivory backgrounds. Actual similarity of feature might not exist, but the delicate colouring, the fine lines of the features, the loosened cloud of hair, made the resemblance striking enough. If some day Elma’s own miniature should be added to the number, it would fully sustain the reputation for the beauty so long enjoyed by the women of the house. Coming back from the voyage of comparison, Cornelia’s eyes met those of the Squire fixed upon her in a questioning fashion. He averted them instantly, but all his determination could not restrain the mantling blush which dyed his cheek, and she had little doubt that his own thoughts had been a duplicate of her own. Before the silence was broken, however, the door opened, and Mrs Greville entered the room. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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