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Flaming June

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<h3>Chapter Twelve.</h3> Two golden days! Summer sunshine, roses, lounging chairs set behind sheltering trees, grey eyes eloquent with unspoken vows; on every side beauty, and luxury, and sweet fostering care. Elma felt as if she had fallen asleep, and awakened in a fairyland more wonderful than her wildest dreams! On the morning after the accident, Mrs Ramsden had duly chartered a fly, and driven to the Manor with intent to bring her daughter home without delay. During the night watches old dreads had revived; she shuddered at the thought of Elma left alone—poor, innocent darling!—with that terrible young man; pursed her lips at the recollection of Madame’s frivolities, and decided that nothing but grimmest necessity should induce her to prolong the danger. She entered the Manor, a Spartan matron prepared to fight to the death for the rescue of her child, but behold, instead of a battlefield, there stretched before her eye a scene of pastoral simplicity, in which the most Puritan of critics could not have discovered an objectionable detail. A wide, velvet lawn, shaded by a belt of grand old beeches; a deck chair placed in the most sheltered nook, on which Elma reclined against a bank of cushions, while beside her—marvellous and confounding sight!—sat Madame herself, turning the heel of a common domestic stocking, a mushroom hat hiding the objectionable pompadour. So far as the eye could reach there was not a man in sight, not so much as a whiff of tobacco smoke in the air! As the round black figure waddled across the lawn, Madame rose in gracious welcome, while Elma—Elma’s heart began to beat with sickening rapidity, a mist swam before her eyes, and a lump swelled in her throat. She could not speak; her cheeks turned first red, and then white. She shook her head in response to her mother’s greeting, and gasped as for breath. The good lady was distracted at beholding such symptoms of collapse in her quiet, well-disciplined daughter, and Madame reproached herself in the conviction that the child was really much worse than she had imagined. As a matter of fact, the disease from which Elma was suffering was nothing more nor less than pure, unadulterated fright! Fright lest her mother should insist upon taking her home; lest she should be compelled to leave the Manor before Geoffrey returned from an excursion carefully timed to end just as his mother drove out to keep an appointment in the town! She was literally paralysed with fear. It seemed as if life itself hung on the issue of the next few moments. She shut her eyes and listened, with palpitating breath, to the conversation between the two ladies. “Don’t be alarmed! It is just seeing you that has upset her. A few minutes ago she was quite gay. Weren’t you gay, dear? We have had such a happy little morning together. So long as she is absolutely quiet she seems quite well. But as you see, any excitement—” Madame gesticulated eloquently behind Elma’s back. “Excitement prostrates you, doesn’t it, dear? We must keep you quite a prisoner for the next few days!” Mrs Ramsden sat down heavily on a wicker chair, folded her hands on her sloping lap, and sighed resignedly. Hardly a moment had elapsed since her arrival, but already her cause was lost. To subject Elma to the fatigue of returning home would be madness, when even an ordinary meeting had so disastrous effect; to refuse hospitality so charmingly offered would be ungracious in the extreme. There was nothing for it but to submit with a good grace, and submit she did, arranging to send up a box of clothing later in the afternoon, and promising to drive up again in a few days’ time. “A few days!” She wanted to come every single morning, but Madame sweetly ignored her hints, and Elma, brightening into something wonderfully like her old self, declared that there was not the slightest cause for anxiety. “I shall be quite well, mother dear!” she murmured affectionately as the poor lady stooped to kiss her before hurrying away, carefully mindful of the fare of the waiting fly. “Quite well, and—happy!” The pink flamed again at that last word, and Madame stroked the soft cheek caressingly. “That child is a picture! I love to look at her,” she said gushingly, as the two ladies recrossed the lawn. “How cruel of you to have kept her to yourself all this time. Really, do you know, I hardly realised that you had a daughter. But we are going to alter all that, aren’t we? So sweet of you to trust her to me!” Madame’s conversation was a mixture of questions and exclamations, but she rarely paused for a reply. She prattled unceasingly as she saw her guest into her fly, and watched her drive down the avenue. Poor old Goody Ramsden; she was a worthy old dear! Wrapped up in that child; terrified to move her, yet terrified to leave her behind! Madame smiled in amused understanding of the good lady’s scruples. What duckings and cacklings would go on in the parlours of the Park! What fears and forebodings would be experienced for the safety of the dove in the eagle’s nest! Out of a pure spirit of bravado she was inclined to keep the child as long as possible; and the fact of Geoffrey’s obvious admiration only strengthened her determination. It was dull for a young man with only his mother in the house. Let him amuse himself with this pretty girl. A few days flirtation would put him in good humour, and there was no danger of anything serious. Geoffrey never was serious. His flirtations could be counted by the score, but they held no connection with his future marriage. That must be a serious business arrangement, involving a name, a fortune, possibly a title; many tangible qualities would be demanded from the future mistress of the Manor. Madame went through life regarding every person and thing from her own personal standpoint; apart from herself they ceased to interest. She would be affectionate and gushing to Elma Ramsden so long as the girl remained a guest under her roof; when she returned to The Holt she would promptly fade out of recollection. That a broken heart might be among the impedimenta which she would carry away with her, was a possibility which never once entered into the calculation. A typical Society woman! Verily, Goody Ramsden’s fears were not built without a foundation! An hour later Madame was driving out of her own gates, while Geoffrey was installed on her seat by the invalid’s couch. A whole hour and a half still remained before the gong would sound the summons to luncheon; an hour and a half of solitude beneath the shadow of the trees! Last night there had been another tête-à-tête while Madame and Captain Guest played piquet at the end of the room; this morning there had been yet another, when Elma was first installed in the garden, and Madame was interviewing her staff. Astonishing how intimate two people can become in two long conversations! Marvellous in what unison two separate minds may move! Geoffrey and Elma seemed constantly to be discovering fresh subjects on which they thought alike, longed alike, hoped, grieved, joyed, failed and fought, in precisely the same interesting fashion! Each discovery was a fresh joy, a fresh surprise. “Do you really?” “Why, so do I!” “How strange it seems!” In the garden of Eden these surprises grow on every bush! Elma’s heart was hopelessly out of keeping, but conscience still fought feebly against temptation. She had been trained to consider no man worthy of her regard who did not attend Saint Nathaniel’s Parish Church, eschew amusements, wear a blue ribbon in his coat, belong to the Anti-Tobacco League, and vote with the Conservative Party! In the watches of the night she had decided that it was her duty to use her influence to lead this dear worldling into better ways, and, to his credit be it said, the dear worldling appeared most eager to be reformed. He besought Miss Ramsden to “pitch into him”; declared that he knew, don’t you know, that he was an “awful rotter”; but represented himself as waiting eagerly to be guided in the way in which he should go. How was he to begin? Elma puckered her delicate eyebrows. She was wearing no hat, as it was more comfortable to recline against the cushions with uncovered head, but a fluffy white parasol belonging to her hostess was placed by her side, in case an obtrusive sunbeam penetrated the branches overhead. “I never know where the sun is going to move next. Men always do, don’t they? I think it is so clever of them!” Madame had declared in her charming, inconsequent fashion as she fluttered away. Elma did not need the parasol as a shade, but it came in very usefully as a plaything in moments of embarrassment. There was one all-important subject weighing on her mind; she made a desperate plunge, and put it into words— “You—you don’t go to church!” “Not very often, I admit. I’m afraid it is not much in my line.” “Don’t you—believe in it?” The vague question was yet sufficiently explicit. The Squire leant forward, his hands clasped between his knees, his forehead knitted into thoughtful lines. “Er—yes! As a matter of fact, I do! Didn’t once! At college, you know; got into a free-thinking set, and chucked the whole thing aside. But I’ve been about a good bit. I’ve seen countries where they go on that tack and it doesn’t pay. The old way is the best. I know I’m a bit careless still. Men are, Miss Ramsden, when they have only themselves to think of. They get into the way of leaving that sort of thing to their mothers and sisters, but when a fellow starts for himself, it’s different! I’m the master here, in name, but virtually it’s my mother who runs the house. I don’t interfere with her ways, but when I—er—marry, it will be different! Then I shall make a stand. Family prayers, and that sort of thing, don’t you know. A man ought to set an example. You are quite right; you are always right! Bit shy at first, you know, and that sort of thing, but I’d do it; I promise you, I would! Turn up at church regularly every Sunday!” “It would be your duty,” said Elma, primly. She twirled the handle of the sunshade round and round, and strove womanfully to keep her thoughts fixed on the subject on hand, and away from that thrilling “when I marry.” “But it isn’t only form, you know,” she added anxiously! “It’s caring for it most of all, and putting it before everything else!” Geoffrey gazed at her in a rapture of admiration. He loved her simplicity; he adored her earnestness. In his eyes she was a shining white angel sent down from heaven to be his guide through life. It needed all his self-control to keep back the words which were struggling for utterance, but the fear of frightening Elma by a premature declaration gave him strength to resist. They turned instead into a prayer, a sincere yet bargain-making prayer, like that of Jacob of old. “Give me this woman!” cried the inner voice: “this one woman out of all the world, and I will vow in return my faith, my allegiance!” The most earnest vows are often offered in the least conventional language, and Geoffrey Greville was not a man to promise without intending to perform. There was a long, pregnant silence. Elma felt the presence of electricity in the air, and forced herself to return to the attack. “And there are other things! ... You play bridge—” “Certainly I do!” “For money?” “Shilling points.” “What are ‘points’?” Geoffrey laughed happily. This innocence sounded fascinating in his infatuated ears. “That’s a little difficult to explain, isn’t it, if you don’t know anything about the game? Don’t you play cards at all?” “Mother won’t have them in the house. We have ‘Quartettes,’ but they are different. ... Can you lose much at shilling points?” “A fair amount, if you’re unlucky, but you can win it, too! I generally do win, as a matter of fact!” “What is the most you ever lost in a night?” Geoffrey grimaced expressively. “Sixty pounds; but I was a fool, and doubled no trumps on a risky hand, on the chance of making the rubber. That was quite an exceptional drop!” “I should hope so, indeed!” Elma’s horror was genuinely unassumed. “Sixty pounds! Why, it’s more than many a poor family has to live on all the year round! Think of all the good you could do with sixty pounds! It seems awful to lose it on cards in one evening!” “The next sixty pounds I win, I’ll give to a workmen’s charity! Will that wipe away my offence?” Elma was not at all sure that it would. Money won in unworthy fashion could never bring with it a blessing, according to Mrs Ramsden’s theories. She shook her head sadly, and ventured another question. “You go to races, too, don’t you?” “Whenever I get the chance.” “You like going?” “Love it! Why shouldn’t I? Finest thing in the world to see a good hard race! Wish I could keep a stud myself. I would, if I had the money. I must tell you the truth, you see, even if you are shocked!” “Racecourses are very wicked places.” “Ever seen one?” “No.” “Oh!” They looked at each other and simultaneously burst into a laugh. They were young and in love; it was delightful to brush aside problematical difficulties, and give themselves over to enjoyment of the golden present. Elma forgot her usual somewhat prim reserve, and her laughter was like a chime of silver bells. It is a rare thing to bear a musical laugh. Geoffrey longed for nothing so much as to make her laugh again. “I’m a born sportsman, Miss Ramsden, and I’ll never be anything else. I’d like to give up everything you dislike, but it’s no use swearing against one’s convictions. It’s not honest, and it doesn’t last, but I can promise you always to play straight, and to keep down the stakes so that I shall never run the risk of losing so much again.” “Why can’t you play for nothing but just the fun of the game?” “We call that playing for love! It’s rather dull—in cards!” Elma twirled her parasol, and blushed to the eyes. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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