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Flaming June

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<h3>Chapter Fourteen.</h3> Cornelia booked a first-class return to town, scattered half-crowns broadcast among the astonished porters, ensconced herself in a corner of an empty carriage, and prepared to enjoy the journey. She did not purchase any magazines at the bookstall; the only child of a millionaire need not trouble about insurance coupons, and at two-and-twenty life is more interesting than fiction. Cornelia guessed she’d heaps more to think about than would occupy a pokey little journey of from two or three hours. Just to think how things changed from day to day! Yesterday she had supposed herself dumped right-down in Norton Park for a solid three months, and to-day here she was full chase for London, with the prospect of a week, crammed full of frivolity and amusement! She gurgled to herself in much contentment. Aunt Soph had kissed her, or, at least, submitted to be kissed; Elma was engaged in playing the part of Eve in flounced blue muslin, to an Adam in a flannel suit, in a particularly well-mown Garden of Eden. She could therefore be happy in her mind concerning those who were left behind, and she had never yet doubted her own ability to take care of herself. She smoothed the wrinkles on her long suede gloves, flicked the dust off the ridiculous points of her “high shoes,” and sighed impatiently. She and her baggage were safely aboard. Why couldn’t that old engine hustle up and start? Cornelia rose to her feet, and thrust her head out of the open window. There was only one passenger approaching along the deserted platform, and as fate would have it, he had reached a spot but a couple of yards away, so that the sudden appearance of the girl’s head through the window was followed by simultaneous exclamations of astonishment. Exclamations of recognition, too, for the new-comer was none other than Captain Guest himself, most obviously equipped for town. “Miss Briskett—is that you?” “Mussy, what a turn you gave me! Who’d have dreamt of meeting you here?” “Are you going up to town?” “I am! Are you?” “I am! Do you prefer to travel alone? If not, may I come in?” “Why, suttenly!” Cornelia was not yet quite sure whether she were annoyed or pleased by the encounter, but on the whole the agreeable element predominated. She was of a gregarious nature, and at any time preferred to talk, rather than remain silent. After a month spent in a strictly feminine household, the society of a male man was an agreeable novelty. Moreover—sweet triumph to a daughter of Eve!—half an hour’s tête-à-tête on the drive home from the Manor had apparently made short work of the Captain’s preconceived dislike, since he was so anxious to repeat the dose! Cornelia smiled; the naughty, little smile of a spider who welcomes a fly into his net. Another minute, and the train was movings lowly out of the station, while the two young people continued their cross-examination, confronting each other from their separate corners. “This is an unexpected visit, is it not? I understood from Miss Ramsden that she expected you to call at the Manor to-day or to-morrow.” (Cornelia scored a point against him, for his own desertion, in the face of so interesting a prospect!) “Vury unexpected! I got a wire from a friend and came off within two hours. I understood from Mrs Greville that you were making quite a good stay?” Guest grimaced eloquently. “I was—but—circumstances alter cases! To tell you the honest truth, Miss Briskett, I’m just a bit fed up with playing gooseberry by day, and piquet (with Madame!) by night, and the idea of spending a few days at the club presented itself as an agreeable novelty. My friends are almost all in town just now, and there is a good deal going on. I generally put in a week or so of the season, so I thought I might as well clear out at once. They don’t want me here!” “I don’t know about that,” returned Cornelia, thoughtfully. “What about Madame? Someone’s got to keep her occupied! What’s to happen to her in the evenings now? There’ll be nothing for it but a three-handed game, and that’s the limit! If you’d been a kind, self-sacrificing friend, you’d have stayed on, and worked that piquet for all you were worth!” “But I’m not self-sacrificing, you see!” Captain Guest explained, and in truth he did not look it. Cornelia’s glance took in the magnificent proportions of the man, the indefinable air of birth and breeding, the faultless toilette; the strong, dark features. To one and all she paid a tribute of admiration, but the expression on the face was of concentrated self-sufficiency. At this point admiration stopped dead, to be replaced by an uneasy dread. Was Geoffrey Greville, even as his friend, frankly indifferent to everything but his own amusement, and if so, what of poor Elma and her dream? It was an awful reflection that in such a case she herself would be largely responsible for thrusting Elma into danger. Her expression clouded, and she stared through the window with unseeing eyes. Captain Guest’s words had been so exceedingly plain that she had not affected to misunderstand their meaning, and the ice once broken, she was glad of the opportunity of solving her doubts. “You know Mr Greville very well. Is he—a flirt?” Captain Guest flashed a glance at her; a rapid, understanding glance. “He has been,” he replied quietly. “A desperate flirt; but—he is not flirting now!” “You think—” “I’m sure!” Cornelia clasped her hands with a sigh of relief. “Then—?” “The Deluge!” “You mean—?” “He can’t marry her, of course! She’s a lovely girl, and everything that’s nice, and good, and that kind of thing, but—not at all the kind of girl he ought to marry.” “Ought he to marry someone hideous then, with an ugly temper? Poor fellow! Why?” “There’s no necessity to be hideous, that I know of, though as a matter of fact he probably won’t find a girl suitable as to means and position, who is anything like so attractive, personally, as Miss Ramsden. Greville is hardly his own master, Miss Briskett. He is not a rich man, and he has the place to think of. Besides, there’s Madame to consider. Madame belongs to a noble house, and has high ideas for her son.” “Is it the custom over here, for the mommas to choose wives for their sons? I don’t know much about Mr Greville, but from the look of him I shouldn’t suppose he was one of that sort. He has a kind of an air as if he’d want a lot of moving, once he got his head set! If he really cares—” Captain Guest shrugged expressively. “Oh, for the moment, of course, it’s a case of ‘all for love, and the world well lost,’ but in a few days’ time Miss Ramsden will return home; they will drop out of each other’s lives, and then prudence will come to the fore. There’s a girl whom he has known for years, who is built for him all the way round. I don’t say he’ll like it so much, but he’ll end by marrying her like a good boy.” “By marrying her money, you mean to say? I see, we Americans aren’t the only mercenary nation in the world, though we get the credit for it sometimes. Well! I’ll wait a while, before I judge. There comes a time in most men’s lives when they forget their fine principles, and see just one thing ahead, and they’ve got to have it! Everything else goes down like ninepins, even if it’s a real stately old mother, with her hair fixed-up like Marie Antoinette. We’ll wait and see if that time comes along for Mr Greville!” Guest’s lip twitched with amusement. “You seem to be very experienced on the subject.” “I am so. I’ve seen quite a good deal of life,” said Cornelia, with the air of a female Methuselah. She did not smirk nor giggle at the insinuation, but accepted it placidly as a matter of course, an occurrence of everyday happening. Guest studied her critically, as she gazed out of the window. Was she plain, or beautiful? It was difficult to say. The colourless complexion, and sharply pointed nose were serious blemishes, but the mouth was exquisite, and the hair a marvel. How Rossetti would have gloried in painting it, unbound, with the great red-gold waves floating over her shoulders! The eyes were good, too, despite their unusual colour—the colour of a tawny old sherry! As though attracted by his scrutiny, Cornelia turned her head, and let the golden eyes dwell thoughtfully upon his face. “Does Mr Greville do anything?” she inquired. “Has he any sort of occupation in life?” “He has a certain amount of business in connection with the property, but the agent does most of that. He hunts, of course, and shoots—he’s a capital shot—and fishes at odd times. All the ordinary things that a man does.” “Is that so? They wouldn’t be ordinary with us. I like a man to work. You’ve got to work hard, I suppose? You’re a soldier.” The quick pucker of lips and brows were almost startlingly eloquent of pain. “Not now! I was.” “You retired?” “Yes.” “Why?” Rupert Guest looked across the carriage in silence. At any time he was haughtily resentful of curiosity; but on this subject most of all he could not endure to speak with his most intimate friends. His first impulse was to ignore the question, but as he met Cornelia’s steady eyes that impulse underwent an extraordinary reversion. Incredible as it might appear, he became conscious that it was not only possible that he could tell this girl, this stranger, the hidden sorrow of his life, but that he actually wished to tell it! He wanted to hear what she would say; to see how she would look. Those childlike eyes would look very beautiful, softened with the light of sympathy and consolation. He wanted to see that light shining for his sake. “It’s a long story,” he began slowly, “I don’t talk of it more than I can help, but I’ll tell you, if you care to hear it. I come of a race of soldiers: it never entered my head that I could be anything else. My father was in the Lancers; he died before I left Sandhurst, but my mother managed to allow me fifteen hundred a year, and I joined my father’s regiment. I was lucky as things go; went through two engagements before I was thirty; gained distinction at Omdurman. At home I had a nailing good time: Adjutant of the regiment. We had the jolliest mess! I don’t think a man ever lived who enjoyed his life more. There was lots of play, but I loved the work too, and studied hard, at every branch of the profession. I had the credit of being one of the best all-round men in the service.” He laughed; a hard, sore-hearted laugh. “I can say that now without reproach, for it belongs to another life. ... Then—my mother died! She had been living beyond her income, and there were all the legal expenses to face; selling up at a loss; giving the girls their share. She had made a special push to keep me in the old regiment; but in the end it came down to this, that in all, there was barely five hundred a year for me. It was a big blow, but there was nothing for it but to send in my resignation.” “Why?” “One can’t be an officer in a crack cavalry regiment with only five hundred a year beyond his pay, Miss Briskett. It can’t be done. There wasn’t one of my subs, who had less than eight hundred.” “Don’t you get any pay at all in your army then?” “Certainly; about enough to pay the mess bills, and perhaps the changes of kit. The uniform costs several hundreds to start with, and those fools at the War Office are everlastingly ordering senseless alterations.” “Yes; but—I don’t understand! If the pay is enough for your keep, why do you need such a heap more to get along? Where does all the expense come in?” Guest knitted his brows in momentary embarrassment. “Well, of course, there are certain things that a man must do to live up to his position. He must entertain; he must hunt; he must play polo. It comes cheaper to him than ordinary men, for he has the use of the regimental stables; but still, things run up. It’s astonishing how they do run up! There are a hundred things that are expected of him, and there’s no getting away from them.” “Isn’t he expected first thing of all to serve his country?” “That is, of course!” Guest raised his head proudly. “I have already explained that I had served her.” “Wouldn’t they let you go on then, because you couldn’t cut a dash?” “Let me! There wasn’t a man in the mess who didn’t beg me to stay on! The Duke sent for me, and argued for half an hour. He promised me a staff appointment. He said some awfully decent things about my past services. I was glad of that... I said, ‘It’s no good, sir, I can’t face the prospect of being Colonel of the regiment, and not being able to afford as much as my own subs.’ We went over it again and again, and he lost his temper at last and called me a fool, but I stuck to it—” Cornelia drew a sharp breath of excitement. “You did resign—for money? In spite of all! For only that?” “It’s a very big ‘only,’ Miss Briskett. You don’t know how it feels to have your income suddenly reduced by two-thirds.” “Oh, don’t I just! I know how it feels to have it wiped clean away. I guess my Poppar’s dropped about as much in one slump as any man in the States!” cried Cornelia, with the true American’s pride in size, be it for good or ill. She did not feel it necessary to state that the lost fortune had been more than retrieved, for one of the very few points on which she found herself in complete agreement with her aunt, was the suppression of her own wealth. She had no wish to be judged from a monetary standpoint, and Poppar’s fame had not travelled across the ocean. He was just an ordinary everyday millionaire, with a modest little income of from three to four hundred a day; not a real, genuine high-flyer, with a thousand an hour! “I had to give up my frills and fixings, but I held on like grim death to the things that mattered.—I guess there’s something wrong about your army, if a man’s got to have a fortune before he can be an officer!” “A good many people are with you there, Miss Briskett, but unfortunately that does not alter the fact.” “Then—what did you do after that?” “Cleared out! I sold my uniform for eighty pounds!”—he laughed again, the same sore laugh—“and gave my orderly about a dozen suits of ordinary clothes. The only thing I kept was my sword. I had ten swords hung on my walls, used by ten generations in succession—I couldn’t give that up. ... An old chum was going out ranching to the wildest part of California. He asked me to come with him, and I jumped at it. I wanted to get out of the country—away from it all. If I’d seen the regiment riding through the streets, I should have gone mad! ... We sailed within a few weeks...” “California!” Cornelia’s face was eloquent with meaning. She had seen a regiment of Lancers riding through the streets of London on the one day which she had spent in the metropolis; had stood to stare open-mouthed, even as the crowd who thronged the pavement. She recalled the figure of the officer, a gorgeous, mediaeval knight, impenetrably lifeless, sitting astride his high horse like a figure of bronze; a glimpse of haughty, set features visible between cap and chin-strap. Outwardly immovable, indifferent; but within!—ah! within, beyond a doubt, a swelling pride in himself, in his men, in the noble animals which bore them; in the consciousness that every day the pageant attracted the same meed of admiration; pride in the consciousness that he represented his King, his Empire, the power of the sword! Cornelia, a stranger and a Republican, had thrilled at the sight of the gallant Lancers, and—she had visited the wilds of California also, and had received hospitality at a lonely ranch! There was a husky note in her voice as she spoke again. “How long were you there?” “Three years.” “Did you—hate it very much?” The laugh this time was more strangled than before. “Twice over I came within an inch of shooting myself! We were twenty miles from the nearest neighbour. My friend went his way; I went mine. For days together we hardly exchanged a word. There was nothing but the great stretch of land, and the Rockies in the distance. In time one gets to think them beautiful, but at first... I used to sit and think of home, and the regiment. It was always with me. I used to say to myself: ‘Now they are at mess—Now the horses are coming out of the stables—Now they are turning out for polo!’ I could hear the drum, and the reveille, and the last post. ... As clearly as in the barracks at home, I heard them!...” He stopped short, turning his eyes from the window to look at Cornelia’s face. It was distorted, quivering, with emotion; her hands were clasped together, and down her cheek rolled two tear-drops, unashamed. He turned sharply aside, and for some moments neither spoke. Cornelia was seeing, as in a picture, the lonely ranch, with the solitary figure, sitting with his face towards the East, thinking, thinking. ... Guest was reflecting with amaze on the strange antic of fate, which ordained that it should be in the eyes of this Yankee stranger that he should see the first woman’s tears shed on his behalf! She cried like a child; simply, involuntarily, without thought of appearance; the tears rising from a pure well of sympathy. To the end of his life he would bless her for those tears! The train slackened and drew up at a country station. A stout, elderly lady approached the carriage, glanced from one to the other of the two occupants, and hastily moved on. Cornelia smiled, with the tears wet on her lashes. Again the wheels began to move, and Guest said shortly— “Thank you for your sympathy! I had a feeling that you would understand—that’s why I told you. It’s not a story that I often tell to strangers, as you may guess.” “My, yes, I sympathise; I should just think I do. I know what even our own people suffer sometimes away out West; but I don’t understand,” said Cornelia, firmly. “I don’t understand—one—little—bit! There’s more to soldiering than riding through the streets, looking fine and large, and gotten up like a show. I love to see it. We profess to laugh at forms and ceremonies, but we love them just the same as anybody else, but it was your country you’d promise to serve! For better or worse you allowed you were sworn to serve her. You had risked your life for her; I reckon you had shed your blood. There was just one thing you wouldn’t sacrifice—your own pride! You were thinking of yourself when you sent in that resignation, Captain Guest! You saw yourself sitting looking out of the window, and seeing the boys riding off to their sports, and leaving you behind. You cared more for that, than the thought that England might need you!” “You hit hard, Miss Briskett.” “I hit straight. I know just how you’ve suffered. Seems to me I’m going to remember all my life how you sat in that ranch and heard the last post; but if I’d been in your place, if America had wanted me”—her small, white face lit up with a very ecstasy of emotion—“I’d have stayed at my post, if I’d had to sweep the floors to do it!” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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