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Flaming June

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<h3>Chapter Eighteen.</h3> Captain Guest could not flatter himself that Cornelia was in anyway “set on” flirting with himself, since nothing could have been further removed from that attitude than her behaviour during the afternoon. She displayed a keen interest in her first view of the Strand and Fleet Street, and though her criticisms of those ancient thoroughfares were the reverse of complimentary, she was evidently impressed by the vast solemnity of the cathedral itself. The usual congregation of stragglers were dotted about on the chairs in the nave; dreary-looking derelicts from God knows where, who drift in through the open doorways seeking refuge from heat in summer, and cold in winter, and listen with apathetic indifference to the passing services. Guest seated himself by Cornelia’s side at the end of an unoccupied row, but for all the notice she paid him, he might as well have been at his aunt’s reception miles away. Only once, as the boys’ voices soared upwards in a strain of almost unearthly sweetness, did she turn her face towards him, in involuntary appeal for sympathy, and at that moment there could no longer be any doubt as to her looks. She was beautiful; so beautiful that Guest was dazzled by the sight of the white, kindled face. The service was an unmitigated success; an hour to cherish in memory, but in the sight-seeing expedition which followed, there was no denying the fact that Cornelia jarred! Even the most phlegmatic of Englishmen must be roused to a feeling of pride by such a review of the deeds of his countrymen as is set forth in a national cathedral; it may be even conceded that his attitude may be a trifle irritating to strangers from distant lands; be that as it may Guest and Cornelia seemed fated to view everything from different points of view. Where he waxed enthusiastic, she displayed cool commonsense; when he stood dumb, she criticised the design of the sculpture, and speculated as to the cost; she guessed it was “playing it pretty low down on Wellington to stow him away in a cellar,” and made scathing remarks by Gordon’s memorial. “You muffed it badly that time! Guess if he’d belonged to us, he’d have been hopping round still!” Guest was thankful to mount the narrow staircase leading to the golden gallery, for Cornelia was so essentially a creature of to-day that he felt more in sympathy with her in the air and the sunshine, with the echo of the great city rising to their ears. They stood side by side, while the breeze blew elf-like tendrils of hair round the girl’s face. The gentle expression of half an hour ago had departed, and she looked a creature of steel and flame; a vital, indomitable being, tingling with energy and joy. At sight of the forest of chimney pots stretching away into the horizon, her eyes shone with an enthusiasm which the wonders of the cathedral had failed to inspire. To Guest the outlook was dreariness personified; the vastness which so impressed his companion conveyed to him only a realisation of work and struggle; of a pent-house in which human creatures struggled for existence. He stood in silence, while Cornelia exhausted her supply of adjectives, brooding on the difference in the standpoints from which each regarded life, until presently she interrupted with a personal question. “You have never told me where you live, Captain Guest! London is not your real home, is it?” “Thank goodness, no! I could never live in a city. My home is in the country—Staffordshire. It was a valuable property fifty or sixty years ago, but the factories have crept nearer and nearer, and, of course, that depreciates values. It is let at present. I hope to save enough money to go back in time to end my days there. It’s a fine old place, but its value is bound to go on dropping.” “Couldn’t you pull it down, and build small property on the site? If there are factories about it might pay vury well.” Guest’s look of stupefaction, incredulity, of horror, could scarcely have been greater if Cornelia had suggested a leap down to the street beneath. “Good heavens! what an idea! You can’t realise what you are talking about, Miss Briskett. That house has been in the possession of my family since the time of the Tudors!” Cornelia elevated indifferent eyebrows. “I don’t know as that’s any reason why you should drop money on it now! I wouldn’t take any stock of Toodors beside my own convenience. It’s better to own a house you ken live in, than the Garden of Eden, and be obliged to rent it out!” “There is such a thing as sentiment, Miss Briskett, though you don’t seem to realise it.” “Don’t you make any mistake about that! I realise it right enough. I’m death on sentiment in its right place, but it takes a back seat when daily bread comes into the question.” “And if I told you that I’d rather starve than desecrate the home of my ancestors—that I’d sooner end my days in a London garret than level a single wall for my own benefit—what then? Would you put me down as a madman for my pains?” Guest spoke with unwonted passion, staring down into the girl’s face with challenging eyes, but Cornelia preserved her attitude of complacent, albeit commiserating, superiority. “My Poppar’d say it was sheer wickedness to see a chance of making money, and letting it slide, but I don’t go so far as that. Everyone has a right to be miserable in his own way, but—I prefer to be comfortable.” Her ripple of laughter struck a chill to Guest’s heart. He looked at her moodily beneath knitted brows. “How is it that we always do feel differently? We seem never to agree. What is the explanation, I wonder?” “We are different!” returned Cornelia, simply. “The difference is deep down beneath all we say or do. We’re made differently from the start. You felt it the first moment we met, and I did the same. We kinder hated each other, and wanted to scratch! That was instinct! You don’t get behind instinct in a hurry. Later on other things come in and muddle one up, but just in the first moment one sees clearly. You thought Elma Ramsden the sweetest thing, and were all fired up to help her, but when you looked at me you were bursting with pride and prejudice. Why was that, I want to know?” “You have answered yourself. Prejudice—a blind, ignorant prejudice, of which I am ashamed; and pride—wounded pride, because you attempted to lay down the law! Don’t judge me by that unfortunate beginning, Miss Briskett. I have repented sufficiently to deserve forgiveness!” Cornelia rested her chin on her clasped hands, and stared thoughtfully over the forest of chimney-tops. “You are sorry because I’m a girl, and we’ve had some pretty good times together; but that don’t alter the position of the case. I guess we are each pretty good types of our different nationalities. We ken’t blame ourselves for that; if the truth’s told, I expect we are proud of it, but it makes it impossible to feel the same way. We’re bound to jolt up against each other every time we dip below the surface.” “You find it impossible then to think of me as a friend?” To his own amazement there was a touch of genuine anxiety in Guest’s voice. It seemed to matter a great deal whether this girl of the ruddy locks and curling lips accepted his friendship, or deliberately put it aside; to matter none the less that she had jarred upon a dozen prejudices during the course of the last half hour! He knew the tension of suspense before he met her radiant, answering smile. “Oh, my, no, we’re friends right enough! If you haven’t to live with people all the time, it’s easy enough to avoid the rubs. I guess we can agree to differ for the few times we’re likely to meet.” ... She buried her face in her hand, to suppress a yawn. “Those steps have just about finished me! I’m all used up. Don’t you want to give me some tea? I noticed one of those Fuller stores in the Strand as we came along. Let’s go right back and have a rest!” Guest led the way downwards, feeling but indifferently consoled. An uncomfortable depression weighed on him as he walked through the streets, and sat with Cornelia in a corner of the tea-shop. It was the first meal of which he had partaken in her company, and it gave a feeling of intimacy to face each other across the daintily-spread table, to watch her pour out tea with the pretty white hands on which the diamond solitaire twinkled meaningly. She seemed really tired, and for once was content to be silent while she drank boiling tea and munched rich cakes, with supreme disregard of digestion. As for Guest, two phrases rang in his ears, to the exclusion of other thoughts—“The few times we are likely to meet”—“We might be a honeymoon couple...” Two suggestions, far apart as the poles, yet each bringing within it a thrill of something like fear. He did not wish to find himself in the position of bridegroom to this Yankee stranger; the thought was absurd, nevertheless it was distinctly unpleasant to picture anyone else occupying the position! It was worse than unpleasant, it was actually painful to think that the newly-formed friendship might be interrupted by a separation of three thousand miles! He sat, staring at his companion with the intensity which accompanies a preoccupied mind, until presently Cornelia began to arch her eyebrows, purse up her lips, and crane her head from side to side. “I beg your pardon! If I was to get up and stand on that bench, do you think it would aid your scrutiny? What’s the verdict, please? It’s the least you can do to tell me, after quizzing all this time! ... What do you think of my looks? Honestly, mind, without any bunkum! I’m crazy to know.” “I think—sometimes—you are beautiful!” “Seriously? You mean it?” “I do!” The golden eyes met his with a flash of delight, and an arm was stretched impetuously across the table. “Shake hands! You’re just the nicest thing! To be puffectly candid, I’ve thought the same once or twice when I’ve caught sight of myself in a mirror at a big moment, when I was all worked up!—Big moments are vury suiting, but on ordinary days” (Cornelia put a strong accent on the penultimate), “my nose,” she closed one eye to regard with the other the sharp little tip of the member in question, “there’s no getting away from it, that my nose is a set-back! It’s a mean little thing, without a mite of dignity. And I’m kinder washed-out and pasty by your English roses! Do you think I should look better if my cheeks were pink like Elma’s?” She looked at him with arch inquiry, and even as she did so, either as the result of something which she read in the watching eyes, or by the action of some mysterious mental power, the pink flamed in her cheek, and lo! she was a rose herself; a wonderful, exotic rose, flaming from red to gold! Guest looked at her for a moment, and then hastily dropped his eyes. He was not by nature an impetuous man, but he had a conviction that if he looked at Cornelia any longer at this moment, he might say something which he should afterwards regret. He did not answer. It seemed unnecessary to answer. His eyes had done that eloquently enough in that moment of meeting. There was a long silence, while Guest mentally pulled himself together, calling himself a fool for his pains; recalling the fact that by her own confession Cornelia was an accomplished flirt; steeling himself against her blandishments. When presently he heard his name pronounced in dulcet tones, he looked up with his most unapproachable air. Cornelia was holding her plate towards him with one hand, while with the other she held a fragment of cake to her lips. “Another piece, please!” she commanded. “It’s the best thing I’ve struck since I’ve been this side, and I’m going to wolf into it for all I’m worth! Ordinary meals bore the life out of me, but I’m just wicked when I get started on sweets!” Guest signalled to a damsel in attendance, and saw her eyes widen in amazement at the renewed order. She walked away suppressing a smile, and could be observed obviously retailing the incident to a companion behind the counter. It detracted woefully from the romance of the situation to be pointed out as a couple who had demolished a large plateful of cakes, and sent out an order for more! <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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