“And there’s words on this one, too,” said Bruno. “Sylvie—will—love—all.”
“Now you see the difference,” said the old man: “different colours and different words. Choose one of them, darling. I’ll give you whichever you like best.”
Sylvie whispered the words, several times over, with a thoughtful smile, and then made her decision. “It’s very nice to be loved,” she said: “but it’s nicer to love other people! May I have the red one, Father?”
The old man said nothing: but I could see his eyes fill with tears, as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long loving kiss. Then he undid the chain, and showed her how to fasten it round her neck, and to hide it away under the edge of her frock. “It’s for you to keep, you know,” he said in a low voice, “not for other people to see. You’ll remember how to use it?”
“Yes, I’ll remember,” said Sylvie.
“And now, darlings, it’s time for you to go back, or they’ll be missing you, and then that poor Gardener will get into trouble!”
Once more a feeling of wonder rose in my mind as to how in the world we were to get back again—since I took it for granted that, wherever the children went, I was to go—but no shadow of doubt seemed to cross their minds, as they hugged and kissed him, murmuring, over and over again, “Goodbye, darling Father!” And then, suddenly and swiftly, the darkness of midnight seemed to close in upon us, and through the darkness harshly rang a strange wild song:—
“He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimneypiece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sisters Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
‘I’ll send for the Police!’ ”
“That was me!” he added, looking out at us, through the half-opened door, as we stood waiting in the road. “And that’s what I’d have done—as sure as potatoes aren’t radishes—if she hadn’t have tooken herself off! But I always loves my pay-rints like anything.”
“Who are oor pay-rints?” said Bruno.
“Them as pay rint for me, a course!” the Gardener replied. “You can come in now, if you like.”
He flung the door open as he spoke, and we got out, a little dazzled and stupefied (at least I felt so) at the sudden transition from the half-darkness of the railway-carriage to the brilliantly-lighted platform of Elveston Station.
A footman, in a handsome livery, came forwards and respectfully touched his hat. “The carriage is here, my Lady,” he said, taking from her the wraps and small articles she was carrying: and Lady Muriel, after shaking hands and bidding me “Good night!” with a pleasant smile, followed him.
It was with a somewhat blank and lonely feeling that I betook myself to the van from which the luggage was being taken out: and, after giving directions to have my boxes sent after me, I made my way on foot to Arthur’s lodgings, and soon lost my lonely feeling in the hearty welcome my old friend gave me, and the cozy warmth and cheerful light of the little sitting-room into which he led me.
“Little, as you see, but quite enough for us two. Now, take the easy-chair, old fellow, and let’s have another look at you! Well, you do look a bit pulled down!” and he put on a solemn professional air. “I prescribe Ozone, quant. suff. Social dissipation, fiant pilulae quam plurimae: to be taken, feasting, three times a day!”
“But, Doctor!” I remonstrated. “Society doesn’t ‘receive’ three times a day!”
“That’s all you know about it!” the young Doctor gaily replied. “At home, lawn-tennis, 3 p.m. At home, kettledrum, 5 p.m. At home, music (Elveston doesn’t give dinners), 8 p.m. Carriages at 10. There you are!”
It sounded very pleasant, I was obliged to admit. “And I know some of the lady-society already,” I added. “One of them came in the same carriage with me.”
“What was she like? Then perhaps I can identify her.”
“The name was Lady Muriel Orme. As to what she was like—well, I thought her very beautiful. Do you know her?”
“Yes—I do know her.” And the grave Doctor coloured slightly as he added “Yes, I agree with you. She is beautiful.”
“I quite lost my heart to her!” I went on mischievously. “We talked—”
“Have some supper!” Arthur interrupted with an air of relief, as the maid entered with the tray. And he steadily resisted all my attempts to return to the subject of Lady Muriel until the evening had almost worn itself away. Then, as we sat gazing into the fire, and conversation was lapsing into silence, he made a hurried confession.
“I hadn’t meant to tell you anything about her,” he said (naming no names, as if there were only one “she” in the world!) “till you had seen more of her, and formed your own judgment of her: but somehow you surprised it out of me. And I’ve not breathed a word of it to anyone else. But I can trust you with a secret, old friend! Yes! It’s true of me, what I suppose you said in jest.”
“In the merest jest, believe me!” I said earnestly. “Why, man, I’m three times her age! But if she’s your choice, then I’m sure she’s all that is good and—”
“—and sweet,” Arthur went on, “and pure, and self-denying, and truehearted, and—” he broke off hastily, as if he could not trust himself to say more on a subject so sacred and so precious. Silence followed: and I leaned back drowsily in my easy-chair, filled with bright and beautiful imaginings of Arthur and his ladylove, and of all the peace and happiness in store for them.
I pictured them to myself walking together, lingeringly and lovingly, under arching trees, in a sweet garden of their own, and welcomed back by their faithful gardener, on their return from some brief excursion.
It seemed natural enough that the gardener should be filled with exuberant delight at the
