“Juliet!”
“I should, indeed. But a trip to Central Africa! Why, anybody can accomplish that. Is it a Gaze’s or a Cook’s excursion party?”
“You have a heart of stone! But I can’t believe you understand me. This is an expedition got up by a number of dreadful men—the Harkers, the Ottleys, and that set—who have made up their minds to ‘penetrate into the interior,’ as they call it. That means go farther into the dreadful hole than anybody has ever yet gone, and get eaten up by flies, or cannibals, or lions—”
“Or ostriches, or monkeys. They all live in that part of the world, don’t they?”
“Make as much fun as you like, Juliet; but, take my word for it, if Arthur goes out with these dreadful men, he’ll never come back again.”
“Well, but other people go, and come back again, and seem to like it rather than otherwise. I should enjoy a trip there myself. I think I’ll get my future husband to promise to take me there for our wedding tour.”
The last words were said with a side-glance at Mrs. Glynde to see their effect.
They acted like a match to tinder. Mrs. Glynde came to a sudden standstill on the smooth greensward, her face the colour of the scarlet sunshade she carried.
“Juliet,” she said, excitedly, “that engagement is still ‘on,’ then? I hoped—I was told, that is, by friends of yours a day or two ago, that they felt confident it would all ‘come to nothing’; one need only to see you and Mr. Redway together to make sure of it, they said.”
Juliet flushed a little.
“Dear me! How good it is of people to take such an interest in my affairs! Will you kindly tell those friends of mine that I intend to be engaged to Clive Redway till—” She broke off for a moment, exclaiming: “Hark! Was that a cuckoo? What a belated little bird! Surely it’s time it went back to Central Africa.”
“Juliet, finish what you were going to say,” cried Mrs. Glynde, excitedly. “Till when do you mean to be engaged to Clive Redway? Can you fix a date for the ending of your engagement?”
“Why, of course—till my wedding-day, I was going to say,” answered Juliet, coolly.
Whatever might be her opinion of Arthur Glynde, she had only one opinion of Arthur Glynde’s mother. The little lady had a reputation, which Juliet was not inclined to gainsay, of being one of the cleverest matchmakers that Society numbered in its ranks. She had married off in succession three penniless nieces to wealthy scions of aristocratic houses; and now she was spreading her toils to catch an heiress and a beauty for her son.
“How can one small head carry such a multiplicity of plots?” thought the girl, with a far-off memory of the parson of the “loveliest village of the plain.”
“Till your wedding-day!” repeated Mrs. Glynde, slowly. “Then my poor Arthur has no chance?”
She felt for her pocket-handkerchief, and for a moment it went to her eyes.
With her handkerchief, however, she pulled from her pocket a half-sheet of paper. With a sudden movement she stooped and picked it up.
“You ought to see this, Juliet,” she said, handing it to the girl. “I picked it up yesterday in Arthur’s den; it speaks for itself. If you read it you’ll see how deeply in earnest my poor boy is.”
Juliet unfolded the half-sheet, and read as follows:
My love hath solemn eyes,
Eyes that would make you weep,
Bright with the light of stars
That midnight vigil keep.My love hath soft, cool hands,
To smooth hot, aching brows,
Soft as a plumèd breast,
Cooler than winter snows.My love hath silent feet,
Silent as passing breath
Or sailing summer cloud;
My love’s sweet name is—death.
Juliet folded and returned the half-sheet to Mrs. Glynde.
“Eyes, hands, feet! Now why did he leave out the fingernails? Tell him to add another verse something like this:
My love hath inky nails,
Nails that would make you weep.
Oh, what a lovely parody could be made out of it!”
Mrs. Glynde, with a sigh, put the verses into her pocket again.
“I can see how it will end,” she said, sadly. “My poor boy will go to Africa and never come back. You and I will say goodbye to him, and never see him again!”
“Oh, not at all,” said Juliet, cheerfully. “If I go for my wedding-trip to Central Africa, we should be sure to meet—don’t you know, just as Stanley and Livingstone met in the middle of the desert. And he’d exclaim ‘Juliet,’ and I should reply, ‘I’m no longer to be called Juliet, but—’ Ah! I wonder what my married name would be!”
Again Mrs. Glynde came to a standstill on the greensward.
“Why, you said only a minute ago that you intended to marry Mr. Redway.”
“I said so!” exclaimed Juliet, her manner expressing the utmost of astonishment.
“You said your engagement to him would end only on your wedding-day!”
“Ah, yes, that’s another thing. I mean to be engaged to him till the very last moment, and then I shall be sure to marry—someone else. I couldn’t endure being engaged to the man I meant to marry.”
Mrs. Glynde’s face grew radiant.
“Ah, I see! I understand! Juliet, you are one of the most enigmatic of girls; but I think I’m beginning to understand you. Now will you send me back with a message for Arthur?”
“Oh yes, with a dozen, if you like! Tell him, from me, on no account to—” again she broke off. “I’m confident there’s the cuckoo again! It’s quite too ridiculous!”
“On no account to start on this miserable expedition—it sets off on the twentieth of next month,” said the eager mother.
“On no account to attempt to enter Parliament, or the Albert Hall orchestra; perhaps he might pass muster at the ‘Saturday Pop—’ Oh, there’s a Camberwell Beauty, I declare! I wonder if I can catch it,” and off
