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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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OUTSIDE the church—leafless trees riding the crest of the hill; a white, windy sky and the scent of early primroses; the open road, unwinding like a ribbon, on—on—to the very last milestone in the world. All the magic and mystery of the elusive promise of spring. None to mark it.
Inside the church—a red carpet, crooked, down the aisle; two palms and four white camellias on the altar steps; and a large company, chiefly women, whose eyes were misty with the supreme romance of a wedding.
Marcus Orme looked about him with savage contempt. He was conspicuous not only for his great stature, but also for his deeply graven features, instinct with deflected powers: Niagara dribbling through a myriad suburban bath-taps. It was an unhappy face—the face of one who has lived many lives and died as many deaths.
At the height of ha prosperity he had been socially important by reason of his fourth place in the succession to a title; now that only two bad lives stood between; he was nominally filling the post of-mathematical coach at a famous boys college, buried in the heart of the country, but, in reality, washing himself in the waters of Jordan.
Of course, it was a girl who had worked his cure, only nineteen years of inexperience and a sunny smile, but all-powerful to wipe out the corroded bitterness of the past and to re-create the golden promise of a future.
Janet Hardcastle was the eldest daughter of the rector of Watermead. She was possessed of an exceptionally pretty face and a sweet and wholesome nature. Without being clever, she had brains enough for the usual, course—senior Cambridge at sixteen, and matriculation at eighteen and now was filling her time with domestic and parish duties in the home and family which she adored.
Marcus studied her face covertly, with almost famished longing. In spite of the war-paint which he so derided in the other women, Marcus thought that Jan looked lovelier than ever; even if her white furs were rabbit in fancy-dress, they were snowily pure in contrast with the purple violets pinned to her stole and the red flush of her cheek.
But he knew that that flush was not for him—nor for any mortal man.
In his sense of baffled longing, the whole scene irritated him unreasonably. The bride and bridegroom kneeling at the altar, bound on the Great Adventure, yet only conscious of first returns to Bournemouth, the palpitating women thrilling to the bridesmaids' costumes and the bridal-veil, and, above all, Jan singing, "Oh, perfect love"—congregation kneeling—her eyes wistful with the thought of her own wedding. Some day—some man...
The waste of it! Women had helped Marcus to place his own price in his; days of lotus-eating, and he knew of the great heart and brain and the yet undrained reserves which he was storing up for his best beloved.
Yet not one word nor one hint could he breathe so long as there stood on either side of Jan's writing-table the framed portraits of stage beauty-men. There were many picture-postcards in Jan's den, but all preserved the general idea of straight nose, curved lips, and satin-smooth hair—the ideal lover of a young girl's fancy.
Thump. Thump. The "Wedding march." It was over.
Marcus drew a deep breath of gratitude as he stepped out into the radiant white Spring afternoon. Disdaining the huddle of hired cabs, he walked to the doctor's old-fashioned house, where the reception was being held. Immune to the lure of refreshments, he searched for Jan.
"Wasn't it a topping wedding?" she cried. "Didn't Agnes look a lamb? And the bridesmaids! I love yellow for a spring wedding. Charlie Partridge spoiled it rather. Not a bit like a bridegroom!"
Marcus compressed his lips firmly.
"Has it ever occurred to you, Jan, that the world is chiefly populated by ordinary people? The ordinary married man has to start somehow, and most of them begin by being ordinary bridegrooms; in short, being much like themselves the ordinary chaps who, in the war, went over the top, just in the ordinary coarse of things, as Partridge did."
She felt that she was being reproved, although she knew not her exact crime.
"I—I know. Tell me, which do you think make the prettiest brides? Fair girl—or dark?"
"Fair."
Jan, who was dark as any blush-rose, winced.
"Why do you always say things like that?"
"Why do you ask questions like that? Keeping some wedding-cake to dream on to-night?"
"Nothing so silly. Besides, I expect I shall be an old maid."
"Yes. I expect you will."
She looked up, startled, but his eyes were serious. In spite of her youth and beauty, and an existent lover who was slightly more than life-size, he honestly believed her doomed, for he knew that she had been born under that fatal star which forced her to follow the dream.
In her case, it was this wretched ideal lover—the composite being she had created from picture-postcards, cinemas, and her own dreams. A creature, partly pasteboard, partly flicker, partly, red firelight, and largely idleness.
"Do you know one difference between wives and spinsters, Jan?" he asked. "It's this. A married woman is generally a woman who has had but one offer of marriage and accepted it. A spinster very often is a woman who has had many offers of marriage, but just one less than she expected. Know why?"
"Why?"
"She waited for the unknown. And Jan—he rarely comes!"
Jan recovered her forces.
"Now its your turn to listen to me. Marcus. I've got one mother. Should I marry, I shall have two. So I really see no reason why you should lecture me like a third. Besides, why should you tick me off because I want to marry someone different?"
It was out, at last, and he listened to her frank avowal.
"Everyone's got to know what they want. The men my friends have married wouldn't satisfy me. I don't see it's so awful to want a—a smart man, one who has a club and—is good at everything and has travelled and—and—you know!"
Marcus nodded savagely. He knew. Suddenly, he made up his mind to risk a rebuff.
"Jan, what kind of a face have I got?"
She looked at him—her usual unconscious gaze—and then, as though she saw something there which disconcerted her, she averted her eyes.
"A blasted face," she said, simply. "Oh, you needn't laugh. It's not—language. I must find mother."
The unusual touch of nervousness consoled him for the verdict. Even if she had looked down into deep waters which had disturbed her, at least, in future, she would regard him other than furniture. She must know that one very definite personality was preparing to enter the lists against the unknown.
"Only this, Jan," he said, as he rose to his feet. "Don't waste your whole life over a dream! I'm ready to wager half my soul that he doesn't exist."
HAD the bet been registered, any sporting devil who'd had the
usual flutter over Marcus would only have drawn halfprices, for
within three days Orme was proved to be conclusively in the
wrong. Not only did the Unknown exist, but they actually met him,
in all his glory, at the Cottage Hospital Ball, at
Marketville—the neighbouring town.
Marcus escorted Jan, partly because the rector had complete confidence in him, partly to pay for her cab fare, and partly to behold her in the crowning charm of her party-frock.
He was waiting for her in the rectory hall when she fluttered down the shallow stairs, and she looked up at him with the new touch of timidity. .
"You always ought to wear evening dress, Marcus. It make you look a—a personage. You just want a few stars and orders and things."
"Trimmings in fact. Sorry you don't like me plain."
But all the 'same, he felt a good inch taller as he walked into the ballroom, his great shoulders expanded and his head held high with the pride of a victor.
The very first person he saw was the Unknown.
His name was Lewis Ford and he had motored down from town with the Wyndhams, smart and fashionable newcomers to the neighbourhood.
He was, in every respect, the exact counterpart of the ideal lover. God alone knows how he managed to achieve such unnatural perfection. He was like a perfect Grecian statue, warmed to requisite temperature, coloured to life, and clothed by an inspired tailor! His hair, broken by the slightest crisp, reflected the lights as he bent his head deferentially over the programmes of the Wyndham girls.
Jan gave a little gasp. This was her man. This was the face which had smiled at her from the red heart of many a fire. This was the form which had been her companion in many a magic adventure in the misted regions of Make-Believe.
At that moment Ford raised his eyes and looked at the radiant white figure, her soft, dark hair crowned with roses and her cheeks carnation with excitement. He had an unfailing eye for the prettiest girl in the room and he instantly requisitioned the introduction.
It was the rushing together of the moth and the star, and Marcus, knowing his services to be superfluous, only waited long enough to see him take Jan's programme. Then, with a face dark as a thunderstorm, he dug himself into the smoking-room for the rest of the evening.
"Don't look!" said Ford, as he handed back the programme. His voice was low and pleasant, and his smile held a hint of delightful audacity.
Of course, Jan looked.
"Oh, you've taken far too many!"
But she gave him those and many more before the end of the evening. He was a perfect dancer, and she herself had never danced t so well, unconscious that half her skill was due to her partner. Her code of fair play in sad eclipse, she cut the dances of her luckless partners in favour, of many minutes of stolen bliss in discreet alcoves.
The hours flew away on wings, bringing her to the tragedy of the Last Extra and "God Save the King."
"I'm going to see you home," he said. "Is your car waiting?"
"I'm not going, home to-night. It's too far out in the country. I'm stopping with friends in the town."
Arm-in-arm, very slowly, they walked through the little old-fashioned town. All the lamps were extinguished and the narrow streets were bathed in milky moonlight, giving it the unreal quality or a hamlet in fairyland, with sugar-loaf steeples and cobbled roads.
"Ripping little place," said Ford. "Reminds me of Switzerland."
"Isn't it? Exactly."
"Know Geneva?"
"Why, yes!"
"Paris, of course?"
"I've stayed there. And at Lucerne and Interlaken and Territeta."
"Splendid. I knew you weren't the ordinary stay-at-home country girl. Do you know, I tossed up whether I should fag or come to-night?"
Jan's heart froze. The carelessness of men's methods! To think she might have missed him by the spin of a coin!
"I thought I should be fed to the back teeth; instead of which, I met you."
His hand pressed her arm.
"Do you know, you are quite unlike any other girl?"
She too, experienced that priceless feeling of being unique, which is a lover's supreme gift.
"Here we are!" She stopped before a tall dark house with blind windows and a double flight of steps which met before the front door.
"I—I suppose we shan't see each other again."
Her voice shook slightly, but she could not believe it all the same.
"Oh, we shall. Somewhere, some time. Don't you feel it's ordained? We've not met for nothing. I know it's soon to talk like that, but I never funk my fences. I—I'll write."
But Jan, the practical, noted that he had not asked for her address.
Suddenly her brain was fired by a daring idea which held, in its development, infinite possibilities.
"I suppose you wouldn't care about a week-end in the country? We live at the Rectory, at Watermead. People rave about the place. There's a good football match next Saturday. And—and—people seem to like staying with us."
"I should love it; You alone would be sufficient inducement. But I shall bore your people?"
She laughed happily.
"We're quite used to week-end visitors. But I must warn you we're unconventional. Do you mind? Daddy's not a bit like a parson. He's out-of-doors."
"Topping."
"Then, suppose you come by the four-thirty on Friday. We have a railway station. I'll meet you."
As she pulled the dangling bell-chain he caught her in his arms. Thrilling to his kisses, she returned them simply and naturally. Wasn't he her own Fair Prince?
"Have you ever kissed a girl before?" she asked.
As the door was opened by a sleep-sodden maid he released her swiftly.
"Never!"
"MARCUS, you've stopped at a lot of big houses, haven't you?"
Marcus, who in the purple gloom of his tempestuous past had been a guest at more than one historic mansion, twitched an eyebrow. His face was set in stiffer mould than usual as he watched Jan fill a big blue bowl with daffodils.
"Just a few—calling with samples and all that."
"Please be serious. How does this drawing-room strike you? It always seems perfect to me, but perhaps I am prejudiced!"
Marcus could give a genuine opinion, for the room never failed to please him. It was long and narrow, with tall windows and a floor of dark-grained oak; its carpet of delphinium-blue was faded and the roses on the cretonnes were washed out, but it still suggested taste and comfort.
"It'll pass, Jan. It has atmosphere."
"I'm so glad. I often wonder if I'm silly over my home."
"Fact is, Jan, you've made a corner here in happiness."
Marcus was always responsive to the spell of the Rectory. It was a pleasant white house, facing—south, shabby, but full of comfort. It was run on the general lines of-good fires and plenty in the larder.
"You can't really know a person until you've seen her in her own house," went on Jan.
"That's so. Twenty-four hours together within four walls is more effective than a whole season's casual meetings in drawing-rooms."
Marcus turned the knife in his heart. The sooner the tragedy was finished the better.
Jan looked at her wrist-watch. "I must fly to meet Lewis."
"D'you call him 'Lewis' already?"
"Well, it's a surname, anyway."
"Nice girls don't call men by their surnames."
Jan's sole answer was a laugh of pure happiness. She had lived up in the stars since waking the morning after the dance, to the rapture of the knowledge that the same sun was shining upon Lewis.
Her mother, who was used to hospitality, could not understand her insistence upon special preparations.
"Mum, all that's lovely, but he—he's used to different things. He's different altogether from the other boys. Oh, just splendid!"
Enlightened by her daughter's blush, her mother was on her mettle.
As Jan flew across the fields towards the railway-station she wondered fearfully if the picture she had retained of Lewis Ford would prove a glamorous fancy.
But when he stepped on to the platform, in just the wondrous travelling coat to which she was accustomed by the films, she thought that she had under-rated his perfection. Swelling with a girl's natural pride of conquest, she piloted him home the long way through the village.
A motor passed them and he looked up, with sudden interest, as a golden-haired girl in spectacular motoring kit, turned to wave to him.
"Hulloa! Lady Sylvia Wells! Didn't know she was staying here. That's the Wyndhams' car. Oh, no.... Just met her, that's all."
Jan felt that his eyes were fixed upon her as he spoke. She knew that her cheeks were flushed with exercise, and, with a remembrance or the rouge on the London girl's face she had a swift glow of triumph.
They stopped at the stile to gaze over the expanse of swelling meadows.
"Ripping field for a gallop. I suppose your dad can mount me?"
"We've only the pony-cart. We've all bicycles."
"Quicker, too. Are you near the links?"
"There aren't any. I am sorry you've brought your clubs for nothing."
"No matter. I'll teach, you on the lawn. I suppose there is something I can teach you?"
"Lots. We'll begin with golf."
"And end with—"
"We're nearly there."
Filled with shyness at the ardour of his tone, Jan snatched at postponement. She did not want the crown of her romance to come too quickly. The present moments were so entirely sweet.
Later on, as she gave Lewis afternoon tea in the drawing-room, she felt that a dream had come true. The firelight gleamed on the old Queen Anne teapot and the great bowls of daffodils on the window-ledges. It was home at its best.
Ford looked at her feet as she stretched them to the blaze.
"I specially noticed your slim ankles at the dance."
"They don't look slim now!" she laughed. "Mummy knits all my stockings."
"Ripping of her! Uncommon, aren't they? Most girls seem to wear brogues and sports stockings in the country."
"Rather! And dresses up to their knees to show them off. Daddy would give me a sermon, five heads and a 'lastly—' all to myself if my skirt ever rises more than two inches above any ankles."
"All the same, you wore shorter skirts than that at the Winter Sports in Switzerland?"
"But I went to Switzerland in the summer."
"Oh! Climbing?"
"No. We went for the scenery. Lunn's three-week tour. Oh, it was gorgeous."
She broke off in her recital as the clock struck six.
"You'll want to go to your room?"
The best guest chamber—called the Blue Room because of the colour of its hangings—was bathed in hospitable firelight. From the window was a view of a ridge crowned with a clump of fir trees darkly silhouetted against the rose-flush of sunset. With a satisfied sigh Jan slipped away to help in the preparations for the high tea.
It was a festive meal, for Mrs. Hardcastle—a sport to her backbone—had killed the fatted calf. She set and kept the ball rolling as she beamed from behind the tea-urn. She was a stout, tweed-clad lady, with learning glasses and rosy cheeks. Gold and grey were fighting it out in her hair.
There were cold fowls and a York ham, as well as eggs and home-made cakes, and Jan was delighted at her lover's appetite.
He had come down to the meal attired in dinner clothes, and, later on in the evening, Jan, despite a pang of shame, had to contrast his with Marcus, who dropped in attired in the casual Norfolk of an uninvited guest.
"What do you do in the evening?" asked Ford. "Jazz—or auction?"
"We play games. We made a Cambridge don, and a colonial bishop, play 'Cat-and-mouse' the other evening, and they loved it."
"Topping! I know, Kiss-in-the-ring. The Wyndham push coming over?"
"No. We called, but they're not parishioners."
When candles were lit at the end of an uproarious evening. Jan felt her first slight pang of hesitation as she turned to Ford.
"I—I hope you don't mind family prayers to-morrow morning. Remember, you're staying in a parson's family!"
"My dear child, of course! We always had them at the Bishop's. Otherwise, it would be Hamlet without the Ghost."
His charming smile dissipated her last doubt.
But, all the same, prayers were over by the time he appeared the next morning for breakfast, and Jan, who had missed her cold bath in order to hold the bathroom at his sole disposal, scolded him gently.
"You've made me late, so I may have to leave you for a bit. I must look in at the church to do the altar flowers, as we're going to the match this afternoon. Come and see me feed my fowls!"
To her surprise he shook his head.
"Just wash me out, my dear! I want to get a trunk call through at the post office if I can. Stocks and shares. Mind you tell your hens to lay me a nice brown Buff Orpington egg for my tea."
So Jan obediently trotted off to tell her White Leghorns to lay Buff Orpington eggs.
Later on, Ford helped her to carry her bundles of ivy and primroses to the church, and there, was no prouder girl than Jan as she walked up the aisle with her escort.
But her rapture was dispelled when Roger, her small brother, chattered into the church, elated with the distinction of bearing a telegram.
Ford tore it open, and, remembering where he was, bit off a naughty-word in time.
"Of all the rotten luck! I positively must go back to town by noon. Important business."
"Business? You're a barrister, aren't you?" faltered Jan, who, on the strength of his profession, had waded through the most disreputable case in the paper the day before, for the sake of the duel of the counsels.
"Reading for the bar. But this is finance. I must pack up my kit immediately. Coming?"
"Of course. But I can't see you off at the station, for I simply must do the altar flowers. I'm so sorry."
He rallied her on her forlorn looks as they hurried through the churchyard.
"I shall be coming back, of course. Not likely I shall keep away for long. Why, in time, I expect the good folk planted out here will get to know my step so well that you'll have the whole graveyard out in purple and red, like Tennyson's 'Maud.' Rotten colour-scheme."
Jan was comforted. And when he stood, bag in hand, outside the Rectory gates, she felt that their farewell was only the first instalment of a serial.
Marcus, walking down the lane unseen, gritted his teeth as he witnessed the long rapture of their parting.
"HELLO, Pony! Where on earth, are you hithering?"
Ford's face lit up, as he walked on to the sun-drenched railway station, to find it not only gay with polyanthuses in the flower-beds, but brilliant with a flamboyant cluster of ladies—the Wyndham girls and Sylvia Wells. Instantly nicknames flew like chaff in a gale.
"Called back to town business," said Ford.
There was a howl of laughter. Then Lady Sylvia, in the most hectic of sports coats and skirts which displayed the maximum of smart hosiery, turned to Ford, her pretty, eyes filled with persuasion.
"We simply screamed when we heard that you were staying at the Rectory. We're dying to hear all about it. How did they manage to net you?"
He shook his head.
"What's there to tell? I've had a delightful visit—what there was of it. Charming family, country air, and all that."
"Not good enough, Pony. Be a sport. Tell us! We won't let on!"
It is accepted that three generations go to the making of a gentleman. Lewis Ford was the son of a rich father, who had taken his first steps in clogs. Although he might have remained proof to the Wyndham girls persuasions, he could not resist the blue eyes—and title—of Lady Sylvia Wells.
He lowered his voice.
"Well, in, strict confidence, I'll own up to the most ghastly suck-in. She—Miss Hardcastle—told me that her dad was 'out-of-doors,' and I went down, expecting plenty of sport and a port wine, fox-hunting parson. Instead of which he just digs in his garden."
He was spurred on by delighted ripples of laughter.
"Oh, she warned me that they were unconventional. What would you make of that? I spelt it, dinner in pyjamas and so on. Burt I found out it means no dinner, a saucer instead of a soap-dish, and nursery games."
"What's the house like?"
"Very shabby. Oh, very nice people, but a bit below the top-drawer."
"Did you have family prayers?" gurgled Olive Wyndham.
"We did! I attended, very reverently, in bed."
"Pony! You really are the limit!"
But Lady Sylvia had heard of Ford's infatuation at the dance and she knew that a man could survive all that—and more—for love.
"What's the girl like?" she asked, and then watched him narrowly.
"The prettiest kid. She looked topping at the dance. But she's shockingly dressed. I tried to drop her a hint."
"A flirt?"
"Lord, no."
It was the only decent thing he hid said, for, quite honestly, he had misinterpreted the situation, which was the chief extenuation of his conduct! He did not know that he was the substance of a dream, and Jan's bulging eyes, upon meeting, and her subsequent response to his kisses, had led him to conclude that she had a hectic taste for experience.
AS the train came in the eldest Wyndham girl caught his
arm.
"You're not going, Pony! We've a houseful for the weekend and a dance tonight. Come back with us. Car's outside. You'll simply mope about in London, without a date."
He protested feebly.
"I say, it's not done. I handed out all the usual dope to that poor kid when I said 'Goodbye.' Whatever would she think? It's not done!"
But it was done, and done that very afternoon. Jan and Marcus cycled out to Marketville for the football match. As she sat on the base boards of the stand Jan was keenly expectant of an afternoon's enjoyment, and also bright with triumph, of having the handomest lover in the town. He was soon coming back to her.
Suddenly, Marcus who was packed, sardine-wise, by her side, felt her flinch away. She just managed to stifle a cry.
Following the direction of her eyes he saw, parked outside the rails, the Wyndham car with Ford at the steering wheel. His handsome head was bent in total absorption in his charming companion, Lady Sylvia Wyndham.
In that moment of shock Jan grew ten years older. Although she did not look again at Lewis, every detail of the scene, was stamped upon her brain.
She saw him now in his proper setting—as she had been wont to see him on the screen—the guest in palatial country-houses with billiard-rooms, lounges and swimming baths, and surrounded by smart butterfly girls, expert in the social game.
A lump rose in her throat as she thought of her cherished family and home. She felt that he had rejected what she loved best and had trampled it in the dust.
No one on the field watched the match with more meticulous interest. She commented on every point just to show Marcus to show that her attention was focused upon the ball.
But, at last, her ordeal came to an end, and with cheers ringing in their ears, she and Marcus silently retrieved their bicycles. She made the pace so furious along the hard white road that Marcus had his work cut out to keep up with her. When they came to the bridge which spanned the river, just outside Watermead she slipped from her wheel and stood gazing silently down at the sliding grey water.
"E'en the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea," quoted Marcus consolingly.
She raised her head and he saw that her eyes were hot and angry.
"Why don't you laugh at me, too. You've seen. I felt everyone at the match was staring at me. I told them in the village about the telegram. 'Had to go. Coming back, of course!' Oh, isn't it funny?"
"Now, Jan, depend on it, there's some good reason for all this. Did you quarrel with him?"
"Quarrel? I was too nice. I'll scrub my lips with carbolic to-night."
Marcus frowned angrily.
"Then, what did you do to?"
"Just gave him the best I had, of myself, of everything, of everyone. Oh. Marcus, I'll never give up my family for anyone! They are dears, aren't they. And to think that all the time he was making fun of Mum's riddles and Dad's tales.
"My dear girl, family jokes are admittedly a ferocious blight. It takes someone who's been brought up in a decent family to appreciate them, and probably, this splendid fellow's been reared in a foundling hospital."
In spite of his dutiful attempts at sympathy Marcus was enjoying the present turn of events, for he was a tremendously human person.
Jan struck the stone parapet with her clenched fists.
"I've made myself the laughing-stock of the parish. The people! Oh, the people! I would give all I have if I could announce my engagement to someone else."
Marcus looked at her and made up his mind swiftly. He was very sorry for her, for he knew the depths of pain and humiliation in which she groped, but he had to hurt her yet more for her own salvation.
"Anyone in particular?" he asked.
"I—" she stared at the reeds waving in the current—"I only know you."
"And I'm damned if you'll have me!" Marcus exploded at white heat. "Isn't it enough for me to have loved you with all of myself—month in, month out—while you oozed sickly sentiment for something unknown with a straight nose and a stiff collar? Do you think I have no feelings? Haven't I stood by and held your hand while you turned your heart inside out and invited me to look inside and see someone else? And now you dare to offer me the pale ghost of a simulated passion, just to satisfy the conventions of outraged pride! You're dealing with a man not a door-mat! I'm through with you. You've only got what you've asked for. And serve you jolly well right."
"How—how—dare you—"
But when Jan found her breath she only saw the dust whirling behind his furiously revolving wheel.
On the crest of the hill Marcus paused before the downward plane and laughed into the twilight.
"What a brute!"
He was right. Jan lay awake during the first hours of the night—she thought of course, that she never closed her eyes—but no tears were shed for Lewis. The smart of outraged pride had burnt out the self-pity of a deceived maiden. Marcus had brutally shown her that she had made a fool of herself, and she, consequently, thought of Marcus. She thought of him with anger—with shame—with feelings of revenge. But still—she thought of him. In spite of her former indifference, he had two years' standing against Lewis' two days.
The whole of the next day it rained and Jan stayed inside the rectory, for fear she should meet somebody. The whole of the next day it rained and Jan walked in the dripping fields. The whole of the third day it rained, and Jan sallied out in the village, in fear lest she should meet nobody.
She met nobody.
The fourth day the sun shone, and Marcus, with inward trepidation, called at the rectory. Mrs. Hardcastle, in short serge skirt, was in the garden, cutting cabbages.
They met with a smile of understanding. "Is she convalescent?" he asked.
"Sitting up and taking nourishment. I'm rather grateful to this Ford man. I think he's done Jan good. She's upstairs in her den, Marcus."
He found her standing before her desk, upon which were two empty frames. She held the torn fragments of the photographs of her stage favourites.
"Now what have they done to you?" asked Marcus soothingly, apparently regardless of her downcast eyes.
"I don't like their silly faces. They're so—so good-looking. They bore me to tears. I want someone who's strong and ugly—someone who looks like a man!"
Very firmly Marcus extracted his own portrait from the rim of the mirror, and deliberately fitted it into one of the frames.
"Is that ugly enough for you? he asked. She looked up, sudden laughter in her eyes, and he saw that her good sense and sanity had been restored by the four days in the good company of herself. Once again, she repeated her regrettable expression.
"It's a blasted face. But—it is a man!"
As she placed it upon her writing-table Marcus took a sudden dive into a golden future, which held a country church, a red carpet, for white camellias—and Romance.
Roy Glashan's Library
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