Читать книгу Imprudence - F. E. Mills Young - Страница 9

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It detracted somewhat from Prudence’s enjoyment when, having lunched delightfully off viands which would have met with less favour eaten off a plate from an ordinary dining-table, having subsequently strolled about the woods, engaged in botanical and other research, it abruptly occurred to her that it was time to return home. The thought of going home was less pleasant with the prospect so imminent. Picnicking in the woods with a comparative stranger was, she felt now, a sufficiently unusual proceeding to make explanation difficult. Neither Agatha nor her father would view the matter in the light in which she saw it—simply as a pleasant excursion breaking the monotony of dull days. The necessity to account for her absence at all annoyed her.

“The drawback to stolen pleasure,” she announced, regarding the young man with serious eyes in which a shade of anxiety was faintly reflected, “lies in the aftermath of nettles; while not dangerous, they sting.”

“By Jove! yes,” he agreed. “The little matter of going back has been sitting on my mind for the last ten minutes. The thing loses its humour when no longer in the background. I’m really horribly afraid of Miss Graynor.”

“You need not come,” said Prudence generously.

“Oh! I’m not so mean a coward as to back out,” he said. “It’s up to me to see it through with you. After all, the excursion was at my suggestion. And it was worth being stung for by all the nettles that ever grew. Besides, I want my tea.”

“You’ll be lucky if you get it,” she returned.

“Come now!” he urged. “Let us take a charitable view, and decide that they will dispense generous hospitality. Upon my soul, I don’t see why they shouldn’t be charmed to receive us. The Prodigal, you know, got an amazing reception.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “I think possibly we’ll get an amazing reception too. Please, if you don’t mind, I would rather you took that dead flower out of your coat.”

“They would never suspect you of putting it there,” he protested, with a feeling of strong reluctance to do what she proposed.

But Prudence insisted. She knew that when William’s eye fell on that withered memento her guilty conscience would give him the clue to its history.

“In any case,” she added diplomatically, “it adds a look of untidiness.”

And so the primrose never had the opportunity of lifting its head in water. Before discarding it, Steele was seized with the idea of placing it between the leaves in his pocket-book; but after a glance at the pretty, serious face of his companion he decided against this and left the dead flower lying in the bracken at their feet.

“The first brush against the nettles,” he remarked, and smiled at her regretfully. “I’m braced now. That first sting hurt more than any other can.”

The further stings proved embarrassing rather than hurtful. When Steele entered the drawing-room at Court Heatherleigh with Prudence he was made uncomfortably aware of the surprised gaze of five pairs of curious feminine eyes all focussed upon himself, and, advancing under this raking fire, felt his amiable smile of greeting fade before Miss Agatha’s blank stare of cold inquiry; her reluctantly extended hand, its chill response to his clasp, reduced him to a state of abject humility. He found himself stammering an apologetic explanation of his presence.

“I just looked in to say good-bye,” he began awkwardly. “I had the good luck to meet Miss Graynor this morning—”

“I presume you mean that you encountered my sister, Prudence?” Miss Graynor interrupted him frigidly.

He flushed, and felt savage with himself for being betrayed into the weakness.

“I met Miss Prudence—yes, and persuaded her to show me the woods. You have some very beautiful scenery about here; it seemed a pity to miss the best of it, and this was my last opportunity. I made the most of it,” he added with a touch of audacity which Miss Agatha inwardly resented.

“We’ve had a delightful time,” Prudence interposed defiantly, and turned as her father entered the room and forestalled his reproaches with a light kiss on his unresponsive lips. “I’ve been picnicking in the woods, daddy,” she said brightly. “And now we’ve come back—for tea.”

She made this announcement in the tone of a person who does not intend to be denied. Miss Agatha remarked tartly that it was not the hour for tea, and Mr Graynor, ignoring the hospitable suggestion, reproved her for her long absence.

“You caused me considerable anxiety,” he said.

Prudence expressed her contrition. Steele added his apologies, although in his heart he felt there was nothing in the adventure to apologise for.

“I am afraid the fault was mine,” he said. “The suggestion originated with me. I was thoughtless enough to overlook the fact that you might be worried.”

“The thoughtlessness was on my daughter’s side,” Mr Graynor answered. “She is fully aware that her absence from luncheon would cause anxiety. She should have invited you to return with her instead.”

Prudence flashed a surprised smile at him. To have done what he proposed was the last thing she would have dared to do. Had she given the invitation she would have been reproved quite as severely for taking the liberty as for absenting herself without permission. The privilege of independent action involving promiscuous hospitality was vested solely in Agatha and William.

Matters appeared to have reached a deadlock. Steele had nothing to say! Prudence had nothing to say! Miss Agatha had no desire to help the situation by bridging the silence; and Mr Graynor had nothing further to add to his reproof. He seated himself. Since Miss Agatha remained standing Steele had no option but to do the same: he felt increasingly awkward, and wished he had taken advantage of Prudence’s permission and remained out of it.

“Sit down, sit down,” exclaimed Mr Graynor suddenly, with an accession of ill-humour as he became aware of the general strain. “Why is every one standing?”

His intervention scarcely relieved matters. Steele said he thought he must be going, and murmured something about an early start on the morrow; he had merely called to make his adieux. Miss Agatha’s prompt acceptance of this explanation for the brevity of his visit was not flattering; but Mr Graynor, awakening tardily to a sense of the lack of cordiality, protested against his leaving so hurriedly.

“William will be in presently,” he said. “You had better wait and see him. And we’ll have tea. I see no object in deferring tea, Agatha, until a given hour.”

“Prudence,” Agatha commanded, “ring the bell, please.”

Steele attempted to forestall the girl; their hands touched as each reached out to press the button.

“Oh, Lord!” he murmured under his breath, and caught her eye and smiled dryly. “It will require something more efficacious than dock leaves to counteract these nettles.”

She drew back without replying, but her face was charged with meaning, and he detected the hidden laughter in her eyes. It was well for her, he decided, that she could find anything to laugh at in the dismal situation; for himself he would gladly have escaped and sacrificed the tea; a whisky and soda would have suited him better at the moment.

The tea, when it came, caused little unbending, but it provided a legitimate excuse for moving from Miss Agatha’s side, and it gave him an opportunity for a few minutes’ talk with Prudence, a disjointed, embarrassed talk under the close observation of the rest. Steele was conscious of those watchful eyes, of the listening hang in the conversation when he approached the girl. Prudence also was conscious of this silent manifestation of vigilant criticism on the part of her family; but she had reached a stage of recklessness which moved her to openly disregard the condemnation in Agatha’s eyes when Steele, having handed the cake to her, remained beside her for a few minutes, and held her in conversation.

“I have been reconsidering what you said in the wood,” he observed, “about the influence of others in regard to the enjoyment of life. You were entirely right.”

“Given the opportunity, I knew I could prove my case,” she answered with the same amount of caution in her tones as he had used. “But you mustn’t talk to me now, please; I’m in disgrace.”

“So am I,” he replied. “I wonder if you will be looking out of a window to-night?”

“I expect so.”

“I prowl about most nights,” he said, and scrutinised her face intently to observe the effect of his words.

“I know. I’ve seen you.”

“It is regrettable,” he remarked, “that the upper story of a private house is usually inaccessible. Won’t you have another piece of cake? No! Miss Matilda, may I fetch you some tea?”

The maidenly breasts of the four Miss Graynors, who were pale reflections of their eldest sister, were pleasantly stirred by Steele’s punctilious courtesy. They were envious of their young half-sister, whose temerity had led her into the indiscretion of spending an entire morning in the society of a member of the opposite sex. It does not follow that a life which has known no romance is innocent of romantic aspirations. Miss Matilda, spare and prim and slightly grey, experienced a vague sense of loss and of resentment against her single state when she met Steele’s smiling, youthful eyes, and reflected that no man’s glance had ever rested upon herself with that look of pleased interest which she observed in Steele’s face whenever it was turned in Prudence’s direction. Prudence, of course, was pretty and young. Miss Matilda’s girlhood lay behind her, but it had known none of the delights that her virgin heart longed for in the secret chamber which she seldom unlocked even for her own inspection. The emotions that lay concealed there were unbecoming in a modest woman whose function it was to be pious and dutiful in the acceptance of her lot.

It was possibly due to these hidden emotions that Steele found Miss Matilda’s society less depressing than her sister’s, and he clung to it tenaciously until the entrance of brother William assigned him as by right to the position of audience to the ponderous conversation of this man of limited intelligence and no humour. William would have failed to understand that a man, even when young, would rather talk with a woman than be talked to by himself. The manner in which his sisters effaced themselves in his presence was a tribute to, as well as a recognition of, his masculine superiority. It was the want of a proper appreciation on his youngest sister’s part in this respect that so frequently made it necessary for him to assert his dignity before her. He was angry with her now, and he passed her with his face averted, righteous indignation in his frown and in the set of his shoulders. Steele felt that it would be a pleasure to kick him; but when he detected the mischievous wickedness in Prudence’s eyes, William’s dignity became a matter for amusement rather than annoyance; the man was so obviously an ass.

“The weather,” William observed, as he took his tea, waited on by two of his sisters despite Steele’s efforts to relieve them, “shows signs of breaking. The barometer has fallen.”

“The country needs rain,” Miss Agatha remarked in tones of satisfaction.

And for the next few minutes the advantages of a good downpour and the benefit therefrom to the garden as well as to the farmers, was discussed in detail: the watering of the borders, it transpired, fully occupied the gardener’s time each evening as a result of the dry spell.

Bored beyond measure, Steele took an abrupt leave, and declining William’s invitation to take a stroll round the grounds in his company, seized his hat and fled.

“She’ll never stick it,” he reflected, as he banged the gate and hurried away down the road like a man pursued. “She can’t. She’ll do a bunk, one day. I would in her place.”

And Prudence, defenceless in the drawing-room, meeting the brunt of William’s anger, and the reproaches of the others, determined in her rebellious soul that if release did not come in some legitimate form before she was twenty-one, she would on acquiring that age obtain it for herself.