God's Good Man Part 42

There was a brief awkward pause. Then Eva Beaulyon turned her back indifferently on the whole party and stepped out on the lawn. She was followed by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, and both ladies gave vent to small smothered bleats of mocking laughter as they sauntered across the gra.s.s side by side. But Maryllia did not care. She had carried her point, and was satisfied. The Sunday's observance in Abbot's Manor, always rigorously insisted upon by her father, would not be desecrated by card-playing and gambling under his daughter's sway.

That was enough for her. A serene content dwelt in her eyes as she watched her guests disperse and scatter themselves in sections of twos and threes all over the garden and grounds--and she said the pleasantest and kindest things when any of them pa.s.sed her on their way, telling them just where to find the prettiest nooks, and where to pick the choicest fruit and flowers. Lord Charlemont watched her with a sense of admiration for her 'pluck.'

"By Jove!" he thought--"I'd rather have fronted the guns in a pitched battle than have forbidden my own guests to play Bridge on Sunday! Wants nerve,--upon my soul it does!--and the little woman's got it--you bet she has!" Aloud he said--

"I'm awfully glad to be let off Bridge, Miss Vancourt! A day's respite is a positive boon!"

"Do you play it so often, then?" she asked gently. He flushed slightly.

"Too often, I'm afraid! But how can I help it? One must do something to kill time!"

"Poor Time!" said Maryllia, with a smile--"Why should he be killed?

I would rather make much of him while I have him!"

Charlemont did not answer. He lit a cigar and strolled away by himself to meditate.

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay just then re-entered the drawing-room from the garden, fanning herself vigorously with her handkerchief.

"It is so frightfully warm!" she complained--"Such a burning sun! So bad for the skin! They are picking strawberries and eating them off the plants--very nice, I daresay--but quite messy. Eva Beaulyon and two of the men have taken a boat and gone on the water. If you don't mind, Maryllia, I shall rest and ma.s.sage till dinner."

"Pray do so!" returned Maryllia, kindly, smiling, despite herself; Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay's life was well-nigh, spent in 'ma.s.sage' and various other processes for effacing the prints of Time from her carefully guarded epidermis--"But I was just going to ask Cicely to play us something. Won't you wait five minutes and hear her?"

Mrs. Courtenay sighed and sank into a chair. Nothing bored her so utterly as music,--but as it was only for 'five minutes,' she resigned herself to destiny. And Cicely, at a sign from Maryllia, went to the piano and played divinely,--wild s.n.a.t.c.hes of Polish and Hungarian folk-songs, nocturnes and romances, making the instrument speak a thousand things of love and laughter, of sorrow and death,-- till the glorious rush of melody captivated some of the wanderers in the garden and brought them near the open window to listen. When she ceased, there was a little outbreak of applause, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay rose languidly.

"Yes, very nice!" she said--"Very nice indeed! But you know, Maryllia, if you would only get one of those wonderful box things one sees advertised so much in the papers, the pianista or mutuscope or gramophone--no, I THINK it's pianola, but I'm not quite sure--you would save such a lot of study and brain-work for this poor child!

And it sounds quite as well! I'm sure she could manage a gramophone thing--I mean pianista--pianola--quite nicely for you when you want any music. Couldn't you, my dear?"

And she gazed at Cicely with a bland kindliness as she put the question. Cicely's eyes sparkled with fun and satire.

"I'm sure I could!" she declared, with the utmost seriousness--"It would be delightful! Just like organ-grinding, only much more so! I should enjoy it of all things! Of course one ought NEVER to use the brain in music!"

"Not nowadays,"--said Mrs. Courtenay, with conviction--"Things have improved so much. Mechanism does everything so well. And it is SUCH a pity to use up one's vital energy in doing what one of those box- things can do better. And do you too play music?"

And she addressed herself to Adderley who happened to be standing near her. He made one of his fantastic salutes.

"Not I, madam! I am merely a writer,--one who makes rhymes and verses---"

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay waved him away with a hand on which at least five diamond rings sparkled gorgeously.

"Oh dear! Don't come near me!" she said, with a little affected laugh--"I simply HATE poetry! I'm so sorry you write it! I can't think why you do. Do you like it?--or are you doing it for somebody because you must?"

Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking it up rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay's abhorrence.

"I like it more than anything else in the world!" he said. "I'm doing it quite for myself, and for n.o.body else."

"Really!"--and Mrs. Courtenay gave him a glance of displeased surprise--"How dreadful!" Here she turned to Maryllia. "Au revoir, my dear, for the present! As you won't allow any Bridge, I'm going to sleep. Then I shall do ma.s.sage for an hour. May I have tea in my own room?"

"Certainly!" said Maryllia.

"Thanks!" She glided out, with a frou-frou of her silken skirts and a trail of perfume floating after her.

The three she left behind her exchanged amused glances.

"Wonderful woman!" said Adderley,--"And, no doubt, a perfectly happy one!"

"Why of course! I don't suppose she has ever shed a tear, lest it should make a wrinkle!" And Cicely, as she made these remarks, patted her own thin, sallow cheeks consolingly. "Look at my poor face and hers! Mine is all lined and puckered with tears and sad thoughts--SHE hasn't a wrinkle! And I'm fourteen, and she's forty!

Oh dear! Why did I cry so much over all the sorrow and beauty of life when I was young!"

"Ah--and why didn't you have a pianista-pianola!" said Adderley.

They all laughed,--and then at Maryllia's suggestion, joined the rest of the guests in the garden.

That same evening when Maryllia was dressing for dinner, there came a tap at her bedroom door, and in response to her 'Come in!' Eva Beaulyon entered.

"May I speak to you alone for a minute?" she said.

Maryllia a.s.sented, giving a sign to her maid to leave the room.

"Well, what is it, Eva?" said Maryllia, when the girl had gone-- "Anything wrong?"

Eva Beaulyon sank into a chair somewhat wearily, and her beautiful violet eyes, despite artistic 'touching up' looked hard and tired.

"Not so far as I am concerned,"--she said, with a little mirthless laugh--"Only I think you behaved very oddly this afternoon. Do you really mean that you object to Bridge on Sundays, or was it only a put on?"

"It was a put off!" responded Maryllia, gaily--"It stopped the intended game! Seriously, Eva, I meant it and I do mean it. There's too much Bridge everywhere--and I don't think it necessary,--I don't think it even decent--to keep it going on Sundays."

"I suppose the parson of your parish has told you that!" said Lady Beaulyon, suddenly.

Maryllia's eyes met hers with a smile.

"The parson of the parish has not presumed to dictate to me on my actions,"--she said--"I should deeply resent it if he did."

"Well, he had no eyes for anyone but you in the church this morning.

A mole could have seen that in the dark. He was preaching AT us and FOR you all the while!"

A slight flush swept over Maryllia's cheeks,--then she laughed.

"My dear Eva! I never thought you were imaginative! The parson has nothing whatever to do with me,--why, this is the first Sunday I have ever been to his church,--you know I never go to church."

Lady Beaulyon looked at her narrowly, unconvinced.

"What have you left your aunt for?" she asked.

"Simply because she wants me to marry Roxmouth, and I won't!" said Maryllia, emphatically.

"Why not?"

"First, because I don't love him,--second, because he has slandered me by telling people that I am running after his t.i.tle, to excuse himself for running after Aunt Emily's millions; and lastly, but by no means leastly, because he is--unclean."

"All men are;" said Eva Beaulyon, drily--"It's no use objecting to that!"