IV
MY ACTIONS ALWAYS HARMONISED
WITH MY OWN SWEET VOLITION;
I ALWAYS DID WHAT I DEVISED
AND RARELY ASKED PERMISSION.
Ere he was able to let himself out, however, he was recalled.
“Mr. Noel Farquhar!”
Farquhar turned, and saw on the stairs a girl with a small head and a crown of chestnut hair. She came leisurely down with her hand on the balustrade, planting each foot lightly but with decision; her gait was very characteristic. The light was from behind and left her features dark. When she had reached the hall, “I want to speak to you,” said she, calmly; “please to come in here.”
Farquhar held his peace and followed her into another low room, littered with more books and with Miss Fane’s somewhat masculine appurtenances—a pair of dogskin gloves, a hard felt hat, and a riding-whip among them. Armorial bearings were carved upon the lintel and traced again in silver upon the uprights of the andirons, across which logs were lying, in primitive style. The girl went first to the fire and stooped to warm her hands before she confronted him.
“Have you been talking to my father?”
“Am I speaking to Miss Fane?”
“Of course; why do you ask such a question as that?”
“Because I really was not sure; I thought you were younger.”
“Most people know us by sight, though we are too wicked to be received,” returned Miss Fane, indifferently. “I don’t know whether you mistook me for a servant. However, that doesn’t matter; have you been speaking to my father?”
“I came by appointment on a business matter, Miss Fane.”
“About those cottages at Burnt House. You should have written to my brother Bernard; he manages the farm, and he is reasonable to deal with. Does my father mean to raise the rents?”
“He said such was his intention, but I hope he will think better of it.”
“Oh no, he won’t. Are you going to acquiesce, and let your protégés be evicted?”
“I can hardly make Mr. Fane lower the rents, can I?”
“You could make up the difference yourself.”
As this was precisely what Farquhar had determined to do, he was, of course, struck by her intelligence. But he did his alms in modest secrecy. “I dare say they will find the extra sixpence,” he said.
“They can’t. Searle drinks, and the others are as bad, or worse. They’re helpless.”
Farquhar did not answer her. She had just moved into the sunlight, and he was startled by her beauty. No flower-loveliness was hers, delicate and evanescent; she glowed like a jewel with colour, the brighter for the sunlight which illumined the rich damask of her cheeks, the rich whiteness of her brow, the rich hazel of her eyes, the rich chestnut of her hair. Dolly Fane possessed in its full splendour the misnamed devil’s beauty, the beauty of colour, vitality, youth. Her lips were virginally severe, her figure slight, girlishly formed, not yet mature; she was not so old, nor yet so self-possessed, as she wished to appear.
“Well, if you are giving in there is no more to be said,” she added, with a slight contemptuous movement which was plainly a prelude to showing him out.
Farquhar hastily cast to the winds his modest reserve. “I am not giving in; I do mean to make up the difference,” he said.
“You do?” said Dolly, fastening her eyes upon him.
“You’re very charitable, Miss Fane,” said Farquhar, smiling.
“Not in the least. I am sorry for Mrs. Searle; but I did not ask you for that reason. I wanted to see what you are like. You’ve spoken to my brother Bernard once or twice, haven’t you?”
“I have; but he did not seem interested in my conversation.”
“Oh, that’s Bernard’s way; he always thinks people mean to patronise him. You know London well, don’t you?”
“I’ve lived a good deal in town, certainly.”
“Should I pass muster in society?”
“Pass muster?” Farquhar repeated. It was not easy to abash him, but this young beauty, with her odd questions, contrived to do it.
“Yes. I know I am behaving in an unusual way now, but have I the accent and the appearance of a lady?”
“Most certainly you have.”
“Do you think so? Should I get on in town? Do you think I am sufficiently presentable to be an actress?”
“An actress? Yes, I should say you were.”
“You’ve not seen me act, of course; I can do it. And I’ve a passable voice, and I’m fairly good-looking. Books say that theatre-goers will put up with poor acting for the sake of a pretty face; is that true?”
“It depends on the prettiness of the face. It would be true in your case.”
“I don’t in the least want compliments. I want the plain truth.”
“And I’m giving it.”
“Oh,” said Dolly, evidently disconcerted. He had checked her for the minute, and she remained silent, though fresh questions were at her very lips.
“Are you fond of acting?” Farquhar asked, to loosen her tongue. “Are you burning to play Juliet?”
“Juliet? Oh no! I’d like to be Cleopatra or Lady Macbeth, though. Some one powerful and perhaps wicked; but not like La Dame aux Camélias, or Iris, or Agnes Ebbsmith. If I threw the Bible in the fire, I should keep it there.”
“And make it eternal, and make it red-hot,” suggested Farquhar.
“Did you read those lines? Aren’t they good? Years ago I wrote them there, and father never could make me rub them out, though he tried with his riding-whip. But that wouldn’t interest you. On your honour, do you think I should have a chance on the stage?”
“On my honour, I do. But why do you want to go? I should have thought you’d too much sense to be stage-struck.”
“I’m not stage-struck, but I want to leave this place, and that seems the simplest way. We are badly off. I never see any one except my brother. I do not know how to behave. I have never had the chance of speaking to a gentleman before: which was why I called you in and asked you these questions. I expect no girl you know would have done it, would she?”
“You’re right—she wouldn’t; the more fool she, if she wanted the answer as badly as you did.”
“Exactly,” said Dolly; “for, after all, it doesn’t matter what you think of me.”
Farquhar slightly altered his whole bearing. He leaned against the chimney-piece and looked her in the face. “My opinion does matter, you know,” he said. “I’ve some influence, which I could use either to promote or to frustrate your interests. I know plenty managers, and so forth, and I’m popular.”
“It does not matter,” Dolly corrected swiftly; “for I would under no circumstances consent to be beholden to you for anything beyond the piece of truth you’ve already given me.”
“You’re independent.”
“I hope so.”
“I’d much like to teach you to obey.”
“Mathematicians have always wanted to square the circle.”
“You’ve a will of your own; you’re worth talking to.”
“Is this how a gentleman speaks to a lady?”
“No, it’s how a man speaks to a woman.”
Dolly glanced out of the window. “That’s my brother Bernard with his dogs. He stands six foot three, and he’s the best wrestler in Kent.”
“Meaning you’d set him to turn me out? He’d never do it.”
“Do you think you’re as strong as Bernard?”
“Stronger,” answered Farquhar, stretching out his arm. Pride of strength was in that gesture, and more than pride—arrogance.
Dolly had a primitive admiration for strength, and his self-confidence tingled through her veins. She liked him the better that he was dangerous to handle; she was more at her ease that they were outside convention.
“At least, you’re not stronger than Bernard plus half a dozen men whom I could call in a minute,” she remarked, evenly. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to make no fuss, but go?”
Farquhar started, passed his hand across his eyes, and looked at her earnestly, as though her words had wakened him. “Miss Fane, I believe I’ve been saying the most outrageous things!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t I? I don’t know what possessed me. What have I said?”
“A little harmless nonsense, that’s all,” Dolly assured him.
“I must ask you to forgive me. To tell the truth, I’d a touch of sunstroke out in Africa, and since then I’m not my own master at times. I’m literally out of my wits. I don’t know what I’ve said, but nothing was farther from my mind than any rudeness to you—to any lady. You will believe that?”
“Perhaps. Good-bye.”
“You won’t punish me by declining to speak to me?”
“We aren’t likely to meet. Your friends don’t know me.”
“We shall meet, if you allow it. Will you?”
“Will I, now?” said Dolly. She went and threw open the door. “Good-morning.”
Farquhar pleaded, but his words were wasted. Not a word more would Miss Fane say, and at last he took up his hat and walked out.
When she had watched him out of sight, Dolly went bareheaded across the lawn to a tool-shed under the trees, round which circled a numerous company of dogs, ranging from a smart terrier up to a huge grave brute, half bloodhound, half Great Dane, of the breed which Virginian planters used in the good old days for tracking down their runaway slaves. Within, Dolly found the tall young fellow whom she had pointed out to Farquhar. He was darker than his sister, and not so handsome, but the two were plainly slips of the same tree. Bernard’s manners needed attention. When his sister appeared he did not lay down his saw, which produced an ear-piercing rasping and ratching such as denied conversation. Dolly put her hand on his and arrested his work by force.
“Well, what did that chap Farquhar want?” asked Bernard, without resentment.
Dolly related Farquhar’s doings at Burnt House, and the sequel. Bernard’s comment was: “I guess he must be an ass,” and he took up his saw to resume work, but was once more summarily stopped by his sister. These incidents were stages in the conversation; as people of quick wits often do when they live together, these two were in the habit of expressing themselves by signs.
“He’s going to pay the difference himself, and not let father know,” Dolly explained.
“Then I guess he’s only a soft. But how did you hear?”
“I called him into the parlour and asked. I asked him whether I should succeed on the stage.”
A pause, during which Bernard framed, and discarded as useless, a reproof. “What did he say?”
“He said I should.”
“I don’t see you can count that. I guess it wouldn’t be good manners for him to tell you you wouldn’t.”
“He did mean it. He wasn’t particularly polite.”
“What did he do?”
“Oh, nothing actually rude. It was odd,” said Dolly, reflectively. “At first he was—oh, Bernard, you know what I mean: turned out on a pattern and polished, like all the other gentlemen we’ve seen. I was rather nervous; but I meant to go through with it. Then his manner seemed to break in half. He was almost brutal. I must say I rather liked that; it was raw nature. And quite at the end he apologised, and said that he’d had sunstroke in Africa. Do you think that likely to be true?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Bernard. “I know he’s been in Africa.”
“What! out at the front? How painfully ordinary!”
“You do it very well,” said Bernard, with admiration. “That was just like the woman in the black frills at Merton’s. You’d soon be as good as they are. Farquhar wasn’t volunteering, though; he was up farther north, where they get miasma.”
“Oh,” said Dolly, leaning her elbows on the bench and her chin on her clasped hands. “Do you like him, Bernie?”
“Not if he was rude to you; though I guess swells generally are cads, like in books.”
“He wasn’t exactly rude. He was primitive. I should say he was very strong, and rather wicked, and subtle; not like us. We’re quite simple, simplex, one-fold; we mean what we say and do what we mean, you and I.”
“I should hope so,” said Bernard, who was not troubled by uncertain ethics.
“Noel Farquhar doesn’t, then; I’m sure of it. He is very strong. He says he is stronger than you are.”
Bernard stretched out a brawny arm. “He’s six inches shorter, anyway. At that rate he’d have to be a Hercules to lick me.”
“I’d like you to wrestle with him. I’d like to see him thrown.”
“Hullo, Dolly!”
“And I mean to meet him again.”
“I know that isn’t the proper thing. You ought to get introduced first.”
“I can take care of myself. He interests me.”
“You’ll be falling in love with him if you don’t look out.”
“That I never should do. But he might fall in love with me.”
“Shouldn’t think that was likely.”
“Why not? We Fanes are as good a family as any in England. And I’m handsome: Bernard, you said I was.”
“Yes, but you aren’t like the woman in the black frills,” said Bernard, measuring his sister by the only standard of taste he knew. “Besides, I guess Merton’s morally sure you were out poaching last time with me, and he and Farquhar are as thick as thieves. Girls oughtn’t to poach.”
“There are some people who don’t class that among the seven deadly sins, and he’s one; I know it. He has wild blood, as we have.”
“But would you marry him if he wanted you to?”
“I’m not sure. I might. He could give me what I want—experience.”
“I don’t see why you aren’t contented here,” said Bernard, bending to his work again.
“I dare say not,” retorted Dolly, pacing the shed. “You’re phlegmatic. You’re content with the rind of life. Bitter or sweet, I mean to taste the core.”
“I expect, you know, you’ll come to awful grief.”
“Perhaps. But so I’ve lived my life first, I’ll not complain.”
“Well,” said Bernard, “I never saw you in heroics before, and I guess I don’t care if I never do again.”
Then he returned to his work, and drowned Dolly’s aspirations in the harsh duet of squeaking saw and dissentient wood.