That young man with the look of a faun, at once sleepy and arch, the habit of a philosopher and the taste for gardening at large, whom we have seen very much at his ease in society quite various, was by name Senhouse—patronym, Senhouse, in the faith John, to the world of his familiars Jack Senhouse, and to many Mad Jack. But madness is a term of convenience to express relations, and to him, it may well be, the world was mad. He thought, for instance, that Lord Bramleigh was mad, to whom we are now to hear him talking, as much at his length and as much at his ease as of late we saw him in the company of Miss Mary Middleham, or of Miss Hertha de Speyne of the Cantacute stem. Perhaps he was more at his ease. He lay, at any rate, before his tent, full length upon his stomach, his crook’d elbows supported his face, which was wrinkled between his hands. His pipe, grown cold by delay, lay on the sward before him. One leg, from the knee, made frequent excursions towards the sky, and when it did, discovered itself lean and sinewy, bare of sock. His sweater was now blue, and his trousers were grey; it was probably he had no more clothing upon him. Upon a camp-stool near by sat Lord Bramleigh of the round face, corded and gaitered, high-collared and astare. To express bewilderment, he whistled; concerned, he smiled.
“Well,” he said presently, “I think you might. We’re short of a gun—I’ve told you so.”
“My dear man,” said the other, “I shoot no birds. I’d as soon shoot my sister.”
“That’s rot, you know, Jack.”
“To me it’s plain sense. God save you, Bramleigh, have you ever seen a bird fly? It’s the most marvellous—no, it’s not, because we’re all marvels together; but I’ll tell you this—boys frisking after a full meal, girls at knucklebones, a leopard stalking from a bough, horses in a windy pasture—whatever you like of the sort has been done, and well done—but a bird in flight, never! There’s no greater sight—and you’ll flare into it with your filthy explosives and shatter a miracle into blood and feathers. Beastly work, my boy, butchers’ work.”
“Rot,” said Bramleigh—“But of course you’re mad. Why are my cartridges filthier than your pots of paint? Hey?”
“Well, I make something, you see—or try to, and you blow it to smithereens—However, we won’t wrangle, Bramleigh. You’re a nice little man, after all. Those Ramondias—it was really decent of you.”
“Much obliged,” said the young lord; and then—“I say, talking of the Pyrenees, you knew Duplessis? He’s our man short. He’s chucked, you know. He’s awfully sick.” Senhouse was but faintly interested.
“Yes, I knew him—Cleverish—conceited ass. What’s he sick about?”
“Gel. Gel goin’ to be married—to-day or something—end of September, I know. Tristram’s mad about it. He was at San Sebastian with me when he heard about it—and bolted off like a rabbit—mad rabbit.”
Senhouse yawned. “We’re all mad according to you, you know. So I take something off. I can understand his sort of madness, anyhow. Who’s the lady?”
“Oh, I don’t know her myself. Gel down at his place—in a poor sort of way, I b’lieve. Companion or something—he played about—and now she’s been picked up by a swell connexion of his—old Germain of Southover. Be shot, if he’s not going to marry her.”
The lengthy philosopher smiled to himself, but gave no other sign of recognition until he said, “I know that lady. Brown-eyed, sharp-eyed, quick, sleek, mouse of a girl.”
“Dessay,” said Lord Bramleigh. “They know their way about.” The philosopher threw himself upon his back and gazed into the sky.
“Yes, and what a way, good Lord! Idol-hunting—panting after idols. Maims herself and expects Heaven as a reward. I don’t suppose that she has been herself since she left her mother’s lap. And now, with an alternative of being sucked dry and pitched away, she is to be slowly starved to death. I only saw her once—no, twice. She had what struck me as unusual capacities for happiness—zest, curiosity, health—but no chances of it whatsoever. Ignorant—oh, Lord! They make me weep, that sort. So pretty and so foolish. But there, if I once began to cry, I should dissolve in mist.”
“Oh, come,” said Lord Bramleigh, “I don’t think she’s doin’ badly for herself. She was nobody, you know, and old Germain—well, he’s a somebody. He’s a connexion of mine, through his sister-in-law—she was Constantia Telfer—so I know he’s all right.”
“I’ll do her the justice to say,” Senhouse reflected aloud, “that she didn’t sell herself—she’s not a prostitute. She’s a baby—pure baby. She was dazzled, and misunderstood the sensation. She thought she was touched. She’s positively grateful to the man—didn’t see how she was to refuse. She’s a donkey, no doubt—but she had pretty ways. She could have been inordinately happy—but she’s not going to be. She’s in for troubles, and I’m sorry. I liked her.”
“She’d better look out for Tristram, I can tell you,” said Bramleigh. “He’s an ugly customer, if he don’t have his rights. Not that there were any rights, so far as I know—but that makes no difference to Tristram.”
“Is she worth his while? I doubt it.”
“She will be. Germain’s rich. Besides, Tristram sticks up for his rights—tenacious beggar.”
“Should have been kicked young,” quoth the philosopher, and sped Lord Bramleigh on his way.
“Mary Middleham, O Mary of the brown eyes and pretty mouth, I should like to see you married!” he thought, as he packed his tent. “There’s a woman inside you, my friend; you weren’t given her form for nothing. You are not going to be married yet awhile, you know. It’ll take more than a going to church to do that. You’ve got to be a woman first—and you’re not yet born!”
He lifted a shallow box of earth, and fingered some plants in it. “Ramondias—beauties! One of these springs there’ll be a cloud of your mauve flushing a black cliff over the green water. There’s a palette to have given old England! Mauve, wet black, and sea-green. I have the very place for you, out of reach of any save God and the sea-mews and me. But even with them you won’t have a bad ‘assistance.’ That’s a clever word, for how is the artist going to make a masterpiece unless the public makes half of it? Black, mauve, and green—all wet together! We’ll make a masterpiece in England yet. . . .
“That girl’s great eyes haunt me. Lakes of brown wonder—they were the colour of moorland water—a dainty piece! I could see love in her—she was made for it. A dark hot night in summer, an............