“G. Selden,” Mount Dunstan said. “And yours?”
“G. Selden also,” answered the vicar. “Poor young fellow, what ill-luck. And yet—is it ill-luck? He says not.”
“He tells me it is not,” said Mount Dunstan. “And I agree with him.”
Mr. Penzance read his letter aloud.
“DEAR SIR:
“This is to notify you that owing to my bike going back on me when going down hill, I met with an accident in Stornham Park. Was cut about the head and leg broken. Little Willie being far from home and mother, you can see what sort of fix he'd been in if it hadn't been for the kindness of Reuben S. Vanderpoel's daughters—Miss Bettina and her sister Lady Anstruthers. The way they've had me taken care of has been great. I've been under a nurse and doctor same as if I was Albert Edward with appendycytus (I apologise if that's not spelt right). Dear Sir, this is to say that I asked Miss Vanderpoel if I should be butting2 in too much if I dropped a line to ask if you could spare the time to call and see me. It would be considered a favour and appreciated by
“G. SELDEN,
“Delkoff Typewriter Co. Broadway.
“P. S. Have already sold three Delkoffs to Miss Vanderpoel.”
“Upon my word,” Mr. Penzance commented, and his amiable3 fervour quite glowed, “I like that queer young fellow—I like him. He does not wish to 'butt1 in too much.' Now, there is rudimentary delicacy4 in that. And what a humorous, forceful figure of speech! Some butting animal—a goat, I seem to see, preferably—forcing its way into a group or closed circle of persons.”
His gleeful analysis of the phrase had such evident charm for him that Mount Dunstan broke into a shout of laughter, even as G. Selden had done at the adroit5 mention of Weber & Fields.
“Shall we ride over together to see him this morning? An hour with G. Selden, surrounded by the atmosphere of Reuben S. Vanderpoel, would be a cheering thing,” he said.
“It would,” Mr. Penzance answered. “Let us go by all means. We should not, I suppose,” with keen delight, “be 'butting in' upon Lady Anstruthers too early?” He was quite enraptured6 with his own aptness. “Like G. Selden, I should not like to 'butt in,'” he added.
The scent7 and warmth and glow of a glorious morning filled the hour. Combining themselves with a certain normal human gaiety which surrounded the mere8 thought of G. Selden, they were good things for Mount Dunstan. Life was strong and young in him, and he had laughed a big young laugh, which had, perhaps tended to the waking in him of the feeling he was suddenly conscious of—that a six-mile ride over a white, tree-dappled, sunlit road would be pleasant enough, and, after all, if at the end of the gallop9 one came again upon that other in whom life was strong and young, and bloomed on rose-cheek and was the far fire in the blue deeps of lovely eyes, and the slim straightness of the fair body, why would it not be, in a way, all to the good? He had thought of her on more than one day, and felt that he wanted to see her again.
“Let us go,” he answered Penzance. “One can call on an invalid10 at any time. Lady Anstruthers will forgive us.”
In less than an hour's time they were on their way. They laughed and talked as they rode, their horses' hoofs11 striking out a cheerful ringing accompaniment to their voices. There is nothing more exhilarating than the hollow, regular ring and click-clack of good hoofs going well over a fine old Roman road in the morning sunlight. They talked of the junior assistant salesman and of Miss Vanderpoel. Penzance was much pleased by the prospect12 of seeing “this delightful13 and unusual girl.” He had heard stories of her, as had Lord Westholt. He knew of old Doby's pipe, and of Mrs. Welden's respite14 from the union, and though such incidents would seem mere trifles to the dweller15 in great towns, he had himself lived and done his work long enough in villages to know the village mind and the scale of proportions by which its gladness and sadness were measured. He knew more of all this than Mount Dunstan could, since Mount Dunstan's existence had isolated16 itself, from rather gloomy choice. But as he rode, Mount Dunstan knew that he liked to hear these things. There was the suggestion of new life and new thought in them, and such suggestion was good for any man—or woman, either—who had fallen into living in a dull, narrow groove17.
“It is the new life in her which strikes me,” he said. “She has brought wealth with her, and wealth is power to do the good or evil that grows in a man's soul; but she has brought something more. She might have come here and brought all the sumptuousness18 of a fashionable young beauty, who drove through the village and drew people to their windows, and made clodhoppers scratch their heads and pull their forelocks, and children bob curtsies and stare. She might have come and gone and left a mind-dazzling memory and nothing else. A few sovereigns tossed here and there would have earned her a reputation—but, by gee20! to quote Selden—she has begun LIVING with them, as if her ancestors had done it for six hundred years. And what I see is that if she had come without a penny in her pocket she would have done the same thing.” He paused a pondering moment, and then drew a sharp breath which was an exclamation21 in itself. “She's Life!” he said. “She's Life itself! Good God! what a thing it is for a man or woman to be Life—instead of a mass of tissue and muscle and nerve, dragged about by the mere mechanism22 of living!”
Penzance had listened seriously.
“What you say is very suggestive,” he commented. “It strikes me as true, too. You have seen something of her also, at least more than I have.”
“I did not think these things when I saw her—though I suppose I felt them unconsciously. I have reached this way of summing her up by processes of exclusion23 and inclusion. One hears of her, as you know yourself, and one thinks her over.”
“You have thought her over?”
“A lot,” rather grumpily. “A beautiful female creature inevitably24 gives an unbeautiful male creature something to think of—if he is not otherwise actively25 employed. I am not. She has become a sort of dawning relief to my hopeless humours. Being a low and unworthy beast, I am sometimes resentful enough of the unfairness of things. She has too much.”
When they rode through Stornham village they saw signs of work already done and work still in hand. There were no broken windows or palings or hanging wicket gates; cottage gardens had been put in order, and there were evidences of such cheering touches as new bits of window curtain and strong-looking young plants blooming between them. So many small, but necessary, things had been done that the whole village wore the aspect of a place which had taken heart, and was facing existence in a hopeful spirit. A year ago Mount Dunstan and his vicar riding through it had been struck by its neglected and dispirited look.
As they entered the hall of the Court Miss Vanderpoel was descending26 the staircase. She was laughing a little to herself, and she looked pleased when she saw them.
“It is good of you to come,” she said, as they crossed the hall to the drawing-room. “But I told him I really thought you would. I have just been talking to him, and he was a little uncertain as to whether he had assumed too much.”
“As to whether he had 'butted27 in,'” said Mr. Penzance. “I think he must have said that.”
“He did. He also was afraid that he might have been 'too fresh.'” answered Betty.
“On our part,” said Mr. Penzance, with gentle glee, “we hesitated a moment in fear lest we also might appear to be 'butting in.'”
Then they all laughed together. They were laughing when Lady Anstruthers entered, and she herself joined them. But to Mount Dunstan, who felt her to be somehow a touching28 little person, there was manifest a tenderness in her feeling for G. Selden. For that matter, however, there was something already beginning to be rather affectionate in the attitude of each of them. They went upstairs to find him lying in state upon a big sofa placed near a window, and his joy at the sight of them was a genuine, human thing. In fact, he had pondered a good deal in secret on the possibility of these swell29 people thinking he had “more than his share of gall” to expect them to remember him after he passed on his junior assistant salesman's way. Reuben S. Vanderpoel's daughters were of the highest of his Four Hundred, but they were Americans, and Americans were not as a rule so “stuck on themselves” as the English. And here these two swells30 came as friendly as you please. And that nice old chap that was a vicar, smiling and giving him “the glad hand”!
Betty and Mount Dunstan left Mr. Penzance talking to the convalescent after a short time. Mount Dunstan had asked to be shown the gardens. He wanted to see the wonderful things he had heard had been already done to them.
They went down the stairs together and passed through the drawing-room into the pleasure grounds. The once neglected lawns had already been mown and rolled, clipped and trimmed, until they spread before the eye huge measures of green velvet31; even the beds girdling and adorning32 them were brilliant with flowers.
“Kedgers!” said Betty, waving her hand. “In my ignorance I thought we must wait for blossoms until next year; but it appears that wonders can be brought all ready to bloom for one from nursery gardens, and can be made to grow with care—and daring—and passionate33 affection. I have seen Kedgers turn pale with anguish34 as he hung over a bed of transplanted things which seemed to
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CHAPTER XXVI “WHAT IT MUST BE TO YOU—JUST YOU!”
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CHAPTER XXVIII SETTING THEM THINKING
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