Phyllis of Philistia [105]
had time to ask him why he had returned.
And at the table, with a servant at each end, what could they say?
Well, she gave in detail, with the accuracy of a railway time-table, the hours of the departure of the various guests, down to the last departed guest, who chanced to be Miss Ayrton. Yes, she was obliged to go up to town to be present at that important function which was to be given in the presence of Royalty, though, she, Mrs. Linton, was convinced that Phyllis would much prefer remaining in the midst of that exquisite quietude which seemed to be found only up the river. She had wanted her dear Phyllis to stay until the morrow, but poor Phyllis' sense of duty had been, as unfortunately it always was, too great for her inclination.
"Unfortunately?" said Herbert.
"Did I say unfortunately?" she cried. "How funny! I meant of course, unfortunately for her friends--for myself in this particular case. But, after all, we had a delightful week together. It has done us all good--even you."
"Why the 'even'?" he asked, with a laugh.
"Oh, well, because you are not expected to feel the fatigues of a London season. And then you must remember that you had a yachting cruise which must have done you a world of good," she added, with a smile born of the mood which was on her--a mood of joy and laughter and daring. She felt that she could say anything she pleased to say to him now; she could have referred with a laugh to his running away on that strange cruise of his.
"Yes," he said, "it did me a great deal of good."
He spoke slowly, and her quick ear detected a tone of gravity in his voice. What could he mean? Oh, yes.
"I hope that that last phase of the mine will soon be settled," said she. "It was that which curtailed your cruise, you will remember."
"I certainly do remember."
"I hope the business will soon be settled one way or another. I don't think this running to Paris so frequently is good for Stephen. Haven't you noticed how poorly he has been looking of late?"
"He didn't seem to me to be particularly robust. But I think that he pulled himself together while he was here. Oh, yes! another week will see us free from this business."
"And with an extra million or so in your pockets."
"Well, something in that way."
That was how they talked while the servants were present--about business and money and matters that may be discussed in the presence of servants.
Then they went together into the drawing room. It was not yet dark enough for the candles to be lighted. The exquisite summer twilight was hanging over the river and the banks opposite, wooded from the water's edge to the summit. It was the hour of delicate blue touched with pink about the borders. The hour of purple and silver stars had not yet come.
She threw open one of the windows on its hinges, and in a moment the room was flooded with the perfume of the roses of the garden. She stood in the opening of the window and seemed to drink in the garden scents before they floated into the room. Then from some secret nestling place in the dark depths of the clipped hedge there came the even-song of a blackbird. It was replied to from the distance; and the silence that followed only seemed to be silence. It was a silence made vocal by the bending of a thousand notes--all musical. The blackbirds, the thrushes, the robins made up a chorus of harmony as soothing to the soul as silence. Then came the cooings of the wood pigeons. The occasional shriek of a peacock was the only note out of harmony with the feeling breathed by the twilight.
She stood at the open window, her back turned to him, for some time. He felt slightly embarrassed. Her attitude somehow suggested to him an imprisonment; he was captured; she was standing between him and the open air; she was barring his passage.
Suddenly she turned. With her movement there seemed to float into the room a great breath of rose-scent. It was only that the light showed him more clearly at that moment the glowing whiteness of her neck and shoulders and arms.
"Why have you come back?"
And at the table, with a servant at each end, what could they say?
Well, she gave in detail, with the accuracy of a railway time-table, the hours of the departure of the various guests, down to the last departed guest, who chanced to be Miss Ayrton. Yes, she was obliged to go up to town to be present at that important function which was to be given in the presence of Royalty, though, she, Mrs. Linton, was convinced that Phyllis would much prefer remaining in the midst of that exquisite quietude which seemed to be found only up the river. She had wanted her dear Phyllis to stay until the morrow, but poor Phyllis' sense of duty had been, as unfortunately it always was, too great for her inclination.
"Unfortunately?" said Herbert.
"Did I say unfortunately?" she cried. "How funny! I meant of course, unfortunately for her friends--for myself in this particular case. But, after all, we had a delightful week together. It has done us all good--even you."
"Why the 'even'?" he asked, with a laugh.
"Oh, well, because you are not expected to feel the fatigues of a London season. And then you must remember that you had a yachting cruise which must have done you a world of good," she added, with a smile born of the mood which was on her--a mood of joy and laughter and daring. She felt that she could say anything she pleased to say to him now; she could have referred with a laugh to his running away on that strange cruise of his.
"Yes," he said, "it did me a great deal of good."
He spoke slowly, and her quick ear detected a tone of gravity in his voice. What could he mean? Oh, yes.
"I hope that that last phase of the mine will soon be settled," said she. "It was that which curtailed your cruise, you will remember."
"I certainly do remember."
"I hope the business will soon be settled one way or another. I don't think this running to Paris so frequently is good for Stephen. Haven't you noticed how poorly he has been looking of late?"
"He didn't seem to me to be particularly robust. But I think that he pulled himself together while he was here. Oh, yes! another week will see us free from this business."
"And with an extra million or so in your pockets."
"Well, something in that way."
That was how they talked while the servants were present--about business and money and matters that may be discussed in the presence of servants.
Then they went together into the drawing room. It was not yet dark enough for the candles to be lighted. The exquisite summer twilight was hanging over the river and the banks opposite, wooded from the water's edge to the summit. It was the hour of delicate blue touched with pink about the borders. The hour of purple and silver stars had not yet come.
She threw open one of the windows on its hinges, and in a moment the room was flooded with the perfume of the roses of the garden. She stood in the opening of the window and seemed to drink in the garden scents before they floated into the room. Then from some secret nestling place in the dark depths of the clipped hedge there came the even-song of a blackbird. It was replied to from the distance; and the silence that followed only seemed to be silence. It was a silence made vocal by the bending of a thousand notes--all musical. The blackbirds, the thrushes, the robins made up a chorus of harmony as soothing to the soul as silence. Then came the cooings of the wood pigeons. The occasional shriek of a peacock was the only note out of harmony with the feeling breathed by the twilight.
She stood at the open window, her back turned to him, for some time. He felt slightly embarrassed. Her attitude somehow suggested to him an imprisonment; he was captured; she was standing between him and the open air; she was barring his passage.
Suddenly she turned. With her movement there seemed to float into the room a great breath of rose-scent. It was only that the light showed him more clearly at that moment the glowing whiteness of her neck and shoulders and arms.
"Why have you come back?"