The weather had turned so much worse that the rest of the day was certainly lost.The wind had risen and the storm gathered force;they gave from time to time a thump at the firm windows and dashed even against those protected by the verandah their vicious splotches of rain.Beyond the lawn, beyond the cliff, the great wet brush of the sky dipped deep into the sea.But the lawn, already vivid with the touch of May, showed a violence of watered green; the budding shrubs and trees repeated the note as they tossed their thick masses, and the cold troubled light, filling the pretty saloon, marked the spring afternoon as sufficiently young.
The two ladies seated there in silence could pursue without difficulty--as well as, clearly, without interruption--their respective tasks; a confidence expressed, when the noise of the wind allowed it to be heard, by the sharp scratch of Mrs.Dyott's pen at the table where she was busy with letters.
Her visitor, settled on a small sofa that, with a palm-tree, a screen, a stool, a stand, a bowl of flowers and three photographs in silver frames, had been arranged near the light wood-fire as a choice "corner"--Maud Blessingbourne, her guest, turned audibly, though at intervals neither brief nor regular, the leaves of a book covered in lemon-coloured paper and not yet despoiled of a certain fresh crispness.This effect of the volume, for the eye, would have made it, as presumably the newest French novel--and evidently, from the attitude of the reader, "good"--consort happily with the special tone of the room, a consistent air of selection and suppression, one of the finer aesthetic evolutions.If Mrs.Dyott was fond of ancient French furniture and distinctly difficult about it, her inmates could be fond--with whatever critical cocks of charming dark-braided heads over slender sloping shoulders--of modern French authors.Nothing bad passed for half an hour--nothing at least, to be exact, but that each of the companions occasionally and covertly intermitted her pursuit in such a manner as to ascertain the degree of absorption of the other without turning round.What their silence was charged with therefore was not only a sense of the weather, but a sense, so to speak, of its own nature.Maud Blessingbourne, when she lowered her book into her lap, closed her eyes with a conscious patience that seemed to say she waited; but it was nevertheless she who at last made the movement representing a snap of their tension.She got up and stood by the fire, into which she looked a minute; then came round and approached the window as if to see what was really going on.
At this Mrs.Dyott wrote with refreshed intensity.Her little pile of letters had grown, and if a look of determination was compatible with her fair and slightly faded beauty the habit of attending to her business could always keep pace with any excursion of her thought.Yet she was the first who spoke.
"I trust your book has been interesting.""Well enough; a little mild."
A louder throb of the tempest had blurred the sound of the words.
"A little wild?"
"Dear no--timid and tame; unless I've quite lost my sense.""Perhaps you have," Mrs.Dyott placidly suggested--"reading so many."Her companion made a motion of feigned despair."Ah you take away my courage for going to my room, as I was just meaning to, for another.""Another French one?"
"I'm afraid."
"Do you carry them by the dozen--?"
"Into innocent British homes?" Maud tried to remember."I believe I brought three--seeing them in a shop-window as I passed through town.It never rains but it pours! But I've already read two.""And are they the only ones you do read?""French ones?" Maud considered."Oh no.D'Annunzio.""And what's that?" Mrs.Dyott asked as she affixed a stamp.
"Oh you dear thing!" Her friend was amused, yet almost showed pity."I know you don't read," Maud went on; "but why should you?
YOU live!"
"Yes--wretchedly enough," Mrs.Dyott returned, getting her letters together.She left her place, holding them as a neat achieved handful, and came over to the fire, while Mrs.Blessingbourne turned once more to the window, where she was met by another flurry.
Maud spoke then as if moved only by the elements."Do you expect him through all this?"Mrs.Dyott just waited, and it had the effect, indescribably, of making everything that had gone before seem to have led up to the question.This effect was even deepened by the way she then said "Whom do you mean?""Why I thought you mentioned at luncheon that Colonel Voyt was to walk over.Surely he can't.""Do you care very much?" Mrs.Dyott asked.
Her friend now hesitated."It depends on what you call 'much.' If you mean should I like to see him--then certainly.""Well, my dear, I think he understands you're here.""So that as he evidently isn't coming," Maud laughed, "it's particularly flattering! Or rather," she added, giving up the prospect again, "it would be, I think, quite extraordinarily flattering if he did.Except that of course," she threw in, "he might come partly for you.""'Partly' is charming.Thank you for 'partly.' If you ARE going upstairs, will you kindly," Mrs Dyott pursued, "put these into the box as you pass?"The younger woman, taking the little pile of letters, considered them with envy."Nine! You ARE good.You're always a living reproach!"Mrs.Dyott gave a sigh."I don't do it on purpose.The only thing, this afternoon," she went on, reverting to the other question, "would be their not having come down.""And as to that you don't know."
"No--I don't know." But she caught even as she spoke a rat-tat-tat of the knocker, which struck her as a sign."Ah there!""Then I go." And Maud whisked out.
