see the remarkable scene of disembarkation. Stella was
desperately uncomfortable. It seemed such ostentatious philanthropy—all
who had seen it would be certain she had done it for show. And Stimpson, the
chauffeur at the Hall, would want to know the origin of the sticky marks.
When she drove up to the Hall a few minutes later she was quite miserable,
thus falsifying the dictum that a good deed makes the doer happy.
----
CHAPTER VIII
I
Ward accepted an invitation to dinner the following
Tuesday.
Stella’s fixed intention—which she freely admitted to
herself—was to make as deep an impression on him as she could. He had
humbled her and been rude to her as no other man had; it was almost as if he
alone, out of all the men she had ever met, had failed to respond to her
attractiveness. Not that she particularly wanted to attract him, but that
curiosity and pique urged her to find out whether he were really adamant.
She dressed herself with unusual care, and in a frock which she knew made
her look enchantingly pretty—a delicate thing of black and gold that
clung closely to her and enhanced the rounded slimness of her body. In her
mind she had the whole of that evening accurately mapped out. She would sit
between him and Philip at dinner, and afterwards, in the drawing-room, she
would sing at the piano—plaintive little Hungarian songs which, if he
had a spark of music or poetry in him, would kindle him to flame as they
never failed to kindle her.
In all this she was certain there was no disloyalty to Philip. She even
said to Philip before Ward arrived: “Don’t I look pretty?—Don’t you
think I shall make the doctor fall madly in love with me?”
Philip smiled. “Probably he’s done that already. Most people have.”
“Even you?” she hinted.
“Of course.”
“All your love is of course. Kiss me, then—of course…”
He kissed her gently, and she stared at him after wards with wistful,
half-mocking eyes. “You strange old Philip…” she whispered. “What a
nuisance I am to you…and shall be…”
II
That evening was unforgettable, but in a way that no one
could have foreseen. All the day a great wind had been blowing from the sea,
and at night it increased to a gale. Men coming in from the east reported
that the sea was very rough (a rare occurrence on the coasts near by), and in
the open road outside the Hall gates the taste of the salt spray was on the
wind that raced past. Ward, when he arrived, said that several times on the
short journey he had been nearly blown off his machine.
All during dinner the gale howled down the chimneys and shrieked through
the tall trees in the garden. Then suddenly, over the coffee and liqueurs,
there came a tremendous whistle of wind followed by the clamour of smashing
glass and splintering wood. Philip started to his feet, upsetting his
liqueur-glass over the table-cloth. Stella rushed to the window. Only Mrs.
Monsell and Ward remained in their places, apparently quite calm.
“A tree’s fallen on top of the conservatories,” Stella cried, pulling
aside the window blinds.
Mrs. Monsell sipped her coffee. “Really? Is that all?—Well, don’t
let it interrupt a pleasant party.”
At At that moment the door opened and Venner entered. “Another liqueur for
Mr. Philip,” said Mrs. Monsell, imperturbably, nodding to him.
But the old fellow shuffled forward and seemed most unprofessionally
disturbed about something.
“Excuse me, madam, but one of the big elms has fallen on the conservatory
and—”
“Yes, Venner, we know all about it. Don’t worry yourself.”
“But—you’ll excuse me, madam—one of the maids—was there,
madam, when it fell, and is—is injured—”
It was Ward then who interrupted. He bounded out of his seat like a sharp
flash. “I’ll go,” he said quietly to the company in general. And he added to
Venner, in a voice at once curt and courteous: “Please show me the
desperately uncomfortable. It seemed such ostentatious philanthropy—all
who had seen it would be certain she had done it for show. And Stimpson, the
chauffeur at the Hall, would want to know the origin of the sticky marks.
When she drove up to the Hall a few minutes later she was quite miserable,
thus falsifying the dictum that a good deed makes the doer happy.
----
CHAPTER VIII
I
Ward accepted an invitation to dinner the following
Tuesday.
Stella’s fixed intention—which she freely admitted to
herself—was to make as deep an impression on him as she could. He had
humbled her and been rude to her as no other man had; it was almost as if he
alone, out of all the men she had ever met, had failed to respond to her
attractiveness. Not that she particularly wanted to attract him, but that
curiosity and pique urged her to find out whether he were really adamant.
She dressed herself with unusual care, and in a frock which she knew made
her look enchantingly pretty—a delicate thing of black and gold that
clung closely to her and enhanced the rounded slimness of her body. In her
mind she had the whole of that evening accurately mapped out. She would sit
between him and Philip at dinner, and afterwards, in the drawing-room, she
would sing at the piano—plaintive little Hungarian songs which, if he
had a spark of music or poetry in him, would kindle him to flame as they
never failed to kindle her.
In all this she was certain there was no disloyalty to Philip. She even
said to Philip before Ward arrived: “Don’t I look pretty?—Don’t you
think I shall make the doctor fall madly in love with me?”
Philip smiled. “Probably he’s done that already. Most people have.”
“Even you?” she hinted.
“Of course.”
“All your love is of course. Kiss me, then—of course…”
He kissed her gently, and she stared at him after wards with wistful,
half-mocking eyes. “You strange old Philip…” she whispered. “What a
nuisance I am to you…and shall be…”
II
That evening was unforgettable, but in a way that no one
could have foreseen. All the day a great wind had been blowing from the sea,
and at night it increased to a gale. Men coming in from the east reported
that the sea was very rough (a rare occurrence on the coasts near by), and in
the open road outside the Hall gates the taste of the salt spray was on the
wind that raced past. Ward, when he arrived, said that several times on the
short journey he had been nearly blown off his machine.
All during dinner the gale howled down the chimneys and shrieked through
the tall trees in the garden. Then suddenly, over the coffee and liqueurs,
there came a tremendous whistle of wind followed by the clamour of smashing
glass and splintering wood. Philip started to his feet, upsetting his
liqueur-glass over the table-cloth. Stella rushed to the window. Only Mrs.
Monsell and Ward remained in their places, apparently quite calm.
“A tree’s fallen on top of the conservatories,” Stella cried, pulling
aside the window blinds.
Mrs. Monsell sipped her coffee. “Really? Is that all?—Well, don’t
let it interrupt a pleasant party.”
At At that moment the door opened and Venner entered. “Another liqueur for
Mr. Philip,” said Mrs. Monsell, imperturbably, nodding to him.
But the old fellow shuffled forward and seemed most unprofessionally
disturbed about something.
“Excuse me, madam, but one of the big elms has fallen on the conservatory
and—”
“Yes, Venner, we know all about it. Don’t worry yourself.”
“But—you’ll excuse me, madam—one of the maids—was there,
madam, when it fell, and is—is injured—”
It was Ward then who interrupted. He bounded out of his seat like a sharp
flash. “I’ll go,” he said quietly to the company in general. And he added to
Venner, in a voice at once curt and courteous: “Please show me the
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