CHAPTER III
A LESSON IN BOTANY
John Steele was rather late in arriving at the house of Sir Charles Wrayin Piccadilly the following Thursday. But nearly every one else waslate, and, perhaps knowing the fashionable foible, he had purposely heldback to avoid making himself conspicuous by being prompt. The house, hisdestination, was not unlike other dwellings on that historicthoroughfare; externally it was as monotonous as the average Londonmansion. The architect had disdained any attempt at ornamentation. As iffearful of being accused of emulating his brother-in-art across thechannel, he had put up four walls and laid on a roof; he had given thefront wall a slightly outward curve. In so doing, he did not reason why;he was merely following precedent that had created this incomprehensibleconvexity.
But within, the mansion made a dignified and at the same time a pleasantimpression. John Steele, seated at the rear of a spacious room, where hea few moments later found himself among a numerous company, lookedaround on the old solid furnishings, the heavy rich curtains and thoseother substantial appurtenances to a fine and stately town house. Thatfunereal atmosphere common to many homes of an ancient period was,however, lacking. The observer felt as if some recent hand, the hand ofyouth, had been busy hereabouts indulging in light touches that relievedand gladdened the big room. Hues, soft and delicate, met the eye hereand there; rugs of fine pattern favored the glance, while tapestries ofFrench workmanship bade it wander amid scenes suggestive of Arcadia.Many found these innovations to their liking; others frowned upon them;but everybody flocked to the house.
The program on the present occasion included a poet and a womannovelist. The former, a Preraphaelite, led his hearers through dimmazes, Hyrcanian wilds. The novelist on the other hand was direct; infollowing her there seemed no danger of losing the way. At theconclusion of the program proper, an admirer of the poet asked if theiryoung hostess would not play a certain musical something, the theme ofone of the bard's effusions, and at once Jocelyn Wray complied. LordRonsdale stood sedulously near, turning the leaves; Steele watched thedeft hand; it was slim, aristocratic and suggested possibilities inlegerdemain.
"An attractive-looking pair!" whispered a woman near John Steele toanother of her sex, during a louder passage in the number. "Are they--"
"I don't know; my dear. Perhaps. She's extremely well-off in thisworld's goods, and he has large properties, but--a diminishing income."She lowered her voice rather abruptly as the cadence came to a pause.The music went on again to its appointed and spirited climax.
"Was formerly in the diplomatic service, I believe;"--the voice alsowent on--"has strong political aspirations, and, with a wealthy andclever wife--"
"A girl might do worse. He is both cold and capable--an idealcombination for a political career--might become prime minister--withthe prestige of his family and hers to--"
John Steele stirred; the whispering ceased. My lord turned the lastpage; the girl rose and bent for an instant her fair head. And as Steelelooked at her, again there came over him--this time, it may be, notwithout a certain bitterness!--an impression of life and itsjoys--spring-tide and sunshine, bright, remote!--so remote--for him--
A babel of voices replaced melody; the people got up. A number lingered;many went, after speaking to their hostesses and Sir Charles. JohnSteele, at the rear, looked at the door leading into the main halltoward the young girl, then stepped across the soft rugs and spoke toher. She answered in the customary manner and others approached. He wasabout to draw back to leave, when--
"Oh, Mr. Steele," she said, "my uncle wishes to see you before you go.He was saying he had some--"
"Quite right, my dear!" And Sir Charles, who had approached, took JohnSteele's arm. "Some curious old law books I picked up to-day at abargain and want your opinion of!" he went on, leading the other into alofty and restful apartment adjoining, the library. Steele looked aroundhim; his gaze brightened as it rested on the imposing and finely boundvolumes.
"You have a superb collection of books," he observed with a sudden quicklook at his host.
"Yes; I rather pride myself on my library," said Sir Charlescomplacently. "Lost a good many of the choicest though," he went on inregretful tones, "some years ago, as I was returning to Australia. Arare lot of law books, a library in themselves, as well as a largecollection of the classics, the world's poets and historians, went downwith the ill-fated _Lord Nelson_."
"Ah?" John Steele looked away. "A great mart, London, for fineeditions!" he said absently after a pause.
"It is. But here are those I spoke of." And Sir Charles indicated anumber of volumes on a large center table. John Steele handled themthoughtfully and for some time his host ran on about them. A choice copyof one of the Elizabethan poets, intruding itself in that augustcompany, then attracted Steele's attention; he picked it up, weighed andcaressed it with gentle fingers.
"Who shall measure the influence of--a little parcel like this?" he saidat length lightly.
"True." Sir Charles' eye caught the title. "As Portia says: 'It blessethhim that gives and him that takes.' Excellent bit of binding that, too!But," with new zest, "take any interest in rare books of the ring, fullof eighteenth century colored prints, and so on?"
"I can't say, at present, that the doings of the ring or the history ofpugilists attract me."
"That's because you've never seen an honest, hard-fought battle,perhaps?"
"A flattering designation, I should say, of the spectacle of two brutesdisfiguring their already repulsive visages!"
"Two brutes?--disfiguring?"--the drawling voice of Lord Ronsdale who hadat that moment stepped in, inquired. "May I ask what the--talk isabout?"
Sir Charles turned. "Steele was differing from me about a good, old,honest English sport."
"Sport?" Lord Ronsdale dropped into a chair and helped himself to whiskyand soda conveniently near.
"I refer to the ring--its traditions--its chronicles--"
"Ah!" The speaker raised his glass and looked at John Steele. The latterwas nonchalantly regarding the pages of a book he yet held; his face washalf-turned from the nobleman. The clear-cut, bold profile, the easy,assured carriage, so suggestive of strength, seemed to attract, tocompel Lord Ronsdale's attention.
"For my part," went on Sir Charles in a somewhat disappointed tone, "Iam one who views with regret the decadence of a great national pastime."
He regarded Ronsdale; the latter set down his glass untasted. "My ownopinion," he said crisply; then his face changed; he looked toward thedoor.
"Well, it's over!" the light tones of Jocelyn Wray interrupted; the girlstood on the threshold, glancing gaily from one to the other. "Did youtell my uncle, Mr. Steele, what you thought of his purchase? I see,while on his favorite subject, he has forgotten to offer you a cigar."
Sir Charles hastened to repair his remissness.
"But how," she went on, "did it go? The program, I mean. Have youforgiven me yet for asking you to come, Mr. Steele?"
"Forgiven?" he repeated. Lord Ronsdale's eyes narrowed on them.
"Confess," she continued, sinking to the arm of a great chair, "you hadyour misgivings?"
He regarded the supple, slender figure, so airily poised. As she bentforward, he noticed in her hair several flowers shaped like primroses,but light crimson in hue. "What misgivings was it possible to have?" hereplied.
"Oh," she replied, "the usual masculine ones! Misgivings, for example,about stepping out of the routine. Routine that makes slaves of men!"with an accent slightly mocking. "And stepping into what? Society! Thebugbear of so many men! Poor Society! What flings it has to endure! Bythe way, did your convict get off?"
"Get off? What--"
"The one you represented--is that the word?--when we were in court."
"Yes; he was acquitted."
"I am glad; somehow you made me feel he was innocent."
"I believed in him," said John Steele.
"And yet the evidence was very strong against him! If some one else hadappeared for him--Do
you think many innocent people have been--hanged,or sent out of the country, Mr. Steele?" Her eyes looked brighter, herface more earnest now.
"Evidence can play odd caprices."
"Still, your average English juryman is to be depended on!" put in LordRonsdale quickly.
"Do you think so?" An instant Steele's eyes rested on the speaker. "Nodoubt you are right." A sardonic flash seemed to play on the nobleman."At all events you voice the accepted belief."
"I'm glad you defend, don't prosecute people, Mr. Steele," said the girlirrelevantly.
"A pleasanter task, perhaps!"
"Speaking of sending prisoners out of the country," broke in SirCharles, "I am not in favor of the penal system myself."
"Rather a simple way of getting rid of undesirables--transportation--ithas always seemed to me," dissented Lord Ronsdale.
"Don't they sometimes escape and come back to England?" asked the girl.
"Not apt to, when death for returning stares them in the face," remarkedthe nobleman.
"Death!" The girl shivered slightly.
John Steele smiled. "The penalty should certainly prove efficacious," heobserved lightly.
"Is not such a penalty--for returning, I mean--very severe, Mr. Steele?"asked Jocelyn Wray.
"That," he laughed, "depends somewhat on the point of view, thecriminal's, or society's!" His gaze returned to her; the bright bit ofcolor in her hair again seemed to catch and hold his glance. "But," witha sudden change of tone, "will you explain something to me, Miss Wray?Those flowers you wear--surely they are primroses, and yet--"
"Crimson," said the girl. "You find that strange. It is very simple. Ifyou will come with me a moment." She rose, quickly crossed the room to adoor at the back, and Steele, following, found himself in a largeconservatory that looked out upon an agreeable, if rather restricted,prospect of green garden. Several of the windows of the glass additionwere open and the warm sunshine and air entered. A butterfly wasfluttering within; in a corner, a bee busied himself buzzing loudlybetween flowers and sips of saccharine sweetness. Jocelyn Wray steppedin its direction, stooped. The sunlight touched the white neck, wherespirals of gold nestled, and fell over her gown in soft, shifting waves.
"You see?" She threw over her shoulder a glance at him; he looked downat primroses, pale yellow; a few near-by were half-red, or spotted withcrimson; others, still, were the color of those that nodded in her hair."You can imagine how it has come about?"
He regarded a great bunch of clustering red roses--the winged marauderhovering noisily over. "I think I can guess. The bees have carried thehue of the roses to them."
"Hue!" cried the girl, with light scorn. "What a prosaic way to expressit! Say the soul, the heart's blood. Some of the primroses have yieldedonly a little; others have been transformed."
"You think, then, some flowers may be much influenced by others?"
"They can't help it," she answered confidently.
"Just as some people," he said in a low tone, "can't help taking intotheir lives some beautiful hue born of mere casual contact with someone, some time."
"What a poetical sentiment!" she laughed. "Really, it deserves areward." As he spoke, she plucked a few flowers and held them out in herpalm to him; he regarded her merry eyes, the bright tints.
Erect, with well-assured poise, she looked at him; he took one of theflowers, gazed at it, a tiny thing in his own great palm, a tiny, redthing, like a jewel in hue--that reminded him of--what? As through amist he saw a spark--where?
"Only one?" she said in the same tone. "You are modest. And you don'teven condescend to put it in your coat?"
He did so; in his gaze was a sudden new expression, something socompelling, so different, it held her, almost against her will. Heseemed to see her and yet not fully to be aware of her presence; shedrew back slightly. The girl's crimson lips parted as with a suspicionof faint wonder; the blue eyes, just a little soberer, were, also, inthe least degree, perplexed. The man's breast suddenly stirred; abreath--or was it the merest suggestion of a sigh?--escaped the firmlips. He looked out of the window at the garden, conventional, thearrangement of lines one expected.
When his look returned to her it was the same he had worn when he hadfirst stepped forward to speak with her that afternoon.
"Thank you for the lesson in botany, Miss Wray!" he said easily. "Ishall not forget it."
The other primroses fell from her fingers; with a response equallycareless if somewhat reserved, she turned and reentered the library.Lord Ronsdale regarded both quickly; then started, as he caught sight ofthe flower in John Steele's coat. A frown crossed his face and he lookedaway to conceal the singularly cold and vindictive gleam that sprang tohis eyes.
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