Chapter 3

"I see him furnished forth for his career,
On starting from the life-chance in our world,
With nearly all we count sufficient help:
Body and mind in balance, a sound frame,
A solid intellect: the wit to seek,
Wisdom to choose, and courage wherewithal
To deal with whatsoever circumstance
Should minister to man, make life succeed.
Oh, and much drawback! What were earth without?"

Now began the third phase of Lady Perivale's existence. She spent the
next three years, not in utter loneliness, but in complete retirement
from worldly pleasures. It was in this time of bereavement that her
devoted Sue was of most use to her. She persuaded Sue to travel with
her during her first year of widowhood, at the risk of losing that to
which Miss Rodney had been a slave--her connection. Grace insisted on
her friend accepting a salary to cover that jeopardized connection;
and, when they went back to London, it was Grace's care to find new
pupils to fill the gaps. When West Kensington or Balham had fallen
away, Lady Perivale sent recruits from Mayfair and Belgravia. She had
a host of girl-friends--her court, her "Queen's Maries"--and she could
order them to have lessons from her dearest Sue. In some cases she went
further than this, and paid for the lessons--girl-friends being often
impecunious--but this her friend never knew. But she may have been near
guessing the truth later, for, after that one Italian winter, Miss
Rodney would travel no more.

"I am one of the working bees, Grace," she said; "and you are trying to
make a drone of me."

"No, dear, that could never be; but I want you to have your butterfly
season."

It was while she was with her friend that they came upon the villa
above Porto Maurizio. Grace fell in love with the spot because,
although near the high-road to Genoa, it lay off the beaten track, and
was purely Italian--no Swiss-German hotel, no English tourists. The
villa was out of repair, and by no means beautiful; but some extent of
land went with it--olive woods, lemon groves, old, old mulberry trees,
festooned with vines that were looped from tree to tree, banks of
carnations, a wilderness of roses.

Lady Perivale sent for the owner's agent, and bought land and villa as
easily as she would have bought a bonnet. The agent saw her child-like
eagerness for a new toy, and only asked twice as much as the reserve
price.

"It is a place that can be made anything in the hands of an owner of
taste and means," he said; "and if you find the land a burden you can
always let it on the _métairie_ system."

"But I mean to keep the land, and employ people--to have my own olive
woods, my own oranges and lemons."

She smiled, remembering a nursery game of her childhood. Oranges and
lemons! Never had she thought to see them growing on sunlit heights,
sloping upward from a sapphire sea, to that dark line where the olives
cease and the pines begin, darker and darker, till they touch the
rugged edge of far-off snow-peaks.

It was three years before Lady Perivale went back to the world in
which everybody's business--barring the few who live for politics or
philanthropy--is to cram the utmost amusement into the shortest space
of time. The briefer the season the faster the pace. Three balls a
night. Mrs. A.'s concert jostling with Mrs. B.'s private theatricals,
and both of them crushed under the Juggernaut car of her Grace's fancy
ball. The longer the invitation the worse chance of a dull party: for
those duchesses and marchionesses can spring a great entertainment
on the town at a fortnight's notice, and empty meaner people's
dancing-rooms, and leave the Coldstreams or the Hungarians fiddling to
twenty couples in a house where there is breathing space everywhere.

Lady Perivale felt as if she were awaking from a long dream of
beautiful places and tranquil hours, awaking in the din and riot of
a crowded fair. But she opened her own little booth with a proper
dignity. She was almost glad to see old faces, and to be made a
prodigious fuss about.

She was the rage in that season of her return. There was hardly a
bachelor in town who did not want to marry her, though many were too
wise to pursue the charming prey. Her girl-friends who had married,
and her girl-friends who were still single, flocked round her, and
her house was the rendezvous of all the pretty people in London. Her
dinners, her luncheons, her little musical afternoons--a single artist,
perhaps, or at most two, and a room only half full--but, most of all,
her suppers after the play or the opera were the top of the mode.

"She spends her money on the things that are best worth having," Mr.
Howard said of her, "and that alone is genius. She breakfasts on an
egg, and dines on a cutlet, but she has taken the trouble to secure
an incomparable cook, and she gives him _carte blanche_. She drinks
nothing stronger than salutaris, but she lets me order her wine, and
gives me a free hand, as she does Herr Ganz when he organizes her
concerts. Such a woman knows how to live."

It was in this year of her return to the world of pleasure, when all
things seemed more dazzling by contrast, that she made the acquaintance
of two men whom she had not known during her married life. One was
Arthur Haldane, a man of letters, who had leapt at once into renown
by the success of a first novel--a work of fire and flame, which had
startled the novel-reading world, and surprised even the critics, in an
age when all stories have been told, and when genius means an original
mind dealing with old familiar things. Since that success Mr. Haldane
had devoted himself to more solid and serious works, and he was now
a personage in the literary world. The other was Colonel Rannock, a
Scotchman of old family, grandson of the Earl of Kirkmichael, and late
of the Lanarkshire regiment, the man who was destined to bring trouble
into Grace Perivale's smooth and prosperous life. He was a reprobate, a
man who had long been banished from the holy of holies in the temple of
society, but who contrived to whirl in the vortex, nevertheless, by the
indulgence of old friends and allies of his house, who would not cast
him off utterly so long as he was only suspected and had never been
found out. He was known to have ruined other men, callow subalterns who
had admired and trusted him; he was known to have lived in the company
of vicious women, to have said to evil, "Be thou my good"; and he was
even suspected of having cheated at cards, though that is a common
suspicion of every Captain Rook who keeps company with pigeons.

But against all this there was the man's personal charm--that subtle,
indescribable charm of a high-bred Scotchman who has lived in the best
Continental society, and is also a cosmopolitan. "A charm that no woman
could resist." That was what men who knew him well said of him.

It was this man that in an evil hour Grace Perivale admitted to her
friendship. She had not known him a week before she had been lectured
about him, assured solemnly that he ought not to cross her threshold.
Her friendly mentor, Mr. Howard, was the most importunate.

"I am old enough to be your father, Lady Perivale," he began; but she
stopped him with a laugh.

"If you say that I know something horrid is coming; though my dear
father never said a disagreeable thing to me in his life."

"Ah, but you were safe then--a little boat chained to a pier--and now
you are a fast sailing schooner racing through unknown waters. I know
the chart, and where there are shoals. You must not let Colonel Rannock
visit you."

"Why he, too, is old enough to be my father."

"No; I am ten years older than he, and thirty years more trustworthy."

"I don't care about the trustworthiness of a casual acquaintance."

"Rannock will not remain your casual acquaintance. He will make himself
your friend, whether you like it or not, unless you put him in his
place at once, or, in plain words, tell your butler you are never to be
at home to him."

"I am not going to shut my door against the most amusing man I have met
for a long time."

"Ah, that is how he begins. He amuses. It is the thin end of the
wedge. Then he interests--then--and then---- But I need not pursue the
subject. He will never reach those later stages. You will find him out
before then. But in the mean time he----"

"Why do you stop short like that?"

Howard had been nearly saying, "He will compromise you," but would
not for worlds have made an insulting suggestion to a woman he so
thoroughly believed in.

"Come, my dear Mr. Howard, you must credit me with some knowledge of
human nature, and believe that if I find Colonel Rannock unworthy of my
acquaintance, I shall know how to dismiss him. I want to be amused. I
have had two great sorrows in my life--the loss of a father I adored,
and of the best of husbands. Perhaps you don't know how sad life is
when one is always looking back."

"Do I not? I, who have lived nearly half a century!"

"Ah, no doubt you too have your griefs. But you are a sportsman and
an explorer, a politician and a philanthropist. You have so many ways
of forgetting. I have only a woman's distractions, dawdling about the
Continent, or steeping myself in London gaieties."

Mr. Howard did not pursue the argument, and he never recurred to it. He
was too proud a man to hazard a second repulse. If she made so light
of his counsel she should be troubled with no more of it. He admired
and esteemed her, and there may have been some touch of deeper feeling,
which, at his sober age, he would scarcely confess to himself, though
Lafontaine's sad question often found an echo in his breast--"Ai-je
passé le temps d'aimer?"

Lady Perivale lived in a crowd all that season, but Colonel Rannock was
a prominent figure in the crowd, and people were kinder to him than
they had been, on her account. It was thought that she would marry him,
and he would shine forth rehabilitated, rich, and a power in society;
and the clever, pushing, second-rate people who had cut him last season
began to think they had been precipitate and ill-advised. The end of
the season came in a moment, as it seemed, after Goodwood. Everybody
was going or gone, and the Park was a Sahara sprinkled with nurse-maids
and perambulators. Lady Perivale made up her house-party for her Border
Castle, but Colonel Rannock was not of the party. She let him haunt her
footsteps in London, but she would not admit him to the intimacy of
a house-guest. So much evil had George Howard's warning done him. He
tried hard for an invitation, and was irritated at failing.

"You will have no music in your villeggiatura, and what a dull set
you have chosen. Your women are nice enough, young and bright, and
pretty, and only wanting to be amused; but your men are hopeless. Frank
Lawford--a quarterly review in breeches, Canon Millighan--a Jesuit in
disguise, and Captain Grant, Sir Henry Bolton, Jack Scudamore, who live
only to fill game-bags."

"They were my husband's friends, and I am very glad for them to shoot
his birds. Poor Hector! I always think of the birds and the moor as his
still--the cruel moor that cost him his life."

Her eyes clouded as she spoke of her husband. Commonplace and kindly,
a homely figure in the drama of life, he had been her first and only
lover, her faithful and devoted husband, and, after three years of
mourning, regret was not lessened. Colonel Rannock talked again of
her house-party. He was going to Iceland to shoot things, and to live
under canvas in unconceivable roughness and discomfort. He spoke with
bitterness of a joyless holiday, and then, as if on the impulse of the
moment, confessed his passion, his jealous rage at the thought of her
surrounded by other men, and asked her to be his wife.

This was his first throw of the dice. She rejected him with a kindly
firmness which she thought would settle the question for ever. He
promised that it should be so. He would be content to know himself her
friend, and so he went off to Iceland without further murmuring.

History repeated itself next season, when people were beginning to
wonder why she did not marry him--nay, even to say that she ought to
marry him. Mr. Howard was in China, on a diplomatic mission, so there
was no prophet in Israel to warn her of coming evil. In this year
Colonel Rannock offered himself to her twice, and was twice refused;
but even after the third disappointment, he declared himself still her
friend, and the _concertante_ duets, and the dinners and suppers, at
which he was her most brilliant talker, went on. And people said, "Dear
Lady Perivale is so very unconventional."