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“She is a type,” he answered vacantly.

“She is an imitation. Show me some one who is brave – who has or knows life.”

“Would you like Mrs. Phillips to come and see you? She is Sir John Blomfield’s daughter, a widow and young. She wants to know you.”

“I am doubtful, not whether she will like me,” with sublime conceit, “but whether I shall like her.”

“You must try her,” he laughed.

His daughter amused him with her odd ideas.

However, when Mrs. Phillips did come, Launa approved of her.

All this time Launa was learning. She was filled with a desire to know and see more; people and life were so interesting. It was like a new play. She noticed how differently her father, herself, and the others were affected by it, and the noise was soothing, even at times deadening.

Launa found Mrs. Phillips entertaining. She explained some of the parts in this vast human drama. She found Miss Archer absurdly young in many of her notions, and absurdly old in others.

“I want to see everything,” said Launa, “and to live myself. It is terrible to feel oneself growing old. It will soon be over, and I haven’t done what I meant to do.”

Mrs. Phillips laughed.

“Go on. What did you mean to do?”

“I should like,” said Launa, “to be happy.”

“So should we all. Tell me more.”

“I want to play a little first, and then – to make the world a little brighter for someone.”

“If I were you, I would simply play myself and leave the others alone. Playing is real and not difficult. Once you begin to mix other people in your life, with your or their happiness depending on you, you will probably be very miserable.”

The admiration of one woman for another is sincere when it is felt when with her, and not merely expressed to a man.

Mrs. Phillips admired Launa for her youth, for her length of limb, and for her slight, graceful body and her warm brown skin. Launa’s mind was attractive. She made friends quickly; she seemed very adaptable; everyone interested her. Some men adored her as they had done at Musquodobit. To others, with a taste for sensuality, she was an indefinite slight girl, while to the few she was wholly desirable – madly desirable. Of course to the crowd she was just a girl.

Music exercised all its old fascination for her. She practised with diligence, and she listened greedily. It transported her to “Solitude,” to the wild sea there, to the rivers and lakes, the life which she loved and missed, which life and Paul she strove every day to forget. And in music she was with him. It was a dream life – she lived in it. Paul was dead to her, but for all that he existed sometimes. She was stared at in her canoe on the river, her paddling was so strong and vigorous, her body so lithe, her arms so round and firm as she took long, almost masculine, strokes, and nowhere did she miss Paul so much as she did there.

CHAPTER VI

The Cardens both went to dinner.

Captain Carden was a nondescript. He might have been attractive if he had ever appeared interested. He was tall, fair, with grey eyes, and very ugly hands, which were forced into notice because of his constant endeavour to hide them. Launa regarded mother and son with curiosity, for they were English and new, and reminded her of the characters in Trollope’s novels. Neither Charlie Carden nor his mother appeared to have found much to interest them in this world. They were ignorant as well as superior, and gloried in knowing nothing, unlike Mrs. Phillips’s friends, who were anxious to know everything, and to impress outsiders with their knowledge.

The Archers talked first about the opera. Mrs. Carden’s ideas of it were limited to “Pinafore” as new and “Martha” as old. German opera and Wagner were nothing to her, nor did she care about books.

Captain Carden talked about horses to Launa, who gathered that he fancied his own opinion as well as his own horses and prowess.

Mrs. Carden thought George should ask her to take the head of the table; she considered Launa too young. She was disappointed when she found the table was round.

Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert were the other guests. Mr. Herbert was an ugly, short man, with a square face, and a stubbly black moustache. He was a journalist – besides which he was clever. Shortly he was going to Canada to write articles for some papers on the country and its resources.

“You are going to write to me, too,” said Mrs. Phillips.

“Yes,” he replied, with a glance, full of – what?

Launa saw it; here was a man and a woman who clearly were of moment to each other. Launa was so absolutely ignorant of men; she knew only one man, and she tried to forget him. She had believed in them all as a class, and in their chivalrous respect for women – indefinite women – and in their everlasting love for one particular woman at last, but her belief was tottering.

That all men were brave she believed, too, it was part, an essential part, of her idea of a man, as all women are lovely and good. Of course she knew women existed with protruding teeth, who have no attraction, but men do not love them. Mrs. Carden she classed among them.

Captain Carden talked to her with assiduity. He told her he found London dull.

“I hate the people; they are so difficult to know. I have called over and over again on the Huntingdons. You know who he is? Lord Huntingdon in the War Office. And I go often to the club for billiards, but no one is friendly, and society is very difficult to get into.”

“But do you not go in for something? Don’t you ride, or row, or play golf? I think all men should care for things of that sort, even for making love.”

“I never make love; that means marriage, and I have no money.”

“Do you ride?” she asked, feeling perfectly indifferent as to his reply. “All soldiers do.”

This conversation was so profoundly insipid.

“Sometimes; but I hate it. I am always afraid of falling off. I go in for it because the regiment would not think much of me if I didn’t. But I hope I have not bored you,” with a sudden change of tone. “We are cousins, you know, and it is so funny how intimate I can be with you; there are so few women I like, or with whom I can be confidential.”

Launa ate an almond with deliberation.

“Perhaps some day you will come for a drive with me. I might hire a safe horse.”

“Oh, no, thank you. Please do not trouble, I do not like safe horses.”

Mr. Archer turned to Captain Carden and asked about Malta, and Launa watched Mrs. Phillips, who was talking very little, while Mr. Herbert’s conversation was incessant. His air was persuasive, his eyes eager, ardent, full of desire.

At ten the Cardens departed. Charley Carden had time to assure Launa again that she was the only woman with whom he could be confidential. Mrs. Phillips was to stay the night. Launa and she had bedrooms adjoining, with a door of communication. They both put on dressing-gowns, and Lily Phillips went into Launa’s room.

“You are not sleepy, are you? Shall we talk?”

“Sit here,” said Launa, “in this comfortable chair.”

There was a small fire.

“I am always cold,” said Launa. “I love a fire.”

“What do you think of Mr. Herbert?”

“I think him clever, and he evidently likes you.”

“Yes, he is clever. But tell me, Launa, are you modern?”

“In what way?”

“Would you ask a man who loved you if he had a past? Would you object to it if he had?”

“If a past were a present I would object. Can’t men be without past? Is there always a woman they have loved first?”

She seemed to hear the wailing of a child and the rustling of the trees, and to feel the fresh breeze. She shuddered. Mrs. Phillips observed the shudder and the look.

“I do not object. Men are different; they are coarse. They like kissing – indiscriminate kissing.”

Launa laughed, and said, “Go on.”

“If I love a man I shall not care what he has – past, present, anything, if he loves me. I would like one man to really love me.”

“You have been married,” suggested Launa.

“But not loved. My husband was nice; we never quarrelled, but we never made it up. Nice men do not love women; they ask us to marry them, to be mothers to their children. Devils love us and often leave us.”

For some time there was silence.

“You like Mr. Herbert?” again asked Mrs. Phillips.

“He wants to marry you,” said Launa.

“He thinks he does. I am afraid of marriage. I am four-and-twenty and I feel fifty; he is thirty and seems twenty.”

“If I were a man,” said Launa, “I would love you. You are not merely beautiful; you are more – not only attractive, you will never grow old.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Phillips; “that is a compliment.”

Mrs. Phillips was small and slight; her hair was a very dark brown, her lips were red, her eyes large and dark blue. Her mouth was the most beautiful part of her face. Her fascination was great; men loved her, went mad over her, and loved her still. She was not good-tempered; a man would never have chosen her for his friend merely. She was variable; not the least of her attraction was that men never could tell how she would treat them. Some women lose their power by their variableness; Mrs. Phillips gained hers. She was cold, yet she could have been passionately fond; but she worshipped self-control, and considered a man ceases to care for a woman when once he is sure of her.

“I shall marry him,” she said. “I think I shall. He is not poor, but I shall never live with him.”

“Why not? What will you do?”

“Though he cares for me, he will grow tired of marriage, and so shall I. The accessibility of a wife is so dull. I shall live in my own flat, and he can keep his rooms. Our marriage notice in all the papers will be followed by a week’s honeymoon, and then he can go back to his work, and I can play. He must love me better for not being sure of me at breakfast, weary of me at dinner, and asleep in the drawing-room at night. All the attraction of the – ” she paused – “of the others will be mine. I shall be his wife. We can entertain, and he will be sure of me.”

“Do men always grow tired of us?” asked Launa, “even if or when they love us?”

“Not always tired, but secure. If they were merely tired, they would let us alone. They cease to desire to please us; we belong to them. Ah, my dear, love! do men love us? Yes, they love us, but do they love one woman?”

Launa’s clock struck twelve.

“I must go to bed,” said Lily Phillips. “I shall not kiss you. Women should never kiss each other. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” repeated Launa.

“That Carden man will want to marry you, Launa. Beware of them both. He is a worm, and has awful legs!”

A few nights after this, Mrs. Phillips took Launa to a ball given by some bachelors – eligible, delightful young men – whose reputation for wickedness was wholly obliterated by their fortunes or the want thereof.

Captain Carden was there. He had procured his invitation with great difficulty. The mother of one bachelor had cause for gratitude towards him. Her son was in his regiment, and when his reputation promised to become inconveniently large, Captain Carden for once used his wits, saved him from the consequences thereof, and the family felt they owed Captain Carden something. Mrs. Carden rejoiced. She thanked Providence for having delivered the sons of the enemy into her hand, and piously glanced at the ceiling (where a brass chandelier hung, symbolic of the worship of light, also brass) when Charlie related his success. He disliked Mrs. Phillips. She circumvented him by introducing several men to Launa before Captain Carden could demand more dances than he had a right to expect. But then she could give him only two.

“Mr. George will amuse you, dear,” said Mrs. Phillips to Launa. “He is clever, and will tell you about his books.”

Mr. George appeared young, and looked not more than two-and-twenty. He was tall, with a pink and white skin, yellow hair, and an infantile smile. He seemed to have vacated the pinafores of the nursery only the day before; but this was not the case, for he had really left them long ago, and he was thirty years old. He told Miss Archer he was writing a book.

“About what? Is it a novel?” she asked.

“About Beginnings,” he replied; “they are so neglected. Everyone writes about Pasts and Probable Futures, but Beginnings are so interesting. The first love-making is a joy, afterwards it palls. The Beginning – the doubt of how she will take it, and how one can make it – is rapture.”

“You think there is joy in uncertainty?” she said.

“I do,” he replied.

“But when men love, they – ”

George interrupted her.

“Dear Miss Archer, I have taken to you at once. I notice you do not use that detestable expression ‘in love.’ This is our Beginning. You were saying – ?”

“I was going to say, when men love they are never happy until they discover whether she loves them in return; uncertainty gives them no joy.”

“It does, they think it does not. That is just what I want to illustrate; when a man does know it, and she does love him, then he marries her, he is certain of her. He may become resigned, but he is not happy, and then – ”

“Yes, and then?”

“He is forever dissatisfied.”

“I thought women only were dissatisfied.”

“Men are, too,” said Mr. George; “I want to show the unhappiness of certainty. I know it.”

“This is our dance, Launa,” said Captain Carden, standing before her and endeavouring to show his proprietorship.

She did not rise. She looked at him and resented his calling her “Launa” as he did. He was not her friend. She disliked him. His jerky manner and his shifty eyes repelled her.

“Launa,” murmured Mr. George, “your name? and it was surely not given by your godfathers and godmothers?”

“Our dance,” said Captain Carden again.

“I will tell you about my name,” she said, “by and by.”

The band was playing a waltz. In spite of herself she felt gay, inspirited. To Captain Carden it was as all other waltzes. He was tired of dancing with young ladies who bored him, and equally weary of ladies who plainly showed they thought him not worthy of a look or a word.

Launa came as a change and a relief. She had intense vitality and energy; a waltz always affected her; it made her glad or sad. She loved the music, the motion, and she looked so desirable.

Captain Carden was not sure whether she was beautiful or not. He wanted to hear someone else say it; he distrusted his own opinion; he had no self-confidence. She was eligible, virtue of virtues; he was a man, she a woman, and as such glad to get him. Did a woman ever refuse a man with his advantages? Never.

Dancing gave Launa more colour. She waltzed several times round the room with him. He danced badly, and held her too close. They stopped. Her hair was ruffled. She stood near him, and he longed to possess her, to own her, to kiss her until she was breathless. His eyes shone as he looked at her. How he would reform her. She would long for his words; she would yearn for his caresses.

“Isn’t that a reviving waltz?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied almost impulsively.

Her presence was reviving, not the music. After this she danced with Mr. George, and explained her captivating name to him. He said he adored it.

“As a Beginning,” she suggested.

“Yes,” he answered instantly.

Then he asked leave to call upon her father to explain his recently published book of Proverbs. He offered to bring a copy with him, and she accepted his offer, for he greatly amused her.

She met another man, called Wainbridge. He also expressed his intention of calling at Victoria Mansions. He called himself a musician, though he did not play any instrument; she promised to play for him.

“He will be Lord Wainbridge some day,” said Mrs. Phillips, as they drove home together. “His uncle has no children by this wife. If she were to die!” Lily Phillips shuddered, “there is another, a young woman with sons.”

“He must be a beast,” said Launa.

“No, not necessarily, only a victim to circumstances, and she is very pretty. I think Mr. Wainbridge knows her. Lady Wainbridge is a horror; she is a Plymouth sister, and wears bombazine always, and a front. She was only evangelical when he married her, and he considered she possessed the possibilities of the good wife, and he expected an heir. He has suffered intensely.”

“Rubbish,” said Launa, “the other woman suffers.”

“You may be sure he has settled all he can on her,” said Lily Phillips, “for I suppose she does suffer, principally because she is not his wife. I often wish I knew her. I wonder if she feels wicked. It would be interesting to know any one living on a volcano, as she does. His wife might die, he might marry a young and innocent girl. Men like their wives to be ignorant of their vices and peculiar passions until after marriage – then – Well, good-night. It was a very cheery ball. You liked it?”

“Immensely,” answered Launa.

“You are very young, Launa. You think men love once. You would not care for a man who could love you and kiss another woman?”

“He could not love me then.”

“My dear, men are different. There is passion and love, and not always felt for the same woman. Love and passion last; passion alone – Bah! it is nothing.”

“Nothing,” repeated Launa.

“It is an impulse; it goes, and they love you again.”

Some days after the ball they were all at tea at Mrs. Phillips’s – Mr. Wainbridge, Launa, Mr. George, and others. The two men had already called on Mr. Archer, and had been invited to dine.

“I want above all things in the world,” said Launa slowly, “to drive a hansom, to sit up high and see the world.”

“I bet you five pounds you can’t,” said Mr. George. “I beg your pardon. But I am sure you can’t.”

She laughed. “I will.”

“How will you climb up?” asked Mrs. Phillips.

“Easily. I will do it at night.”

“And drive me,” Mr. George said. “I will pay you. Don’t overcharge.”

“Take me too,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“You may both come,” answered Launa gaily.

“You must all dine here to-morrow night,” said Lily Phillips. “Launa, make your arrangements, and get it over.”

It was after dinner. Launa and Mr. George had been delightful. Mr. Wainbridge was suffering from his feelings for her; he could not be frivolous. The carriage came for Miss Archer, who sent it away.

“Come,” she said. “Good-night, Lily, I am going to drive. Jacobs got me a hansom, and has arranged it all for me. Do hurry,” she said to Mr. George. “I feel so excited.”

She put on a long driving coat, a little cap, and a very large silk handkerchief, which went round her neck, and covered the lower part of her face completely.

Mrs. Phillips came out to the door.

“We can’t start here,” said Launa; “the hansom is in a narrow street close by.”

They found it waiting just round the corner.

“Get in quickly,” she said.

“I won’t,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “until you are up. Don’t do it. I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Rubbish,” she replied. “I am going by the back streets. I know the way, so does the mare. I am driving Nell, you know.”

She climbed up and arranged the rugs.

“It is splendid, it gives one such a grip. Let her go.”

They dashed off with a clatter. The mare evidently was pulling.

“I never thought she would do it,” said Mr. George.

“I wish to Heaven she had not tried,” said the other.

“Get out, then,” said Mr. George. “Shall I stop her?”

“No! If she is killed, I’ll be killed too!”

Mr. George laughed quietly with intense enjoyment. They drove through dark streets. Launa had been coached by Jacobs which way to go. In one place where it was brightly lighted there was a public-house and a policeman. She drove slowly. Mr. Wainbridge glanced with apprehension at the stalwart supporter of law.

Then they turned a corner, and stopped in front of Victoria Mansions. Jacobs was waiting. Launa got down.

“It was perfectly celestial,” she said. “I never enjoyed anything so much in my life.”

“Nor I,” said Mr. George, “though I owe you five pounds. There is something romantic in being driven by a woman, and that woman you, and you drive so well. I am callous when I remember that five pounds, though I was alarmed about you.”

“Of course I would not take it,” she said.

Mr. Wainbridge looked white. He helped her to take off her coat.

“You will never do it again,” he said. “Promise – never.”

She laughed softly.

“I shall do it perhaps if I want to.”

“Only with me.”

The tone was beseeching.

“No, no, with anyone I choose.”

After they left, Launa went into her father’s work-room.

“I drove to-night,” she said. “Mr. George and Mr. Wainbridge came in the hansom, and I drove it.”

“You drove a hansom cab?”

“Yes, I feel very proud, so don’t tell me I ought not to be.”