_ On a conveniently secluded bench facing the Northern Pheasantry in
the Zoological Society's Gardens, Regent's Park, Courtenay Youghal
sat immersed in mature flirtation with a lady, who, though
certainly young in fact and appearance, was some four or five years
his senior. When he was a schoolboy of sixteen, Molly McQuade had
personally conducted him to the Zoo and stood him dinner afterwards
at Kettner's, and whenever the two of them happened to be in town
on the anniversary of that bygone festivity they religiously
repeated the programme in its entirety. Even the menu of the
dinner was adhered to as nearly as possible; the original selection
of food and wine that schoolboy exuberance, tempered by schoolboy
shyness, had pitched on those many years ago, confronted Youghal on
those occasions, as a drowning man's past life is said to rise up
and parade itself in his last moments of consciousness.
The flirtation which was thus perennially restored to its old-time
footing owed its longevity more to the enterprising solicitude of
Miss McQuade than to any conscious sentimental effort on the part
of Youghal himself. Molly McQuade was known to her neighbours in a
minor hunting shire as a hard-riding conventionally unconventional
type of young woman, who came naturally into the classification, "a
good sort." She was just sufficiently good-looking, sufficiently
reticent about her own illnesses, when she had any, and
sufficiently appreciative of her neighbours' gardens, children and
hunters to be generally popular. Most men liked her, and the
percentage of women who disliked her was not inconveniently high.
One of these days, it was assumed, she would marry a brewer or a
Master of Otter Hounds, and, after a brief interval, be known to
the world as the mother of a boy or two at Malvern or some similar
seat of learning. The romantic side of her nature was altogether
unguessed by the countryside.
Her romances were mostly in serial form and suffered perhaps in
fervour from their disconnected course what they gained in length
of days. Her affectionate interest in the several young men who
figured in her affairs of the heart was perfectly honest, and she
certainly made no attempt either to conceal their separate
existences, or to play them off one against the other. Neither
could it be said that she was a husband hunter; she had made up her
mind what sort of man she was likely to marry, and her forecast did
not differ very widely from that formed by her local acquaintances.
If her married life were eventually to turn out a failure, at least
she looked forward to it with very moderate expectations. Her love
affairs she put on a very different footing and apparently they
were the all-absorbing element in her life. She possessed the
happily constituted temperament which enables a man or woman to be
a "pluralist," and to observe the sage precaution of not putting
all one's eggs into one basket. Her demands were not exacting; she
required of her affinity that he should be young, good-looking, and
at least, moderately amusing; she would have preferred him to be
invariably faithful, but, with her own example before her, she was
prepared for the probability, bordering on certainty, that he would
be nothing of the sort. The philosophy of the "Garden of Kama" was
the compass by which she steered her barque and thus far, if she
had encountered some storms and buffeting, she had at least escaped
being either shipwrecked or becalmed.
Courtenay Youghal had not been designed by Nature to fulfil the
role of an ardent or devoted lover, and he scrupulously respected
the limits which Nature had laid down. For Molly, however, he had
a certain responsive affection. She had always obviously admired
him, and at the same time she never beset him with crude flattery;
the principal reason why the flirtation had stood the test of so
many years was the fact that it only flared into active existence
at convenient intervals. In an age when the telephone has
undermined almost every fastness of human privacy, and the sanctity
of one's seclusion depends often on the ability for tactful
falsehood shown by a club pageboy, Youghal was duly appreciative of
the circumstance that his lady fair spent a large part of the year
pursuing foxes, in lieu of pursuing him. Also the honestly
admitted fact that, in her human hunting, she rode after more than
one quarry, made the inevitable break-up of the affair a matter to
which both could look forward without a sense of coming
embarrassment and recrimination. When the time for gathering ye
rosebuds should be over, neither of them could accuse the other of
having wrecked his or her entire life. At the most they would only
have disorganised a week-end.
On this particular afternoon, when old reminiscences had been gone
through, and the intervening gossip of past months duly recounted,
a lull in the conversation made itself rather obstinately felt.
Molly had already guessed that matters were about to slip into a
new phase; the affair had reached maturity long ago, and a new
phase must be in the nature of a wane.
"You're a clever brute," she said, suddenly, with an air of
affectionate regret; "I always knew you'd get on in the House, but
I hardly expected you to come to the front so soon."
"I'm coming to the front," admitted Youghal, judicially; "the
problem is, shall I be able to stay there. Unless something
happens in the financial line before long, I don't see how I'm to
stay in Parliament at all. Economy is out of the question. It
would open people's eyes, I fancy, if they knew how little I exist
on as it is. And I'm living so far beyond my income that we may
almost be said to be living apart."
"It will have to be a rich wife, I suppose," said Molly, slowly;
"that's the worst of success, it imposes so many conditions. I
rather knew, from something in your manner, that you were drifting
that way."
Youghal said nothing in the way of contradiction; he gazed
steadfastly at the aviary in front of him as though exotic
pheasants were for the moment the most absorbing study in the
world. As a matter of fact, his mind was centred on the image of
Elaine de Frey, with her clear untroubled eyes and her Leonardo da
Vinci air. He was wondering whether he was likely to fall into a
frame of mind concerning her which would be in the least like
falling in love.
"I shall mind horribly," continued Molly, after a pause, "but, of
course, I have always known that something of the sort would have
to happen one of these days. When a man goes into politics he
can't call his soul his own, and I suppose his heart becomes an
impersonal possession in the same way."
"Most people who know me would tell you that I haven't got a
heart," said Youghal.
"I've often felt inclined to agree with them," said Molly; "and
then, now and again, I think you have a heart tucked away
somewhere."
"I hope I have," said Youghal, "because I'm trying to break to you
the fact that I think I'm falling in love with somebody."
Molly McQuade turned sharply to look at her companion, who still
fixed his gaze on the pheasant run in front of him.
"Don't tell me you're losing your head over somebody useless,
someone without money," she said; "I don't think I could stand
that."
For the moment she feared that Courtenay's selfishness might have
taken an unexpected turn, in which ambition had given way to the
fancy of the hour; he might be going to sacrifice his Parliamentary
career for a life of stupid lounging in momentarily attractive
company. He quickly undeceived her.
"She's got heaps of money."
Molly gave a grunt of relief. Her affection for Courtenay had
produced the anxiety which underlay her first question; a natural
jealousy prompted the next one.
"Is she young and pretty and all that sort of thing, or is she just
a good sort with a sympathetic manner and nice eyes? As a rule
that's the kind that goes with a lot of money."
"Young and quite good-looking in her way, and a distinct style of
her own. Some people would call her beautiful. As a political
hostess I should think she'd be splendid. I imagine I'm rather in
love with her."
"And is she in love with you?"
Youghal threw back his head with the slight assertive movement that
Molly knew and liked.
"She's a girl who I fancy would let judgment influence her a lot.
And without being stupidly conceited, I think I may say she might
do worse than throw herself away on me. I'm young and quite good-
looking, and I'm making a name for myself in the House; she'll be
able to read all sorts of nice and horrid things about me in the
papers at breakfast-time. I can be brilliantly amusing at times,
and I understand the value of silence; there is no fear that I
shall ever degenerate into that fearsome thing--a cheerful
talkative husband. For a girl with money and social ambitions I
should think I was rather a good thing."
"You are certainly in love, Courtenay," said Molly, "but it's the
old love and not a new one. I'm rather glad. I should have hated
to have you head-over-heels in love with a pretty woman, even for a
short time. You'll be much happier as it is. And I'm going to put
all my feelings in the background, and tell you to go in and win.
You've got to marry a rich woman, and if she's nice and will make a
good hostess, so much the better for everybody. You'll be happier
in your married life than I shall be in mine, when it comes; you'll
have other interests to absorb you. I shall just have the garden
and dairy and nursery and lending library, as like as two peas to
all the gardens and dairies and nurseries for hundreds of miles
round. You won't care for your wife enough to be worried every
time she has a finger-ache, and you'll like her well enough to be
pleased to meet her sometimes at your own house. I shouldn't
wonder if you were quite happy. She will probably be miserable,
but any woman who married you would be."
There was a short pause; they were both staring at the pheasant
cages. Then Molly spoke again, with the swift nervous tone of a
general who is hurriedly altering the disposition of his forces for
a strategic retreat.
"When you are safely married and honey-mooned and all that sort of
thing, and have put your wife through her paces as a political
hostess, some time, when the House isn't sitting, you must come
down by yourself, and do a little hunting with us. Will you? It
won't be quite the same as old times, but it will be something to
look forward to when I'm reading the endless paragraphs about your
fashionable political wedding."
"You're looking forward pretty far," laughed Youghal; "the lady may
take your view as to the probable unhappiness of a future shared
with me, and I may have to content myself with penurious political
bachelorhood. Anyhow, the present is still with us. We dine at
Kettner's to-night, don't we?"
"Rather," said Molly, "though it will be more or less a throat-
lumpy feast as far as I am concerned. We shall have to drink to
the health of the future Mrs. Youghal. By the way, it's rather
characteristic of you that you haven't told me who she is, and of
me that I haven't asked. And now, like a dear boy, trot away and
leave me. I haven't got to say good-bye to you yet, but I'm going
to take a quiet farewell of the Pheasantry. We've had some jolly
good talks, you and I, sitting on this seat, haven't we? And I
know, as well as I know anything, that this is the last of them.
Eight o'clock to-night, as punctually as possible."
She watched his retreating figure with eyes that grew slowly misty;
he had been such a jolly comely boy-friend, and they had had such
good times together. The mist deepened on her lashes as she looked
round at the familiar rendezvous where they had so often kept tryst
since the day when they had first come there together, he a
schoolboy and she but lately out of her teens. For the moment she
felt herself in the thrall of a very real sorrow.
Then, with the admirable energy of one who is only in town for a
fleeting fortnight, she raced away to have tea with a world-faring
naval admirer at his club. Pluralism is a merciful narcotic. _