His wife was in her hammock dangling a tightly encased black-velvet leg, a flame-coloured sleeve and a pair of enormous ear-rings. The cocktail tray was already on her iron table.
“How late you are,” she said, idly. “Dinner in half an hour. What have you been up to at Nunspardon?”
“I had to see George.”
“What about?”
“Some business his father asked me to do.”
“How illuminating.”
“It was very private, my dear.”
“How is George?”
The Colonel remembered George’s empurpled face and said, “Still rather upset.”
“We must ask him to dinner. I’m learning to play golf with him tomorrow, by the way. He’s giving me some clubs. Nice, isn’t it?”
“When did you arrange that?”
“Just now. About twenty minutes ago,” she said, watching him.
“Kitty, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You don’t by any chance suspect me of playing you false with George, do you?”
“Well,” said the Colonel after a long pause, “are you?”
“No.”
“I still think it might be better not to play golf with him tomorrow.”
“Why on earth?”
“Kitty, what have you said to George about Mark and Rose?”
“Nothing you couldn’t have seen for yourself, darling. Rose is obviously head over heels in love with Mark.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“My good Maurice, you don’t suppose the girl is going to spend the rest of her existence doting on Daddy, do you?”
“I wouldn’t have it for the world. Not for the world.”
“Well, then.”
“But I… I didn’t know… I still don’t believe…”
“He turned up here five minutes ago looking all churned-up, and they’re closeted together in the drawing-room. Go and see. I’ll excuse your changing, if you like.”
“Thank you, my dear,” the Colonel said miserably and went indoors.
If he hadn’t been so rattled and worried he would no doubt have given some sort of warning of his approach. As it was, he crossed the heavy carpet of the hall, opened the drawing-room door and discovered his daughter locked in Mark Lacklander’s arms, from which embrace she was making but ineffectual attempts to escape.
CHAPTER III
The Valley of the Chyne
Rose and Mark behaved in the classic manner of surprised lovers. They released each other, Rose turned white and Mark red, and neither of them uttered a word.
The Colonel said, “I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me,” and made his daughter a little bow.
Rose, with a sort of agitated spontaneity, ran to him, linked her hands behind his head and cried, “It had to happen sometime, darling, didn’t it?”
Mark said, “Sir, I want her to marry me.”
“But I won’t,” Rose said, “I won’t unless you can be happy about it. I’ve told him.”
The Colonel, with great gentleness, freed himself and then put an arm round his daughter.
“Where have you come from, Mark?” he asked.
“From Chyning. It’s my day at the hospital.”
“Yes, I see.” The Colonel looked from his daughter to her lover and thought how ardent and vulnerable they seemed. “Sit down, both of you,” he said. “I’ve got to think what I’m going to say to you. Sit down.”
They obeyed him with an air of bewilderment.
“When you go back to Nunspardon, Mark,” he said, “you will find your father very much upset. That is because of a talk I’ve just had with him. I’m at liberty to repeat the substance of that talk to you, but I feel some hesitation in doing so. I think he should be allowed to break it to you himself.”
“Break it to me?”
“It is not good news. You will find him entirely opposed to any thought of your marriage with Rose.”
“I can’t believe it,” Mark said.
“You will, however. You may even find that you yourself (forgive me, Rose, my love, but it may be so) feel quite differently about…” the Colonel smiled faintly… “about contracting an alliance with a Cartarette.”
“But, my poorest Daddy,” Rose ejaculated, clinging to a note of irony, “what have you been up to?”
“The very devil and all, I’m afraid, my poppet,” her father rejoined.
“Well, whatever it may be,” Mark said and stood up, “I can assure you that blue murder wouldn’t make me change my mind about Rose.”
“O,” the Colonel rejoined mildly, “this is not blue murder.”
“Good.” Mark turned to Rose. “Don’t be fussed, darling,” he said. “I’ll go home and sort it out.”
“By all means, go home,” the Colonel agreed, “and try.”
He took Mark by the arm and led him to the door.
“You won’t feel very friendly towards me tomorrow, Mark,” he said. “Will you try to believe that the action I’ve been compelled to take is one that I detest taking?”
“Compelled?” Mark repeated. “Yes, well… yes, of course.” He stuck out the Lacklander jaw and knitted the Lacklander brows. “Look here, sir,” he said, “if my father welcomes our engagement… and I can’t conceive of his doing anything else… will you have any objection? I’d better tell you now that no objection on either side will make the smallest difference.”
“In that case,” the Colonel said, “your question is academic. And now I’ll leave you to have a word with Rose before you go home.” He held out his hand. “Goodbye, Mark.”
When the Colonel had gone, Mark turned to Rose and took her hands in his. “But how ridiculous,” he said. “How in the world could these old boys cook up anything that would upset us?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how they could, but it’s serious. He’s terribly worried, poor darling.”
“Well,” Mark said, “it’s no good attempting a diagnosis before we’ve heard the history. I’ll go home, see what’s happened and ring you up in about fifteen minutes. The all-important, utterly bewildering and Heaven-sent joy is that you love me, Rose. Nothing,” Mark continued with an air of coining a brand-new phrase, “nothing can alter that. Au revoir, darling.”
He kissed Rose in a business-like manner and was gone.
She sat still for a time hugging to herself the knowledge of their feeling for each other. What had happened to all her scruples about leaving her father? She didn’t even feel properly upset by her father’s extraordinary behaviour, and when she realized this circumstance, she realized the extent of her exthrallment. She stood in the French window of the drawing-room and looked across the valley to Nunspardon. It was impossible to be anxious… her whole being ached with happiness. It was now and for the first time that Rose understood the completeness of love.
Time went by without her taking thought for it. The gong sounded for dinner and at the same moment the telephone rang. She flew to it.
“Rose,” Mark said. “Say at once that you love me. At once.”
“I love you.”
“And on your most sacred word of honour that you’ll marry me. Say it, Rose. Promise it. Solemnly promise.”
“I solemnly promise.”
“Good,” said Mark. “I’ll come back at nine.”
“Do you know what’s wrong?”
“Yes. It’s damn’ ticklish. Bless you, darling. Till nine.”
“Till nine,” Rose said and in a state of enthrallment went in to dinner.