Rest Harrow | Page 4

for pity; and if she mistook that for love, the splendid
generosity of her is enough to take the breath away. The world ought to
have gone down on its knees to her--but it picked up its skirts for fear
she might touch them. What a country! What a race! Well, feeling
towards her as I did, and loathing him, I urged him to marry her--to
make her his property for life. Dead against my conviction, mind you,
but what else could I do? God help me, I played the renegade to what I
sincerely believed. I couldn't see her done to death by a world of
satyrs."
"Of course you couldn't, my dear man," cried Chevenix. "Girls of her
sort must be married, you know."
"I don't know anything of the kind," replied Senhouse, fiercely; "but I
loved her. You may put it that I funked. I did--and to no purpose."
"If you were to see her now," Chevenix put in, "you could do some
good. She'll be pretty lonely up there." Senhouse got up.
"I'll see her," he said. "Whatever happens."
"Right," said Chevenix. "That's a good man. That's what I wanted of
you. I'll tell her that you're coming. Now I'm going to do the civil to
Mrs. Germain."
Senhouse had turned away, and was leaning over the bulwarks, lost in
his thoughts. He remained there until the passage was over.
Mr. Chevenix, having approached the lady with all forms observed,
made himself happy in her company, as, indeed, he did in all. "Now
this is very jolly, Mrs. Germain, I must say. I'm a companionable
beggar, I believe; and here I was in a ship where I didn't know a living
soul until I met you and Senhouse. Didn't even know that you knew
Senhouse. Queer fish, eh? Oh, the queerest fish in the sea! But you
know all that, of course."

Mrs. Germain, a brunette with the power of glowing, coloured
becomingly, and veiled her fine eyes with somewhat heavy and
heavily-fringed eye-lids. "Oh, yes," she said, "I have known him for a
long time."
"Met him abroad, I suppose--tinkering round, as he does. The
everlasting loafer, artist, tinker, poet, gardener. 'Pon my soul, he's like
the game we used to do with cherry-stones round the pudding plate.
Don't you know? Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, and all the rest. He's all
those things, and has two pair of bags to his name, and lives in a cart,
and's a gentleman. Not a doubt about that, mind you, Mrs. Germain."
She smiled upon him kindly. "None at all," she said. "I like him
extremely."
"You would, you know," said Chevenix, his tones rich in sympathy.
"All women do. You couldn't help it. You've got such a kind heart. All
women have. Now, I've known Senhouse himself five or six years, but
I've known about him for at least eight. I used to hear about him from
morn to dewy eve, once upon a time, from one--of--the--loveliest and
most charming girls you ever met in your life. Did you know her? A
Miss Percival-- Sanchia Percival. We used to call her Sancie. Thought
you might have met her, perhaps. No? Well, this chap Senhouse would
have gone through the fire for her. He would have said his prayers to
her. Did you ever see his poems about her? My word! He published 'em
after the row, you know. He as good as identified her with--well, we
won't mention names, Mrs. Germain, but he identified her with a
certain holy lady not a hundred miles from the Kingdom of Heaven.
Blasphemous old chap--he did, though."
Mrs. Germain, toying with her scent-bottle, was interested. "I never
heard him speak about a Miss Percival," she said. She used a careless
tone, but her flickering eyelids betrayed her.
"You wouldn't, you know," he told her with the same sympathetic
earnestness. "There was too much of a row. He was cut all to pieces. I
thought he'd go under; but he's not that sort. Who called
somebody--some political johnny--the Sea-green Incorruptible? Oh, ask
me another! You might call old Senhouse the Green-tea Irrepressible;
for that was his drink (to keep himself awake all night, writin' poems),
and there never was a cork that would hold him down--not even Sancie
Percival. No, no, out he must come--fizzling."

"I see," said Mrs. Germain, still looking at her fingers in her lap. "I'm
very much interested. You mean that he was very much--that he paid
her a great deal of attention?"
Chevenix stared roundly about him. "Attention! Oh, heavens! Why,
three of his letters to her would fill The Times for a week--and he kept
it up for years! She used to get three a week--budgets! blue-books! For
simple years! Attentions!" He shook his head. "The word's