# Love in Idleness/Chapter 3

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CHAPTER III.
HE weather was warm. By contrast with the cool air of the bay he had lately crossed, it seemed hot to Lawrence when he entered the library. Barely glancing at the room, he went straight to one of the doors which opened upon the verandah, and going out, sat down discontentedly in a big cushioned straw chair. It was very warm, and it seemed suddenly very still. In the distance he could hear the wheels of the buck-board in the avenue, as the groom took it round to the stables, and out of the close shrubbery he caught the sharp, dry sound of footsteps rapidly retreating along a concealed cinder path. The air scarcely stirred the creeper which climbed up one of the pillars of the verandah and festooned ​its way, curtain-like, in both directions to the opposite ends. On his right he could see the broad, sloping lawn, all shadowed now by the tall trees beyond. Without looking directly at it, he felt that the vivid green of the grass was softened and that there must be gold in the tops of the trees. The sensation was restful, but his eyes stared vacantly at the deep shrubbery which began at the foot of the verandah steps and stretched away under the spruces at his left.
He was exceedingly discontented, though he had just arrived, or, perhaps, for that very reason among many other minor ones. He had never had any cause to expect from Fanny Trehearne anything in the way of sentiment, but he was none the less persuaded that he had a moral right to look for something more than chaff and good-natured hospitality, spiced with such vigorous reproof as "don t be a spoilt baby."
The more he told himself that he had no right to expect anything of Fanny, the more thoroughly convinced he became that his right existed, and that she was trampling upon it. She had ordered him into the library in a very peremptory and high-and-mighty fashion to wait for her, regardless of the fact that he had travelled twenty-four hours, and had acquired the prerogative right of the traveller to soap and water before all else. No doubt he was quite presentable, since the conditions of modern railways had made it possible to come in clean, or comparatively so, from a longish run. But the ancient traditions ought not to be swept out of the way, Louis thought, and the right of scrubbing subsisted still. She might at least have ​given him a hint as to the whereabouts of his room, since she had left him to himself for a quarter of an hour. She had not been gone four minutes yet, but Louis made it fifteen, and fifteen it was to be, in his estimation.
Presently he heard a man s footstep in the library behind him, and the subdued tinkling of a superior tea-service, of which the sound differs from the clatter of the hotel tea-tray, as the voice, say, of Fanny Trehearne differed in refinement from that of an Irish cook. But it irritated Lawrence, nevertheless, and he did not look round. He felt that when Fanny came down again, he intended to refuse tea altogether—presumably, by way of proving that he was not a spoilt baby after all. He crossed one leg over the other impatiently, and hesitated as to whether, if he lit a cigarette, it would seem rude to be smoking when Fanny should come, even though he was really in the open air on the verandah. But in this, his manners had the better of his impatience, and after touching his cigarette case in his pocket, in a longing way, he did not take it out.
​At last he heard Fanny enter the room. There was no mistaking her tread, for he had noticed that she wore tennis shoes. He knew that she could not see him where he sat, and he turned his head towards the door expectantly. Again he heard the tinkle of the tea-things. Then there was silence. Then the urn began to hiss and sing softly, and there was another sort of tinkling. It was clear that Fanny had sat down. She could have no idea that he was sitting outside, as he knew, but he thought she might have taken the trouble to look for him. He listened intently for the sound of her step again, but it did not come, and, oddly enough, his heart began to beat more quickly. But he did not move. He felt a ridiculous determination to wait until she began to be impatient and to move about and look for him. He could not have told whether it were timidity, or nervousness, or ill-temper which kept him nailed to his chair, and just then he would have scorned the idea that it could be love in any shape, though his heart was beating so fast.
Suddenly his straining ear caught the soft ​rustle made by the pages of a book, turned deliberately and smoothed afterwards. She was calmly reading, indifferent to his coming or staying away—reading while the tea was drawing. How stolid she was, he thought. She was certainly not-conscious of the action of her heart as she sat there. For a few moments longer he did not move. Then he felt he wished to see her, to see how she was sitting, and how really indifferent she was. But if he made a sound, she would look up and lay down her book even before he entered the room. The verandah had a floor of painted boards,—which are more noisy than unpainted ones, for some occult reason,—and he could not stir a step without being heard. Besides, his straw easy-chair would creak when he rose.
All at once he felt how very foolish he was, and he got up noisily, an angry blush on his young face. He reached the entrance in two strides and stood in the open doorway, with his back to the light. As he had guessed, Fanny was reading.
"Oh!" he ejaculated with affected surprise, as he looked at her.
​She did not raise her eyes nor start, being evidently intent upon finishing the sentence she had begun.
"I thought you were never coming," she said, absently.
He was more hurt than ever by her indifference, and sat down at a little distance, without moving the light chair he had chosen. Fanny reached the foot of the page, put a letter she held into the place, closed the book upon it, and then at last looked up.
"Do you like your tea strong or weak?" she enquired in a business-like tone.
"Just as it comes—I don't care," answered Lawrence, gloomily.
"Then I'll give it to you now. I like mine strong."
"It's bad for the nerves."
"I haven't any nerves," said Fanny Trehearne, with conviction.
"That's curious," observed Lawrence, with fine sarcasm.
Fanny looked at him without smiling, since there was nothing to smile at, and then poured ​out his tea. He took it in silence, but helped himself to more sugar, with a reproachful air.
"Oh—you like it sweet, do you?" said Fanny, interrogatively.
"Peculiarity of spoilt babies," answered Lawrence, in bitter tones.
"Yes, I see it is."
And with this crushing retort Fanny Trehearne relapsed into silence. Lawrence began to drink his tea, burnt his mouth with courageous indifference, stirred up the sugar gravely, and said nothing.
"I wonder when they'll get home," said Fanny, after a long interval.
"Are you anxious about them?" enquired the young man, with affected politeness.
"Anxious? No! I was only wondering."
"I'm not very amusing, I know," said Lawrence, grimly.
"No, you're not."
The blood rushed to his face again with his sudden irritation, and he drank more hot tea to keep himself in countenance. At that moment he sincerely wished that he had not come to Bar Harbour at all.
​"You're not particularly encouraging, Miss Trehearne," he said presently. "I'm sure, I'm doing my best to be agreeable."
"And you think that I'm doing my best to be disagreeable? I'm not, you know. It's your imagination."
"I don't know," answered Lawrence, his face unbending a little. "You began by telling me that you despised me because I'm such a duffer at out-of-door things, then you told me I was a spoilt baby, and now you're proving to me that I'm a bore."
"Duffer, baby, and bore!" Fanny laughed. "What an appalling combination! "
"It is, indeed. But that's what you said—"
"Oh, nonsense! I wasn't as rude as that, was I? But I never said anything of the sort, you know."
"You really did say that I was a spoilt baby—"
"No. I told you not to be, by way of a general warning—"
"Well, it's the same thing—"
"Is it? If I tell you not to go out of the ​room, for instance, and if you sit still—is it the same thing as though you got up and went out?"
Why no—of course not! How absurd!"
"Well, the other is absurd too."
"I'll never say again that women aren't logical," answered Lawrence, smiling in spite of himself.
"No—don't. Have some more tea."
"Thanks—I've not finished. It's too hot to drink."
Thereupon, his good temper returning, he desisted from self-torture by scalding, and set the cup down. Fanny watched him, but turned her eyes away as he looked up and she met his glance.
"I'm so glad you've come," she said quietly. "I've looked forward to it."
Perhaps she was a little the more ready to say so, because she was inwardly conscious of having rather wilfully teased him, but she meant what she said. Lawrence felt his heart beating again in a moment. Resting his elbow on his knees, he clasped his hands and looked down at the ​pattern of the rug under his feet. She did not realize how easily she could move him, not being by any means a flirt.
"It's nothing to the way I've looked forward to it," he answered.
She was silent, but he did not raise his head. He could see her face in the carpet.
"You know that, don't you?" he asked, in a low voice, after a few moments.
Unfortunately for his information on the subject, the butler appeared just then, announcing a visitor.
"Mr. Brinsley."
It was clear that the manservant had no option in the matter of admitting the newcomer, who was in the room almost before his name was pronounced.
"How do you do, Miss Trehearne?" he began as he came swiftly forward. "I'm tremendously glad to find you at home. You're generally out at this hour."
"Is that why you chose it?" asked Fanny, with a little laugh and holding out her hand. "Do you know Mr. Lawrence?" she continued, ​by way of introducing the two men. "Mr. Brinsley," she added, for Louis's benefit.
Lawrence had risen, and he shook hands with a good grace. But he hated Mr. Brinsley at once, both because the latter had come inopportunely and because his own sensitive nature was instantly and strongly repelled by the man.
There was no mistaking Mr. Brinsley's Canadian accent, though he seemed anxious to make it as English as possible, and Lawrence disliked Canadians; but that fact alone could not have produced the strongly disagreeable sensation of which the younger man was at once conscious, and he looked at the visitor in something like surprise at the strength of his instantaneous aversion. Brinsley, though dressed quietly, and with irreproachable correctness, was a showy man, of medium height, but magnificently made. His wrists were slender, nervous, and sinewy, his ankles—displayed to advantage by his low russet shoes—were beautifully modelled, whereas his shoulders were almost abnormally broad, and the cords and veins moved visibly in his athletic ​neck when he spoke or moved. The powerful muscles were apparent under his thin grey clothes, and Lawrence had noticed the perfect grace and strength of his quick step when he had entered. In face he was very dark, and his wiry, short black hair had rusty reflexions. His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and mottled, especially about the eyes, with deep shadows, in which were freckles even darker than the shadows them selves. His beard evidently grew as high as his cheek bones, for the line from which it was shaved was cleanly drawn and marked by the dark fringe remaining above. His mustache was black and heavy, and he wore very small, closely cropped whiskers like those affected by naval officers. He had one of those arrogant, vain, astute noses which seem to point at whatever the small and beady black eyes judge to be worth having.
At a glance, Lawrence saw that Brinsley was an athlete, and he guessed instantly that the man must be good at all those things which Louis himself was unable to do. He was a man to ride, drive, run, pull an oar, and beat everybody ​at tennis. But neither was that the reason why Lawrence hated him from the first. It had been the touch of his hard dry hand, perhaps, or the flash of the light in his small black eyes, or his self-satisfied and all-conquering expression. It was not easy to say. Possibly, too, Louis thought that Brinsley was his rival, and resented the fact that Fanny had betrayed no annoyance at the interruption.
But Brinsley barely vouchsafed Lawrence a glance, as the latter thought, and immediately sat himself down much nearer to Miss Trehearne and the tea-table than Louis, in his previous rage, had thought fit to do.
"Well, Miss Trehearne," said Brinsley, "how is Tim? Isn't he all right yet?"
"He's better," answered Fanny. "He had a bad time of it, but you can't kill a wire-haired terrier, you know. He wouldn't take the phosphate. I believe it was sweetened, and he hates sugar."
"So do I. Please don't give me any," he added quickly, watching her as she prepared a cup of tea for him.
​Lawrence's resentment began to grow again. It was doubtless because Mr. Brinsley never took sugar that Fanny had seemed scornfully surprised at the artist's weakness for it.