"She is very clever," the hostess was saying, "and quite charming. A Canadian, you know, by birth. Such a fresh way of looking at things; so bright and—"
Other callers were announced. Lord Dymchurch looked his desire to escape, but sat on. You would have thought him a man with a troubled conscience.
A few days later, Lashmar found on his breakfast table a copy of theHollingford Express, blue-pencilled at an editorial paragraph which he read with interest. The leaded lines announced that Hollingford Liberalism was at length waking up, that a campaign was being quietly but vigorously organised, and that a meeting of active politicians would shortly be held for the purpose of confirming a candidature which had already met with approval in influential circles. The same post brought a letter from Mr. Breakspeare, "Will you," asked the editor, "name a convenient date for meeting your friends and supporters? Say, about the 20th of this month. I am working up enthusiasm. We shall take the public room at the Saracen's Head. Admission to be by invitation card. I write to Lady Ogram, and no doubt you will consult with her."
This looked like business. Dyce reflected rather nervously that he would have to make a speech—a practical speech; he must define his political attitude; philosophical generalities would not serve in the public room at the Saracen's Head. Well, he had a fortnight to think about it. And here was an excuse for calling on Lady Ogram, of which he would avail himself at once.
In the afternoon he went to Bunting's Hotel, but Lady Ogram was not at home. He inquired for Miss Bride, and was presently led up to the private drawing-room, where Constance sat writing. As they shook hands, their eyes scarcely met.
"Can you spare me a few minutes?" asked the visitor. "There's something here I wanted to show Lady Ogram; but I shall be still more glad to talk it over with you."
Constance took the newspaper and Breakspeare's note. As she read, her firm-set lips relaxed a little. She handed the papers back with a nod.
"Has Lady Ogram heard?" Dyce asked.
"Yes; she had a letter this morning, and I have answered it. She was pleased. So far, so good. You have had Mrs. Toplady's card for the evening of the 13th?"
"I have."
"One of the Liberal whips will be there—an opportunity for you."
Every time he saw her, Constance seemed to be drier and more laconic. Their intercourse promised to illustrate to the full his professed ideal of relation between man and woman in friendship; every note of difference in sex would soon be eliminated, if indeed that point were not already attained.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Miss Bride, carelessly; for Dyce had thrown hat and stick aside, and was moving about with his hands in his pockets.
"But you're busy."
"Not particularly."
"How is our friend?"
"Lady Ogram? Pretty well, I think, but overtaxing herself. I don't think she'll be able to stay here long. It certainly wouldn't be wise."
"Of course it's on her niece's account. By the bye—" Dyce paused before Constance's chair—"where has this niece sprung from? You told me she hadn't a relative in the world."
"So she believed. Miss Tomalin is a recent discovery—the fruit of Mr. Kerchever's researches."
"Ah! That's rather amusing. Lucky, I imagine, that she is such a presentable person. She might have been—"
He checked himself significantly, and Constance allowed an absent smile to pass over her face.
"I'm afraid," Dyce continued, "this change won't be quite pleasant to you?"
"To me? It makes no difference—none whatever. Will you please sit down? I dislike to talk with anyone who keeps fidgeting about."
One might have detected more than discomfort in Miss Bride's look and voice. A sudden flash of something very like anger shone in her eyes; but they were bent and veiled.
"Let us talk about Hollingford," said Lashmar, drawing up a chair. "It begins to look as if things were really in train. Of course, I shall go down to talk to them. Will you help me in putting my programme together?"
"Isn't that already done?"
"Why, no. What do I care about their party questions? I'm sure your advice would be valuable. Could you find time to jot down a few ideas?"
"If you think it any use, certainly. I can't promise to do it this evening; we have people to dine."
Lashmar was secretly offended that Lady Ogram should give a dinner-party in which he had no place.
"Anyone coming that I know?" he asked, off-hand.
"Let me see. Yes, there's Mrs. Toplady—and Lord Dymchurch—"
Dyce exclaimed:
"What an extraordinary thing! Dymchurch, who never went anywhere, seems all at once to be living in the thick of the world. The other day, I found him at Mrs. Toplady's, drinking tea. Was it there he came to know Lady Ogram?"
"Yes." Constance smiled. "Lady Ogram, you remember, much wished to meet him."
"And he dines here? I can't understand it."
"You are not very complimentary;" said Constance, with dry amusement.
"You know what I mean. I shouldn't have thought Lady Ogram would have had much attraction for him."
Miss Bride laughed, a laugh of all but genuine gaiety.
"Hadn't we better talk about your programme?" she resumed, in an altered voice, as though her humour had suddenly improved; "I should take counsel with Mr. Breakspeare, if I were you. I fancy he likes to be consulted, and his activity will be none the less for it."
Lashmar could not easily fix his thoughts on political tactics. He talked impatiently, all the time absorbed in another subject; and at the first pause he took his leave.
Decidedly it offended him that he was left out from this evening's dinner-party. A suspicion, too, had broken upon his mind which he found very distasteful and perturbing. Lady Ogram must have particular reasons for thus cultivating Lord Dymchurch's acquaintance; conjecturing what they might be, he perceived how he had allowed himself to shape visions and dream dreams during the last day or two. It was foolish, as he now saw plainly enough; in ambition, one must discern the probable, and steady one's course thereby. All at once, he felt a strong dislike of Lord Dymchurch, and even a certain contempt. The man was not what he had thought him.
Crossing the street at Piccadilly Circus, he ran before a hansom, and from the hansom was waved a hand, a voice in the same moment calling out his name. As a result of his stopping, he was very nearly run over by another cab; he escaped to the pavement; the hansom pulled up beside him, and he shook hands with Mrs. Woolstan.
"Are you going anywhere?" she asked, her eyes very wide as they gazed at him.
"Nowhere in particular."
"Then do come with me, will you? I have to buy a present for Len's birthday, and I should be so glad of your help in choosing it."
Dyce jumped into the vehicle, and, as his habit was, at once surveyed himself in the little looking-glass conveniently placed for that purpose. The inspection never gratified him, and to-day less than usual. Turning to his companion, he asked:
"Does everybody look ugly in a hansom mirror?"
"What a question! I'm sure I can't tell you."
Iris had coloured a little. Her eyes involuntarily sought the slip of glass at her side of the seat, and the face she saw was assuredly not a flattering likeness. With brow knitted, she stared out into the street, and presently asked:
"Have you seen Lady Ogram?"
"Yes."
"I thought you told me that she would have no one with her but her secretary? Why did you say that?"
"Because I didn't know that she had a newly-discovered niece. It seems that you have heard of it. Perhaps you have met her?"
"Not yet; Mrs. Toplady told me."
"And you take it for granted that I had deliberately concealed the niece from you?" said Lashmar, with an amused air. "Pray, why should I have done so?"
"No, no, I thought nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Woolstan, in a conciliating tone. "Indeed I didn't! It's only that I felt vexed not to have heard the story from you first. I thought you would have told it me as soon as possible—such an interesting thing as that."
Lashmar declared that he had only known of Miss Tomalin's existence for a day or two, and had only heard the explanation of her appearance this very day. His companion asked for a description of the young lady, and he gave one remarkable for splenetic exaggeration.
"You must have seen her in a hansom looking-glass," said Iris, smiling askance at him. "Mrs. Toplady's picture is very different. And the same applies to Miss Bride; I formed an idea of her from what you told me which doesn't answer at all to that given me by Mrs. Toplady."
"Mrs. Toplady," replied Dyce, his lips reminiscent of Pont Street, "inclines to idealism, I have found. It's an amiable weakness, but one has to be on one's guard against it. Did she say anything about Lord Dymchurch?"
"Nothing. Why?"
Dyce seemed to reflect; then spoke as if confidentially.
"I suspect there is a little conspiracy against the noble lord. From certain things that I have observed and heard, I think it probable that Lady Ogram wants to capture Dymchurch for her niece."
A light shone upon the listener's countenance, and she panted eager exclamations.
"Really? You think so? But I understood that he was so poor. How is it possible?"
"Yes. Dymchurch is poor, I believe, but he is a lord. Lady Ogram isnotpoor, and I fancy she would like above all things to end her life as aunt-in-law (if there be such a thing) of a peer. Her weakness, as we know, has always been for the aristocracy. She's a strong-minded woman in most things. I am quite sure she prides herself on belonging by birth to the lower class, and she knows that most aristocrats are imbeciles; for all that, she won't rest till she has found her niece a titled husband. This is my private conviction; take it for what it is worth."
"But," cried Iris, satisfaction still shining on her face, "do you think there's the least chance that Lord Dymchurch will be caught?"
"A week ago, I should have laughed at the suggestion. Now, I don't feel at all sure of his safety. He goes about to meet the girl. He's dining at their hotel to-night."
"You take a great interest in it," said Mrs. Woolstan, her voice faltering a little.
"Because I am so surprised and disappointed about Dymchurch. I thought better of him. I took him for a philosopher."
"But Mrs. Toplady says the girl is charming, and very clever."
"That's a matter of opinion. Doesn't Mrs. Toplady strike you as something of a busybody—a glorified busybody, of course?"
"Oh, I like her! And she speaks very nicely of you."
"I'm much obliged. But, after all, why should she speak otherwise than nicely of me?"
Whilst Iris was meditating an answer to this question, the cab pulled up at a great shop. They alighted; the driver was bidden to wait; and along the alleys of the gleaming bazaar they sought a present suitable for Leonard Woolstan. To Lashmar it was a scarcely tolerable ennui; he had even more than the average man's hatred of shopping, and feminine indecision whipped him to contemptuous irritation. To give himself something to do, he looked about for a purchase on his own account, and, having made it, told Iris that this was a present from him to his former pupil.
"Oh, how kind of you!" exclaimed the mother, regarding him tenderly. "How very kind of you! Len will be delighted, poor boy."
They left the shop, and stood by the hansom.
"Where are you going to now?" asked Iris.
"Home, to work. I have to address a meeting at Hollingford on the 20th, and I must think out a sufficiency of harmless nonsense."
"Really? A public meeting already? Couldn't I come and hear you?"
Dyce explained the nature of the gathering.
"But I shall see you before then," he added, helping her to enter the cab. "By the bye, don't be indiscreet with reference to what we spoke of just now."
"Why of course not," answered Iris, her eyes fixed on his face as he drew back carelessly saluting.
Though Lashmar had elaborated his story concerning Lord Dymchurch on the spur of the moment, he now thoroughly believed it himself, and the result was a restlessness of mind which no conviction of its utter absurdity could overcome. In vain did he remember that Lady Ogram had settled his destiny so far as the matter lay inherhands, and that to displease the choleric old autocrat would be to overthrow in a moment the edifice of hope reared by her aid. The image of May Tomalin was constantly before his mind. Not that he felt himself sentimentally drawn to her; but she represented an opportunity which it annoyed him to feel that he would not, if he chose, be permitted to grasp. Miss Tomalin by no means satisfied his aspiration in the matter of marriage, whatever wealth she might have to bestow; he had always pictured a very lofty type of woman indeed, a being superb in every attribute when dreaming of his future spouse. But he enjoyed the sense of power, and was exasperated by a suggestion that any man could have a natural advantage over him. To this characteristic he owed the influence with women which had carried him so far, for there is nothing that better stands a man in his relations with the other sex than settled egoism serving restless ambition. This combination of qualities which all but every woman worship. Mrs. Toplady herself, she of the ironic smile and cynic intelligence, felt it a magnetic property in Dyce Lashmar's otherwise not very impressive person. On that account did she watch his pranks with so indulgent an eye, and give herself trouble to enlarge the scope of his entertaining activity. She knew, however, that the man was not cast in heroic mould; that he was capable of scruples, inclined to indolence; that he did not, after all, sufficiently believe in himself to go very far in the subjugation of others. Therefore she had never entertained the thought of seriously devoting herself to his cause, but was content to play with it until something more piquant should claim her attention.
Mrs. Toplady had always wished for the coming of the very hero, the man without fear, without qualm, who should put our finicking civilisation under his feet. Her god was a compound of the blood-reeking conqueror and the diplomatist supreme in guile. For such a man she would have poured out her safe-invested treasure, enough rewarded with a nod of half-disdainful recognition. It vexed her to think that she might pass away before the appearance of that new actor on the human stage; his entrance was all but due, she felt assured. Ah! the world would be much more amusing presently, and she meanwhile was growing old.
Her drawing-rooms on the evening of June 13th were crowded with representatives of Society. Lashmar arrived about ten o'clock, and his hostess had soon introduced him to two or three persons of political note, with each of whom he exchanged phrases of such appalling banality that he had much ado not to laugh in his interlocutor's face. The swelling current moved him along; he could only watch countenances and listen to dialogues as foolish as those in which he had taken part; a dizzying babblement filled the air, heavy with confusion of perfumes. Presently, having circled his way back towards the stair-head, he caught sight of Lord Dymchurch, who had newly entered; their eyes met, but Dymchurch, who wore a very absent look, gave no sign of recognition. Dyce pressed forward.
"I hoped I might meet you here," he said.
The other started, smiled nervously, and spoke in a confused way.
"I thought it likely. Of course you know a great many of these people?"
"Oh, a few. I had rather meet them anywhere than in such a crowd, though."
"Wonderful, isn't it?" murmured Dymchurch, with a comical distress in his eyebrows. "Wonderful!"
Good-naturedly nodding, he moved away, and was lost to sight. Dyce, holding his place near the entrance, perceived at length another face that he knew—that of a lady with whom he had recently dined at this house; in her company came Constance Bride and May Tomalin. He all but bounded to meet them. Constance looked well in a garb more ornate than Lashmar had yet seen her wearing; May, glowing with self-satisfaction, made a brilliant appearance. Their chaperon spoke with him; he learned that Lady Ogram did not feel quite equal to an occasion such as this, and had stayed at home. Miss Tomalin, eager to join in the talk, pressed before Constance.
"Have you got your speech ready, Mr. Lashmar?" she asked, with sprightly condescension.
"Quite. How sorry I am that you won't be able to enjoy that masterpiece of eloquence!"
"Oh, but it will be reported. It must be reported, of course."
The chaperon interposed, presenting to Miss Tomalin a gentleman who seemed very desirous of that honour, and Dyce stifled his annoyance in saying apart to Constance:
"What barbarism this is! One might as well try to converse in the middle of the street at Charing Cross."
"Certainly. But people don't come to converse," was the answer.
"You enjoy this kind of thing, I fancy?"
"I don't find it disagreeable."
The chaperon and Miss Tomalin were moving away; May cast a look at Lashmar, but he was unconscious of it. Constance turned to follow her companions, and Dyce stood alone again.
Half an hour later, the circling currents to which he surrendered himself brought him before a row of chairs, where sat the three ladies and, by the side of Miss Tomalin, Lord Dymchurch. May, flushed and bright-eyed, was talking at a great rate; she seemed to be laying down the law in some matter, and Dymchurch, respectfully bent towards her, listened with a thoughtful smile. Dyce approached, and spoke to Constance. A few moments afterwards, Lord Dymchurch rose, bowed, and withdrew; whereupon Lashmar asked Miss Tomalin's permission to take the vacant chair. It was granted rather absently; for the girl's eyes had furtively followed her late companion as he moved away, and she seemed more disposed to reflect than to begin a new conversation. This passed, however; soon she was talking politics with an air of omniscience which Lashmar could only envy.
"May I take you down to the supper-room?" he asked presently.
The chaperon and Miss Bride were engaged in conversation with a man who stood behind them.
"Yes, let us go," said May, rising. "I'm thirsty."
She spoke a word to the lady responsible for her, and swept off with Lashmar.
"How delightful it is," Dyce exclaimed, "to gather such a lot of interesting people!"
"Isn't it!" May responded. "One feels really alive here. You would hardly believe—" she gave him a confidential look—"that this is my first season in London."
"Indeed it isn't easy to believe," said Dyce, in the tone of compliment.
"I always thought of a London season," pursued May, "as mere frivolity. Of course there is a great deal of that. But here one sees only cultured and serious people; it makes one feel how much hope there is for the world, in spite of everything. The common Socialists talk dreadful nonsense about Society; of course it's mere ignorance."
"To be sure," Lashmar assented, with inward mirth. "Their views are inevitably so narrow.—How long do you stay in town?"
"I'm afraid my aunt's health will oblige me to return to Rivenoak very soon. She has been seeing doctors. I don't know what they tell her, but I notice that she isn't quite herself this last day or two."
"Wonderful old lady, isn't she?" Dyce exclaimed.
"Oh, wonderful! You have known her for a long time, haven't you?"
"No, not very long. But we have talked so much, and agree so well in our views, that I think of her as quite an old friend.—What can I get you? Do you like iced coffee?"
Dyce seated her, and tended upon her as though no such thing as a "method" with women had ever entered his mind. His demeanour was lamentably old-fashioned. What it lacked in natural grace, Miss Tomalin was not critical enough to perceive.
"How nice it will be," she suddenly remarked, "when you are in Parliament! Of course you will invite us to tea on the terrace, and all that kind of thing."
"I'm sure I hope I shall have the chance. My election is by no means a certainty, you know. The Tories are very strong at Hollingford."
"Oh, but we're all going to work for you. When we get back to Rivenoak, I shall begin a serious campaign. I could never live without some serious work of the social kind, and I look upon it as a great opportunity for civilising people. They must be taught that it is morally wrong to vote for such a man as Robb, and an absolute duty of citizenship to vote for you. How I shall enjoy it!"
"You are very kind!"
"Oh, don't think of it in that way!" exclaimed Miss Tomalin. "I have always thought more of principles than of persons. It isn't in my nature to take anything up unless I feel an absolute conviction that it is for the world's good. At Northampton I often offended people I liked by what they called my obstinacy when a principle was at stake. I don't want to praise myself, but I really can say that it is my nature to be earnest and thorough and disinterested."
"Of that I am quite sure," said Lashmar, fervently.
"And—to let me tell you—it is such a pleasure to feel that my opportunities will be so much greater than formerly." May was growing very intimate, but still kept her air of dignity, with its touch of condescension. "At Northampton, you know, I hadn't very much scope; now it will be different. What an important thing social position is! What power for good it gives one!"
"Provided," put in her companion, "that one belongs to nature's aristocracy."
"Well—yes—I suppose one must have the presumption to lay claim to that," returned May, with a little laugh.
"Say, rather, the honesty, the simple courage. Self-depreciation," added Dyce, "I have always regarded as a proof of littleness. People really called to do something never lose confidence in themselves, and have no false modesty about expressing it."
"I'm sure that's very true. I heard once that someone at Northampton had called me conceited, and you can't think what a shock it gave me. I sat down, there and then, and asked myself whether I really was conceited, and my conscience assured me I was nothing of the kind. I settled it with myself, once for all. Since then, I have never cared what people said about me."
"That's admirable!" murmured Dyce.
"I am sure," went on the girl, with a grave archness, "that you too have known such an experience."
"To tell the truth, I have," the philosopher admitted, bending his head a little.
"I felt certain that you could understand me, or I should never have ventured to tell you such a thing.—There is Miss Bride!"
Constance had taken a seat not far from them, and the man who had been talking with her upstairs was offering her refreshments. Presently, she caught Miss Tomalin's eye, and smiled; a minute or two after, she and her companion came forward to join the other pair, and all re-ascended to the drawing-rooms together. When he had restored his charge to her chaperon, Lashmar took the hint of discretion and retired into the throng. There amid, he encountered Iris Woolstan, her eyes wide in search.
"So youarehere!" she exclaimed, with immediate change of countenance. "I despaired of ever seeing you. What a crush!"
"Horrible, isn't it. I've had enough; I must breathe the air."
"Oh, stay a few minutes. I know so few people. Are Lady Ogram and her niece here?"
"Lady Ogram, I think not. I caught a glimpse of Miss Tomalin somewhere or other, sternly chaperoned."
He lied gaily, for the talk with May had put him into a thoroughly blithe humour.
"I should so like to see her," said Iris. "Don't you think you could point her out, if we went about a little."
"Let us look for her by all means. Have you been to the supper-room? She may be there."
They turned to move slowly towards the staircase. Before reaching the door, they were met by Mrs. Toplady, at her side the gentleman who had been Miss Bride's companion downstairs.
"How fortunate!" exclaimed the hostess to Mrs. Woolstan. "I so want you to know Miss Tomalin, and Mr. Rossendale can take us to her."
Iris voiced her delight, and looked at Lashmar, inviting him to come too. But Dyce stood rigid, an unnatural smile on his features; then he drew back, turned, and was lost to view.
Five minutes later, he quitted the house. It was raining lightly. Whilst he looked upward to give the cabman his address, drops fell upon his face, and he found their coolness pleasant.
During the ride home, he indulged a limitless wrath against Iris Woolstan. That busybody had spoilt his evening, had thrown disturbance into his mind just when it was enjoying the cheeriest hopes. As likely as not she would learn that he had had a long talk with May Tomalin, and, seeing the girl, she would put her own interpretation on the fib he had told her. What a nuisance it was to have to do with these feminine creatures, all fuss and impulsiveness and sentimentality! It would not surprise him in the least if she made a scene about this evening. Already, the other day, her tone when she accused him of giving her a false idea of Lady Ogram's niece proved the possibility of nonsensical trouble. The thing was a gross absurdity. Had he not, from the very beginning of their friendship, been careful to adopt a tone as uncompromising as man could use? Had he not applied to her his "method" in all its rigour? What right had she to worry him with idiotic jealousies? Could anyone have behaved more honourably than he throughout their intercourse? Why, the average man—
His debt? What had that to do with the matter? The very fact of his accepting a loan of money from her emphasised the dry nature of their relations. That money must quickly be repaid, or he would have no peace. The woman began to presume upon his indebtedness, he saw that clearly. Her tone had been different, ever since.
Deuce take the silly creature! She had made him thoroughly uncomfortable. What it was to have delicate sensibilities!
Having an imperious Will and an intelligence merely practical, it was natural for Lady Ogram to imagine that, even as she imposed her authority on others in outward things, so had she sway over their minds; what she willed that others should think, that, she took for granted, they thought. Seeing herself as an entirely beneficent potentate; unable to distinguish for a moment between her arbitrary impulses and the well-meaning motives which often directed her; she assumed as perfectly natural that all within her sphere of action must regard her with grateful submissiveness. So, for example, having decided that a marriage between Dyce Lashmar and Constance Bride would be a very good thing for both, and purposing large generosity towards them when it should have come about, she found it very difficult to conceive that either of her young friends could take any other view of the matter. When observation obliged her to doubt the correctness of her first impressions, she grew only the more determined that things should be as she wished. Since the coming of May Tomalin, a new reason—or rather, emotion—fortified her resolve; seeing a possibility, even a likelihood, that May and Lashmar might attract each other, and having very definite views with regard to her niece, she was impatient for a declared betrothal of Constance and the aspiring politician. Their mutual aloofness irritated her more than she allowed to be seen, and the moment approached when she could no longer endure such playing with her serious purposes.
She knew that she had committed an imprudence in coming to London and entering, however moderately, into the excitements of the season. A day or two sufficed to prove the danger she was incurring; but she refused to take count of symptoms. With a weakness which did not lack its pathos, she had, for the first time in her life, put what she called "a touch of colour" onto her cheeks, and the result so pleased her that she all but forgot the artificiality of this late bloom; each morning, when her maid had performed the office, she viewed herself with satisfaction, and was even heard to remark that London evidently did her good. Lady Ogram tried to believe that even age and disease were amenable to her control.
She consulted doctors—for the form; behaving with cold civility during their visit, and scornfully satirising them when they were gone. None the less did she entertain friends at luncheon or dinner, and often talked to them as if years of activity and enjoyment lay before her. "Wonderful old lady!" was the remark of most who left her presence; but some exchanged glances and let fall ominous words.
On the evening when May and Constance were at the crush in Pont Street, she would not go to bed, but lay on a couch in her chamber, occasionally dozing, more often wide awake and quivering with the agitation of her mind. It was one o'clock when the girls returned, but she had given orders that Miss Tomalin should at once come to see her, and May, flushed, resplendent, entered the dimly-lighted room.
"Well, have you enjoyed yourself?"
The voice was a shock to May's ears. After those to which she had been listening, it sounded sepulchral.
"Very much indeed. A delightful time!"
No token of affection had a place in their greeting. The old autocrat could not bring herself to offer, or ask for, tenderness; but in her eyes, always expressive of admiration when she looked at May, might have been read something like hunger of the heart.
"Sit down, my dear." Even this form of address was exceptional. "Tell me all about it. Who was there?"
"Hundreds of people! I can't remember half of those I was introduced to. Lord Dymchurch—"
"Ha! Lord Dymchurch came? And you had a talk with him?"
"Oh, yes. I find he takes a great interest in Old English, and we talked about Chaucer and so on for a long time. He isn't quite so well up in it as I am; I put him right on one or two points, and he seemed quite grateful. He's very nice, isn't he? There's something so quiet and good-natured about him. I thought perhaps he would have offered to take me down to supper, but he didn't. Perhaps he didn't think of it; I fancy he's rather absentminded."
Lady Ogram knitted her brows.
"Who did go down with you?" she asked.
"Oh, Mr. Lashmar. He was very amusing. Then I talked with—"
"Wait a minute. Did you only have one talk with Lord Dymchurch?"
"Only one. He doesn't care for 'At Homes.' Mrs. Toplady says he hardly ever goes anywhere, and she fancies"—May laughed lightly—"that he came to-night only becauseIwas going to be there. Do you think it likely, aunt?"
"Why, I don't think it impossible," replied Lady Ogram, in a tone of relief. "I have known more unlikely things. And suppose it were true?"
"Oh, it's very complimentary, of course."
The old eyes dwelt upon the young face, and with a puzzled expression. Notwithstanding her own character, it was difficult for Lady Ogram to imagine that the girl seriously regarded herself as superior to Lord Dymchurch.
"Perhaps it's more than a compliment," she said, in rather a mumbling voice; and she added, with an effort to speak distinctly, "I suppose you didn't tire him with that talk about Old English?"
"Tire him?" May exclaimed. "Way, he was delighted!"
"But he seems to have been satisfied with the one talk."
"Oh, he went away because Mr. Lashmar came up, that was all. He's very modest; perhaps he thought he oughtn't to prevent me from talking to other people."
Lady Ogram looked annoyed and worried.
"If I were you, May, I shouldn't talk about Old English next time you see Lord Dymchurch. Men don't care to find themselves at school in a drawing-room."
"I assure you, aunt, that is not my only subject of conversation," replied May, amused and dignified. "And I'm perfectly certain that it was just the thing for Lord Dymchurch. He has a serious mind, and I like him to know that mine is the same."
"That's all right, of course. I dare say you know best what pleases him. And I think it very probable indeed, May, that he went to Pont Street just in the hope of meeting you."
"Perhaps so."
May smiled, and seemed to take the thing as very natural; whereupon Lady Ogram again looked puzzled.
"Well, go to bed, May. I'm very glad Lord Dymchurch was there; very glad. Go to bed, and sleep as late as you like. I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, and I'm very glad Lord Dymchurch was there—very."
The voice had become so senile, so indistinct, that May could hardly catch what it said. She lightly kissed her aunt's cheek—a ceremony that passed between them only when decorum seemed to demand it—and left the room.
On the following morning, Dyce Lashmar received a telegram, couched thus:
"Please call at Bunting's Hotel at 3 this afternoon."
In order to respond to this summons, he had to break an engagement; but he did it willingly. Around the hotel in Albemarle Street circled all his thoughts, and he desired nothing more than to direct his steps thither. Arriving with perfect punctuality, he was shown into Lady Ogram's drawing-room, and found Lady Ogram alone. Artificial complexion notwithstanding, the stern old visage wore to-day a look as of nature all but spent. At Lashmar's entrance, his hostess did not move; sunk together in her chair, head drooping forward, she viewed him from under her eyebrows: even to give her hand when he stood before her seemed almost too great an effort, and the shrivelled lips scarce made audible her bidding that he should be seated.
"You are well, I hope?" said Dyce, feeling uncomfortable, but affecting to see nothing unusual in the face before him.
Lady Ogram nodded, impatiently. There was a moment's silence; then, turning her gaze upon him, she said abruptly, in a harsh croak:
"What are you waiting for?"
Lashmar felt a cold touch along his spine. He thought the ghastly old woman had lost her senses, that she was either mad or delirious. Yet her gaze had nothing wild; on the contrary, it searched him with all the wonted keenness.
"Waiting—? I'm afraid I don't understand—"
"Why haven't you done what you know I wish?" pursued the untuneful voice, now better controlled. "I'm speaking of Constance Bride."
Relieved on one side, Dyce fell into trouble on the other.
"To tell you the truth, Lady Ogram," he answered, with his air of utmost candour, "I have found no encouragement to take the step of which you are thinking. I'm afraid I know only too well what the result would be."
"You know nothing about it."
Lady Ogram moved. As always, a hint of opposition increased her force. She was suffering acute physical pain, which appeared in every line of her face, and in the rigid muscles of her arms as she supported herself on the arms of the chair.
"Answer me this," she went on—and her utterance had something which told of those far-off days before education and refined society had softened her tongue. "Will you see Miss Bride this afternoon, and make her an offer of marriage? Are you willing? Just answer me yes or no."
Dyce replied mechanically and smiled as he replied.
"I am quite willing, Lady Ogram. I only wish I could feel assured that Miss Bride—"
He was rudely interrupted.
"Don't talk, but listen to me." For a moment the lips went on moving, yet gave no sound; then words came again. "I've told you once already about Constance, what I think of her, and what I intend for her. I needn't go over all that again. As for you, I think I've given proof that I wish you well. I was led to it at first because I saw that Constance liked you; now I wish you well for your own sake, and you may trust me to do what I can to help you on. But till a man a married, no one can say what he'll make of his life. You've plenty of brains, more than most men, but I don't think you've got too much of what I call backbone. If you make a fool of yourself—as most men do—in marriage, it's all up with you. I want to see you safe. Go where you will, you'll find no better wife, better in every way foryou, than Constance Bride. You want a woman with plenty of common sense as well as uncommon ability; the kind of woman that'll keep you going steadily—up—up! Do you understand me?"
The effort with which she spoke was terrible. Her face began to shine with moisture, and her mouth seemed to be parched. Lashmar must have been of much sterner stuff for these vehement and rough-cut sentences to make no impression upon him; he was held by the dark, fierce eye, and felt in his heart that he had heard truths.
"And mind this," continued Lady Ogram, leaning towards him. "Constance's marriage alters nothing in what I had planned for her before I knew you. She'll have her duties quite apart from your interests and all you aim at. I know her; I'm not afraid to trust her, even when she's married. She's honest—and that's what can be said of few women. This morning I had a talk with her. She knows, now, the responsibility I want her to undertake, and she isn't afraid of it. I said nothing to her aboutyou; not a word: but, when you speak to her, she'll understand what was in my mind. So let us get things settled, and have no more bother about it. On Saturday"—it was three days hence—"I go back to Rivenoak; I've enough of London; I want to be quiet. You are to come down with us. You've business at Hollingford on the 20th, and you ought to see more of the Hollingford people."
Whatever Lady Ogram had proposed (or rather dictated) Dyce would have agreed to. He was under the authority of her eye and voice. The prospect of being down at Rivenoak, and there, of necessity, living in daily communication with May Tomalin, helped him to disregard the other features of his position. He gave a cheerful assent.
"Now go away for half an hour," said Lady Ogram. "Then come back, and ask for Miss Bride, and you'll find her here."
She was at the end of her strength, and could barely make the last words audible. Dyce pressed her hand silently, and withdrew.
After the imposed interval, he returned from a ramble in Piccadilly, where he had seen nothing, and was conducted again to the drawing-room. There Constance sat reading. She was perfectly calm, entirely herself, and, as Lashmar entered, she looked up with the usual smile.
"Have you been out this afternoon?" he began by asking.
"Yes. Why?"
"You went on business of Lady Ogram's?"
"Yes. Why?"
Dyce gave no answer. He laid aside his hat and stick, sat down not far from Constance, and looked at her steadily.
"I have something rather odd to say to you. As we are both rational persons, I shall talk quite freely, and explain to you exactly the position in which I find myself. It's a queer position, to say the least. When I was at Rivenoak, on the last day of my visit, Lady Ogram had a confidential talk with me; your name came prominently into it, and I went away with certain vague impressions which have kept me, ever since, in a good deal of uneasiness. This afternoon, I have had another private conversation with Lady Ogram. Again your name had a prominent part in it, and this time there was no vagueness whatever in the communication made to me. I was bidden, in plain terms, to make you an offer of marriage."
Constance drooped her eyes, but gave no other sign of disturbance.
"Now," resumed Dyce, leaning forward with hands clasped between his knees, "before I say anything more about this matter as it concerns you, I had better tell you what I think about our friend. I feel pretty sure that she has a very short time to live; it wouldn't surprise me if it were a question of days, but in any case I am convinced she won't live for a month. What is your opinion?"
"I fancy you are right," answered the other, gravely.
"If so, this rather grotesque situation becomes more manageable. It is fortunate that you and I know each other so well, and have the habit of straightforward speech. I may assume, no doubt, that, from the very first, our friendship was misinterpreted by Lady Ogram; reasonable relations between man and woman are so very rare, and, in this case, the observer was no very acute psychologist. I feel sure she is actuated by the kindest motives; but what seems to her my inexplicable delay has been too much for her temper, and at last there was nothing for it but to deal roundly with me. One may suspect, too, that she feels she has not much time to spare. Having made up her mind that we are to marry, she wants to see the thing settled. Looking at it philosophically, I suppose one may admit that her views and her behaviour are intelligible. Meanwhile, you and I find ourselves in a very awkward position. We must talk it over—don't you think?—quite simply, and decide what is best to do."
Constance listened, her eyes conning the carpet. There was silence for a minute, then she spoke.
"What did Lady Ogram tell you about me?"
"She repeated in vague terms something she had already said at Rivenoak. It seems that you are to undertake some great responsibility—to receive some proof of her confidence which will affect all the rest of your life. More than that I don't know, but I understand that there has been a conversation between you, in which everything was fully explained."
Constance nodded. After a moment's reflection she raised her eyes to Lashmar's, and intently regarded him; her expression was one of anxiety severely controlled.
"You shall know what that responsibility is," she said, with a just perceptible tremor in her voice. "Lady Ogram, like a good many other people nowadays, has more money than she knows what to do with. For many years, I think, she has been troubled by a feeling that a woman rich as she ought to make some extraordinary use of her riches—ought to set an example, in short, to the wealthy world. But she never could discover the best way of doing this. She has an independent mind, and likes to strike out ways for herself. Ordinary Charities didn't satisfy her; to tell the truth, she wanted not only to do substantial good, but to do it in a way which should perpetuate her name—cause her to be more talked about after her death than she has been in her lifetime. Time went on, and she still could hit upon nothing brilliant; all she had decided was to build and endow a great hospital at Hollingford, to be called by her name, and this, for several reasons, she kept postponing. Then came her acquaintance with me—you know the story. She was troubling about the decay of the village, and trying to hit on remedies. Well, I had the good luck to suggest the paper-mill, and it was a success, and Lady Ogram at once had a great opinion of me. From that day—she tells me—the thought grew in her mind that, instead of devoting all her wealth, by will, to definite purposes, she would leave a certain portion of it tome, to be used by me for purposes of public good. I, in short"—Constance smiled nervously—"was to be sole and uncontrolled trustee of a great fund, which would be used, after her death, just as it might have been had she gone on living. The idea is rather fine, it seems to me; it could only have originated in a mind capable of very generous thought, generous in every sense of the word. It implied remarkable confidence, such as few people, especially few women, are capable of. It strikes me as rather pathetic, too—the feeling that she would continue to live in another being, not a mere inheritor of her money, but a true representative of her mind, thinking and acting as she would do, always consulting her memory, desiring her approval. Do you see what I mean?"
"Of course I do," answered Dyce, meditatively. "Yes, it's fine. It increases my respect for our friend."
"I have always respected her," said Constance, "and I am sorry now that I did not respect her more. Often she has irritated me, and in bad temper I have spoken thoughtlessly. I remember that letter I wrote you, before you first came to Rivenoak; it was silly, and, I'm afraid, rather vulgar."
"Nothing of the kind," interposed Lashmar. "It was very clever. You couldn't be vulgar if you tried."
"Have you the letter still?"
"Of course I have."
"Then do me the kindness to destroy it—will you?"
"If you wish."
"I do, seriously. Burn the thing, as soon as you get home."
"Very well."
They avoided each other's look, and there was a rather long pause.
"I'll go on with my story," said Constance, in a voice still under studious control. "All this happened when Lady Ogram thought she had no living relative. One fine day, Mr. Kerchever came down with news of Miss Tomalin, and straightway the world was altered. Lady Ogram had a natural heiress, and one in whom she delighted. Everything had to be reconsidered. The great hospital became a dream. She wanted May Tomalin to be rich, very rich, to marry brilliantly. I have always suspected that Lady Ogram looked upon her life as a sort of revenge on the aristocratic class for the poverty and ignorance of her own people; did anything of the kind ever occur to you?"
"Was her family really mean?"
"Everyone says so. Mrs. Gallantry tells me that our illustrious M. P. has made laborious searches, hoping to prove something scandalous. Of course she tells it as a proof of Mr. Robb's unscrupulous hatred of Lady Ogram. I daresay the truth is that she came of a low class. At all events, Miss Tomalin, who represents the family in a progressive stage, is to establish its glory for ever. One understands. It's very human."
Lashmar wore the Toplady smile.
"It never occurred to our friend," he said, "that her niece might undertake the great trust instead of you?"
"She has spoken to me quite frankly about that. The trust cannot be so great as it would have been, but it remains with me. Miss Tomalin, it may be hoped, will play not quite an ordinary part in the fashionable world; she has ideas of her own, and"—the voice was modulated—"some faith in herself. But my position is different, and perhaps my mind. Lady Ogram assures me that her faith in me, and her hopes, have suffered no change. For one thing, the mill is to become my property. Then—"
She hesitated, and her eyes passed over the listener's face. Lashmar was very attentive.
"There's no need to go into details," she added quickly. "Lady Ogram told me everything, saying she felt that the time had come for doing so. And I accepted the trust."
"Without knowing, however," said Dyce, "the not unimportant condition which her mind attached to it."
"There was no condition, expressed or reserved."
Constance's tone had become hard again. Her eyes were averted, her lips set in their firmest lines.
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Quite," was the decisive reply.
"How do you reconcile that with what has passed today between Lady Ogram and me?"
"It was between Lady Ogram andyou," said Constance, subduing her voice.
"I see. You mean that I alone am concerned; that your position will in no case be affected?"
"Yes, I mean that," answered Constance, quietly.
Lashmar thought for a moment, then moved on his chair, and spoke in a low tone, which seemed addressed to his hearer's sympathy.
"Perhaps you are right. Probably you are. But there is one thing of whichIfeel every assurance. If it becomes plain that her project must come to nothing, Lady Ogram's interest in me is at an end. I may say good-bye to Hollingford."
"You are mistaken," replied Constance, in a voice almost of indifference.
"Well, the question will soon be decided." Lashmar seemed to submit himself to the inevitable. "I shall write to Lady Ogram, telling her the result of our conversation. We shall see how she takes it."
He moved as if about to rise, but only turned his chair slightly aside. Constance was regarding him from under her brows. She spoke in her most businesslike tone.
"It was this that you came to tell me?"
"Why, no. It wasn't that at all."
"What had you in mind, then?"
"I was going to ask if you would marry me—or rather, if you would promise to—or rather, if you would make believe to marry me. I thought that, under the circumstances, it was a justifiable thing to do, for I fancied your future, as well as mine, was at stake. Seeing our friend's condition, it appeared to me that a formal engagement between us would be a kindness to her, and involve no serious consequences for us. But the case is altered. You being secure against Lady Ogram's displeasure, I have, of course, no right to ask you to take a part in such a proceeding—which naturally you would feel to be unworthy of you. All I have to do is to thank you for your efforts on my behalf. Who knows? Imayhold my own at Hollingford. But at Rivenoak it's all over with me."
He stood up, and assumed an attitude of resigned dignity, smiling to himself. But Constance kept her seat, her eyes on the ground.
"I believe you were going down on Saturday?" she said.
"So it was arranged. Well, I mustn't stay—"
Constance rose, and he offered his hand.
"Between us, it makes no difference, I hope?" said Dyce, with an emphasised effort of cheeriness. "Unless you think me a paltry fellow, ready to do anything to get on?"
"I don't think that," replied Constance, quietly.
"But you feel that what I was going to ask would have been rather a severe test of friendship?"
"Under the circumstances, I could have pardoned you."
"But you wouldn't have got beyond forgiveness?"
Constance smiled coldly, her look wandering.
"How can I tell?"
"But—oh, never mind! Good-bye, for the present."
He pressed her hand again, and turned away. Before he had reached the door, Constance's voice arrested him.
"Mr. Lashmar—"
He looked at her as if with disinterested inquiry.
"Think well before you take any irreparable step. It would be a pity."
Dyce moved towards her again.
"Why, what choice have I? The position is impossible. If you hadn't said those unlucky words about being so sure—"
"I don't see that they make the slightest difference," answered Constance, her eyebrows raised. "If you had intended a genuine offer of marriage—yes, perhaps. But as all you meant was to ask me to save the situation, with no harm to anybody, and the certainty of giving great pleasure to our friend—"
"You see it in that light?" cried Lashmar, flinging away his hat. "You really think I should be justified? You are not offended?"
"I credit myself with a certain measure of common sense," answered Constance.
"Then you will allow me to tell Lady Ogram that there is an engagement?"
"You may tell her so, if you like."
He seized her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. But, scarce had he done so, when Constance drew it brusquely away.
"There is no need to play our comedy in private," she said, with cold reproof. "And I hope that at all times you will use the discretion that is owing to me."
"If I don't, I shall deserve to fall into worse difficulties than ever," cried Lashmar.
"As, for instance, to find yourself under the necessity of making your mock contract a real one—which would be sufficiently tragic."
Constance spoke with a laugh, and thereupon, before Dyce could make any rejoinder, walked from the room.
The philosopher stood embarrassed. "What did she mean by that?" he asked himself. He had never felt on very solid ground in his dealings with Constance; had never felt sure in his reading of her character, his interpretation of her ways and looks and speeches. An odd thing that he should have been betrayed by his sense of triumphant diplomacy into that foolish excess. And he remembered that it was the second such indiscretion, though this time, happily, not so compromising as his youthful extravagance at Alverholme.
What if Lady Ogram, feeling that her end drew near, called for their speedy marriage? Was it the thought of such possibility that had supplied Constance with her sharp-edged jest? If she could laugh, the risk did not seem to her very dreadful. And to him?
He could not make up his mind on the point.