"Because you have had no opportunity of really studying Mr. Lashmar's views."
"Oh, I assure you he has made them perfectly clear to me—perfectly."
"In outline," said Constance, smiling as one who condescends to a childish understanding.
"Oh no, in detail."
Miss Bride contented herself with a half-absent "Indeed?" and seemed to resume her meditations. Whereupon, May's eyes flashed, and her head assumed its most magnificent pose.
They exchanged not another word on the drive to Rivenoak.
May awoke very early next morning. It was broad daylight, however, and she hastened to look at her watch. Reassured as to the time, her next thought regarded the weather; she stepped to the window, and saw with vexation a rainy sky. An hour later, she again lifted the blind to look forth. No sun was shining, but rain had ceased. She began to dress.
At a quarter to eight, equipped for walking, she quietly left her room and tripped down stairs. A housemaid met her in the hall; she asked whether the front door was unlocked, and the servant went before to open for her. Following a path which led to the rear of the house, she was soon out in the park; in some ten minutes she passed the old summer-house among the trees, and, with quickened pace, came to the door which led into the Wapham Road. Before using her key, she tapped lightly on the wood; from without there sounded immediately an answering knock. Then she opened.
"Do you know?" asked Lashmar, eagerly, as he gave his hand, forgetting the formal salute.
"Yes. We had the news after dinner. Mr. Breakspeare sent a message."
"He lived for about an hour. I came on to Hollingford late, and have passed the night at the Saracen's Head. It's to be understood, of course, that I got the news in town just in time for the last train."
Whilst exchanging rapid sentences, they stood, one within, one outside, the park wall. May held the door as if uncertain what to do next.
"You can spare me a few minutes?" said Dyce, glancing this way and that along the public way.
"Come in. I didn't bring my bicycle, as it's so wet."
"Of course not. You needn't be anxious. Nobody comes this way."
He closed the door. May was looking behind her into the trees and bushes, which hid them from the park The sky had begun to brighten; a breeze shook drops from the shining leafage.
"How does Lady Ogram take the news?" Lashmar inquired, trying to speak with his wonted calm, but betraying a good deal of nervousness.
"I haven't seen her. She was in her room when it came."
"I shouldn't wonder if she's sorry. She had set her mind on our beating Robb at the poll. No one seems to know who will stand for the Conservatives. I saw Breakspeare after midnight; he was in the wildest excitement. He thinks it's good for us."
"Of course you'll see Lady Ogram to-day?"
"I shall come at lunch-time. That'll be best, won't it?"
May nodded. Her eyes kept turning in the direction of the house.
"How very kind of you to have come out so early!" said Dyce. "All night I've been reproaching myself for giving you the trouble, and when I saw the rain I didn't think for a moment you would be here. I'm delighted to be able to talk to you before seeing anyone else. Don't you think this event has happened very luckily? Whether I am elected or not, it'll be easier for me to get out of my false position."
"Why? How?"
"In this way. During the excitement of the election, I shall find opportunities of speaking more freely with Lady Ogram, and who knows but I may bring her to see that the plan she made for me was not altogether to my advantage? Miss Bride, of course, will speak, whenever she has a chance, in the same sense—"
"Are you sure of that?" asked May, casting a furtive glance at him. She was boring the path with the point of her slim umbrella.
"Do you feel any doubt?" asked Dyce in turn.
"I really can't judge. It's such a very curious situation—and," she added, "Miss Bride is so peculiar."
"Peculiar?—I understand. You don't find her very communicative. But I'm sure you'll make allowance for the difficulty of—"
"Oh, I make all allowances," interrupted May, with her smile of superiority. "And of course Miss Bride's affairs don't in the least concern me."
"Except I hope in so far as they concern me."
Dyce spoke with insinuating humour. Both hands resting on his umbrella handle, he held himself very upright, and looked May steadily in the face. She, as though challenged, straightened herself and met his look.
"I should be sorry to see your career spoilt," she said, with rather excessive dignity. "But you will admit that you have acted, to say the least, imprudently."
"It looks so. You think I should have hadmore courage. But you will see that it'snot too late."
Speaking, he watched her face. He saw her lips twitch, and her eyes stray.
"You know," he pursued, "that Iaim high."
Her look fell.
"But no man can do without help. The strong man is he who knows how to choose his helper, and at the right moment. I am at a crisis of my life, and—it is to you that I turn."
"I of course feel that to be a great compliment, Mr. Lashmar," said May, recovering her grand air. "I promise you to do what I can. But you mustn't count on me for impossibilities."
"I count on nothing that isn't easy foryou—with your character, your influence."
"Thank you, again. My first piece of advice to you is to win the election."
"I shall do my best. If I am beaten in this, I shall win another; you are aware of that. Are you easily discouraged? I think not."
He smiled at her with admiration. That it was genuine, May easily perceived; how much, or how little, it implied, she did not care to ask. These two, alike incapable of romantic passion, children of a time which subdues everything to interest, which fosters vanity and chills the heart, began to imagine that they were drawn to each other by all the ardours of youth. Their minds remarkably lucid, reviewing the situation with coolest perspicuity, calculating each on the other's recognised weaknesses, and holding themselves absolutely free if contingency demanded freedom, they indulged, up to a certain point, the primitive impulse, and would fain have discovered in it a motive of the soul. May, who had formed her opinion as to Miss Bride's real attitude regarding Lashmar, took a keen pleasure in the treacherous part she was playing; she remembered the conversation last evening in the carriage, and soothed her wounded self-esteem. Dyce, gratified by yet another proof of his power over womankind, felt that in this case he had something to be really proud of; Miss Tomalin's beauty and her prospects spoke to the world at large. She was in love with him, and he detected in himself a reciprocal emotion. Interesting and agreeable state of things!
May, instead of directly answering his last question, allowed her eyes to meet his for a second. Then she said:
"Some people are coming to us this afternoon."
"To stay? Who are they?"
"Sir William and Lady Amys—and Lord Dymchurch—"
"Dymchurch! Lady Ogram has invited him?"
"He would hardly come to stay without being invited," said May, archly. "But I thought you most likely knew. Didn't Lady Ogram mention it to you?"
"Not a word," answered Dyce. "No doubt she had a reason for saying nothing. You, possibly, could suggest it?"
His face had changed. There was cold annoyance in his look and in his voice.
"It must have been mere accident," said May.
"That it certainly wasn't. How long will Dymchurch stay?"
"I have no idea, Mr. Lashmar.—I must leave you. Many thanks for taking so much trouble to bring me the news."
She held out her hand. Dyce took and detained it.
"I am going to stay on at Hollingford," he said, "at the hotel. I shall run up to town this evening, but be back to-morrow. At lunchtime to-day I shall see you, but of course that doesn't count; we shan't be able to talk, Wednesday, to-morrow; on Thursday morning meet me here again, will you?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Lashmar," she answered with self-possession; trying, unobtrusively, to withdraw her hand.
"I beg you to! Indeed, you must."
He tried the power of a smile meant to be at once virile and tender, but May was steadily drawing away her hand; he had not the courage to hold it forcibly.
"We shall find other opportunities of talking about the things that interest us," she said, moving a step back.
"It surprises me that you came this morning!" Dyce exclaimed, with a touch of sarcasm.
"Then," May answered loftily, "you will be spared a second surprise."
She turned and left him. Dyce, after watching for a moment her graceful figure, strode in pursuit. They were near the summer-house.
"You are forgetting," he said, "that you have left the key in the door."
May uttered an exclamation of alarm.
"How foolish of me! Thank you so much!"
"I fear I must give you the trouble of walking back, to let me out."
"Why, of course."
They returned to the door, and Dyce again took the offered hand.
"I shall be here at eight on Thursday," he said. "Unless it rains. In that case, on the first fine morning."
"I don't promise to meet you."
"I will come without a promise."
"As you like," said May, slowly closing the door upon him. "But don't prepare for yourself another surprise."
She regained the house, having met no one but a gardener. Within, she encountered no one at all. Safe in her room, she reflected on the morning's adventure, and told herself that it had been, in a double sense, decidedly dangerous. Were Constance Bride or Lady Ogram to know of this clandestine rendezvous, what a storm would break! On that account alone she would have been glad of what she had done. But she was glad, also, of Lashmar's significant behaviour and language. He perceived, undoubtedly, that the anonymous letter came from her, and, be the upshot what it might, their romantic intimacy gave life a new zest. May flattered herself that she knew the tremours of amorous emotion. "If I liked, Icouldbe really, really in love!" This was delightful experience; this was living! Dangerous, yes; for how did she mean to comport herself in the all but certain event of her receiving an offer of marriage from Lord Dymchurch? Mrs. Toplady was right; Lady Ogram had resolved upon this marriage, and would it be safe to thwart that strong-willed old woman? Moreover, the thought was very tempting. A peeress! Could she reasonably look for such another chance, if this were lost? Was she prepared to sacrifice it for the sake of Dyce Lashmar, and the emotional joys he represented?
She thought of novels and poems. Browning was much in her mind. She saw herself as the heroine of psychological drama. How interesting! How thrilling! During her life at Northampton, she had dreamed of such things, with no expectation of their ever befalling her. Truly, she was fortune's favourite. Destiny had raised her to the sphere where her powers and sensibilities would have full play.
So it was with radiant face that she appeared at the breakfast table. Constance and she shook hands as usual; with everyday words. It seemed to her that she saw disquiet in the secretary's countenance—after all, what was Miss Bride but a salaried secretary? Lashmar's betrothed might well suffer uneasiness, under the circumstances;she, it was obvious, did not regard the engagement as a mere pretence. No, no; Constance Bride was ambitious, and thought it a great thing to marry a man with a parliamentary career before him. She was of a domineering, jealous nature, and it would exasperate her to feel that Lashmar merely used her for his temporary purposes. Noble self-sacrifice, indeed! Lashmar himself did not believe that. Best of all things, at this moment, May would have liked to make known her power over Lashmar, and to say, "Of course, dear Miss Bride, he is nothing whatever to me. In my position, you understand—"
There had been a few moments' silence, when Constance asked:
"Do you ever hear of Mr. Yabsley?"
Was the woman a thought-reader? At that instant May had been thinking—the first time for weeks, perhaps—of her Admirable Crichton in the old Northampton days, and reflecting with gratification on the vast change which had come upon her life and her mind since she followed Mr. Yabsley's spiritual direction. Startled, she gazed at the speaker.
"How odd that you should have remembered his name!"
"Not at all. I heard it so often when you first came here."
"Did you?" said May, pretending to be amused. "Mr. Yabsley is a remarkable man, and I value his friendship. You remind me that I really ought to write to him."
Constance seemed to lose all her interest in the matter, and spoke of something trivial.
In the course of the morning there happened a singular thing.
Lady Ogram rose earlier than usual. Before leaving her room, she read in theHollingford Expressall about the sudden death of Mr. Robb. The event had kept her awake all night. Though on the one side a disappointment, for of late she had counted upon Robb's defeat at the next election as an all but certain thing, the fact that she had outlived her enemy, that he lay, as it were, at her feet, powerless ever again to speak an insulting word, aroused all the primitive instincts of her nature. With the exultation of a savage she gloated over the image of Robb stricken to the ground. Through the hours of darkness, she now and then sang to herself, and the melodies were those she had known when a girl, or a child, common songs of the street. It was her chant of victory and revenge.
Having risen, she went into the drawing-room on the same floor as her bedchamber, and summoned two menservants. After her first serious illness, she had for a time been carried up and down stairs in a chair made for that purpose; she now bade her attendants fetch the chair, and convey her to the top story of the house. It was done. In her hand she had a key, and with this she unlocked the door of that room which had been closed for half a century. Having stood alone within the garret for a few minutes, she called to the men, who, on entering, looked with curiosity at dust-covered forms in clay and in marble. Their mistress pointed to a bust which stood on a wooden pedestal some three feet high.
"You are to clean that. Bring water and soap. I will wait here whilst you do it."
The task was quickly performed; the marble shone once more, and its pedestal of lustrous black looked little the worse for long seclusion. Lady Ogram sat with her eyes fixed upon the work of art, and for a minute or two neither moved nor spoke.
"Who is that?" she inquired suddenly, indicating the head, and turning her look upon the two men.
"I think it is yourself, my lady," answered the bolder of the two.
Lady Ogram smiled. That use of the present tense was agreeable to her.
"You are to take it down to the green drawing-room. Carry me there, first, and I will show you where to place it."
Arrived at the ground-floor, she quitted her chair and walked into the drawing-room with step which was almost firm. Here, among the flowers and leafage, sat May Tomalin, who, surprised at her aunt's early appearance, rose forward with an exclamation of pleasure.
"How well you look this morning, aunt!"
"I'm glad you think so, my dear," was the pleased and dignified reply. "Be so kind, May, as to go into the library, and wait there until I send for you."
The girl turned pale. For a moment, she thought her escapade of this morning had been discovered, and that terrible things were about to happen. Her fright could not escape Lady Ogram's observation.
"What, have I frightened you? Did it remind you of being sent into the corner when you were a little girl?"
She laughed with discordant gaiety.
"Really, for the moment I thought I was being punished," replied May. And she too laughed, a melodious trill.
A quarter of an hour passed. Lady Ogram presented herself at the library door, and saw May reading, whilst Constance Bride sat writing at the table.
"Come, both of you!"
Surprised at the look and tone with which they were summoned, the two followed into the drawing-room, where, guided by Lady Ogram's glance, they became aware of a new ornament. They approached; they gazed; they wondered.
"Who is that?" asked their conductress, turning to Miss Bride.
Constance felt no doubt as to the person whom the bust was supposed to represent, and her disgust at what she thought the shameless flattery practised by the sculptor hardly allowed her to reply.
"Of course," she said, in as even a voice as possible, "it is a portrait of Miss Tomalin."
Lady Ogram's eyes shone; on the point of laughing, she restrained herself, and looked at her niece.
"May, what doyouthink?"
"Really, aunt, I don't know what to think," answered the girl, in a happy confusion. "If Miss Bride is right—it's very, very kind of you. But how was it done without my sitting?"
This time, the old lady's mirth had its way.
"How, indeed! There's a mystery for you both, my dears!—May, it's true you are like me, but don't let Constance make you conceited. Go near, and look at the date carved on the marble."
"Why, aunt, of course it is you yourself!" exclaimed the girl, her averted face long-drawn in mortification; she saw the smile with which Miss Bride had received this disclosure. "How wonderful!"
"You can hardly believe it?"
Some incredulity might have been excused in one who turned from that superb head, with its insolent youth and beauty, to the painted death-mask grinning there before it. Yet the marble had not flattered, and, looking closely enough, you saw a reminiscence of its contour in the bloodless visage which, since that proud moment, had chronicled the passions of three-score years.
"How stupid not to have understood at once," said May, the epithet privately directed towards Constance.
"It's a magnificent bust!" declared Miss Bride, examining it now with sincere interest. "Who was the sculptor, Lady Ogram?"
"My husband," answered the old lady, with pride. "Sir Quentin had much talent, and this was the best thing he ever did."
"And it has just come into your possession?" asked May.
"No, my dear. But I thought you would like to see it."
An hour later, Dyce Lashmar arrived. He was conducted at once to the drawing-room, where Lady Ogram still sat with May and Constance.
"I expected you," cried the senile voice, on a high note.
"I heard the news at dinner-time yesterday;" said Lashmar. "Just caught the last train, and sat up half the night with Breakspeare."
"I sent you a telegram the first thing this morning," said Lady Ogram. "Had you left Alverholme before it arrived?"
"I was in town," answered Dyce, only now remembering that he had to account for his movements. "A letter called me up yesterday morning."
The old autocrat was in no mood for trifling explanations. She passed the point, and began to ask the news from Hollingford. Who would be the Conservative candidate? They talked, said Dyce, of a stranger to the town, a man named Butterworth, one of Robb's private friends.
"It's Butterworth of the hoardings—Butterworth's jams and pickles, you know. He's made a million out of them, and now thinks of turning his energies to the public service. Robb, it seems, didn't mean to face another election, and of late had privately spoken here and there of Butterworth."
"Jams and pickles!" cried Lady Ogram, with a croaking laugh. "Will the Hollingford Tories stand that?"
"Why not? Robb evidently thought they would, and he knew them. Butterworth is a stout Unionist, I'm told, and if he makes another million he may look for a peerage. Jam has not hitherto been thought so respectable as ale or stout, but that's only a prejudice. Robb's enlightened mind saw the budding aristocrat. Breakspeare is thinking out an article on the deceased champion of aristocratic traditions, to be followed by another on the blazonry of the jam-pot and pickle-jar. We shall have merry reading when decorum releases our friend's pen."
As his eyes stole towards May Tomalin, Dyce perceived the marble bust. He gazed at it in silent surprise. The looks of all were upon him; turning, he met smiles of inquiry.
"Well?" said Lady Ogram, bluntly.
"Who is that? Is it a new work?" he inquired, with diffidence.
"It looks new, doesn't it?"
"I should have thought," said Dyce, reflectively, "that it represented Lady Ogram at about the same age as in the painting."
"Constance," exclaimed the old lady, vastly pleased, "congratulate Mr. Lashmar."
"Then I am right," cried Dyce, encountering Constance's look. "What a fine bit of work! What a magnificent head!"
He moved nearer to it, and continued freely to express his admiration. The resemblance to May Tomalin had struck him, he thought it probable that some sculptor had amused himself by idealising the girl's suggestive features; but at this juncture it seemed to him more prudent, as in any case it would be politic, to affect to see only a revival of Lady Ogram's youth. It startled him to find that his tact had guided him so well.
He continued to behave with all prudence, talking through luncheon chiefly with the hostess, and directing hardly a remark to May, who, on her side, maintained an equal discretion. Afterwards, he saw Lady Ogram in private.
"You mean to stay on at the hotel, no doubt," she said. "Yes, it'll be more convenient for you than if you came here. But look in and let us know how things go on. Let me see, to-morrow is Wednesday; don't come to-morrow. On Thursday I may have something to tell you; yes, come and lunch on Thursday. You understand—on Thursday. And there's something else I may as well say at once; the expenses of the election are my affair."
Dyce began a grateful protest, but was cut short.
"I say that is my affair. We'll talk about it when the fight is over. No petty economies! In a day or two, when things are in order, we must have Breakspeare here. Perhaps you had better go away for the day of Robb's funeral. Yes, don't be seen about on that day. Spare no useful expense; I give you a free hand. Only win; that's all I ask of you. I shan't like it if you're beaten by jams and pickles. And lunch here on Thursday—you understand?"
Dyce had never known the old autocrat so babblingly iterative. Nor had he ever beheld her in such a mood of gaiety, of exultation.
"Go and have a word with Constance," she said at length. "I rather think she's going into the town; if so, you can go together. She's in great spirits. It isn't her way to talk much, but I can see she feels very hopeful. By the bye, I'm expecting Sir William before dinner—Sir William Amys, you know. He may be here still when you come on Thursday."
Why Lady Ogram should be so careful to conceal the fact' that Lord Dymchurch was expected, Dyce found it difficult to understand. But it was clear that Dymchurch had been invited in the hope, perhaps the certainty, that he would propose to May Tomalin. That he was coming at all seemed, indeed, decisive as to his intentions. Plainly, the old schemer had formed this project at the time of her visit to London, and, improbable as the thing would have appeared to any one knowing Dymchurch, she was carrying it successfully through. On the one side; but how about May? Dyce tried to assure himself that, being in love withhim, May would vainly be wooed by anyone else. But had she the courage to hold out against her imperious relative? Could she safely do so? The situation was extremely disquieting. He wished it were possible to see May alone, even for a minute. But he did not see her at all, and, as Lady Ogram had suggested, he found himself obliged to return to Hollingford in Constance's company. They drove in the landau. On the way, Dyce made known to his companion Lady Ogram's generous intentions.
"I knew she would do that," said Constance, regarding him with the smile which betrayed her inmost thoughts.
Because of the proximity of their coachman, they talked in subdued tones, their heads close together. To Lashmar this intimacy meant nothing at all; Constance, in his busy thoughts, was as good as non-existent. He had remarked with vexation the aspect of renewed vigour presented by Lady Ogram, and would have spoken of it, but that he felt ashamed to do so.
"Don't you think," asked his companion, "that everything is going wonderfully well with you?"
"It looks so, for the present."
"And, after all, whom have you to thank for it?"
"I don't forget," Dyce replied, wondering whether she alluded to the fact of her having introduced him to the mistress of Rivenoak, or to the terms of their engagement.
"If you win the election, don't you think it would be graceful not only to feel, but to show, a little gratitude?"
She spoke in a voice which once more reminded him of the summer-house on that rainy morning, a voice very unlike her ordinary utterance, soft and playfully appealing.
"Don't be so severe on me," answered Dyce, with a laugh. "I am notallself-interest."
He added what was meant for a reassuring look, and began to talk of electioneering details.
Lady Ogram's life had been much guided by superstition. No one knew it, or suspected it, for this was among the tokens of her origin which she carefully kept out of sight. Through all the phases of her avowed belief, she remained subject to a private religion of omens and auspices, which frequently influenced her conduct. Thus, she would long ago have brought forth and displayed that marble visage of her beauty in its prime, but for a superstitious fear which withheld her. On the night before Sir Quentin's death, she dreamt that she ascended to the garret, took the bust in her arms, and carried it downstairs. Many years went by, and again she had the same dream; the next day her first serious illness fell upon her, and, remembering the vision, she gave herself up for lost; but the sign this time had less than fatal significance. Now once more, on the Sunday night of the present week, she seemed to enter the locked garret, and to carry away the marble. All Monday she lived in a great dread, but at evening came the news that her arch-enemy was no more, and behold the vision explained!
On Monday night she dreamt not at all, being kept awake by exultation in what had happened and forecast of triumphs soon to be enjoyed. But her thoughts turned constantly to the graven image which she longed to see, and, by a process of reasoning natural to such a mind as hers, she persuaded herself that now was the moment to fulfil her desire. The bust once brought down, she would not again dream of going to seek it, and, consequently, it could not serve again to augur evil. Not without tremors, she executed her resolve, and, the thing once done, her joy was boundless. Looking on that marble face, she seemed to recover something of the strength and spirit it had immortalised. Notwithstanding her restless night, she felt so clear in mind, so well in body, that the forebodings which had perturbed her since her exhausting visit to London were quite dismissed. To-day Lord Dymchurch was coming; to-morrow May's betrothal would be a fact to noise abroad. She would then summon Kerchever, and in the presence of Sir William Amys, the trusty friend sure to outlive her, would complete that last will and testament which was already schemed out. Twice already had she executed a will, the second less than a year ago. When in town, she had sufficiently discussed with her man of law the new situation brought about by her discovery of May Tomalin; but the hope which she connected with Lord Dymchurch bade her postpone awhile the solemn signature. All had come to pass even as she desired, as she resolved it should. To the end she was supreme in her own world.
When her guests arrived—all travelled from London by the same train—she received them royally. She had clad herself with unusual magnificence; on the shrivelled parchment of her cheeks shone an audacious bloom; her eyes gleamed as if in them were concentrated all the proud life which still resisted age and malady. Rising from her bowered throne in the drawing-room, she took a step towards Lady Amys, pressed her hand cordially—not at all feebly—and welcomed her with affectionate words. The baronet she addressed as "Willy," but with such a dignity of kindness in the familiar name that it was like bestowal of an honour. Towards the peer her bearing was marked with grave courtesy, softening to intimate notes as their conversation progressed. Scarce a touch of senility sounded in her speech; she heard perfectly, indulged in no characteristic brusquerie of phrase, fulfilled every formality proper to the occasion.
Sir William and his wife were the only people of their world who had always seen the lady of Rivenoak in her better aspect; who, whilst appreciating the comedy of her life, regarded her with genuine friendship. They understood the significance of Lord Dymchurch's visit, and, like Mrs. Toplady, though in a much more human spirit, awaited with amusement the successful issue of Lady Ogram's scheme. They saw no harm in it. Dymchurch, it might well be, had fallen in love with the handsome girl, and it was certain that her wealth would be put to much better use in his hands than in those of the ordinary man who weds money. Lady Ogram's deliberate choice of this landless peer assuredly did her credit. She wanted the peerage for her niece; but it would not have been difficult to gratify her ambition in a more brilliant way, had she cared less for the girl's welfare. Society being what it is, they did not see how their energetic old friend could have acted more prudently and kindly.
At dinner there was much pleasant talk. The baronet's vein of humourous criticism flowed freely. Walking through London streets this morning, his eye had caught sight of a couple of posters which held him in meditation.
"One was a huge picture of an ox, and beneath it one read in great letters that sixty thousand bullocks are annually slaughtered for the manufacture of Nokes's beef-tea. The other advertised Stokes's pills, and informed the world, in still bigger lettering, that, every minute of the day, seven of these pills 'reached their destination.' Delightful phrase! 'Reached their destination.' And this, you see, is how we adorn the walls of our cities. It is not only permitted, but favoured. I am quite sure that a plebiscite, if some more civilised alternative were offered, would pronounce in favor of the bullocks and the pills, as much more interesting. Yet to my mind, spoilt by pottering among old pictures, that bit of wall was so monstrous in its hideousness that I stood moon-stricken, and even yet I haven't got over it. I shall dream to-night of myriads of bullocks massacred for beef-tea, and of an endless procession of pills—reaching their destination. I ask myself, in my foolish theoretic way, what earthly right we have to lay claim to civilisation. How much better it would be always to speak of ourselves as barbarians. We should then, perhaps, make some endeavour to improve. The barbarian who imagines himself on the pinnacle of refinement is in a parlous state—far more likely to retrograde than to advance."
"There should be a league of landowners," said Miss Tomalin, "pledged to forbid any such horror on their own property."
"I don't know that I have much faith in leagues," returned Sir William. "I am a lost individualist. Let everyone try to civilise himself; depend upon it, it's the best work he can do for the world at large."
"And yet," put in Lord Dymchurch, "the world can't do without apostles. Do you think mere example has ever availed much?"
"Perhaps not. I would say that I don't care. Do you really believe that the world everwillbe much more civilised than it is? In successive epochs, there are more or fewer persons of liberal mind—that's all; the proportion rises and falls. Why should we trouble about it? Let those of us who really dislike the ox and pill placards, keep as much out of sight of them as possible, that's all. It doesn't do to think over much about the problems of life. Nowadays almost everybody seems to feel it a duty to explain the universe, and with strange results. For instance, I read an article last night, a most profound article, altogether too much for my poor head, on the question of right and wrong. Really, I had supposed that I knew the difference between right and wrong; in my blundering way, I had always tried to act on the knowledge. But this writer proves to me that I shall have to begin all over again. 'Morality,' he says, 'depends upon cerebral oxidation.' That's a terrible dictum for a simpleminded man. If I am not cerebrally oxidised, or oxidally cerebrised, in the right degree, it's all over with my hopes of leading a moral life. I'm quite sure that a large number of people are worrying over that article, and asking how they can oxidise if not their own cerebellum, at all events that of their offspring."
"Man and nature," said Lord Dymchurch presently, "have such different views about the good of the world."
"That," exclaimed the baronet, "is a very striking remark. Let me give you an illustration of its truth. Years ago I had an intimate friend, a wonderfully clever man, who wrote and published a delightful little book. Few such books have ever been written; it was a marvel of delicate thought and of exquisite style. The half-dozen readers who could appreciate it cried aloud that this man had a great future, that his genius was a jewel which the world would for ever prize—and so on. Well, my friend married, and since then he has written nothing, nor will he ever again. I know people who lament his fate, who declare that marriage was his ruin, and a crime against civilisation. The other day, I called upon him—not having seen him for ages. I found a rather uncomfortable little house, a pretty, dull little wife, and three beautiful children in the most vigorous health. 'Alas!' said my friend to me in private, 'I try to work, but I can do nothing. I need absolute tranquillity, such as I had when I wrote my book. I try, but domestic life is fatal to me.' Now, what better example of what you say, Lord Dymchurch? Tousit seems a misfortune to the world that this man didn't live on in bachelorhood and write more exquisite books. But nature says 'What do I care for hisbooks?' 'Look at hischildren!' That's what she meant him for, and from Nature's point of view he is a triumphant success."
Dymchurch seemed not only amused, but pleased. He grew thoughtful, and sat smiling to himself whilst others carried on the conversation.
The evening passed. Lady Amys gave the signal of retirement; May and Constance followed; the baronet and the peer chatted for yet a few minutes with their hostess, then bade her good-night. But, just as he was leaving the room, Dymchurch heard Lady Ogram call his name; he stepped back towards her.
"I forgot to tell you," she said, "that Mr. Lashmar will lunch with us the day after to-morrow. Of course he is very busy at Hollingford."
"I shall be glad to see him," replied the other, cordially. "I wish I could help him in any way."
Lady Ogram resumed her seat. She was looking at the marble bust, and Dymchurch, following the direction of her eyes, also regarded it.
"Until this morning," she said, "I hadn't seen that for more than fifty years. I would tell you why—but I should only send you to sleep."
Her guest begged to hear the story, and sat down to listen. Though the day had been so unusually long and fatiguing, Lady Ogram seemed to feel no effect of it; her eyes were still lustrous she held herself with as much dignity as when the guests arrived. She began a narrative of such clearness and vigour that the listener never thought of doubting its truth; yet the story of her youth as the lady of Rivenoak wished Lord Dymchurch to receive it differed in very important points from that which her memory preserved. Not solely, nor indeed chiefly, on her own account did Arabella thus falsify the past; it was as the ancestress of May Tomalin that she spoke, and on behalf of May's possible children. Dymchurch, looking back into years long before he was born, saw a beautiful maiden of humble birth loyally wooed and wedded by a romantic artist, son of a proud baronet. Of course she became the butt of calumny, which found its chief support in the fact that the young artist had sculptured her portrait, and indiscreetly shown it to friends, before their marriage. Hearing these slanderous rumours, she wished all the work which represented her to be destroyed, and her husband led her to believe that this was done; but on succeeding to the title, and coming to live at Rivenoak, Sir Quentin confessed that he had not been able to destroy that marble bust which was his joy and his pride; he undertook, however, to keep it hidden under lock and key, and only this day, this very day, had it come forth again into the light.
"I am an old, old woman," she said, not without genuine pathos in her utterance. "I have long outlived the few who were my enemies and spoke ill of me, as well as those who knew the truth and held me in respect. I fear no one. I wanted to see how I looked when I was a girl, and I confess I am glad for others to see it, too."
Dymchurch murmured that nothing could be more natural.
"I was almost as good-looking as May, don't you think?" she asked, with a not very successful affectation of diffidence.
"There is a likeness," answered Dymchurch. "But—"
She interrupted his effort to describe the points of difference.
"You very much prefer the other face. That doesn't surprise me and you needn't be afraid to confess it. May is much better-tempered than I was, and she looks it. Did I ever tell you how she is related to me? I call her my niece, but she is really the grand-daughter of my brother, who emigrated to Canada."
Thereupon Lady Ogram sketched a portrait of that brother, depicting him as a fine specimen of the colonising Briton, breezy, sturdy, honest to the core. She traced the history of the Canadian family, which in the direct line had now no representative but May. Of her long search for the Tomalins she did not think it necessary to speak; but, turning hack to her own history, she told of the son she had lost, and how all her affections were now bestowed upon this young girl, who in truth had become to her as a daughter. Then, discreetly, with no undue insistence, she made known her intention to endow May Tomalin with the greater part of her fortune.
"I have lived long enough to know that money is not happiness, but in the right hands it is a great and good thing. I have no fear of the use May will make of it, and you can't know what a pleasure it is to be able to give it to her, to one of my own blood, my own name, instead of leaving it to strangers, as I once feared I must.—But," she broke off suddenly in a changed voice, "here I keep you listening to my old tales, when you ought to be asleep. Good-night, Lord Dymchurch! To-morrow you must see Rivenoak. Good-night!"
For her, there was again no sleep. The weather had changed; through the open window breathed a cool, sweet air, very refreshing after the high temperature of the last few days; but Lady Ogram in vain closed her eyes and tried to lull her thoughts to rest. It disappointed her that Dymchurch, in reply to her confidences, had spoken no decisive word. Of course he would declare himself on the morrow; he would have every opportunity for private talk with May, and of the issue there could be no serious doubt. But Lady Ogram's nerves were tortured with impatience. In the glimmer of dawn, she wished to rise and walk about, but found herself unequal to the effort. Her head ached; her blood was feverish. Though it was a thing she hated to do, she summoned the attendant who lay in an adjoining room.
At mid-day she was able to descend At the foot of the stairs, she encountered Constance Bride, who stood glancing over a book.
"What are they all doing?" was her first question. And, before Constance could reply, she asked "Where is Lord Dymchurch?"
"I saw him not long ago in the garden."
"Alone?"
"No, with Miss Tomalin."
"Why didn't you say so at once? Where are the others? Tell them I am down."
Constance delayed replying for a moment, then said with cold respectfulness:
"You will find Sir William and Lady Amys in the drawing-room."
"I shall find them there, shall I? And what if I don't wish to go into the drawing-room?"
Constance looked into the angry face. In the book she was carrying, a French volume arrived by post this morning, she had found things which troubled her mind and her temper; she was in no mood for submitting to harsh dictatorship. But those blood-shot eyes and shrivelled lips, the hollow temples and drawn cheeks which told of physical suffering, stilled her irritation.
"I will tell them at once, Lady Ogram."
Dymchurch and May Tomalin had strayed from the garden into the park. They were sitting on a bench which encircled a great old tree. For some minutes neither had spoken. Dymchurch held in his hand a last year's leaf, brown, crisp, but still perfect in shape; he smiled dreamily, and, as his eyes wandered to the girl's face, said in a soft undertone:
"How easily one loses oneself in idle thoughts! I was asking myself where this grew—on which branch, which twig; and it seemed strange to me that by no possibility could anyone discover it."
May had not a very high opinion of her companion's intelligence, but it struck her this morning he was duller than usual. She humoured him, replying with her philosophical air:
"No, indeed! Yet we try to find out how life began, and what the world means."
Dymchurch was pleased. He liked to find her capable of such a reflection. It encouraged the movements of vague tenderness which had begun to justify a purpose formed rather in the mind than in the heart.
"Yes! Amusing, isn't it? But you, I think, don't trouble much about such questions."
"It seems to me waste of time."
She was thinking of Dyce Lashmar, asking herself whether she would meet him, or not, to-morrow morning. Certainly she wished to do so. Lashmar at a distance left her coolly reasonable; she wanted to recover the emotional state of mind which had come about during their stolen interview. With Lord Dymchurch, though his attentions were flattering, she could not for a moment imagine herself touched by romantic feeling.
"So it is," he was saying. "To waste time in that way has always been one of my bad habits. But I am going to get rid of it."
He seemed on the point of adding more significant words. May heard the sound fail in his throat; saw without looking at him—his sudden embarrassment. When the words came, as surely they would, what was to be her answer? She hoped for inspiration. Why should it be necessary for her to make precise reply? No! She would not. Freedom and the exercise of power were what she wanted. Enough to promise her answer a month, or half a year, hence. If the old lady didn't like it, let her learn patience.
Dymchurch sat bending forward. The dry leaf crackled between his fingers; he was crushing it to powder.
"Who," he asked, "is the lady Miss Bride was speaking of, in connection with the servant's training-school?"
"Mrs. Gallantry. A good, active sort of woman at Hollingford."
"That scheme doesn't interest you much?"
"Not very much, I confess. I quite approve of it. It's just the kind of thing for people like Miss Bride, plodding and practical; no doubt they'll make it very useful. But I have rather lost my keenness for work of that sort. Perhaps I have grown out of it. Of course I wish as much as ever for the good of the lower classes, but I feel that my own work will lie in another direction."
"Tell me what you have in mind," said Dymchurch, meeting her look with soft eyes.
"What I really care about now is the spirit of the educated class. There's such a great deal to be done among people of our own kind. Not of course by direct teaching and preaching, but by personal influence, exercised in all sorts of ways. I should like to set the intellectual tone in my own circle. I should like my house to—as it were, to radiate light."
The listener could not but smile. Yet his amusement had no tincture of irony. He himself would not have used these phrases, but was not the thought exactly what he had in mind? He, too, felt his inaptitude for the ordinary forms of "social" usefulness; in his desire and his resolve to "do something," he had been imagining just this sort of endeavour, and May's words seemed to make it less vague.
"I quite understand you," he exclaimed, with some fervour. "There's plenty of scope for that sort of influence. You would do your best to oppose the tendencies of vulgar and selfish society. If only in a little circle one could set the fashion of thought, of living for things that are worth while! And I see no impossibility. It has been done before now."
"I'm very glad you like the idea," said May, graciously. Again—without looking at him—she saw his lips shaping words which they could not sound; she saw his troubled, abashed smile, and his uneasy movement which ended in nothing at all.
"We have some fine trees at Rivenoak," fell from her, as her eyes wandered.
"Indeed you have!"
"You like trees, don't you?"
"Very much. When I was a boy, I once saw a great many splendid oaks and beeches cut down, and it made me miserable."
"Where was that?"
"On land that had belonged to my father, and, which, for a year or two, belonged to me."
He spoke with an uneasy smile, again crushing a brown leaf between his fingers. May's silence compelled him to proceed.
"I have no trees now." He tried to laugh. "Only a bit of a farm, which seems to be going out of cultivation."
"But why do you let it do so?"
"It's in the hands of a troublesome tenant. If I had been wise, I should have learnt to farm it myself, years ago. Perhaps I shall still do so."
"That would be interesting," said May. "Tell me about it, will you? It's in Kent, I think?"
The impoverished peer spoke freely of the matter. He had been seeking this opportunity since the beginning of their talk. Yet, before he had ceased, moral discomfort took hold upon him, and his head drooped in shame. The silence which followed—May was saying to herself that now, now the moment had come—did but increase his embarrassment. He wished to speak of his sisters, to hint at their circumstances, but the thing was impossible. In desperation, he broke into some wholly foreign subject, and for this morning, all hope of the decisive step had passed.
The day brought no other opportunity. Towards midnight, Dymchurch sat at the open window of his chamber, glad to be alone, anxious, self-reproachful. To-morrow he must discharge what had become an obvious duty, however difficult it might be.
He had received a long letter from the younger of his sisters. It spoke of the other's ill health, a subject of disquiet for the past month, and went on to discuss a topic which frequently arose in this correspondence—the authority of the Church of Rome. A lady who had just been passing a fortnight at the house in Somerset was a Catholic, and Dymchurch suspected her of proselytism; from the tone of the present letter it appeared that her arguments had had considerable success. Though impartial in his judgment of the old faith, Dymchurch felt annoyed and depressed at the thought that one of his sisters, or both, might turn in that direction; he explained their religious unrest by the solitude and monotony of their lives, for which it seemed to him that he himself was largely to blame. Were he to marry May Tomalin, everything would at once, he thought, be changed for the better; his sisters might come forth from their seclusion, mingle with wholesome society, and have done with more or less morbid speculation.
He had gone so far that honour left him no alternative. And he had gone thus far because it pleased him to do a thing which broke utterly with his habits and prejudices, which put him into a position such as he had never foreseen. He was experimenting in life.
May, he told himself, behaved very well. Never for a moment had she worn the air of invitation; a smirk was a thing unknown to her; the fact of his titular dignity she seemed wholly to disregard. Whatever her faults he saw most of them—she had the great virtue of unaffectedness. Assuredly he liked her; he could not feel certain that even a warmer sentiment had not begun to breathe within him. As for May's willingness to marry him, why, at all events, it appeared a probability. They had some intellectual sympathies, which were likely to increase rather than diminish. And, if the marriage would be for him a great material benefit, he hoped that May also might profit by it.
Lady Ogram desired their union, that was clear. That she should have made choice ofhim, was not easy to explain, for surely she might have wedded her niece more advantageously. But then, Lady Ogram was no mere intriguer; he thought her, on the whole, a woman of fine character, with certain defects so obvious that they could never be the means of misleading anyone. She was acting, undoubtedly, in what she deemed the best interests of her young relative—andhecould hardly accuse her of having made a mistake.
Pacing the room, he took up a review, opened at a philosophical article, and tried to read.
"Why does man exist? Why doesanythingexist? Manifestly because the operations of the energies of nature, under the particular group of conditions, compel it, just in the same way that they cause everything else to happen."
He paused, and re-read the passage. Was it satire or burlesque? No, he saw that the writer meant it for a serious contribution to human knowledge. In disgust he flung the periodical aside. This was the kind of stuff that people feed upon nowadays, a result of the craze for quasi-scientific phraseology, for sonorous explanations of the inexplicable. Why does man exist, forsooth!—To guard his lips against the utterances of foolishness, and to be of what use in the world he may.
Before mid-day on the morrow, he would offer May Tomalin his heart and hand, offer both with glad sincerity, disregarding all else but the fact that to this point had destiny brought him.
He thought of her humble origin, and rejoiced in it. His own family history was an illustration of how a once genuinely noble house might fall into decay if not renewed by alliances with more vigorous blood. May Tomalin had perfect health: she represented generations of hardy, simple folk, their energy of late recruited in the large air of Canada. Why, had he gone forth deliberately to seek the kind of wife best suited to him, he could not have done better than chance had done for him in his indolent shirking existence. If he had children, they might be robust and comely. In May's immediate connections, there was nothing to cause embarrassment; as to her breeding it would compare more than favourably with that of many high-born young ladies whom Society delights to honour. Of such young ladies he had always thought with a peculiar dread. If ever he allowed himself to dream of love and marriage, his mind turned to regions where fashion held no sway, where ambitions were humble. May Tomalin stood between the two worlds, representing a mean which would perchance prove golden.
So determined and courageous was his mood when he fell asleep that it did not permit him long slumbers. A bright sunrise gleaming on a sky which in the night had shed cool showers tempted him to rise much before his usual time. He turned over a volume or two from the shelves in the bedroom, seeking thus to keep his nerves steady and to tune his mind. Presently he thought he would take a stroll before breakfast. It was nearly eight o'clock; servants would be about and the door open. He left his room.
Passing a great window at the end of the corridor, he glanced out upon the garden lying behind the house. Some one was walking there—it was no other than May herself. She moved quickly, in the direction of the park; evidently bent on a ramble before her friends were stirring. Better chance could not have befallen him. He went quickly downstairs.
But, when he had made his way to that part of the grounds where May had appeared, she was no longer discoverable. He strode on in what seemed the probable direction, taking, as a matter of fact, the wrong path; it brought him into the park, but at a point whence he looked in vain for the girl's figure. This was vexatious. Should he linger here for her return, or step out at a venture? He strolled vaguely for some minutes, coming at length into a path which promised pleasant things. Perhaps May had gone to the bosky hollow yonder. If he missed her, they were sure of meeting after breakfast.
He walked towards the clustered trees.