"I got on with your father," said I.
"You didn't tell my father what he was to do and not to do."
"Yes, sometimes—in social matters. It may surprise you to hear it, but your father was always ready to learn things that other people could tell him."
"Well, here are my concessions. Never mind what I said this afternoon—I was in a rage. I won't call you a servant again; I won't make you come to dinner when you don't want to; I won't demand that you meet my friends if you don't want to."
"That's very kind and handsome of you."
"Wait a minute. Now for my side. Mr. Austin, if you're not a servant here, neither are you a master. Oh, I know, you disclaim any such idea, but still—think over this afternoon! You can't stay here as a master. I daresay you think I want a master. I don't think so. If I do, I suppose I can marry!"
"For my own part I venture to hope you will marry—soon and very happily."
"But my father? 'Suspect and fear marriage.' 'You need fear no man except the man to whom you have given yourself.'"
"Your father's experience was, you know, unhappily not fortunate."
Her face clouded to melancholy. "I don't believe mine would be," she murmured. Then she raised her voice again and smiled. "Neither servant nor master—but friend, Mr. Austin?" And she held out her hand to me.
"I accept most heartily, and I'll try to keep the bargain." I put out my hand to take hers, but, as if on a sudden thought, she drew hers back.
"Wait a moment still. What do you mean by a friend? One who likes me, has my happiness at heart?"
"Yes."
"Gives me the best advice he can, speaking his mind honestly, without fear and in friendship?"
"Yes."
A touch of mockery in her eyes warned me neither to take the questions too seriously nor to make my answers too grave. The mockery crept into her tone with the next interrogation.
"When I don't take his advice and get into a scrape, says, 'I told you so. I'm all right—you get out of your scrape in the best way you can?'"
"Call me no friend when I say that," I answered.
"Ah!" she whispered and gave me the hand which she before had withdrawn. "Now really!" she cried gayly, with a glance at the clock. "You go back to sleep—I have to get ready for a journey. No, don't come with me. I'll run up to the house by myself. Good night, my—friend!"
I opened the door for her, answering, "Good night." But she had one more word for me before she went, turning her face to me, merry with a smile and twinkling eyes—
"I suppose you haven't got a wife anywhere, have you, Mr. Austin?" She ran off, not waiting for an answer.
The appearance of Mr. Powers had not cost me my place: but it had defined my position—to Jenny's complete satisfaction! It had also elicited from her some interesting observations on the value of scrapes—the place they hold in life, and how a man—or woman—may turn them to account. I felt that I knew Jenny better for our quarrel and our talk.
Miss Driver stayed away longer than her words had led me to expect. London and Paris—the names are in themselves explanation enough. The big world was entirely new to Jenny; though she could not yet take—shall I say storm?—her place in society, much instruction, and more amusement, lay open to her grasp even in the days of her obligatory mourning. On the other hand that same period could not but be very tedious to her if passed at Breysgate. In regard to her father's memory she felt a great curiosity and displayed a profound interest; for the man himself she could have had little affection and could entertain no real grief; in fact, though she professed and tried to forgive, she never shook herself quite clear of resentment, even though she, if anybody, ought to have come nearest to understanding his stern resolve. That nobody should ever again come so near to him, or become so much to him, as to be able sorely to wound him—that was how I read his determination. Jenny ought to have been able to arrive at some appreciation of that. I think she did—but she protested in her heart that his daughter should have been the one exception. No good lay in going back to the merits of that question. In the result they had been—strangers: her mourning, then, was a matter of propriety, not the true demand of her feelings. Viewed in this light, London and Paris, surveyed from the decent obscurity of a tourist, offered a happy compromise—and bridged a yawning gulf—between duty and the endurable.
Meanwhile the Great Seal was in Commission; Cartmell, Loft, and I administered the Kingdom—Cartmell Foreign Affairs, Loft the Interior, I the Royal Cabinet. Cartmell's sphere was the largest by far—all the business both of the estate and of the various commercial interests; Loft's territory was merely the house, but his sense of importance magnified the weight of his functions; to me fell such of Miss Driver's work as she did not choose to transact herself. In fact I was kept pretty busy and was in constant communication with her. In reply to my letters I received a few notes—very brief ones—and many telegrams—very decisive ones. As I expected, it was not long before she took the reins into her own hands. In matters of business she always knew her mind—even if she did not always tell it; indecision was reserved for another department. But neither in notes, nor in telegrams did she disclose anything of her doings, except that she was well and enjoying herself.
So time rolled on; we came to the month of June—and to the Flower Show. The great annual festivity of the Catsford Horticultural and Arboricultural Association had always, of recent years, been held in the grounds of Breysgate Priory, and at the Mayor's request (Councillor Bindlecombe was also President of the Association) I had obtained Miss Driver's consent to the continuance of this good custom. In Jenny's absence the Show was to be opened by Lady Sarah Lacey. I have mentioned that no open rupture had taken place between Fillingford and Breysgate—there was only a very chilly feeling. Lady Sarah came, with her brother Lord Fillingford and his son. Sir John and Lady Aspenick from Overington Grange, the Dormers from Hingston, Bertram Ware—our M.P.—from Oxley Lodge, and many others—in fact all one side of the county—graced the occasion, mingled affably with the elect of Catsford, and made themselves distantly agreeable to the non-elect. (This statement does not, for obvious reasons, apply in all its exactitude to the M.P. If the bulk of the male guests were not elect, they were electors.) Everybody was hospitably entertained, but there was a Special Table, where, in years gone by, Mr. Driver himself had welcomed the most distinguished guests. His death and his daughter's absence—I fear I must add, Cartmell's also (he would have taken place of me, I think)—elevated me to this august position. In fact I had to play host, and so came for the first time into social relations with our august neighbors. I was not without alarm.
Lady Sarah questioned me about Jenny with polite but hostile curiosity. Her inquiries contrived to suggest that, with such a father and such a childhood, it would be wonderful if Miss Driver had really turned out as well as Lady Sarah hoped. I was not surprised, and set the attitude down to a natural touch of jealousy: between the two ladies titular precedence and solid power would very likely not coincide. Lord Fillingford talked to the Mayor—who sat between him and me—with a defensively dignified reserve. He was slightly built, and walked rather stiffly; he wore small whiskers, and inclined to baldness. Indisputably a gentleman, he seemed to be afflicted with an unreasonable idea that other people would not remember what he was; a good man, no doubt, and probably a sensible one, but with no gift for popularity. His handsome son easily eclipsed him there. At this time young Lacey was bordering on eighteen; he out-topped his father in stature as in grace. He was a singularly attractive boy with a hearty gayety, a flow of talk, and an engaging conviction that everybody wanted to listen. Childless old Mrs. Dormer was delighted to listen, to feast her eyes on his comeliness, and to pet him to any extent he desired.
As a whole the company was a little stiff, and the joints of conversation rather in want of oiling, until they struck on that most fruitful and sympathetic subject—a common dislike. The victim was our neighbor and tenant at Hatcham Ford, Leonard Octon. I knew him, for he had been something of a friend of old Mr. Driver's, and had been accorded free leave to walk as he pleased in the park; I had understood—and could well understand—that he was not generally liked, but never before had I realized the sum of his enormities. He had, it seemed, offended everybody. Charitable young Lacey did indeed qualify the assertion that he was a "bounder" by the admission that he was afraid of nobody and could shoot. All the other voices spoke utter condemnation. He had got at odds with town, county, and church. His opinions were considered detestable, his manners aggressive. On various occasions of controversy he had pointed out to the Rector of Catsford that the pulpit was not of necessity a well of truth, to the Mayor that a gilt chain round his neck had no effect on the stuff inside a man's head, to Sir John Aspenick that one might understand horses and fail to understand anything else, to a large political meeting that of all laws mob-law was the worst, to Lord Fillingford that the rule of intelligence (to which Octon wished to revert) was no more the rule of country gentlemen than of their gardeners—perhaps not so much—and so on. These outrages were not narrated by the victims of them: they were recalled by sympathetic questions and reminders, each man tickling the other's wound. It could not be denied that they made up a sad catalogue of social crimes.
"The fellow may think what he likes, but he needn't tread on all our toes," Sir John complained.
"A vulgar man!" observed Lady Sarah with an acid finality.
Here, somewhat to my surprise, Fillingford opposed. He was a dry man, but a just one, and not even against an enemy should more than truth be said.
"No, I don't think he's that. His incivility is aggressive, even rough sometimes, but I shouldn't call it vulgar. I don't know what you think, Mr. Mayor, but it seems to me that vulgarity can hardly exist without either affectation in the man himself or cringing to others. Now Octon isn't affected and he never cringes."
Bindlecombe was a sensible man, and himself—if Fillingford's definition stood—not vulgar.
"You know better than I do, Lord Fillingford," he said. "But I should call him a gentleman spoiled—and perhaps that's a bit different."
"Meant for a gentleman, perhaps?" suggested Lady Aspenick, a pretty thin woman of five-and-thirty, who looked studious and wore double glasses, yet was a mighty horsewoman and whip withal.
I liked her suggestion. "Really, I believe that's about it," I made bold to remark. "He is meant for a gentleman, but he's rather perverse about it."
Lady Sarah looked at me with just an involuntary touch of surprise. I do not think that, in the bottom of her heart, she expected me to speak—unless, of course, spoken to.
"I intensely dislike both his manners and his opinions—and what I hear of his character," she observed.
"I mean," Lady Aspenick pursued, "that he's been to so many queer places, and must have seen such queer things——"
"And done 'em, if you ask my opinion," interposed her husband.
"That he may have got—what? Rusty? Well, something like that. I mean—forgotten how to treat people. He seems to put everybody down as an enemy at first sight! Well, I'm irritable myself!"
Bertram Ware joined in for the first time. "At the clubs they say he's really a slave-driver in Central Africa, and comes over here when the scent gets too hot after him."
"Really," said Lady Sarah, "it sounds exceedingly likely. But if he teaches his slaves to copy his manners, they'll get some good floggings."
"That's what the fellow wants himself," growled unappeasable Sir John.
"You take it on, Johnny," counseled young Lacey. "He's only a foot taller and four stone heavier than you are. You take it on! It'd be a very sporting event."
This extract—it is no more—from our conversation will show that it was going on swimmingly. In the pursuit of a common prey we were developing a sense of comradeship which leveled barriers and put us at our ease with one another. No doubt our nascent cordiality would have sprung to fuller life—but it suffered a sudden check.
"Well, how have you all got on without me?" said a voice behind my chair.
I turned round with a start. The man himself stood there, his great height and breadth overshadowing me. His face was bronzed under his thick black hair; his mouth wore a wicked smile as his keen eyes ranged round the embarrassed table. He had heard the last part of Lacey's joking challenge to Aspenick.
"What's Sir John Aspenick got to take on? What's the event?"
The general embarrassment grew no less—but then it had never existed in young Lacey. He raised his fearless fresh blue eyes to the big man.
"To give you a thrashing," he said.
"Ah," said Octon, "I'm too old. I'm not like you." Lacey flushed suddenly. "And perhaps I'm a bit too big—and you're hardly that yet, are you?"
Perhaps he was too big! I noticed again his wonderful hands. They were large beyond reasonable limits of size, but full of muscle—no fat. They were restless too—always moving as if they wanted to be at work; if the work were to strangle a bull, I could imagine their being well pleased. He might need a thrashing—but, sturdy as the sons of Catsford were, there was none in the park that day who could have given him one.
Young Lacey was very red. I was a little uneasy as to what he would say or do; Fillingford saved the situation. He stood up and offered his hand to Octon, saying, "We're always glad to welcome a neighbor safely back. I hope your trip was prosperous?"
It was the right thing wrongly said—at least, inadequately said. It was civil, not cordial. They made a contrast, these men. Fillingford was too negative, Octon too positive. One defended where none attacked, the other attacked where no offense had been given. Unnecessary reserve against uncalled-for aggression! Fillingford was not popular—Octon was hated. Octon did not mind the hatred—did Fillingford feel the lack of liking? His reserve baffled me: I could not tell. With all Octon's faults, friendship with him seemed easier—and more attractive. The path might be rough—but the gate was not locked.
"Sure, Mr. Austin, it's time for the prizes?" said Lady Sarah.
It was not time, but I hastily said that it was, and with some relief escorted her to the platform. The rest followed, after, I suppose, a formal greeting to the unwelcome Prodigal; he himself did not come with us.
When Lady Sarah had distributed the prizes, I made a little speech on my chief's behalf—a speech of welcome to county and to town. Fillingford replied first, his speech was like himself—proper, cold, composed. Then Bindlecombe got up, mopping his forehead—the Mayor was apt to get hot—but making no mean appearance with his British solidity of figure, his shrewd face, and his sturdy respect for the office he exercised by the will of his fellow-citizens.
"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen—as Mayor of Catsford I have just one word to say on behalf of the borough. We thank the generous lady who has welcomed us here to-day. We look forward to welcoming her when she's ready for us. All Catsford men are proud of Nicholas Driver. He did a great deal for us—maybe we did something for him. He wasn't a man of words, but he was proud of the borough as the borough was proud of him. From what I hear, I think we shall be proud of Miss Driver, too—and I hope she'll be proud of the borough as her father was before her. We wish her long life and prosperity."
Bravo, Bindlecombe! But Lady Sarah looked astonishingly sour. There was something almost feudal in the relationship which the Mayor's words suggested. Jenny as Overlord of Catsford would not be to Lady Sarah's liking.
I got rid of them; I beg pardon—they civilly dismissed me. Only young Lacey had for me a word of more than formality. He did me the honor to ask my opinion—as from one gentleman to another.
"I say, do you think Octon had a right to say that?"
"The retort was justifiable—strictly."
"He need hardly——"
"No, he needn't."
"Well, good-by, Mr. Austin. I say—I'd like to come and see you. Are you ever at home in the evenings?"
"Always just now. I should be delighted to see you."
"Evenings at the Manor aren't very lively," he remarked ingenuously. "And I've left school for good, you know."
The last words seemed to refer—distantly—to Leonard Octon. Without returning to that disturbing subject I repeated my invitation and then, comparatively free from my responsibilities, repaired alone to the terrace.
Octon was still there—extended on three chairs, smoking and drinking a whisky and soda. I asked him about his travels—he was just back from the recesses of Africa (if there are, truly, any recesses left)—but gained small satisfaction. His predominant intellectual interest was—insects! He would hunt a beetle from latitude to latitude, and by no means despised the pursuit of a flea. My interest in the study of religion assorted ill with this: when I questioned on my subject, he replied on his. All other incidents of his journeys he passed over, both in talk and in writing (he had written two books eminent in their own line), with a brevity thoroughly Cæsarean. "Having taken the city and killed the citizens"—Cæsar invaded another tribe!—That was the style. Only Octon's tribes were insects, Cæsar's patriots. It was, however, rumored—as Bertram Ware had hinted in a jocose form—that Octon's summaries were, sometimes and in their degree, as eloquent as Cæsar's own.
"Hang my journeys!" he said, as I put one more of my futile questions. "I got six bugs—one indisputably new. But I didn't hurry up here—I only got home this morning—to talk about that. I hurried up here, Austin——"
"To annoy your neighbors—knowing they were assembled here?"
"That was a side-show," he assured me. "Though it was entertaining enough. And, after all, young Lacey began on me! No—I came to bring you news of your liege lady. I've been in Paris, too, Austin."
"And you met her?"
"I met her often—with her cat."
"Miss Chatters?"
"Precisely. And sometimes without her cat. How do you like the change from old Driver?"
"I hold no such position, either in county or borough, as need tempt you—to say nothing of entitling you—to ask impertinent questions, Octon."
He chuckled out a deep rumbling laugh of amusement. "Good!" he said. "Well-turned—almost witty! Austin, I've my own pursuits—but I'm inclined to wish I had your position."
"You're very flattering—but my position is that of an employé—at a salary which would hardly command your services."
"You can be eyes and ears and hands to her. If I had your position, I'd"—one of his great hands rose suddenly into the air—"crunch up this neighborhood. With her resources she could get all the power." His hand fell again, and he removed his body from two of the three chairs, shifting himself with easy indolent strength. "Then you'd have it all in your own control."
"She'd have it in her own control, you must mean," said I.
"Come, you're a man!" he mocked me. But he was looking at me closely, too—and rather inquisitively, I thought.
"Since you've met her often, I thought you might understand better than that." To answer him in his own coin, I infused into my tone a contempt which I hoped would annoy him.
He was not annoyed; he was amused. In the insolence of his strength he mocked at me—at Jenny through me—at me through Jenny. Yet, pervading it all, there was revealed an interest—a curiosity—about her that agreed ill with his assumed contemptuousness.
"She's given you her idea of herself—and you've absorbed it. She thinks she's another Nick Driver—and you're sure of it! It's all flim-flam, Austin."
"Have it your own way," said I meekly. "It's no affair of mine what you choose to think."
"Well, that's a more liberal sentiment than one generally hears in this neighborhood."
He rose and stretched himself, clenching his big fists in the air over his head. "At any rate she's told me I may take my walks about here as usual. I'll drop in and have a pipe with you some day."
Another guest proposed himself! I hoped that the company might always prove harmonious.
"As for Chat," he went on, "I don't want to boast of my conquests—but she's mine."
"My congratulations are untouched by envy."
"You may live to change your mind about that. Anyhow I hold her in my hand."
The truth about him was that, as he loved his strength, so, and no less, he loved the display of it. A common, doubtless not the highest, characteristic of the strong! Display is apt to pass into boast. He was not at all loath to hint to me—to force me to guess—that his encounters in Paris had set him thinking. (If they had set him feeling, he said nothing about that.) Hence—as I reasoned it—he went on, with a trifle more than his usual impudence, "Your goose will be cooked when she marries, though!"
After all, his impudence was good-humored. I retorted in kind. "Perhaps the husband won't let you walk in the park either!"
"If Fillingford were half a man—Lord, what a chance!"
"You gossip as badly as the women themselves. Why not say young Lacey at once?"
"The boy? I'd lay him over my knee—at the first word of it."
"He'd stab you under the fifth rib as you did it."
The big man laughed. "Then my one would be worse than his sound dozen! And what you say isn't at all impossible. He's a fine boy, that! After all, though, he's inherited his courage. The father's no coward, either."
We had become engrossed in our interchange of shots—hostile, friendly, or random. One speaks sometimes just for the repartee, especially when no more than feeling after the interpretation of a man.
Moreover Loft's approach was always noiseless. On Octon's last words, he was by my side.
"I beg pardon, sir, but Miss Driver has telephoned from London to say that she'll be down to-morrow and glad to see you at lunch. And I was to say, sir, would you be so kind as to send word to Mr. Octon that she would be very pleased if he would come, too, if his engagements permitted."
"Oh—yes—very good, Loft. This is Mr. Octon."
"Yes, sir," said Loft. The tone was noncommittal. He knew Octon—but declared no opinion.
I was taken aback, for I had received no word of her coming; I had been led not to expect her for four or five weeks. Octon's eye caught mine.
"Changed her mind and come back sooner? Well, I did just the same myself."
By themselves the words were nothing. In connection with our little duel—backed by the man's broad smile and the forceful assertion of his personality—they amounted to a yet plainer boast—"I've come—and I thought she would." That is too plain for speech—even for Octon's ill-restrained tongue—but not too plain for his bearing. But then I doubted whether his bearing were toward facts or merely toward me—were proof of force or effort after effect.
"Clearly Miss Chatters can't keep away from you!" I said.
"Clearly we're going to have a more amusing time than we'd been hoping," he answered and, with a casual and abrupt "Good-by," turned on his heel, taking out another great cigar as he went.
Perhaps we were—if amusing should prove to be the right word about it. So ran my instinct—with no express reason to be given for it. Why should not Jenny come home? Why should Octon's coming have anything to do with it? In truth I was affected, I was half dominated for the moment, by his confidence and his force. I had taken the impression he wanted to give—just as he accused me of taking the impression that Jenny sought to give. So I told myself consolingly. But I could not help remembering that in those countries which he frequented, where he got his insects and very probably his ideas, men were said as often to win or lose—to live or die—by the impression they imparted to friends, foes, and rivals as by the actual deeds they did. I could not judge how far that was true—but that or something like it was surely what they called prestige? If a man created prestige, you did not even try to oppose him. Nay, you hastened to range yourself on his side—and your real little power went to swell his asserted big power—his power big in assertion but in fact, as against the present foe, still unproved. Had the prestige been brought to bear on Chat—so that she was wholly his? Was it being brandished before my eyes, to gain me also—for what I was worth?
After all, it was flattering of him to think that I mattered. I mattered so very little. If he were minded to impress, if he were ready to fight, his display and his battle must be against another foe—or—if the evidence of that talk at the Flower Show went for anything—against several. If an attack on Breysgate Priory were really in his mind, he would find no ally—outside its walls.
Any account of Jenny Driver's doings is in danger of seeming to progress by jumps and jerks, and thereby of contradicting the truth about its subject. Cartmell, her principal man of business, scoffed at the idea that Jenny was impulsive at all; after six months' experience of her he said that he had never met a cooler, saner, more cautious judgment. That this was true of her in business matters I have no reason to doubt, but (I have noted this distinction already) if the remark is to be extended to her personal affairs it needs qualification—yet without admitting of contradiction. There she was undoubtedly impetuous and impulsive on occasion; a certain course would appeal to her fancy, and she made for it headlong, regardless, or seeming regardless, of its risks. But even here, though the impulses prevailed on her suddenly in the end, they were long in coming to a head, long in achieving mastery, and preceded by protracted periods either of inaction or of action so wary and tentative as not to commit her in any serious degree. She would advance toward the object, then retreat from it, then stand still and look at it, then walk round and regard it from another point of view. Next she was apt to turn her back on it and become, for a time, engrossingly interested in something else; it seemed essential to her ease of mind that there should be an alternative possible and a line of retreat open. All this circumspection and deliberation—or, if you like, this dawdling and shilly-shallying (for opinions of Jenny have differed very widely on this and on other matters)—had to happen before the rapid and imperious impulse came to set a limit to them; even then it is doubtful whether the impulse left her quite unmindful of the line of retreat.
These characteristics of hers were exhibited in her treatment of the question of the Institute. Although this was a public matter, it was (or she made it) closely connected with certain private affairs which inevitably had a profound interest for all of us who surrounded her. My own belief is that a lift of Lady Sarah Lacey's brows started the Institute. When she called—this necessary courtesy was punctually forthcoming from the Manor to the Priory—she heard from Jenny about the proposed Driver Memorial Hall, how it was to look, where it was to be, and so forth. She put a question as to funds; Jenny owned to the ten thousand pounds. All Lady Sarah said was, "Do you feel called upon to do as much as that?" But she also lifted her brows—conveying thereby (as Jenny confidently declared) that Miss Driver was taking an exaggerated view of her father's importance and of her own, and was assuming a position toward the borough of Catsford which properly belonged to her betters (perhaps Lady Sarah was recollecting the Mayor's feudal speech!) At any rate from that day forward Jenny began to hint at bigger things. The Memorial Hall by itself no longer sufficed. She made a great friend of Mr. Bindlecombe, and he often came up to Breysgate. Where his beloved borough was concerned, Bindlecombe was openly and avowedly unscrupulous; he meant to get all he could out of Miss Driver, and made no concealment about it. Jenny delighted in this attitude; it gave her endless opportunities of encouraging and discouraging, of setting up and putting down, the hopes of Bindlecombe. Between them they elaborated the idea—Jenny was great at elaborating it, but careful to insist that it was no more than an idea—of extending the Memorial Hall into a great Institute, which was to include a memorial hall but to comprise much besides. It was to be a Driver Literary, Scientific, and Technical Institute on the handsomest scale. Bindlecombes' patriotic and sanguine mind hardly hesitated to see in it the nucleus of a future University for the City of Catsford. (Catsford was in the future to be promoted to be a "city," though I did not see how Jenny could have anything to do with that!) The notion of this great Driver Institute pleased Jenny immensely. How high it would lift Lady Sarah's eyebrows! It made Cartmell apprehensive about the expense—and she liked to tease him by suggested extravagance. Finally, it would, she declared, provide me with a splendid post—as librarian, or principal, or something—which would give me a worthier scope for my abilities and yet (Jenny looked at me almost tenderly) let me stay in my dear little home—near Breysgate—"and near me, Mr. Austin." She played with the idea—as she played with us. Some gossip about it began to trickle through Catsford. There was much interest, and Jenny became quite a heroine. Meanwhile plans for the poor old Memorial Hall were suspended.
According to Bindlecombe the only possible site for the visible realization of this splendid idea—the only site which the congested condition of the center of the borough allowed, and also the only one worthy of the great Institute—was the garden and grounds of Hatcham Ford. The beautiful old house itself was to be preserved as the center of an imposing group of handsome buildings; the old gardens need not be materially spoiled—so Bindlecombe unplausibly maintained. The flavor of antiquity and aristocracy thus imparted to the Institute would, Bindlecombe declared, give it a charm and a dignity beyond those possessed by any other Institute the world over. I was there when he first made this suggestion to Jenny. She looked at him in silence, smiled, and glanced quickly at me. The look, though quick, was audacious—under the circumstances.
"But what will Mr. Octon say to that?"
Bindlecombe deferentially hinted that he understood that Mr. Octon's lease of Hatcham Ford expired, or could be broken, in two or three years. He understood—perhaps he was wrong—that Mr. Driver usually reserved a power to break leases at the end of seven years? Mr. Cartmell would, of course, know all about that.
"Oh, if that's so," said Jenny, "of course it would be quite simple. Wouldn't it, Mr. Austin?"
"As simple as drawing a badger," I replied—and Bindlecombe looked surprised to hear such a sporting simile pass my lips. It was by no means a bad one, though, and Jenny rewarded it with a merry little nod.
At this point, then, her public project touched her private relations—and her relations with Octon had been close ever since her return from Paris. He had been a constant visitor at Breysgate, and my belief was that within a very few weeks of her arrival he had made a direct attack—had confronted her with a downright proposal—demand is a word which suits his method better—for her hand. I did not think that she had refused, I was sure that she had not accepted. She was fond of referring, in his presence, to the recent date of her father's death, to her own immersion in business, to the "strangeness" of her new life and the necessity of "finding her feet" before doing much. These references—rather pathetic and almost apologetic—Octon would receive with a frown of impatience—sometimes even of incredulity; but he did not make them an occasion of quarrel. He continued to come constantly to the Priory—certainly three or four times a week. There is no doubt that he was, in his way, very much in love with Jenny. It was an overbearing sort of way—but it had two great merits: it was resolute and it was disinterested. He was quite clear that he wanted her; it was quite clear that he did not care about her money, though he might envy her power. And if he tried to dominate her, he had to submit to constant proofs of her domination also. She could, and did, make him furiously angry; he was often undisguisedly impatient of her coynesses and her hesitations: but he could not leave her nor the hopes he had of her. And she, on her side, could not—at least did not—send him away. For that matter she never liked sending anybody away—not even Powers; it seemed to make her kingdom less by one—a change in quite the wrong direction. Octon would have been a great loss, for he had, without doubt, a strong, and an increasingly strong, attraction for her. She liked at least to play at being subjugated by his masculine force; she did, in fact, to a great extent approve and admire his semi-barbaric way (for her often mitigated by a humor which he kept for the people he liked) of speaking of and dealing with women. Down in her heart she thought that attitude rather the right thing in a man, and liked to think of it as a power before which she might yield. At the theater she was always delighted when the rebellious maiden or the charming spitfire of a wife, at last, in the third act, hailed the hero as her "master." So far she was primitive amidst all her subtlety. But to Jenny's mind it was by no means the third act yet; even the plot of the play was not laid out so far ahead as that. If this masterful, quick, assertive way of wooing were proper to man, woman had her weapons; she had her natural weapons, she had the weapons a civilized state of society gave her, and she had those which casual chance might add to her arsenal. Under the last of these three categories fell the project of the Driver Institute, to be established at Mr. Octon's present residence, Hatcham Ford.
It was a great chance for Jenny. Institutes as such, and all similar works, Octon hated—why educate people who ought to be driven? The insolence not of rank but of intellect spoke in him with a strong voice. Bindlecombe he hated, and it was mainly Bindlecombe's idea. Catsford he hated, because it was gradually but surely spreading to the gates of his beautiful old house. Deeper than this, he hated being under anybody's power; it was bitter to him that, when his mind was to stay, anybody—whether Jenny or another—should be able to tell him to go. Finally, his special position toward Jenny made the mere raising of the question of his future residence a rare chance for her—a chance of teasing and vexing, of coaxing and soothing, or of artful pretense that there was no underlying question at all.
She told him about the project—it was nothing more, she was careful to remark—after dinner one evening, in her most artless manner.
"It's a perfect idea—only I hope you wouldn't mind turning out?"
He had listened sullenly, pulling hard at his cigar. Chat was watching him with alarmed eyes; he had cast his spell on Chat, that was certain; there his boast did not go beyond truth.
"Being turned out, you mean, I imagine! I'd never willingly turn out to make room for any such nonsense. Of all the humbugs——"
"It's my duty to do something for the town," she urged—very grave.
"Let them do their work by day and drink their beer by night. Fancy those fellows in my house!"
"I'm sorry you feel like that. I thought you'd be interested—and—and I'd try to find you a house somewhere else. There must be some other houses, Mr. Austin?"
"One or two round about, I fancy," said I.
"Nice little ones—to suit a single man?" she asked, her bright eyes now seeking, now eluding, a meeting with his.
"I suppose I can choose the size of my house for myself," Octon growled. "I don't want Austin's advice about it."
"Oh, it wasn't poor Mr. Austin who—who spoke about the size of the house." A sudden thought seemed to strike her. "You might stay on and be something in the Institute!"
"I'd burn the house over my head sooner."
"Burn my pretty house! Oh, Mr. Octon! I should be so hurt—and you'd be sent to prison! What a lot of police it would need to take you there!"
The last sentence mollified him—and it was clever of her to know that it would. He had his primitive side, too. He was primitive enough to love a compliment to his muscles.
"I'd be out of the country before they came—with you under my arm," he said, with a laugh.
"That would be very forgiving—but hardly proper, would it, Chat? Unless we were—Oh, but what nonsense! Why don't you like my poor Institute?"
He relapsed into ill-humor, and it developed into downright rudeness.
"It's nothing to me how people make fools of themselves," he said.
Jenny did not always resent his rudeness. But she never compromised her right to resent it. She exercised the right now, rising with instantaneous dignity. "It's time for us to go, Chat. Mr. Austin, will you kindly look after Mr. Octon's comfort for the rest of the evening?" She swept out, Chat pattering after her in a hen-like flutter. Octon drank off his glass of wine with a muttered oath. Excellent as the port was, it seemed to do him no good. He leaned over to me—perfectly sober, be it understood (I never saw him affected by liquor), but desperately savage. "I won't stand that," he said. "If she sticks to that, I'll never come back to this house when I've walked out of it to-night."
I was learning how to deal with his tempests. "I shall hope to have the pleasure of encountering you elsewhere," I observed politely. "Meanwhile I have my orders. Pray help yourself to port."
He did that, but at the same moment hurled at me the order—"Take her that message."
"There's pen and ink behind you, Octon."
Temper is a terrible master—and needs looking after even as a servant. He jumped up, wrote something—what I could only guess—and rang the bell violently. I could imagine Jenny's smile—I did not ring like that.
"Take that to your mistress," he commanded. "It's the address she wanted." But he had carefully closed the envelope, and probably Loft had his private opinion.
We sat in silence till the answer came. "Miss Driver says she is much obliged, sir, for the address," said Loft as, with a wave of his hand, he introduced a footman with coffee, "and she needn't trouble you any more in the matter—as you have another engagement to-night."
Under Loft's eyes he had pulled himself together; he received the message with an appearance of indifference which quite supported the idea that it related to some trifle and that he really had to go away early; I had not given him credit for such a power of suddenly regaining self-control. He nodded, and said lightly to me, "Well, since Miss Driver is so kind, I'll be off in another ten minutes." The presence of servants must, in the long run, create a great deal of good manners.
When Loft was out of the room Octon dropped his disguise. He brought his big hand down on the table with a slap, saying, "There's an end of it!"
"Why shouldn't she build an Institute? If you take a lease for only seven years, how are you aggrieved by getting notice to quit at the end of the term?"
"Don't argue round the fringe of things. Don't be a humbug," he admonished me, scornfully enough, yet for once, as I fancied, with a touch of gentleness and liking. "You've damned sharp eyes, and I've something else to do than take the trouble to blind them."
"No extraordinary acuteness of vision is necessary," I ventured to remark.
He rose from his chair with a heavy sigh, leaving his coffee and brandy untouched. I felt inclined to tell him that in all likelihood he was taking the matter too seriously: he was assuming finality—a difficult thing to assume when Jenny was in the case. He came to me and laid his hand on my shoulder. "They manage 'em better in Africa," he said with a sardonic grin. "Of course I'd no business to say that to her—but hadn't she been trying to draw me all the time? She does it—then she makes a shindy!"
"I'll see you a bit on your way," I said. He accepted my offer by slipping his hand under my arm. I opened the door for us to pass out. There stood Chat on the threshold. Octon regarded her with an ill-subdued impatience. Chat was fluttering still.
"Oh, Mr. Octon, she's—she's so angry! Might I—oh, might I take a message to her room? She's gone upstairs and forbidden me to follow."
"Thank you, but there's no message to take."
"If you would just say something——!"
"There's no message to take." Again his tone was not rough—it was moody, almost absent: but, as he left Chat behind in her useless agitation, he leaned on my arm very heavily. Though I counted his whole great body as for me less than her little finger, yet a subtle male freemasonry stirred in me. He had behaved very badly—for a man should bear a pretty woman's pin-pricks—yet he was hard hit; all against him as I was, I knew that he was hard hit. Moreover, he had summed up Jenny's procedure pretty accurately.
We put on our coats—it was now September—undid the big door, and went out, down the steps, into a clear frosty night. We had walked many yards along the drive before he spoke. At last he said, very quietly—
"You're a good chap, Austin, and I'm sorry I've made a row to-night. Yes, I'm sorry for that. But whether I'm sorry I've been kicked out or not—well, that's a difficult question. My temper—well, sometimes I'm a bit afraid of it."
"Oh, that's nothing. You've both got tempers. You'll make it up."
He spoke with a calm deliberation unusual with him. "I don't think I'd better," he said. "I don't quite trust myself: I might do something—queer."
In my opinion that possibility about him attracted Jenny; but it needed no artificial fostering, and I held my peace.
There were electric lights at intervals down the drive: at this moment I could see his face plainly. I thoroughly agreed with what he said and understood his judgment of himself. But it was hard to see him look like that about it. Suddenly—as I still looked—his expression changed. A look of apprehension came over him—but he smiled also, and gripped my arm tightly. A figure walked out of the darkness into the light of the lamp.
I recalled how I had found her sitting by my hearth one night—in time to make me recall my resignation. Was she here to make Octon unsay his determination?
She came up to us smiling—with no air of surprise, real or affected, and with no explanation of her own presence.
"Both of you! What luck! I didn't think you'd come away from the house yet."
"I've come away from the house, Miss Driver," said Octon—rather grimly.
"In fact you've—'walked out of the house'—?" asked Jenny, smiling. The dullest ears could not miss the fact that she was quoting.
"Yes," answered Octon briefly, leaving the next move with her. She had no hesitation over it.
"Let not the sun go down upon your wrath!" she cried gayly. "The sun is down, but the moon will be up soon, and if you won't quarrel any more I'll keep you company for a little bit of the way." She turned to me, "Do you mind waiting at the house a quarter of an hour? I've had a letter from Mr. Cartmell that I want to consult you about."
Octon had not replied to her invitation and did not now. As I said, "All right—I'll smoke a pipe outside and wait for you," she beckoned lightly and merrily to him. After an almost imperceptible pause he moved slowly after her. Gradually their figures receded from the area of lamplight and grew dim in the darkness. The moon peeped over the hill but gave no light yet by which they could be seen.
I had never believed in the permanence of that quarrel. Though it was a strong instance, yet it was hardly more than a typical instance of their quarrels—of the constant clashing of his way against hers—of the play between her rapier and his club. If their intimacy went on, they might have worse quarrels that. For me the significance of the evening lay not in another proof that Jenny, while saving her pride and scoring her formal victory, would still not let him go—and perhaps would go far to keep him; that was an old story, or, at least, a bit of discernment of her now months old; rather it lay in Octon's account of his own disposition toward her proceedings—in his puzzle whether he were glad or sorry to be "kicked out"—in that fear of himself and of his self-restraint which made him relieved to go, even while his face was wrung with the pain of going. In view of that, I felt that I also should have been relieved if he had really gone—gone not to return—not to submit himself again to the variety of Jenny's ways—to the quick flashing alternation of her weapons, natural, conventional, casual, or whatsoever they might be. He was right about himself—he was not the man for that treatment. He could not appreciate the artistic excellence of it; he felt, even if he deserved, its cruelty. Moreover, it might prove dangerous. What if he beat down the natural weapons—and ignored the rest? One thing at least was clear; he would not again tell me—or even pretend to me—that her power was "all flim-flam."
She came back in half an hour, at a leisurely pace, looking much pleased with herself.
I was smoking on the steps by the hall door.
"That's all right," she assured me with a cheerful smile. "We're quite friends, and he's not going to be such a bear any more—if he can help it, which, Mr. Austin, I doubt."
"How did you manage it?" I asked—not that there was much real need of inquiry.
"Of course I told him that the Institute was nothing but an idea, and that, even if it were built, its being at Hatcham Ford was the merest idea, and that, even if it had to be at Hatcham Ford—well, I pointed out that two years are two years—(You needn't take the trouble to nod about that—it was quite a sensible remark)—that two years are two years and that very likely he wouldn't want the house at all by then."
"I see."
"So, of course, he apologized for his rudeness and promised not to be so foolish again, and we said good night quite friends. What have you been thinking about?"
"I don't think I could possibly tell you."
I was just opening the door for her. She paused on the threshold, lifting her brows a little and smiling as she whispered, "Something uncomplimentary?"
"That depends what you want to be complimented on," I answered.
"Oh, as long as it's on anything!" she cried. "You'll admit my compliments to-night have been terribly left-handed?"
"I don't know that mine hasn't a touch of that. Well—I think it's very brave to play games in the crater of an active volcano—exceedingly brave it is!"
"Brave? But not very——?"
"Let's leave it where it is. What about Cartmell's letter?"
"That'll do to-morrow." (Of course it would—it had been only an instrument of dismissal.) "I'm tired to-night." Her face grew grave: she experienced another mood—or touched another note. "My friend, you must believe that I always listen to what you say. I mayn't see things just as you seem to, sometimes, but what you say always makes me think. By the bye, are you very busy, or could you ride to-morrow?"
"Of course!" I cried eagerly. "Seven-thirty, as usual?"
"A quarter to eight sharp. Good night." She gave me a contented friendly smile, with just a hint of triumph about it, and went upstairs.
It shows what a good thing life is that I, too, in spite of my questionings and apprehension, repaired home forgetful of them for the time and full of exultation. I loved riding; and Jenny on horseback was a companion for a god.
On reflection it might have occurred to me that it was easier for her to invite me to ride than to listen too exactly to my counsels—quite as easy and really as well calculated to keep me content. Happily the youth in me found in her more than the subject of fears or the source of questionings. She could also delight.
On her morning rides Jenny wore a habit of russet brown and a broad-brimmed hat to match; her beautiful mare was a golden chestnut; the motive and the crown of all the scheme showed in her brilliant hazel eyes. On this fine morning—there was a touch of autumn frost, slowly yielding before the growing strength of the sun, but the ground was springy under us—Jenny bore a holiday air; no cares and no schemes beset her. To my poor ability I shared and seconded her mood, though my black coat and drab breeches were a sad failure in the matter of outward expression. She made straight for the north gate of the Priory park; we passed through it, crossed the road, and entered, by a farm-gate, on to Fillingford territory. "I almost always come here," she told me. "There's such a splendid gallop. Now and then I meet Lord Lacey, and we have a race."
Not being an habitual party to these excursions—it was my usual lot to lie in wait for the early post and reduce the letters to order for our after-breakfast session—I had seen and heard nothing of her encounters with young Lacey. I conceived that the two houses were still on the terms of distant civility to which Lady Sarah's passive resistance had endeavored to confine them. A formal call from each lady on the other—a no less formal visit to Jenny from Lord Fillingford (who left his son's card also)—there it had seemed to stop, the Mayor of Catsford and the Memorial Hall perhaps in some degree contributing to that result. Fine mornings a-horseback and youthful blood had, however, sapped Lady Sarah's defenses. I was glad—and I envied Lacey. He had much to be thankful for. True, they talked of sad financial troubles at Fillingford Manor, but you may hear many a fine gentleman rail at the pinch of poverty, as he pours, in no ungenerous measure, his own champagne down his throat at half-a-crown a glass. Perhaps at Fillingford that luxury did not rule every day; but at any rate Lacey had a good horse to ride—to say nothing of pleasant company.
Well, all he had he deserved, if only because he looked what he was so splendidly. If Providence, or nature, or society makes a scheme of things, it is surely a merit in us poor units to fit into it? Let others attack or defend the country gentleman. Anyhow, if you are one, look it! And for such an one as does look it I have a heartfelt admiration, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot—with a special affection for his legs in perfect boots and breeches. Young Lacey was such a consummate type; I did not wonder that Jenny's ever liberal appreciation smiled beams of approval as he appeared over the crest of a rising hillock and rode on to meet us. Excellent, too, were the lad's manners; he appeared really glad to see me—which in the nature of the case he hardly can have been in his heart.
"I'm going to win this morning!" he cried to Jenny. "I feel like winning to-day!"
"Why to-day? You don't win very often."
"That's true," he said to me. "Miss Driver's won two to my one, regular. At sixpence a race I owe her three shillings already."
I had a feeling that Jenny glanced at me, but I did not look at Jenny. I did not even do the sum, though it was easy arithmetic.
"But to-day—well, in the first place I've got my commission—and in the second Aunt Sarah's gone to London for a week."
"I congratulate you on the commission."
"And you're loftily indifferent about Aunt Sarah?" he asked, laughing. "I say, though, come along! Are you a starter, Mr. Austin?"
I declined the invitation, but I managed to keep them well in sight—and my deliberate opinion is that Jenny pulled. She could have won, I swear it, if she had liked; as it was, she was beaten by a length. The lad was ingenuously triumphant. "Science is beginning to tell," he declared. "You won't hold your lead long!"
"Sometimes it's considered polite to let a lady win," Jenny suggested.
"Oh, come! If she challenges she must take her chance in fair fight."
"Then what chance have we poor women?" asked deceptive Jenny—who could have won the race.
"You beat us in some things, I admit. Brains, very often, and, of course, charm and all that sort of thing." He paused a moment, blushed a little, and added, "And—er—of course—out of sight in moral qualities."
I liked his "moral qualities." It hinted that reverence was alive in him. I am not sure it did not indicate that the reverence due to woman in the abstract was supremely due to the woman by his side.
"Out of sight in moral qualities?" she repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose even a woman may hope that that's true. Don't you think so, Mr. Austin?"
"It has always been conceded in civilized communities," I agreed.
"What I hate about that fellow Octon—Oh, I beg pardon—isn't he a friend of yours?"
"I know him pretty well. He's rather interesting."
"I hate the fellow's tone about—about that sort of thing. Cheap, I call it. But I don't suppose he does it to you; you wouldn't stand it."
"I'm very patient with my friends," said Jenny.
"Friends! You and that—! Oh, well, let's have another gallop."
The gallop brought us in full view of Fillingford Manor; it lay over against us in the valley, broad expanses of meadow and of lawn leading up to a formal garden, beyond which rose the long low red-brick façade half covered with ivy, and a multitude of twisting chimneys.
"Jolly old place, isn't it?" cried Lacey. "I say, wouldn't you like to see over it? I don't expect Aunt Sarah showed you much!"
"I should like to see over it very much, if your father would ask me."
"Oh, he will—he'll be delighted. I say, come this week—while we're by ourselves?"
"Yes, if he invites me."
"He'll invite you. He likes you very much—only he's not exactly expansive, you know, the governor!"
"Never mind, you are. Now Mr. Austin and I must go back to breakfast and to work."
"By Jove, I must be getting back, too, or I shall keep the governor waiting, and he doesn't like that."
"If you do, tell him it's my fault."
The boy looked at her, then at me, again blushed a little, and laughed. The slightest flush appeared on Jenny's smiling face. I took the opportunity to light a cigarette. The morning races had not been talked about at Fillingford!
"Well no—you mustn't put it on the woman, must you?" said Jenny, as she waved a laughing farewell.
On our way home she was silent and thoughtful, speaking only now and then and answering one or two remarks of mine rather absently. One observation threw some light on her thoughts.
"It's very awkward that Mr. Octon should make himself so unpopular. I want to be friends with everybody, but—" She broke off. I did no more than give a nod of assent. But I knew—and thought she must—how Octon stood. He was considered to have made himself impossible. He was not asked to Fillingford; Aspenick had bluntly declared that he would not meet him on account of a rude speech of Octon's, leveled at Lady Aspenick; Bertram Ware and he were at daggers drawn over some semipolitical semiprivate squabble in which Octon's language had been of more than its usual violence. The town loved him no better than the county. Jenny wanted to be popular everywhere—popular, influential, acclaimed. She was weighted by this unpopular friendship—which yet had such attraction for her. The cares of state had fastened on her again as we jogged homeward.
Well, they were the joy of her life—it would have needed a dull man not soon to see that. The real joy, I mean—not what at that moment—nay, nor perhaps at any moment—she would herself have named as her delight. Her joy in the sense in which we creatures—and the wisest among us long ago—come nearest to being able to understand and define the innermost engine or instinct whose working is most truly ourselves—the temptation to live and life itself which pair nature has so cunningly coupled together. Effective activity—the reaching out to make of external things and people (especially, perhaps, things and people that obstinately resist) part of our own domain—their currency coinage of ours, with the stamp of our mint, bearing our superscription—causing the writ of our issuing to run where it did not run before—is not this, however ill-expressed (and bigger men than I have failed, and will fail, fully to express it), something like what the human spirit attempts? Or is there, too, a true gospel of drawing in—of renouncing? In the essential, mind you!—It is easy in trifles, in indulgences and luxuries. But to surrender the exercise and expansion of self?
If that be right, if that be true—at any rate it was not Jenny Driver. She was a strong, natural-born swimmer, cast now for the first time into open sea—after the duck ponds of her Smalls and her Simpsons. It was not the smooth waters which tested, tried, or in innermost truth delighted her most.
All this in a very tiny corner? Of course. Will you find me anywhere that is not a corner, please? Alexander worked in one, and Cæsar. "What does it matter then what I do?" "No more," I must answer, being no philosopher and therefore unprepared with a theory, "than it matters whether or not you are squashed under yonder train. But if you think—on your own account—that the one matters, why, for all we can say, perhaps the other does."
That duck pond of the Simpsons'! By apparent chance—it may be, in fact, by some unusual receptivity in my own bearing—that very day Chat talked to me about it. I had grown friendlier toward Chat, having perceived that the cunning in her—(it was there, and refuted Cartmell's charge of mere foolishness)—ran to no more than a decent selfishness, informed by years of study of Jenny, deflected by a spinsterish admiration of Octon's claim to unquestioned male dominion. Her reason said—"We are very well as we are. I am comfortable. I am 'putting by.' Jenny's marriage might make things worse." The spinster added, "But this must end some day. Let it end—when it must—in an irresistible (perhaps to Chat's imagination a rather lurid) conquest." Paradoxically her instinct (for if anything be an instinct, selfishness is) squared with what I had deciphered of Jenny's strategy—in immediate action at least. Chat would not have Octon shown the door; neither would she set him at the head of the table—just yet. Being comfortable, she abhorred all chance of convulsions—as Jenny, being powerful, resented all threat of dominion. But if the convulsion must come—as it must some day—Chat wanted it dramatic—matter for gossip and for flutters! To her taste Octon fulfilled that æsthetic requirement.
Naturally Chat saw Jenny at the Simpsons' from her own point of view—through herself—and by that avenue approached the topic.
"Of course things are very much changed for the better in most ways, Mr. Austin—if they'll only last. The comforts!—And, of course, the salary! Well, it's not the thing to talk about that. Still I daresay you yourself sometimes think—? Yes, of course, one must consider it. But there were features of the rectory life which I confess I miss. We had always a very cheerful tea, and supper, too, was sociable. In fact one never wanted for a chat. Here I'm thrown very much on my own resources. Jenny is out or busy, and Mrs. Bennet—the housekeeper, you know—is reserved and, of course, not at her ease with me. And then there was the authority!" (Was Chat also among the Cæsars?) "Poor Chat had a great deal of authority at the rectory, Mr. Austin—yes—she had! Mrs. Simpson an invalid—the rector busy or not caring to meddle—the girls were left entirely to me. My word was law." She shook her head regretfully over the change in her position.
"We all like that, Miss Chatters, when we can get it!"
"Jenny, of course, was different—and that made it difficult sometimes. Besides being the eldest, she was very well paid for and, although not pampered and, I must say, considering all things as I now know them, very ill-supplied with pocket money, there were orders that she should ride every day. Two horses and the hostler from the Bull every day—except Sundays! It couldn't but make a difference, especially with a girl of Jenny's disposition—not altogether an easy one, Mr. Austin. It had to be give-and-take between us. If she obeyed me, there were many little things I could do—having, as I say, the authority. If she would do her lessons well—and her example had great influence on the others—I didn't trouble to see what books she had in her bedroom (with the other girls I did), nor even ask questions if she stayed out a little late for supper. Of course we had to be very much on our guard; it didn't do to make the Simpson girls jealous."
"You had a little secret understanding between yourselves?"
"Never, Mr. Austin! I wouldn't have done such a thing with any of my pupils. It would be subversive of discipline."
"Of course it would; I beg your pardon." (Here a little "homage to virtue" on both our parts!)
"She knew how far she could go; she knew when I must say 'Stop!' She never put me to it—though I must say she went very near the line sometimes. She came to us very raw, too, with really no idea of what was ladylike. What those Smalls can have been like! You see what she is now. I don't think I did so badly."
I saw what she was now—or some of it. And I seemed to see it all growing up in that country rectory—the raw girl from the Smalls (those deplorable Smalls!) at Cheltenham, learning her youthful lessons in diplomacy—how far one can go, where one must stop, how keen a bargain can be struck with Authority. Chat had been Authority then. There was another now. Yet where the difference in principle?
"I can't have managed so very badly, because they were all broken-hearted to lose me—I often think how they can be getting on!—and here I am with Jenny! Well, poor Chat would have had to go soon, anyhow. They were all growing up. That time comes. It must be so in my profession, Mr. Austin. Indispensable to-day, to-morrow you're not wanted!"
"That sounds sad. You must be glad, in the end, that you didn't stay?"
"It'll be the same here some day. For all you or I know, it might be to-morrow. The only thing is to suit as long as we can, and to put by a little."
I vowed—within my breast—that henceforth Chat's little foibles—or defenses?—her time-serving, her cowardice, her flutters, her judgment of Jenny's concerns from a point of view not primarily Jenny's, her encroachments on the port and other stolen (probably transient!) luxuries—all these should meet with gentle and sympathetic appraisement. She was only trying to "suit"—and meanwhile to put by a little. But I was not sure what she had done, or helped to do, to Jenny, nor that her ex-pupil's best course would not lie in presenting her with hercongéand a substantial annuity.
An invitation came from Fillingford in which Chat and I were courteously included. Jenny, however, found work for poor Chat at home (alas, for the days of Authority!) and made me drive her over in the dog-cart. As we drove in at the gates, she asked suddenly, "How am I to behave?"
"Don't look at anything as if you wanted to buy it," was the best impromptu advice I could hit on.
"I might do it tactfully! Don't you remember what my father said?—'You may succeed in your way better than I in mine.'"
"I remember. And you think he referred to tact?"
Jenny took so long to answer that there was no time to answer at all; we were at the door, and young Lacey was waiting.
The house was beautiful and stately; I think that Jenny was surprised to find that it was also in decent repair. There was nothing ragged, nothing poverty-stricken; a grave and moderate handsomeness marked all the equipment. The fall in fortune was rather to be inferred from what was absent than rudely shown in the present condition of affairs. Thus the dining-room was called the Vandyke Room—but there were no Vandykes; a charming little boudoir was called the Madonna Parlor—but the Madonna had taken flight, probably a long flight across the Atlantic. In giving us the names Lord Fillingford made no reference to their being no longer applicable—he seemed to use them in mechanical habit, forgetful of their significance—and Jenny, mindful perhaps of the spirit of my warning, refrained from questions. But for what was to be seen she had a generous and genuine enthusiasm; the sedate beauty and serenely grand air of the old place went to her heart.
But one picture did hang in the Madonna Parlor—a half-length of a beautiful high-bred girl with large dark eyes and a figure slight almost to emaciation. Lacey and I, who were behind, entered the room just as the other two came to a stand before it. I saw Jenny's face turn toward Fillingford in inquiry.
"My wife," he said. "She died thirteen years ago—when Amyas was only five." His voice was dry, but he looked steadily at the picture with a noticeable intentness of gaze.
"This was mother's own room, Miss Driver," Lacey interposed.
"Yes. How—how it must have suited her!" said Jenny in a low voice.
Fillingford turned his head sharply round and looked at her; with a slight smile he nodded his head. "She was very fond of this room. She had it furnished in blue—instead of yellow." Then he moved quickly to the door. "There's nothing else you'd care to see here, I think."
After lunch Lacey carried Jenny off to the garden—his father seemed to think that he had done enough as host and to acquiesce readily in the devolution of his duties—and I sat awhile with Fillingford, smoking cigarettes—well, he only smoked one. It seemed to me that the man was like his house; just as the state of its fortune was not rudely declared in anything unbecoming or shabby, but had to be gathered from the gaps where beauties once had figured, so the essence of him, and the road to understanding him, lay in his reserves, his silences, his defensiveness. What he refrained from doing, being, or saying, was the most significant thing about him. His manners were irreproachable, his courtesy cast in a finer mold than that of an ordinary gentleman, yet he did not achieve real cordiality and remained at a very long arm's length from intimacy. His highest degree of approval seemed to consist in an absence of disapprobation; yet, feeling that this negative reward of merit was hard to win, the recipient took the unsubstantial guerdon with some gratification. My own hope was to escape from his presence without having caused him to think that I had done anything offensive; if he had nothing against me, I should be content. I wondered whether he were satisfied to have the like measure meted out to him. His son had said he was "not expansive": that was like denying silkiness to a porcupine. Yet there was that about him which commanded respect—at least a respect appropriately negative; you felt certain that he would do nothing sordid and touch nothing unclean; he would always be true to the code of his class and generation.
We heard laughter from Jenny and Lacey echoing down the long passages as they returned from the garden; from the noise their feet made they seemed to be racing again. The sounds interrupted a rather perfunctory conversation about Nicholas Driver and the growth of Catsford. Rather to my surprise—I must confess—his face lit up with a smile—a smile of pensive sweetness.
"That sounds cheerful," he said. "More like old days!" Then he looked at me apprehensively, as though afraid that he had proffered an uninvited confidence. He went on almost apologetically. "It's very quiet here. My health doesn't fit me for public life, or even for much work in the county. We do our duty, I hope, but we tend rather to fall out of the swim. It wasn't so in my wife's time. Well, Amyas will bring all that back again some day, I hope."
"I'm glad to hear that he's got his commission," said I.
"Yes, he must go and do some work, while I hold the fort for him at home. Landed property needs a great deal of attention nowadays, Mr. Austin." Again he smiled, but now wearily, as though his stewardship were a heavy burden.
The laughing pair burst into the room. Amyas was flushed, Jenny seemed out of breath; they had a great joke to tell.
"We've found a picture of Miss Driver in the West Gallery," cried Amyas. "Really it must be her—it's exactly like!"
"Fancy my picture being in your house all this time, Lord Fillingford—and you never told me!"
Fillingford was looking intently at Jenny now. He raised his brows a little and smiled, as the result of his survey.
"Yes—I'm afraid I know which picture Amyas means, though I don't often go to the West Gallery. The one on the right of the north door, Amyas?"
"Yes—in a wonderful gown all over pearls, you know."
"Who is she—besides me?" asked Jenny. "Because I believe she has a look of me really."