Jenny had failed with Powers; that seemed to be the state of the case—or, at least, her success was so precarious as to put her whole position in extreme peril. Neither storm nor sunshine, neither wrath nor cajolery, had won him securely. Behind each he could discern its true object—to gain time, to tide over. When Jenny had finished her equivocal proceedings, when she had settled down either to Fillingford or to Octon—Octon's success must still have seemed a possibility to the accomplice of their meetings—what would she do with her equally equivocal partner? Reward him? Yes, if she had trusted him. He knew very well that she trusted him no longer; her threats and her wheedling combined to prove it. Presumably Mr. Powers was acquainted with the parable of The Unjust Steward; he, too, was a child of this world—indeed his earthly parentage was witnessed to beyond the common by his moral features. What should he do when he was no longer steward, when Jenny was safely wedded to Fillingford, or had thrown off, of her own motive or on compulsion, all secrecy about Octon? Lady Sarah should receive—or at least introduce—him into a comfortable habitation and put money in his pocket to pay its rent. Jenny had overrated her domination; and she had forgotten that rogues are apt not to know when they are well off. Even when their own pockets are snugly lined, a pocket unpicked is a challenge and a temptation.
Lady Sarah's conduct is sufficiently accounted for by most praiseworthy motives—moral principle, family pride, loyalty to her brother. Let, then, no others be imputed. But if Jenny would not credit these to her, well, there were others of which she might have thought. She had chosen not to think of Lady Sarah at all—in connection with Powers at all events. The very omission might stand as a compliment to Lady Sarah, but Jenny was not the person who could afford to pay it; her own safety and honor still rested in those unclean hands.
The last days—the week of Jenny's hard-won respite—passed for us at Breysgate like the interval between the firing of a fuse and the explosion. How would it go? Clear away obstacles and open the adit to profitable working? Or blow all the mine to ruins, and engulf the engineer in thedébris? Nerves were on trial and severely tried. Chat was in flutters beyond description. I do not suppose that I myself was a cheerful companion. Jenny was steel, but the steel was red-hot.
At last—the last day! Jenny's week of respite drew to its end. Be sure I had counted! But if I had not, Octon himself came, most welcomely, to announce it. With a mighty relief I heard him say, as he threw himself into my arm-chair at the Old Priory, "I've just dropped in to say good-by, Austin. I'm off to-morrow."
"Off? Where to?" I had sooner have asked "For how long?" His reply answered both questions.
"Right out of this hole—for good." He smiled. "So, for once, I chanced meeting Lady Aspenick again in the park." He took up the poker and began to dig and prod my coals: all through our talk he held the poker, now digging and prodding, now using it to emphasize his words with a point or a wave. "I'm done with here, Austin. I've played a game that I never thought I should play again—and I've come to feel as if I'd never played it before. I've played it with all the odds against me, and I've made a good fight."
"Yes, too good," I said.
"Aye, aye! But I've lost. So I'm off." He lay back in the big chair—the same one in which Lacey had stretched his graceful, lithe young body—and looked up at me where I stood on the rug. "There's not much more to say, is there? I thought I'd say that much to you because you're a good fellow."
"And you're not," I retorted angrily—(Remember our nerves!) "Have you no care for what you love?"
"Am I so much the worse man of the two?" he asked.
"What's that got to do with it? Well, thank God you're going to-morrow!"
"Everybody always thanks God when I go, and I generally thank Him myself—but not to-day, perhaps." His next prod at the coals in the grate was a vicious one. "I suppose that some day there'll be a general feeling that I must be wiped out—an instinctive revolt against my existence, Austin. This neighborhood has felt the thing already. Some day it will be felt where stronger measures than cutting are in fashion. Then I shall be killed. Perhaps I shall kill, too, but they'll get me in the end, depend upon it!" Suddenly he smiled in a tender reflective way. "That was what poor little Madge was always so afraid of. Well, I had a good deal to try my temper while she was with me." He looked up at me, smiling now in mockery. "Don't be shocked, my excellent Austin. I'm talking about my wife."
"Your wife!" I cried in utter surprise and consternation.
That was exactly the effect he intended to produce and enjoyed producing. Amidst all his distress he found leisure to indulge his taste for administering shocks.
"You've always thought of me as a bachelor, haven't you? I suppose everybody thinks so—except one person. Well, it's no affair of theirs, and they've never chosen to inquire. I didn't mean to tell you, but the reference to her slipped out."
"You've had a wife all this time?" I gasped, sinking into a chair opposite to him.
He laughed openly at me. "Poor old Austin! No, it's not Powers over again." (So he knew about Powers!) "The poor child's been dead these twelve years."
I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. "Does it really amuse you to play the fool just now?"
"It amused me to make you jump." He watched me with a malicious grin for half a minute, then fell to prodding the coals again. "We were boy and girl—and I had only two years with her, and during that time I had the pleasure of seeing her nearly starve. I had no money and got very little work; in the usual way of things, I came into my little bit of money—it's precious little—too late. She was very pretty and a good girl, but not a lady by birth—no, not a lady, Austin. Consequently my folk—my respectable well-to-do folk—left her pretty nearly to starve—and me to look on at it. That's among the reasons why I'm so fond of respectable well-to-do people, why I have a natural inclination to acquiesce in their claim to all the virtues."
"Does Miss Driver know this?"
"Yes." He paused a moment. "She knows this—and a little more—which may or may not turn out material some day."
These words started my alarm afresh. Did he mean still to be in touch with Jenny, still to keep up communication with her—a hold on her—even though he went? If that were so, there was no end in sight, and no peace. The next instant he relieved me from that fear by adding in a low pensive voice, "But not while I live; we know each other no more after to-day."
Our eyes met again. He nodded at me, confirming his last words. "You may rely on that," he seemed to say.
"Do you leave by an early train to-morrow?" I asked.
"Yes—first thing in the morning."
"By this time to-morrow I shall feel very kindly toward you, Octon, and the more kindly for what you've told me to-day."
"I believe you will, and I understand the deferred payment of your love." He smiled at me again. "You're true to your salt, and I suppose you're a bit in love yourself, though you don't seem to know anything about it. Well, take care of her—take care of this great woman."
"I don't want to talk about her to you. I don't see the good of it."
"You ought to want to, because I understand her. But since you don't——" He dropped the poker with a clatter and reared himself to his height. "I'd better go, for, as heaven's above us, I can talk and think of nothing else—till to-morrow."
"Where are you going to?"
"Into the dark"—he laughed gruffly—"Continent. Did my melodrama alarm you? Not that it's dark any longer—more's the pity! It's not very likely we shall meet again this side the Styx." He held out his hand to me with a genuinely friendly air.
"We're both young!" I said as I clasped his hand. In the end, still, I liked him, and his story had moved me to a new pity. It was all of a piece with his perversity that he should have hidden so long his strongest claim to sympathy.
"I could have been young," he answered. "And that stiff fool can't." He squeezed my hand to very pain before he dropped it. "A great woman and a good fellow—well, in this hole it's something to have met! As for the rest of them—the fate of Laodicea, I think!"
"You're so wrong, you know."
"Yes? As usual? In the end I shall certainly be stamped out!" He shook his head with a whimsically humorous gravity. "Part of the objection to me is simply because I'm so large."
That was actually true when I came to think of it. His size seemed an oppression—a perpetual threat—in itself a form of bullying. Small men could have said the things he did with only half the offense; the other half lay in his physical security.
"Try to counteract that by improving your manners," I said, smiling at him in a friendly amusement.
"Let the grizzly bear put on silk knee-breeches—wouldn't he look elegant? Good-by, Austin. Take care of her!"
"Since you say that again—you know I would—with my life."
"And I—to my death. And I seem to die to-day."
There was nothing to be said to that. We walked out into the open air together. I rejoiced that he was going, and yet was sad. Something of what Jenny felt was upon me then—the interest of him, the challenge to try and to discover, the greatness of the effort to influence, the audacity of the notion of ruling. The danger of him—and his bulk! A Dark Continent he seemed in himself! I could not but be sorry that my little ship was now to lose sight of the coasts of it. But there was a nobler craft—almost driven on to its rocks, still tossing in its breakers. For her a fair wind off land and an open sea!
As we stood before my door, I awaiting Octon's departure, he perhaps loath to look his last on a scene which must carry for him such significance, I saw Lacey coming toward me on horseback. He beckoned to me in token that he wanted me.
"Ah, an opportunity for another good-by!" said Octon grimly.
Lacey brought his horse to a stand by us, but did not dismount.
"I'm trespassing, I'm afraid, Lord Lacey! My being in this park is against the law, isn't it?"
Octon's opening was not very conciliatory, but Lacey's good-humor was proof against him. Moreover the lad looked preoccupied.
"I'm not out for a row to-day, Mr. Octon," he said. "I want just one word with you, Austin."
"Then I'll be off," said Octon. He nodded to me; he did not offer to shake hands again.
"I'll come and see you off to-morrow morning. The eleven-five, I suppose?" That was the fast train to London.
"Yes. All right, I shall be glad to see you. To Lord Lacey—and his friends—this is good-by."
"You're going away?" asked Lacey, joy and relief plain in his voice.
"Yes. You seem very glad."
"I am glad," said young Lacey, "but I mean no offense, Mr. Octon."
Their eyes met fair and square. I expected an angry outburst from Octon, but none came; his look was moody again, but it was not fierce. He looked restless and unhappy, but he spoke with dignity.
"I recognize that. I take no offense. Good-by, Lord Lacey." With a slight lift of his hat, courteously responded to by Lacey, he turned his back on us and walked away with his heavy slouching gait, his head sunk low on his shoulders. We watched him go for a moment or two in silence.
"Is he going for good?" Lacey asked me.
"Yes, to-morrow."
He seemed to consider something within himself. "Then I don't know that I really need trouble you. It's a delicate matter and—" He beat his leg with his crop, frowning thoughtfully. "I wonder, Austin, whether you're aware how matters stand between Miss Driver and my father?" His use of "my father" instead of "the governor" was a significant mark of his seriousness.
"Yes, she told me."
"My father told me. To-morrow is the day for the announcement. Austin, the last two or three days my father has been very worried and upset. Aunt Sarah's been at him about something. I'm sure it's about—about Miss Driver. I can tell it is by the way they both look when her name's mentioned. And I—I tried an experiment. At lunch to-day I began to talk about that fellow Powers. I tried it on by saying I thought he was a scoundrel and that I hoped Miss Driver would give him the sack. I never saw a man look up with such a start as my father did. Aunt Sarah was ready to be on to me, but he was too quick. 'Why do you say that?' he snapped out—eagerly, you know—as if he was uncommonly anxious to hear my reasons. Well, of course, I'd none to give, only my impressions of the chap. Aunt Sarah looked triumphant and read me a lecture on envy, malice, and all uncharitableness. My father sat staring at the tablecloth, but listening hard to every word. Why the devil should my father be so interested in Powers? Can you tell me that, Austin?"
"No, I can't tell you," I said, "but I'm much obliged to you for this—information."
"I thought there would be—well, just no harm in mentioning it to you," he said. "Of course it's probably all right really. And if everything is settled, and announced, and all that, to-morrow—and—" He broke off, not adding in words what there was no need to add—"Octon gone to-morrow!"
But to-day was not to-morrow. Lady Sarah was at work, and Fillingford much interested in Mr. Powers! Worried, upset, and very much interested in Powers!
Lacey gathered his reins and prepared to be off. "Sorry if I've meddled in what's not my business," he said. "But I'm ready to take the responsibility." That was permission to me to use his information, and to vouch his authority to Jenny. He nodded to me. "See you to-morrow, perhaps, and we'll drink the health of the engaged couple!" He smiled, but he looked puzzled and not very happy, rather as though he were hoping for the best, and staving off anticipation of some hitch or misfortune.
As soon as he was gone, I went up to the Priory. My task was not an easy one, but I had an overwhelming feeling—a feeling which refused all counter-argument—that it was necessary. There was still this one evening—an opportunity for a last bit of recklessness, and Heaven alone knew how great a temptation.
Jenny received me in her little upstairs sitting-room, next to the room where she slept. She wore an indoors gown and, in answer to my formal inquiry, told me that she had a cold and was feeling rather "seedy"—not a common admission for her to make. Then I went to work, stumbling at my awkward story—so full of implied accusation against her, if it were not utterly unmeaning—under the steady thoughtful gaze of her eyes. She heard me to the end in silence.
"If that rascal is trying to make mischief, if he has trumped up some story—" I tried so to put it that she could feel entitled to be on her guard without making any admissions.
She made none, and offered no direct comment on the story. She took up an envelope from the writing-table by her.
"This is my formal leave to Lord Fillingford to announce our engagement. I was going to post it to-night. I'll send it now by a groom. Please ring the bell for me, Austin."
Loft appeared. She gave him the letter and ordered that a groom should take it to Fillingford Manor on horseback. Loft glanced at the clock.
"The men will just be at their tea, miss," he said. It was now about half-past four.
"It'll do in half an hour's time," she answered. "But let it get there this afternoon without fail."
As Loft went out, she turned to me. "There now, that's settled."
Was it? There was still to-night. I suspected to-night desperately. I suspected Jenny's love of having it both ways to the very last moment that she could. I suspected the strength of the lure toward Octon. Whether she divined my suspicions I cannot tell. She went on in her simplest, most plausible way.
"Now I'm going to lie down, and I'm not sure I shall get up again. A plate of soup and a novel in bed look rather attractive! And I must get a good beauty-sleep—against my lord's coming to-morrow!"
She held out her hand to me. As I took it I gave her a long look. The bright eyes were candid and unembarrassed. Yet I had grave doubts whether Jenny was speaking the whole truth—and nothing but it!
On the stairs I encountered Chat. She broke out on me volubly about Jenny's indisposition.
"You've seen our poor Jenny—the poor child? So ill, such a cold! And she actually wanted to go down to Catsford to see Mr. Bindlecombe and Mr. Powers on some Institute business! As if she was fit to go out—a raw cold evening, too, and getting dark so much earlier nowadays! At any rate I persuaded her out of that, and I do hope she'll be sensible and go to bed."
"So do I—very much, Miss Chatters," I replied.
"And she's just given me to understand that she means to do it."
"That's the safe thing," Chat averred with emphasis; and, without a doubt, she was perfectly right—from more points of view than one. In bed at Breysgate, with her soup, her novel, and a watchful maid in attendance, Jenny would be safe. I did not, however, need quite as much convincing of it as Chat seemed disposed to administer to me.
There was nothing more to do. I went back home, brewed myself a cup of tea, and sat down to write letters; writing letters compels an attention which would wander from a book. I had an accumulation to answer, some on my own account, the greater part on Jenny's affairs, and I worked away steadily till it was nearly seven o'clock. Then I was suddenly interrupted by a loud knock on my door. As I rose, the door opened, and Lacey was again before me. He was still in riding dress, but his boots were covered with dust; he was hot and out of breath. He had been walking—walking fast, or even running. He seemed excited, but tried to smile at me.
"Here I am again!" he said. "I don't know whether I am a fool, Austin—I hope I am—but there's something I want you to hear." He shut the door behind him, glanced at the clock, and went on quickly. "Do you know a sandy-haired boy who wears a red cap and rides a girl's bicycle?"
"Yes," I answered. "That's Powers's boy—Alban Powers."
"I thought I remembered the young beggar. That boy brought a note up to Aunt Sarah while we were having tea—about a quarter past five, it must have been, I think. Aunt Sarah pounced on the note, read it, said there was no answer, and then handed the note over to my father. 'Who's it from?' he asked peevishly. 'You'll see if you read it,' she said. I asked if I wasde trop, but my father signed to me to sit where I was. He read the note, and handed it back to Aunt Sarah. 'What are you going to do?' she asked. 'Nothing,' he said. She pursed up her lips and shrugged her shoulders—she made it pretty plain what she thought of that answer. 'Nothing!' she sort of whispered, throwing her eyes up to the ceiling. Then he broke out: 'I've forbidden the subject to be mentioned!'—but he looked very unhappy and uncomfortable. Nobody said anything for a bit; Aunt Sarah looked obstinate-silent and my father unhappy-silent. I tried to talk about something or other, but it was no good. Then the man came in with another note, saying a groom had brought it for his lordship. Well, he read that—and it seemed to please him a bit better."
"Well it might!" I remarked. "It was from Miss Driver and it said what he wanted."
"Wait a bit, Austin. He sat with this note—Miss Driver's—in his hand, turning it over and over. He didn't offer to show it to either of us, but he kept looking across at Aunt Sarah. I took up a paper, but I watched them from behind it. He was weighing something in his mind; she wouldn't look at him—playing sulky still over the business of the first note, the one that boy in the red cap had brought. At last he got up and went over to her. He spoke rather low, but I heard—well, he could have sent me away, or gone away with her himself, if he hadn't wanted me to hear. 'A note I've had from Miss Driver makes it very proper for me to call on her this evening,' he said. Aunt Sarah looked up, wide awake in a minute. 'You'll go this evening—to Breysgate?' she asked. 'Yes, at seven.' 'At seven,' she repeated after him with a nod. 'But perhaps she'll be out.' 'That's possible,' he answered. 'But I shall wait for her—she must come in before dinner.' Aunt Sarah looked hard at him. 'They'll probably know where she's gone if she is out. You could go and meet her,' she said to him. I can't give you the way they talked—it was all as if what they said meant something different, or something more, at any rate. When Aunt Sarah suggested that he might go and meet Miss Driver, he started a little, then thought it over. At last he said, 'I shall try to find her to-night.' 'You're sensible at last!' she said—and added something in a whisper. My father nodded, and walked out of the room, pocketing his letter. Aunt Sarah went to the fire and burned hers. I wish I could have got a look at it!"
"So do I," I said. "It's just on seven now."
I was thinking hard. The boy with the red cap—Powers's boy—the note—the subterranean quarrel over it—the strange half-spoken half-suppressed conversation that followed—these gave plenty of matter for thought when I added to them my sore doubts of the way in which Jenny in truth meant to spend the evening.
"Of course it may be all nothing. I'm afraid all the time of being infernally officious."
"Your father will pretty nearly be at Breysgate by now."
"And she's there, I suppose, isn't she?" His question was full of hesitation.
In an instant, on his question, my doubts and suspicions seemed to harden into certainties. I knew—it was nothing less than knowledge—that she was not there, and that the note brought by the boy with the red cap told truly where she was. Fillingford would go to Breysgate—he would be referred to Chat. Chat would tell him that Jenny was in bed. Would he believe it and go home peacefully—to face Lady Sarah's angry scorn and the doubts of his own perplexed mind? He might—then all would be well. But he might not believe it. He had said that he would try to find her to-night. He knew where to find her—if he trusted the information which the boy in the red cap had brought.
"He doesn't know you've come here, of course?"
"Not he! I got a start—and, by Jove, I ran! Are you going to do anything about it?"
I was quite clear what I had to do about it. Chat must be in the secret; she might manage to send Fillingford home—or she might keep him at Breysgate long enough to give me, in my turn, a chance. No good lay in my going to meet him—Chat could lie as well as I, and, if he would not believe her, he would not believe me either. Neither would I send Lacey to him; any appearance of Lacey's in the matter would show that we were afraid, that we knew there was something to conceal. My course was to take the start Lacey's warning gave me, to go where Jenny was, trusting to reach her in time to get her away before Fillingford came on from Breysgate. It was time to put away pretenses, scruples, formalities. I must find her wherever she was; I must meet her face to face with my message of danger.
I put on my hat and coat hastily. Lacey stood looking at me.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Where that boy came from," I answered.
"Do you mind if I come, too? As far as the house, say?"
"Why do you want to come?"
He spoke with a certain calm authority. "I think I've a right to come. You must excuse me for saying that I think I know with whom we're dealing. We may very likely be in for a row, Austin. I don't want to be seen, if I can help it, but I do want to be somewhere handy in case my father—well, in case there is a row, you know."
Yes, we knew with whom we might have to deal. A row was not unlikely.
"Very well, come along," I said.
The clock struck seven as we started out into a dull, foggy, chill evening. Darkness had fallen and the lights of Catsford twinkled in the valley beneath us. As we began to walk, I heard carriage wheels on the road behind us. Fillingford was on his way to Breysgate. Lie well, Chat! Be clever! Keep him there—keep him there, till the danger is overpast!
If Jenny were bound to see Leonard Octon that evening, why had she not sent for him to her own house? In order that the servants might not know, and spread the gossip among their friends in other households? For fear that some of the neighbors, to whom she had sacrificed him, might pass by and see him going in or coming out, or even might call and encounter him there? A visit from the Aspenicks, from Lacey, from Alison, was not impossible. Who could say that Fillingford himself would not do as, in fact, he had done, and go to Breysgate on receipt of her letter? There were plausible reasons to be given for her action, but they were not, coolly regarded, of sufficient strength to outweigh the great fact that, whereas a meeting at Breysgate might have been reckoned a bit of defiance and unfriendliness to Fillingford and his allies, a meeting at Ivydene or, above all, at Hatcham Ford was open to a far more damaging interpretation; it was a terrible risk, an indiscretion fatal if discovered.
For the motives which determined her action, it is necessary, I believe, to look deeper, less to her reasoning, more to her character, and to the feeling under whose sway she was. Her obstinate courage refused to show the white feather to her distrust of Powers; that very distrust itself appealed to her love of a risk. She would do the thing because it was dangerous—because, if it came off well, the peril of it would have made it so much sweeter to her taste, would have given the flavor of mystery she loved, and been such a defiance of fate as was an attraction to her spirit. "Once more!" always appealed to Jenny; to try once more—once again beyond the point of safety. "Once more!" has appealed to—and has ruined—many lovers. Is not the scene, too, something? To lovers a meeting in the old place is doubly a meeting, and becomes a memory of double strength. The shrine has its sacredness as well as the deity; the spirit of the encounter is half lost in alien surroundings. "Once more—in the old place!" So she felt on the evening when she was to meet for the last time the man whom she dared not keep with her, but whose going wrung her heart. Farewell it was—it should be full farewell!
Lacey and I ran till we nearly reached the gates of the park; then we walked quickly, pausing now and again to listen for carriage wheels behind us. We heard none. Fillingford was lingering at Breysgate—Chat must be playing her game well! Jenny was in bed and perhaps would get up—or Jenny was out and would soon be back; by some story or other Chat was fighting to keep him where he was. The thought gave hope, and I pushed on. Lacey kept pace with me; he never spoke till we came opposite to Ivydene, and saw the shrubberies of Hatcham Ford on our right.
"That's as far as I go," said Lacey, "for the present. It's no business of mine unless my father comes—and wants me."
I left him standing in the road, just opposite the gate of Hatcham Ford, which was open. I went on to Ivydene and knocked. I waited, but nobody came. I knocked again impatiently. There was a clatter of hob-nailed shoes along the stone passage inside. The door was opened by the boy in the red cap.
"Ah, Alban, how are you? Is your father in?"
"No, sir—mother's out, too, sir. I'm taking care of the house." The boy looked pleased and proud—almost as if he knew, though of course he did not, the importance he had possessed in our eyes that day.
"Do you know where your father is?"
"I think he's at Hatcham Ford, sir. Mr. Octon came across a little while ago and asked for father, and when father came to the door he told him to get his hat and come back to the Ford with him. I expect he's there still."
"Thank you, Alban. I'll go and have a look."
I expected to find Powers on guard, acting scout, before the door or in the shrubbery, and quickly crossed the road to the Ford. As I went, I looked about for Lacey, but could see him nowhere. Either he had gone back along the road toward Breysgate, to watch for Fillingford's possible approach, or else he had thought he might attract attention if he loitered in the road, and had taken refuge from observation in the shrubberies. I passed quickly along the gravel walk, went up to the hall door, and rang the bell.
A moment or two passed. Then Octon himself opened the door. The light of the gas jet over the doorway was full on his face; he was very pale, and drops of perspiration stood on his brow. But when he saw me his face lit up with a sudden relief. "You! Thank God!" he said. "The very man we wanted! Come inside."
"Is she here?"
"Yes."
"She mustn't stay a minute. There's danger."
"I know there is," he said grimly. "We found that out from Powers. I've killed him, Austin, or all but. Come into the dining-room."
I followed him into the room where I had once waited while he and Jenny talked. As we passed through the hall, I noticed a portmanteau and a bag standing ready packed.
In the dining-room Jenny was crouching on the floor beside Powers; she was giving him something to drink out of a wineglass. The man lay there inert. I went up and looked at him, bending down close. There were marks of fingers on his neck; he had been half strangled.
Jenny had taken no notice when I came in. Now she looked up. "It's all right, he's coming to," she said. "I thought he was gone, though. We made him confess what he'd done, you know. Then he grew insolent, and Leonard—" She turned to Octon with a smile. She seemed to say, "Well, you can guess what Leonard would do under those circumstances!"
"You must come away from here," I said in a low urgent voice. "Fillingford may be here at any moment. He went to Breysgate first—but he'll come on here. He knows—and he means to find you."
"If he knows, what does it matter whether he finds me or not? And what are we to do with Powers?"
"Leave him to me. I'll get him back to his own house." I had it in my mind that I could call Lacey to help me to carry him.
While I spoke, she was giving the man another drink. He gurgled in his throat and moved uneasily. She looked up again: "He's doing all right, but—hadn't Leonard better go?"
"Nonsense," said Octon. "I'm here to see it through."
"No, no," I said hastily. "She's right, you go. This may be a police matter, if he takes it that way—or if Fillingford comes and finds him. If you're here, you may be arrested. Then everything's got to come out! For her sake you ought to go."
"You must go, Leonard," said Jenny. She propped Powers's head on a footstool and rose to her feet.
"It would be the best thing," said Octon. "It's only to-night instead of to-morrow morning."
His decision was taken. He lingered only one minute. He held out both his hands to her, and she put hers in them. I looked away; by chance my eyes fell on the mantelpiece. It struck me differently somehow; in an instant it occurred to me that the picture of the beautiful young girl was not there.
"There's a fast train to London at 8.15. You can catch that," I said. "And you'd better go abroad to-morrow. I can let you know what happens."
"Wire as soon as you can—Grand Hotel to-night—to-morrow, the Continental, Paris. Write to-morrow, and send my portmanteau; I'll take my bag. I shall come back if there's any trouble."
"No, no, you mustn't," said Jenny.
"Well, we'll see about that presently. Good-by."
I watched him go into the hall and take up his bag; then I came back to Jenny.
"Now come away," I said, quickly. "You don't want to meet Fillingford, and he may be here any minute. I'll see you safe on the road, then I'll come back to this fellow. We can hush it all up—it's only a matter of enough money."
I heard the wheels of a carriage in the road. Jenny held up her hand for silence. We listened a moment. The carriage stopped at the gate of Hatcham Ford. It was Fillingford—Would he meet Octon? I feared that Octon would take no pains to avoid him.
In that I was wrong. The situation had sobered him. He had seen where lay the best chance for Jenny, and he would not throw it away. When the carriage drove up, he was just by the gate of Ivydene—Lacey, hidden in the shrubberies, saw him there. He drew back into the shadow of the gate and watched Fillingford get out. Fillingford, intent on Hatcham Ford, never glanced in his direction. When Fillingford had gone in, he resumed his way to the station.
When I heard the carriage stop, I cried to Jenny, "He mustn't find you! Run upstairs somewhere—I'll manage to send him away."
"What's the good?" she asked. "We've got to have it out; we may as well have it out now." She looked at me haughtily. "I'm not inclined to hide from Lord Fillingford."
Powers's hand went up to his throat; he coughed and gurgled again. She looked down at him with a smile. "What's the good of hiding me? You can't hide that!"
"I won't let him in at all!" I cried.
"What's the good? He'll know I'm here if you do that. It's best to let him in. I'm not afraid to meet him, and I'd rather—know to-night."
His knock came on the door. I went and opened it. He started at the sight of me.
"You, Mr. Austin? I was looking for Mr. Octon."
"He's not here," I answered. "He has just left for London."
He seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Then are you alone here?" he asked.
Before I had time to think of my answer, Jenny's voice came from the dining-room. "I am here. Bring Lord Fillingford into this room, Austin."
He did not start now, but he bit his lip. I stood aside to let him pass, and shut the door after him. Then I followed him into the dining-room. Jenny was standing near the fire beside Powers, who kept shifting his head about on the footstool with stiff awkward movements. Fillingford came to the middle of the room and bowed slightly to Jenny; then his eyes fell on Powers and, in sudden surprise, he pointed his finger at him.
"My servant—and your spy," she said. "He has had a narrow escape of his life."
"So it's true," he said—not in question, but to himself, in a very low voice. "True to-night—and true often before!"
She made no attempt at denial. "Yes, I have often been here. I'll answer any question you like to put—and answer it truthfully.
"What I know is enough. I impute no more than I know."
"I thank you for that at least. It's only justice, but justice must be hard to give—from you to me."
"But what I know is—enough."
"You've a perfect right to say so."
Both were speaking calmly and quietly. There was no trace of passion in their voices. Neither took any heed of me, but I stayed—since she had not bidden me go.
He took a letter from his pocket. I recognized the large square envelope as of the shape which Jenny used.
"The letter you were so good as to send me this afternoon," he said, holding it up in his hand.
"Yes."
"I read it with very great pleasure." He tore it into four pieces and flung them on the table before him. They lay there between him and Jenny. He looked at her with a smile. "You're not like Eleanor Lacey for nothing," he said.
She smiled, too, and raised a hand to restrain me, for at his bitter taunt I had made a step forward, meaning to interpose.
"Probably not!" she answered. Then she turned to me. "You'll look after Powers for me, won't you, Austin? It's only a matter of money with him, as we all know—and Mr. Cartmell has plenty."
"I'll do all I can to prevent your being troubled at all."
"I shan't be troubled—but I shall be grateful to you. Lord Fillingford, in return for your compliment, may I beg a favor of you?" She had given a quick glance at the clock.
"Anything that it's in my power to grant," he answered with a little bow.
"It's nothing great—only the loan of your carriage. I came here on foot—and I'm tired."
"It's quite at your disposal."
"It's not inconvenient? You're not hurried?"
"I can walk, Miss Driver."
"Please don't do that. I'll send it back for you as quickly as possible."
"As you please," he said courteously.
"Good-night, Austin," she said to me, holding out her hand. "Don't come with me. I'd rather find my own way to the carriage, if you and Lord Fillingford will let me."
I took her hand. She gave mine a quick light squeeze. "God bless you, Austin," she said. Then, with a last slight salutation to Fillingford, she walked out of the room—and we heard the hall door shut behind her. Fillingford stood where he was for a moment, then slowly sat down. I went to the table and collected the fragments of Jenny's letter. I made a gesture toward the fire. He nodded. I flung the pieces into the flames.
Powers slowly raised his head, leaning on his elbow. "Where am I?" he muttered.
"Not where you ought to be," I said. He laid his head down again, grumbling inarticulately.
"We want no publicity about this, Mr. Austin," said Fillingford—he spoke quite in his usual reserved and measured way. "I shall be willing to second your efforts in that direction. This man had better be got out of the town quietly—that can probably be managed by using the appropriate means. For the rest, no public announcement having been made, nothing need be said. It will probably be desirable for me to go away for a few weeks—that is, if Miss Driver prefers to remain at Breysgate. Or, if she takes a short holiday, I can remain—just as she wishes."
"I think it can all be managed, Lord Fillingford. We must try to have as little gossip as possible—for everybody's sake."
"You don't want my help to-night?"
"Oh, no. I can get him home. He'll soon be well enough, I hope, to understand that it's his interest to hold his tongue, and I can settle the rest with him to-morrow. If he is inclined to make trouble——"
"I think that we can persuade him between us. If you need my help, let me know."
"I'm much obliged to you for that." I paused for a moment. "You, I suppose, have no business with him just now?"
He looked at me gravely. "I am informed that he has already been paid for his services," he said. "Such services, Mr. Austin, are, as your tone implied, not very pleasant to receive. But the greater fault seems to lie with those whose methods make them necessary." He rose to his feet, saying, "It'll be some time before the carriage gets back. I think I'll start on my way and meet it. You're sure I can be of no use? No? Then good-night, Mr. Austin."
"Good-night, Lord Fillingford."
"You will communicate with me, if necessary?"
"Yes. I don't see why it should be."
With these words we had reached the door, and I opened it. At the moment I saw the lamps of his carriage at the gate.
"Look, the carriage is back already; it can't have taken her half the way!"
He made no reply, and we walked quickly down the path together.
"You took Miss Driver home, Thompson?" Fillingford asked the coachman.
"No, my lord, not to Breysgate. Miss Driver wished to go to the station. I drove there and set her down. She told me to come back here immediately, my lord."
"To the station?" we both exclaimed, startled into an involuntary show of surprise.
The man hesitated a little. "I—I beg pardon, my lord, but I think Miss Driver meant to go by train. She asked me to drive quickly—and she'd just have managed the eight-fifteen."
I looked at my watch, it was just on half-past eight.
"Perhaps she only wanted to see—somebody—off," said Fillingford, soon recovered from his momentary lapse into a betrayal of surprise. He turned to me. "That'll be it, Mr. Austin."
I looked at his face—there was no telling anything from it. It had given no sign of change as he made his reference to Octon. I think that he must have seen something in mine, for he added in a low voice, "Very likely that's all." He seemed to urge this view upon me.
Well, it was not an unlikely view. She had risked much for a last talk with Octon. She might well be tempted to seek another, a final, farewell. But I was very uneasy.
Without more words, merely with a polite lift of his hat, Fillingford got into his carriage and was driven off toward the Manor. I turned and walked slowly back to the house. Lacey came out from the shrubbery on the left of the path. "Well?" he said.
"I want your help inside," I said.
He asked no questions. We went in together and set to work with Powers. With the help of brandy and a shaking we got him on his feet. Soon he was well enough to be led home. His wife was in by now and opened the door for us. I told her that he had had a kind of seizure, but was much better—there was no need of a doctor. I sent her to get his bed ready. Then I had a word with him.
"Can you understand business?" I asked.
"Yes—I feel queer, though."
"Hold your tongue and you shall be well paid. Talk, and you won't get a farthing. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Mr. Austin."
"Very well, act on it for to-night—and I'll come and see you to-morrow."
I left his wife getting him to bed. I do not think that the story of the seizure imposed on her, but she pretended to accept it. Probably she was accustomed to his having accidents—the risks of the trade he practiced were considerable. Meanwhile Lacey had been over to the Ford again, and left a written message on the table, saying that Octon had been called to town and would not be back that night. All else could wait till to-morrow. Now I wanted to get back to Breysgate. Lacey, too, was for home, which he could reach quicker by the public road than by coming round through our park. He had put to me no question at all up to now. Just as we were parting he did ask two.
"We didn't bring it off, I gather?"
I shook my head. Most certainly we had not brought it off.
"How did the—the governor behave?"
One speech of "the governor's" had been perhaps a little bitter. That was his right; and the bitterness was in the high manner—as Jenny herself had felt.
"He behaved—perfectly." That description was—from our side—only his due.
Lacey looked at me, smiled woefully, and shrugged his shoulders. "Yes—and so he's lost her!" he said. He turned on his heel, and swung off into the darkness. I was left with a notion that we possessed a man more than we had counted in our neighborhood.
I made for the Priory—ventre-à-terre. Something had come home to Jenny when Fillingford tore up her letter and told her that she was not like Eleanor Lacey for nothing. Till then she had been negotiating—negotiating still, though ever so defiantly—still trying to find out what he thought, trying to see what view he took, even though she ostentatiously abstained from self-defense. At that action and at that speech she had frozen. "Probably not!" That was her acceptance of his action and his words. She had taken them for her answer—the tearing of the letter and his one bitter speech.
The big house lay hospitably open to the night—lights in the windows, lamps burning in the hall and illuminating the approach. Well, it was early evening yet—only nine o'clock. All might be safe and well within doors, and yet the doors be open. I ran up the steps in a passion of excitement.
As I reached the door, I was met—not by Loft nor by any of the men—but by the trembling figure of a woman. Chat had heard feet on the steps—she had been in waiting! My heart sank as lead. Whom had she been waiting for? Not for me!
"I did my best, I did my best," she whispered, catching me by the lapel of my greatcoat. "I kept him as long as I could. What happened?"
"The worst of luck. Is she here?"
"Here?" She seemed amazed. "No! Did you see her? Where have you left her?"
"Then she's gone," I said.
Chat stood where she was for a second, then dropped into the hall-porter's chair which was just behind her. She began to sob violently, rocking herself to and fro. "I tried, I tried, I tried!" she kept saying through her sobs.
I became suddenly aware that Loft had come into the hall. He appeared not to notice Chat. He stood there, grave and attentive, awaiting my orders.
"Miss Driver has been suddenly called away. I don't think she'll be home to night. If she should come, the night-watchman will let her in, and Miss Chatters will be up. The rest of you needn't wait after your usual time."
"Very good, sir," said Loft. Gravely, with his measured step, he walked away and left us alone together.
Chat stopped sobbing for a moment—to ask me a supremely unimportant question.
"Was she very angry with me, Mr. Austin?"
"She didn't say one word about you."
"Oh, I'm glad of that, I'm glad of that!" Her sobbing again broke the silence of the great empty house.
She had gone—and we, her friends, were left to make the best of the situation.
It proved, indeed, easy enough to deal with Powers; the police court was not to be added to our troubles! The man was thoroughly frightened and shaken; confronted with the suggestion that Octon might well return in a few days, he was eager to hide himself. Cartmell took advantage of his mood and pared down his money cruelly; he took what he could get—no doubt he had been well paid from Fillingford Manor—and within two days was out of Catsford with all his belongings. There, one might well hope, was an end of Powers; even Jenny would not call him back again!
But an end of Powers did not much mend matters; even the fact that Jenny's engagement to Fillingford had not been formally announced failed to assist them to any great extent. The engagement had been a subject of general speculation, confidently foretold and almost daily expected. Now the subject of common talk was very different. Jenny was gone, Octon was gone. So far, perhaps, little. One might return, the other had, no doubt, good reasons for departure. But there were witnesses of their departure together, and of circumstances which made it look strange. Alison the Rector was one of these—a friendly unimpeachable witness. He had been seeing two lads off to London—former members of his choir who had returned to pay a visit to old friends—and he told Cartmell (he did not speak to me, nor, I believe, to anybody but Cartmell) how he had seen Jenny come hurriedly on to the platform; she was veiled, but her face was easily to be distinguished, and her bearing alone would have caused her to be recognized. She stood for a moment looking about her, then caught sight of Octon's tall figure by the bookstall. She went straight up to him. He turned with a start. "The man's face when he saw her was a wonder," said Alison. They talked a little, then walked to the train. Octon spoke to the guard and gave him money. The guard put them into a compartment and turned the key. No sign of companion, maid, footman, or even luggage, appertaining to Jenny! Did Miss Driver of Breysgate Priory travel by night to London in that fashion?
What he had seen others saw—both Jenny and Octon were well known in Catsford—and others were less reticent than the Rector. When no announcement was made of Jenny's return and none of her engagement, when Powers vanished and Ivydene was shut up, then the stream of talk began to flow. Fillingford was loyally silent; his silence seemed only to add significance to the rumors. Lacey abruptly rejoined his regiment, though he had engagements for three weeks ahead—yet another unexplained departure! The whole town—the whole neighborhood—were agog. Human nature being what it is, small blame to them!
Of course his interview with Alison sent Cartmell flying up to me in excitement and consternation. He had become devoted to Jenny; he was devoted also to that fabric of influence and importance which she had been building for herself. He was terribly upset. He had not been so far behind the scenes as I had, or as Chat; the catastrophe came on him with unmitigated suddenness. He had been a great partisan of the Fillingford match; that crumbled before his eyes. But the greater blow was the mystery of her flight with Octon.
"I can tell you nothing. We must wait for a letter." It was all I could say unless and until Jenny gave me leave to speak.
That she did promptly, so far as Cartmell was concerned, thereby enabling me to use his services in regard to Powers. A letter arrived on Saturday morning—the flight had been on Thursday. It was a brief letter, and a businesslike one. It showed two things: that Jenny was, for the moment, in London—she did not say where—and that she was not coming back. It told me to take Cartmell into my full confidence, to tell him all I knew; neither he, nor Chat, nor I, was to say a word to anybody else. "Announce that I am going to winter abroad, and say nothing else—absolutely nothing—no explanations, no excuses, no guesses. Say just what I have told you, and nothing else. Tell Chat that I want nothing sent on. I shall get what I want. I will write at length about business—to you or to Mr. Cartmell—as soon as I have made my plans." Then she bade me go to Hatcham Ford, to pay off Octon's two servants, and have the house put in charge of a caretaker. That injunction was the only reference to Octon; of her own position, feelings, or intentions in respect to him she made no mention whatever.
Cartmell heard the letter, and the story which, in obedience to it, I told him, without signs of very great surprise. He twisted his mouth about and grunted over Jenny's folly and double-dealing—but to his practical mind the present situation was the question; my story seemed to make that more, not less, explicable. Jenny, in honor pledged to Fillingford, found that she wanted to marry Octon; she had not dared to tell Fillingford so; hence all the subterfuges, the secret meetings, the catastrophe, and the flight.
"In a day or two we shall get news of their marriage, no doubt. It's very silly, and not very creditable—but it's hardly a tragedy, Austin. Only—there goes Fillingford Manor forever! And what a master for Breysgate!"
His was as plain and reasonable a view as the situation could be fitted into. Jenny would now marry Octon, wait till the sensation was over, and then come back to Breysgate with her husband. Or perhaps she would not come back to Breysgate; perhaps she would not face the neighborhood with her record behind her—and Octon by her side, ever recalling it. She would break up all the fabric which she had made—and start anew somewhere else. That did not seem unlikely; a suggestion of it filled Cartmell with fresh dismay.
"A pretty thing that!" he said. "After all our tall talk about our love for Catsford, and our Institute, and all the rest of it! How am I to face Bindlecombe, eh? And look at the money she's put into the estate! She'll never get that back on a sale."
I found Cartmell rather comforting—at least he created a diversion in my thoughts. His care for the externals of the position, for the material and even the pecuniary aspects of it, was a relief to an imagination which, all against its will, had been engrossed in the state and the struggle of Jenny's heart—dwelling on her intentions not about her estate and her Institute, but about herself, picturing the strong rush of feeling which had impelled her to her flight, asking whither it would lead or had led her—and asking doubtfully.
Cartmell tapped my knee with the end of his stick. "The sooner we get news of the marriage, the better—though bad's the best!" he said with a solemn nod of his head.
He was right—but most heartily did I echo his "Bad's the best!" Had Jenny herself ever thought differently—at least before that fatal night? What was she thinking now—when the night was past?
Two days later a long letter reached Cartmell; he came up to me with it directly after breakfast, when I was in my office at the Priory. A lonely, weary great place was the house now—no life in it; Chat in bed and probably in flutters—she had taken to both on the night of the disaster, and clung to both; Loft's face and gait was pronouncedly funereal. Visitors, of course, there were none. The establishment seemed to be in quarantine.
Jenny's letter was in her best style—concise, clear—and handsome. Everything was to go on at Breysgate as though she herself were there. Cartmell was given full control of finances—a power of attorney was to follow from London. Chat was to stay till further orders. Nothing was to be shut up, nobody to be dismissed. I was directed to take full charge of the house and grounds, allotted ample funds for the expenses, and intrusted with the care of all her correspondence. Urgent letters were to be sent under cover to her bankers at Paris; there all communications were to be addressed, thence all would come. Money for her own use was to be deposited there also. Finally, the Committee was fully empowered to proceed with the plans and preliminaries of the Institute; they were to be credited with five thousand pounds for this purpose. I was to act on her behalf and report progress to her from time to time. Whatever her feelings were, her brain was active, busy, and efficient.
"It doesn't look as if she meant to give up Breysgate, anyhow," said Cartmell.
"Neither does it look as if she meant to come back," said I.
That, again, was like Jenny. She did not mean to come back, but neither did she mean to let go. She elaborately provided for a long absence, but by careful implication negatived the idea that the absence was to be permanent. Though she was not there, her presence was to be felt. Though she was away, she would rule through her deputies—Chat, Cartmell, the Institute Committee, myself. She forsook Catsford, but would remain a power there.
With all this, not a word of what she herself meant to do or where she meant to go—no explanation of the past or information about the future. Not a word of Octon—not a word of marriage! The old signature held still, "Jenny Driver." The silences of the letter were even more remarkable than its contents. The whole effect was one of personal isolation. That great local institution, Miss Driver of Breysgate, was all to the fore. Jenny had withdrawn behind an impenetrable veil. Miss Driver of Breysgate was benign, conciliatory, gracious, loyal to Catsford. Jenny was enigmatic, unapologetic, defiant. Jenny slapped while Miss Driver stroked. What would they make out of these contradictory attitudes of the dual personality?
Cartmell put his common-sense finger on the spot—on the very pulse of Catsford and the neighborhood.
"What they'll want to hear about is the marriage. Any irregularity in her position—!" He waved his hands expressively.
Graciousness and loyalty, charities continued and institutes built—excellent in their way, but no real use if there were any irregularity in her position! Cartmell was right—and I am far from wishing to imply that Catsford was wrong, or that its pulse beat otherwise than the pulse of a healthy locality should. The rules must be kept—at any rate, homage must be paid to them. Jenny herself never denied the obligation, whether it were to be regarded as merely social or as something more. It is no business of mine to question it on her behalf—and I feel no call to do it on my own account.
Cartmell's words flung a doubt. Was there much positive reason for that doubt yet? People may get married without advertising the fact. Even although they have departed by the same train for the same place, they may behave with propriety pending arrangements for a wedding. Jenny had great possessions; she was not to be married out of hand, like a beggar-girl. Settlements clamored to be made, lawyers to be consulted. Cartmell cut across these soothing reflections of mine.
"It's a funny thing that I've had no instructions about settlements. She'd surely never marry him without settlements?"
I cut my reflections adrift, it was the only line left open to me. "How could you expect a girl to think about them in such circumstances?"
"I should expect Jenny Driver to," he said.
"She'd be thinking of nothing except the romance of it."
"Is that the impression you get from her letter?"
"There are always two sides to her mind," I urged.
"One's in that letter," he said, pointing to it. "What's the other doing, Austin?"
To ask that question was, as things stood, to cry to an oracle which was dumb. Miss Driver of Breysgate spoke—but Jenny was obstinately mute. Before many days were out, Catsford became one colossal "Why?" It must have been by a supreme effort, by a heartrending sacrifice to traditional decorum, that the editor of theHerald and Timesrefrained from writing articles or "opening our columns to a correspondence" on the subject.
At last there came a word about herself—to me and to me only. It was contained in the last communication I received from her before she left London; she spoke of herself as being "just off." The letter dealt with nothing more important than the treatment of a pet spaniel which had been ailing at the time of her flight. But there was a postscript, squeezed in at the foot of the page; the ink was paler than in the letter itself. It looked as though the postscript had been added by an afterthought—perhaps after hesitation—and blotted immediately. "I still hold my precarious liberty."
The one sentence answered one question—she was not married. There were things which it left unanswered; her present position and her intentions for the future lay still in doubt. She held her liberty, but the liberty was precarious. Here was no material for a reassuring public announcement; even if I had not been sure that the postscript was meant for me alone—and of that I was sure—I could only have held my tongue; it was charged with so fatal an ambiguity, it left so much in the dark. Yet in its way it was to me full of meaning, most characteristic, most illuminating—and it fitted in with the picture which my own imagination had drawn. Out of a tangle of hesitations and doubts she had plunged into her wild adventure. How far it had carried her it was not possible to say; but here were the hesitations and doubts back again. After the impulsive fervor of feeling had had its way with her, the cool and cautious brain was awake again—awake and struggling. The issue was doubtful; the liberty to which her mind clung was "precarious"—menaced and assailed by a potent influence. Past experience made it easy to appreciate the state in which she was—her wishes on one side, her fears on the other—her strong inclination to Octon against her obstinate independence, her feelings crying for surrender, her mental instinct urging that she should still keep the line of retreat open.
But was it still open in any effective sense? As regards her position, so far as the opinion of the world—of her world—went, every day barred it more and more. She must know that; she must realize how her silence would be interpreted, how no news about her would be confidently reckoned the worst of news. For Octon she had sacrificed so much that there was nothing for it but to give him all—to give him even her liberty, if marriage with him meant the loss of it. There was no other possible conclusion if she would look at the matter as others looked at it, if she would use the eyes and ears of Catsford, and see what they made of her situation. But perhaps she was no readier to surrender herself to them than to Octon himself. She might answer that in her own soul she would still be free, though her freedom were bought at a great price, though in the eyes of the world she had forfeited her right to it.
My memory harked back to a conversation which I had once held with Alison. A mind that thought for itself in worldly matters, I had suggested to him, would very likely think for itself in moral or religious ones, too—and such thought was apt to issue in suspending general obligations in a man's own case. I had hazarded the opinion that Miss Driver would be capable of suspending a general obligation in her own case—as the result of careful thought about it—as an exercise of power, to repeat the phrase I had used. If that were her disposition now—if what I had foreshadowed as a possibility had become a fact—would Octon save her from the results of it? He was the last man in the world to do that. Skeptic in mind and rebel in temper, he would not insist on obedience to obligations in whose sanction he did not believe, nor be urgent in counseling outward conformity with conventions which he disliked and took a positive pleasure in scorning. On the other hand, he would not be swayed by a vulgar self-interest; he would be too proud to seek to bind her to him that he might thus bind her money also. If she said "I will remain free," he would acquiesce and might even applaud. If she said "I will be free and yet with you," it was not likely that he would offer any strong opposition.
Meanwhile she stood where people who arrogate to themselves the liberty of defying the law cannot reasonably complain of standing—in the dock. That is the fair cost of the freedom they claim. Jenny was arraigned at the bar of the public opinion of her neighbors; unless she could and would clear herself of suspicion, there was not much doubt how the verdict would go. The first overt step in the proceedings took place under my own eyes.
Cartmell had apprised Bindlecombe of Jenny's wish that the work of the Institute should proceed in her absence, and of her financial arrangements to this end. Bindlecombe, as Chairman, convened a meeting of the Committee. Cartmell was out of town that day and did not attend, but I went to represent Jenny's side of the affair. Fillingford and Alison were talking together in low voices when I came in. Fillingford greeted me with his usual reserved courtesy, Alison with even more than his wonted kindness. Bindlecombe was visibly nervous and perturbed as he read to us Cartmell's letter. When he had finished it, he looked across the table to Alison and said, "I understand that you have something to say, Mr. Alison?"
"What I have to say, sir, is soon said," Alison answered. He spoke low and very gravely, like a man who discharges an imperative but distasteful task. "The Institute is very closely connected with the personality of the liberal—the very liberal—donor. In my opinion—and I believe that I am very far from being alone in the opinion—it is inexpedient to proceed with the work until we can feel sure of being able to enjoy Miss Driver's personal cooperation. I move that, while thanking Miss Driver for the offer contained in the letter we have just heard, we express to her our opinion in that sense." He had not looked at any of us, but had kept his eyes lowered as he spoke.
There was a moment's pause. Then Fillingford said, "I agree, and I second the motion." His voice was entirely impassive. "I don't think it is necessary for me to add anything."
Bindlecombe turned to me with an air of inquiry.
"I can take no part in this," I said. "It is simply for me to hear the decision of the Committee and to communicate it to Miss Driver in due course."
Bindlecombe clasped his hands nervously; he was acutely distressed—and not only for the threatened loss of his darling Institute. He knew how Jenny would read the resolution, and Jenny had been his idol.
"Is—is this really necessary?" he ventured to ask, though Alison's sad gravity and Fillingford's cold resoluteness evidently overawed him. "Perhaps some of the preliminary work could——?"
Alison interposed; "I fear I must ask that my resolution be put as it stands."
Fillingford nodded, drumming lightly on the table with his fingers. Evidently they had made up their minds; if the resolution were not passed, they would secede. That would be worse than the resolution itself, and would make progress just as impossible.
"Then I'll put it," said Bindlecombe reluctantly. "No gentleman desires to say any more?"
No more was said. The resolution was carried, I, of course, not voting.
"And I suppose that we adjourn—sine die?" said Bindlecombe.
That followed as of course, and we all three assented. Bindlecombe rose from the chair. There, for the present at all events, was an end of the Institute, there Jenny's first public and official rebuff. Catsford would have to be told what had been decided, why no more was done about the Institute. I had no doubt that Alison had thought of this and had worded his resolution with a view to its publication.
Fillingford and Alison went out of the room together, and I was left with Bindlecombe. (We had met at his house, Ivydene being shut up.) "I'm very sorry for this, Mr. Austin," he said.
I was very sorry, too. The decision would not be a grateful one to Jenny. It was an intimation that her idea of keeping her hold on Catsford, even while she defied it, would not work; the dual personality of munificent Miss Driver of Breysgate and wayward Jenny Driver—of where?—would not find acceptance.
"A winter abroad is not eternity, Mr. Bindlecombe," said I, smiling. "We shall be busy at the Institute again by the spring, I hope." That, of course, was speaking to my cue—Jenny's official version of her departure; she was wintering abroad—that was all.
"I hope so, I hope so," he said, but he hardly pretended that he was imposed upon. He shook his head dolefully and looked at me with a gloomy significance. "The Rector's a hard fellow to deal with. Pleasant as can be, but hard as a brick on—well, where his own views come in. He's not a man of the world, Mr. Austin."
Evidently in Bindlecombe's opinion a man of the world would have stuck to the Institute, even if he could not stick to its donor—stuck to the Institute and carvedNon Oleton its handsome façade; it would have been in no worse case than many imposing public buildings—to say nothing of luxurious private residences. But Alison was not a man of the world—and in this instance the current of opinion was with him. The two worlds joined in condemning Jenny; neither as an individual nor as a local institution could she be defended. A lurking loyalty in Bindlecombe—if I mistook not, a reluctant admiration in Lacey—were the only exceptions to the general verdict—outside her own retainers. I do not think that we asked ourselves questions about approval or disapproval, condemnation or condonation. We were not judges; we were, in one way, in the fight.
To my surprise Alison was waiting outside the house. When I came out, he approached me.
"Austin, I want you to shake hands with me," he said. "I had to do that, you know. You don't suppose I liked doing it?"
"I'll shake hands," I said. "I'm not particular. But I don't feel called upon to have any opinion as to whether you're right, nor as to whether you liked doing it or not."
"That last bit's unfair, anyhow," he declared indignantly.
"Fair and unfair! Man, man, do you suppose I'm worrying about things like that?"
I had lost control for a moment. He was not angry with me; he seemed to understand, and patted my shoulder affectionately.
"Of course I know you didn't like doing it," I growled. "But does that make things any better?"
"Tell her I didn't like doing it," he said. "If only she understood why I had to do it!"
Well, from neither of the worlds can defiance look for mercy.