"And now about the Institute!" said Jenny the next morning. Cartmell had obeyed her summons to come up to the Priory, and the three of us were together in my office there.
She was not wasting time. Matters were to move quick. She had come home with her plans matured, ready for execution. The enemies might hesitate, losing themselves in debate. She would not hesitate, nor take part in the debate about herself. Acting and acting quickly, she would carry the position while they still discussed how—or even whether—it should be defended.
"The Committee stands adjournedsine die," said Cartmell. "You'd convene a meeting?"
Jenny would have none of convening the Committee. It would be awkward if some of the members did not come—and still more awkward if all of them attended!
"I regard the Committee as having abdicated," she told us. "They chose to adjourn—let them stay adjourned. I shall go over their heads—straight to the Corporation. Let's see if the Corporation will refuse! If they do, we shall know where we are."
Of course she did not think that they would refuse, or she would never have risked an offer which forced the issue into the open. Fillingford had his feelings, Alison his scruples. Both scruples and feelings were intelligible. But was the Borough Council going to refuse a hundred thousand pounds freely given for the borough's benefit?
"Hatcham Ford as it stands—and a hundred thousand pounds, please, Mr. Cartmell."
"With the town spreading out as it is in that direction, that's more like a hundred and fifty in reality," he grumbled.
"I'm going to bleed you sadly!" Jenny assured him gayly. "We'll send for Mr. Bindlecombe and get this in hand at once. We'll see the Institute growing out of the ground within the year!"
Bindlecombe, too, was all for a dashing strategy—though I think that he would have been for anything that Jenny wanted. The letter to the Mayor (Bindlecombe no longer filled that office, though he was still a leading member of the Corporation) was written; it appeared in the paper; a meeting to consider it was called for the next week. In the same issue of the paper appeared an account of Jenny's reception in Catsford, and an announcement of the impending holiday and feast. That issue might fairly be called Jenny's number. Her friends were jubilant; her enemies were bewildered by the audacity of her assault.
But Jenny did not come off without loss. Not only did she confirm the disapproval of those who were resolute against her—I heard much of Mrs. Jepps's outspoken and shocked comments, something of Alison's stern silence—but she lost or came near to losing an adherent of undoubted value.
Dash and defiance were not Lady Aspenick's idea of the proper way of proceeding; and another thing offended her no less. She had, I think, on the news of Jenny's return, devised a scheme by which she was to be Jenny's protector and champion; she would throw the ægis of Overington Grange's undoubted respectability over Jenny's vulnerable spot; her influence, tact, and diplomacy would gradually smooth Jenny's path back to society; Jenny would be bound to gratitude and to docility. The dashing strategy upset all that; the appearance of Margaret Octon upset it still more.
She paid her call on Jenny—her previous position committed her to that. She drove over—not in a tandem—on the same day on which all the news about Jenny was in the paper. I met her as she went away, happening to come up to the Priory door just as she was coming out—Jenny not escorting her. She was looking black.
"It's pleasant to welcome you to a cheerful house once again, Lady Aspenick. We've had a long dull time at the Priory."
"You won't be dull now, anyhow," she rejoined with some acidity. She dropped her voice that the men might not hear. "Oh, how unwise! All this parade and splash! I can't tell you how I feel about it—and Jack, too! And poor Mr. Alison! And, to crown all, she flings the thing in our faces by bringing this girl with her!"
"She's a very nice girl," I pleaded meekly.
"I know nothing about that. She's that man's daughter. Surely Jenny Driver might have known that her chance lay in having it all forgotten and—and in being—well, just the opposite of what she is now? She goes on as if she were proud of herself!"
As a criticism on Jenny's public attitude, there was some truth in this. I could not tell Lady Aspenick about her private attitude—nor would it make matters better if I did.
"She makes it very hard for her friends," continued the aggrieved lady. "We were anxious to do our best for her. But really—!" Words failed. She shook her head emphatically at me and walked off to her carriage.
I found Jenny in a fine rage as the result of Lady Aspenick's expression of her views—which had apparently been nearly as frank to her as to me. Yet she protested that she had behaved with the utmost wisdom and meekness—for Margaret's sake.
"I stood it, Austin," she declared, with a little stamp of her foot. "How I stood it I don't know, but I did. She lectured me—she told me I ought to have been guided by her! She said I was going quite the wrong way about it with the Institute and that she deeply regretted the 'scene' in Catsford. The scene! She threatened me with the parsons and the Puritans!"
How very angry Jenny was! Parsons and Puritans!
"And ended up—yes, she dared to end up—by telling me I must send Margaret away. She'll see more of Margaret than she thinks before she's done with her!"
"And you were very meek and mild?"
"I know you don't believe it. But I was. I was absolutely civil and thanked her for her kindness. But of course I said that I must judge for myself—and that the question of Margaret lay absolutely outside the bounds of discussion."
"To which Lady Aspenick——?"
"She got up and went. What did she say to you?"
"Much the same—that you were making it very difficult for her."
"I've gained more than I've lost in Catsford," Jenny declared obstinately and confidently. Then her voice softened. "As for poor little Margaret—it's not a question of my gain or my loss there. You do know that?" She was appealing to me for a kind judgment.
"I'm beginning to understand that."
"I stand or fall with Margaret; or I fall—if only she stands. That's final." She broke into a smile. "So, in spite of what you think, I drove myself to be civil to Susie Aspenick. But let her wait a little! Send Margaret away!" Jenny looked dangerous again.
Jenny could have forgiven the criticism of her Catsford proceedings—though not over easily; the attempt to touch Margaret rankled, and, if I mistook not, would rankle, sorely.
It is pleasant to record that Jenny's chivalrous devotion to her "legacy" found appreciation elsewhere; it softened an opponent, and stirred to enthusiasm one already inclined to be a friend.
I had a note from Alison: "I can't countenance her goings on in Catsford—her courting of publicity and applause, her holidays and picnics—no, nor—at present—her Institute either. If she is entitled to come back at all, she is not entitled to come in triumph—far from it. But I like and admire what she is doing about Miss Octon, and I have scandalized Mrs. Jepps and many other good folk by saying so. In that she's brave and honest. I shouldn't mind if you could let her know how I feel on this second point; my views on the first she'll know for herself."
I did take occasion to let Jenny know what Alison wished to reach her. "He may think what he likes about Catsford, if he's on my side about Margaret," she declared with evident pleasure. Then her eyes twinkled. "We'll have him yet, Margaret and I between us!" she added.
The next Sunday she attended Alison's church—she, Chat, and Margaret Octon. I hope that she was not merely "doing the civil thing," like the duchess in the story. After all she had always been one of his bugbears—one of the people who went "fairly regularly."
That same Sunday, in the afternoon, Lacey came to see me. He drove up in his dog-cart, handed the reins to a good-looking dark man, with upturned mustaches, who sat by him, and came to my door. Having seen their arrival, I was there to open it and welcome him.
"Won't your friend come in, too?" I asked.
"He's all right; he's in no hurry, and he's got a cigar. I want to speak to you alone for just a minute."
He followed me in and sat down. His manner was thoughtful and a little embarrassed.
"I saw you down in Catsford the other day," I remarked. "They were very kind to us!"
"I want to ask you a question, Austin," he said. "Do you think that Miss Driver would wish to receive a call from me?"
"I'm sure she'd be delighted."
"Wait a bit. You haven't heard the whole position. You saw me in Catsford? You saw me bow to her?"
I nodded assent.
"Then I think I ought to go and pay her my respects—if it's not disagreeable to her to receive me."
"But why should it be?"
"I belong to Fillingford Manor. I'm living there now. Neither the master nor the lady of the house will—neither of them shares my views."
That did, on reflection, make the matter a little less simple than it had seemed at first.
"I don't suppose we either of us want to discuss their reasons—or wonder at the line they take. I had a little talk with my father about it. He's always very fair. 'You're a man,' he said. 'Decide for yourself. If after the recognition that passed between you—and on your initiative, as I understand—you feel bound—as you say you do—as a gentleman to go and pay your respects, go. But I shall be obliged to you if you will make the relations between that house and this as distant as is consistent with the demands of courtesy.'"
"In view of that I don't think you're in any way bound to call: I'm not at all sure you ought to. Lord Fillingford's wishes are entitled to great weight—especially while you're living in his house."
He was a man now—and a fine specimen of one—but his boyish impetuosity had not left him. "By Jove, I want to go, Austin!" he exclaimed.
"Well, I thought that perhaps you did."
"I want to go and see her—and I should like to tell her, if I dared, that there's not a man in the service to touch her. I don't mean her driving through Catsford—though she took a risk there; some of those chaps aren't mealy-mouthed. I mean what she's done about this little Miss Octon. That's what I like. Because the girl's her man's daughter, she snaps her fingers at the lot of us! That's what I like, Austin—that's why I want to go and see her. But I couldn't say that to the governor."
"You'll never be able to, any better. So you must consider your course. Is it—loyal—to your father?"
He knit his brows in perplexity and vexation. "Was I loyal to him that night we went to Hatcham Ford? You didn't make that objection then!"
"I don't think I should have taken any objection to anything that gave a chance then. I can look at this more coolly. Why not wait a little? Perhaps Lord Fillingford will come to the conclusion that bygones had best be bygones."
"And Aunt Sarah?"
"Is that quite so essential?"
He sat struggling between his scruples and his strong desire—loyalty to his father, admiration of Jenny and attraction toward her.
"I might manage to give her a hint of how you feel—and about the difficulty."
"That'd be better than nothing. Then she'd understand——?"
"She'd understand the whole position perfectly," I assured him.
He was plainly discontented with this compromise, but he accepted it provisionally. "You give her that hint, anyhow, like a good fellow, Austin—and I'll think over the other matter." He rose from his chair. "Now I mustn't keep Gerald Dormer waiting any longer."
"Oh, that's Gerald Dormer, is it—the new man at Hingston?"
"Yes, he's not a bad fellow—and he doesn't think he is, either." With this passing indication of Mr. Dormer's foible, he led the way out of doors and introduced me to the subject of his remark. Gerald Dormer's manner was cordial and self-satisfied. We stood in talk a minute or two. The news of the holiday and of the feast in our park had reached Dormer, and he laughingly demanded an invitation. "I'm pretty hard up, and nobody gives me a dinner!" he protested.
"I'll make a note of your hard case and submit it to Miss Driver. But you're not a Driver employee, you know."
"Oh, but I'm quite ready to be—for a good screw, Mr. Austin."
"Here she comes, by Jove!" said Lacey in a quick startled whisper.
Yes, there she was, within thirty yards of us, coming down the hill from the Priory straight toward my house. Lacey glanced at the dog-cart, seeming to meditate flight; then he pulled off the right-hand glove which he had just put on and buttoned.
"Is that Miss Driver?" whispered Dormer. I nodded assent.
Jenny was in great looks that day, and, it seemed, in fine spirits. Her head was held high, her step was buoyant, there was a delicate touch of color in her cheeks as she came up to us. She met the gaze of all our eyes—for all, I am sure, were on her—with a gay smile and no sign of embarrassment.
"Why, I'm so glad to see you again," she cried to Lacey as she gave him her hand. "You can't think how often I've dreamed of our rides since I've been away!"
"I'm very glad to see you, Miss Driver. May I introduce my friend, Mr. Dormer—of Hingston?"
She bowed to him very graciously, but turned back directly to Lacey. I saw Dormer's eyes follow her movements with an admiring curiosity. Small wonder; she was good to look at, and he had, no doubt, heard much.
"You must come and see me," said Jenny. "Now when shall it be? Lunch to-morrow? Or tea? Not later than the next day, anyhow!"
At that point she must have seen something in his face. She stopped, smiled oddly, even broke into a little laugh, and said, almost in a whisper, "Oh, I forgot, how stupid of me!"
Her tone and air, and the look in her hazel eyes, were nicely compounded of humility and mockery. Confessing herself unworthy, she asked the man if he were afraid! Didn't he dare to trust himself—was he so careful of his reputation?
Lacey had promised me that he would "think over" the question of his relations toward Breysgate Priory. I suppose that he thought it over now—under Jenny's humble deriding eyes.
"Lunch to-morrow—I shall be delighted. Thanks awfully," he said.
So ended that case of conscience. Jenny said no more than "One-thirty"—but her lips curved over that prosaic intimation of the hour of the meal. She turned to Dormer.
"Could I persuade you to drop in, too, Mr. Dormer? We're neighbors, you know."
"It's most kind of you, Miss Driver. I shall be delighted."
No scruples there; yet he, too, was, as he had chanced to mention, a guest at Fillingford Manor.
"Besides, I want to get something out of you," Jenny went on, "and I'm much more likely to do that if I give you a good lunch."
"Something out of me? What, Miss Driver?"
"Ah, I shan't tell you now. Perhaps I may—after lunch."
He leaned down toward her and said banteringly, "You'll have to ask me very nicely!"
"You may be sure I shall!" cried Jenny, with a swift upward glance.
Jenny was flirting again—with both of them—perhaps with me also, for her side-glances in my direction challenged and defied my opinion of her proceedings. I was glad to see it; I did not want her abnegations to go too far, and it is always a pity that natural gifts should be wasted; one might, however, feel pretty sure that any Lent of hers would have itsMi-Carême.
But if flirting—a thing pleasant in itself, an exercise of essentially feminine power—it was also purposeful flirting. She conciliated the new owner of Hingston, who had his position—who also had his outlying farms; and again she drove a wedge—this time into Lord Fillingford's house-party.
"I'm so glad you can come," she said to Lacey. "I want you to meet Margaret so much." She paused for a second. "Miss Octon, you know." She looked him very straight in the face as she spoke.
"It's very good of you to let me," he said. "I hear she's charming."
"I'm sure the Priory needs no additional attraction." This from Dormer in the dog-cart.
To one who knew Jenny well it was possible to see that this speech was not wholly to her liking—but Dormer was not allowed to see it. He received a passing but sufficient smile of graciousness before she gave the hearty thanks of her eyes to Lacey. "She is charming—you'll think so." A second's pause again, and then—"It's really very good to see you. Some day—a ride? Margaret's having lessons down in the town. Austin can ride still, although he has taken to writing books. We shall make quite a cavalcade."
"I say, don't leave me out, Miss Driver." This, again, from Dormer in the dog-cart.
"You live too far off."
"You try me and see!" he protested. Evidently he was very well pleased with the progress which his short acquaintance was making.
Lacey shook hands with her again. "To-morrow at half-past one, then—both of you!" she said. He turned away—was it reluctantly?—and got into the cart. With wavings of hands and hats the two young men drove off. Jenny stood looking after them.
"What brought you here?" I asked.
"The sight of those young men," answered Jenny, smiling. "May I come into your house? Do you remember how I came in first?"
"I remember; we had parted forever in the afternoon."
"Things are generally like that. The people who seem transient stay, the people who seem permanent go. I'm glad you seemed transient, Austin." She was in my room now, thoughtfully looking round it as she talked.
"Lacey came here to ask whether you would like him to call."
"Of course I should like him to call."
"Against his father's wishes. Lord Fillingford did not forbid him to come, but expressed his hope that the relations between the two houses would be kept as distant as courtesy allowed. I told Lacey that, in view of his father's wish, it would be better for him not to call. He said he'd think it over. It was a question between loyalty to his father and admiration of you."
"Admiration?" Jenny was listening with a slight smile.
"Rather, of your behavior—especially about Margaret. He's enthusiastic about that—he thinks it splendidly brave. In case he decided against calling, he wanted you to know that."
"He would have decided against it?"
"I can't tell. He meant to think it over."
"I came down just by accident. I was going for a stroll when I saw you. And I came down on the chance—the chance of something amusing, Austin." She frowned a little. "I don't think I much like Mr. Dormer."
"Rather a conceited fellow."
She broke into a smile again. "But he may come in very convenient."
"To his own profit and comfort?"
"I think conceited people must take the chance of that. They expose themselves."
"To being robbed of their farms by deceitful wiles?"
"He'd get a very good price for his farms," said Jenny. I do not think that her mind had been occupied with the question of the farms. She was looking thoughtful again. "I don't think I quarrel with what Lord Fillingford said," she added.
"Not unnatural perhaps."
"I've never had any quarrel with Lord Fillingford," she said slowly. "Or only one—a woman's quarrel. He never fell in love with me. If he had, perhaps—!" She shrugged her shoulders. "But all that sort of thing is over now."
"Did it look so like it this afternoon?"
"Didn't we agree that I was—marriageable? Didn't you say that being marriageable was an asset—even though one didn't marry?" She came suddenly closer to me. "I've no right to ask you to trust me. I didn't trust you—I deceived you deliberately, carefully, grossly—and yet I expected you to help me—and took your help with very little thanks. Still—you stayed. Stay now, and don't think too badly."
"I don't think badly at all—why, you know it! But I must have my fun out of it."
"So you shall, Austin!" she laughed, with one of her sudden transitions to gayety. "I'm the fox, and you're the huntsman! Well, I'll try to give you a good run for your money—if you can follow the scent!"
"Through all your doubles?"
"Through all the doubles that lead me to my—earth!"
A dainty merry little face looked in at my window. "Oh, I've tracked you at last, Jenny!"
"Is everybody tracking me?" asked Jenny, her eyes mischievously mocking. "Run round to the door and come in, Margaret." She added quickly to me, "I'm glad she didn't come when they were here. I'm saving her up till to-morrow!"
The child came in and ran to Jenny. "Oh, what a delightful little room, Mr. Austin! Did my father ever come here?"
"Yes, pretty often," I answered. "We were friends, you know."
"Yes, and he hadn't many friends. Had he, Jenny?"
Jenny stooped down and kissed her. "Come, we'll go for our walk—to look at Hatcham Ford," she said.
"Shall we go inside?"
"It's all shut up," said Jenny.
Jenny had now on the board all the pieces needed for her great combination—embracing, as it did, the restoration of her own position, the regaining of Catsford's loyal allegiance, the extension of her territory and influence in the county, and "doing the handsome thing by" Margaret. Nobody who watched her closely—both what she did and the hints of her mind which she let fall—could long doubt which of these objects was paramount with her. It was the last. The others were, in a sense, no more than means to it; though in themselves irresistible to her temperament, necessary to her happiness, and instinctively sought by her, yet in the combination they stood subsidiary to the master-stroke that was to crown her game and redeem the pledge which she had given to Leonard Octon as he lay dying. But doing the handsome thing by Margaret carried with it, or, rather, contained within itself, as Jenny conceived the position, another object to which in its turn it was, if not subsidiary, so closely related as to be inseparable. Fate had severed her life from Octon's; Jenny imperiously refused to accept the severance as complete. Octon, the man she loved, had been at odds with the neighborhood, had been scorned and rejected by it; she herself had openly disgraced him at its bidding; because she had not been able to resist his fascination, she had herself fallen into disgrace. She meant now to obliterate all that. For him she could directly do nothing; she would do everything for his name and for the girl whom he had left. She would vindicate—or avenge—his memory; she would even glorify it in the person of his daughter. That was the ultimate impulse which gave birth to her combination and dictated its moves; the achievement of that end was to be its consummation.
It was not a selfish impulse; it had indeed a touch of something quixotic and fanciful about it—this posthumous victory which she sought to win for Octon, this imposing of him in his death on a society which would have nothing of him while he lived, this proud refusal to court or to accept oblivion for him or for her friendship with him, this challenge thrown out to his detractors, in his name, as it were from his grave. Her personal restoration and aggrandizement, if welcome in themselves, were also necessary to this final object. The object itself was not self-seeking save in so far as she stood identified with the cause which she championed. Yet on the realization of it she did not scruple to bring to bear all the resources and all the arts which would have been appropriate to the most cold and calculating selfishness. Everything was pressed into the service—the resources of her own wealth, the opportunities afforded by the needs of her neighbors, Catsford's appetite for holidays and feasts, as well as its aspirations toward higher education; her own youth and attractiveness no less than Margaret's beauty; the wiles and the cunning by which she gained power over men. She spent herself as lavishly as she spent her money; she was as ready to sacrifice herself as she was eager to make use of others. She seized on every new ally and fitted him into her scheme. Dormer had appeared at the last moment—by happy chance. In a moment she saw where he could be of use, laid her hand on him, and pressed him into the service. He became a new piece on the board; he had his place in the combination.
Delicate and difficult is the game when it is played with living pieces. They may refuse to move—or may move in the wrong direction. There was one piece, of supreme importance in the scheme, which she must handle with rarest skill if he were to be induced to move at her bidding and in the direction that her combination required. He was to be the head and front of the final attack; at the head of the opposing forces stood his father! She must be very sure of her control over that piece before she tried to move it! Only when he had been brought wholly under her sway could the process of impelling him in the desired direction safely be begun.
Yes, Fillingford was the great enemy. Round him gathered all the opposition to her, her proceedings, and her pretensions; he lay right across her path, and must be conquered if her schemes were to win success. She was not bitter against him; she was ready to admit that he had the right to be bitter against her. She shared his pride too much not to appreciate his attitude. She respected him, in a way she liked him—but she was minded to fight him to the death if need be, and to use against him every weapon that she could find—even those that came from his own household. If he fell before her attack, the whole campaign would be won. But it was preposterous to suppose that he ever would? Jenny knew the difficulties, but neither did she underestimate her own resources. A long purse, a long head, and two remarkably attractive young women—these formed the nucleus of her forces; they represented a power by no means to be despised in whatever field they might be brought into action.
I was at the luncheon-party—"to talk to Chat," said Jenny; but in fact I had fallen into the habit of lunching at the Priory. Jenny had human weaknesses, and, from this time on, manifested a liking for a sympathetic audience—which she could find only in me. Chat was not, in her judgment, "safe"; she was too leaky a vessel to be trusted with the drops of confidence—carefully measured drops—which Jenny was pleased to let fall. Besides, she needed, now and then, a little help.
The young men arrived in high spirits, and Jenny, flanked by Chat and myself—Margaret was not down from changing after her riding lesson—received them gayly. They had a joke between themselves, and it was not long in coming out. They had been compelled to dodge Lady Sarah; only a bolt up a side road had prevented them from meeting her carriage face to face just outside Breysgate Park.
"You're playing truants, I'm afraid!" said Jenny, but with no air of rebuke.
Loft announced lunch; we went in without waiting for Margaret. She did not appear till we had been eating for ten minutes. By that time Jenny had both her guests well in hand. If her manner to Dormer was cordial, yet it lacked the touch of intimacy, of old-time friendliness, which she had for Lacey. But neither was she any longer so candidly Lacey's friend—and so definitely nothing else—as she had once thought it politic to become. She did not now hold her wiles in leash; she loosed them in pursuit of him, even as in the earliest days of their acquaintance.
The door opened. Jenny's eyes flew quickly to it; she stopped talking and seemed to wait for something. Margaret came running in, her hair bright in the summer sun, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing—the very picture of radiant youth and beauty. Only a few feet separated me from Lacey. I heard him say "By Jove!" half under his breath.
Jenny heard, too. "Here's Margaret," she said. The girl ran to her, took her hand, and began to make a thousand excuses for being late.
"And, after all the rest, that nice clergyman stopped me on the road and talked to me!"
"You mean Mr. Alison? He stopped you?" Jenny looked interested. "What did he say?"
"Oh, nothing—only that he'd known my father, and that he hoped I was very happy. Of course I am—with you!"
"There's your place—between Mr. Dormer and Austin. Sit down, or Loft won't give you any lunch."
Between Dormer and me was opposite Jenny and Lacey—Chat and I each sitting at an end of the oblong table. Jenny showed no remission in her efforts to keep Lacey amused—indeed she rather engrossed him, and the other four of us talked together. But from time to time his eyes strayed across the table—and once he caught Miss Margaret studying his handsome face with evident interest. The girl blushed. Jenny was smiling contentedly as she regained her guest's attention.
Dormer made great play with the pretty girl. It did not take long to discover that this was Dormer's way. He had the gift—one enviable to slow-tongued folk like myself—of a perpetual flow of small talk; this he peppered copiously—I must confess to thinking that it needed seasoning—with flirtation, more or less obvious—generally more. He plied Margaret with the product, much to her apparent liking; she was at her prettiest in her timid fencing with his compliments, her shy enjoyment, her consciously daring little excursions into coquetry. But Dormer's eyes were not all for his own side of the table either; he made an effort or two to draw Jenny into conversation; he often looked her way. With those two in the room together, a man might well be puzzled to decide on which face to turn his eyes. Jenny assisted Dormer's choice. She would not be drawn by him—she was still for Lacey. The two couples talked, Chat and I falling out of the conversation; we could not condescend to call commonplaces across the space that divided us, and Chat and I seldom talked anything else to one another.
After lunch we all went into the garden—except Chat, who always took a siesta when she could. Here Jenny carried off Dormer, to see the hothouses—it was time to be civil to him. I fancied that she would not be vexed if I left Lacey and Margaret to atête-à-tête, so, when they proposed strolling, I was firm for sitting, and we parted company. I could watch them as I sat. The two were getting on very well. For a little while I watched. My cigarette came to an end—I followed Chat's excellent example and fell asleep.
I awoke to find Jenny standing beside me. She was pulling a rose to pieces and smiling thoughtfully. Our guests had, it seemed, departed; Margaret was visible in a hammock under a tree at the other end of the lawn.
"I've really had to be quite shy with Mr. Dormer in the hothouses," she said. "He's such a ladies' man! And he's gone away with the impression that that's the sort of man I like. He has pointed out that Hingston is only fifteen miles off, and that he has a motor car and can do the distance in twenty-two—or was it twenty-seven?—minutes, so that lots can be seen of him, if desired. He has hinted that this is, after all, a lonely life for me—for a person of my gifts and attractions—and has congratulated me on the growing prosperity of Catsford. What do you make of all that, Austin?"
"Perhaps you told him that you wanted a bit of his land?"
"Mr. Cartmell would never have forgiven me if I'd let slip such a propitious opportunity. I did."
"It rather looks as if he wanted all of yours," I suggested.
"Then he communicated to me the impression that, in his opinion, Lord Lacey was considerably smitten with Eunice Aspenick and that the match might come off. In return for which I managed, I believe, to convey to him a sort of twofold impression—first, that I might possibly marry myself—some day; secondly, that, when I did, Margaret would be dismissed with a decent provision—a small addition to the little income which she has from her father. For reasons of my own I laid some stress on the latter half of that impression, Austin." She was looking over to where Margaret lay in the hammock. "She's very young," she said softly, "and of course, the man's glib and in a way good-looking."
"Are you beginning to feel a little responsible? It's easy work, marrying off other people!"
"But they make such a beautiful pair!" she pleaded. She did not mean Margaret and Dormer. "I love just to see them together. And the idea of it! How Leonard would have laughed! Can't you hear that great big outrageous guffaw of his breaking out over it? But you don't think I'd force her?"
"No. And he's a fine lad. You wouldn't be going far wrong."
"She's very young. She might—make a mistake. I thought Mr. Dormer had better understand her real situation."
"O mistress of many wiles, I understand! But is Lacey to share the impression?"
"I should like him to—up to the last possible minute. And then—the fairy godmother! It's all on the old-fashioned lines—but I like it." Her voice dropped. "The old, mischievous, none-too-respectable fairy godmother, Austin!"
"Suppose the fairy godmother seemed not so very old herself—that mischief proved attractive—that——?"
"Impossible—with her here! Oh, you really think so, only you're always so polite. But anything short of—of that—would be quite within the four corners of the scheme." She laughed at me, at her schemes, at herself; yet about the two last she was in deadly earnest. So she grew grave again in a moment. "He'd have to get over so much to make that seem even possible."
Well, that was true enough. Fillingford's son—the accomplice of my evening expedition to Hatcham Ford! There was something to get over, certainly. But there was something to get over in the other plan, too.
"Still, I don't mind its seeming—just possible," said Jenny. She looked at me with an air of wondering how I should take what she was going to say. "It might just be made to seem—a danger!"
"This is walking on a razor's edge, isn't it?"
"Yes—it is rather. Mr. Dormer's got to help a little. I don't like him, Austin."
"No more do I—since you mention it. And you'd have no pity for him either?"
"I shall get his bit of land, but he won't get all mine," said Jenny, serenely pitiless. "He plays his game—I'll play mine. We neither of us stake our hearts, I think. You can't stake what you've never had—or what you've lost." She stood silent for a minute, looking down to where the smoke of busy Catsford rose in a blue mist between us and the horizon. "He's just ridiculous, but he serves my turn. No need to talk any more about him!"
Margaret tumbled herself out of the hammock with a grace which was entirely accidental and narrowly skirted a disaster to propriety. She came across the lawn, yawning and laughing. "I've been asleep, Jenny," she cried, "and having wonderful dreams!"
Jenny's face lit up with an extraordinary tenderness. She drew the girl to her and stroked her hair. "Why did you wake up? It's a pity to wake up when the dreams are wonderful."
"Oh, but waking up's great fun, too! Everything's great fun at Breysgate."
Stroking Margaret's hair, Jenny looked down at me in my wicker arm-chair. "I've been having fun, too—telling Austin secrets!"
"Tell me some."
"The day after to-morrow—or just about then!" laughed Jenny.
The ensuing days were full of triumph for Jenny. Her munificent donation was gratefully and enthusiastically accepted; a new Committee, composed of members of the Corporation, was appointed to take in hand the erection of the Institute immediately; there was no danger of this Committee's adjourningsine die! Her holiday and her feast went off in a blaze of success. She received a wonderful ovation from the town; there was no appearance of her being ostracized by the county. She came out to greet her guests, supported by the Aspenicks, by Dormer, even by Lacey; it was significant that the last-named should appear on so public an occasion. His presence compromised the attitude of Fillingford Manor; though its master was not there, though the lady who presided over the house was severely absent, the heir was there—and there, evidently, on terms of friendship and intimacy.
Lady Aspenick came, I think, not merely because she was committed to civility; she also desired to spy out the land, to get some light on the situation. Lacey's visits to Breysgate were becoming frequent; they had not passed unnoticed by vigilant eyes in the neighborhood, and the report of them had reached Overington Grange. Did Lacey brave the disapproval of his family for nothing? While Eunice joined the gay group which followed Jenny as she made a progress round the tables, Lady Aspenick fell to my share.
"All this is a great triumph for Jenny's friends," she remarked. "Those of us who have been her friends all through, I mean."
"It must be very gratifying to you, Lady Aspenick."
"I have been loyal," she said with candid pride, "and I am loyal still, although, as I told you, I can't approve of everything she does." Her eyes were on the group in front of us, where Lacey walked between Eunice and Margaret. Dormer was escorting Jenny, with the new Mayor of Breysgate on her other side.
"She has her own way of doing things," I murmured. "Sometimes they come off."
"Amyas Lacey here, too! How is that regarded at the Manor?"
"You ask me—but I shouldn't wonder if you knew better than I do," said I, smiling.
"Well, I admit I know Lady Sarah's views; she makes no secret of them. I was thinking of—well, of his father, you know. He doesn't share these visits!"
"If common gossip was right, there's an obvious explanation of that."
"Yes, but it seems to me to apply to the son almost as strongly." She turned her eyeglasses sharply round to my face. "Having jilted his father——"
"I didn't say I believed the common gossip; but even the fact of its having existed might make him shy of——"
"Oh, come, we both know a good deal more than that about it! However, let's hope they'll make it up—through Amyas. He can act as peacemaker, and then we may have the wedding after all!"
Lady Aspenick's voice failed to carry conviction. It was borne in upon me that she did not believe in her own forecast—that she knew very well, from information gleaned in the enemy's camp, that there was small chance of Lacey's effecting a reconciliation, and none at all of a marriage between Jenny and Fillingford coming off. She threw out the suggestion as a feeler; another possible alliance was really in her mind. She might elicit some hint about that; if people spoke truly, she was interested in the subject for her daughter's sake. Was it possible that Jenny, having lost the father, would annex the son? That was in her mind. It would be rather a strong thing to do—but then, Lady Aspenick would retort, "Only look at the things she does!" The woman who brought Margaret Octon to Breysgate—would she hesitate at capturing young Lacey if she could?
"I can only say that in my opinion it's not at all likely, and has never entered Miss Driver's head."
"Then it's very funny that Amyas should come here so much!"
"Young men like young company," I remarked.
"It's not quite the only house in the neighborhood where there's young company," she retorted sharply. My remark had certainly rather overlooked the claims of Overington Grange.
She said no more, perhaps because her fish—my humble self—did not bite, perhaps merely because at that moment the Mayor of Catsford began to make a speech, highly eulogistic of Jenny and all her works. Lady Aspenick listened—or at least looked on (listening was not easy)—with an air which was distinctly critical.
Dormer was remarkably jubilant that day—perhaps as a result of his exchange of impressions with Jenny in the hothouses. He danced attendance on her constantly and was evidently only too glad to be seen in her train. Jenny received his homage with the utmost graciousness; he might well flatter himself that he stood high in her favor. There was a familiarity in his manner toward her which grated on my nerves; it had been there from his first meeting with her. It looked as though he thought that her past history gave him an advantage, and entitled him to consider himself a better match for her than he would have been held to be for another woman in her position. Perhaps Jenny would have had no right to resent such an idea; at any rate she showed no signs of resenting his behavior. She let him almost monopolize her—saving the Mayor's official rights—leaving Lacey to the care of Eunice Aspenick and of Margaret.
Lacey looked much less happy than might have been expected in such company. He appeared restless and ill at ease. When we were having a smoke together, while the ladies were getting ready for dinner (which was to be eaten hastily and followed by fireworks), I got some light on the cause of his discontent.
"It's curious," he observed over his cigar, "how disagreeable girls can manage to be to one another without saying a word that you can lay hold of."
"It is," said I. "Who's been exercising the gentle art this afternoon?"
"Why, Eunice Aspenick! You saw us three walking together? Well, we must have been walking like that—round the tables, you know—for the best part of an hour. Upon my honor, I don't believe she once addressed a remark directly to Miss Octon! And when Miss Octon spoke to her, she answered through me. And why?"
"The tandem whip, I suppose—hereditary feud and that sort of thing."
"It's not Miss Octon's fault; it's a shame to make her responsible."
"There doesn't seem to be any other reason."
He pulled his trim little fair mustache; I rather think that he blushed a little. "I don't like it, and I've a good mind to tell Eunice so. Miss Octon is Miss Driver's guest, just as we are, and on that ground anyhow entitled to civility."
I believe that he carried out his possibly chivalrous but certainly unwise purpose, and no doubt he got a snubbing for his pains. At any rate he had a short interview with Eunice just before we dined—and, afterwards, spoke to her no more that evening. While the fireworks blazed and the rockets roared, he placed himself between Jenny and Margaret. I managed to get near Margaret on the other side, just for the love of seeing the beauty of the girl's face as she watched the show with an intensity of excitement and delight. She clapped her hands, she laughed, she almost crowed in exultation. Once or twice she caught Lacey by the arm, as you see a child do with its father when the pleasure is really too much to hold all by itself. Jenny seemed to heed her very little—and to heed Amyas Lacey even less; she looked decidedly ruminative, gazing with a grave face at the spectacle, her clean-cut pallid profile standing out like a coin against the blaze of light. Amyas glanced at her now and again, but he was not proof against the living, exuberant, ebullient joy that bubbled and gurgled on his other side. Presently he abandoned himself altogether to the charm of it, fell under its sway, and became partaker of its mood. Now they were two children together, their shouts of laughter, of applause, of simulated alarm, filling the air. Grim looked the Aspenick ladies, very scornful that elegant gentleman Mr. Dormer! Margaret had never a thought for them; if Lacey had, he cast it away.
Thus they were when the show ended—but its ending did not check their talk and their laughter. Jenny rose, refreshments were spread within; to call Lacey's attention to her, she touched his shoulder. He turned round suddenly—with a start.
"Oh, I say, I beg your pardon! I—I didn't know you were still there, Miss Driver."
"There's something to eat indoors," said Jenny. "If you want it!"
"Oh, no, Jenny, dear, it's much nicer here. I'm sure Lord Lacey isn't hungry!"
He was not. Jenny turned away. As she passed me, she gave me an odd sort of smile, amused, satisfied, just a trifle—the least trifle—scornful. "Success number one!" she whispered. "But it's just as well that I'm not a vain woman, Austin!"
"You could undo it all in ten minutes if you liked."
Jenny's smile broadened a little—and her eyes confessed.
The state of affairs at Fillingford Manor must have been profoundly uncomfortable. The father and his sister banned and boycotted Breysgate; the son spent there every hour of his leisure—he had much now, for the Parliament session was over—and made small secret of the fact that he cared very little to be anywhere else. Yet care came with him; he had more than a lover's proverbial moodiness. He never spoke of his home; it was the silence of conscious guilt; at Fillingford Manor, no doubt, he avoided all mention of us. More than once he took refuge at Hingston and paid his visits from there in company with his host; it is not probable that Fillingford Manor was deceived by this maneuver, but the daily strain of awkwardness was avoided. Dormer was complaisant. That young man had sharp eyes; he soon began to be at least very doubtful whether he need fear Lacey as a rival; when the two were at Breysgate together, it was Dormer's society now that Jenny sought. She would pair off with him, leaving Margaret and Lacey together. He took from this some encouragement, but he had also a lurking fear that Jenny was angling for Fillingford again, hoping some day to get at him through his son. He would make allusions, in Lacey's absence, to Fillingford's notorious obstinacy in all matters—how that he never changed his mind, was never open to reason, never forgot nor forgave. The more open hints were bestowed on me—for transmission to Jenny; the more covert he risked conveying to her direct. She would agree with a smile of resignation, and redouble her graciousness to Dormer. Yet the graciousness had limits. She kept him at his distance—eager, yet hesitating, and fearful to take the plunge. She had need of him still for a while longer; under the cover he afforded she was gradually, dexterously, unobtrusively, sheering off from Lacey.
The operation needed skill and pertinacity; for at first the young man resisted it vigorously. The more delicately she worked, the less conscious was he that she was working at all. Her avoidance of him seemed to him like his neglect of her; when he had, by her maneuvers, been kept out of her company for an hour together, his loyalty accused him of a lack of attention and of gratitude. He would come back penitent from Margaret's side, and turn again his chivalrous devotion to Jenny; he was remorseful at finding how happy he had been with another—at beginning to find that he was even happier. He did not impute to her any jealousy, or resentment at the fickleness of a lover, but he feared that she would be hurt by any falling-off in the affectionate homage which he had been wont to pay. Insensibly he was courting Margaret—but always by Jenny's permission. If it had been her will to summon him back to her side by his allegiance, he would have come; but, as day followed day, more and more reluctantly. Margaret's spell was gaining in power.
It could not well be otherwise. Youth turned to youth, the fresh heart to the fresh. Over Margaret hung no shadow; she was unspotted from the world. In her there was no calculation, and no scheming; all was instinctive and spontaneous. Her love leaped forth unashamed because it was unconscious of its very self. The fresh strange joy that painted life in new colors was unanalyzed. She was just so much happier, so much more gay, finding the days so much better. She did not ask why, but gave herself whole-heartedly to the new delight. With Jenny effaced by her own choice, this unmeant challenge fired Lacey to response; their fleet-footed feelings raced against one another, still neck and neck as they drew near the goal. A little further, and they would find themselves at it. It would then be time for Jenny to act.
The world misjudged her—which was just what she wished. Opinion was clear and well-nigh unanimous; for Jenny rehabilitation lay in marrying and could not be complete without it: then she meant to marry—Lacey if she could, Dormer if she must. There lay the explanation of the two young men being always at Breysgate! Lacey was the object of Jenny's spring; if she missed the mark, she would fall back on Dormer. But would she miss it? Gossip was rife, eager, interested, over this, and over this opinions varied; much is forgiven to sixty thousand a year, said some; there was one thing which Fillingford Manor would never overlook, said others. But on the whole it was admitted that there was great danger of her success; it was speculated on with the fearful joy that the prospect of a social disaster has the power to excite. Nobody thought of Margaret, or that she had any part to play in the matter, All eyes were on Jenny; it could not be many days before news came! There had hardly been more excitement over the flight itself.
Besides all the gossipers and watchers, there was one man who acted—according to his lights, whether they were right or wrong. I have hinted that Alison took a view of his office and its responsibilities which was at least fully adequate—and seemed to a good many people more than that. He was not content to stand by and see what he thought wrong done without a protest. It was nothing to him that he might be told to mind his own business: he would very confidently challenge your definition of his business and your idea of its limits; he would be very sure what his orders were and where they came from. Moreover he had seen the affair from the other side. He was intimate at Fillingford Manor.
He wrote to Jenny asking if he might call on her; he wanted to have a few words with her on a matter of importance relating to herself. He added that he was acting entirely on his own responsibility and in no way at the suggestion of any other person.
Jenny twisted his letter in her hands with an air of irresolution, almost of shrinking.
"I don't want to see him," she said to me plaintively. "It won't be—comfortable. He's let me severely alone up to now. Can't he let me alone still? I suppose he'll lecture me horribly! If there were anything to be got by it! But there isn't."
"He sent you a pleasant message about Margaret," I reminded her.
"Yes, so he did. And I don't want him to think me afraid. I'll see him. But I'm afraid of him. Austin, you must be there."
"I don't think he'll expect that."
"Never mind what he expects. If I see him, it's on my own conditions. I want you there. It's cowardly, but I do. Tell him he can come, but that I propose to see him in your presence."
So she would have it, being obviously disturbed at the idea of the interview. Was he coming to her as Nathan came to David—to denounce her sin? He was no doubt wrong about her intentions for the future, but he was fatally right in his opinion about what she had done in the past. He had alocus standi, too, or so he would conceive—a professional right to tell her the truth.
"I'm spoiled. I haven't had half enough of the disagreeables," she said with a woeful smile.
There was truth in that—so far as external things went, visible and palpable pains and penalties. She had not paid full toll. Luck had been with her and had afforded her a case—not a good one, but good enough to give her courage a handle. Her other advantages—her attractiveness, her position, her wealth, she had used with dexterity and without scruple to protect her from punishment. She had cajoled and she had bribed—both successfully; only the irreconcilables remained unreconciled. To no small extent she had jockeyed outraged morality—in externals. Many people did it even more successfully—by not being even half found out, and therefore not put on their defense at all. But for one who had been at least half found out, against whom circumstantial evidence was terribly strong although direct proof might be lacking, she had come off very cheaply. Nobody about her told her so; we spoiled her. She was afraid that Alison, in manner, very likely even in words, would tell her now, face to face. Being taken to task was terribly against the grain with her. Only Jenny might punish Jenny—and the blows must fall in secret.
Alison came to my house first a quarter of an hour before the time of his appointment with Jenny. He was grave and silent; in the spirit, though naturally not in the flesh, he wore full canonicals; the consciousness of his office was about him. I had grown—and I may as well confess it—into an intellectual hostility to all this, a skepticism which prompted rebellion. But he was doing what he disliked very much in obedience to his view of duty. It is churlish to show disrespect to a man acting in that way, simply because one may consider his view incorrect or exaggerated. I had once charged him with wanting to burn people; let me not fall into the temptation of wanting to burn him—or where stood my boasted liberality of thought?
"I'm not sorry that you're to be with us, Austin," he said, as we walked up to the Priory. "Interfere if I show any signs of growing hot."
"If she tells you the truth, you won't grow hot. But if you grow hot, she won't tell you the truth," I answered.
"I don't go in my own strength," he reminded me with gentle gravity.
On the terrace, by the door, Margaret lay on a long wicker chair. She sprang up when we came near, blushing in her artless fashion at the encounter. Alison's stern-set face flashed out into a tender delighted smile. "God bless the pretty child!" he murmured as he went forward and shook hands with her. She had her little pet dog with her, and they talked a minute or two about it. He was country-bred and had dog-lore; she listened with an interest almost reverential. "Now!" he said with a sigh, as he left her to go into the house. He had welcomed that little interlude of brightness.
Jenny received him with stately dignity; if Nathan came to David, still let him remember that David was a King! She rose for a moment from the high-backed elbow-chair in which she sat; she did not offer her hand but, with a slight inclination of her head, indicated a chair. Then, seated again, she awaited his opening with the stillness of a forced composure. She might be afraid; she would show no fear. She faced him full where he sat, and challenged the light that fell on her face from the big window. I stood leaning against the mantelpiece, a few paces from her on her left.
"In coming to you, Miss Driver," he said, "I'm doing an unconventional thing. The circumstances seem to me to call for it; it's the only thing left to do, and nothing will be gained unless I face it and do it plainly. I want to tell you something about a household which you have no opportunity of seeing—something about Fillingford Manor. I go there, you know; you don't."
"No—not now," said Jenny.
"I say nothing about Lady Sarah. She is not, perhaps, very wise or very generous. Yet even for her allowances are to be made."
"I make such allowance as consists in absolute indifference, Mr. Alison."
"That's beyond your right—but no matter. In that house there is a father who loves his son and who respects himself. The father is miserable and humiliated. Do you recognize any responsibility in yourself for that?"
"Lord Fillingford once wanted to marry me—for my money, I think."
"I think you do him less than justice. Never mind that. I answer by asking you why he doesn't want to marry you now—even with your money."
"A very palpable hit!" said Jenny with a slight smile. "But did you come here only to say things like that? I know you think you have a right to say them—but what's the good?"
"The good is if they make you think—and I have a right to say them, though I fear your bitterness made me put them too harshly. If so, I beg your pardon. In whatever way I put them, the facts are there. Father and son are strangers in heart already; very soon they will be enemies if you persist in what you are doing."
"What am I doing?" asked Jenny, smiling again.
"Evil," he replied uncompromisingly. "Wanton evil if you don't mean to marry this young man—deliberate evil if you do."
"Why deliberate evil if I do?"
"You have no right to marry the son of that man. It would create a position unnatural, cruel, hideous."
"Alison, Alison!" I murmured. I thought that he was now "growing hot." But he took no notice of me—nor did Jenny.
"An inevitable and perpetual quarrel between father and son, a perpetual humiliation for a man who trusted you—and was wrong in doing it! Dare you do that—with what there is lying between you and Lord Fillingford?"
"What is there?"
"At least deceit, broken faith, trust betrayed, honor threatened. Is there no more?"
Jenny looked at him now with somber thoughtfulness.
"We're not children," he went on. "If there is no more, what was easier than to say so, to lay scandal to rest, to give an account of yourself? Wasn't that easy?"
"Lying is generally pretty easy," said Jenny.
He raised his hands in the air and let them fall in a despairing gesture. "You yourself have said it!"
"Yes, I have said it, Mr. Alison. You've always believed it. Now you know it. We're face to face."
"Then face to face I say to you that you're no fit wife for that young man."
"No fit companion either, perhaps?"
"I'll say no more than I need say. A sinner who repents is a fit companion for the angels, and joyfully welcomed. Haven't you read it? I am on your duty, not to God—I pray Him that He may teach you that—but to the honorable man whom you deceived and humiliated. You charge him with having wanted to marry you for your money. Take it on that basis, if you will. What did you want to marry him for? Was it love? No; his title, his position. Was the exchange unfair? The bargain was fair, if not very pretty. Even to that bargain you were grossly false. If I'm wrong in my facts, say so: but if my facts are right, in very decency let his house—let his son—alone."
"Your facts are right," she said. "I was false to the bargain. Have you said all you have to say, Mr. Alison?"
"I have done—save to say that what I have said to you I have said to nobody else. I am no chatterer. What I've said to-day I've said in virtue of my office. What you have admitted to me I treat as told me in the confessional."
She bowed her head slightly, accepting his pledge. "I know that," she said. Then she turned to me, smiling sadly. "I'm afraid we must tell him our plans, Austin—in strict confidence?" She did not wait for an answer, but went on to him immediately: "I'll speak to you on the terms on which you have already heard me—as though I were in the confessional."
"What you are pleased to say is safe—but it's your deeds I want, not your words."
"My words will make my deeds plain to you," she answered, and then sat silent for a while, resting her cheek on her hand, looking very steadily in his face. At last she spoke in a low even voice:
"I don't admit your authority; and yet, as Austin knows, I shrank from this meeting. You claim the right to lay your hands on my very soul, to tear it out and look at it. I don't like that. I resent it. And what good does it do? We remain too far apart. I shall make to you no apology for what I have done; I don't desire to defend myself. The thing is very different to me, and you wouldn't even try to see the difference. Yet it is not less a great thing to me—as great as to you, though different. Yes, a great thing and a decisive one. I may look at it wrongly—I don't look at it lightly."
"I'm glad to be able to think that—at least," he remarked.
"I like you, and I want to work with you in the future. That's why I've listened to you, and why I now tell you what's in my mind—why I have come face to face with you. There was no obligation on me; my soul's my own, not yours, nor the world's. But I have chosen to do it. You came here, Mr. Alison, to tell me that I was not a fit wife for Lord Fillingford's son?"
He assented with a nod and a gentle motion of his hand.
"I agree with you there—with all you've said about that—but I go much farther. I don't think myself a fit wife for any man's son."
He looked up at her with a quick jerk of his head.
"I could go to no man as his wife without telling my story. And if I told it, what would he say? He might say, 'Go away!' Probably most men would, though there are some I know who, I think, would not. Or he might say, 'That's all over—forget all that. Be happy with me.' If he said that, what should I answer? I should have to say, 'It's not all over; it's not a wretched thing in the past that I've bitterly repented of and may now hope to be allowed to forget and to be forgiven for. It's not over and never will be. For me it's decisive; it will always be there. And it will always be there for you, too, and you will hate it.'" She spoke the last words with a strong intensity. "'Always something to be ashamed of, something to hide, something breeding a secret unconquerable grudge!' That's handicapping marriage very heavily—even though my husband were not son to Lord Fillingford! Do you know that it was only with the bitterest fear that I agreed to marry Leonard himself? Should I easily marry another man now?"
"Don't ask her to marry you—it only worries her." The words of Leonard Octon's letter came back; I could imagine the grimly humorous smile with which he penned that bit of advice to me.
She went on with a sudden suppressed passion: "I want none of it—none of it at all. I can make a happy life for myself. I can be useful—even if I have to lie—in deeds if not in words—before I can be allowed to be useful. Why am I to seek unhappiness, to seek fearfulness, to create misery? The burden I bear now my own shoulders are broad enough to carry. I had sooner carry it myself than have another groaning under it at my side!"
"Cast your burden upon God, and He will bear it. This is penitence, if only you would open the eyes of your heart!"
"Call it what you like," she said, a trifle impatiently. "Let it be pride—pride for Leonard and pride for myself; let it be calculation, precaution, fear, independence—what you will. You shall do your own name-giving, and you may give the name that satisfies your theories. But I have given you my names for it and my account of what I feel. Feeling that, am I eager to marry Amyas Lacey? I'm not eager, Mr. Alison."
There was a moment's pause. The sound of a horse trotting up to the house fell on my ears; Jenny gave me a quick glance. Alison seemed not to notice; he was looking down at the floor, deep in thought. Jenny's eyes returned to his face; she watched him with a smile as he sat pondering her explanation.
"I respect your conclusion," he said at last. "Even if there were nothing but the worldly point of view, I should say it was wise—as wise as it is severe. I hope you may find better reasons still for it, and new sources of strength to carry it out."
"You shall hope—and we shall see," she answered, not carelessly, but rather with an honest skepticism which was willing to respect his prepossessions, but would pay them no insincere homage.
"There is more for me to do than merely to hope—but enough of that just now." He smiled a little, for the first time in the interview. "I mustn't be too instant out of season. But if that is your conclusion, Miss Driver, how does it fit in with your conduct?"
"It fits in very well," she replied.
"That wouldn't be the general opinion. It's not the opinion at Fillingford Manor." He leaned back in his chair, looking rather weary and discouraged. "You're still minded to fence with me, I see," he said.
"No, I'll deal with you plainly—but I rely on your pledge. Nothing goes beyond these walls—neither to Fillingford Manor nor elsewhere?"
"I am bound to that: but pretenses are dangerous."
"It will soon be time to end this one."
As she spoke, merry voices floated into the room from the terrace outside. Jenny listened with a happy smile, and then went on, "You want to know what I mean by my conduct? Why I make Fillingford Manor unhappy, and all my neighbors mad with curiosity?" She laughed as she rose from her chair. "Come to the window here," she said to Alison.
They went to the window, and I followed. There, in the mellow sun of the late afternoon, Margaret lay on her long chair, her brown hair touched to gold, her merry laugh breaking out again, her face upturned to Lacey's. He stood beside her, his eyes set on her face, a smile of admiration plain to see on his lips. It was a fair picture of young lovers—and the complacent artist whose hand had designed it turned triumphantly to Alison.
"You ask what I mean. I mean that," she said.
Alison gave a violent start. "Miss Octon! And Amyas?" He looked for a moment at the pair, then turned back to Jenny, rather helplessly. "But that's pretty nearly as bad as the other!" he blurted out.
"Who speaks now?" she asked. "The priest in his office? Or Mr. Worldly Wiseman?"