Alison watched the maid and the young man for half a minute, then drew back a little way into the room; Jenny followed as far as the piano and stood leaning her elbows on the top of it, smiling at him in mockery.
"That's a fair question, perhaps. But the idea is—staggering!"
Jenny raised her brows. "But why? Has she practiced deceit and betrayed trust? Has she broken faith or threatened anybody's honor? Or done worse things still? Is she no fit wife for a young man? What have you against her, Mr. Alison? Why is this pretty nearly as bad as the other?"
Alison was sadly put about and flustered. His confident air of authority vanished with the unimpeachable ground on which it had been founded. He had shifted his base; the new base failed him. "Surely you must see!" he protested.
"I see a dear beautiful girl and a charming handsome young man of high degree," answered Jenny in gay mischief, "and they look very much in love with one another. Is that dreadful?"
"It's quite a different case, of course—but really, really, just as hopeless!"
"You'd better not call this hopeless—neither you nor anybody else who has anything to say to it!"
"Octon's daughter!" He ejaculated the words in a low murmur, flinging his hands out wide.
"Yes, that's it!" said Jenny, her smile getting harder, and with a rather vicious look in her eyes. "That's why, isn't it? That's why she's not good enough for Amyas Lacey, not good enough to be mistress of Fillingford Manor! There's nothing else against her? Only—she's Leonard Octon's daughter! Well, now, I say to you that that shall not be against her. It shall be for her—mightily for her. To that she shall owe everything; that shall give her all she wants. If you have any influence, don't use it against her. Use it for her, back her up. It will be wiser in the interests of the friends whom you're so concerned for." She left the piano and came into the middle of the room, facing him. "Because it's the alternative to that unnatural hideous thing of which you came here to speak—and spoke so plainly. If I'm not much mistaken, I can turn this thing the way I choose. And I tell you that in spite of all you've said, and in spite of all I've said, your friends will be wise to accept the lesser evil. Margaret is better than me, at all events!"
She was on her high horse now. Very handsome she looked, with a glowing color in her cheeks; her voice was full of temper, hard-held. It was the turning point of the scheme which she was working out; through Alison she launched her ultimatum to Fillingford: "Margaret or myself—there is no other alternative."
Alison was recovering himself. He dropped into a chair and looked up at her commanding figure with a smile of kindness—with an admiration wrung from him by hercoup.
"You're really wonderful," he told her. "I'll say that for you—and I'll be as worldly as you like for a minute."
"Yes, do try for once. There is such a thing as this world."
"Then—even setting aside the obvious objection, the objection our friends at the Manor are bound to feel—Lacey is Lacey, and will be Fillingford. The girl—I think her as charming as you do—comes from nowhere and has, I suppose, nothing?"
"She'll come from Breysgate Priory—and not empty-handed."
"Of course you'd behave kindly to her, but——"
Back to Octon's phrase went Jenny—back to the words in which he had bequeathed his "legacy" to her. Her face softened. "I shall do the handsome thing by her," she said in a low voice. "Can't you understand why I do this?" she asked him. "You were one of the few people who seemed to understand why I brought her here—to be with me. Can't you understand this?"
"Perhaps I can—a little. But is it fair to Lord Fillingford?"
"I can't think always and forever of Lord Fillingford," she told him impatiently. "He isn't all the world to me. I am thinking of Leonard—this is all I can do for him now. I'm thinking of the child—and of myself. I can give up for myself, but this is my compensation. What I could have she is to have—because she loves Amyas, and I love her—and because I loved her father. That's what I mean. I daresay you've some very hard names for it. They made me give up Leonard once—at any rate behave as if I was ashamed of him. Very well. They must take Leonard's daughter now—or that worse thing you and I know of."
"I'm still on the worldly plane," Alison said, smiling. "You can, of course, if you're so minded, abolish all objections except the sentimental. If it's a hundred thousand for an Institute, what mightn't it be for a whim, Miss Driver?"
"And what mightn't it be for my dear man who's dead?" said Jenny, very low.
He got up, went to her, and took her hands. She did not repel him. He whispered a word or two to her—of comfort or sympathy, as his manner indicated. Then he looked round at me. "You've had a hand in this mischief, I suppose, Austin?"
"Oh, we just take our orders in this house," said I.
"Heaven humble your heart!" he said to her, but now the rebuke was kindly, almost playful.
"The present question is of humbling Lord Fillingford's," retorted Jenny.
Alison walked back to the window. Jenny gave me a quick nod of satisfaction; the fight was going well. "Are they still there?" she asked.
"Oh, dear me, yes! He's sat down by her on the ground—looking up, you know!"
"Yes, I can imagine, Mr. Alison."
"A fine pair!" He turned round with a sigh. "And very fond of one another! And yet you think you could—? Well, perhaps you could—who knows?" He seemed to study her thoughtfully.
"I don't want to, you know—unless I'm driven," said Jenny.
"You mustn't do it," he told her, with some return of his authority. He softened the next moment; "I don't believe you would."
"Run no risks—advise your friends to run none. You've seen enough of me now to know that it's not safe to conclude I shan't do a thing just because I think it's wrong—or even because I don't at this moment mean to do it. I have to reckon with a temper; others had better reckon with it, too."
Alison looked at me, pursing up his lips. "I think that she points out a real danger."
"I'm sure she does," I rejoined. "And you must reckon with it."
"Yes," he murmured, his eyes again searching her face. She nodded her head ever so slightly at him with a defiant smile. "But losing your temper oughtn't to be relied on as a resource. Reckon with it if you like—not on it, Miss Driver."
Jenny laughed outright at that. "He hits me hard—but it makes no difference," she said to me. "The plan stands." She turned quickly on him: "In the end, what do you make of it?" She stretched out her right hand. "Are even good things soiled if they are taken from that hand?"
"The pity of it!" he murmured, with a soft intonation of profound sorrow.
"The child's a pearl. Let her be happy! Is the beauty of it nothing to you?"
"Yes, it's much—and your love for her is much." He paused a moment. "And perhaps I should be overbold to speak against that other love of yours—now. Maybe it lies beyond the jurisdiction committed to us here on earth."
Jenny was, I fear, entirely devoted to earth and, at that moment, to arranging her own bit of earth as she wanted to have it. She gave him no thanks for what was, from him, a very considerable concession. Rather she fastened on his softer mood as affording her an opportunity.
"Then you oughtn't to be against me," she urged.
"I'm not against you. This is not my ground—not my business."
"You might even help me." He looked doubtful at that. "Simply in one way. There's one little thing you can do easily, though it's difficult for me. For all the rest, I leave you to do anything or nothing, just as you think proper."
"What's the one little thing?" he asked.
"Bring Lord Fillingford and Margaret together. It's very easy—except for me—and it commits you to nothing. Give her her chance. Anyhow, none of the trouble's her fault, is it?"
"There doesn't seem much harm in that."
"Give him no hint of what I've said. It would be so much better if the idea could come from himself."
"Impossible!" he cried.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "He seems to be very frightened. How about some idea of—the lesser evil? He'd still be shocked—but his mind might be a little prepared."
"You're altogether too—well, shall I say diplomatic?—for me."
"Come, come," I interposed, "don't do the Church injustice!"
"Let's go out," said Jenny. "Wait a minute—I'll get a hat, and join you on the terrace. I expect Margaret and Amyas are still there." She walked out of the room with a light buoyant tread. Alison turned to me with a bewildered gesture of his arms, yet with a reluctant smile on his face.
"What am I to work on? I don't believe the woman has any conception of what sin means!"
"She has a considerable conception of the consequences of her actions."
"My dear fellow, as if that was at all the same thing! And what's her new game? What's she taking me on the terrace for?"
"To have a cup of tea, I suppose. It's nearly half-past five."
"I'll never give her credit for being as simple as that!" He was disapproving, but good-natured—and altogether occupied with Jenny in his mind. "I shall never get hold of her—I once thought I should. A pagan—a mere pagan!" He paused again and added with a reluctant admiration, "A splendid pagan!"
"There are fifty roads to town—and rather more to heaven," I quoted.
"Who said that?"
"William Mackworth Praed—and you ought to have known it."
"I daresay he knew the roads to town, Austin."
"In both cases the criticism is obvious—much depends on where you start from."
We were on the terrace now. At the other end of it we saw Margaret and Lacey walking up and down together. The tea table was deserted, and probably the tea was cold; we were neither of us thinking about it. Alison had put on his hat, but now he bared his head again to the evening breeze.
"Phew, that was a fight!" he said. "And I suppose I'm beaten! But if she yields to that temper of hers, I'll have no more to do with her."
"But if she doesn't—if she needn't?" I suggested.
He made no answer. I saw his eyes wander to the shapely couple that walked up and down.
"Why shouldn't the child have her chance?"
"You're tempters all in this house!" he declared.
Margaret and Lacey suddenly came toward us—no, toward Jenny, who had just come out of the house. She stood there, near the door, quite quietly—with all her gift of serene immobility brought into play. There was no signing to them, no beckoning: but at once, out of the midst of their delighted preoccupation, they came. I permitted myself a discreet glance at Alison; he was watching. I wondered whether he were any nearer to a theory of why Jenny had proposed that we should come out on the terrace.
Margaret Octon ran on ahead of her companion and caught hold of Jenny's arm. Lacey came up a second later. I saw Jenny give him a smile of the fullest understanding. The young man flushed suddenly, then laughed in an embarrassed way.
"I know I've been here an awful time. I thought you were never coming out," he said.
"The time seemed so long till I came, did it?" asked Jenny. She stooped and kissed Margaret on the forehead. The girl laughed—very gently, very happily. Jenny looked at Alison across the few feet that divided the two small groups. Her look was an appeal—an appeal from the shy happiness on the girl's face to the natural man that was beneath Alison's canonicals. "Shan't the girl have her chance?" asked Jenny's eyes.
Suddenly Alison left my side and walked up to her.
"I must go now," he said, rather hastily, rather (to tell the truth) as though he were ashamed of himself. "I think I can manage that little commission."
She moved one step forward to meet him. "I shall be very grateful," she told him in her low, rich, steady tones. "The other way wouldn't have been nearly so—convenient." Her bright eyes were triumphant. "Soon?" she asked.
"I can manage it in a day or two at longest. And now good-by. I fear I've tired you with all my business."
The young people listened, all innocent of the covert meanings.
"Let's not be tired till our work's done!" said Jenny.
She risked that "our" and challenged his dissent. He stood swaying between reprobation and admiration, between forswearing and alliance, between sympathy and repulsion. She had so much—yet not that without which, in his eyes, all else was in the end worthless.
But she had brought him—of her subtlety she had brought him—on to the terrace. For no cup of tea tolerably stale! For nothing stale—but that the imploring, aye, the commanding, unconscious desire, the unmeditated appeal, the unmeant urgency, of Margaret's heart might work. "Are you human?" asked Jenny's eyes, traveling with a slow meaning from his face to Margaret's.
The cunning of the serpent—the simplicity of the dove! Ah, dear serpent, what had you in your heart save to make your dove happy? Another thing—yes! The dove must triumph—for she bore Leonard's escutcheon, and must bear it victorious against his enemies. The serpent bade the dove wing her happy way!
Might not the dove be made bearer also of an olive branch, made a harbinger of peace? That was the idea which Jenny sought to put in Alison's mind when she brought him on to the terrace. Could not all that grace and joy avail to blot out the name she bore? It was only a name—a thing intangible—a name, if Jenny's plan prospered, soon to be deleted, buried under a new and newly significant designation. She must bring memories with her—of old wrong and old humiliation? Could she not herself destroy even what she brought? She seemed made to do it. Who could bear a grudge against that simple joyfulness, who resist that unconscious pleading for oblivion? Alison was to go from the terrace with a new zeal for the commission that he had undertaken, to go with his cause much closer to his heart.
While he was still there, Dormer whizzed up the drive in his motor car. He had come to meet Lacey at Breysgate, and drive him over to Hingston to dine and sleep. Lacey affected Hingston for his night quarters more than ever now—and Dormer generally fetched him from Breysgate; it was an arrangement convenient to both parties.
Jenny had told so much truth that she was inclined for a little mischief. She greeted the newcomer with coquettish demureness, marking, with a smile and a glance at me, Dormer's ill-concealed surprise at Alison's presence, and at the good terms on which he seemed to be with his hostess. Dormer asked for whisky and soda, and I went with him to minister to his wants.
"Did Lacey bring the parson?" he asked, after a first eager gulp.
"Oh, no. Alison came of his own accord—came to call, you know," I answered.
"Did he?" He would obviously have liked to ask more questions. "That's being neighborly, at all events," he ventured to comment, with a covert leer. "We shall be seeing Fillingford—or even Lady Sarah—here next!"
"More unlikely things than that have happened."
"That's what I always remember," he remarked, nodding sagaciously over his long tumbler. "What I say is—try your luck, even if it does need a bit of cheek."
I had a notion that Dormer was inclining toward the confidential.
"If it doesn't come off, you're no worse than you were before. If it does, there you are, by Jove!"
"I should think that must be every successful man's philosophy. But what, may I ask, makes this call on your reserve of cheek, Dormer?—which will, I make no doubt, be equal to it."
"Wait and see," he answered, with a pronounced wink. Having executed this operation, his eye turned to Lacey, visible through the window of the smoking room where we were. "There'll be a row at Fillingford Manor some day soon—that's my opinion."
"Let's wait and see about that, too," I suggested mildly. Now he was trying to make me confidential.
He winked again. "You're a pretty safe old chap, Austin," he was good enough to tell me.
When we returned to the terrace, Lacey was ready to start and, with a look at his watch, Dormer went up to Jenny to say good-by. During our brief absence Alison had departed—to set about his commission, as I hoped.
"I say, may I come over the day after to-morrow? Shall you be here?" Dormer asked.
"The day after to-morrow? Thursday? Yes, I shall be delighted to see you. I want to know how you're getting on in those negotiations with Mr. Cartmell, you know." This referred to those farms of his—she had by now settled on three—which she wanted to round off her frontier.
Dormer smiled slyly at her. "All right, we'll talk about that, too."
"Have we any other business?" she asked, lifting her brows in feigned surprise.
"Something may crop up," he answered with a laugh. "Till then, Miss Driver!"
The young men got in and drove off, Margaret watching and waving her hand as they went—a salutation copiously acknowledged by Lacey; Dormer was busy with his handles.
"If Mr. Alison is prompt with his commission, Thursday may be a busy day," Jenny remarked, as she sat down in a low chair and lay back in it with an air of energy relaxed. Sitting down by her, I began to smoke my pipe. Margaret passed us, smiling, and went into the house.
"That was a fight," said Jenny presently, "rather a stiff one—but we've got our stiffest still to come. Lord Fillingford will fight; I must move all my battalions against him. I shall bribe—perhaps I shall still have to bully." She sighed. For the moment, the afternoon's struggle done, a weariness was upon her. She sat silent again for a long while, her brows knit in meditation or in sorrow.
"I won't tell anybody else," at last she said. "I have told you, because I wouldn't have you live here on false pretenses—because you're my friend. I told Mr. Alison to-day for the reason you heard. I'll tell nobody else. The old attitude toward the rest! It's really no use telling—I can't tell it right; I can't put it into words. For myself even I can't recover the past—can't quite see how I did it—what woman I was then, or how that woman stands to the woman I am now. A mist has come between the two."
"For Heaven's sake, vex yourself no more! Let the dead bury its dead. Alison has upset you."
"I'm in the mist—but Leonard isn't. He grows clearer and clearer, and" (she smiled faintly) "larger and larger. His great kind loving-roughness fills all my vision. I suppose it filled all my vision then, and so—it happened!" She turned to me with a quick question. "Do you think I'm right in the determination I've come to about myself?"
"I should be far from holding it obligatory either on you or on anyone else. Good things pass by—and things indifferent—and things bad. The disturbance passes off the face of life's stream; the stream pursues its course. There's no duty on you, in my opinion. Yet I think that for yourself you're right."
"I'm glad you do," she told me. "At that we'll leave it—a fixed point!"
"Unless Lord Fillingford is very obstinate?"
As she looked at me, a smile broke slowly over her face. "From the way you say that, I think you suspect me of having indulged in a little bluff this afternoon. But I think I was honest. I don't mean to do it, I should hate doing it—but they might make me angry enough."
"I don't believe you'd ever go through with it. We should have flight again!"
"Too awful!" sighed Jenny, frowning, yet almost smiling. She smiled frankly the next moment, as she turned to me and laid her hand on my arm. "Do let's agree—you and I—that I'm quite incapable of it and was bluffing most audaciously!"
"We'll agree to that with all my heart."
"So you spoil me—so you go on spoiling me!" she said very gently.
I went down the hill to my own house, leaving her still sitting there, a stately solitary figure, revolving many thoughts in the depths of her mind.
Alison was prompt as could be wished. The next morning we received our orders. Margaret was to go to tea with him at the Church House, escorted either by Chat or by me, as Jenny preferred. He expected that some business would bring Fillingford there about five—and so the encounter; for the result of it, he added, he took no sort of responsibility.
"You must go, of course," Jenny decided. "Chat wouldn't be able to tell me anything about what really happened."
I had to see Cartmell earlier in the afternoon, so arranged to meet Margaret at the appointed place. She knew nothing of Fillingford's being expected, but she had taken a strong liking to Alison and was greatly pleased with her invitation—only surprised that Jenny should not be going, too.
"Oh, I told him I couldn't," said Jenny. Let us call that a diplomatic evasion.
Sir John Aspenick came into Cartmell's office while I was there. He had heard rumors of the proposed sale of Oxley Lodge and its estate by Bertram Ware—and to Jenny. Here was legitimate matter of inquiry and interest for the county. Aspenick was much interested; but he did not seem particularly pleased.
"The thing is hardly public property yet," said old Cartmell, "but I'm sure Miss Driver wouldn't mind its being mentioned to such an old friend as you are, Sir John. Yes, it's settled. Ware sells and she buys—the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, and at a pretty stiff price, too—to say nothing of an extra five hundred for early possession."
"Why does she do it?" demanded Aspenick, sitting on the office table and smoking a cigar.
"Ah! I can sometimes see what a woman is doing by using my eyes, and I can sometimes see what she's going to do by using my head; but why she does it or why she's going to do it—that's quite beyond me," said Cartmell.
"It's a pretty place," I urged. "Good house—nice sized sort of place, too."
"But who's going to live in it—unless you are, Austin?"
I modestly disclaimed any pretensions—and any desire—to be housed so handsomely. Sir John frowned in perplexity. "Seems to me she wants the whole county!" he observed.
"Old Nicholas Driver did, anyhow," said Cartmell with a laugh. "Oxley wasn't enough for him! He wanted Fillingford Manor—you remember, Sir John?"
"Well, that didn't come off," said Aspenick dryly; I fancied that he hinted it had not "come off" with old Nicholas's daughter either—so far. "Does she mean to let the house?"
"I really don't know anything about it."
"Well, she'll be a good neighbor, I suppose. She can afford to keep her fences in order, and she won't put up wire. More than I can say for Ware! His fences were a disgrace, and he's been threatening us with wire—that's only since we wouldn't have him as candidate, I admit."
"We'll answer for the fences and the wire," Cartmell promised him cheerfully.
"But, in spite of his being reassured as to these vital matters, Aspenick's brow was still clouded.
"You're her man, of course, Cartmell, but I don't mind saying to you that these new people coming in and buying up everything give me a sort of feeling of being crowded. Do you know what I mean?"
"Can't keep things just as they were six hundred years ago, Sir John," said Cartmell.
Aspenick was not mollified by this tactful reference to his long descent. "Hustling, I call it! I suppose you'll be wanting Overington next?"
We both repudiated the idea of laying profane hands on Overington's ancient glories. "We'll leave you in possession, Sir John. But we may take just a slice off Hingston, if Mr. Dormer's agreeable."
"Everybody knows that Dormer's outrunning the constable, and I daresay you'll get all you want from him—but not an acre of mine, mind you!"
"Don't cry out before you're hurt, Sir John," Cartmell advised him good-humoredly. But when he was gone he said to me with a shrewd nod, "Well, we all know why he's so precious sulky!"
Aspenick's want of warmth about our new acquisitions (Cartmell and I always said "our" when we meant Jenny's) no doubt had a personal cause—though it was not hard to appreciate also his class-feeling. The property of Oxley lay full between Overington and Fillingford Manor; but since her return Jenny had severed Aspenick's house from Fillingford's in another way than that. No more was heard about Lacey and Eunice.
Cartmell was no gossip and a man of few questions unless about a horse; yet now he turned his rubicund face toward me with an air of humorous puzzle. "Any news from the house?"
"Nothing particular—just at present," I answered.
"I've looked at it this way, and I've looked at it that way, and I'm flummoxed. Why early possession—and five hundred paid for it? She can't want the house—and as business it's ridiculous. But you know her way—'My wish, Mr. Cartmell, and please no words about it!'"
"She generally has a purpose—she doesn't act at random," I remarked.
"A purpose! Lord love you, half a dozen! And, what's more, I believe you generally know them. But, as she knows, you're devilish safe. There it is! I could make her a really rich woman if she'd let me—but with money thrown away like that, and her Institute, and what not—!" He looked as gloomy as if Jenny were on the verge of bankruptcy and all our livelihoods taking wings.
"I'll tell you one thing. I think you'll have to open the purse-strings wider still before many days are out."
He looked at me very sharply. "The marriage coming off? And a big settlement? Well, that'd be right enough. All the same, I can't say I like it, Austin. Fillingford's son! Doesn't it stick in your throat a bit?"
"I said I'd tell you one thing. I didn't say I'd tell you two or three more."
"All the town says it. My word, you should hear Mrs. Jepps! My wife says it's something terrible." He twinkled in amusement again. "Lord, it's sometimes worth being a bit staggered yourself just to see how much worse the thing takes other people!"
"Mrs. Jepps and the rest of the town had better wait a little. It's a pity to waste good indignation."
"Aye, and folks hate being cheated of a scandal they've made up their minds to."
"Scandal's a hard word in the case that you're thinking of."
"I've no great stock of words outside of a conveyance of land—there I can use as many as any man except counsel. But, to tell the truth, it goes against my stomach."
"It sticks in your throat! And it goes against your stomach! And all this before you've been even asked to swallow it! Aren't you considerably premature?"
"You think there's a chance she won't—?" His manner was openly eager.
"Yes—but hold your tongue, and pay up your five hundred for early possession."
"Upon my soul, Austin, I never more than half believed it. But when everybody buzzes a thing into a man's ears—and his own wife first among them—and he sees no other meaning of things, why——"
"The best of us are likely to give in—yes! Well, I've got another appointment—at Alison's."
"Alison's? What have you got to do with Alison these days?"
"Come now, does your position interfere with your friendships? What have you to do with Mrs. Jepps?"
"It was my wife. I never see the old witch."
"I've no wife—so I have to face the devil on my own account."
From my talk with Cartmell I was the more anxious for the success of my other appointment. That might help to free Jenny from the danger of being made so angry as to do what she hated to do, and what faithful old Cartmell could not stomach. If anything could drive her to it, it would be a slight, a harshness, a rudeness, toward Margaret. How she had flared up at Alison's objections! If Margaret were spurned, to Jenny's mind Octon also was again spurned. Then the temper would still have to be reckoned with—the temper under disappointment as well as wrath; for Jenny built upon this interview.
Margaret was punctual at Alison's—she came spanking up in the carriage with the big gray horses the moment after I had reached the door—and we went together into the sparely furnished room where he lived and did his work. He was no bookman—his walls looked bare; his very chairs meant labor rather than rest. And he was no student—"My convictions from God, my orders from the Bishop, my time to the ministry," he had once said to me—adding then, with the touch of humor that so often softened his rigorous zeal—"I sometimes think one's Bishop is the final trial of faith, Austin." Our Bishop was a moderate man, highly diplomatic, given to quoting St. Paul as an example of adaptability. "All things to all men if by chance—" So far as the chance lay there, his lordship never missed it.
But to see Alison with Margaret obliterated any criticism left possible by his affectionate nature and (may I add?) his ingenuous consciousness of possessing absolute and exclusive truth. He had so tender a reverence for her youth and receptivity—and with it such a high gentlemanly purpose that she should not think that he held her either too young for courtesy or too receptive for intellectual respect. He had great manners, born of a loving heart. Why, after all, should he worry about reading books? Guesses about appearances—that's books—from novels up to philosophy. But how pleasant is the guessing!
She became to him at once a delighted disciple. Here was no such discrepancy of heart and head as divided him from Jenny—no appeal to another standard—no obstinate defense against his attacks behind the ramparts of her nature. Margaret's nature was his to mold—small blame to him if the thought crossed his mind that it would be to the good if she were set in a high place—if such a light burned under no bushel of obscurity!
Fillingford was announced. Alison gave me a quick glance, as though to say "Now for it!"—and the grave stern man stood on the threshold of the room. I had not seen him without his hat for a long while; he had grown gray: his figure, too, was more set; he was indisputably, even emphatically, middle-aged. His face was more lined and looked careworn. His eyes fell first on me, and there was hesitation in his manner. Alison went quickly to him and greeted him.
"We've been having a little tea-party, but I shall soon be ready for business. Austin you know. This is my friend Miss Octon."
Fillingford came forward—slowly, but with no change of expression. He bowed gravely to Margaret, and gave me his hand with a limp pressure. "I hope you're well, Mr. Austin? We've met very little of late."
Margaret was regarding him with curiosity complicated by alarm. This was Amyas Lacey's father—and Amyas had given the impression that his father was formidable; there was a knowledge in her own heart which might well make him seem formidable to her, even had his bearing been far more cordial.
"I'm afraid I've come too soon," he said. "I interrupt your party."
"Sit down with us and have a cup of tea—Miss Octon will give you one."
He did not refuse the invitation, and sat down opposite Margaret. She ministered to him with a graceful assiduity, offering her timid services with smiles that begged a welcome for them. He remained gravely courteous, watching her with apparent interest.
"I hope Miss Driver is well?" he said to me with a carefully measured civility.
Very wisely Alison did not leave the pair he had brought together to entertain one another. Plunging again into the description of his work which had so won Margaret's interest before, he enabled Fillingford to see the gay charm which he himself could not elicit. Then, branching off to herself, he got her to describe the wonderful delights of her new existence—her horse, her dog, the little room that Jenny had given her for her own snuggery at the top of the house. "I can see your chimneys from the window!" she told Fillingford with a sudden turn toward him, followed by a lively blush—how came her interest in those chimneys to be so great? Fear kept her from Lacey's name; some instinct, I think, from more than casual reference to the donor of all the fine gifts which she catalogued and praised; little reference used to be made to Fillingford at Breysgate, and perhaps she had caught the cue thus given.
"But I haven't got enough work to do," she complained gayly to Alison. "And if you would let me come and work for you——"
"I'll find you plenty of work to do," he promised. "Lots of wicked old women to visit!" He smiled at us. "I might try you on the wicked young men, too," he added. "There are lots of them about. But plenty of very good fellows, too, if only we could really get hold of them."
"Try her on Mrs. Jepps," Fillingford suggested dryly; yet the smallest unbending, the least hint of a joke, from him seemed something gained.
"That's the old lady with the fat horses, isn't it? She looks very kind and nice."
"Hum!" said Alison. Fillingford gave a wintry smile. "Mrs. Jepps and I are considered the two ogres of the neighborhood," he said.
Her little hand darted impulsively across the table toward him, and was as quickly drawn back—one of her ventures, followed by her merry confusion. "You! Oh, nonsense! I don't believe that!"
"Ah, you haven't heard all the stories about me!"
"I've only heard that you're very—really very kind and—and just." She was summoning all her courage; she was full of deprecation and appeal.
"Who told you that?"
She cast a look of dismay at me, and I came to her rescue. "Your son, of course, Lord Fillingford. We see him sometimes at Breysgate."
"I know you do." He shot out the words and shut his lips close after them.
She looked distressed and rather puzzled; after thawing a little, he had relapsed into frost at the first mention of his son. Alison seemed to think a diversion desirable.
"Before you go, I should like to show you our chapel. We have a little one of our own here. We use it in the early mornings sometimes, and for prayers after supper."
She jumped at the proposal, both for its own sake, I think, and for a refuge from her embarrassment.
"We'll be back directly," said Alison, as they left Fillingford and myself together.
Fillingford sat in silence for some moments. Then he said slowly, "I didn't know that your newcomer at Breysgate was so attractive."
Jenny had not reckoned on my being left alone with him. I had no instructions, and had to choose my own course. "I thought that perhaps Lacey would have told you about her?"
He looked me in the face with his heavy deliberate gaze. "We don't often speak of his visits to Breysgate." He paused and then added, with something of restrained vehemence in his tone, "I don't care to ask either the number or the object of his visits—and he hasn't volunteered any information to me on either point."
"His visits are frequent," I remarked. "As to their object——"
"I don't think we need discuss that—you and I, Mr. Austin."
"I was only going to say that we could neither of us do more than guess at it."
For a moment he lost his self-control. "I hope to Heaven my guess is wrong—that's all," he said hotly.
Surprised out of reserve, he leaned forward toward me, with a sudden look of eagerness in his eyes. "I should like to know what you mean by that—if you're at liberty to tell me."
"I'd sooner not. It would come better from your son, I think."
"I prefer not to talk to my son about the matter just now. I might wrong him. I have many worries just now—business and others—and I don't trust myself to discuss it with him with all the calmness which I should desire."
"I'm afraid I can do no more than venture to advise you not to come to any conclusion prematurely."
He broke out again; it was evident that he was living under a strain which taxed his endurance sorely. "But Amyas is always there! And she——!"
The sound of Alison's voice came from the hall. "Hush! They're just coming back. You must wait and see."
A light broke over his face. "You can't possibly mean that it's this girl?" There was undoubted relief in his tone—but utter surprise, too, and even contempt. "Oh, but that's on all grounds utterly ridiculous!"
They were in the room again. "Don't say so, don't say so," I had just time to whisper.
Margaret came in, laughing and merry, recovered from her confusion, delighted with the chapel, she and Alison one another's slaves. While she worshiped him, she had almost got to ordering him about; she laughed at her own airs, and he industriously humored them. They were a pretty sight together. The grave careworn man at my side watched them, as I thought, with a closer interest. But it was time for us to go—Lord Fillingford's business had been long awaiting—and Margaret began to make her farewells, extracting from Alison a promise that she should come again soon, and that he would come again soon to Breysgate. I think that this was the first Fillingford had heard of his having been at Breysgate at all; his eyes looked wary at the news.
Margaret came to him. "Good-by, Lord Fillingford," she said with shy friendliness.
He looked intently at her. "I'm glad to have met a friend of my son's," he said gravely. She blushed again; he turned to me with brows knit and eyes full of brooding question.
On the way home Margaret was silent for a while; then she asked, "Did Lord Fillingford know my father?"
"Yes, he knew him slightly."
"Were they friends?"
"Well, no, I don't think they were, particularly. Not very congenial, I fancy."
"No, they wouldn't be," she agreed. "Father would have thought him dull and pompous, wouldn't he? But I think I should get to like him and"—she smiled audaciously—"I believe I could make him like me. He looks sad, though, poor man! Though I suppose he's got everything!"
"A good many worries included, I think, Margaret."
"He spoke of Lord Lacey as if he was fond of him." The smile lingered on her lips. I think that she was day-dreaming of how, if he were fond of Lacey, he would be fond of what Lacey loved, and that so she might soothe him over his worries and take the lines out of his painful brow. "Anyhow I'm very glad I've met him."
I was glad of that, too—on the whole. The interview had gone as well as could be expected. Margaret had won no such sudden and complete victory as had attended the beginning of her acquaintance with Alison. Fillingford was not the man to yield a triumph like that; he was far too slow and wary in his feelings, too suspicious and afraid of efforts to approach him; he had, besides, a personal grudge against Breysgate that must needs go deeper than Alison's enforced but reluctant disapproval of the mistress of that house. His words had not been encouraging—"on all grounds utterly ridiculous!" Yet there had been kindness in his grave tones when he told her that he was glad to have met a friend of his son's. I wondered whether Jenny would be content with this somewhat mixed result—and what she would say to the share I had taken in the interview.
I got no chance of making my report to her till late at night, for Cartmell came to dinner—to talk business—and the two were busy discussing Oxley Lodge. Cartmell was still sore about the price, especially sore about that five hundred pounds to satisfy a mysterious whim for early possession. But Jenny was radiant over her new acquisition, and full of merriment at the story of Aspenick's sulky comments.
"Really I think they've every right to hate me—and I suppose they do. But I can't stand still just because the Aspenicks have stood still for six hundred years, can I? Anyhow I think he'll be quite safe about the wire. His new neighbors will probably be hunting people themselves."
Cartmell pricked up his ears. "Hunting people, will they? Well, that's good. I didn't know who——"
"No more do I yet—exactly," she laughed, obviously enjoying his baffled curiosity, and casting a glance across at me for my sympathy in the joke. "But I'll have people of a good class, Mr. Cartmell—no one to offend his high nobility! No tradesman's son at Oxley! Breysgate is bad enough!" Her eyes dwelt for a moment on Margaret. "And Margaret tells me that she's made a conquest of Mr. Alison, and, as a consequence, is going in for all manner of good works."
Cartmell did not follow the connection of her thoughts, and she laughed again at that.
"I'm quite serious about it, Jenny," Margaret protested.
"Of course you are, my dear, I'm very glad of it. And I believe it would appeal even to Lady Aspenick!"
At last we were alone together—just before I said good night.
"Margaret has told me some of her impressions. What are yours?" she asked.
"I think that, on the whole, we did fairly well. I also think that Margaret and I between us pretty well let the cat out of the bag."
"Oh, you did! How was the animal liked?"
"It was pronounced ridiculous—on all grounds ridiculous!"
"Was it? We shall see." Jenny looked dangerous.
"But all the same it was thought better than—the fox."
"Ah!" she cried eagerly. "Better than the fox!" Her eyes sparkled. "Tell me all you can remember."
I told her my tale, not forgetting what had passed between Fillingford and myself when we were alone.
"Not so bad! I think we'll go ahead now!" said Jenny.
All was as ready as all could be made. The plans were laid, the approaches prepared, the battalions marshaled. For so much a commander must wait—a good one waits no longer. We went ahead. The Thursday which Jenny had forecasted as likely to be busy turned out to be busy in fact. One thing happened for which she gave the word—another which, as I am persuaded, did not surprise her very much. It had to come—it had better be over and done with. In all likelihood she gave the word for this second thing also.
How were these words given? Ah, there I am out of my depth. In our relations to the other sex we men are naturally on the aggressive. The man pursued of woman exists no doubt—but as an abnormality—a queer by-product of a civilization intent on many things non-natural. The normal man is on the attack, and ignorant, by consequence, of the minutiæ of the science of defense. Whether the intent be surrender, or whether it be that the moment has come for a definitive repulse of the main attack, there are, no doubt, preliminary operations. Scouts are called in, pickets withdrawn, skirmishes retired; all these have served their function—have given information, have foretold the attack, have felt the strength of the opposing forces, and held them in check while the counsels of the defense were taken and its measures perfected. The order is issued—Let them come on—and on they come, to their triumph or their overthrow. But all this is woman's campaigning—to be dimly understood in its outlines, vaguely grasped in its general principles; but how precisely those preliminary operations are performed man, when he has the best opportunity of discovering, is generally too flurried to observe nicely, too deeply engaged in developing his attack to see, more than half blindly, the maneuvers that allow him an open field for it.
Somehow then, on that Thursday, Jenny offered battle—and on two fronts. She threw her ally Margaret open to Lacey's assault; she accepted, on her own account, a direct attack from Dormer. She wished the offensive operations to be practically simultaneous, and substantially achieved the object. One took place before four in the afternoon—the other not later than nine o'clock at night.
Keenly recognizing the fact that I was not wanted at the Priory—I am not sure that Jenny's pointed remark that she would be glad to see me "after dinner" did not assist the recognition—I remained in my own quarters after returning from our couple of hours' morning work. I rather thought that I might be called into action again later on, but I was not concerned in the present operations.
At five in the afternoon Lacey came to me—in a state of the greatest agitation. He just strode in, without asking any leave, and plumped himself down by my hearthstone. His eyes were very bright, his hands and legs seemed quite unable to keep still. Obviously something decisive had happened.
"I've done it, Austin!" he said. "I never thought I should be so happy in my life—and I never thought I should feel such a beast either."
"Congratulations! And explanations? It sounds a curious frame of mind."
"Margaret's accepted me—and I'm on my way to Fillingford to tell my father. Miss Driver insisted on my doing it at once—said it was the only square thing. Otherwise—By Jove, I'd rather charge a battery!"
He got up and began to walk about the room; its dimensions were far too small, whether for his long legs or for his explosive state of mind.
"By gad, Austin, you should have seen how she looked!"
"Miss Driver?"
"No, no, man, Margaret. I was awfully doubtful—well, a fellow doesn't want to talk about his feelings nor about—about what happens on that sort of occasion, you know. Only if it hadn't been for Miss Driver, I couldn't have bucked myself up to it, you know. Taking away her friend—leaving her all alone again, too!" he paused a moment. "I tell you I did think of that," he added rather vehemently.
"Most men wouldn't have thought about that at all—perhaps oughtn't to have."
"Ah, but then what she is to both of us! Well, it went right, Austin, it went right, by Jove!"
His voice was exalted to the skies of triumph. In an instant it dropped to the pit of dismay. "And now I've got to tell the governor!"
"All this has happened thousands of times before," I ventured to remark urbanely, as I filled my pipe and watched his restless striding up and down.
That brought him to a stand—and cooled him into the bargain. "Not quite," he said. "Not quite, Austin." His voice had become more quiet. "You must see that there are elements in this case which—which make it a bit different? My father's been a good friend to me. Things aren't very flourishing with us, as I daresay you know. But I've always had everything—and I've spent all I had, too. The election was a squeeze for him; of course he wouldn't let me take any subscription—it was the honor of the family. He thought of putting things straight himself once—you know how. He'd sooner die than do that now. I'm doing what's pretty nearly as bad to his thinking—and not putting things straight at all! I daresay you don't sympathize with all this, but I've been brought up to think that there's such a thing as loyalty to the family—and not to be ashamed of it. Well, I've cut all that adrift. I couldn't help it. But I don't know whether we can go on. It may mean"—he threw out his hands—"a general break-up!"
"But you're set on it?" I asked.
"Isn't it a good deal too late to talk about that? When I've tried to make her love me—and—and she does?"
"Yes, it's late in the day now. You must go to your father."
"I think I'd sooner be taken home to him with a bullet in my head."
"You'll find it won't be quite so bad as you think. Bad, but not quite so bad, you know."
"Ah, you don't allow for—" He stopped. "Well, you remember Hatcham Ford?"
"It seems rather long ago, Lacey."
"Not to him: he broods. If only she wasn't——!"
"'Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo!'"
"That didn't end so deuced happily, did it?"
"Only because Romeo got back at the wrong moment! Miss Driver, you say, was pleased?"
"Yes—oh, more than that! But for her I don't believe I could have done it. Still it's my own job—and I'm ready to face it. These things must be meant to come, Austin."
I glanced at the clock. He laughed reluctantly and nervously. "Give a fellow five minutes more!" he said.
"With pleasure. Spend it in thinking not of yourself, nor even of your father—but of Margaret."
"Yes, that's right," he said eagerly. "That's the thing to think about. That'll carry me through." He gave another unwilling laugh. "If he'd only be violent, or kick me out, or something of that sort—like the silly old fools in the plays! Not he! He'll behave perfectly, be very calm and very quiet—particularly civil about Margaret herself! He'll tell me I must judge for myself—just as he did about coming to Breysgate. And all the while he'll be breaking his heart." He smiled at me ruefully. "Aunt Sarah'll do the cursing—but who cares for that?"
"A good many people besides Lady Sarah will have a word to say, no doubt."
"I don't care a damn for the lot of them—except my father," he said—and I was glad to hear him say it. It expressed—vigorously—my own feelings in the matter. "And don't you think I'm the happiest man on earth?" he added a moment later.
"Earth's not heaven. Try to let Lord Fillingford see what you've shown me."
"What do you mean, Austin?"
"You don't mind my saying it? It's another of those things that one generally doesn't care to talk about. Try to show him that you love her very much, and that next in order—and not quite out of sight either—comes your father. Don't treat it casually—as if you were telling him you were going to dine out—though I daresay that's the etiquette. Try the open heart against the hidden one. You appreciate his case. Show him you do. That's my advice."
"It's good advice. I'll try." He came to me holding out his hand. "And wish me good luck!"
"You've had as fine a slice of luck to-day as happens to most men. Here's to another!"
He wrung my hand hard. "I've made an ass of myself, I suppose!" That was homage to the etiquette. "I'll remember what you've said. He has a case, by Jove, and a strong one!" He smiled again. "Somehow Margaret's case won, though," he ended.
He went his way—a straight lad and a simple gentleman. He had no idea that any schemes had been afoot, that any wires had been pulled, either for him or against his father—if to get this thing done were indeed against Fillingford. Nor had he any idea that his scruples about family loyalty were to be annihilated by the intervention of a fairy godmother. Jenny had stuck to the romantic color of her scheme. She sent him forth to meet his father with no plea in extenuation, with no proffer of gold wherewith to gild the hated name of Octon. His fight was to be single-handed. So she chose to prove his metal—with, perhaps, a side-thought that the fairy godmother's intervention, coming later, might be more effective—and would certainly gain in picturesqueness! That notion, unflattering maybe, one could not easily dismiss when the workings of her mind were in question. Yet it might be that a finer idea was there—that it was not only Lacey's metal which was to be proved that night. She had said that she was ready to bribe, that she might have to bully—and implied that she was prepared to do both at once, if need be. But had it come across her thoughts that, by divine chance, she might have to do neither? She knew Fillingford's love for his son; she had sent Margaret to met Fillingford that he might see her as she was. She might be minded now to prove if love alone would not serve the turn. The battalions might all be held in leash—and the God of Love himself sent forth as herald to a parley. If Fillingford surrendered to that pleading, the victory would not be so purely Jenny's: but she would, I believed, have the grace to like it better. That it was a less characteristic mode of proceeding had to be admitted: but to-day there would be an atmosphere at the Priory which might incline her to it. She would not force Fillingford, if she need not—neither by threats nor by bribes. Being myself, I suppose, somewhat touched by Amyas Lacey's exaltation, I found myself hoping that she would try—first—the appeal of heart to heart. That she would accept it as final—I knew too much to look for that.
The case could not, in its nature, be so simple. With the appeal of love must come that relief from a greater fear which she had carefully implanted, on which she certainly reckoned. That was in the very marrow of her plan; no romantic fancies could get rid of it. The best excuse for it lay in the fact that it would certainly be useful, and was probably necessary. When things are certainly useful and probably necessary, the world is apt to exhibit toward them a certain leniency of judgment. Jenny did not set herself above the world in moral matters.
I went up to the Priory after dinner, availing myself of Jenny's strictly defined invitation. But up there I made a blunder. I blundered into a room where one person at least did not want me—I am not so sure about the other. Dormer had gone clean out of my head; more serious matters were to the front. Heedlessly I charged into the library; there were he and Jenny! Luckily I seemed to have arrived only at the tail-end of their conversation. "Quite final," were the words I heard from her lips as I opened the door. She was standing opposite Dormer, looking demurely resolute, but quite gentle and friendly. He was looking not much distressed, but most remarkably sulky.
I tried to back out, but she called me in. "Come in, Austin. You're just in time to bid Mr. Dormer good night."
He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I'd better be off. I'll pick up the car at the stables."
"Good night. We shall see you again some day soon?"
"I don't know about that. I may go away for a bit—and anyhow I expect to be pretty busy."
"Oh, yes, we shall see you again some day soon!" she said very kindly and persuasively. "You won't let it be too long, will you? And you will see Mr. Cartmell about that business, won't you?"
He nodded in an offhand surly fashion—but he might be excused for being a little out of temper. Evidently he was not going to get Jenny's land; apparently she was still to get what she wanted of his. "You'll have to pay for them!" he reminded her, almost threateningly.
"A fancy price for my fancy? Well, I'm always ready to pay that," said Jenny. "Good night and, mind you, quite soon!" Her tone implied real anxiety to see her friend again; under its influence he gave a half-unwilling nod of assent.
I escorted him as far as the hall door—further than that he declined my company. I held a match for him to light his cigar and gave him a stirrup-cup. "Good night, Austin!" Then his irritation got the better of him. "Damn it, does she want Lacey for herself, after all?" Evidently the great event of the day—from our point of view—had not been confided to him.
"Oh, no, you may be sure she doesn't."
"Then what the deuce she does want I don't know—and I don't believe she does!" With this parting grumble he slouched off sulkily toward the stable.
As a humane man, I was sorry for his plight; Jenny was still serenely ruthless.
"Annoyed, isn't he?" she asked when I rejoined her. "Really I was rather glad when you came in. He had got as far as hinting that I—he put a good deal of emphasis on his 'you'—ought to have jumped at him! It's quite possible that he'd have become more explicit—though it wouldn't have come very well from him under the circumstances."
"You've deluded the young man, you know."
"Oh, it'll do him good," she declared impatiently. "Didn't he deserve to be deluded? He wanted me for what I had, not for myself. Well, I don't so much mind that, but I tell you, Austin, he patronized me! I may be a sinner, but I'm not going to be patronized by Gerald Dormer without hitting back."
"Did you quarrel?"
She smiled. "No. I'm never going to quarrel any more. He'll be back here in no time—and have another try most likely! You see, I'm going into training—a course of amiability, so as to be ready for Lady Sarah." She sprang to her feet. "Do you know that this is a most exciting evening?"
"Oh, yes, I can imagine that. I've had a long talk with Lacey."
"Have you? Isn't he splendid, poor boy? You should have seen his face when I sent him to her! He thought of nothing but her then—but I like him for thinking of his father now. And I've brought it off, Austin! He thinks there may be just a pretty wedding present—a trousseau check, perhaps!" She came up to me. "This is a good thing I've done—to set against the rest."
"I think it is. But the boy feels horribly guilty."
She nodded. "I know—and so does poor Margaret. I'm afraid she's crying up in her own den—and that's not right for to-night, is it?"
"Love's joy and woe can be simultaneous as well as alternate, I'm afraid."
"I can't stand it much longer." She looked at the clock. "He's to send word over to-night, if he can—by a groom—how he's got on—breaking the news, you know. Let's go out into the garden and wait for this important messenger. But, whatever he says, I believe I shall have to put my oar in to-morrow. I can't have my poor Margaret like this much longer. She knows now why she was taken to Mr. Alison's, and does nothing but declare that she behaved atrociously!"
We were a silent pair of watchers. Jenny's whole soul seemed absorbed in waiting. She spoke only once—in words which betrayed the line of her thoughts. "If I'd thought it would be as bad as this—for her, I mean—I believe I'd have brought her here under another name, in spite of everything, and perpetrated a fraud! I could have told them after the wedding!"
I was afraid that she would have been quite capable of such villainy where Margaret was in question, and not altogether averse from adénoûmentso dramatic.
"Either Lacey's shirked the interview—or it's been a very long one," I remarked, as the clock over the stables struck half-past ten. "Poor Dormer's home by now—to solitude!"
"Oh, bother Mr. Dormer and his solitude! Listen, do you hear hoofs?"
"I can't say I do," I rejoined, lighting my pipe.
"How you can smoke!" she exclaimed scornfully. Really I could not do anything else—in view of the tension.
A voice came from above our heads: "Jenny, are there any signs?"
"Not yet, dear," called Jenny, and waved her arms despairingly. "Ah!" She held up her hand and rose quickly to her feet. Now we heard the distant sound of hoofs. "I wonder if he's written to me or to her!" She started walking toward the drive.
"To you, I'll be bound!" I answered as I followed.
In a few moments the groom rode up. Jenny was waiting for him, took the letter from him, and opened it.
"No answer," she said. "Thank you. You'll ask them to give you a glass of beer, won't you?"
The man thanked her, touched his hat, and rode off to the servants' quarters.
"In old days the bearer of bad tidings wouldn't have got a glass of beer," I suggested.
"The tidings are doubtful." She gave me the letter: "He is terribly cut up. He promises me an answer to-morrow. I haven't told him yet that I must stick to itanyhow. That's for to-morrow, too, if it must come. My love to her.—Amyas."
"It'd be so much better if he never had to say that," Jenny reflected thoughtfully.
Certainly it would. If the thing could be managed without a rupture, without defiance on the one side or an unyielding posture on the other, it would be much more comfortable for everybody afterwards.
"Still, you know, he's ready to do it if he must." Her pride in her romantic handiwork spoke again.
Suddenly Margaret was with us, out of breath from her run downstairs, gasping out a prayer for the letter. Jenny gave it to her, and she read it. She looked up to Jenny with terrified eyes.
"He mustn't do it for me. I must give him up, Jenny," she murmured, woefully forlorn.
Very gently, just the least scornfully, Jenny answered, "We don't give things up at Breysgate." She stooped and kissed her. "Go and dream that it's all right. It will be by this time to-morrow. Austin and I have a little business to talk over."
Having thus dismissed Margaret (who carried off the precious distressful letter with her), Jenny led me back into the library, bidding me to go on smoking if I really must. She sat down, very thoughtful.
"It's delicate," she said. "Of course I'm trying to bribe him, but I don't want to seem to do it. If I make my offer before he decides, that looks like bribing. If he decides against us, and we make it then—bribery still! But in addition to bribery, there'll be the bad feeling between Amyas and him. No, we must do it before he decides! Only you'll have to be very diplomatic—very careful how you do it."
"I shall have to be?" I exclaimed fairly startled. "I——!"
"Well, I can't go to him, can I?" she asked. "That really would be too awkward!" She smiled at the thought of the suggested interview.
"Pens, ink, and paper!" I suggested, waving a hand toward the writing-table.
"No, no—I want the way felt. If you see he's going to give in without—without the bribe—of course you say nothing about it till he's consented. That'd be best of all; then there's no bribe really. But if he looks like deciding against us, then you tactfully offer the bribe. You must be feeling his mind all the time, Austin."
"And if he has already decided against us?"
She looked at me resolutely. "Remind him that it's not as bad as it might be."
"Bribe—and bully?"
"Yes." She met my eyes for a minute, then turned her head away, with a rather peevish twist of her lips.
"This is a pleasant errand to send a respectable man on! Do you want me to go to him at the Manor?"
"Yes—the very first thing after breakfast, so as to catch him, if you can, before he has had time to pronounce against us, if that's what he's going to do. A man surely wouldn't do a thing like that before breakfast! You'll go for me, Austin?"
"Of course I'll go for you if you want me to."
"Then I'll give you your instructions."
She gave them to me clearly, concisely, and with complete decision. I heard her in a silence broken only once—then by a low whistle from me. She ended and lay back in her chair, her eyes asking my views.
"You're in for another big row if you do this, you know," I remarked to her.
"Another row? With whom?"
"Why, with Cartmell, to be sure! It's so much more than's necessary."
"No, it's not," she declared rather hotly. "It may be more than's necessary for her, or perhaps for Lord Fillingford. It's not more than is necessary for me—nor for Leonard."
I shrugged my shoulders. She laughed rather impatiently. "One's friends always want one to be a niggard!" She leaned forward to me, breaking into a coaxing smile, "Remember 'the handsome thing,' dear Austin."
I came to her and patted her hand. "I'm with you right through. And, after all, you'll still have a roof over your head."
She looked at me with eyes merry, yet foreseeing. "I shan't be in at all a bad position." She laughed. "No harm in that—so long as it doesn't interfere with Margaret?"
"No harm in the world. I was only afraid that you'd lost sight of it."
Jenny sighed and smiled. "You needn't be afraid of such a complete transformation as that," she said.