CHAPTER VII
"Three more invitations!--since lunch," said Mrs. Hooper, as she cameinto the schoolroom, where her elder daughter sat by the windowrenovating a garden hat.
Her mother dropped the envelopes on a small table beside Alice, andsitting down on the other side of it, she waited for herdaughter's comments.
Alice threw down her work, and hastily opened the notes. She flushed anangry pink as she read them.
"I might as well not exist!" she said shortly, as she pushed them awayagain.
For two of the notes requested the pleasure of Dr. and Mrs. Hooper's andLady Constance Bledlow's company at dinner, and the third, from a verygreat lady, begged "dear Mrs. Hooper" to bring Lady Constance to a smallparty in Wolsey College Gardens, to meet the Chancellor of theUniversity, a famous Tory peer, who was coming down to a public,meeting. In none of the three was there any mention of the elderMiss Hooper.
Mrs. Hooper looked worried. It was to her credit that her maternalfeeling, which was her only passion, was more irritated by this suddenstream of invitations than her vanity was tickled.
What was there indeed to tickle anybody's vanity in the situation? Itwas all Constance--Constance--Constance! Mrs. Hooper was sometimes sickof the very name "Lady Constance Bledlow," It had begun to get on hernerves. The only defence against any sort of "superiority," as some onehas said, is to love it. But Mrs. Hooper did not love her husband'sniece. She was often inclined to wish, as she caught sight of Alice'spinched face, that the household had never seen her. And yet withoutConnie's three hundred a year, where would the household be!
Mrs. Hooper was painfully, one might have said, guiltily aware of thatside of the business. She was an incompetent, muddling woman, who hadnever learnt to practise the simple and dignified thrift so common inthe academic households of the University. For nowhere, really, wasplain living gayer or more attractive than in the new Oxford of thisdate. The young mothers who wheeled their own perambulators in theParks, who bathed and dressed and taught their children, whosehouse-books showed a spirited and inventive economy of which they wereinordinately proud, who made their own gowns of Liberty stuff in scornof the fashion, were at the same time excellent hostesses, keeping openhouse on Sundays for their husbands' undergraduate pupils, and gallantlyentertaining their own friends and equals at small flowerydinner-parties in Morris-papered rooms, where the food and wine matteredlittle, and good talk and happy comradeship were the real fare.Meanwhile the same young mothers were going to lectures on the Angevins,or reading Goethe or Dante in the evenings--a few friends together,gathering at each other's houses; then were discussing politics andsocial reform; and generally doing their best--unconsciously--to silencethe croakers and misogynists who maintained that when all the girlbabies in the perambulators were grown up, and Oxford was flooded withwomenkind like all other towns, Oxford would have gone to "Death anddamnation."
But Mrs. Hooper, poor lady, was not of this young and wholesomegeneration. She was the daughter of a small Midland manufacturer, whohad rushed into sudden wealth, for a few years, had spent it all inriotous living, over a period just sufficient to spoil his children, andhad then died leaving them penniless. Ewen Hooper had come across herwhen he was lecturing at a northern university, immediately after hisown appointment at Oxford. He had passed a harassed and penurious youth,was pining for a home. In ten days he was engaged to this girl whom hemet at the house of a Manchester professor. She took but little wooing,was indeed so enchanted to be wooed that Ewen Hooper soon imaginedhimself in love with her; and all was done.
Nor indeed had it answered so badly for him--for a time. She had givenhim children, and a home, though an uncomfortable one. Greek scholarshipand Greek beauty were the real idols of his heart and imagination. Theydid not fail him. But his wife did him one conspicuous ill turn. Fromthe first days of their marriage, she ran her husband badly into debt;and things had got slowly worse with the years. Mrs. Hooper was the mostwasteful of managers; servants came and went interminably; and whilemoney oozed away, there was neither comfort nor luxury to show for it.As the girls grew up, they learnt to dread the sound of the frontdoorbell, which so often meant an angry tradesman; and Ewen Hooper, nowthat he was turning grey, lived amid a perpetual series of meanannoyances with which he was never meant to cope, and which he was nowbeginning to hand over, helplessly, to his younger daughter Nora, theone member of the family who showed some power to deal with them.
The situation had been almost acute, when Lord Risborough died. Butthere was a legacy in his will for Ewen Hooper which had given abreathing space; and Connie had readily consented to pay a year'smaintenance in advance. Yet still the drawer of bills, on which Norakept anxious watch, was painfully full; and of late the perennialdifficulty of ready money had reappeared.
Mrs. Hooper declared she must have a new dress, if these invitationswere to be accepted.
"I don't want anything extravagant," she said fretfully. "But reallyit's too bad of Nora to say that I could have my old blue one done up.She never seems to care how her mother looks. If all this fuss is goingto be made about Constance and I am to take her out, I must be decent!"
The small underhung mouth shut obstinately. These musts of her mother'sand Alice's were Nora's terror. They always meant a new bill.
Alice said--"Of course! And especially when Constance dresses soextravagantly!" she added bitterly. "One can't look like herscullery-maid!"
Mrs. Hooper sighed. She glanced round her to see that the door was shut.
"That silly child, Nora, had quite a scene with Connie this morning,because Connie offered to give her that pretty white dress in Brandon'swindow. She told me Connie had insulted her. Such nonsense! Whyshouldn't Connie give her a dress--and you too? She has more money thanshe knows how to spend."
Alice did not reply. She, too, wanted new dresses; she could hardlyendure the grace and costliness of Connie's garments, when she comparedthem with her own; but there was something in her sad little soul alsothat would not let her be beholden to Connie. Not without astruggle, anyway.
"I don't want Connie to give me things either," she said sulkily. "She'snever been the least nice to me. She makes a pet of Nora, and the restof us might be doormats for all the notice she takes of us."
"Well, I don't know--she's quite civil," said Mrs. Hooper reflectively.She added, after a minute--"It's extraordinary how the servants will doanything for her!"
"Why, of course, she tips them!" cried Alice, indignantly. Mrs. Hoopershrugged her shoulders. It was quite indifferent to her whether Connietipped them or not, so long as she gained by the result. And there wasno denying the fact that the house had never gone so smoothly as sinceConnie's arrival. At the same time her conscience reminded her thatthere was probably something else than "tipping" in the matter. Forinstance--both Constance and Annette were now intimately acquainted witheach of Mrs. Hooper's three maids, and all their family histories;whereas Mrs. Hooper always found it impossible to remember theirsurnames. A few days before this date, Susan the housemaid had receiveda telegram telling her of the sudden death of a brother in South Africa.In Mrs. Hooper's view it was providential that the death had occurred inSouth Africa, as there could be no inconvenient question of going to thefuneral. But Connie had pleaded that the girl might go home for two daysto see her mother; Annette had done the housework during her absence;and both maid and mistress had since been eagerly interested in thegirl's mourning, which had been largely supplied out of Connie'swardrobe. Naturally the opinion of the kitchen was that "her ladyshipis sweet!"
Alice, however, had not found any sweetness in Connie. Was it becauseMr. Herbert Pryce seemed to take a mysterious pleasure in pointing outher, charms to Alice? Alice supposed he meant it well. There was adidactic element in him which was always leading him to try and improveother people. But it filled her with a silent fury.
"Is everybody coming to the picnic to-morrow?" asked Mrs. Hooperpresently.
"Everybody." Alice pointed indifferently to a pile of
notes lying on herdesk.
"You asked Connie if we should invite Mr. Falloden?"
"Of course I did, mother. He is away till next week."
"I wonder if she cares for him?" said Mrs. Hooper vaguely.
Alice laughed.
"If she does, she consoles herself pretty well, when he's not here."
"You mean with Mr. Sorell?"
Alice nodded.
"Such a ridiculous pretence, those Greek lessons!" she said, her smallface flaming. "Nora says, after they have done a few lines, Constancebegins to talk, and Mr. Sorell throws himself back in his chair, andthey chatter about the places they've seen together, and the people theyremember, till there's no more time left. Nora says it's a farce."
"I say, who's taking my name in vain?" said Nora, who had just openedthe schoolroom door and overheard the last sentence.
"Come in and shut the door," said Alice, "we were talking about yourGreek lessons."
"Jolly fun they are!" said Nora, balancing herself, as usual, on thewindow-sill. "We don't do much Greek, but that don't matter! What arethese notes, mother?"
Mrs. Hooper handed them over. Alice threw a mocking look at her sister.
"Who said that Oxford didn't care about titles? When did any of thosepeople ever take any notice of us?"
"It isn't titles--it's Connie!" said Nora stoutly. "It's because she'shandsome and clever--and yet she isn't conceited; she's alwaysinterested in other people. And she's an orphan--and people were veryfond of her mother. And she talks scrumptiously about Italy. And she'snew--and there's a bit of romance in it--and--well, there it is!"
And Nora pulled off a twig from the banksia rose outside, and began tochew it energetically with her firm white teeth, by way of assistingher thoughts.
"Isn't conceited!" repeated Alice with contempt. "Connie is as proud asLucifer."
"I didn't say she wasn't. But she isn't vain."
Alice laughed.
"Can't you see the difference?" said Nora impatiently. "'Proud' means'Don't be such a fool as to imagine that I'm thinking of you!'--'Vain'means 'I wonder dreadfully what you're thinking of me?'"
"Well then, Connie is both proud and vain," said Alice with decision.
"I don't mean she doesn't know she's rich, and good-looking and runafter," said Nora, beginning to flounder. "But half the time, anyway,she forgets it."
"Except when she is talking to men," said Alice vindictively, to whichMrs. Hooper added with her little obstinate air--
"Any girl who likes admiration as much as Connie does must be vain. Ofcourse, I don't blame her."
"Likes admiration? Hm," said Nora, still chewing at her twig. "Yes, Isuppose she does. But she's good at snubbing, too." And she threw aglance at her sister. She was thinking of a small evening party thenight before, at which, it seemed to her, Connie had several timessnubbed Herbert Pryce rather severely. Alice said nothing. She knew whatNora meant. But that Connie should despise what she had filched awayonly made things worse.
Mrs. Hooper sighed again--loudly.
"The point is--is she carrying on with that man, Mr. Falloden?"
Nora looked up indignantly. Her mother's vulgarity tormented her.
"How can she be 'carrying on,' mother? He won't be in Oxford again tillhis schools."
"Oh, you never know," said Mrs. Hooper vaguely. "Well, I must go andanswer these notes."
She went away. Nora descended gloomily from the window-sill.
"Mother wants a new dress. If we don't all look out, we shall be inQueer Street again."
"You're always so dismal," said Alice impatiently. "Things are a greatdeal better than they were."
"Well, goodness knows what would have happened to us if they weren't!"cried Nora. "Besides they 're not nearly so much better as you think.And the only reason why they're better is that Uncle Risborough left ussome money, and Connie's come to live here. And you and mother donothing but say horrid things about her, behind her back!"
She looked at her sister with accusing eyes. But Alice tossed her head,and declared she wasn't going to be lectured by her younger sister. "Youyourself told mother this morning that Connie had insulted you."
"Yes, and I was a beast to say so!" cried the girl "She meant it awfullywell. Only I thought she thought I had been trying to sponge on her;because I said something about having no dresses for the Commem. balls,even if I wanted to 'come out' then--which I don't!--and shestraightaway offered to give me that dress in Brandon's. And I wascross, and behaved like a fiend. And afterwards Connie said she wasawfully sorry if she'd hurt my feelings."
And suddenly Nora's brown eyes filled with tears.
"Well, you get on with her," said Alice, with fresh impatience--"and Idon't. That's all there is to it. Now do go away and let me get onwith the hat."
* * * * *
That night, after Connie had finished her toilet for the night and wassafely in bed, with a new novel of Fogazzaro before her and a readinglamp beside her, she suddenly put out her arms, and took Annette'sapple-red countenance--as the maid stooped over her to straighten thebed-clothes--between her two small hands.
"Netta, I've had a real bad day!"
"And why, please, my lady?" said Annette rather severely, as shereleased herself.
"First I had a quarrel with Nora--then some boring people came tolunch--then I had a tiresome ride--and now Aunt Ellen has been pointingout to me that it's all my fault she has to get a new dress, becausepeople will ask me to dinner-parties. I don't want to go todinner-parties!"
And Connie fell back on her pillows, with a great stretch, her blackbrows drawn over eyes that still smiled beneath them.
"It's very ungrateful of you to talk of a tiresome ride--when thatgentleman took such pains to get you a nice horse," said Annette, stilltidying and folding as she moved about the room. Constance watched her,her eyes shining absently as the thoughts passed through them. Atlast she said:
"Do come here, Annette!"
Annette came, rather unwillingly. She sat down on the end of Constance'sbed, and took out some knitting from her pocket. She foresaw aconversation in which she would need her wits about her, and somemechanical employment steadied the mind.
"Annette, you know," said Constance slowly, "I've got to be married sometime."
"I've heard you say that before." Annette began to count some stitches.
"Oh, it's all very well," said Constance, with amusement--"you think youknow all about me, but you don't. You don't know, for instance, that Iwent to ride over a week ago with a young man, without telling you, orAunt Ellen, or Uncle Ewen, or anybody!" She waited to see the effect ofher announcement. Annette did appear rather startled.
"I suppose you met him on the road?"
"I didn't! I made an appointment with him. We went to a big wood, somemiles out of Oxford, belonging to some people he knows, where there arebeautiful grass rides. He has the key of the gates--we sent away thegroom--and I was an hour alone with him--quite! There!"
There was a defiant accent on the last word. Annette shook her head. Shehad been fifteen years in the Risboroughs' service, and rememberedConnie when she was almost a baby.
"Whatever were you so silly for? You know your mamma wouldn't have letyou."
"Well, I've not got my mamma," said Connie slowly. "And I'm not going tobe managed by Aunt Ellen, Netta. I intend to run my own show."
"Who is it?" said Annette, knitting busily.
Connie laughed.
"Do you think I'm going to tell you?"
"You needn't. I've got eyes in my head. It's that gentleman you met inFrance."
Connie swung herself round and laid violent hands on Annette's knitting.
"You shan't knit. Look at me! You can't say he's not good-looking?"
"Which he knows--a deal sight more than is good for him," said Annette,setting her mouth a little grimly.
"Everybody knows when they're good-looking, you dear silly! Of course,he's most suitable--dreadfully so. And I can'
t make up my mind whether Icare for him a bit!"
She folded her arms in front of her, her little chin fell forward onher white wrappings, and she stared rather sombrely into vacancy.
"What's wrong with him?" said Annette after a pause--adopting a tone inwhich she might have discussed a new hat.
"Oh, I don't know," said Connie dreamily.
She was thinking of Falloden's sudden departure from Oxford, after hisown proposal of two more rides. His note, "crying off" till after theschools, had seemed to her not quite as regretful as it might have been;his epistolary style lacked charm. And it was impertinent of him tosuggest Lord Meyrick as a substitute. She had given the Lathom Woods awide berth ever since her first adventure there; and she hoped that LordMeyrick had spent some disappointed hours in those mossy rides.
All the same it looked as though she were going to see a good deal ofDouglas Falloden. She raised her eyes suddenly.
"Annette, I didn't tell you I'd heard from two of my aunts to-day!"
"You did!" Annette dropped her knitting of her own accord this time, andsat open-mouthed.
"Two long letters. Funny, isn't it? Well, Aunt Langmoor wants me to goto her directly--in time anyway for a ball at Tamworth House--horriblysmart--Prince and Princess coming--everybody begging for tickets. She'sactually got an invitation for me--I suppose by asking for it!--rathercalm of her. She calls me 'Dearest Connie.' And I never saw her! Butpapa used to be fond of her, and she was never rude to mamma. Whatshall I say?"
"Well, I think you'd much better go," said Annette decidedly. "You'venever worn that dress you got at Nice, and it'll be a dish-cloth if youkeep it much longer. The way we have to crush things in this place!"
And she looked angrily even at the capacious new wardrobe which took upone whole side of the room.
"All right!" laughed Constance. "Then I'll accept Aunt Langmoor, becauseyou can't find any room for my best frock. It's a toss up. That settlesit. Well, but now for Aunt Marcia--"
She drew a letter from the pages of her French book, and opened it.
* * * * *
"My dear Constance"--so it ran--"I should like to make youracquaintance, and I hear that you are at Oxford with your uncle. I wouldcome and see you but that I never leave home. Oxford, too, depresses medreadfully. Why should people learn such a lot of useless things? We arebeing ruined by all this education. However, what I meant to say wasthat Winifred and I would be glad to see you here if you care to come.Winifred, by the way, is quite aware that she behaved like a fooltwenty-two years ago. But as you weren't born then, we suggest itshouldn't matter. We have all done foolish things. I, for instance,invented a dress--a kind of bloomer thing--only it wasn't a bloomer. Itook a shop for it in Bond Street, and it nearly ruined me. But Imuddled through--that's our English way, isn't it?--and somehow thingscome right. Now, I am very political, and Winifred's very churchy--itdoesn't really matter what you take up. So do come. You can bring yourmaid and have a sitting-room. Nobody would interfere with you. But, ofcourse, we should introduce you to some nice people. If you are asensible girl--and I expect you are, for your father was a very cleverman--you must know that you ought to marry as soon as possible. Therearen't many young men about here. What becomes of all the young men inEngland, I'm sure I don't know. But there are a few--and quite possible.There are the Kenbarrows, about four miles off--a largefamily--_nouveaux riches_--the father made buttons, or something of thekind. But the children are all most presentable, and enormously rich.And, of course, there are the Fallodens--quite near--Mr. and Lady Laura,Douglas, the eldest son, a girl of seventeen, and two children. You'llprobably see Douglas at Oxford. Oh, I believe Sir Arthur Falloden,_pere_, told me the other day you had already met him somewhere.Winifred and I don't like Douglas. But that's neither here nor there.He's a magnificent creature, who can't be bothered with old ladies.He'll no doubt make himself agreeable to you--_cela va sans dire_. Idon't altogether like what I hear sometimes about the Fallodens. Ofcourse Sir Arthur's very rich, but they say he's been speculatingenormously, and that he's been losing a good deal of money lately.However, I don't suppose it matters. Their place, Flood Castle, isreally splendid--old to begin with, and done up! They have copied theAmericans and given every room a bathroom. Absurd extravagance! Andthink of the plumbing! It was that kind of thing gave the Prince ofWales typhoid. I hate drains!
"Well, anyway, do come and see us. Sophia Langmoor tells me she haswritten to you, and if you go to her, you might come on here afterwards.Winifred who has just read this letter says it will 'put you off.' Idon't see why it should. I certainly don't want it to. I'm downright, Iknow, but I'm not hypocritical. The world's just run on white liesnowadays--and I can't stand it. I don't tell any--if I can help.
"Oh, and there is Penfold Rectory not very far off--and a very nice manthere, though too 'broad' for Winifred. He tells me he's going to havesome people staying with him--a Mr. Sorell, and a young musician with aPolish name--I can't remember it. Mr. Sorell's going to coach the youngman, or something. They're to be paying guests, for a month at least.Mr. Powell was Mr. Sorell's college tutor--and Mr. Powell's dreadfullypoor--so I'm glad. No wife, mercifully!
"Anyway, you see, there are plenty of people about. Do come.
"I am, dear Constance, Your affectionate aunt, MARCIA RISBOROUGH."
"Now what on earth am I going to do about that?" said Constance, tossingthe letter over to Annette.
"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Hooper are going, cook says, to the Isle of Wight,and Miss Alice is going with them," said Annette, "and Miss Nora's goingto join them after a bit in Scotland."
"I know all that," said Constance impatiently. "The question is--do yousee me sitting in lodgings at Ryde with Aunt Ellen for five or sixweeks, doing a little fancy-work, and walking out with Aunt Ellen andAlice on the pier?"
Annette laughed discreetly over her knitting, but said nothing.
"No," said Connie decidedly. "That can't be done. I shall have to sampleAunt Marcia. I must speak to Uncle Ewen to-morrow. Now put the lightout, please, Annette; I'm going to sleep."
But it was some time before she went to sleep. The night was hot andthunderous, and her windows were wide open. Drifting in came theever-recurring bells of Oxford, from the boom of the Christ Church"Tom," far away, through every variety of nearer tone. Connie lay andsleepily listened to them. To her they were always voices, half alive,half human, to which the dreaming mind put words that varied with themood of the dreamer.
Presently, she breathed a soft good night into thedarkness--"Mummy--mummy darling! good night!" It was generally her lastwaking thought. But suddenly another--which brought with it a rush ofexcitement--interposed between her and sleep.
"Tuesday," she murmured--"Mr. Sorell says the schools will be over byTuesday. I wonder!--"
And again the bluebell carpet seemed to be all round her--the light andfragrance and colour of the wood. And the man on the black horse besideher was bending towards her, all his harsh strength subdued, for themoment, to the one end of pleasing her. She saw the smile in his darkeyes; and the touch of sarcastic _brusquerie_ in the smile, that couldrouse her own fighting spirit, as the touch of her whip roused thebrown mare.
* * * * *
"Am I really so late?" said Connie, in distress, running downstairs thefollowing afternoon to find the family and various guests waiting forher in the hall.
"Well, I hope we shan't miss everybody," said Alice sharply. "How lateare we?"
She turned to Herbert Pryce.
The young don smiled and evaded the question.
"Nearly half an hour!" said Alice. "Of course they'll think we're notcoming."
"They" were another section of the party who were taking a couple ofboats round from the lower river, and were to meet the walkers comingacross the Parks, at the Cherwell.
"Dreadfully sorry!" said Connie, who had opened her eyes, however, asthough Alice's tone astonished her. "But my watch has gone quite
mad."
"It does it every afternoon!" murmured Alice to a girl friend of Nora'swho was going with the party. It was an aside, but plainly heard byConstance--whose cheeks flushed.
She turned appealingly to Herbert Pryce.
"Please carry my waterproof, while I button my gloves." Pryce wasenchanted. As the party left the house, he and Constance walked ontogether, ahead of the others. She put on her most charming manners, andthe young man was more than flattered.
What was it, he asked himself, complacently, that gave her such adelicate distinction? Her grey dress, and soft grey hat, were, hesupposed, perfect of their kind. But Oxford in the summer term was fullof pretty dresses. No, it must be her ease, her sureness of herself thatbanished any awkward self-consciousness both in herself and hercompanions, and allowed a man to do himself justice.
He forgot her recent snubs and went off at score about his own affairs,his college, his prospects of winning a famous mathematical prize givenby the Berlin Academy, his own experience of German Universities, andthe shortcomings of Oxford. On these last he became scornfully voluble.He was inclined to think he should soon cut it, and go in for publiclife. These university towns were really very narrowing!
"Certainly," said Constance amiably. Was he thinking of Parliament?
Well, no, not at once. But journalism was always open to a man withbrains, and through journalism one got into the House, when the chancecame along. The House of Commons was dangerously in want of new blood.
"I am certain I could speak," he said ardently. "I have made severalattempts here, and I may say they have always come off."
Constance threw him a shy glance. She was thinking of a dictum of UncleEwen's which he had delivered to her on a walk some days previously."What is it makes the mathematicians such fools? They never seem to growup. They tell us they're splendid fellows, and of course we must believethem. But who's to know?"
Meanwhile, Alice and Sorell followed them at some distance behind, whileMrs. Hooper and three or four other members of the party brought up therear. Scroll's look was a little clouded. He had heard what passed inthe hall, and he found himself glancing uncomfortably from the girlbeside him to the pair forging so gaily ahead. Alice Hooper's expressionseemed to him that of something weak and tortured. All through thewinter, in the small world of Oxford, the flirtation between Pryce ofBeaumont and Ewen Hooper's eldest girl had been a conspicuous thing,even for those who had little or no personal knowledge of the Hoopers.It was noticed with amusement that Pryce had at last found some one towhom he might talk as long and egotistically as he pleased about himselfand his career; and kindly mothers had said to each other that it wouldbe a comfort to the Hoopers to have one of the daughters settled, thoughin a modest way.
"It is pleasant to see that your cousin enjoys Oxford so much," saidSorell, as they neared the museum, and saw Pryce and Connie disappearingthrough the gate of the park.
"Yes. She seems to like it," said Alice coldly.
Sorell began to talk of his first acquaintance with the Risboroughs, andof Connie's mother. There was no hint in what he said of his ownpassionate affection for his dead friends. He was not a profaner ofshrines. But what he said brought out the vastness of Connie's loss inthe death of her mother; and he repeated something of what he had heardfrom others of her utter physical and mental collapse after the doubletragedy of the year before.
"Of course you'll know more about it than I do. But one of the Englishdoctors in Rome, who is a friend of mine, told me that they thought atone time they couldn't pull her through. She seemed to have nothing elseto live for."
"Oh, I don't think it was as bad as that," said Alice drily. "Anyway,she's quite well and strong now."
"She's found a home again. That's a great comfort to all her mother'sold friends."
Sorell smiled upon his companion; the sensitive kindness in his ownnature appealing to the natural pity in hers.
But Alice made no reply; and he dropped the subject.
They walked across the park, under a wide summer sky, towards thewinding river, and the low blue hills beyond it. At the Cherwellboat-house they found the two boats, with four or five men, and Nora, asusual, taking charge of everything, at least till Herbert Pryceshould appear.
Connie was just stepping into the foremost boat, assisted by HerbertPryce, who was in his shirt-sleeves, while Lord Meyrick and anotherMarmion man were already in the boat.
"Sorell, will you stroke the other boat?" said Pryce, "and Miss Nora,will you have a cushion in the bows? Now I think we're made up. No--wewant another lady. And running his eyes over those still standing on thebank, he called a plump little woman, the wife of a Llandaff tutor, whohad been walking with Mrs. Hooper.
"Mrs. Maddison, will you come with us? I think that will about trim us."
Mrs. Maddison obeyed him with alacrity, and the first boat pushed off.Mrs. Hooper, Alice, Sorell, two St. Cyprian undergraduates and Nora'sgirl friend, Miss Watson, followed in the second.
Then, while the June evening broadened and declined, the party wound inand out of the curves of the Cherwell. The silver river, brimming from arecent flood, lay sleepily like a gorged serpent between the hay meadowson either side. Flowers of the edge, meadow-sweet, ragged-robin andyellow flags, dipped into the water; willows spread their thin greenover the embattled white and blue of the sky; here and there a ratplunged or a bird fled shrieking; bushes of wild roses flung out theirbranches, and everywhere the heat and the odours of a rich open landproclaimed the fulness of the midland summer.
Connie made the life of the leading boat. Something had roused her, andshe began to reveal some of the "parlour-tricks," with which she hadamused the Palazzo Barberini in her Roman days. A question from Prycestirred her into quoting some of the folk-songs of the Campagna, somecomic, some tragic, fitting an action to them so lively and true thateven those of her hearers who could not follow the dialect satentranced. Then some one said--"But they ought to be sung!" Andsuddenly, though rather shyly, she broke into a popular _canzone_ of theGaribaldian time, describing the day of Villa Gloria; the march of themorning, the wild hopes, the fanfaronade; and in the evening, a girlhiding a wounded lover and weeping both for him and "Italia" undone.
The sweet low sounds floated along the river.
"Delicious!" said Sorell, holding his oar suspended to listen. Heremembered the song perfectly. He had heard her sing it in manyplaces--Rome, Naples, Syracuse. It was a great favourite with hermother, for whom the national upheaval of Italy--the heroic struggle ofthe Risorgimento--had been a life-long passion.
"Why did Connie never tell us she could sing!" said Mrs. Hooper in herthin peevish voice. "Girls really shouldn't hide their accomplishments."
Sorell's oar dropped into the water with a splash.
* * * * *
At Marston Ferry, there was a general disembarking, a ramble along theriver bank and tea under a group of elms beside a broad reach of thestream. Sorell noticed, that in spite of the regrouping of the two boatloads, as they mingled in the walk, Herbert Pryce never left Connie'sside. And it seemed to him, and to others, that she was determined tokeep him there. He must gather yellow flag and pink willow-herb for her,must hook a water-lily within reach of the bank with her parasol, mustexplain to her about English farms, and landlords, and why the labourerswere discontented--why there were no peasant owners, as in Italy--and soon, and so on. Round-faced Mrs. Maddison, who had never seen theHoopers' niece before, watched her with amusement, deciding that,distinguished and refined as the girl was, she was bent on admiration,and not too critical as to whence it came. The good-natured,curly-haired Meyrick, who was discontentedly reduced to helping Aliceand Nora with the tea, and had never been so bored with a river picnicbefore, consoled himself by storing up rich materials for a "chaff" ofDouglas when they next met--perhaps that evening, after hall? Alicemeanwhile laughed and talked with the freshman whom Meyrick had broughtwith him from Marmion. Her silence and pallor had gone; she showed
akind of determined vivacity. Sorell, with his strange gift of sympathy,found himself admiring her "pluck."
When the party returned to the boat-house in the evening, Sorell, whoseboat had arrived first at the landing-stage, helped Constance to land.Pryce, much against his will, was annexed by Nora to help her return theboats to the Isis; the undergraduates who had brought them being due atvarious engagements in Oxford. Sorell carried Constance off. He thoughtthat he had never seen her look more radiant. She was flushed withsuccess and praise, and the gold of the river sunset glorified her asshe walked. Behind them, dim figures in the twilight, followed Mrs.Hooper and Alice, with the two other ladies, their cavaliers havingdeserted them.
"I am so glad you like Mr. Pryce," said Sorell suddenly.
Constance looked at him in astonishment.
"But why? I don't like him very much!"
"Really? I was glad because I suppose--doesn't everybody suppose?"--helooked at her smiling--"that there'll be some news in that quarterpresently?"
Constance was silent a moment. At last, she said--
"You mean--he'll propose to Alice?"
"Isn't that what's expected?" He too had reddened. He was a shy man, andhe was suddenly conscious that he had done a marked thing.
Another silence. Then Constance faced him, her face now more thanflushed--aflame.
"I see. You think I have been behaving badly?"
He stammered.
"I didn't know perhaps--whether--you have been such a little whilehere--whether you had come across the Oxford gossip. I wishsometimes--you know I'm an old friend of your uncle--that it could besettled. Little Miss Alice has begun to look very worn."
Constance walked on, her eyes on the ground. He could see the soft laceon her breast fluttering. What foolish quixotry--what jealousy for anideal--had made him run this hideous risk of offending her? He held hisbreath till she should look at him again. When she did, the beauty ofthe look abashed him.
"Thank you!" she said quietly. "Thank you very much. Alice annoyedme--she doesn't like me, you see--and I took a mean revenge. Well, nowyou understand--how I miss mamma!"
She held out her hand to him impulsively, and he enclosed it warmly inhis; asking her, rather incoherently, to forgive his impertinence. Wasit to be Ella Risborough's legacy to him--this futile yearning tohelp--to watch over--her orphaned child?
Much good the legacy would do him, when Connie's own will was reallyengaged! He happened to know that Douglas Falloden was already in Oxfordagain, and in a few more days Greats would be over, and the young man'senergies released. What possible justification had he, Sorell, for anysort of interference in this quarter? It seemed to him, indeed, as tomany others, that the young man showed every sign of a selfish andviolent character. What then? Are rich and handsome husbands soplentiful? Have the moralists ever had their way with youth and sex intheir first turbulent hour?