CHAPTER VIII
This little scene with Sorell, described in the last chapter, was ofgreat importance to Connie's after history. It had placed her suddenlyon a footing of intimacy with a man of poetic and lofty character, andhad transformed her old childish relation to him--which had alone madethe scene possible--into something entirely different. It produced asingular effect upon her that such a man should care enough what befellher to dare to say what he had said to her. It had been--she admittedit--a lesson in scrupulousness, in high delicacy of feeling, inmagnanimity. "You are trifling with what may be the life ofanother--just to amuse yourself--or to pay off a moment's offence. Onlythe stupid or cruel souls do such things--or think lightly of them. Butnot you--your mother's daughter!"
That had been the meaning of his sudden incursion. The more Conniethought of it, the more it thrilled her. It was both her charm and herweakness, at this moment, that she was so plastic, so responsive bothfor good and evil. She said to herself that she was fortunate to havesuch a friend; and she was conscious of a new and eager wish to win hispraise, or to avoid his blame.
At the same time it did not occur to her to tell him anything of herescapade with Douglas Falloden. But the more closely she kept this toherself, the more eager she was to appease her conscience and satisfySorell, in the matter of Alice and Herbert Pryce. Her instinct showedher what to do, and Sorell watched her struggling with the results ofher evening's flirtation with much secret amusement and applause.Herbert Pryce having been whistled on, had to be whistled off, and Alicehad to be gently and gradually reassured; yet without any obviouspenitence on Connie's part, which would only have inflicted additionalwounds on Alice's sore spirit.
And Connie did it, broadly speaking, during the week of Falloden'sschools. Sorell himself was busy every day and all day as one of theGreats examiners. He scarcely saw her for more than two half-hoursduring a hideously strenuous week, through which he sat immersed in thelogic and philosophy papers of the disappearing generation of Honourmen. Among the papers of the twenty or thirty men who were the certainFirsts of the year, he could not help paying a special attention toDouglas Falloden's. What a hard and glittering mind the fellowhad!--extraordinarily competent and well-trained; extraordinarilylacking, as it seemed to Sorell, in width or pliancy, or humanity. Oneof the ablest essays sent in, however, was a paper by Falloden on the"Sentimentalisms of Democracy"--in which a reasoned and fierce contemptfor the popular voice, and a brilliant glorification of war and of amilitary aristocracy, made very lively reading.
On the later occasion, when Sorell and Constance met during the week, hefound Radowitz in the Hoopers' drawing-room. Sorell had gone in afterdinner to consult with Ewen Hooper, one of his fellow examiners, oversome doubtful papers, and their business done, the two men allowedthemselves an interval of talk and music with the ladies beforebeginning work again till the small hours.
Constance, in diaphanous black, was at the piano, trying to recall, forRadowitz's benefit, some of the Italian folk-songs that had delightedthe river-party. The room was full of a soft mingled light from thestill uncurtained windows and the lamp which had been just brought in.It seemed to be specially concentrated on the hair, "golden like ripecorn," of the young musician, and on Connie's white neck and arms.Radowitz lay back in a low chair gazing at her with all his eyes.
On the further side of the room Nora was reading, Mrs. Hooper was busywith the newspaper, and Alice and Herbert Pryce were talking with theair of people who are, rather uncomfortably, making up a quarrel.
Sorell spent his half-hour mostly in conversation with Mrs. Hooper andNora, while his inner mind wondered about the others. He stood with hisback to the mantelpiece, his handsome pensive face, with its intenselyhuman eyes, bent towards Nora, who was pouring out to him somegrievances of the "home-students," to which he was courteously giving ajaded man's attention.
When he left the room Radowitz broke out--
"Isn't he like a god?"
Connie opened astonished eyes.
"Who?"
"My tutor--Mr. Sorell. Ah, you didn't notice--but you should. He is likethe Hermes--only grown older, and with a soul. But there is no Greeksculptor who could have done him justice. It would have wanted aPraxiteles; but with the mind of Euripides!"
The boy's passionate enthusiasm pleased her. But she could think ofnothing less conventional in reply than to ask if Sorell were popularin college.
"Oh, they like him well enough. They know what trouble he takes forthem, and there's nobody dares cheek him. But they don't understand him.He's too shy. Wasn't it good fortune for me that he happens to bemy friend?"
And he began to talk at headlong speed, and with considerable eloquence,of Sorell's virtues and accomplishments. Constance, who had been broughtup in a southern country, liked the eloquence. Something in her wasalready tired of the slangy brevities that do duty in England forconversation. At the same time she thought she understood why Falloden,and Meyrick, and others called the youth a _poseur_, and angrily wishedto snub him. He possessed besides, in-bred, all the foreign aids to themere voice--gesticulation of hands and head, movements that to theEnglishman are unexpected and therefore disagreeable. Also there,undeniably, was the frilled dress-shirt, and the two diamond studs, muchlarger and more conspicuous than Oxford taste allowed, which added toits criminality. And it was easy to see too that the youth wasinordinately proud of his Polish ancestry, and inclined to rate allEnglishmen as _parvenus_ and shopkeepers.
"Was it in Paris you first made friends with Mr. Sorell?" Connie askedhim.
Radowitz nodded.
"I was nineteen. My uncle had just died. I had nobody. You understand,my father was exiled twenty years ago. We belong to German Poland;though there has always been a branch of the family in Cracow. For morethan a hundred years these vile Germans have been crushing andtormenting us. They have taken our land, they have tried to kill ourlanguage and our religion. But they can not. Our soul lives. Polandlives. And some day there will be a great war--and then Poland will riseagain. From the East and the West and the South they will come--and thebody that was hewn asunder will be young and glorious again." His blueeyes shone. "Some day, I will play you that in music. Chopin is full ofit--the death of Poland--and then her soul, her songs, her hopes, herrising again. Ah, but Sorell!--I will explain. I saw him one night at ahouse of kind people--the master of it was the Directeur of the Ecoledes Sciences Politiques--and his wife. She was so beautiful, though shewas not young; and gentle, like a child; and so good. I was nothing tothem--but I went to some lectures at the school, while I was still atthe Conservatoire, and I used to go and play to them sometimes. So whenmy uncle died, they said, 'Come and stay with us.' I had really nobody.My father and mother died years ago. My mother, you understand, was halfEnglish; I always spoke English with her. She knew I must be a musician.That was settled when I was a child. Music is my life. But if I took itfor a profession, she made me promise to see some other kinds of lifefirst. She often said she would like me to go to Oxford. She had someold engravings of the colleges she used to show me. I am not a pauper,you see,--not at all. My family was once a very great family; and I havesome money--not very much, but enough. So then Mr. Sorell and I began totalk. And I had suddenly the feeling--'If this man will tell me what todo, I will do it.' And then he found I was thinking of Oxford, and hesaid, if I came, he would be my friend, and look after me. And so headvised me to go to Marmion, because some of the tutors there were greatfriends of his. And that is why I went. And I have been there nearlya year."
"And you like it?" Connie, sitting hunched on the music-stool, her chinon her hand, was thinking of Falloden's outburst, and her own rebuff inLathom Woods.
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Connie with his brillianteyes, and she seemed to see that he was on the point of confiding inher, of complaining of his treatment, and then proudly checked himself.
"Oh, I like it well enough," he said carelessly. "I am reading classics.I love Greek. There is a soul
in Greek. Latin--and Rome--that is toolike the Germans! Now let me play to you--something from Poland."
He took her seat at the piano, and began to play--first in a dreamy andquiet way, passing from one plaintive folk-song to another; thengradually rising into passion, defiance, tragedy. Constance stoodlistening to him in amazement--entranced. Music was a natural languageto her as it was to Radowitz, though her gift was so small and slightcompared to his. But she understood and followed him; and there sprangup in her, as she sat turning her delicate face to the musician, thatsudden, impassioned delight, that sense of fellowship with things vastand incommunicable--"exultations, agonies, and love, and man'sunconquerable mind"--which it is the glorious function of music tokindle in the human spirit.
_Lady Connie had stood entranced by the playing ofRadowitz_]
The twilight darkened. Every sound in the room but Radowitz's playinghad ceased; even Mrs. Hooper had put down her newspaper. Nora, on thefurther side of the room, was absorbed in watching the two beautifulfigures under the lamplight, the golden-haired musician and thelistening girl.
Suddenly there was a noise of voices in the hall outside. Thedrawing-room door was thrown open, and the parlourmaid announced:
"Mr. Falloden."
Mrs. Hooper rose hastily. Radowitz wavered in a march finale he wasimprovising, and looked round.
"Oh, go on!" cried Constance.
But Radowitz ceased playing. He got up, with an angry shake of his waveof hair, muttered something about "another couple of hours' work" andclosed the piano.
Constance remained sitting, as though unaware of the new arrival in theroom.
"That was wonderful!" she said, with a long breath, her eyes raised toRadowitz. "Now I shall go and read Polish history!"
A resonant voice said:
"Hullo--Radowitz! Good-evening, Lady Connie. Isn't this a scandaloustime to call? But I came about the ball-tickets for next Wednesday--toask how many your aunt wants. There seems to be an unholy rush on them."
Connie put out a careless hand.
"How do you do? We've been having the most divine music! Next Wednesday?Oh, yes, I remember!" And as she recovered her hand from Falloden, shedrew it across her eyes, as though trying to dispel the dream in whichRadowitz's playing had wrapped her. Then the hand dropped, and she sawthe drawing-room door closing on the player.
Falloden looked down upon her with a sarcastic mouth, which, however,worked nervously.
"I'm extremely sorry to bring you down to earth. I suppose he's awfullygood."
"It's genius," said Connie, breathlessly--"just that--genius! I had noidea he had such a gift." Falloden shrugged his shoulders without reply.He threw himself into a chair beside her, his knees crossed, his handson the topmost knee, with the finger-tips lightly touching, an attitudecharacteristic of him. The lamp which had been brought in to light thepiano shone full upon him, and Constance perceived that, in spite of hisself-confident ease of bearing, he looked haggard and pale with the longstrain of the schools. Her own manner relaxed.
"Have you really done?" she asked, more graciously.
"I was in for my last paper this afternoon. I am now a free man."
"And you've got your First?"
He laughed.
"That only the gods know. I may just squeak into it."
"And now you've finished with Oxford?"
"Oh, dear, no! There's a fortnight more. One keeps the best--for thelast."
"Then your people are coming up again for Commem.?" The innocence of thetone was perfect.
His sparkling eyes met hers.
"I have no domestic prospects of that sort," he said drily. "What Ishall do with this fortnight depends entirely--on one person."
The rest of the room seemed full of a buzz of conversation which leftthem unobserved. Connie had taken up her large lace fan and was slowlyopening and closing it. The warm pallor of her face and throat, thegolden brown of her hair, the grace of her neck and shoulders, enchantedthe man beside her. For three weeks he had been holding desire in checkwith a strong hand. The tide of it rushed back upon him, with the joy ofa released force. But he knew that he must walk warily.
"Will you please give me some orders?" he went on, smiling, seeing thatshe did not reply. "How has the mare been behaving?"
"She is rather tame--a little too much of the sheep in her composition."
"She wants a companion. So do I--badly. There is a little village beyondthe Lathom Woods--which has a cottage--for tea--and a strawberry garden.Shall we sample it?"
Constance shook her head laughing.
"We haven't an hour. Everybody asks us to parties, all day and all nightlong. London is a joke to Oxford."
"Don't go!" said Falloden impatiently. "I have been asked to meetyou--three times--at very dull houses. But I shall go, of course, unlessI can persuade you to do something more amusing."
"Oh, dear, no! We're in for it. But I thought people came here to readbooks?"
"They do read a few; but when one has done with them one feels towardsthem like enemies whom one has defeated--and insults. I chucked my Greeklexicon under the sofa, first thing, when I got back from the schoolsthis afternoon."
"Wasn't that childish--rather? I am appalled to think how much youknow."
He laughed impatiently.
"Now one may begin to learn something. Oxford is precious little use.But it's not worth while being beaten--in anything. Shall we sayThursday, then?--for our ride?"
Constance opened her eyes in pretended astonishment.
"After the ball? Shall I be awake? Let's settle it on Wednesday!"
He could get no more definite promise from her, and must needs take hisleave. Before he went, he asked her to keep the first four dances forhim at the Marmion ball, and two supper-dances. But Constance evaded adirect assent. She would do her best. But she had promised some to Mr.Pryce, and some to Mr. Radowitz.
Falloden's look darkened.
"You should not allow him to dance with you," he said imperiously. "Heis too eccentric. He doesn't know how to behave; and he makes hispartners conspicuous."
Constance too had risen, and they confronted each other--she allwilfulness.
"I shall certainly dance with him!" she said, with a little determinedair. "You see, I like foreign ways!"
He said good night abruptly. As he stood a few minutes on the furtherside of the room, making a few last arrangements as to the ball withMrs. Hooper and Alice, Constance, still standing by the piano, andapparently chatting with Herbert Pryce, was really aware of Falloden'severy movement. His manner to her aunt was brusque and careless; and heforgot, apparently, to say good night either to Alice or Nora. Nobody inthe room, as she well knew, except herself, found any pleasure in hissociety. Nora's hostile face in the background was a comic study. Andyet, so long as he was there, nobody could forget or overlook him; sosplendid was the physical presence of the man, and so strong theimpression of his personality--even in trivial things.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, everybody in the house had gone to bed, except Nora and herfather. She had lit a little fire in his study, as the night had grownchilly; she had put a little tray with tea on it by his side, and helpedhim to arrange the Greats papers, in which he was still immersed, underhis hand. And finally she brought his pipe and filled it for him.
"Must you sit up long, father?"
"An hour or two," said Ewen Hooper wearily. "I wish I didn't get solimp. But these Honour exams take it out of one. And I have to go toWinchester to-morrow."
"For the scholarship?"
He nodded.
"Father! you work a great deal too hard--you look dog-tired!" cried Norain distress. "Why do you do so much?"
He shook his head sadly.
"You know, darling."
Nora did know. She knew that every pound was of importance to thehousehold, that the temporary respite caused by the legacy from LordRisborough and by Connie's prepayment would very soon come to an end,and th
at her father seemed to be more acutely aware of the positionthan he had yet been. Her own cleverness, and the higher education shewas steadily getting for herself enabled her to appreciate, as no oneelse in the family could or did, her father's delicate scholarly gifts,which had won him his reputation in Oxford and outside. But thereputation might have been higher, if so much time had not been claimedyear after year by the sheer pressure of the family creditors. Withevery year, Nora had grown up into a fuller understanding of herfather's tragedy; a more bitter, a more indignant understanding. Theymight worry through; one way or another she supposed they would worrythrough. But her father's strength and genius were being sacrificed. Andthis child of seventeen did not see how to stop it.
After she had brought him his pipe, and he was drawing at it contentedlyover the fire, she stood silent beside him, bursting with something shecould not make up her mind to say. He put out an arm, as she stoodbeside his chair, and drew her to him.
"Dear little Trotty Veck!" It had been his pet name for her as a child.Nora, for answer, bent her head, and kissed him.
"Father"--she broke out--"I've got my first job!"
He looked up enquiringly.
"Mr. Hurst"--she named her English Literature tutor, a fellow ofMarmion--"has got it for me. I've been doing some Norman-French withhim; and there's a German professor has asked him to get part of aromance copied that's in the Bodleian--the only manuscript. And Mr.Hurst says he'll coach me--I can easily do it--and I shall getten pounds!"
"Well done, Trotty Veck!" Ewen Hooper smiled at her affectionately."But won't it interfere with your work?"
"Not a bit. It will help it. Father!--I'm going to earn a lot beforelong. If it only didn't take such a long time to grow up!" said Noraimpatiently. "One ought to be as old as one feels--and I feel quitetwenty-one!"
Ewen Hooper shook his head.
"That's all wrong. One should be young--and taste being young, everymoment, every day that one can. I wish I'd done it--now that I'mgetting old."
"You're not old!" cried Nora. "You're not, father! You're not to sayit!"
And kneeling down by him, she laid her cheek against his shoulder, andput one of his long gaunt hands to her lips.
Her affection was very sweet to him, but it could not comfort him. Thereare few things, indeed, in which the old can be comforted by theyoung--the old, who know too much, both of life and themselves.
But he pulled himself together.
"Dear Trotty Veck, you must go to bed, and let me do my work. But--onemoment!" He laid a hand on her shoulder, and abruptly asked her whethershe thought her Cousin Constance was in love with Douglas Falloden."Your mother's always talking to me about it," he said, with a weariedperplexity.
"I don't know," said Nora, frowning. "But I shouldn't wonder."
"Then I shall have to make some enquiries," said Connie's guardian, withresignation. "She's a masterful young woman. But she can be very sweetwhen she likes. Do you see what she gave me to-day?"
He pointed to a beautiful Viennese edition of Aeschylus, in threesumptuous volumes, which had just appeared and was now lying on theReader's table.
Nora took it up with a cry of pleasure. She had her father's passion forbooks.
"She heard me say to Sorell, apparently, that I would give my eyes forit, and couldn't afford it. That was a week ago. And to-day, afterluncheon, she stole in here like a mouse--you none of you saw or heardher--holding the books behind her--and looking as meek as milk. Youwould have thought she was a child, coming to say she was sorry! And shegave me the books in the prettiest way--just like her mother!--as thoughall the favour came from me. I'm beginning to be very fond of her. She'sso nice to your old father. I say, Nora!"--he held her again--"you and Ihave got to prevent her from marrying the wrong man!"
Nora shook her head, with an air of middle-aged wisdom.
"Connie will marry whomever she has a mind to!" she said firmly. "Andit's no good, father, you imagining anything else."
Ewen Hooper laughed, released her, and sent her to bed.
The days that followed represented the latter part of the intervalbetween the Eights and Commemoration, before Oxford plunged once moreinto high festival.
It was to be a brilliant Commem.; for an ex-Viceroy of India, a retiredAmbassador, England's best General, and five or six foreign men ofscience and letters, of rather exceptional eminence, were coming to gettheir honorary degrees. When Mrs. Hooper, _Times_ in hand, read out atthe breakfast-table the names of Oxford's expected guests, ConstanceBledlow looked up in surprised amusement. It seemed the Ambassador andshe were old friends; that she had sat on his knee as a baby throughvarious Carnival processions in the Corso, showing him how to throw_confetti_; and that he and Lady F. had given a dance at the Embassy forher coming-out, when Connie, at seventeen, and His Excellency--still thehandsomest man in the room, despite years and gout--had danced the firstwaltz together, and a subsequent minuet; which--though Connie did notsay so--had been the talk of Rome.
As to the ex-Viceroy, he was her father's first cousin, and had passedthrough Rome on his way east, staying three or four days at the PalazzoBarberini. Constance, however, could not be induced to trouble her headabout him. "He bored Mamma and me dreadfully," she said--"he had sevenpokers up his back, and was never human for a minute. I don't want tosee him at all." Oxford, however, seemed to be of the opinion thatex-viceroys do want to see their cousins; for the Hooper party foundthemselves asked as a matter of course to the All Souls' luncheon, theVice-Chancellor's garden-party, and to a private dinner-party in ChristChurch on the day of the Encaenia, at which all the new-made doctors wereto be present. As for the ball-tickets for Commem. week, they poured in;and meanwhile there were endless dinner-parties, and every afternoon hadits river picnic, now on the upper, now on the lower river.
It was clear, indeed, both to her relations and to Oxford in general,that Constance Bledlow was to be the heroine of the moment. She would bethe "star" of Commem., as so many other pretty or charming girls hadbeen before her. But in her case, it was no mere undergraduate success.Old and young alike agreed to praise her. Her rank inevitably gave herprecedence at almost every dinner-party, Oxford society not being richin the peerage. The host, who was often the head of a college andgrey-haired, took her in; and some other University big-wig, equallymature, flanked her on the right. When she was undressing in her littleroom after these entertainments, she would give Annette a yawning orplaintive account of them. "You know, Annette, I never talk to anybodyunder fifty now!" But at the time she never failed to play her part. Shewas born with the wish to please, which, as every one knows, makes threeparts of the art of pleasing.
Meanwhile Sorell, who was at all times a very popular man, in greatrequest, accepted many more invitations than usual in order to see asmuch as he could of this triumphal progress of Lady Risborough'sdaughter. Oxford society was then much more limited than now, and he andshe met often. It seemed to him whenever he came across Douglas Fallodenin Connie's company during these days, that the young man's pursuit ofConstance, if it was a pursuit, was making no progress at all, and thathis temper suffered accordingly. Connie's endless engagements wereconstantly in the way. Sorell thought he detected once or twice thatFalloden had taken steps to procure invitations to houses whereConstance was expected; but when they did meet it was evident that hegot but a small share of her attention.
Once Sorell saw them in what appeared intimate conversation at a ChristChurch party. Falloden--who was flushed and frowning--was talkingrapidly in a low voice; and Constance was listening to him with a lookhalf soft, half mocking. Her replies seemed to irritate her companion,for they parted abruptly, Constance looking back to smile asarcastic good-bye.
Again, on the Sunday before the Encaenia, a famous high churchmanpreached in the University church. The church was densely crowded, andSorell, sitting in the masters' seats under the pulpit, saw Constancedimly, in the pews reserved for wives and families of the Universitydoctors and masters, beneath the gallery. I
mmediately to her right, inthe very front of the undergraduates' gallery, he perceived the tallform and striking head of Douglas Falloden; and when the sermon was overhe saw that the young man was one of the first to push his way out.
"He hopes to waylay her," thought Sorell.
If so, he was unsuccessful. Sorell emerging with the stream into theHigh Street saw Connie's black and white parasol a little ahead.Falloden was on the point of overtaking her, when Radowitz, thegolden-haired, the conspicuous, crossed his path. Constance lookedround, smiled, shook hands with Radowitz, and apparently not seeingFalloden in her rear, walked on, in merry talk with the beamingmusician. Sorell, perhaps, was the only person who noticed the look ofpale fury with which Falloden dropped out of the crowded pathway,crossed the street, and entered a smart club opposite, exclusivelyfrequented by "bloods."
Commem. week itself, however, would give a man in love plenty ofchances. Sorell was well aware of it. Monday dawned with misty sunshineafter much rain. In the Turl after luncheon, Sorell met Nora Hooperhurrying along with note-books under her arm. They turned downBrasenose Lane together, and she explained that she was on her way tothe Bodleian where she was already at work on her first paid job. Herpleasure in it, and the childish airs she gave herself in regard to it,touched and amused Sorell, with whom--through the Greek lessons--she hadbecome a great favourite.
As they parted at the doorway leading to the Bodleian, she said with amischievous look--
"Did you know Mr. Falloden's party is off?"
And she explained that for the following day, Falloden had arranged themost elaborate and exclusive of river-parties, with tea in the privategardens of a famous house, ten miles from Oxford. His mother and sisterhad been coming down for it, and he had asked other people from London.
"It was all for Connie--and Connie's had to scratch! And Mr. Fallodenhas put it all off. He says his mother, Lady Laura, has a chill andcan't come, but every one knows--it's Connie!"
She and Sorell smiled at each other. They had never had many words onthe subject, but they understood each other perfectly.
"What made her scratch?" asked Sorell, wondering.
"Royalties," said Nora shortly, with a democratic nose in air.
It appeared that a certain travelled and artistic Princess had beenspending the week-end in a ducal house in the neighbourhood. So, too,had the ex-Viceroy. And hearing from him that the only daughter "ofthose dear Risboroughs" was at Oxford, twelve miles off, her RoyalHighness, through him, had "commanded" Constance for tea under the ducalroof on Tuesday. A carriage was to be sent for her, and the ex-Viceroyundertook to convey her back to Oxford afterwards, he being due himselfto dine and sleep at the Vice-Chancellor's the night before the Encaenia.
"Constance didn't want to go a bit. She was dreadfully annoyed. Butfather and mother made her. So she sent a note to Mr. Falloden, and hecame round. She was out, but Alice saw him. Alice says he scarcely saida word, but you could feel he was in a towering rage."
"Poor Falloden!" said Sorell.
Nora's eyes twinkled.
"Yes, but so good for him! I'm sure he's always throwing over otherpeople. Now he knows
"'Golden lads and lasses must Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.'"
"Vandal!" cried Sorell--"to twist such a verse!"
Nora laughed, threw him a friendly nod, and vanished up the steps of theBodleian.
But Falloden's hour came!
The Encaenia went off magnificently. Connie, sitting beside Mrs. Hooperin the semicircle of the Sheldonian Theatre, drew the eyes of the crowdof graduates as they surged into the arena, and tantalised theundergraduates in the gallery, above the semicircle, who were well awarethat the "star" was there, but could not see her. As the new doctors'procession entered through the lane made for it by the bedells, as thewhole assembly rose, and as the organ struck up, amid the clapping andshouting of the gods in the gallery, Connie and the grey-hairedAmbassador, who was walking second in the red and yellow line, grinnedopenly at each other, while the ex-Viceroy in front, who had beenagreeably flattered by the effect produced by his girl-cousin in theaugust circles of the day before, nodded and smiled at the young lady inthe white plumes and pale mauve dress.
"Do you know my cousin, Lady Constance Bledlow?--the girl in mauvethere?" he said, complacently in the ear of the Public Orator, as theystood waiting till the mingled din from the organ and theundergraduates' gallery overhead should subside sufficiently to allowthat official to begin his arduous task of introducing thedoctors-elect.
The Public Orator, in a panic lest one of the Latin puns in hisforthcoming address should escape him, said hurriedly--"Yes!"--and then"No"--being quite uncertain to which girl in mauve the great manreferred, and far too nervous to find out. The great man smiled, andlooked up blandly at the shrieking gallery overhead, wondering--as allpersons in his position do wonder in each succeeding generation--whetherthe undergraduates were allowed to make quite such an infernal noisewhen he was "up."
Meanwhile, Constance herself was only conscious of one face and figurein the crowded theatre. Falloden had borrowed a master's gown, and asthe general throng closed up behind the doctors' procession, he took upa position in the rear, just in front of the great doors under the organloft, which, as the day was very hot, remained unclosed. His dark headand athlete's figure, scarcely disguised by the ampler folds of theborrowed gown, showed in picturesque relief against the grey and sunlitbackground of the beautiful Divinity School, which could be seen throughthe doorway. Constance knew that his eyes were on her; and she guessedthat he was only conscious of her, as she at that moment was onlyconscious of him. And again that tremor, that premonition of some comingattack upon her will which she half dreaded, and half desired, sweptover her. What was there in the grave and slightly frowning face thatdrew her through all repulsion? She studied it. Surely the brow and eyeswere beautiful--shaped for high thought, and generous feeling? It wasthe disdainful sulky mouth, the haughty carriage of the head, thatspoilt a noble aspect. Yet she had seen the mouth quiver into softness;and those broad shoulders had once stood between her anddanger--possibly death. Her heart trembled. "What do you want of me?" itwas asking--helplessly--of the distant man; "and can I--dareI--give it?"
Then her thoughts flew onward to the ball of the evening, for it was thenight of the Marmion ball. No more escape! If she went--and nothingshould prevent her from going--it would be Falloden's evening,Falloden's chance. She had been perfectly conscious of evading andthwarting him during the previous week. There had been some girlishmischief, but more excitement in it. Now, would he take his revenge?
Her heart beat fast. She had never yet danced with him. To-night shewould feel his arm round her in the convention of the waltz. And sheknew that for her it would be no convention; but something either to bepassionately accepted--or impatiently endured.
* * * * *
Oxford went early to the Marmion ball. It was a very popular gathering.So that before ten o'clock the green quadrangle was crowded with guestswaiting to see other guests come in; while the lights from the Gothichall, and the notes of the "Blue Danube," then in its first prime, flungout their call to youth and sex.
In they thronged--young men and maidens--a gay procession through thelawns and quadrangles, feeling the world born anew for them, and forthem only, as their fathers and mothers had felt before them.
Falloden and Meyrick, with half a dozen other chosen spirits, metConstance at the entrance and while Mrs. Hooper and Alice followed,pleased against their will by the reflected fame which had fallen uponthem also, the young men formed a body-guard round Constance, andescorted her like a queen to the hall.
Sorell, eagerly waiting, watched her entrance into the beautiful andspacious room, with its throng of dancers. She came in, radiant, withthat aureole of popular favour floating round her, which has so much todo with the loveliness of the young. All the world smiled on her; shesmiled in return; and that sarcastic self behind the smile, whic
h Nora'squick sense was so often conscious of, seemed to have vanished. Shecarried, Sorell saw, a glorious bunch of pale roses. Were theyFalloden's gift?
That Douglas Falloden danced with her repeatedly, that they sat outtogether through most of the supper-dances, that there was a shelteredcorner in the illuminated quad, beside the Graeco-Roman fountain which anarchaeological warden had given to the college, where, involuntarily, histroubled eyes discovered them more than once:--this at least Sorellknew, and could not help knowing. He saw that she danced twice withRadowitz, and that Falloden stood meanwhile in the doorway of the hall,twisting his black moustache, and chaffing Meyrick, yet all the timewith an eye on the ballroom. And during one long disappearance, hefound himself guessing that Falloden had taken her to the library forgreater seclusion. Only a very few people seemed to know that the fineold room was open.
"Where is Connie?" said poor Mrs. Hooper fretfully--when three o'clockhad long struck. "I can't keep awake!"
* * * * *
And now a midsummer sun was rising over Oxford. The last carriage hadrumbled through the streets; the last merry group of black-coated men,and girls in thin shoes and opera-cloaks had vanished. The summer dawnheld the whole beautiful and silenced city in its peace.
Constance, in her dressing-gown, sat at the open window, looking outover the dewy garden, and vaguely conscious of its scents as one finaltouch of sweetness in a whole of pleasure which was still sending itsthrill through all her pulses.
At last, she found pen and paper on her writing-table, and wrote aninstruction for Annette upon it.
* * * * *
"Please send early for the horses. They should be here at a quarter tonine. Call me at eight. Tell Aunt Ellen that I have gone for a ride, andshall be back by eleven. It was quite a nice ball."
* * * * *
Then, with a silent laugh at the last words, she took the sheet ofpaper, stole noiselessly out of her room, and up the stairs to Annette'sroom, where she pushed the message under the door. Annette had not beenwell the day before, and Connie had peremptorily forbidden her tosit up.