Part 20 (1/2)
”My dear Constance”--so it ran--”I should like to make your acquaintance, and I hear that you are at Oxford with your uncle. I would come and see you but that I never leave home. Oxford, too, depresses me dreadfully. Why should people learn such a lot of useless things? We are being ruined by all this education. However, what I meant to say was that 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 fool twenty-two years ago. But as you weren't born then, we suggest it shouldn'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. I took a shop for it in Bond Street, and it nearly ruined me. But I muddled through--that's our English way, isn't it?--and somehow things come right. Now, I am very political, and Winifred's very churchy--it doesn't really matter what you take up. So do come. You can bring your maid and have a sitting-room. n.o.body would interfere with you. But, of course, we should introduce you to some nice people. If you are a sensible girl--and I expect you are, for your father was a very clever man--you must know that you ought to marry as soon as possible. There aren't many young men about here. What becomes of all the young men in England, I'm sure I don't know. But there are a few--and quite possible.
There are the Kenbarrows, about four miles off--a large family--_nouveaux riches_--the father made b.u.t.tons, or something of the kind. 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'll probably 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_. I don't altogether like what I hear sometimes about the Fallodens. Of course Sir Arthur's very rich, but they say he's been speculating enormously, and that he's been losing a good deal of money lately.
However, I don't suppose it matters. Their place, Flood Castle, is really splendid--old to begin with, and done up! They have copied the Americans and given every room a bathroom. Absurd extravagance! And think of the plumbing! It was that kind of thing gave the Prince of Wales typhoid. I hate drains!
”Well, anyway, do come and see us. Sophia Langmoor tells me she has written 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.' I don't see why it should. I certainly don't want it to. I'm downright, I know, but I'm not hypocritical. The world's just run on white lies nowadays--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 man there, though too 'broad' for Winifred. He tells me he's going to have some people staying with him--a Mr. Sorell, and a young musician with a Polish name--I can't remember it. Mr. Sorell's going to coach the young man, 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 dreadfully poor--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, tossing the 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 going to join them after a bit in Scotland.”
”I know all that,” said Constance impatiently. ”The question is--do you see me sitting in lodgings at Ryde with Aunt Ellen for five or six weeks, doing a little fancy-work, and walking out with Aunt Ellen and Alice 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 sample Aunt Marcia. I must speak to Uncle Ewen to-morrow. Now put the light out, please, Annette; I'm going to sleep.”
But it was some time before she went to sleep. The night was hot and thunderous, and her windows were wide open. Drifting in came the ever-recurring bells of Oxford, from the boom of the Christ Church ”Tom,” far away, through every variety of nearer tone. Connie lay and sleepily listened to them. To her they were always voices, half alive, half human, to which the dreaming mind put words that varied with the mood of the dreamer.
Presently, she breathed a soft good night into the darkness--”Mummy--mummy darling! good night!” It was generally her last waking thought. But suddenly another--which brought with it a rush of excitement--interposed between her and sleep.
”Tuesday,” she murmured--”Mr. Sorell says the schools will be over by Tuesday. I wonder!--”
And again the bluebell carpet seemed to be all round her--the light and fragrance and colour of the wood. And the man on the black horse beside her was bending towards her, all his harsh strength subdued, for the moment, to the one end of pleasing her. She saw the smile in his dark eyes; and the touch of sarcastic _brusquerie_ in the smile, that could rouse her own fighting spirit, as the touch of her whip roused the brown mare.
”Am I really so late?” said Connie, in distress, running downstairs the following afternoon to find the family and various guests waiting for her in the hall.
”Well, I hope we shan't miss everybody,” said Alice sharply. ”How late are 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 not coming.”