Part 19 (2/2)

This was by no means true, but Lady Ogram had always been a bad sitter to the camera, and had destroyed most of its results. The oil painting in the dining-room she regarded with a moderate complacency. Many a time during the latter years of withering and enfeeblement her memory had turned to that s.h.i.+ning head in marble, which was hidden away amid half a century's dust under the roof at Rivenoak. There, and there only, survived the glory of her youth, when not the face alone, but all her faultless body made the artist's rapture.

”Well,” she said, abruptly, ”you'll see the girl. Her name is May Tomalin. You're not obliged to like her. You're not obliged to tell me what you think of her. Most likely I shan't ask you.--By the bye, I had a letter from Dyce Lashmar this morning.”

”Indeed?” said the other, with a careless smile.

”I like his way of writing. It's straight-forward and sharp-cut, like his talk. A man who means what he says, and knows how to say it; that's a great deal nowadays.”

Constance a.s.sented with all good-humour to Lady Ogram's praise.

”You must answer him for me,” the old lady continued. ”No need, of course, to show me what you write; just put it into a letter of your own.”

”I hardly think I shall be writing to Mr. Lashmar,” said Miss Bride, very quietly.

”Do you mean that?”

Their eyes met' and Constance bore the other's gaze without flinching.

”We are not such great friends, Lady Ogram. You will remember I told you that I knew him but slightly.”

”All right. It has nothing to do with me, whether you're friends or not. You can answer as my secretary, I suppose?”

And Lady Ogram, with her uncertain, yet not undignified, footfall, went straightway from the room. There was a suspicion of needless sound as the door closed behind her.

Constance sat for a minute or two in a very rigid att.i.tude, displeasure manifest on her lips. She did not find it easy to get to work again, and when the time came for her bicycle ride, she was in no mind for it, but preferred to sit over a book. At luncheon Lady Ogram inclined to silence. Later in the day, however, they met on the ordinary terms of mutual understanding, and Constance, after speaking of other things, asked whether she should write Lady Ogram's reply to Mr. Lashmar.

”Mr. Lashmar? Oh, I have written to him myself,” said the old lady, as if speaking of a matter without importance.

Three days went by, and it was Sat.u.r.day. Lady Ogram came down earlier than usual this morning, but did not know how to occupy herself; she fretted at the rainy sky which kept her within doors; she tried to talk with her secretary of an important correspondence they had in hand (it related to a projected society for the invigoration of village life), but her thoughts were too obviously wandering. Since that dialogue in the library, not a word regarding Miss Tomalin had escaped her; all at once she said:

”My niece is due here at four this afternoon. I want you to be with me when she comes into the room. You won't forget that?”

Never before had Constance seen the old autocrat suffering from nervousness; it was doubtful whether anyone at any time had enjoyed the privilege. Strange to say, this abnormal state of things did not irritate Lady Ogram's temper; she was remarkably mild, and for once in her life seemed to feel it no indignity to stand in need of moral support. Long before the time for Miss Tomalin's arrival, she established herself on her throne amid the drawing-room verdure.

Constance tried to calm her by reading aloud, but this the old lady soon found unendurable.

”I wonder whether the train will be late?” she said. ”No doubt it will; did you ever know a train punctual? It may be half an hour late. The railways are scandalously managed. They ought to be taken over by the government.”

”I don't think that would improve matters,” said the secretary, glad of a discussion to relieve the tedium. She too was growing nervous.

”Nonsense! Of course it would.”

Constance launched into argument, and talked for talking's sake. She knew that her companion was not listening.

”It's four o'clock,” exclaimed Lady Ogram presently. ”There may be an accident with the brougham. Leggatt sometimes drives very carelessly--”

no more prudent coachman existed--”and the state of the roads about here is perfectly scandalous”--they were as good roads as any in England. ”What noise was that?”

<script>