The Great Miss Driver Part 30

There was a moment's pause. Then Fillingford said, "I agree, and I second the motion." His voice was entirely impa.s.sive. "I don't think it is necessary for me to add anything."

Bindlecombe turned to me with an air of inquiry.

"I can take no part in this," I said. "It is simply for me to hear the decision of the Committee and to communicate it to Miss Driver in due course."

Bindlecombe clasped his hands nervously; he was acutely distressed--and not only for the threatened loss of his darling Inst.i.tute. He knew how Jenny would read the resolution, and Jenny had been his idol.

"Is--is this really necessary?" he ventured to ask, though Alison's sad gravity and Fillingford's cold resoluteness evidently overawed him.

"Perhaps some of the preliminary work could----?"

Alison interposed; "I fear I must ask that my resolution be put as it stands."

Fillingford nodded, drumming lightly on the table with his fingers.

Evidently they had made up their minds; if the resolution were not pa.s.sed, they would secede. That would be worse than the resolution itself, and would make progress just as impossible.

"Then I'll put it," said Bindlecombe reluctantly. "No gentleman desires to say any more?"

No more was said. The resolution was carried, I, of course, not voting.

"And I suppose that we adjourn--_sine die_?" said Bindlecombe.

That followed as of course, and we all three a.s.sented. Bindlecombe rose from the chair. There, for the present at all events, was an end of the Inst.i.tute, there Jenny's first public and official rebuff. Catsford would have to be told what had been decided, why no more was done about the Inst.i.tute. I had no doubt that Alison had thought of this and had worded his resolution with a view to its publication.

Fillingford and Alison went out of the room together, and I was left with Bindlecombe. (We had met at his house, Ivydene being shut up.) "I'm very sorry for this, Mr. Austin," he said.

I was very sorry, too. The decision would not be a grateful one to Jenny. It was an intimation that her idea of keeping her hold on Catsford, even while she defied it, would not work; the dual personality of munificent Miss Driver of Breysgate and wayward Jenny Driver--of where?--would not find acceptance.

"A winter abroad is not eternity, Mr. Bindlecombe," said I, smiling. "We shall be busy at the Inst.i.tute again by the spring, I hope." That, of course, was speaking to my cue--Jenny's official version of her departure; she was wintering abroad--that was all.

"I hope so, I hope so," he said, but he hardly pretended that he was imposed upon. He shook his head dolefully and looked at me with a gloomy significance. "The Rector's a hard fellow to deal with. Pleasant as can be, but hard as a brick on--well, where his own views come in. He's not a man of the world, Mr. Austin."

Evidently in Bindlecombe's opinion a man of the world would have stuck to the Inst.i.tute, even if he could not stick to its donor--stuck to the Inst.i.tute and carved _Non Olet_ on its handsome facade; it would have been in no worse case than many imposing public buildings--to say nothing of luxurious private residences. But Alison was not a man of the world--and in this instance the current of opinion was with him. The two worlds joined in condemning Jenny; neither as an individual nor as a local inst.i.tution could she be defended. A lurking loyalty in Bindlecombe--if I mistook not, a reluctant admiration in Lacey--were the only exceptions to the general verdict--outside her own retainers. I do not think that we asked ourselves questions about approval or disapproval, condemnation or condonation. We were not judges; we were, in one way, in the fight.

To my surprise Alison was waiting outside the house. When I came out, he approached me.

"Austin, I want you to shake hands with me," he said. "I had to do that, you know. You don't suppose I liked doing it?"

"I'll shake hands," I said. "I'm not particular. But I don't feel called upon to have any opinion as to whether you're right, nor as to whether you liked doing it or not."

"That last bit's unfair, anyhow," he declared indignantly.

"Fair and unfair! Man, man, do you suppose I'm worrying about things like that?"

I had lost control for a moment. He was not angry with me; he seemed to understand, and patted my shoulder affectionately.

"Of course I know you didn't like doing it," I growled. "But does that make things any better?"

"Tell her I didn't like doing it," he said. "If only she understood why I had to do it!"

Well, from neither of the worlds can defiance look for mercy.

CHAPTER XVI

NOT PROVEN

In the stern condemnation of moral delinquencies, when such are discovered or conjectured, we may be content to find nothing but what is praiseworthy; the simultaneous exhibition of a hungry curiosity about them is one of those features of human nature which it is best to accept without comment--if only for the reason that no man can be sure that he does not in some degree share it. In Catsford at this time it was decidedly prominent. The place went wild on the news that Sir John Aspenick, happening to be in Paris on a flying visit, thought that he saw Jenny go by as he stood outside the Cafe de la Paix: great was the disappointment that Sir John could not contrive even to think that he had seen Octon with her! Lady Sarah Lacey, working on the feminine clew of Jenny's having departed luggageless, set inquiries afoot among London dressmakers, with the happy result of revealing the fact that Jenny had bought a stock of several articles of wearing apparel: the news worked back to Chat from one of the dressmakers, and from Chat I had it, with more details of the wearing apparel that my memory carries. Mrs. Jepps waylaid Chat--who had timidly ventured into the town under a pressing need of finding some very special form of needle--in the main street and tried the comparative method, not at all a bad mode of investigation where manners forbid direct questions. She told Chat numbers of stories of other "sad cases" and looked to see how Chat "took" them--hoping to draw, augur-like, conclusions from Chat's expression. I myself--well, I would not be uncharitable. My friends were all honorable men; they might naturally conclude that I was depressed and lonely; why look farther for the cause of the frequent visits from them which I enjoyed? Bindlecombe and a dozen more so honored me, and Cartmell told me that only the severest office discipline kept his working hours sacred from kind intruders.

Moreover, a little problem arose, not in itself serious, but showing the extreme inconvenience which results when people who are in a position to confer pleasant favors so act as to make it doubtful whether favors can properly be accepted from them. Such a state of affairs puts an unfair strain on virtue, inconsiderately demanding martyrdom where righteousness only has been volunteered. As may have been gathered, Jenny's neighbors were in the habit of using the road through her park as an alternative route to the high road in their comings and goings to and from Catsford. For some it was shorter--as for the Wares, the Dormers, and the Aspenicks; for all it was pleasanter. What was to be done about this now? Fillingford had no doubt; neither he nor Lady Sarah used the park road any more; but then the road was no great saving of distance for the folks at the Manor--their martyrdom was easy--whereas it was very materially shorter for the Wares, the Dormers, and, above all, for the Aspenicks. The question was so acute for the Aspenicks that I heard of Lady Aspenick's collecting opinions on the subject from persons of light and leading. She did not consider Fillingford's course impartial--nor decisive of the question; it was easy for him to take the virtuous line; it did not involve his going pretty nearly two miles out of his way.

Discussion ran high on the question. Mrs. Jepps declared against using the road, though her fat pair of horses had been accustomed to get what little exercise they ever did get along it three afternoons a week.

"If I use the road, and she comes back and finds me using it, where am I?" asked Mrs. Jepps. "I can't cut her when I'm driving in her park by her permission. Yet I may feel obliged to refuse to bow to her!"

The att.i.tude had all Mrs. Jepps's logic in it; it was una.s.sailable. Very reluctantly old Mr. and Mrs. Dormer gave in to it--they would go round by the King's highway, longer though it was. Bertram Ware, lawyer and politician, stole round the difficulty--and along the park road--by adopting a provisional att.i.tude; until more was known, he felt justified in using--and in allowing Mrs. Ware to use--the road. He reserved liberty of action if more facts condemnatory of Jenny should appear.

The Aspenicks remained--to whom the road was more precious than to any of the others. Sir John would have none of Ware's provisional att.i.tude--it was not what he called "straight"; but then he had a prejudice against lawyers, and held no particularly high opinion of Bertram Ware.

"Make up your mind," he said to his wife. "Either we use it or we don't.

But if we use it, it's taking a favor from her, and that may be awkward later on."

Now Lady Aspenick wanted to use the road very much indeed--and not merely the road for her tandem, so sadly famous in history, but also the turf alongside it for her canters. But in the first place Lady Aspenick was herself a model of propriety, and in the second--it was an even weightier consideration--she had a growing girl; Eunice Aspenick was now nearly sixteen--and rode with her mother. Supposing Lady Aspenick and Eunice used the road, supposing Jenny were guilty of enormities, came back guilty of them, and discovered Lady Aspenick, with Eunice, on the road! Lady Aspenick's problem was worse than Mrs. Jepps's--because of Eunice on the one hand, and of Lady Aspenick's remarkably strong desire to use the road on the other.

This question of the road--work on the Inst.i.tute at a standstill--no more parties at Breysgate (what of the Flower Show next summer?)! Verily Jenny was causing endless inconvenience!

It would not be just to say that this difficulty about the road--and Eunice--determined Lady Aspenick's att.i.tude toward Jenny; it is perhaps permissible to conjecture that it led her to reconsider it. After the lapse of a fortnight she came out on Jenny's side, and signified the same by calling on Chat at Breysgate Priory. Chat and I sometimes consoled one another's loneliness at afternoon tea; I was present when Lady Aspenick arrived.

We had our lesson pat--so long as we were not cross-examined. Jenny was wintering abroad; Chat's health (this was our own supplement) had made traveling inadvisable for her, and Jenny had found other companions.

Lady Aspenick was most affable to the story; she admitted it to belief at once. Sympathy with Chat, pleasure at not being deprived of Chat's society, kind messages through Chat to Jenny--all came as easily and naturally as possible. Not an awkward question! It was with real grat.i.tude that I conducted Lady Aspenick to her carriage. But she had a word for me there.

"I didn't want to talk about it to that poor old thing," she said, "but have you any--news, Mr. Austin?"

"None, except what I've told you. She isn't a great letter-writer."

"They're saying horrid things. Well, Sarah Lacey would, of course. I can't see any reason for believing them. I'm on her side! One may wonder at her taste--one must--but she has a right to please herself, and to take her own time about it. Of course that night journey--!" Lady Aspenick smiled in a deprecating manner.

"Impulsive!" I observed.

Lady Aspenick caught at the word joyfully. "That's it--impulsive! That's what I've always said. Dear Jenny is impulsive--that's all!" She got into her carriage and ordered the coachman to drive her to Mrs. Jepps's.

She was going to tell Mrs. Jepps that Jenny was impulsive--going by the road through the park to tell Mrs. Jepps that it was no more than that.

Her own line taken, Lady Aspenick gathered a tiny faction to raise Jenny's banner. They could not do much against Lady Sarah's open viciousness, Fillingford's icy silence, the union of High Church and Low in the persons and the adherents of Alison and of Mrs. Jepps. But Sir John followed his wife, Bindlecombe took courage to uplift a friendly voice, and old Mr. Dormer began to waver. His memories went back to George IV.--days in which they were not hard on pretty women--having, indeed, remarkably little right to be. Mr. Dormer was reported to be inclined to think that the men of the surrounding families might ride in Jenny's park--about their ladies it was, perhaps, another question. It was understood that Lady Aspenick's faction gave great offense at Fillingford Manor. The alliance between the two houses had been close, and Fillingford Manor saw treachery to itself in any defense of Jenny.

So they debated and gossiped, sparred and wrangled--and no more news came. At the Priory we began to settle down into a sort of routine, trying to find ourselves work to do, trying to fill the lives that seemed now so empty. Our position--like Bertram Ware's att.i.tude about the park road--was provisional--hopelessly provisional. We were not living; we were only waiting. Not the actual events of to-day, but the possible event of to-morrow was the thing for which we existed. It was like listening perpetually for a knock on the door. Little could be made of a life like that. Well, we were not to sink into the dullness of our routine just yet.

In my youth I have heard a sage preach to the young men, his hearers and critical disciples, on the text of the certainty of life; discarding, perhaps thinking trite, perhaps deeming misleading, the old _Memento mori_. He bade them recollect that for practical purposes they had to reckon on--and with--thirty, forty, fifty, years of life and activity.