When play was over for the day, a renewal of the contest at an early date was agreed upon, and after three such meetings the Professor felt justified in despatching a consolatory note to Mrs. Annesley. “I really think you may make your mind quite easy,” he wrote, “I have had your boy and Cecil’s girl playing tennis in my garden several times; and even so inexperienced a looker-on as myself cannot fail to perceive that if ever two people were in love with each other, they are. The ‘harpy’ I have not yet met, nor am I likely to do so; but Captain Green of your son’s regiment tells me that she is what is called a garrison hack — a term not known to me, but which I take to mean broadly that she is ready to flirt with all, and is consequently dangerous to none.”
The folly of generalization was one to which the Professor was fully alive in dealing with matters of historical interest; and had the question before him been of that kind, he would have been the first to point out that, though this lady might not be dangerous qua garrison hack, there was no sure ground for assuming that she was not dangerous qua Mrs. Harrington. Mrs. Annesley’s grateful reply to his letter did not reach him before he had begun to repent of his haste in communicating with her.
It was upon the occasion of an afternoon party, given by the officers of the 27th Lancers, that Canon Stanwick was privileged to make Mrs. Harrington’s acquaintance. Had he been left to consult his own inclinations, he would not have been present at this entertainment; but the Cecils, who had driven in from the country to attend it, invited themselves to luncheon with him, and then carried him away by main force, alleging that it would do him good to see more of his neighbors. As a matter of fact, however, he was not benefited in this particular way, for the cathedral dignitaries seldom showed themselves at the barracks, and he searched the mess-room and ante-room in vain for any familiar face. He remained beside the Cecils, and presently accompanied them to the lawn in front of the building, where some younger members of the assemblage were playing tennis. Then it was that he became aware of Mrs. Harrington, attended by young Annesley, and was able to scrutinize her a little more nearly than he had done on the cricket-ground. She was a tall, striking-looking woman, not in her first youth. No doubt she was rather over-dressed, and the Professor noticed that she was more anxious to appear at her ease than successful in doing so. He noticed, besides, that the other ladies fought shy of her, and that his friend Bob, who stood by her side, looked anything but happy.
After a time the couple drew near to the spot where the Cecil family were seated, and from the expression of despair visible upon the young man’s face, and the mixture of triumph and defiance exhibited by the lady, it was easy to guess what was going to happen next. The Professor, from living so much alone, had got out of the habit of repressing his emotions; and when he realized that this daring woman had demanded an introduction to Mrs. Cecil, he gave vent to a loud, abrupt chuckle, which caused everybody to turn round and look at him and overwhelm him with consequent confusion. Thus he missed the actual formality which had moved him to mirth by anticipation; but he recovered himself in time to see that it had taken place, that Mr. and Miss Cecil were looking grave and annoyed, and that Mrs. Cecil had assumed that stony demeanor with which she was wont to cow the presumptuous.
Mrs. Cecil was not a lady with whom it was advisable to take liberties. A great liberty had been taken with her now, and, while holding in reserve the punishment of the chief offender, she made things very uncomfortable for his accomplice. Having bowed to Mrs. Harrington, she became absorbed in some distant object of interest, and failed to hear the bland remarks addressed to her by her new acquaintance. A deep silence had fallen upon the surrounding group. Mrs. Cecil was still seated; the other lady was standing in front of her chair, and the Professor, looking on from the background, thought to himself that, if he were in Mrs. Harrington’s shoes, he would run away.
But it was Bob Annesley, and not Mrs. Harrington, who adopted that pusillanimous course. That intrepid woman remained firm, and, with a determined smile upon her pale face, forced Mrs. Cecil to speak to her.
“I asked Mr. Annesley to introduce me to you,” she was saying, “because I think we ought to know each other, being both of us so intimate with him.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” replied Mrs. Cecil coldly. Perhaps she would have liked to say that she was not so very intimate with Mr. Annesley; but when one has a daughter whom one is naturally anxious to marry well, one is apt to be debarred from indiscriminate retorts. After a pause, she asked, without removing her eyes from the distant view, “Are you staying any time at Lichbury, Mrs. — er — ?”
“Harrington,” replied the other. “Well, I don’t quite know. It will depend a good deal upon the regiment. I always like to be where the 27th are.”
“Really!” exclaimed Mrs. Cecil; and the amount of astonishment, contempt, and disgust which she managed to condense into that one word was quite an achievement in its way.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Harrington went on cheerfully, “I follow the drum. My object is to get as much fun out of life as possible, and I don’t know any better way of doing that than living in a garrison town.”
“Violet,” said Mrs. Cecil, “I think I see some vacant places on the other side of the lawn. We will go over and sit there.” And so saying, she arose and swept majestically away, leaving Mrs. Harrington surrounded by a number of silent persons who appeared anxious to stare her out of countenance while at the same time resolutely ignoring her.
The poor woman’s position was really a cruel one, and signs that she felt it to be so were not wanting. She flushed for a moment, then turned pale again, and stood, not unlike a hunted animal, while those merciless ladies enjoyed her discomfiture. The Professor, who knew what agony he himself would have suffered under such treatment, could not help being very sorry for her. So sincere was his compassion, and so strongly did he disapprove of the base practice of hitting those who are down, that he was moved at last to do an unusually bold thing. He advanced abruptly to the side of the unfortunate pariah, upsetting a chair on his passage, and said in a nervous, hesitating way, “What a beautiful afternoon, is it not?”
Mrs. Harrington turned a pair of astonished and rather angry eyes upon him. Most likely, at the first moment, she took this queer-looking cleric for an emissary of the enemy; but a glance at his face must have reassured her, for a quick change of expression came over her own, and the Professor was rewarded by a singularly pleasant smile, and a word or two spoken without any of that harshness of intonation which had been noticeable in Mrs. Harrington’s voice a few minutes before. Having thus entered his little protest against bullying, he would gladly have retired from so conspicuous a position, but he was a man who was wholly unable to extricate himself from any position, conspicuous or other, without help, and so he went on conversing with Mrs. Harrington for a matter of five minutes, at the end of which time he mentally qualified her as a very intelligent and agreeable person. “I wonder,” thought he, “why she chose to speak in such an objectionable manner just now.” And then, with his unlucky habit of thinking aloud, he said musingly, “I suppose she wanted to shock Mrs. Cecil. Well, I can’t blame her.”
Mrs. Harrington laughed. “You are quite right,” she observed; “that was what I wanted to do. But you ought to blame me, for it was not at all worth while to shock Mrs. Cecil, and I brought her rudeness upon myself.”
The Professor, in great distress, began to stammer out an apology, which he was not permitted to finish. “There is no need to beg my pardon,” Mrs. Harrington interrupted: “you only said what you thought, and it is not often that one has the good fortune to hear any one do that. I wish you would go on. I should like to hear what you think of me, for instance — or rather no; that would not be very interesting. I should prefer hearing what you think of Mrs. Cecil.”
“The Cecils are old friends of mine,” said the Professor, with a slight accent of reproof.
“Then you need not hesitate to say what you think of them, for one does
not, as a rule, think badly of one’s friends. I am interested in them on Mr. Annesley’s account. He is a great deal at their house, is he not?”
“Yes, I believe so,” answered the Professor, stroking his chin pensively. A strong desire to come to the point prompted him to add, with some audacity, “People say that he is likely to become engaged to Miss Cecil, but that may be only an idle report.”
Mrs. Harrington’s large black eyes had a considerable store of latent fire in them. It flashed out now upon her companion with a suddenness which made him start; but in an instant she had recovered her composure. “It is an idle report,” she said quietly. “There is no truth in it.”
“Indeed? Is it not a little difficult to speak with certainty upon such points?”
Mrs. Harrington made no verbal reply, but stepping slightly aside, so as to see and be seen by a group of which Miss Cecil was one, and Bob Annesley another, she beckoned to the young man, who responded by an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Thereupon she repeated her signal more peremptorily, and he, with obvious reluctance, obeyed it.
“I want you to see me home,” she said as soon as he was within speaking distance.
“Oh, all right,” answered Annesley; “but couldn’t you wait a little bit?”
“No,” returned Mrs. Harrington; “I want to go now. I am tired.”
Then, with a gracious bow to her late interlocutor, she moved away, Bob Annesley walking somewhat shamefacedly by her side.
It was thus that the Professor was made aware that Mrs. Harrington was indeed dangerous, though not precisely in the manner which he had ventured to disclaim on her behalf.
III.
Bob Annesley was one of those deservedly popular persons who can be understood at once by the least experienced students of character. Good nature was his dominant quality, and when you had said that he was good-natured, you had said very nearly all that there was to be said about him. The Professor, who had not lived for so many years at Oxford without discovering what is the ordinary destiny of young men thus gifted or afflicted, had no difficulty in casting Bob’s horoscope. “That woman has got a hold upon the poor boy, don’t you see?” said he, addressing himself to the busts in his library. “He was in love with her once, and he is tired of her now; but he will never have the courage to tell her so. The question, therefore, is, how are his friends to get him out of her clutches?”
But the busts continued to stare straight before them, without making any reply, and the Professor, not being fertile in expedients, could think of no better course of treatment than renewed doses of Miss Cecil and lawn-tennis. He was prepared, if driven to extremities, to make a direct appeal to Mrs. Harrington, for he conceived that her nature had a side which might be appealed to with success; but he shrank from employing so drastic a remedy until all others should have proved unavailing, and he lost no time in endeavoring to arrange another of those meetings which had already produced, or had seemed to produce, a hopeful result.
In this well-meant attempt he was foiled by the recalcitration of both the parties concerned. Mrs. Cecil, desirous though she might be to see her daughter make an unexceptionable match, was not likely to fall into the error of openly pursuing her quarry, and the young lady herself was probably offended by what had taken place at the barracks. However this may be, the Cecils regretted their inability to avail themselves of Canon Stanwick’s repeated invitations; while Bob, if his own account was to be believed, was at this time perpetually on duty. Thus several weeks elapsed during which it was impossible to report progress to Mrs. Annesley, who wrote impatiently, complaining that her son never told her anything, and entreating that she might not be kept needlessly in the dark. Had it not been for these letters, the Professor, whose mind, after all, was occupied with other matters than matchmaking, might have washed his hands of the whole business; but he was reminded by them that he had promised to do his best, and so, when at length he chanced to encounter Mrs. and Miss Cecil and Bob Annesley in the same room, he profited by the opportunity, and engaged the whole three of them to lunch with him before they had time to make excuse.
Every one who has ever tried to set the affairs of his neighbors straight for them must be aware that those who pursue this course lay themselves open not only to ingratitude, but to positive contumely. When, on the day appointed, the Cecils duly made their appearance, and when at the last moment a card was brought from Bob Annesley, on which was scribbled, “Very sorry, can’t possibly come to luncheon, but will turn up for tennis afterwards” — when, I say, this untoward incident occurred, the Professor was at once made to feel how blameworthy had been his conduct. Mrs. Cecil was so cross and snappish that a less submissive man would have turned upon her in the first five minutes; and even Violet, whose disposition was naturally sweet, was silent and preoccupied, and made no effort to soften down her mother’s uncivil speeches. And what was still worse was that, after luncheon was over, and Captain and Mrs. Green had arrived with their racquets in their hands, that wretched Bob failed to redeem his promise. They waited an hour for him in vain, and then, as it was evident that no set could be made up, the Cecils went away in a huff, while the Professor, quite upset, betook himself to the cathedral, where, being in residence, he had to read the evening lessons, and where in his agitation he made St. Paul say, “Bobs, love your wives,” before he could stop himself.
Passing through the cloisters after the conclusion of the service, he saw dimly a male and a female figure walking before him, and his ears caught the sound of what appeared to be an altercation. By the time that he had got his glasses settled upon his nose, and had approached a little nearer to the disputants, they wheeled round and revealed themselves as no other than Bob and Mrs. Harrington. Both of them started, and Mrs. Harrington, with a bow, turned abruptly and walked away. Bob, looking rather sheepish, stood his ground and began to mumble some apology for having broken his engagement, but the Professor cut him short.
“Annesley,” said he, “will you come into my house for a few minutes? I wish to speak to you.”
The Professor, albeit of a mild temper, had been a don, and knew how to assume an aspect of sternness when necessary. Bob Annesley, on the other hand, was both by nature and training prone towards obedience. Presently, therefore, the two men were closeted in the Professor’s study, where the following dialogue ensued.
“I want to know what you mean by this, Annesley?”
“Mean by what?”
“Why, by making love to two women at the same time. Don’t tell me you haven’t made love to them: I have seen you. And don’t tell me to mind my own business either, because a great deal of this — this trifling has gone on in my garden, and I feel myself in a measure responsible for the consequences. I cannot,” continued the Professor, warming with his subject, “allow the hearts of young ladies to be broken within sight of my library windows; and I am bound to tell you, Annesley, that I consider your conduct highly discreditable.”
Bob shook his head sorrowfully, but did not offer to defend himself, so the Professor had to go on scolding.
“Were I you, I should be ashamed of such unmanly vacillation. It is very plain that you either do not know your own mind, or that, knowing it, you are afraid to declare it. You will not, I suppose, deny that you have entangled yourself with one lady while you wish to marry the other.”
No answer.
“Tell me, at least, one thing: are you, or are you not, in love with Miss Cecil?”
“Oh, come — I say — hang it, you know!” exclaimed Bob; but the Professor, paying no heed to this incoherent remonstrance, repeated his question in a determined manner.
“Very well, then — yes!” called out the young man despairingly. “I am in love with her — and I can’t marry her. Now I hope you’re satisfied.”
The Professor said, “Far from it.” On the contrary, that bare statement was eminently unsatisfactory, and required explanation. He could well understand that there might be obstacles in the way of a
marriage which appeared to be desirable and desired, but let us hear what those obstacles were, and try what could be done towards removing them.
Bob, however, was obdurate, declaring that he couldn’t and wouldn’t say another word about the matter, except that the obstacles referred to were irremovable. He was the most unfortunate beggar that ever stepped, but talking about it wouldn’t make it any better. “And I don’t think you have the least right to blow me up like this,” he added, as he rose and made for the door. “You asked me to come here and meet her, and I came. Flesh and blood couldn’t resist that. I’ve kept away for the last three weeks though, as you know, and I shall keep away in future. I dare say you have meant kindly, but you shouldn’t be in such a deuce of a hurry to jump to conclusions.”
With that he made good his retreat, while the Professor, left to himself, looked up at Marcus Aurelius and murmured sadly, “It doesn’t do, you see. The human animal in his lower stages of development must be guided by patience and kindness, and by these means alone.”
IV.
Whether in Bob Annesley’s case kindness would have proved more effectual than harshness was a question which the Professor was unable to bring to the test of experience; for a few days after the interview just described Mrs. and Miss Cecil left home, and did not return until late in the autumn.
During their absence, of which Mrs. Annesley was duly apprised, the Professor had a respite. He received no more importunate letters, he saw little of the misguided young lancer, and he employed himself agreeably in writing that brilliant chapter upon Pope Boniface VIII. and the bull Ausculta, fili, which has since been so justly praised by the critics. Absorbed in these congenial studies, and feeling that, for the time being, it was vastly more important to arrive at the truth with regard to the instructions given by Philippe le Bel to Nogaret than to unravel any contemporary mystery, the good man almost forgot Mrs. Harrington’s existence, and it was not until the month of October, when Captain Green, whom he chanced to meet one day, informed him that she had left Lichbury for some destination unknown, that his interest in her revived, and he began to wonder whether anything could have caused her to relinquish her prey.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 253