CHAPTER IX
THE LUNCHEON PARTY
Boreham was in his dressing-room at Chartcote looking at himself in themirror. The picture he saw in its depths was familiar to him. Had he(like prehistoric man) never had the opportunity of seeing his own face,and had he been suddenly presented with his portrait and asked whetherhe thought the picture pleasing, he would have replied, as do ourCabinet ministers: "The answer is in the negative."
But the figure in the mirror had always been associated with his inmostthoughts. It had grown with his growth. It had smiled, it had laughedand frowned. It had looked dull and disappointed, it had lookedflattered and happy in tune with his own feelings; and that rathercolourless face with the drab beard, the bristly eyebrows, the pale blueeyes and the thin lips, were all part of Boreham's exclusive personalworld to which he was passionately attached; something separate from theworld he criticised, jeered at, scolded or praised, as the mood tookhim, also something separate from what he secretly and unwillinglyenvied. The portrait in the mirror represented Boreham's own particularself--the unmistakable "I."
He gave a last touch with a brush to the stiff hair, and then stoodstaring at his completed image, at himself, ready for lunch, ready--andthis was what dominated his thoughts--ready to receive May Dashwood.
Some eight or nine years ago, when he had first met May, he had asnearly fallen in love with her as his constitution permitted; and he hadbeen nettled at finding himself in a financial position that was, to saythe best of it, rather fluctuating. He knew he was going to haveChartcote, but aunts of sixty frequently live to remain aunts at eighty.May had never shown any particular interest in him, but he attributedher indifference to the natural and selfish female desire to acquire awealthy husband. As it was impossible for him to marry at that period inhis life, he adopted that theory of marriage most likely to shed acheerful light upon his compulsory bachelorhood. He maintained that thenatural man tries to escape marriage, as it is incompatible with his"freedom," and is only "enchained" after much persistent hunting down bythe female, who makes the most of the conventions of civilisation forher own protection and profit. He was able, therefore, at the age offorty-two to look round him and say: "I have successfullyescaped--hitherto," and to feel that what he said was true. But now hewas no longer poor. He was an eligible man.
He was also less happy than he had been. He had lived at Chartcote forsome interminable weeks! He had found it tolerable, only because he waswell enough off to be always going away from it. But now he had againmet May, free like himself, and if possible more attractive than she hadbeen eight years ago!
He had met her and had found her at the zenith of womanhood; withoutlosing her youth, she had acquired maturer grace and self-possession.Had there been any room for improvement in himself he too would havematured! The wealth he had acquired was sufficient. And now the questionwas: whether with all his masculine longing to preserve his freedom hewould be able to escape successfully again? This was why he was giving alingering glance in the mirror, where his external personality was, asit were, painted with an exactness that no artist could command.
Should this blond man with the beard and the stiff hair, below which laya splendid brain, should he escape again?
Boreham stared hard at his own image. He repeated the momentousquestion, firmly but inaudibly, and then went away without answering it.Time would show--that very day might show!
Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had already arrived. Now Mrs. Greenleafe Pottenwas a cousin of Boreham's maternal aunt. She lived in rude thoughluxurious widowhood about a quarter of a mile from Chartcote, and shewas naturally the person to whom Boreham applied whenever he wanted alady to head his table. Besides, Mrs. Potten was a very old friend ofLady Dashwood's. Mrs. Potten was a little senior to Lady Dashwood, butin many ways appeared to be her junior. Mrs. Potten, too, retained heryouthful interest in men. Lady Dashwood's long stay in Oxford hadbrought with it a new interest to Mrs. Potten's life. It had enabled herto call at King's College and claim acquaintance with the Warden. Mrs.Potten admired the Warden with the sentiment of early girlhood. Now Mrs.Potten was accredited with the possession of great wealth, of which shespent as little as possible. She practised certain strange economies,and on this occasion, learning that the Dashwoods were coming withoutthe Warden, she decided to come in the costume in which she usuallyspent the morning hours, toiling in the garden.
The party consisted of the three ladies from King's, Mr. Bingham, Fellowof All Souls, and Mr. and Mrs. Harding.
Mr. Bingham was a man of real learning; he was a bachelor, and he madeforcible remarks in the soft deliberate tone of a super-curate. Helaughed discreetly as if in the presence of some sacred shrine. In theold pre-war days there had been many stories current in Oxford aboutBingham, some true and some invented by his friends. All of them werereports of brief but effective conversations between himself and someother less sophisticated person. Bingham always accepted invitationsfrom any one who asked him when he had time, and if he found himselfbored, he simply did not go again. Boreham had got hold of Bingham andhad asked him to lunch, so he had accepted. It was one of the days whenhe did _not_ go up to the War Office, but when he lectured to womenstudents. He had to lunch somewhere, and he had bicycled out, intendingto bicycle back, rain or no rain, for the sake of exercise.
Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Harding. Harding, who had taken Orders(just as some men have eaten dinners for the Bar), was Fellow and Tutorof a sporting College. His tutorial business had been for many years todrive the unwilling and ungrateful blockhead through the Pass Degree.His private business was to assume that he was a "man of the world." Itwas a subject that engrossed what must (in the absence of anything moredistinctive), be called the "spiritual" side of his nature. His wife,who had money, lived to set a good example to other Dons' wives inmatters of dress and "tenue," and she had put on her best frock inanticipation of meeting the "County." Indeed, the Hardings had taken upBoreham because he was not a college Don but a member of "Society." Theywere, like Bingham, at Chartcote for the first time. It was anunpleasant shock to Mr. Harding to find that instead of the County,other Oxford people had been asked to luncheon. Fortunately, however,the Oxford people were the Dashwoods! The Hardings exchanged glances,and Harding, who had entered the room in his best manner, now lookedround and heaved a sigh, letting himself spiritually down with a sort ofthump. Bingham his old school-fellow and senior at Winchester, was,perhaps, the man in all Oxford to whom he felt most antipathy.
Mrs. Harding very much regretted that she had not come in a smart Harristweed. It would have been a good compromise between the Dashwoods andthe pretty girl with them, and Mrs. Greenleafe Potten with her tweedskirt and not altogether spotless shirt. But it was too late!
Boreham was quite unconscious of his guests' thoughts, and was busyplotting how best to give May Dashwood an opportunity of making love tohim. He would have Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Harding on each side of him attable, giving to Mrs. Potten, Harding and Bingham. Then May Dashwood andMiss Scott would be wedged in at the sides. But, after lunch, he wouldgive the men only ten minutes sharp for their coffee, and take off MayDashwood to look over the house. In this way he would be behaving withthe futile orthodoxy required by our effete social system, and yet givethe opportunity necessary to the female for the successful pursuit ofthe male.
Only--and here a sudden spasm went through his frame, as he looked roundon his guests--did he really wish to become a married man? Did he wantto be obliged to be always with one woman, to be obliged to pay callswith her, dine out with her? Did he want to explain where he was goingwhen he went by himself, and to give her some notion as to the hour whenhe would return, and to leave his address with her if he stayed away fora night? No! Marriage was a gross imposition on humanity, as his brotherhad discovered twice over. The woman in the world who would tempt himinto harness would have to be exquisitely fascinating! But then--andthis was the point--May Dashwood _had_ just that peculiar charm!Boreham's eyes were now resting on her
face. She was sitting on hisleft, next Mrs. Harding, and Bingham's black head was bent and he wassaying something to her that made her smile. Boreham wished that he hadput Harding, the married man, next her! Harding was commonplace! Hardingwas safe! Look at Harding doing his duty with Mrs. Potten! Useful man,Harding! But Bingham was a bachelor, and not safe!
And so the luncheon went on, and Boreham talked disconnectedly becausehe forgot the thread of his argument in his keenness to hear what MayDashwood and Bingham were saying to each other. He tried to drag inBingham and force him to talk to the table, but his efforts werefruitless. Bingham merely looked absently and sweetly round the table,and then relapsed into talk that was inaudible except to his fairneighbour.
Gwendolen Scott watched the table silently, and wondered how it was theyfound so much to talk about. Harding did not intend to waste any time intalking to an Oxford person. He put his elbow on the table on her sideand conversed with Mrs. Potten. He professed interest in heragricultural pursuits, told her that he liked digging in the rain, andby the time lunch was over he had solemnly emphasised his opinion thatthe cricket bat and the shot gun and the covert and the moderate partyin the Church of England were what made our Empire great. Mrs. Pottenapproved these remarks, and said that she was surprised and pleased tohear such sound views expressed by any one from Oxford. She was afraidthat very wild and democratic views were not only tolerated, but bornand bred in Oxford. She was afraid that Oxford wasn't doing poor, dear,clever Bernard any good, though she was convinced that the "dearWarden" would not tolerate any foolishness, and she was on the point ofrising when her movements were delayed by the shock of hearing Mr.Bingham suddenly guffaw with extraordinary suavity and gentleness.
She turned to him questioningly.
"It depends upon what you mean by democratic," he said, smiling softlypast Mrs. Potten and on to Harding. "The United States of America, whichmakes a point of talking the higher twaddle about all men being free andequal, can barely manage to bring any wealthy pot to justice. On theother hand, Oxford, which is slimed with Toryism, is always ready tomake any son of any impecunious greengrocer the head of one's college.In Oxford, even at Christ Church"--and here Bingham showed two rows ofgood teeth at Harding,--"you may say what you like now. Oxford nowswarms with political Humanitarians, who go about sticking theirstomachs out and pretending to be inspired! Now, what do you mean byDemocratic?"
Mrs. Potten would have been shocked, but Bingham's mellifluous voicegave a "cachet" to his language. She looked nervously at Boreham; seeingthat he had caught the talk and was about to plunge into it, shesignified "escape" to Lady Dashwood and rose herself.
"We will leave you men to quarrel together," she said to Harding. "Yougive it to them, Mr. Harding. Don't you spare 'em," and she passed tothe door.
For a moment the three men who were left behind in the dining-roomglanced at each other--then they sat down. Boreham was torn between thedesire to dispute whatever either of his guests put forward, and a stillkeener desire to get away rapidly to the drawing-room. Harding hadalready lost all interest in the subject of democracy, and was passingon the claret to Bingham. Bingham helped himself, wondering, as he didso, whether Mrs. Dashwood was in mourning for a brother, or perhaps hadbeen mourning for a husband. It seemed to Bingham an interestingquestion.
"Good claret this of yours," said Harding. "I conclude that you weren'tone of those fanatics who tried to force us all to become teetotallers.My view is that at my age a man can judge for himself what is good forhim."
"That wasn't quite the point," said Bingham. "The point was whether thestay-at-homes should fill up their stomachs, or turn it into cash forwar purposes."
"Of course," sneered Harding, "you like to put it in that way."
"It isn't any man's business," broke in Boreham, "whether another mancan or can't judge what's good for him."
Boreham had been getting up steam for an attack upon Christ Churchbecause it was ecclesiastical, upon Balliol because it had beenBingham's college, and upon Oxford in general because he, Boreham, hadnot been bred within its walls. In other words, Boreham was going tospeak with unbiassed frankness. But this sudden deviation of the talk toclaret and Harding's cool assumption that his view was like his host's,could not be passed in silence.
"What I say is," said Harding again, "that when a man gets to myage----"
"Age isn't the question," interrupted Boreham. "Let every man have hisown view about drink. Mine is that I'm not going to ask your permissionto drink. If a man likes to get drunk, all I say is that it's not mybusiness. The only thing any of your Bishops ever said that was worthremembering was: 'I'd rather see England free than England sober.'"
Harding allowed that the saying was a good one. He nodded his head.Bingham sipped his claret. "You do get a bit free when you're notsober," he said sweetly. "I say, Harding, so you would rather see Mrs.Harding free than sober!"
Harding made an inarticulate noise that indicated the place to which ina future life he would like to consign the speaker.
"Every man does not get offensive when drunk," said Boreham, ignoring,in the manner peculiar to him, the inner meaning of Bingham's remark.
"That's true," said Bingham. "A man may have as his family motto: 'InVino Suavitas'(Courteous though drunk, Boreham); but when you're drunkand you still go on talking, don't you find the difficulty is not somuch to be courteous as to be coherent? In the good old drinking days ofAll Souls, of which I am now an unworthy member, it was said that Tindalwas supreme in Common Room _because_ 'his abstemiousness in drink gavehim no small advantage over those he conversed with.'"
"Talk about supreme in Common Room," said Boreham, catching at theopportunity to drive his dagger into the weak points of Oxford, "youchaps, even before the war, could hardly man your Common Rooms. You'reall married men living out in the brick villas."
"Harding's married," said Bingham. "I'm thinking about it. I've beenthinking for twenty years. It takes a long time to mature thoughts. Bythe by, was that a Miss Dashwood who sat next Harding? I don't think Ihave ever met her in Oxford."
"She is a Miss Scott," said Boreham, suddenly remembering that he wantedto join the ladies as soon as possible. He would get Bingham alone someday, and squeeze him. Just now there wasn't time. As to Harding--he wasa hopeless idiot.
"Not one of Scott of Oriel's eight daughters? Don't know 'em by sighteven. Can't keep pace with 'em," said Harding.
"She's the daughter of Lady Belinda Scott," said Boreham, "and stayingwith Lady Dashwood."
"I thought she didn't belong to Oxford," said Bingham.
Harding stared at his fellow Don, vaguely annoyed. He disliked to hearBingham hinting at any Oxford "brand"--it was the privilege of himselfand his wife to criticise Oxford. Also, why hadn't he talked to MissScott? He wondered why he hadn't seen that she was not an Oxford girl byher dress and by her look of self-satisfied simplicity, the right lookfor a well-bred girl to have.
"I promised to show Mrs. Dashwood my house," said Boreham. "We mustn'tkeep the ladies too long waiting. Shall we go?" he added. "Oh, sorry,Harding, I didn't notice you hadn't finished!"
The men rose and went into the drawing-room. Harding saw, as he entered,that his wife had discovered that Miss Scott was a stranger and she wastalking to her, while Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had got the Dashwoods intoa corner and was telling them all about Chartcote: a skeleton list ofnames with nothing attached to them of historical interest. It was likereading aloud a page of Bradshaw, and any interruption to suchentertainment was a relief. Indeed, May Dashwood began to smile when shesaw Boreham approaching her. Something, however, in his manner made thesmile fade away.
"Will you come over the house?" he asked, carefully putting his personbetween herself and Lady Dashwood so as to obliterate the latter lady."I don't suppose Lady Dashwood wants to see it. Come along, Mrs.Dashwood."
May could scarcely refuse. She rose. Harding was making his way toGwendolen Scott and raising his eyebrows at his wife as a signal for herto appropriate
Mrs. Potten. Bingham was standing in the middle of theroom staring at Lady Dashwood. Some problems were working in his mind,in which that lady figured as an important item.
Gwendolen Scott looked round her. Mr. Harding had ignored her at lunch,and she did not mean to have him sitting beside her again. She was quitesure she wouldn't know what to say to him, if he did speak. She got uphurriedly from her chair, passed the astonished Harding and plunged atMrs. Dashwood.
"Oh, do let me come and see over the house with you," she said, laying acold hand nervously on May's arm. "I should love to--I simply lovelooking at portraits."
"Come, of course," said May, with great cordiality.
Boreham stiffened and his voice became very flat. "I've got no portraitsworth looking at," said he, keeping his hand firmly on the door. "I havea couple of Lely's, they're all alike and sold with a pound of tea. Therest are by nobodies."
"Oh, never mind," said Gwen, earnestly. "I love rooms; Ilove--anything!"
Boreham's beard gave a sort of little tilt, and his innermost thoughtswere noisy and angry, but he had to open the door and let GwendolenScott through if the silly little girl would come and spoil everything.
Boreham could not conceal his vexation. His arrangements had beencarefully made, and here they were knocked on the head, and how he wasto get May Dashwood over to Chartcote again he didn't know.
"What a nice hall!" exclaimed Gwen. "I do love nice halls," and shelooked round at the renaissance decorations of the wall and the domedroof. "Oh, I do love that archway with the statue holding the electriclight, it is sweet!"
"It's bad style," said Boreham, walking gloomily in front of themtowards a door which led into the library. "The house was decent enough,I believe, till some fool in the family, seeing other people take upItalian art, got a craze for it himself and knocked the place about."
"Oh," said Gwen, crestfallen, "I really don't know anything about howhouses ought to look. I only know my cousin Lady Goosemere's house andmother's father's old place, my grandfather's and--and--I do like theLodgings, Mrs. Dashwood," she added in confusion.
"So do I," said May Dashwood.
"This is the library," said Boreham, opening the door.
Boreham led them from one room to another, making remarks on themexpressly for the enlightenment of Mrs. Dashwood, using language thatwas purposely complicated and obscure in order to show Miss Scott thathe was not taking the trouble to give her any information. Whenever hespoke, he stared straight at May Dashwood, as if he were alone with her.He did not by any movement or look acknowledge the presence of theintruder, so that Gwendolen began to wonder how long she would be ableto endure her ill-treatment at Chartcote, without dissolving into tears.She kept on stealing a glance at the watch on Mrs. Dashwood's wrist, butshe could never make out the time, because the figures were not theright side up, and she never had time to count them round before Mrs.Dashwood moved her arm and made a muddle of the whole thing.
But no lunch party lasts for ever, and at last Gwendolen found herselfdown in the hall with the taxi grunting at the door and a bustle ofgood-byes around her. The rain had stopped. Mrs. Greenleafe Potten andBingham were standing together on the shallow steps like two children.The Hardings were already halfway down the drive. Lady Dashwood lookedout of the window of the taxi at Boreham, as he fastened the door.
"Wait a minute, Mr. Boreham," she said. "Tell Mr. Bingham we can takehim into Oxford."
"He's going to walk," said Boreham, coldly. "He's going to walk backwith Mrs. Potten, who wants to walk, and then return for his bicycle."
"Oh, very well," said Lady Dashwood, leaning back. "Good-bye, so manythanks, Mr. Boreham."
Boreham's face wore an enigmatic look as he walked up the steps.
Bingham had opened a pocket-book and was making a note in it with apencil.
"Excuse me just one moment, Mrs. Potten. I shan't remember if I don'tmake a note of it."
The note that Bingham jotted down was: "Sat. Lady Dashwood, dinner 8o'clock."
Boreham glanced keenly and suspiciously at him, for he heard him murmuraloud the words he was writing.
Boreham did not see that Bingham had any right to the invitation.
"I've forgotten my waterproof," exclaimed Mrs. Potten, as she went downthe steps.
Bingham dived into the hall after it and having found it in the arms ofa servant, he hurried back to Mrs. Potten.
"I do believe I've dropped my handkerchief," remarked Mrs. Potten, as hestarted her down the drive at a brisk trot.
"Are you afraid of this pace?" asked Bingham evasively, for he did notintend to return to the house.
Boreham gazed after them with his beard at a saturnine angle. "Youcouldn't expect her to remember everything," he muttered to himself.
The sky was low, heavy and grey, and the air was chilly and yet close,and everything--sky, half-leafless trees, the gravelled drivetoo--seemed to be steaming with moisture. The words came to Boreham'smind:
"My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves, At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves."
"That won't do," he said to himself, as he still stood on the stepsmotionless. "It's no use quoting from Victorian poets. 'What the peoplewant' is nothing older than Masefield or Noyes, or Verhaeren. Because,though Verhaeren's old enough, they didn't know about him till just now,and so he seems new; then there are all the new small chaps. No, I can'tfinish that article. After all, what does it matter? They must wait, andI can afford now to say, 'Take it or leave it, and go to the Devil!'"
He turned and went up the steps. There was no sound audible except thenoise Boreham was making with his own feet on the strip of marble thatmet the parquetted floor of the hall. "It's a beastly distance fromOxford," he said, half aloud; "one can't just drop in on people in theevening, and who else is there? I'm not going to waste my life on half adozen damned sport-ridden, parson-ridden neighbours who can barely spellout a printed book."
One thing had become clear in Boreham's mind. Either he must marry MayDashwood for love, or he must try and let Chartcote, taking rooms inOxford and a flat in town.
If Boreham had found the morning unprofitable, the Hardings had notfound it less so.
"Did Mrs. Potten propose calling?" asked Harding of his wife, as theysat side by side, rolling over a greasy road towards Oxford.
"No," said Mrs. Harding.
"It's quite clear to me," said Harding, "that Mrs. G. P. only regardsBoreham as a freak, so that _he_ won't be any use."
"We needn't go there again," said Mrs. Harding, "unless, of course," sheadded thoughtfully, "we knew beforehand--somehow--that it wasn't just anOxford party. And Lady Dashwood won't do anything for us."
"It's not been worth the taxi," said Harding.
"I wish you'd not made that mistake about Miss Scott," said Mrs.Harding, after a moment's silence.
"How could I help it?" blurted Harding. "Scott's a common name. How onearth could I tell--and coming from Oxford!"
"Yes, but you could see she powdered, and her dress! Besides, comingwith the Dashwoods and knowing Mrs. Potten!" continued Mrs. Harding. "Ifonly you had said one or two sentences to her; I saw she was offended.That's why she ran off with Mrs. Dashwood, she wouldn't be left to yourtender mercies. I saw Lady Dashwood staring."
Harding made no answer, he merely blew through his pursed-up mouth.
"And we've got Boreham dining with us next Thursday!" he said after apause. "Damn it all!"
"No. I didn't leave the note," said Mrs. Harding. "I thought I'd 'waitand see.'"
"Good!" said Harding.
"It was a nuisance," said Mrs. Harding, "that we asked the Warden ofKing's when the Bishop was here and got a refusal. We can't ask theDashwoods and Miss Scott even quietly. It's for the Warden to ask us."
"Anyhow ask Bingham," said Harding; "just casually."
Mrs. Harding looked surprised. "Why, I thought you couldn't stick him,"she said; "and he hasn't been near us for a couple of years at least."
"
Yes, but----"
"Very well," said Mrs. Harding. "And meanwhile I've got Lady Dashwood tolend me Miss Scott for our Sale to-morrow! And shall I ask them to tea?We are so near that it would seem the natural thing to do."
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