Lady Connie Part 24

"Did you know Mr. Falloden's party is off?"

And she explained that for the following day, Falloden had arranged the most elaborate and exclusive of river-parties, with tea in the private gardens of a famous house, ten miles from Oxford. His mother and sister had been coming down for it, and he had asked other people from London.

"It was all for Connie--and Connie's had to scratch! And Mr. Falloden has put it all off. He says his mother, Lady Laura, has a chill and can't come, but every one knows--it's Connie!"

She and Sorell smiled at each other. They had never had many words on the subject, but they understood each other perfectly.

"What made her scratch?" asked Sorell, wondering.

"Royalties," said Nora shortly, with a democratic nose in air.

It appeared that a certain travelled and artistic Princess had been spending the week-end in a ducal house in the neighbourhood. So, too, had the ex-Viceroy. And hearing from him that the only daughter "of those dear Risboroughs" was at Oxford, twelve miles off, her Royal Highness, through him, had "commanded" Constance for tea under the ducal roof on Tuesday. A carriage was to be sent for her, and the ex-Viceroy undertook to convey her back to Oxford afterwards, he being due himself to dine and sleep at the Vice-Chancellor's the night before the Encaenia.

"Constance didn't want to go a bit. She was dreadfully annoyed. But father and mother made her. So she sent a note to Mr. Falloden, and he came round. She was out, but Alice saw him. Alice says he scarcely said a word, but you could feel he was in a towering rage."

"Poor Falloden!" said Sorell.

Nora's eyes twinkled.

"Yes, but so good for him! I'm sure he's always throwing over other people. Now he knows

"'Golden lads and la.s.ses must Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.'"

"Vandal!" cried Sorell--"to twist such a verse!"

Nora laughed, threw him a friendly nod, and vanished up the steps of the Bodleian.

But Falloden's hour came!

The Encaenia went off magnificently. Connie, sitting beside Mrs. Hooper in the semicircle of the Sheldonian Theatre, drew the eyes of the crowd of graduates as they surged into the arena, and tantalised the undergraduates in the gallery, above the semicircle, who were well aware that the "star" was there, but could not see her. As the new doctors'

procession entered through the lane made for it by the bedells, as the whole a.s.sembly rose, and as the organ struck up, amid the clapping and shouting of the G.o.ds in the gallery, Connie and the grey-haired Amba.s.sador, who was walking second in the red and yellow line, grinned openly at each other, while the ex-Viceroy in front, who had been agreeably flattered by the effect produced by his girl-cousin in the august circles of the day before, nodded and smiled at the young lady in the white plumes and pale mauve dress.

"Do you know my cousin, Lady Constance Bledlow?--the girl in mauve there?" he said, complacently in the ear of the Public Orator, as they stood waiting till the mingled din from the organ and the undergraduates' gallery overhead should subside sufficiently to allow that official to begin his arduous task of introducing the doctors-elect.

The Public Orator, in a panic lest one of the Latin puns in his forthcoming address should escape him, said hurriedly--"Yes!"--and then "No"--being quite uncertain to which girl in mauve the great man referred, and far too nervous to find out. The great man smiled, and looked up blandly at the shrieking gallery overhead, wondering--as all persons in his position do wonder in each succeeding generation--whether the undergraduates were allowed to make quite such an infernal noise when he was "up."

Meanwhile, Constance herself was only conscious of one face and figure in the crowded theatre. Falloden had borrowed a master's gown, and as the general throng closed up behind the doctors' procession, he took up a position in the rear, just in front of the great doors under the organ loft, which, as the day was very hot, remained unclosed. His dark head and athlete's figure, scarcely disguised by the ampler folds of the borrowed gown, showed in picturesque relief against the grey and sunlit background of the beautiful Divinity School, which could be seen through the doorway. Constance knew that his eyes were on her; and she guessed that he was only conscious of her, as she at that moment was only conscious of him. And again that tremor, that premonition of some coming attack upon her will which she half dreaded, and half desired, swept over her. What was there in the grave and slightly frowning face that drew her through all repulsion? She studied it. Surely the brow and eyes were beautiful--shaped for high thought, and generous feeling? It was the disdainful sulky mouth, the haughty carriage of the head, that spoilt a n.o.ble aspect. Yet she had seen the mouth quiver into softness; and those broad shoulders had once stood between her and danger--possibly death. Her heart trembled. "What do you want of me?" it was asking--helplessly--of the distant man; "and can I--dare I--give it?"

Then her thoughts flew onward to the ball of the evening, for it was the night of the Marmion ball. No more escape! If she went--and nothing should prevent her from going--it would be Falloden's evening, Falloden's chance. She had been perfectly conscious of evading and thwarting him during the previous week. There had been some girlish mischief, but more excitement in it. Now, would he take his revenge?

Her heart beat fast. She had never yet danced with him. To-night she would feel his arm round her in the convention of the waltz. And she knew that for her it would be no convention; but something either to be pa.s.sionately accepted--or impatiently endured.

Oxford went early to the Marmion ball. It was a very popular gathering.

So that before ten o'clock the green quadrangle was crowded with guests waiting to see other guests come in; while the lights from the Gothic hall, and the notes of the "Blue Danube," then in its first prime, flung out their call to youth and s.e.x.

In they thronged--young men and maidens--a gay procession through the lawns and quadrangles, feeling the world born anew for them, and for them only, as their fathers and mothers had felt before them.

Falloden and Meyrick, with half a dozen other chosen spirits, met Constance at the entrance and while Mrs. Hooper and Alice followed, pleased against their will by the reflected fame which had fallen upon them also, the young men formed a body-guard round Constance, and escorted her like a queen to the hall.

Sorell, eagerly waiting, watched her entrance into the beautiful and s.p.a.cious room, with its throng of dancers. She came in, radiant, with that aureole of popular favour floating round her, which has so much to do with the loveliness of the young. All the world smiled on her; she smiled in return; and that sarcastic self behind the smile, which Nora's quick sense was so often conscious of, seemed to have vanished. She carried, Sorell saw, a glorious bunch of pale roses. Were they Falloden's gift?

That Douglas Falloden danced with her repeatedly, that they sat out together through most of the supper-dances, that there was a sheltered corner in the illuminated quad, beside the Graeco-Roman fountain which an archaeological warden had given to the college, where, involuntarily, his troubled eyes discovered them more than once:--this at least Sorell knew, and could not help knowing. He saw that she danced twice with Radowitz, and that Falloden stood meanwhile in the doorway of the hall, twisting his black moustache, and chaffing Meyrick, yet all the time with an eye on the ballroom. And during one long disappearance, he found himself guessing that Falloden had taken her to the library for greater seclusion. Only a very few people seemed to know that the fine old room was open.

"Where is Connie?" said poor Mrs. Hooper fretfully--when three o'clock had long struck. "I can't keep awake!"

And now a midsummer sun was rising over Oxford. The last carriage had rumbled through the streets; the last merry group of black-coated men, and girls in thin shoes and opera-cloaks had vanished. The summer dawn held the whole beautiful and silenced city in its peace.

Constance, in her dressing-gown, sat at the open window, looking out over the dewy garden, and vaguely conscious of its scents as one final touch of sweetness in a whole of pleasure which was still sending its thrill through all her pulses.

At last, she found pen and paper on her writing-table, and wrote an instruction for Annette upon it.

"Please send early for the horses. They should be here at a quarter to nine. Call me at eight. Tell Aunt Ellen that I have gone for a ride, and shall be back by eleven. It was quite a nice ball."

Then, with a silent laugh at the last words, she took the sheet of paper, stole noiselessly out of her room, and up the stairs to Annette's room, where she pushed the message under the door. Annette had not been well the day before, and Connie had peremptorily forbidden her to sit up.

CHAPTER IX

The day was still young in Lathom Woods. A wood-cutter engaged in cutting coppice on the wood's eastern skirts, hearing deep m.u.f.fled sounds from "Tom" clock-tower, borne to him from Oxford on the light easterly breeze, stopped to count the strokes.

Ten o'clock.

He straightened himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, and was immediately aware of certain other sounds approaching from the wood itself. Horses--at a walk. No doubt the same gentleman and lady who had pa.s.sed him an hour earlier, going in a contrary direction.

He watched them as they pa.s.sed him again, repeating his reflection that they were a "fine-lookin' couple"--no doubt sweethearts. What else should bring a young man and a young woman riding in Lathom Woods at that time in the morning? "Never seed 'em doin' it before, anyways."

Connie threw the old man a gracious "Good morning!"--to which he guardedly responded, looking full at her, as he stood leaning on his axe.

"I wonder what the old fellow is thinking about us!" she said lightly, when they had moved forward. Then she flushed, conscious that the remark had been ill-advised.

Falloden, who was sitting erect and rather sombre, his reins lying loosely on his horse's neck, said slowly--

"He is probably thinking all sorts of foolish things, which aren't true.

I wish they were."

Connie's eyes were s.h.i.+ning with a suppressed excitement.

"He supposes at any rate we have had a good time, and in fact--we haven't. Is that what you mean?"