CHAPTER VIII

HENLEY--AND AFTER

"We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman."--COLLEY CIBBER: "Love's Last Shift."

Henley Regatta was something of a disappointment to me. I had furbished up the memories of twenty years before--which was one mistake--and was looking forward to it--which was another. In great measure the glory had departed from the house-boats, every one poured into the town by train or car, and the growth of _ad hoc_ riverside clubs had reduced the number of punts and canoes on the river itself. Being every inch as much a snob as my neighbour, I regretted to find Henley so deeply democratised....

I think, in all modesty, my own party was a success. Our houseboat was the "Desdemona," a fair imitation of what the papers call "a floating hotel": we brought my brother's cook from Pont Street and carried our cellar with us from town. And there was a pleasant, assiduous orchestra that neither ate nor slept in its zeal to play us all the waltzes we had grown tired of hearing in London. A Mad Hatter's luncheon started at noon and went on till midnight. Any passing boat that liked the "Desdemona's" looks, moored alongside and boarded her: no one criticised the food or cigars, many dropped in again for a second or third meal in the course of the afternoon, and if they did not know Gladys or myself, they no doubt had a friend among my guests or waiters.

Both those that slept on board and those that visited us at their stomachs' prompting were cheery, light-hearted, out to enjoy themselves. I admit my own transports were moderated by the necessity of having to dance attendance on Lady Roden. The air became charged with Rutlandshire Morningtons, and our conversation showed signs of degenerating into a fantastic Burke's Auction Bridge. Two earls counted higher than three viscounts; I called her out with one marquis, she took the declaration away with a duke, I got it back again with a Russian prince: she doubled me.... Apart from this, I enjoyed myself. All the right people turned up, except Gartside who was kept in town discussing Governorships with the India Office.

There were Rodens to right of us, Rodens to left of us: in a field behind us, unostentatiously smoking Virginia cigarettes, loitered a watchful Roden bodyguard. The Regatta started on July 3rd and on the previous day Rawnsley had given the House its time-table. There would be no Autumn Session, but the House would sit till the end of the third week in August to conclude the Third Reading of the Poor Law Bill; no fresh legislation would be introduced. The New Militants had their answer without possibility of misconstruction, and the families of Cabinet Ministers moved nowhere without a lynx-eyed, heavy-booted, plain-clothes escort.

I summoned Scotland Yard out of its damp, cheerless meadow, gave it bottled beer and a pack of cards, and told it to treat the "Desdemona" as its own and to ring for anything likely to contribute to its comfort. Though we had never met before and were only to meet once again, I felt for those men as I should feel for any one deputed to bear up the young Rodens lest at any time they dashed their feet against stones....

Sylvia was laconic and decisive. She had engaged and defeated her father, met and routed her brothers. Any one who guarded her reckless person did so at their peril; she declined to argue the point. I fancy Lady Roden accepted a detective more or less as part of her too-often-withheld due; Philip was constitutional, guided by precedent, anxious to help peace and order in the execution of their arduous duties. The only active molestation came from Robin: left to himself he would have ignored the detectives' very existence, but at the fell suggestion of Culling I discovered him whiling away the morning by bursting into the guard-room at five-minute intervals with hysterical cries of "Save me! Oh, my God! save me!"

The saturnine, enigmatic Michael pursued his own methods. How he had escaped from Winchester in the midst of the terminal examinations, I never discovered. His telegram said, "What about me for Henley, old thing? Michael." I wired back, "Come in your thousands," and he came in a dove-grey suit, grey socks and buckskin shoes, grey tie, silk handkerchief and Homburg hat. I appreciated Michael more and more at each meeting. Of a detached family he was the most detached member. Observing me staring a trifle unceremoniously at his neck-tie, he produced a note-book and pencil and invited my written opinion. "On Seeing my New Tie" was inscribed on the front page, and the comments--so far as I remember the figures--were:--

(1) "Oh, my God!" (forty per cent.).

(2) "_Have_ you seen Michael's tie?" (forty per cent.).

(3) "Michael _darling_!" (Sylvia's _cri de coeur_, ten per cent.).

(4) "It's a devilish good tie" (my own verdict, perhaps not altogether sincere). (Ten per cent.).

"Come and shew yer ticket o' leave," urged Culling with derisory finger outstretched to indicate the forces of law and order.

"No bloody peelers for this child," Michael answered in a voice discreetly lowered to keep the offending epithet from his sister's ears.

I noticed an exchange of glances between Culling and himself, but was too busy to think much of it at the time. Eleven minutes later, however, the majesty of Scotland Yard had been incarcerated in its own stronghold. Culling sat outside their door improvising an oratorio on an accordion. "The Philistines are upon thee," I heard him thunder as I passed that way. Michael was lying prone on the deck of the house-boat, dangling at safe distance the key of the cabin at the end of a Japanese umbrella.

"_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_" he asked, as an official hand shot impotently out of the cabin window. The question may have been imperfectly understood.

"_Sanguineos quis custodes custodiet ipsos?_" he ventured.

As there was still no answer, common humanity ordained that I should possess myself of the key and hold a gaol delivery. The detectives were near weeping with humiliation, but I comforted them in some measure, won a friendship that was to serve me in good stead, and was at length free to resume my duties as host.

From time to time perfunctory racing took place, without arousing either interest or resentment. We all had our own ways of passing the time between meal and meal; one would study the teeth and smile of a musical-comedy star, another would watch Culling at the Three Card Trick, a third would count the Jews on a neighbouring house-boat.... There was no sign of Elsie or the Seraph, but that was only to be expected. He was to provide her with luncheon and publicity at Phyllis Court, and give the "Desdemona" a wide berth. Those, at least, were his sailing orders if he came; but Elsie had been over-tired and over-excited for some weeks past, and I should not have been surprised to hear she had stayed in town at the last moment.

It is one thing to set a course, and another to steer it--of Henley this is probably truer than of any other stretch of water in the world. When half the punts are returning from island to post after luncheon, and the other half paddle down stream to look at the house-boats, the narrow water midway between start and finish becomes hopelessly, chaotically congested. One or two skiffs and dinghies--which should never be allowed at any regatta--make confusion worse confounded till a timely collision breaks their sculls, or the nose of a racing punt turns them turtle; and with the closing of the booms, three boats begin to sprout where only one was before.

Through a forest of dripping paddles, I watched punt, dinghy and canoe fighting, pressing, yielding; up-stream, down-stream, broad side on, they slid and trembled like a tesselated pavement in an earthquake. The fatalists shipped their poles and paddles, and abandoned themselves to the line of least resistance. Faces grew flushed, but tempers remained creditably even....

"Mary, mother of God! it's our sad, bad, mad Seraph!"

Having exhausted the possibilities of the Three Card Trick, and being unable to secure either a pea or two thimbles, Paddy Culling had wandered to my side and was watching the crowd like a normal man.

I followed the direction of his eyes. The Seraph had turned fatalist and was being squeezed nearer and nearer the "Desdemona." A last vicious thrust by a boatload of pierrots jammed the box of his punt under our landing-stage. He waved a hand to me and began distributing bows among my guests.

"Droppit sthraight from Hiven," cried Culling with unnecessary elaboration of his already strong brogue. "The tay's wet, Mrs. Wylton, and we waiting for some one would ask a blessing. Seraph, yer ambrosia's on order."

They would not leave the punt, but we brought them tea; and a fair sprinkling of my guests testified to the success of our last few weeks' campaign by coming down to the raft and being civil to Elsie. There was, of course, no commotion or excitement of any kind; of those who lingered on deck or in the saloon, fully half, I dare say, were unconscious of what was going on below. Such was certainly the case with Sylvia. While Paddy and I served out strawberries to the crew of the punt, she had been washing her hands for tea, and as we crowned a work of charity with a few cigars and a box of matches, she came out onto the raft for assistance with the clasp of a watch-bracelet.

Paddy volunteered his services, I looked on. Her eyes travelled idly over the crowded segment of river opposite my boat, and completed their circuit by resting on the punt and its occupants. Elsie bowed and received a slight inclination of the head in return. The Seraph bowed, and was accorded the most perfect cut I have ever witnessed. Sylvia looked straight through him to a dinghy four yards the other side. It was superbly, insolently done. I have always been too lazy to cultivate the art of cutting my friends, but should occasion ever arise, I shall go to Sylvia for the necessary tuition.

As soon as the congestion was in some measure relieved, the Seraph waved good-bye to me and started paddling up stream towards Henley Bridge. Elsie had seen all that was to be seen in the cut, and--womanlike--had read into it a variety of meanings.

"I hope you're not tired," the Seraph said, as they landed and walked down to the station.

"I've had a lovely time," she answered. "Thanks most awfully for bringing me, and for all you've done these last few weeks. And before that." She hesitated, and then added with a regretful smile, "We must say good-bye after to-day."

"You're not going away?"

"Not yet; but you've got into enough trouble on my account without losing all your friends," she answered.

"But I haven't."

"You're risking one."

"On your account?"

She nodded.

He had not the brazenness to attempt a direct denial.

"Why should you think so?" he hedged.

"Seraph, dear child, I couldn't help seeing the way she took your bow. I got you that cut."

"She doesn't cut Toby," he objected. "And he and I are equally incriminated."

"There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"She's quite indifferent how much _he_ soils his wings."

The Seraph was left to digest the unspoken antithesis. His face gradually lost the flush it had taken on after their encounter at the raft, his eyes grew calmer and his hands steadier; on the subject of their contention, however, he remained impenitent.

"I shan't say good-bye till you honestly tell me you don't want to see me again."

"You know I can't say that, Seraph."

"Very well, then."

"But it isn't! The good you do me is simply not worth the harm you do yourself. It didn't matter so much till Sylvia came to be reckoned with."

The Seraph shifted impatiently in his corner.

"Neither Sylvia Roden nor any other woman or man in the world is going to dictate who I may associate with, or who I mayn't."

"You must make an exception to the rule in her case."

"Why should I?"

"Every man has to make an exception to every rule in the case of one woman."

His chin achieved an uncompromising angle.

"To quote the Pharisee of blessed memory," he said, "I thank God I am not as other men."

Elsie was well enough acquainted with his moods to know nothing was to be gained by further direct opposition.

"I should like you to come to Chester Square," she compromised; "but you mustn't be seen with me in public any more."

"I shall ride in the Park to-morrow as usual," he persisted.

"I shan't be there, Seraph."

A surprise was awaiting me when Gladys and I returned to Pont Street in the early hours of Sunday morning, after waiting to see the fireworks--by immemorial tradition--extinguished by a tropical downpour. Brian notified me by wireless that he was on his way home and halfway through the Bay. He was, in fact, already overdue at Tilbury, but had been held up while the piston of a high-compression cylinder divested itself of essential portions of its packing.

"Who's going to tell him about Phil?" Gladys asked in consternation when I read her the message. We were getting on so comfortably without my brother that I think the natural affection of us both was tinged with resentment that he was returning by an earlier boat than he had threatened.

"As you are the offender," I pointed out.

"You were responsible for me."

"Why not leave it to Phil?" I suggested, with my genius for compromise.

"That's mean."

"Well, will you tell him yourself? No! I decline to be mixed up in it. I shan't be here. The day your parents land, I shall shift myself bag and baggage to an hotel. Isn't the simplest solution to break off the engagement? Well, you're very hard to please, you know."

I really forget how we settled the question, but the news was certainly not broken by me. The Seraph dropped in to dinner on the last night of my guardianship, and I asked him whether he thought I could improve on the Savoy as my next house of entertainment.

"But you're coming to stay with _me_," he said.

"My dear fellow, you've no experience of me as a guest. I don't know how long I'm staying in London."

"The longer the better, if you don't mind roughing it."

I knew there would be no "roughing it" in his immaculate mode of living, but the question was left undecided for the moment as I really felt it would be better for us both to run independently. Ten weeks of domesticity shared even with Gladys gave me a sensation of clipped wings after my inconsiderate, caravanserai existence, and--without wishing to be patronising--I had to remember that he was a man of very moderate means and would feel the cost of housing me more than I should feel it myself. The following afternoon I called round at Adelphi Terrace to acquaint him with my decision, but something seemed to have upset him; he was gazing abstractedly out of the window and I had not the heart to bother him with my own ephemeral arrangements. At the door of the flat his man apologetically asked my advice on the case; his master was eating, drinking, and smoking practically nothing, wandering about his room instead of going to bed, and gazing out into space instead of his usual daily writing.

I thought over the symptoms on my way to the Club, and decided to employ a portion of the afternoon in playing providence with Sylvia. It is a part for which I am unfitted by inclination, instinct, experience, and aptitude.

Some meeting of political stalwarts was in progress when I arrived at Cadogan Square, but I was mercifully shewn into Sylvia's own room and allowed to spend an interesting five minutes inspecting her books and pictures. They formed an illuminating commentary on her character. One shelf was devoted to works of religion, the rest to lives and histories of the world's great women. Catherine of Siena marched in front of the army, Florence Nightingale brought up the rear; in the ranks were queens like Elizabeth, Catherine of Russia, and Joan of Arc, the great uncrowned; writers from Madame de Sévigné to George Eliot, actresses from Nell Gwyn to Ellen Terry, artists like Vigée le Brun, reformers like Mary Woolstonecraft. It was a catholic library, and found space for Lady Hamilton among the rest. My inspection was barely begun when the door opened and Sylvia came in alone.

"'Tis sweet of you to come," she said. "Have you had tea? Well, d'you mind having it here alone with me? I'm sure you won't want to meet all father's constituents' wives. I hope I wasn't very long."

"No doubt it seemed longer than it was," I answered. "Still, I've had time to look at some of your books and make a discovery about you. If you weren't your father's daughter, you'd be a raging militant."

From the sudden fire in her eyes I thought I had angered her, but the threatening flame died as quickly as it had arisen.

"There's something in heredity after all, then," she said with a smile. "Do I--look the sort of person that breaks windows and burns down houses?"

So far as looks went the same question might have been asked of Joyce Davenant. That I did not ask it was due to a prudent resolve to keep my friendship with Rodens and Davenants in separate watertight compartments.

"You look the sort of person that has a great deal of ability and ambition, and wants a great deal of power."

"Without forgetting that I'm still a woman."

"Some of the militants are curiously feminine."

"'Curiously,' is just the right adverb."

"Joan of Arc rode astride," I pointed out.

"Florence Nightingale didn't break windows to impress the War Office."

"As an academic question," I said, "how's your woman of personality going to make her influence effective in twentieth-century England?"

"Have you met many women of personality?"

"A fair sprinkling."

"So I have; you could feel it as if they were mesmerising you, you had to do anything they told you. But they'd none of them votes."

The arrival of tea turned our thoughts from politics, and at the end of my second cup I advanced delicately towards the purpose of my call.

"You like plain speaking, don't you, Sylvia?" I began.

"As plain as you like."

"Well, you're not treating the Seraph fairly."

I leant back and watched her raising her little dark eyebrows in amused surprise.

"Has he sent you here?" she asked.

"I came on my own blundering initiative," I said. "I don't know what the trouble's about."

"But whatever it is, I'm to blame?"

"Probably."

Sylvia was delighted. "If a man doesn't think highly of women I do like to hear him say so!"

"As a matter of fact I'm not concerned to apportion blame to either of you. You're both of you abnormal and irrational; as likely as not you're both of you wrong. I wanted to tell you something about the Seraph you may not have heard before."

In a dozen sentences I told her of my first meeting with him in Morocco.

"Thanks to you," I said, "he's pretty well got over it. Remember that I saw him then, and you didn't; so believe me when I tell you he was suffering from what the novelists call a 'broken heart.' He won't get over it a second time."

"You're sure it was broken?" she asked dispassionately. "Um. It sounds to me like a dent; press the other side, the dent comes out."

I produced a cigarette case, and flew a distress signal for permission.

"I should like you to be serious about this," I said.

"I? Where do I come in?"

I searched vainly for matches, and eventually had to use one of my own.

"He's in love with you," I said.

Sylvia dealt with the proposition in a series of short sentences punctuated by grave nods.

"Gratifying. If true. Seems improbable. Irrelevant, anyway. Unless I happen to be in love with him."

"I was not born yesterday," I reminded her. "Or the day before."

"You might have been."

I bowed.

"I mean, you're so deliciously young. Do you usually go about talking to girls as you've been talking to me?"

I buttoned up my coat, preparatory to leaving. "Being a friend of you both," I said, "if a word of advice----"

"But you haven't given it."

Literally, I suppose that was true.

"Well, if your generosity's greater than your pride, you can apologise to him: if your pride's greater than your generosity, waive the apology and sink the past. I've a fair idea what the quarrel's about," I added.

"I see." Sylvia brought flippancy into her tone when speaking of something too serious to be treated seriously: the flippancy was now ebbing away, and leaving her implacable and unyielding. "Is there any reason why I should do anything at all?" she asked.

I stretched out my hand to bid her good-bye. "I've not done it well," I admitted, "but the advice was not bad, and the spirit was really good."

"Admirable," she answered ironically. "I should be glad of such a champion. Have you given _him_ any advice?"

"What d'you suggest?"

Sylvia knelt on the edge of a sofa, clasping her hands lazily behind her head.

"I ride in the Park every morning," she began. "I ride alone because I prefer to be alone. My father objects, and Phil doesn't like it, because they don't think it's safe. I think I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, so I disregard their objection. Your friend also rides in the Park every morning, sometimes with a rather conspicuous woman and the last few mornings alone. I don't know whether it's design, I don't know whether it's chance--but he rides nearer me than I like."

I waited for her to point the moral, mentioning incidentally that England was a free country and the Park was open to the public.

"He may have the whole of it," she answered, "except just that little piece where I happen to be riding at any given moment."

"I'm afraid you can't keep him out of even that."

Her eyes broke into sudden blaze. "I can flog him out of it as I'd flog any man who followed me when I forbade him."

There was nothing more to be said, but I said it as soon as I dared.

"We're friends, Sylvia?" She nodded. "And I can say anything I please to you?"

"No one can do that."

"Anything in reason? Well, it's this--you're coming a most awful cropper one of these fine days, my imperious little queen."

"You think so?"

"I do. You're half woman, and half man, and half angel, and three-quarters devil."

Sylvia had been counting the attributes on her fingers.

"When I was at school," she interrupted, "they taught me it took only two halves to make a whole."

"I've learnt a lot since I left school. One thing is that you're the equivalent of any three ordinary women. Now I really am going. Queen Elizabeth, your most humble servant."

Her hand went again to the bell, but I was ready with a better suggestion.

"It would be a graceful act if you offered to show me downstairs," I said. "It'll be horribly lonely going down two great long flights all by myself."

She took my arm, led me down to the hall, and presented me with my hat and stick.

"Are you walking?" she asked as we reached the door. "If not, you may have my private taxi. Look at him." She pointed to an olive-green car at the corner of the Square. "I believe I must have made a conquest, he's always there, and whenever I'm in a hurry I can depend on him. I think he must refuse to carry any one else. It's an honour."

I ran through my loose change, and lit upon a half-sovereign, which I held conspicuously between thumb and first finger.

"He'll carry me," I said.

"I doubt it."

"Will you bet?"

"Oh, of course, if you offer to buy the car!"

"You haven't the courage of your convictions," I said severely. "Good-bye, Queen Elizabeth."

It was well for me she declined the wager. I walked to the corner and hailed the taxi; but the driver shook his head.

"Engaged, sir," he said.

"Your flag's up," I pointed out.

"My mistake, sir."

Nonchalantly pulling down the flag, he retired behind a copy of the _Evening News_. I was sorry, because his voice was that of an educated man, and I am always interested in people who have seen better days; they remind me of my brother before he was made a judge. I had only caught a glimpse of dark eyes, a sallow complexion and bushy black beard and moustache. England is so preponderatingly clean-shaven that a beard always arouses my suspicions. If the wearer be not a priest of the Orthodox Church, I like to think of him as a Russian nihilist.

After dinner the following night I mentioned to the Seraph that I had run across Sylvia, and hinted that his propinquity to her in the Park each day was not altogether welcome.

"So she told me this morning," he said.

"I thought you wouldn't mind my handing on an impression for what it was worth," I added with vague floundering.

"Oh, not at all. I shall go there just the same, though."

"You'll annoy her."

He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "That's as may be. This is not the time for her to be running any unnecessary risks."

"You can hardly kidnap a grown woman--on horseback--in broad daylight--in a public park," I protested.

"The place is practically deserted at the hour she rides."

The following day the Seraph rode as usual. Sylvia entered the Park at her accustomed time; saw him, cut him, passed him. For a while they cantered in the same direction, separated by a hundred and fifty yards; then the Seraph gradually reduced the distance between their horses. His quick eyes had marked a group of men moving furtively through a clump of trees to the side of the road. Their character and intentions will never be known, for Sylvia abruptly drew rein--throwing her horse on his haunches as she did so--then she turned in her own length, and awaited her gratuitous escort. The Seraph had to swerve to avoid a cannon. As he passed, her hand flashed up and cut him across the face with a switch; an instinctive pull at the reins gave his horse a momentary check and enabled her to deal a second cut back-handed across his shoulders. Then both turned and faced each other.

Sylvia sat with white face and blazing eyes.

"It was a switch to-day, and it will be a crop to-morrow," she told him. "It seems you have to be taught that when I say a thing I mean it."

The Seraph bowed and rode away without answering. Physically as well as metaphorically he was thin-skinned, and the switch had drawn blood. Three weeks passed before his face lost the last trace of Sylvia's castigation. A purple wale first blackened and then turned yellowish green. When I saw him later in the day, his face was swollen, and the mark stretched diagonally from cheekbone to chin, crossing and cutting the lips on its way. He gave me the story quietly and without rancour.

"I can't go again after this," he concluded, "but somebody ought to. If you've got any influence with her, use it, and use it quickly. She doesn't know--you none of you know--the danger she's in at present!"

He jumped up to pace the room in uncontrollable nervous excitement.

"What's going to happen, Seraph?" I asked, in a voice that was intended to be sympathetic, sceptical, and pacifying at one and the same moment.

"I don't know--but she's in danger--I know that--I know that--I'm certain of that--I know that."

His overstrung nerves betrayed themselves in a dozen different ways. It occurred to me that the less time he spent alone in his own society the better.

"I'll see if I can do anything," I said in off-hand fashion. "Meantime, I dropped in to know if your invitation held good for a bed under your hospitable roof-tree."

"Delighted to have you," he answered; and then less conventionally, "it's very kindly intended."

"Kindness all on _your_ side," I murmured, pretending not to see that he had plumbed the reason for my coming.

The old, absent thought-reading look returned for an instant to his eyes.

"All my razors are on my dressing-table," he said. "Don't hide them. I shan't commit suicide, but I shall want to shave. I never keep firearms."

I had intended to supervise my removal from Pont Street in person; on reflection I thought it would be wiser to send instructions over the telephone, and give the Seraph the benefit of my company for what it was worth.