That evening he realized completely what Fanny had meant when she
said that Philippa was more so than ever. He observed this increase
in her quality, not only in the broad, massive impression that she
spread, but in everything about her, her gestures, her phrases, the
details of her dress. Every turn of her head and of her body
displayed a higher flamboyance, a richer audacity, a larger volume
of intention. He was almost afraid for her lest she should overdo it
by a shade, a touch, a turn. You couldn't get away from her. The
drawing-room at Amberley was filled with her, filled with white
surfaces of neck and shoulders, with eyes somber yet aflood with
light, eyes that were perpetually at work upon you and perpetually
at play, that only rested for a moment to accentuate their movement
and their play. This effect of her was as of many women,
approaching, withdrawing, and sliding again into view, till you were
aware with a sort of shock that it was one woman, Philippa Tarrant,
all the time, and that all the play and all the movement were
concentrated on one man, Laurence Furnival.
She never let him alone for a minute. He tried, to do him justice he
tried--Straker saw him trying--to escape. But, owing to Miss
Tarrant's multiplicity and omnipresence, he hadn't a chance. You saw
him fascinated, stupefied by the confusion and the mystery of it.
She carried him off under Mrs. Viveash's unhappy nose. Wherever she
went she called him, and he followed, flushed and shamefaced. He
showed himself now pitifully abject, and now in pitiful revolt. Once
or twice he was positively rude to her, and Miss Tarrant seemed to
enjoy that more than anything.
Straker had never seen Philippa so uplifted. She went like the
creature of an inspiring passion, a passion moment by moment
fulfilled and unappeased, renascent, reminiscent, and in all its
moments gloriously aware of itself.
The pageant of Furnival's subjugation lasted through the whole of
Friday evening. All Saturday she ignored him and her work on him.
You would have said it had been undertaken on Mrs. Viveash's
account, not his, just to keep Mrs. Viveash in her place and show
her what she, Philippa, could do. All Sunday, by way of revenge,
Furnival ignored Miss Tarrant, and consoled himself flagrantly with
Mrs. Viveash.
It was on the afternoon of Sunday that Mr. Higginson was seen
sitting out on the terrace with Miss Tarrant. Reggy Lawson had
joined them, having extricated himself with some dexterity from the
toils of the various ladies who desired to talk to him. His attitude
suggested that he was taking his dubious chance against Mr.
Higginson. It was odd that it should be dubious, Reggy's chance; he
himself was so assured, so engaging in his youth and physical
perfection. Straker would have backed him against any man he knew.
Fanny Brocklebank had sent Straker out into the rose garden with
Mary Probyn. He left Miss Tarrant on the terrace alone with Mr.
Higginson and Reggy. He left her talking to Mr. Higginson, listening
to Mr. Higginson, behaving beautifully to Mr. Higginson, and
ignoring Reggy. Straker, with Mary Probyn, walked round and round
the rose garden, which was below Miss Tarrant's end of the terrace,
and while he talked to Mary Probyn he counted the rounds. There were
twenty to the mile. Every time he turned he had Miss Tarrant full in
view, which distracted him from Mary Probyn. Mary didn't seem to
mind. She was a nice woman; plain (in a nice, refined sort of way),
and she knew it, and was nice to you whether you talked to her or
not. He did not find it difficult to talk to Mary: she was
interested in Miss Tarrant; she admired her, but not uncritically.
"She is the least bit too deliberate," was her comment. "She
calculates her effects."
"She does," said Straker, "so that she never misses one of them.
She's a consummate artist."
He had always thought her _that_. (Ninth round.) But as her friend
he could have wished her a freer and sincerer inspiration. After
all, there _was_ something that she missed.
(Tenth round.) Miss Tarrant was still behaving beautifully to Mr.
Higginson. Mary Probyn marveled to see them getting on so well
together. (Fifteenth round.)
Reggy had left them; they were not getting on together quite so
well.
(Twentieth round.) They had risen; they were coming down the steps
into the garden; Straker heard Miss Tarrant ordering Mr. Higginson
to go and talk to Miss Probyn. He did so with an alacrity which
betrayed a certain fear of the lady he admired.
Miss Tarrant, alone with Straker, turned on him the face which had
scared Mr. Higginson. She led him in silence and at a rapid pace
down through the rose garden and out upon the lawn beyond. There she
stood still and drew a deep breath.
"You had no business," she said, "to go away like that and leave me
with him."
"Why not? Last year, if I remember----"
He paused. He remembered perfectly that last year she had contrived
pretty often to be left with him. Last year Mr. Higginson, as the
Liberal candidate for East Mickleham, seemed about to achieve a
distinction, which, owing to his defeat by an overwhelming majority,
he had unfortunately not achieved. He had not been prudent. He had
stood, not only for East Mickleham, but for a principle. It was an
unpopular principle, and he knew it, and he had stuck to it all the
same, with obstinacy and absurdity, in the teeth, the furiously
gnashing teeth, of his constituency. You couldn't detach Mr.
Higginson from his principle, and as long as he stuck to it a
parliamentary career was closed to him. It was sad, for he had a
passion for politics; he had chosen politics as the one field for
the one ponderous talent he possessed. The glory of it had hung
ponderously about Mr. Higginson last year; but this year, cut off
from politics, it was pitiable, the nonentity he had become.
Straker could read that in his lady's alienated eyes.
"Last year," he continued, "you seemed to find him interesting."
"You think things must be what they seem?"
Her tone accused him of insufficient metaphysical acumen.
"There is no necessity. Still, as I said, last year----"
"Could Mr. Higginson, in any year, be interesting?"
"Did you hope," Straker retorted, "to make him so by cultivating
him?"
"It's impossible to say what Mr. Higginson might become
under--centuries of cultivation. It would take centuries."
That was all very well, he said to himself. If he didn't say that
Miss Tarrant had pursued Mr. Higginson, he distinctly recalled the
grace with which she had allowed herself to be pursued. She _had_
cultivated him. And, having done it, having so flagrantly and
palpably and under Straker's own eyes gone in for him, how on earth
did she propose to get out of it now? There was, Straker said to
himself again, no getting out of it. As for centuries----
"Let us go back," he persisted, "to last year."
"Last year he had his uses. He was a good watch-dog."
"A _what_?"
"A watch-dog. He kept other people off."
For a moment he was disarmed by the sheer impudence of it. He smiled
a reminiscent smile.
"I should have thought his function was rather, wasn't it, to draw
them on?"
Her triumphing eyes showed him that he had given himself into her
hands. He should have been content with his reminiscent smile.
Wasn't he, her eyes inquired, for a distinguished barrister, just a
little bit too crude?
"You thought," she said, "he was a decoy-duck? Why, wouldn't you
have flown from your most adored if you'd seen her--with Mr.
Higginson?"
Thus deftly she wove her web and wound him into it. That was her
way. She would take your own words out of your mouth and work them
into the brilliant fabric, tangling you in your talk. And not only
did she tangle you in your talk, she confused you in your mental
processes.
"You didn't seriously suppose," she said, "that I could have had any
permanent use for him?"
Straker's smile paid tribute to her crowning cleverness. He didn't
know how much permanence she attached to matrimony, or to Mr.
Higginson, but he knew that she had considered him in that
preposterous relation. She faced him and his awful knowledge and
floored him with just that--the thing's inherent, palpable
absurdity. And if _that_ wasn't clever of her!----
"Of course not." He was eager in his assent; it was wrung from him.
He added with apparent irrelevance, "After all, he's honest."
"You must be something."
She turned to him, radiant and terrible, rejoicing in her murderous
phrase. It intimated that only by his honesty did Mr. Higginson
maintain his foothold on existence.
"I think," said Straker, "it's time to dress for dinner."
They turned and went slowly toward the house. On the terrace, watch
in hand, Mr. Higginson stood alone and conspicuous, shining in his
single attribute of honesty.
That evening Furnival sought Straker out in a lonely corner of the
smoke-room. His face was flushed and defiant. He put it to Straker
point-blank.
"I say, what's she up to, that friend of yours, Miss T-Tarrant?"
He stammered over her name. Her name excited him.
Straker intimated that it was not given him to know what Miss
Tarrant might or might not be up to.
Furnival shook his head. "I can't make her out. Upon my honor, I
can't."
Straker wondered what Furny's honor had to do with it.
"Why is she hanging round like this?"
"Hanging round?"
"Yes. You know what I mean. Why doesn't somebody marry her?" He made
a queer sound in his throat, a sound of unspeakable interrogation.
"Why haven't you married her yourself?"