Lilac did not marry Toby till the spring. And Toby did not murder his
wife, though old Winona went into deep mourning on the receipt of a
cable from San Francisco one day in the following October. The cable was
duly filed. It ran:
“Millicent is no more. Do not announce it in _The
Times_.—REGINALD.”
“I quite feel with my son,” said old Winona. “The death of so unworthy a
woman as the late Lady Bottomley is not a matter we, as a family, can
publicly countenance. But my own change of title must be announced. Will
you look up in Kelly, my dear, for the form in which a dowager announces
the resumption of her original title?”
But Gillian could find nothing helpful in Kelly or even in Whitaker,
and, after an afternoon’s research, was told to telegraph for the lady
whom Mrs. Barraclough called Winnie Roehampton.
“My daughter-in-law knows by experience how to deal with knotty points
in the social code,” said the ex-dowager.
Lady Roehampton discouraged the attempt at a public resumption of her
ex-mother-in-law’s rights. She was an elegant and vivacious creature
with very flaxen hair and a complexion so brilliant that, though
actually the work of nature, it laid her under the constant suspicion of
resorting to art. Her manner, which at first seemed friendly, was on
closer acquaintance seen to be the outward expression of an
undiscriminating candour. She had no reticences, and also no rancours.
To her things and people just were. She neither classified nor blamed.
But she lacked the philosophic detachment which enables others who share
her outlook to stand aside and watch their fellow creatures commit the
follies they themselves are too balanced to stigmatize, too interested
to prevent. Life was not pure spectacle to Winnie Roehampton. She knew
what drama meant to the actors and she was a shade too unintelligent to
remain passively unkind in circumstances over which she could have any
possible control.
“My child,” she said, drawing Gillian into the shelter of one of the
palm-groves in the hall after telling Atkinson to call off that powdered
menial as she would let herself out, “take her to Jay’s. Let her buy up
the whole shop. They’ll tell her to an inch how much crêpe indicates the
resumption of whatever a baronet’s widow resumes when her son has been
divorced by his wife. Oh, yes! That’s what’s happened. Didn’t you know?
Let her get new visiting-cards—she might have a little black arrow put
through ‘Winona.’ I wish I’d thought of that before. Never mind. You can
tell her I thought of it on the way down. But keep her out of _The
Times_. You needn’t tell her Millicent isn’t dead—after all, I _may_ be
doing Toby an injustice—unless you can’t restrain her any other way. But
you might suggest that she’d better wait till Toby gets back, as it’s
quite on the cards that he’s bringing a perfectly good new wife of his
own with him.”
“I think,” said Gillian, “the little black arrow is quite enough for me
to suggest. I’ve seen the cable, you know.”
“So have I. That’s what convinces me. Millicent isn’t the kind of woman
who dies of anything but extreme antiquity or violence. And she’s now
about thirty, and you don’t suppose Toby has done anything violent.”
“No, of course not,” said Gillian faintly, seeing again Toby’s bent head
and strangling hands thrust forward into the lamplight as Lilac’s arm
slid along the top of the couch behind him.
Her hesitation was misunderstood.
“Oh,” said the Countess of Roehampton, without a trace of
self-consciousness or embarrassment, “Dora Barraclough has told you
about Jim Bottomley’s accident? She’d exaggerate, of course; I’ve always
said it was my fault. But I didn’t plan it. I was quite sorry when it
happened. And you can see how I’ve been forgiven. Call me in again if
she gets difficult. One of Roehampton’s aunts is a lady-in-waiting, and
I’ll get her trained intellect to bear on the situation.”
“Thank you so much, Lady Roehampton,” said Gillian from the doorstep,
ignoring the more sensational aspects of the lady’s Parthian speech.
“I’ll get Dashwood to take her to Jay’s this very afternoon.”