All that day and throughout the greater part of the next Jeannie kept up
with chill politeness and composure this attitude towards Lord
Lindfield, which he, at any rate, found maddening. What made it the more
maddening was that to all the rest of the party she behaved with that
eager geniality which was so characteristic of her. Only when he was
there, and when he addressed her directly, something would come over her
manner that can only be compared to the forming of a film of ice over a
pool. To an acquaintance merely it would have been unnoticeable; even to
a friend, if it had happened only once or twice, it might have passed
undetected; as it was, he could not fail to see that it was there, nor
could he fail to puzzle his wits over what the cause of it might be.
During the day he tried to get a word with her in private, but she
seemed to anticipate his intention, and contrived that it should be
impossible for the request to be made. Once, however, just after the
return that afternoon from Boulter's Lock, he had managed to say to her:
"There is nothing the matter, is there?" and with complete politeness
she had replied: "I have just a touch of a cold. But it is nothing,
thanks." And thereupon she had taken up a newspaper, and remarked to
Lady Nottingham that the Eton and Harrow match seemed to have been
extraordinarily exciting.
Now, no man, unless he is definitely in love with and enthralled by a
woman, will, if he has anything which may be called spirit, stand this
sort of thing tamely. Lindfield honestly examined himself to see "if in
aught he had offended," could find no cause of offence in himself, and
then went through a series of conflicting and unsettling emotions.
He told himself that for some reason she had wished to get on intimate
terms with him, and then, her curiosity or whatever it was being
satisfied, she had merely opened the hand into which she had taken his
and, so to speak, wiped his hand off. This seemed to him a very mean and
heartless proceeding, but there it was. She had clearly done this, and
if a woman chose to behave like that to a man the only rejoinder
consistent with ordinary dignity and self-respect was to take no notice
at all, and dismiss her from his mind.
Clearly that was the right thing to do, but instead of doing the right
thing he first felt angry, and then sick at heart. Women--those
witches--were really rather cruel. They cast a spell over one, and
then rode away on their broomsticks, disregarding the poor wretch over
whom they had cast it. He was left to go mooning about, until in the
merciful course of Nature the spell began to lose its potency and die
out. Then, again, he would remember the dignity of man, and repeat to
himself his determination to dismiss her and her incomprehensibilities
from his mind, and challenge Daisy to some silly game. She, poor
wretch, would accept with avidity; but the game, whatever it was, soon
seemed to lose its edge and its gaiety. There was something that had
clearly gone wrong.
Daisy guessed what that was, and her guess was fairly correct. It seemed
to her that for a couple of days Aunt Jeannie had, to put it quite
bluntly, run after Lord Lindfield. She had pretty well caught him up,
too, for Daisy was fair-minded enough to see that he had not been very
agile in getting away from her. He had been quite glad to be caught up,
and was evidently charmed by her.
Then, clearly, about the time of her own headache, something had
happened; Daisy could see that. Aunt Jeannie, though positively melting
with geniality and charming warmth to everybody else, turned on him a
shoulder that was absolutely frozen. Why she had done this Daisy could
not help guessing, and her solution was that Jeannie had been
tremendously attracted by him, and then suddenly seen that somehow it
"wouldn't do." Perhaps at this point the sight that Daisy had caught of
her aunt and Victor Braithwaite together in the garden supplied a gap in
the explanation. Daisy did not like to think that that was it; for, in
truth, if it was, there was no doubt whatever that darling Aunt Jeannie
had been flirting. But, as Aunt Jeannie had quite ceased to flirt, Daisy
was more than willing to forgive her for the miseries of those two
dreadful days; she was even willing to forget.
Only Lord Lindfield, it was clear to her, did not quite forget. He was
altogether unlike himself. For a little while he would be uproariously
cheerful, then his gaiety would go out without a gutter, like a
candle suddenly taken out into a gale of wind. And then, perhaps, his
eyes would stray about till, for a moment, they fastened on Jeannie,
who was probably as entranced by the general joy of life as he had
been a minute before. Then he would look puzzled, and then angry, and
then puzzled again.
Whatever was passing in Jeannie's mind, she concealed it with supreme
success, so that nobody could possibly tell that anything was passing
there, or that she had any currents going along below the surface. But
she had--currents that were going in the direction she had willed to set
them; but for all that they flowed in so strong a tide she hated the
flowing of them, and hated herself who had set them moving. She was
playing a deep game, and one that had required all her wit to invent,
and all her tact to play; but during all this Sunday and the day that
followed she observed the effect of her moves, and, though hating them,
was well satisfied with their result.
With the tail of her eye, or with half an ear, even while she was in
full swing of some preposterous discussion, punctuated with laughter,
with Jim Crowfoot, she could observe Lord Lindfield, could see his
perplexity and his anger, could hear his attempts to talk and laugh, as
if there was nothing to trouble him; could note, before long, the sudden
change in his tone, the short monosyllables of answers, the quenched
laugh. He was much with Daisy, but Mrs. Halton did not mind that;
indeed, it was as she would have had it, for it was clear how little
Daisy had the power to hold him, and it was just that which he was
beginning now to perceive. She wanted him to understand that very
completely, to have it sink down into his nature till it became a part
of him.
Yes, her diplomacy was prospering well; already the fruit of it was
swelling on the tree. It might be salutary; it was certainly bitter.