Sylvia, however, had chanced it. She had to—and in the end it was only pulling the string of one more shower-bath. It was a shower-bath formidably charged—but in the end that was her vocation in life, and, if Campion had to lose India, she could always pursue her vocation in other countrysides. She was tired, but not as tired as all that!
So Sylvia had chanced saying that she supposed Helen Lowther could look after herself, and had added a salacious quip to keep the speech in character. She knew nothing really of Helen Lowther’s husband, who was probably a lean man with some dim avocation, but he could not be very impressionné, or he would not let his attractive young wife roam forever over Europe.
His Lordship gave no further sign beyond repeating that if that fellow was the sort of fellow Mrs. Tietjens said he was, her Ladyship would properly curl his whiskers. And, in face of that, Sylvia simply had to make a concession to the extent of saying that she did not see why Helen Lowther could not visit a show cottage that was known, apparently over half America. And perhaps buy some old sticks.
His Lordship removed his gaze from the distant hills, and turned a cool, rather impertinent glance on her. He said:
“Ah, if it’s only that …” and nothing more. And she chanced it again:
“If,” she said slowly too, “you think Helen Lowther is in need of protection I don’t mind if I go down and look after her myself!”
The general, who had tried several interjections, now exclaimed:
“Surely you wouldn’t meet that fellow!” … And that rather spoilt it.
For Fittleworth could take the opportunity to leave her to what he was at liberty to regard as the directions of her natural protector. Otherwise he must have said something to give away his attitude. So she had to give away more of her own with the words:
“Christopher is not down there. He has taken an aeroplane to York—to save Groby Great Tree. Your man Speeding saw him when he went to get your saddle. Getting into a plane.” She added: “But he’s too late. Mrs. de Bray Pape had a letter the day before yesterday to say the tree had been cut down. At her orders!”
Fittleworth said: “Good God!” Nothing more. The general regarded him as one fearing to be struck by lightning. Campion had already told her over and over again that Fittleworth would rage like a town bull at the bare idea that the tenant of a furnished house should interfere with its owner’s timber. … But he merely continued to look away, communing with the handle of his crop. That called, Sylvia knew, for another concession, and she said:
“Now Mrs. de Bray Pape has got cold feet. Horribly cold feet. That’s why she’s down there. She’s got the idea that Mark may have her put in prison!” She added further:
“She wanted to take my boy Michael with her to intercede. As the heir he has some right to a view!”
And from those speeches of hers Sylvia had the measure of her dread of that silent man. Perhaps she was more tired than she thought, and the idea of India more attractive.
At that point Fittleworth exclaimed:
“Damn it all, I’ve got to settle the hash of that fellow Gunning!”
He turned his horse’s head along the road and beckoned the general towards him with his crop handle. The general gazed back at her appealingly, but Sylvia knew that she had to stop there and await Fittleworth’s verdict from the general’s lips. She wasn’t even to have any duel of sous-entendus with Fittleworth.
She clenched her fingers on her crop and looked towards Gunning. … If she was going to be asked by the Countess through old Campion to pack up, bag and baggage, and leave the house she would at least get what she could out of that fellow whom she had never yet managed to approach.
The horses of the general and Fittleworth, relieved to be out of the neighbourhood of Sylvia’s chestnut, minced companionably along the road, the mare liking her companion.
“This fellow Gunning,” his Lordship began. … He continued with great animation: “About these gates. … You are aware that my estate carpenter repairs …”
Those were the last words she heard, and she imagined Fittleworth continuing for a long time about his bothering gates in order to put Campion quite off his guard—and no doubt for the sake of manners. Then he would drop in some shot that would be terrible to the old general. He might even cross-question him as to facts, with sly, side questions, looking away over the country.
For that she cared very little. She did not pretend to be a historian: she entertained rather than instructed. And she had conceded enough to Fittleworth. Or perhaps it was to Cammie. Cammie was a great, fat, good-natured dark thing with pockets under her liquid eyes. But she had a will. And by telling Fittleworth that she had not incited Helen Lowther and the two others to make an incursion into the Tietjens’ household Sylvia was aware that she had weakened.
She hadn’t intended to weaken. It had happened. She had intended to chance conveying the idea that she intended
