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  As I entered the drawing room, all conversation ceased. Lady Bladen glanced over at me in obvious appreciation. Geoffrey, too, looked at me appraisingly. It was Darius, how­ever, who reacted with displeasure to my changed appearance. I saw that he had changed into black evening coat and knee breeches, and I hoped with the shedding of his travelling clothes he had shed, also, his ill humour. Such was not the case. He looked at me coldly, his lips compressed as though afraid to speak.

  I could not understand him. Lady Bladen noticed noth­ing, though Geoffrey, always observant of Darius, apparently understood and appreciated his cousin's displeasure.

  "Really, Darius, I don't know what is the matter with you," his mother complained at last after she and Geoffrey had carried the dinner conversation between them almost in entirety. "Are you feeling quite well?"

  "Quite," he replied without looking up.

  "And here is Alexandra looking so pretty, and you've said not a word about it."

  "Indeed, we are boors, aren't we, cousin," Geoffrey ri­posted. "Though I must confess to sitting here all evening and thinking how delightful she was looking. That dress is posi­tively the last word in chic. I doubt there can be two the same, though I seem to have seen one very similar to it before." Geoffrey smiled in a friendly fashion across to Darius. "Don't you like it, coz?"

  "I rarely comment on women's clothes," Darius replied coldly.

  Lady Bladen's face wore a look of sudden recognition. "So that's it! That is what has made you out of sorts all eve­ning. Really, Darius, when are you ever going to recover from your loss? I realize only too well the suffering in losing some­one you love, but unlike me, you are still young. Your life is still before you. You cannot spend it mourning a dead wife or refusing to see anything connected with her. Why, even your son . . ."

  "That is quite enough, mother. I refuse to discuss this matter."

  Geoffrey continued to cut his meat with decided relish, yet he was even more obviously entertained by the scene at the table.

  "I'm afraid I don't understand." I looked over at Lady Bladen for explanation.

  "It is the dress," she said briefly.

  "The dress?" Still I was mystified.

  "The dress you are wearing. It was Philomena's."

  "Oh no!" I stood up abruptly. "Had I known, I should never have worn it. I shall change immediately."

  "Do sit down, Alexandra. You can't leave in the middle of dinner," Darius snapped.

  "I can and I shall."

  Lady Bladen followed me upstairs as I was changing into my own dress.

  "I am so sorry, dear. I had no idea Darius would react in such a fashion just because you wore one of these dresses."

  I might have guessed it was Philomena's, for no one else had such discriminating taste.

  "I didn't know. I wish you had told me."

  "I'm sorry. Had I thought for a moment . . . but it's done now. You see, when Darius moved back to Great Stanhope Street, he had all Philomena's things packed up—the jewellery that had been her own he gave back to her parents, but her clothes were sent here to be given away. These I put away, for they were too extravagant to be generally useful. When I saw your soiled dress earlier, I remembered them and thought to make use of them. I wish now I had not, for it has upset him, as does everything connected with her. But please, Alexandra, don't fret. You have been completely blameless. The fault is mine. Please come down."

  We reentered the dining room as the cherry tarts and coffee were being served. Darius was quiet though clearly anx­ious to make amends, but I was cold and aloof. I felt a sense of relief when the meal was finally over and I was able to an­nounce that it was time for me to leave.

  "But I was counting on you to make up a table for qua­drille, Alex." Darius spoke with a joviality I was sure he did not feel.

  I shook my head. "My mother expects me. Father is away. I should probably not have stayed at all. I should have left, as you suggested earlier this afternoon."

  He flushed at my inference.

  "Will you allow me to accompany you . . ." Geoffrey began, when Darius cut him short.

  "It is my duty to see that Alexandra arrives home safely."

  "I don't need you, either of you. It is only a short dis­tance and I know my way."

  "I know you do, but I would like the walk, if you will allow me." Darius took my arm in his and so it remained until we left the house. Then I shook myself free.

  "Alex, I was rude earlier. I apologize for my be-haviour."

  I made no reply, and we walked in silence through the apple orchard towards the lights of Seton Place. I said nothing because for the first time in my life, I had nothing I wished to say to Darius. I was angry and mortified and I kept a swift pace along the path, nor would I allow him to take my arm to guide me in the darkness.

  When I stumbled on an exposed tree root, he grasped my elbow, forcing me to stop and face him.

  "I'm sorry, truly I am. I've been wanting to apologize to you all evening for being such a bear. I should never have acted as I did; it showed a lamentable lack of civility. It was just that—you didn't look like yourself this evening. You looked so—so grown up. How old are you now?"

  "Nineteen," I said tersely.

  "Well, then, you are quite grown up. Seeing you dressed in—dressed as you were—well, it just didn't seem like you, that's all, it seemed like—like someone else. Will you forgive my churlishness?"

  I could not see his expression in the darkness, but I knew I was beginning to succumb, as I always did, to the charm of his voice, to his persuasiveness. I was a fool. I shook myself an­grily. Was I to spend my whole life worshipping someone who didn't care for me in the least? My voice as it lashed back at him seemed that of a stranger. I knew I would say things that I should not say, yet I could not stop myself.

  "But it wasn't simply because I looked older, or different, was it, Darius? In fact your ill humour had nothing to do with me at all. You don't really know who I am, do you—no, don't interrupt—I mean, you don't know who the real me is or what I am thinking. You don't even care. Your annoyance this eve­ning was not caused by me at all. I don't exist for you, not in any special way. It was the dress, wasn't it? It was her dress, that was what upset you, that anyone should be allowed to touch anything that was hers, that anyone should have the temerity to appear in her clothes. I assure you, had I known it to be hers I should never have put it on. I know I am not to mention her name; you have told me that already. Yet I will. You may have loved her, you may love her still, but when are you going to acknowledge that Philomena is dead? When are you going to forgive Cr—John for being alive?"

  "Alex, Alex," he put his arms around me. "You are wrong when you say I care nothing for you. It is just that there are things that you don't understand, that possibly you will never understand. Indeed there are those things I hope you will never have to understand."

  Angrily I pushed him aside. "I realize that I am—naive, perhaps—but there are certain qualities of humanity under­standable to all of us. One of those is the bond between parent and child. Geoffrey treats your son with far more warmth and kindness than you evidence, yet you are as unfeeling to your cousin as you are to John, more so even . . ." My voice broke. I began to cry tears I had held back all evening. Those unmen­tionable things had been said. I felt him stiffen; when next he spoke, his voice was cool and terse.

  "I suggest you not allow yourself to be carried away by Poindexter's charm. I should warn you that he is not quite as affable, or, to use your words, as kind and considerate, as he might at first appear. It would be well for you to remember that."

  "Your mother does not appear to share your ill opinion of him," I retorted.

  "She does not know him as I do, and I have no wish to enlighten her in the matter of his character. I have no reason to believe he would do her any harm. You, on the other hand, he might."

  "You would make a monster of him!"

  "He makes a monster of himself."

  We fac
ed one another in anger.

  "You have come quite far enough," I averred. "I know my own way. I have no need, indeed no wish, for your company."

  I turned and ran from him. He made no attempt to fol­low, yet neither did he turn back. I ran from him, wishing to ever widen the distance between us. I had never thought to feel such anger towards him, yet at that moment I never wished to see him again. It was some months before I did.

  XIII

  "And only think, Paul's perfect fuddy-duddy of a tutor in­sisted on calling on us daily to give papa accounts of Paul's progress and insisted that we dine with him in his fusty lodg­ings on Pitt Road, or when we did not dine with him, he dined with us at the Clarendon. There was no getting away from him. Poor Paul, I pity him with such a tutor. What a silly man! If only you had been there, we might have had fun together exploring his idiosyncrasies, but on my own I could only make mental note of them to relate them to you, which isn't nearly as much fun."

  Cassy was curled up at the end of my bed. She and father had arrived back from Oxford the previous evening, father apparently well satisfied with his visit. Paul had been brought into line, for he announced, affably enough, that he would be coming home for Christmas and that he had invited his tutor, Mr. Pomeroy, to accompany him.

  "Come Cassy, tell me now so that when he comes I shall have been informed what to look for. Does he have a tick like Mr. Tyson, or walk pigeon-toed like Mr. Williams's boy, or fall asleep while he is at table like old Mr. Cromer? Tell me all the funny parts now. I want you to cheer me up."

  "Me cheer you up," Cassy accused. "It is you who went to London and indulged in the high life. Oxford is a handsome town, but I'm sure nothing I did compared with your ac­tivities in London."

  As a matter of fact, my London visit seemed very far away. All I could think of was my quarrel with Darius and the harsh words we had exchanged. But Cassy was right; I had undoubtedly had the better time.

  "I promise I'll tell you about London, but first tell me about Mr. Pomeroy. You know how I like odd characters, and you've aroused my curiosity. How old is he and what does he look like?"

  "I don't really know how old he is," Cassy said pensively. "He could be forty or he could be four hundred. He is small in stature, balding and rather like a little bird; he hops about from subject to subject, devoting one sentence here, the next there, never dealing wholly with anything, just taking it up and setting it aside, going on to something else, then setting that aside and returning to his original thought at the very point he left off. It is as though he were talking to several people at the same time, all on different topics, or as though you were conversing with several people although the only one there is Mr. Pomeroy. Though he is a terrible bore, you cannot succumb to that boredom, for you must follow the conversa­tion every minute in order to give the proper response, other­wise you become totally lost."

  "But does not a nod now and again suffice?"

  "No, indeed. I tried that, but he demands an answer, otherwise he becomes very irritable and accuses you of not listening, as he did me on one occasion. It made me very ner­vous, I can assure you, and papa gave me such a black look that I dared not let my attention drift for a minute after that. I think perhaps his mannerism comes from being a tutor."

  "Poor Paul," I said. "No wonder he has done so badly at Oxford. And how like father! Instead of changing his tutor, he invites him down here for Christmas."

  "Well, enough of Mr. Pomeroy. Enough, enough, more than enough. If I thought I would have to spend another day in his company, I would scream. I know he'll be here for the holidays, but you'll be here and I dare say that together we'll find him quite funny. Now tell me about London."

  I did as I was bid, and her frequent observations and fervently repeated wishes that she could have been there with me made me ashamed of the pleasure I had enjoyed compared with her own dismal experience.

  "I wish you had been there, Cassy," I finished lamely.

  "I wish I had too," she agreed. "I think even Salisbury with Aunt Maud, bad as it was, was better than Oxford and Mr. Pomeroy. Paul has all my sympathies."

  Mr. Linnell had donned the blue of Advent for three Sundays at St. Mary's before Paul came down from Oxford and I had an opportunity to see Mr. Pomeroy for myself. Cassy had not exaggerated; in fact, if anything, she had been kindness itself concerning the tutor.

  I had imagined a small, meek man, funny in a doltish fashion. I discovered instead that there was nothing really funny at all about Mr. Pomeroy. Small he might be, but meek he certainly was not. He held a very high opinion of himself, an opinion he assumed was held by the world at large no matter what might be done or said to the contrary. His man­ner of speaking on two or three, sometimes more, subjects at the same time, frequently interspersing Greek or Latin phrases of obscure origin into his conversation, was taxing and re­quired a great deal of concentration. It was not long, however, before I decided that not one, let alone three, of his topics was worth the effort; and with that decision, I made no further pretence of humouring him. With my obvious indifference to him, which he straightaway classed as insolence, he spoke to my father most directly on the ill manners of the younger generation, staring fixedly at me as he did so that there could be no doubt as to whom he referred, bringing down father's wrath upon my head. Yet the fact that he could speak so concisely on the issue convinced me that when he had a mind to, he was perfectly capable of communicating clearly. Thus his affected and confusing manner of speech was nothing more than a means of bewildering others and perhaps thereby per­suading them that he was indeed a learned man, one to be listened to, one never to dispute.

  It was odd, but father, who was never known for his pa­tience, showed no irritation with the peculiarities of our guest. Indeed, he took pains to adjust to his idiosyncrasies. I had thought that Mr. Pomeroy had been invited to Seton Place in the hope that he would coach Paul for his exams, but father made no attempt to prevent Paul from going off on long ram­bles on his own; nor, after Mr. Pomeroy had expressed dis­pleasure at my behaviour, did he punish me; he berated me, to be sure, but after that he suggested I stay clear of our guest and spend my time with Paul, which, far from being a punish­ment, was a pleasure.

  I enjoyed my walks with Paul too well to discuss either father or Mr. Pomeroy with him. We did, in fact, talk little, though I told Paul of my meeting with Sydney Smith and my great admiration for him.

  "He is so intelligent, so witty, yet at the same time so kind. Everything interests him. He enjoys a rich life—rich in the sense that he has influential friends, a variety of activities, yet he ministers to the poor. He is never afraid to speak his mind. I have been reading his articles in the Edinburgh Review since I met him. I am convinced he could do anything, yet he is happy in the church."

  "You mean that he has adapted to it," Paul responded bitterly.

  "Perhaps," I hesitated. "Yet if it is to be, if you are indeed to take the orders, I do wish you would talk to him. He is so-so very sensible."

  "Should the opportunity present itself, I shall. But I don't want to talk about it anymore; not when I'm on holiday. I'm going to walk over to Netherton. Is that too far for you?"

  "Of course not. I love being out."

  "Away from home and from father—I know what you mean."

  But if Paul and I were allowed to wander at will, Cassy was trapped. Father demanded her presence daily as he sat with Mr. Pomeroy, she between them intent on her knitting, though she confided in me that she spent as much time at­tempting to unravel Mr. Pomeroy's conversation as later she spent unravelling her pattern, which became hopelessly con­fused in her distraction.

  "I do so like to see a woman whose hands are usefully employed," I heard Mr. Pomeroy intoning to father one after­noon as I crept past the sitting-room door on my return. Then with no perceptible change of voice, he went on to his opposi­tion to Catholic emancipation, and my sense of the ludicrous made me hesitate to hear father's response.

  "Do you not feel
that the Whig stand is playing squarely into the hands of the Irish Catholics? If only they had more responsible, reputable leaders, but one look at Grey and Rus­sell, both from great families yet tearing down the very back­bone of their own country . . ."

  It was a subject dear to father's heart and I heard him attempt to interject a comment, but Mr. Pomeroy had pro­ceeded full tilt into the subject of our weather seasonal for the Nativity, "Not so very dissimilar from the time in Jerusalem."

  Father, though no authority on the Scriptures, apart from the most familiar passages, muttered, "Bethlehem," half be­neath his breath, but Mr. Pomeroy droned on, back to Cassy's industry.

  "Miss Cassandra is to be commended. Indeed, I know of few young ladies who devote themselves as assiduously to their work as does she. Ceteris paribus cetera desunt."

  Father permitted himself a clearly audible grunt of as­sent, though I doubt it was connected with Mr. Pomeroy's Latin reasoning. It did not matter, however, for Mr. Pomeroy had returned to the Whigs. "Now take Canning. There's a man whom I believe may have seen the light at last, for he's beginning to support the matter of . . ."

  I began to move away, uninterested in Canning or the measures he might or might not support, but I stopped, for father actually interrupted Mr. Pomeroy, inter-rupted and changed the topic, from one of Whig irresponsibility—his very favourite—back to the subject of Cassy.

  "Of my daughters, Mr. Pomeroy, Cassandra is by far the most capable, the most domestic, the best household manager, most careful with her personal expenses, a fine needlewoman, in fact I think most highly of her in every way. She is a dutiful daughter; she will make a dutiful wife."