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Harbottle, and to recognize a certain distinction in the fact that one was the only person with whom Mr. Chichele discussed her at all. The day came when we talked of Robert; it was bound to come in the progress of any understanding and affectionate colloquy which had his wife for inspiration.
'There is no dignified distraction in this country, she complained, 'for respectable ladies nearing forty. She seemed to like to make these declarations in the presence of Somers Chichele, who would look at her with a little queer smile a bad translation, I imagine, of what he felt. She gave herself so generously to her seniors that somebody said Mrs. Harbottle's girdle was hung with brass hats.
I began positively to dread it, almost as much, I imagine, as Somers did. She took her privileges all in Anna's name, she exercised her authority quite as Lady Chichele's proxy. She went to the very limit. 'Anna Chichele, she said actually in his presence, 'is a fortunate woman. She has all kinds of cleverness, and she has her tall son.
I was almost rebuked for lightly suggesting that she must occasionally find herself bored in Peshawur. 'I think not anywhere, said Mr. Chichele; 'Mrs. Harbottle is one of the few people who sound the privilege of living. This to me, who had counted Mrs. Harbottle's yawns on so many occasions! It became presently necessary to be careful, tactful, in one's implications about Mrs.
"Maybe," replied Ademar, "because He saw that your Ladyship's disorder needed a bitter medicine." There was a respite for just one year. But ever after the news of her brother Richard's death, Constance drooped and pined; and when the fresh storm broke, it found her an invalid almost confined to her bed. It began with a strong manifesto from Archbishop Chichele against the Lollards.
Then too, there were so many dreams, half-waking, and not only of Olivia Chichele, naive and frank in divers rural circumstances, but rather of Olivia, Lady Drogheda, that perfect piece of artifice; of how exquisite she was! how swift and volatile in every movement! how airily indomitable, and how mendacious to the tips of her polished finger-nails! and how she always seemed to flit about this world as joyously, alertly, and as colorfully as some ornate and tiny bird of the tropics!
Somers Chichele, Anna's son, it is absurd to think, must have been about fifteen then, reflecting at Winchester with the other 'men' upon the comparative merits of tinned sardines and jam roll, and whether a packet of real Egyptians was not worth the sacrifice of either. His father was colonel of the Twelfth; his mother was still charming.
She carried quite her half of the family tradition, though she could talk of sacrifice and make her eyes wistful, contemplating for Somers the limitations of the drill-book and the camp of exercise, proclaiming and insisting upon what she would have done if she could only have chosen for him. Anna Chichele saw things that way.
For months after, while the expedition still raged after snipers and rifle-thieves, I discussed with Lady Chichele the probable outcome of it all. I have sometimes felt ashamed of leaping as straight as I did with Anna to what we thought the inevitable. I based no calculation on all Mrs.
Harbottle been telling you? Anna asked him. The young man's eye followed Judy, his hand went musingly to his moustache. 'She was telling me, he said, 'that people in India were sepulchers of themselves, but that now and then one came who could roll away another's stone. 'It sounds promising, said Lady Chichele to me. 'It sounds cryptic, I laughed to Somers, but I saw that he had the key.
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