It was quiet and pleasant in Cathedral. She lingered in her seat for some little time after the nave had emptied and until the organist had finished the voluntary. Then she came slowly out, turning left along the plinth with a vague idea of once more admiring the great staircase and the Hall, when a slim figure in a grey suit shot with such velocity from a dark doorway that he cannoned full tilt against her, nearly knocking her down, and sending her bag and parcels flying in disorder along the plinth.
“Hell!” said a voice which set her heart beating by its unexpected familiarity, “have I hurt you? Me all over-bargin’ and bumpin’ about like a bumble-bee in a bottle. Clumsy lout! I say, do say I haven’t hurt you. Because, if I have, I’ll run straight across and drown myself in Mercury.” He extended the arm that was not supporting Harriet in a vague gesture towards the pond.
“Not in the least, thank you,” said Harriet, recovering herself.
“Thank God for that. This is my unlucky day. I’ve just had a most unpleasant interview with the Junior Censor. Was there anything breakable in the parcels? Oh, look! your bag’s opened itself wide and all the little oojahs have gone down the steps. Please don’t move. You stand there, thinkin’ up things to call me, and I’ll pick ’em all up one by one on my knees sayin‘ ’meâ culpâ’ to every one of ’em.” He suited the action to the words.
“I’m afraid it hasn’t improved the meringues.” He looked up apologetically. “But if you’ll say you forgive me, we’ll go and get some new ones from the kitchen-the real kind-you know-speciality of the House, and all that”
“Please don’t bother,” said Harriet.
It wasn’t he, of course. This was a lad of twenty-one or two at the most, with a mop of wavy hair tumbling over his forehead and a handsome, petulant face, full of charm, though ominously weak about the curved lips and upward-slanting brows. But the color of the hair was right-the pale yellow of ripe barley; and the light drawling voice, with its clipped syllables and ready babble of speech; and the quick, sidelong smile; and above all, the beautiful, sensitive hands that were gathering the “oojahs” deftly up into their native bag.
“You haven’t called me any names yet,” said the young man.
“I believe I could almost put a name to you,” said Harriet. “Isn’t it-are you any relation of Peter Wimsey’s?”
“Why, of course,” said the young man, sitting up on his heels. “He’s my uncle; and a dashed sight more accommodating than the Jewish kind,” he added, as though struck by a melancholy association of ideas. “Have I met you somewhere? Or was it pure guesswork? You don’t think I’m like him, do you?”
“When you spoke, I thought you were your uncle for the moment. Yes, you’re very like him, in some ways.”
“That’ll break my mater’s heart, all right,” said the young man, with a grin. “Uncle Peter’s not approved. I wish to God he was here, though. He’d come in uncommonly handy at the moment. But he seems to have beetled off somewhere as usual. Mysterious old tom-cat, isn’t he? I take it you know him-I forgot the proper bromide about how small the world is, but we’ll take it as read. Where is the old blighter?”
“I believe he’s in Rome.”
“He would be. That means a letter. It’s awfully hard to be persuasive in a letter, don’t you think? I mean, it all takes so much explaining, and the famous family charm doesn’t seem to go over so well in black and white.” He smiled at her with engaging frankness as he recaptured a last straying copper.
“Do I gather,” said Harriet, with some amusement, “that you anticipate an appeal to Uncle Peter’s better feelings?”
“That’s about it,” said the young man. “He’s quite human, really, you know, if you go about him the right way. Besides, you see, I’ve got the bulge on Uncle Peter. If the worst comes to the worst, I can always threaten to cut my throat and land him with the strawberry leaves.”
“With the what?” said Harriet, fancying that this must be the latest Oxford version of giving the raspberry.
“The strawberry leaves,” said the young man. “The balm, the sceptre, and the ball. Four rows of moth-eaten ermine. To say nothing of that dashed great barracks down at Denver, eating its mouldy head off.” Seeing that Harriet still looked blankly at him, he explained further: “I’m sorry; I forgot. My name’s Saint-George and the Governor forgot to provide me with any brothers. So the minute they write d.s.p. after me, Uncle Peter’s for it. Of course, my father might outlive him; but I don’t believe Uncle Peter’s the sort to die young, unless one of his pet criminals manages to bump him off.”
“That might easily happen,” said Harriet, thinking of the plug-ugly.
“Well, that makes it all the worse for him,” said Lord Saint-George, shaking his head. “The more risks he takes, the quicker he’s got to toe the line for the matrimonial stakes. No more bachelor freedom with old Bunter in a Piccadilly flat. And no more spectacular Viennese singers. So you see, it’s as much as his life’s worth to let anything happen to me.”
“Obviously,” said Harriet, fascinated by this new light on the subject.
“Uncle Peter’s weakness,” went on Lord Saint-George, carefully disentangling the squashed meringues from their paper, “is his strong sense of public duty. You mightn’t think it to look at him, but it’s there. (Shall we try these on the carp? I don’t think they’re really fit for human consumption.) He’s kept out of it so far-he’s an obstinate old devil. Says he’ll have the right wife or none.”
“But suppose the right one says No.”
“That’s the story he puts up. I don’t believe a word of it. Why should anybody object to Uncle Peter? He’s no beauty and he’d talk the hind leg off a donkey; but he’s dashed well-off and he’s got good manners and he’s in the stud-book.” He balanced himself on the edge of Mercury and peered into its tranquil waters. “Look! there’s the big old one. Been here since the foundation, by the looks of him-see him go? Cardinal Wolsey’s particular pet.” He tossed a crumb to the great fish, which took it with a quick snap and submerged again.
“I don’t know how well you know my uncle,” he proceeded, “but if you do get a chance, you might let him know that when you saw me I was looking rather unwell and hagridden and hinted darkly at felo-de-se.”
“I’ll make a point of it,” said Harriet. “I will say you seemed scarcely able to crawl and, in fact, fainted into my arms, accidentally crushing all my parcels. He won’t believe me, but I’ll do my best.”
“No-he isn’t good at believing things, confound him. I’m afraid I shall have to write, after all, and produce the evidence. Still, I don’t know why I should bore you with my personal affairs. Come on down to the kitchen.”
The Christ Church cook was well pleased to produce meringues from the ancient and famous College oven; and when Harriet had duly admired the vast fireplace with its shining spits and heard statistics of the number of joints roasted and the quantity of fuel consumed per week in term-time, she followed her guide out into the quadrangle again with all proper expressions of gratitude.
“Not at all,” said the viscount. “Not much return, I’m afraid, after banging you all over the place and throwing your property about. May I know, by the by, whom I have had the honour of inconveniencing?”
My name’s Harriet Vane.”
Lord Saint-George stood still, and smote himself heavily over the forehead.
“My God, what have I done? Miss Vane, I do beg your pardon-and throw myself abjectly on your mercy. If my uncle hears about this he’ll never forgive me, and I shall cut my throat. It is borne in upon me that I have said every possible thing I should not.”
“It’s my fault,” said Harriet, seeing that he looked really alarmed, “I ought to have warned you.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve no business to say things like that to anybody. I’m afraid I’ve inherited my uncle’s tongue and my mother’s want of tact. Look here, for God’s sake forget all that rot. Uncle Peter’s a dashed good sort, and as decent as they come.”