James Berwick's attitude towards women had always been inexplicable to Oliver, for he was entirely out of sympathy with his friend's interest in Woman qua Woman. In no circumstances would the younger man have been capable of imagining the peculiar relationship which had sprung up between these two people, to each of whom—and it was an aggravating circumstance—he felt himself bound by so close a tie.
During the last two days his jealousy and suspicion of Berwick's motives had almost prompted him to say something to Mrs. Rebell, but there was that in Barbara which made it very difficult to approach such a subject with her. Also, even if lacking in a sense of humour, Boringdon was yet dimly aware that she might well retort with a tu quoque argument which he would find it difficult to meet. For there had been one fortnight in which, looking back, he was obliged to admit to himself that he had spent far more time in Mrs. Rebell's company than he could accuse Berwick of now doing. He and she had walked together, ridden together, and talked together of everything under heaven and earth. Even—fool that he had been—he had told her much of Berwick, and all to that dangerous sentimentalist's advantage.
Then there had come a sudden change over his own and Mrs. Rebell's pleasant and profitable relationship. Saucebox had kicked herself in the stable, and had gone back, in disgrace, to Chillingworth, so the rides had perforce come to an end. Little by little, or so it now seemed to Oliver, he had been shepherded into only going over to the Priory in the morning—made to feel that at other times he was not welcome.
The young man remembered well the first time he had come over to the Priory to find Berwick installed, almost as master, in the great hall, and Barbara listening to this new acquaintance as she had hitherto only listened to him, to Boringdon himself. And yet what was there to be done? Madame Sampiero's attitude filled him with indignation; surely it was her duty to save her god-daughter from the snares of such a fowler as she must know Berwick to be?
Boringdon had long been aware of the type of feminine companionship his friend was always seeking, and dimly he understood that hitherto the pursuit had been unavailing. But now?—Mrs. Rebell, so Boringdon, with something like agony, acknowledged to himself, fulfilled all the conditions of Berwick's ideal; and a nobler, more unselfish feeling than mere personal instinct stirred him to revolt, while he was also swayed by an anger born of keen jealousy, dignified by him with a hundred names, of which the most comfortable to his self-esteem and conscience was care for Mrs. Rebell's reputation.
At certain moments he reminded himself how much Berwick had been at the Priory before Mrs. Rebell's arrival, but even so, such a man's constant presence there was terribly dangerous! Some kind, wholly disinterested woman must tell Barbara that in England Berwick's conduct would surely compromise her, whatever might be the case at Santa Maria or on the Continent.
Casting about in his mind, Boringdon could think of but one person in the neighbourhood who was fitted to undertake so delicate a task, and who would, so he told himself, understand his own personal share in the matter; this person was Mrs. Kemp. To the Grange he accordingly made his way, after having listened in silence to Miss Vipen's softly uttered remarks.
From the first fortune favoured him, for Mrs. Kemp was alone. The General and Lucy were gone to Halnakeham for the afternoon; and Boringdon, coming in out of the late November air full of suppressed excitement and ill at ease, felt soothed by the look of warmth and comfort with which Lucy's mother always managed to surround herself.
To Oliver's own mother, to Mrs. Boringdon, an appearance of comfort, even of luxury, was all-important when guests were expected at Chancton Cottage. Then everything was suitably lavish, and even luxurious. But when the young man and his mother were alone, fires were allowed to burn low, the food, poor in quality, was also limited as to quantity, and it was well for Oliver that he cared as little as on the whole he did for creature comforts. In Mrs. Boringdon's mind the page boy was set against the sweets at luncheon and the cakes at tea which Oliver would have enjoyed, but then in the country a man-servant was essential—an essential portion of her own and her son's dignity.