“Sure,” said she. “Mine, you know.” She gave a general wink; she bustled them in; they saw its ancient and modern splendours, and she was facetious. Maminot took them away down the row of family portraits in the gallery - Maminots with ruffs and stomachers, Maminots with periwigs and hoops - and, between the state bedroom and the staircase, a male and female Maminot of later date, the man a big, blond creature like Oliver, but military in a red tunic and white tights, the woman of a graceful fragility of body emphasised by her Empire dress and a child’s face of large, troubled eyes.
“The Romney.” Mrs. Mead touched Reggie’s arm. “Like a sad fairy, isn’t she? But Romney loved to make his women look wild.”
“Yes. Rather fine. Yes,” Reggie murmured.
“Oliver!” said Mrs. Mead. “Where’s the room of the tragedy?”
“What? Well, it’s a sort of dressing - room, you know,” said Maminot. “Want to see it? “He turned to Mrs. Healy. “Do you mind?”
“Good gracious, no. But there’s nothing to see.” Mrs. Healy laughed.
“What, what?” said Colonel Bracy. “What’s the story?”
“Well, it don’t amount to much,” Maminot grinned. “Let me see. The lady up there” - he jerked his head at the Romney - “rather a beauty, isn’t she?” And Reggie, still contemplating the portrait, saw Ann Bracy look at it too, and discovered a likeness - only their youth, perhaps, only the blue of their frocks; Ann was the calmer, the more virginal. “Well, she was the first wife of my great - great - grandfather. Is that enough ‘greats’? Never mind. She’s not really anything to do with me, you know; she had no children. The old man - that’s the warrior beside her - he had to nip off soon after they were married. So the lady was left alone, and she slept in this little room” - he opened the door of it - “and in the morning she was found dead, the idea being it was a broken heart. They say the old boy was frightfully cut up. He’d been dead keen on her. That’s why he had their pictures hung up outside their room. And he made no change when he married number two. There you are. Our only tragedy. Moral: never leave your wife alone on the honeymoon.”
“And a devilish good moral too,” said Colonel Bracy, and Burchard laughed loud.
“But you’re spoiling the story, Oliver,” Mrs. Mead objected. “You haven’t told them - when she was found, she was all flushed.”
“Oh ah. I forgot. Title of story, ‘The Blushing Bride of Letley.’ Well, that’s where it happened.”
Reggie went into the little room. It had a few pieces of old furniture. It was panelled all over. Reggie glanced at Maminot. “Never had a fireplace?” he murmured.
“Not that I know of. One of the rooms that’s never been touched.”
Reggie wandered to the narrow window. It looked across the turf and gravel in front of the house to the big trees on the eastern side. He turned away and looked round the panelled walls. Most of the wood was plain but for some faded painting of coats of arms. On the wall opposite the window was a large, elaborate carving. A bush rose from the floor, and out of the bush flames, and in the flames was an angel, his face cut deep, his eyes black depths. Over all was inscribed in old English letters:
NEC TAMEN CONSUMEBATUR
“Quaint - what, what? Quaint,” said Colonel Bracy. “What’s it mean, Maminot?”
“Search me,” Maminot yawned.
Reggie gazed at him. “My dear chap. Oh, my dear chap. From the Bible. Burnin’ bush in which the angel of the Lord appeared to Moses. Though burnin’, nec tamen consumebatur - yet the bush was not consumed. General meanin’ by the fellows who put it up, something or other was going to endure, whatever happened. Possibly the old religion. Place looks rather like an oratory. However.” He wandered round the room inspecting the walls, and went out.
They proceeded through the rest of the house, and so at last to lunch. It was a passover of a meal, though heavily and too alcoholically luxurious. Most people were going immediately after. Mrs. Mead’s party had to wait till her afternoon nap was finished. Reggie did not omit the opportunity for one of his own. He waked in the early winter dusk with a vague consciousness that doors were opening and shutting.
As he came from his room to the staircase he saw someone leaving the state bedroom. It was the black - jowled man who had watched the dance. He did not look pleased. He went swiftly past Reggie towards the back stairs.
Reggie went on his way down. As none of his party was visibly waiting, he turned into the lounge. That was populated. Under the stained - glass window which showed St. John writing, with a lamb at his side, Ann lay on a big couch, her bosom moving to a slow, peaceful rhythm, her eyes closed, her face pale and calm and gentle as the saint’s.
Maminot was in the corner beyond her with a pipe and a sporting paper, but over the paper and through the smoke he watched her and Burchard. Burchard sat close to her, made no pretence of looking at anything else, and his look was greedy.
As Reggie came in, Burchard jerked a glance over his shoulder, then returned to contemplation of the sleeping Ann. Reggie dropped into a chair and, with eyes which narrowed, gazed at the black beams in the ceiling.
It was not long before he heard the dominant voice of Mrs. Healy speeding parting guests. Reggie came to his feet. “Well, well,” he said as a general salute to the silent party, and went out into the arms of Mrs. Healy. Her farewells were effusive in a breathless gush.
After tea that evening, Mrs. Mead got rid of the young people and made herself comfortable with knitting - needles and a ball of silk. She looked over her glasses at Reggie, curled up in a big chair by the fire. “Now, do tell me, what did you think of it?”
“Didn’t think,” Reggie murmured. “No material. Only wondered. What was it all about? Why was it?”
“Oh, do you mean the dance? I told you, it was a farewell party.”
“You did. Yes. Explanation not adequate. Why the Burchard and the Bracys?”
Mrs. Mead smiled. “My dear! Isn’t she a lovely girl? -”
“Yes. Beautiful,” Reggie said.
