§ 1
IN due course Charles Plethern’s autumn guests assembled. The Grieves
were among the first to come. The very afternoon of her arrival at
Morvane, Lady Grieve tackled her old friend on the subject of his ward.
“Tell me what you think of her, Charles. Quite frankly.”
“She’s a different being, Belinda! And I have you to thank for it. I
always knew you were a genius, but this excels everything?”
For a moment she watched him and with affectionate disquietude. How
simple men were, even men of experience, even clever men like Charles
Plethern!
“You find her improved then?”
The inflection of her voice caught his notice and checked the facile
enthusiasm of his reply.
“Do you not also?”
“Yes--immensely in some ways; in others--well, I won’t say ‘no’; rather
that I am a little apprehensive.”
He laughed merrily.
“You give me credit for nothing, Belinda. Must a black sheep go dingy
to its grave?”
“Not a bit of it, Charles. I wasn’t thinking of that. It’s not
_you_ I’m afraid of---- And yet in a way it _is_ you. You’re
such a guileless old stupid.”
“Oh, come! I thought my weakness was usually considered something very
different.”
“Charles, don’t be difficult!”
He shrugged his shoulders in despair.
“My dear, I have no notion of what you’re driving at. What’s the matter
with the child?”
Lady Grieve weighed her answer during a brief but crowded moment.
“It is hard to put into words,” she said at last, “but I have a feeling
that she has come too quickly to a sense of her own attractions. How
pompous it sounds! Do you understand at all? The circumstances are
peculiar. She comes from far away, from poverty; almost, I gather, from
friendless drudgery. Suddenly she is thrown into wealth, into social
dissipation, into a world where light love-making is a fashionable
distraction. She is unusually lovely to look at--shiningly lovely.
Young men are fools----”
“And old ones also, I suppose!” he interrupted. “Look here, Belinda,
aren’t you worrying your motherly old head over nothing? Most
girls--most pretty girls--have their harmless vanities. Why shouldn’t
they? Let her have a good time for a year or two--poor child, she’s
waited long enough!--and then we can see. You don’t expect a young
horse to settle to harness all in a minute.”
“No, Charles, I don’t; but neither should I trust in harness a young
horse that had the technique but not the spirit of obedience.”
He turned on her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Has she set her cap at the ewe-lamb?”
Lady Grieve flushed under this direct attack.
“Don’t make me angry, Charles. I suppose you won’t believe me when I
say it’s just the other way about?”
“Believe you? Certainly I do. Master Daniel has eyes in his head.”
She shook herself impatiently.
“How dense you are! I’m not such a jealous old prude that I want to
keep my son from pretty girls. What I dislike is seeing him played
with--and not only him, but others who mean less to me than he does.”
Charles came to her side and put his arm about her shoulders. He had
suddenly recalled Viola’s mother and the girl’s involuntary confidence
the night of her coming to Morvane.
“Dear Belinda, I am sorry. I have been rude and unappreciative of all
your kindness. Now that you have given me the hint, I will keep watch.
While you are here, we will keep watch together. There now--let us kiss
and be friends.”
She patted his cheek and smiled a little mistily.
“We should always be friends, Charles, whatever happened.”
But, when he had left her, she sat and pondered anxiously over
Viola and her future. In her gentle, old-fashioned mind, prejudice,
convention and the keen instincts of a generous sympathy combined
to produce a queer, intuitive confusion. She was right to see in
Viola flirtatious a girl tempted by sudden power to an abuse of her
little despotism; but then Charles was as right to excuse his ward
her harmless vanities. From their different angles the two were
diagnosing the same surface symptoms of the girl’s development. What
lay beneath those symptoms? The man, being a man, cared little; enough
for him that the child was fair and feminine. The woman, reading the
riddle in the light of her own Victorian training, solved it politely
but unthoroughly. Young women should progress discreetly to their
destiny of marriage; a little playfulness, a little waywardness--then
honourable love and years of honourable matrimony. Too much of
playfulness might forfeit woman’s crown of modesty, and girls uncrowned
were---- The reserves of her period checked the good lady’s argument.
She puckered over Viola, whose dance of life seemed to her kindly
criticism heedless and not enough restrained. She puckered over the
child’s need of womanly advice and influence. Perhaps, with a guardian
of another kind, all might be less alarming, but she considered
frowningly that Charles, with all his goodwill, was not the man to
guide a headstrong girl. His easy cynicism in matters social, his
quick connoisseurship in matters feminine, his profound if unobtrusive
absorption in ambitious schemes of estate-aggrandizement--each and all
of these peculiar characteristics would blind him to the dangers of his
ward’s developing coquetry. As though in comment on her thought the
heavy step of Mrs. Plethern sounded in her ear.
“Good evening,” the old lady said. “You arrived to-day? And Daniel? Our
dear girl seems to have paid you a long visit at Lavenham.”
“We were delighted to have her, Mrs. Plethern. She is an adornment to
any house.”
“Yes, yes. Nature has been kind to her; let us hope she will be equally
kind to nature. The fair are so often afraid of their own power to
give. And what a power!”
With a long sigh the old woman relapsed into brooding silence. Belinda
Grieve played for a moment with the idea of making Mrs. Plethern her
confidante. But only for a moment. Although she was not intimate
with Mrs. Plethern, she had learnt from Charles to regard her almost
as a member of another world, as a being with whom ideas were never
exchanged, because never held in common. Brusquely she sought a
different topic: “It is wonderful what Charles has done to the old
place! You must be glad to see your husband’s home itself again?”
“History and its repetitions are always interesting. Humanity never
changes. Perhaps in fifty years our dear Viola will be an old woman in
a tower; as I am. It is better to be an old woman in a tower than one
in a slum or one that rolls along the parks in an emblazoned carriage.
Vantage-point is everything to age. When we are young, we work for
power; but for the old--peace and a place aloof from folly and from
struggle, a place whence one may look down.”
There was a pause. Then Mrs. Plethern, who had remained standing,
leaning heavily upon her stick, began slowly to set her great bulk in
movement.
“Good night, Belinda. Come and see me in my aerie. Bring your handsome
son. I will have some one nice to entertain him.”
Chuckling softly, she crept away. Lady Grieve grimaced perplexedly.
“What a queer affair it all is!” she thought. “I fear the child is
rather fortuned than fortunate.”
Another step--a light one, this time--and a pair of arms about her
neck. Then a fresh, young voice, liquid with laughter and affectionate
greeting:
“There you are at last! Darling, I’ve been hunting you everywhere! Why
didn’t you come and tell me you’d arrived?”
Lady Grieve kissed the girl’s smooth cheek. For a moment the two heads
rested side by side.
“Dearest, I was on my way. But I wanted to talk to Charles. And how are
you? Little need to ask, I am sure!”
Viola unwound her arms and took a few dancing steps to left and right.
“Oh, I’m enjoying every moment of every hour! Charles is just sweet to
me. And now all you dear people have come and we are to have dances and
polo and all kinds of fun!”
“Have you seen Daniel?”
For all the demureness of the curtsy, there was a hint of tilt in the
pert carriage of the head.
“_He_ at least sought me out,” replied Viola with mocking emphasis.
“And now you are going riding?”
The girl wore a habit of dove-grey broadcloth. Beneath the rolled brim
of her three-cornered hat, the flame of her golden hair shone fitfully.
On her feet were gleaming boots, admirable boots that glinted and
swaggered in the daylight.
“Charles is sending me to Clonsall.”
“Clonsall?”
“A house near here. He has a message for the Grays. He says it is for
him to call, but that men are so clumsy at the convenances and that I
must be deputy.”
“Are you going alone?”
Viola nodded.
“And I must hurry,” she added. “It’s five or six miles each way. You
don’t mind, darling? Let’s have a lovely long talk after dinner, shall
we? I’ve heaps and heaps to tell you.”
Without waiting for a reply, she whisked away. Five minutes later she
was in full canter across the park to southward.
Her ride was the shorter for an encounter with a group of young women,
boys and children, who were clambering a gate as she trotted along
the country road between the south lodge of Morvane and the ragged
tree-fringed mound that marked her destination. A pleasant-faced young
woman, hatless, untidy haired and carrying a large gardenbasket, was
standing at the roadside as Viola approached. In her eyes was a timid
look of half-recognition. On a momentary inspiration Viola reined in,
smiled shyly and said:
“Are you Miss Gray?”
“I’m one of them,” was the reply. “You are Miss Marvell from Morvane?
We have heard such a lot about you.”
“I was on my way to pay a visit,” explained Viola. “Mr. Plethern felt
it was his duty to call and sent me to represent him. I believe he has
already said something to Mr. Walter Gray about your coming over...?”
Madeleine was about to answer, when a sound of snapping twigs and a
shout of laughter recalled her to responsibilities of another kind.
“What’s happened? Jock, how wicked of you! You pushed him in!”
“I _didn’t_, Mad, I swear I didn’t. He was trying to balance on
the gate-post and toppled over.”
Madeleine was at the edge of the ditch, hauling a blubbering infant
from its prickly depths.
“There--there, don’t cry! Boys never cry, Paul. Only a few nasty
thorns. Oh, look at your socks and knickers! You horrid little pig!
Thea!--Where’s Thea?----” Hand to mouth she sent a long, wailing cry
across the fields. “The--a! The--a!” A girl of fifteen or sixteen,
brown, lanky, with all the promise of a sombre sullen beauty, ran
awkwardly toward the gate. “Thea,” commanded Madeleine, “look at this
rat! You must take him straight home. I can’t come yet. Tell nurse
to bath him and keep him clean till Tishy comes in. They’re his new
knickers and she’ll be furious.”
“But, Mad, we haven’t been to the ring field yet!” Thea, with mutinous
eyes, gazed inquisitively at Viola, Then blurtingly:
“Who’s that? Can’t she take him on her horse? It’s only a few minutes.”
Viola glanced at the slime-bespattered infant; then at her own pale,
exquisite clothing. She hesitated. Madeleine saw the hesitation and
took command.
“Don’t argue, Thea, and don’t be impertinent! You’ll take Paul back
_at once_ or there’ll be no bonfire for you to-morrow. Now run
along.”
Viola felt some excuse was due.
“There’s really so little time,” she began. “I only came----”
“I’m sorry Thea was cheeky,” the other interrupted. “They get a little
out of hand. This is my brother Jock. This is Margery. This--oh, dear,
now _she’s_ lost!--Jock, where has Sally gone? Really these kids!
We are supposed to be mushrooming, but it’s more like a paper-chase
without the paper!”
“I last saw her over there with George,” said Jock and, returning to
the gate, he scanned an empty field.
“With George? Then she’ll be all right.”
A small voice shrilled from invisibility.
“Aunty Mad! Aunty Mad!”
Madeleine laughed, with helpless pleasure of the young woman who loves
children for their very impossibility.
“Aunty Mad!” came the tiny voice once more. “I’m stuck!”
Faint oscillations fifty yards along the hedgerow gave a clue.
Madeleine hurried in their direction. Viola, embarrassed and a little
ruffled by the tempestuous progress of her acquaintance with the Grays,
sat her horse impatiently and waited. She thought Miss Gray looked
a nice person, but why so dreadfully untidy? And all these tiresome
children! Who were they all? The memory of Thea and her sacrilegious
impudence gave an angry twinge. She longed to turn Achilles’ head and
go quickly back the way that she had come. But she was a victim of
social mischance; there was nothing for it but to endure with dignity
and with an appearance of contentment.
Madeleine returned. By the hand she held a small and tousled child.
Burrs were in its hair and on its pinafore; its cotton dress was badly
torn; in its free hand it clasped a dingy mass of vegetable pulp.
“I’se found a smush, Aunty Mad!” it was explaining loudly. “I’se found
a loverly smush, but it was all worms! Look at ve worms! Aren’t vere
fousands of vem?”
The mangled mushroom was displayed for approval and sympathy. Viola
felt a little sick. She observed that it had been preceded in the
finder’s hand by many blackberries, some overripe. Madeleine showed no
such squeamishness. Seriously she examined the relics held out for her
inspection.
“All wormy was it, ducky? Never mind. We’ll find some, nice, fresh
young ones. Don’t you think we might throw that away?”
“No! Not frow away!” vociferated the infant. “I want to show Paul ve
worms. You carry it, Aunty Mad.” Catching sight of Viola, the questing
intelligence followed a new and alluring trail. “Who’s ve grey lady?
Has she seen ve worms in my mushie? Show ve grey lady ve worms!”
“I think not, sweetheart. The lady is in a hurry. You go and find
George. Jock and Margery will take you. That’s right, run along. I’ll
catch you up in a moment. There!”--she said triumphantly, as the small
girl, in charge of her young uncle and the unidentifiable Margery,
gambolled stumblingly across an uneven field--“Got rid of them all!
What must you think of us! I’m so sorry, keeping you standing about in
this way! But we are sometimes quite civilized; really we are!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Viola primly. “I have been quite all right.”
She rushed into the purpose of her ill-timed visit. “Mr. Plethern
would like you and Mr. Walter Gray and--and--is it your sister, who is
staying at Clonsall?--at any rate, he would like those who are free to
come to play tennis at Morvane on Thursday. There’ll be polo in the
park, so any who prefer can watch that. About three o’clock?”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Madeleine. “We’d like to come awfully.
But I’m not sure if Walter can manage as early as three. It’s market
day at Rushmorton and I know he has to go in about some pigs. Would it
matter if we were late?”
“Not in the least,” replied Viola indifferently, adding with formal
courtesy, “I’m sure Mr. Plethern will be glad to see you whenever you
can come.” There was a pause.
“I think I must be getting back,” said Viola. “Good-bye--till Thursday.”
With a bow and a short, cold smile she rode away.
Madeleine, as she trudged home to Clonsall, recalled a little sadly
the incidents of their curious encounter. “And she is so lovely!” she
thought. “A pity if they make a stuck-up little minx of her”. Her sense
of justice rallied in Viola’s defence. After all, the circumstances
of the afternoon had been peculiar; even a woman of experience and
tact might have found her position a little awkward. “We’ll see on
Thursday,” she told herself. “I’d like to know her properly--if she’ll
let me--and--(the instinctive disapprobation of virtue unassailed for
the vain nonchalance of untarnished youth shadowed her kindliness)--and
if there’s anything to know!”