HENRY GRIMSHAW
I
Dr. Pawley’s house was situate on the village green, opposite to the
church and to the left of the inn, The Chandos Arms. It presented a
Georgian exterior to the architectural eye, and the front door boasted a
pediment which resurrected Queen Anne. Red brick glowed rosily,
diffusing an air of hospitality. One might know that the cellarage was
excellent, that the larder was well stocked, and that the parlour
probably was panelled in oak. Behind the house a walled-in garden sloped
upwards to a small temple crowning a mound, which might have served as a
tumulus. In this temple, upon fine summer mornings, the doctor
breakfasted, consuming leisurely bacon of his own curing and eggs
freshly laid. Between herbaceous borders his eyes could wander to his
house, where he had lived so pleasantly during thirty years. Often he
wondered whether his successor would live as pleasantly. And the
conjecture troubled a kindly man, introspective and analytical,
distrusting the _laudator temporis acti_, but fully alive to the fact
that the England he knew and loved was changing profoundly. He confessed
that the eighteenth century was to his taste, as a period of consummate
craftsmanship. Slowly he had collected eighteenth century furniture and
porcelain and silver. Pope was his favourite poet. Everything in the
house was English. Old-fashioned flowers bloomed in his garden and in
his heart. And yet, in odd antithesis, he dealt honestly with the
present and the future. He had considered the future when the necessity
of taking a partner forced itself disagreeably upon his attention. Had
he consulted his own inclinations, he might have selected a colleague of
middle age, more or less satisfied with existing conditions. Such a
colleague would have been accepted by Lady Selina and the villagers as
the real right thing in doctors. To seek out a young up-to-date man
adumbrated possible disaster to peace of mind. At any rate, it salved a
somewhat sensitive conscience to reflect that another might do what he
had left undone. At the same time he was whimsically conscious that he
had done his best according to lights which glimmered none too brightly
when he perused the leading medical journals. Balm descended upon a
perturbed spirit when high authorities in his profession flatly
contradicted each other in and out of print. He had seen, not without
satisfaction, astounding theories spin centrifugally out of sight.
Tremendous assumptions had vanished in thin air. If he halted, out of
breath and sometimes out of pocket, behind the leaders, he could reflect
agreeably upon their divagations, conscious that he had stuck
religiously to the well-worn thoroughfare.
Of late, with failing health and energies, he had asked himself whether
he was doomed to attend the funeral of his own experience. Such an
interment made him shiver, as if an iconoclast were dancing a jig upon
his grave. At such times he wondered pathetically what might have been
had he taken arms against the lady of the manor after the death of her
husband. To work with her, to persuade her where persuasion was
possible, to accept resignedly conditions which he could not approve,
had proved difficult. Country doctors throughout that part of England
were constrained to compromise, although they might detest the word.
Parsons were in just the same boat. Goodrich, for example, after a good
dinner, might acclaim reforms which he was quite incapable of bringing
about. He, too, wandered in a vicious circle of impotent imaginings,
walled in by consequence and circumstance. Each man, perhaps, criticised
the other, but not too harshly. Both agreed that matters in the village
might be worse. Lady Selina spread the voluminous draperies of private
charity over insanitary cottages and low wages. Humanly speaking,
nothing would change her methods. Wise men made the best of them.
Grimshaw arrived in Upworthy some few days after the midsummer
bun-feast. Pawley asked him for a week-end, met him at the station,
installed him in a comfortable room, and, after luncheon, accepted with
gratitude the young man’s suggestion that he should “nose round” by
himself during the afternoon. Pawley was taken with his appearance,
because vitality exuded from him. He had expected to see signs of
overwork, hollow cheeks, a jaded look. And at luncheon he touched
lightly upon this. To his surprise, Grimshaw spoke with entire
frankness.
“My trouble was mental. I found myself up against vested interests, a
hopeless fight. I hostilised authority. And, at heart, I’m an open-air
man. I’m fed up with the slums.”
“I quite understand.”
“Yes; my ease of mind was menaced. And without that, where are you? In a
pea-soup fog.” He laughed boyishly, and added: “I say, how good your
mutton is!”
Presently he took the road without any directions or warnings from
Pawley.
II
For a minute or two he stood still, admiring the village green, in the
centre of which was a cricket pitch in fairly good order. The church
faced him with its low square tower of concrete. Bits of the concrete
had fallen off, revealing the bricks beneath. “Not too much money here,”
thought the young man. His eyes rested upon the cottages, mostly
whitewashed, with heavy thatched roofs, very picturesque, and all of
them more than a hundred years old. The general effect pleased. Perhaps
the best house (barring the doctor’s) was The Chandos Arms, with a wide
gravel sweep in front of it, and ample stable accommodation. A house of
delightful rotundities—bow windows flanking a big hospitable door,
dormer windows winking at you out of the thatch, and the thatch
itself—a masterpiece of craftsmanship—not cut straight along the eaves
but undulating in semicircles of generous diameter. Grimshaw guessed
that it had been a prosperous inn during coaching-days, had suffered a
decline in custom, and was now blooming in a sort of Indian summer by
reason of the increased motor traffic. All the cottages stood back from
the road that skirted the green, with small front gardens ablaze with
old-fashioned flowers. From where he stood, looking to the left, he
could see the trees in the park, and above them the chimneys of the
Manor. If the lady of that Manor chose to stand upon her roof she could
survey the village, and outwardly at least it must have gladdened her
eye. Hard by the church, and beyond it, snuggled the Vicarage. In front
of the inn spread a large horse-pond, a treasure-house of fresh-water
infusoria. The face of any amateur microscopist would have brightened at
the sight of it.
Grimshaw strolled on, crossing the pitch. A wide street led from the
green into the grass country beyond, with cottages on both sides of it.
No modern buildings offended the artistic sense. Grimshaw passed the
post-office, the village store, the baker’s, and a cobbler’s. He could
see no chapel. Nonconformity obviously went without a place of worship
in Upworthy. Being Saturday afternoon, many children were playing in
front of the cottages. Grimshaw stared at them with professional
interest. They appeared to be clean, but not too robust. A few were
rickety.
From a blacksmith’s forge came the cheery sound of hammer on anvil.
Grimshaw nodded to the smith and bade him “Good day.” The smith, nothing
loath for a chat, paused in his work, observing critically:
“You be a stranger in these parts?”
“I am,” said Grimshaw.
“Ah-h-h! A sight o’ folks comes to our village, so pretty and peart it
be.”
“Not much new building going on.”
“Well, no. My lady don’t hold wi’ improvements. New cottages be needed
bad, too.”
“You’re a bit overcrowded, I take it?”
“That be God A’mighty’s truth. I ain’t one to complain, but ’tis a fact
that Upworthy don’t march wi’ the times. Never did, I reckons. When the
kids grows up they has to muck it like pigs in a sty. But I don’t tell
all I knows.”
Grimshaw passed on. He shot a glance upwards at the windows of bedrooms
that held too many children. It was a lovely sunny afternoon, but the
upper windows were closed. At the back of each cottage were sties. The
county was celebrated for its bacon. He could smell roses; and he could
smell pigs. His steps quickened as he left the village behind him.
He was now—as Pawley had informed him—in the heart of the Chandos
domain. Cattle browsed placidly in fields enclosed by hedgerows, not
hedges, hedgerows beloved by pheasants in October and November. Quite
close to the village lay a snipe-bog, which ought to have been drained.
From a man at work on the road Grimshaw learnt that the snipe-bog
harboured wild-fowl as well as snipe.
“’Tis as good a bit o’ rough shooting as I knows.”
“A lot of rabbits, eh?”
“Too many,” said the man. “A rare noosance they be.”
Grimshaw drew the inference. Here, at any rate, sport reigned supreme.
He examined the cows. Unless his experience was at fault, some few were
furnishing milk not fit for human consumption. The farmyards into which
he stared confirmed this unhappy conclusion. Water lay close to the
surface of a clayey soil, and in winter time must have oozed up
everywhere. The ditches were not deep enough, and overgrown with rank
vegetation. But he saw some handsome colts—prospective hunters—and
brood mares. Of high farming there was no evidence whatever. The plough,
for some occult reason, seemed to have been banished.
Grimshaw seated himself upon an ancient gate and lit his pipe.
“By their gates ye shall know them,” he murmured.
And then——
“Can I stick it?”
Sitting on the gate, his thoughts took a swallow’s flight into the past.
He had been born in just such a parish, where Peter was robbed to pay
Paul, where shift had degenerated into makeshift, where Compromise
crowed lustily over Justice and Common Sense. And his father, the parson
of the parish, had been a soured man, unable to cope with his
environment. Fortunately for Grimshaw an uncle and godfather had sent
him to Winchester, where he shone in the playing-fields rather than the
class-rooms. After that he had been pitchforked into Medicine, simply
because the uncle aforesaid happened to be a fairly prosperous
physician.
And then his father had died——!
Up to the very day of the funeral—and how dismal it had been!—Henry
Grimshaw had taken life very easily. Looking back, analytical of himself
and the motives that had governed and misgoverned him, he could remember
vividly how keen he had been to distinguish himself at cricket, partly
because his father had no stomach for games or sport. Really, he had
shirked Latin and Greek out of sheer contrariety, under the lash of a
tongue that perhaps unduly exalted classical attainments. And because
his sire had been something of an ascetic, he had decided to mortify
parental ambitions rather than his own flesh.
In the same odd spirit of contrariety, he had scrapped cricket and
football, concentrating all energies upon the study of his profession.
The friends of his own age held out the lure of playing for the
Gentlemen of England at Lord’s. Their insistence exasperated him. After
his father’s death he found himself in possession of a few thousand
pounds and a mother and sister on his hands. His uncle, something of a
cynic, said to him:
“Harry, you have good looks and good manners. In my profession these
count enormously. When I retire, which I intend to do, you can slide
into a capital practice chiefly amongst aged handmaidens of the Lord.”
Having good manners, Harry said nothing, but he thought: “I’m bothered
if I will.” And immediately afterwards, as luck would have it, he was
captivated by Babbington-Raikes, the famous gynecologist, who had
“enthused” him. Babbington-Raikes fought against diseases of women and
children with the ardour and self-sacrifice of a paladin. He was
amazing. Babbington-Raikes sent him to a God-forsaken parish in Essex
and afterwards to Poplar.
In each place he had learnt much; in each place he had been “downed,”
like his father before him, by the powers plenipotentiary of vested
interests.
And now, apparently, he was “up against them” again.
He returned, after an absence of some hours, in time to dress for
dinner. Pawley gave his visitor of his best, and, whilst the trim
parlourmaid waited upon them, the talk lingered in the eighteenth
century. Grimshaw showed appreciation of the furniture and silver,
drawing out his host to describe his adventures as a collector before
prices became prohibitive to a man of modest means. An agreeable hour
passed swiftly. Then the maid removed the cloth, brought in coffee, and
retired. The doctor placed on the well-polished mahogany an antique box
well filled with excellent cigars.
“Help yourself,” said Pawley.
Grimshaw did so.
“You are amazingly comfortable,” he said abruptly. “Your house is a sort
of sanctuary. To my notion it’s just right. No man could wish to spend
the evening of his life in more delightful surroundings.”
Pawley nodded. Grimshaw hesitated a moment, glancing at his host. The
whimsical face encouraged him to speak frankly.
“I am wondering,” he went on, “whether any design lurks behind your
charming hospitality?”
Pawley laughed.
“Design? An appeal, you mean, to the flesh?”
“Well, yes. You encourage me to be candid.”
“I like that.”
“Thanks.”
“There is no design behind my hospitality, save the wish to make you
heartily welcome here.”
“Thanks again. I have had a jolly letter from Brian Chandos.”
“Ah! His leave was up two days ago. Otherwise I should have asked him
here to-night. To-morrow you will meet his mother and sister.”
“Another appeal——!”
Pawley eyed him more keenly. Grimshaw strayed down a by-path.
“Tell me about the mother.”
“Am I to be biographical?”
“Please.”
“She was the daughter of Lord Saltaire, a West Country magnate. He
belonged to the _vieille souche_. He owned large estates heavily
mortgaged. His daughters were educated at home by a governess who, I
imagine, was not too highly paid. Probably she knew enough to cut the
girls to the Saltaire pattern. All of them married well. The conclusion
has been forced upon me that men like the late Henry Chandos fight shy
of cleverness in a wife.”
“Am I to infer that Lady Selina is stupid?”
“Heavens—no. What do you call cleverness in a woman?”
Grimshaw considered this. He felt himself to be challenged, and wished
to acquit himself adequately. But he had no answer pat to his lip.
Indeed, he had never considered the cleverness of women as something to
be differentiated from the cleverness of man. But he was quite sure that
his own sister might be reckoned clever. And he thought of her as he
replied:
“I should expect perception, sympathy, humour, adaptability, and a sound
business instinct.”
Pawley chuckled.
“I hope you will find all that in your wife, Grimshaw. If you do, you
won’t focus your affections on Chippendale furniture. To return to my
lady—she has perception and sympathy up to a point, and unsound
business instincts. I have her word for it that she never drew a cheque
till she found herself a widow.”
Grimshaw meditated a moment or two before he said tentatively:
“I am rather sorry you mentioned our possible partnership to Lady
Selina. From Brian’s letter he seems to take it for granted that the
thing is cut and dried.”
“And it isn’t?”
“The pitch—I spent four hours on it—looks bumpy. By the way, who is
your Sanitary Inspector?”
Pawley made a grimace.
“Um! An insanitary person, who doesn’t inspect.”
“Eats out of the hand of Authority.”
“An occasional luncheon.”
“Dines with the big farmers?”
“You seem to know our little ways.”
“I worked in Essex before I went to Poplar.”
“I’ll admit that you wouldn’t be idle here.”
“Idle? No. How much time should I have for research work?”
Pawley sighed, too well bred to express his disappointment. He had been
a fool to suppose that a young man of Grimshaw’s distinction would care
to kick against the pricks in an obscure village. Obviously Grimshaw had
“nosed about” to some purpose. He had read the writing on the
whitewashed walls. He might have wandered into the pretty churchyard and
noticed an undue proportion of tiny graves! But to a fighter that might
be an incentive, a provocation.
Possibly Grimshaw’s sharp ears caught the attenuated sigh. Pawley looked
up to find keenly penetrative eyes on his.
“If, Dr. Pawley, _if_ I tackle this job, what backing shall I have? Is
Lady Selina likely to stand by?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“That means she won’t. Brian Chandos used to be a good sort. Will he
help or hinder?”
Pawley answered evasively:
“Brian is devoted to his mother. And he’s dependent upon her.”
“All is said. What about the daughter?”
“You must form your own opinion. She and you together might influence
Lady Selina. She loves being loved. Of course she thinks Upworthy a
paradise.”
At this Grimshaw spoke for the first time with vehemence. It is likely
that some instinct warned him that he was being driven, against his
judgment, into a false position. Pawley’s honesty appealed to him. And
he liked him at sight, feeling sorry for him as the victim of autocracy.
“Your Lady Selina is swathed in cotton wool. I behold your Sanitary
Inspector bowing down in the house of Chandos. I behold doles instead of
decent habitations, thatch and phthisis, whitewash and eyewash.”
Pawley took this outburst humorously.
“How gently you young fellows hit.”
“I beg your pardon. You know, doctor, I have an objection to those who
swagger above me socially, but I hate still more the poor devils
cringing below me. The fact that lots of my fellow-countrymen aren’t fit
to associate with me makes me sick. There! that’s off my chest. Let me
ask a last question. Who does the dirty work in Upworthy? Who is the son
of a gun? I can see your Lady Selina handing out the smiles and
ha’pence. Who gives the kicks?”
“Her bailiff. Honest John Gridley—bother him!”
Then they both laughed. Grimshaw promised to talk with the lady of the
manor on the morrow. Beyond that he refused to pledge himself. Naturally
the talk soon wandered into the professional channel. The elder man
listened for the most part, interjecting a few questions, more and more
sensible that youth might succeed where he had failed, sensible, also,
that having, by the luck of things, found the right man, he was likely
to lose him. They parted for the night excellent friends.
III
Next day, at half-past four, Stimson—looking apostolic after Morning
Church—ushered them into the drawing-room at the Manor, an immense room
seldom used, filled with furniture collected by different generations,
some of it good, some of it bad. The ladies of the house didn’t appear
immediately, and Grimshaw was much amused by the expression on Pawley’s
face as he glanced sadly at mid-Victorian atrocities, shaking his head
dolefully, apparently too overcome for speech. Characteristically,
Grimshaw devoted his attention to the full-length portraits, staring at
Chandos chins and foreheads. He decided that they must be an obstinate,
obdurate race, pleasant to deal with when things ran smoothly,
honourable, kindly, and—unquestionably—quality.
Cicely entered first, in evident distress, holding her handkerchief to
her eye.
“Oh, Dr. Pawley! How clever of you to come in the very nick of time!”
“What is it, my dear?”
“Some enormous beast—it feels as big as a bluebottle—is committing
suicide in my eye. Please save its life and mine—quick!”
“Dear, dear! Where are my glasses?”
As he fumbled for his pince-nez, Grimshaw said promptly:
“Allow me, Miss Chandos. Your handkerchief, please.”
She smiled, gave him her handkerchief and held up her face. Very deftly
Grimshaw extracted a midge, and exhibited it.
“There!”
“Where? Oh, yes. What a tiny thing.”
As he flicked it away, returning the handkerchief, with a slight bow, he
murmured:
“May all your troubles be as small.”
She held out her hand.
“Thanks. You are Dr. Grimshaw?”
“Mr. Grimshaw,” he corrected her. She nodded, exclaiming gaily:
“I’m ever so glad to meet Brian’s old friend. Now, perhaps, I shall find
out what really happened at Winchester.”
“Never. We were in the same house.”
“And you were a tremendous swell.”
“And now a poor G.P.”
“G.P.?”
“General Practitioner,” Pawley explained. “With a few letters after his
name that some Harley Street men haven’t got. Now, my dear, I tried to
help you the other day. Will you help me?”
“Why, of course.” She gazed at him affectionately. “Mother will be down
in two jiffs. You caught her napping. Sunday luncheon. How can I help
you?”
“I have asked Mr. Grimshaw to become my partner.”
“I know. And I think it’s perfectly splendid.”
“But alas! he’s not very keen about it.”
Cicely raised her brows. Grimshaw wondered whether she was obstinate,
catching a glimpse of the Chandos chin, salient but with a dimple
mitigating its contour. He could see that she was surveying him from tip
to toe with the well-bred self-possession of her class, evidently mildly
astonished that he did not jump eagerly into such a picturesque village
as Upworthy. She said simply:
“There’s plenty of work for two, isn’t there, Dr. Pawley?”
Grimshaw laughed, although he answered seriously.
“That’s it. You see, there oughtn’t to be.”
At this her expression became interrogative. Pawley interposed hastily:
“Mr. Grimshaw thinks that the chronic sickness in Upworthy might be
wiped out, if—if he could count upon the active backing of authority.”
Cicely assimilated this.
“You mean Mother?”
Grimshaw added quickly:
“And you. Would you work with me on modern lines?”
“Modern lines? Are we modern, Dr. Pawley?”
Pawley glanced at her pretty frock.
“In our frocks, yes.”
Cicely accepted the compliment demurely, conscious of the fact that her
dressmaker was in the first flight, conscious, too, that Brian’s
wonderful friend, Old Grimmer, was indifferent, perhaps, to the envelope
but not to what it held. His penetrating glances had not escaped notice.
She wondered how much her powers of persuasion would count.
“You must talk to Mother, Mr. Grimshaw. She has the welfare of our
people next her heart. I hope you will stay here. As for me——”
“Yes?”
“I should like to work with you.”
He exclaimed gaily:
“Almost am I tempted. Well, I will talk with Lady Selina, the sooner the
better.”
“I wish you all luck.” She hesitated; a warmer tint suffused her cheeks,
as she added warningly: “Be—diplomatic.”
As the word left her lips, Stimson entered.
“Her ladyship’s compliments, Dr. Pawley, and she will join you in a
minute.” He turned to Cicely: “My lady wishes to see you, Miss Chandos.”
Cicely vanished with Stimson. Grimshaw said emphatically:
“What a jolly girl.”
Pawley chuckled.
“You’ve made an impression, my boy. Yes, yes; you’ll get on with Cicely
like one o’clock.”
“And be sacked by Lady Selina at half-past. By Jove! She’s a bit of a
witch, a fascinator. Where does the charm come from?”
“From her mother.”
Grimshaw looked incredulous. He had envisaged the lady of the manor as
formidable. He heard Pawley’s voice, slightly quavering with
apprehension.
“What are you going to say to Authority?”
“Something you have not said. It’s quite likely that her belated
entrance has been stage-managed. Lady Selina may wish to tackle me
alone. And, if so, take my tip—skedaddle before Authority uses you as a
Court of Appeal.”
Pawley owned up reluctantly:
“You read me. I want to bolt. I’m ashamed to admit that I have funked
plain speech all my life. But I’m hanged if I’ll funk it any longer.”
“Your heart’s in the right place,” said Grimshaw, almost with affection.
He had spent the morning with Pawley, pottering about the pretty,
insanitary cottages. And every minute had tightened the bond between
them, the bond that links strength with weakness, and age with youth.
That bond became tauter as Pawley murmured deprecatingly:
“My heart, I fancy, is not quite in the right place. Anyway, it doesn’t
do its work too well.”
Grimshaw became professional.
“Doesn’t it? You must let me go over you to-night. And, if you’ll back
me and Miss Chandos, I’m hanged if I’ll funk being your partner.”
“Thank you, my boy, thank you.” He added slyly: “I must thank little
Cicely, too.”
IV
Lady Selina swept in.
At once Grimshaw amended mistaken conceptions of her. He understood
swiftly that such a woman might inspire devotion in such a man as
Pawley. Graciousness, that priceless asset, shone luminously about her.
Conviction that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a lady of
quality, must—so Grimshaw decided—impose itself subtly upon everybody
coming in contact with her. At a distance one might criticise; in her
presence the homage she exacted with such sublime unconsciousness had to
be paid—tribute to Cæsar, whether copper or gold. The young man noted
the elegance of her gown, the delightful lines of draperies that
disdained fashion. He had expected formality, a cold courtesy, the more
chilling because good breeding imposed it. But Lady Selina advanced,
holding out two small hands.
“I am delighted to meet Old Grimmer.”
He said confusedly:
“Who is at your service.”
Presently they were seated. Grimshaw found himself close to Lady Selina,
so close that he could detect the faint fragrance of orris-root, the
only perfume she used.
“So you’re thinking of a partnership with my dear old friend here?”
Her soft voice, softer than her daughter’s, seemed to insinuate itself
into his mind, percolating here and there. Pawley answered her:
“Really, we have only just settled it.”
“Capital. And how do you like my dear village? Perhaps a foolish
question. If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t choose to live here.”
Grimshaw recovered his self-possession. He spoke as tranquilly as his
hostess, but with renewed alertness.
“I spent yesterday afternoon and this morning wandering about Upworthy.”
“We are very proud of Upworthy. Our roses——! I have always encouraged
my people to grow sweet-smelling flowers.”
The young man recalled Cicely’s injunction. At the same time he told
himself that this first interview was all important. As an honest man,
he must make plain his position. To do so without giving offence became
a highly stimulating mental exercise.
“Botanically,” he replied, “Upworthy is remarkable. From a doctor’s
point of view, Lady Selina——”
“Yes? I am anxious to hear your verdict. I value nothing so much as
candour.”
“Thanks. There seems to be a lot of sickness.”
Lady Selina sighed. Her comely face assumed a resigned expression, as
she murmured devoutly:
“Alas! Poverty and disease are with us always.”
“Always, but not everywhere,” Grimshaw replied lightly. “Your neighbour,
Lord Wilverley, is proud of his exceptionally low death-rate, so I am
told.”
“Ah. Wilverley lies higher.”
“And enjoys a system of drainage.”
Lady Selina’s eyes sparkled. Lord Wilverley happened to be a personal
friend, and a magnate, comfortably independent because of London ground
rents, able to afford expensive improvements. Also he was a bachelor, on
the sunny side of forty. Nobody had guessed that Lady Selina cherished
the hope that Wilverley’s lord might come to Upworthy for a wife.
Already his friendship with Cicely had showed signs (to her eye alone)
of a warmer complexion. And yet, behind this rankled a certain jealousy,
because Wilverley had been acclaimed a model estate. She turned to
Pawley.
“We contend, don’t we, Dr. Pawley, that open drainage is best?”
“I have heard you say so, Lady Selina.”
“It is best for us doctors,” said Grimshaw. “I noticed that most of your
cottages are thatched.”
“We are very proud of our thatched cottages, aren’t we, Dr. Pawley?”
Pawley, with a touch of nervousness, squirming mentally, replied:
“Thatch upon thatch, Lady Selina, is hygienically unsound.”
She blinked at him, quite astounded. Grimshaw caught a sub-acid
inflection as she riposted swiftly:
“Is it? Why didn’t you say so before?” She looked at Grimshaw. “I’m
always approachable where the interests of my people are concerned. I
have never refused a favour to a tenant without giving him convincing
reasons. Have I, Dr. Pawley?”
“Never,” affirmed Pawley.
Grimshaw, sorry for Pawley but much amused, and not forgetting honest
John Gridley, said smoothly:
“Your land agent ought to have told you, Lady Selina. It was his
business.”
“But I am my own land agent. My bailiff is a capable fellow of the
farmer class. I can’t afford such an expert as Lord Wilverley employs.”
She continued gently: “Between ourselves, Mr. Grimshaw, lack of means
prevents my doing many desirable things. I ought to rebuild my garage,
which is perilously near my house. I ought to put in a local water
system. As for my bailiff, he obeys my orders. I don’t ask you to work
with him. I hope that you will work with me.”
She was getting the best of it, and knew it. Grimshaw acknowledged that
he was “touched,” as fencers put it.
“That is as it should be, Lady Selina. I think I can promise you a
cleaner bill of health if—if we work together.”
Unconsciously, he assumed a graver tone. Lady Selina eyed him pensively.
She told herself that she liked him. He was certainly a gentleman, and
as certainly a man of intelligence and capacity. A devastating thought
flooded her mind. Was he too attractive? Compared with Lord Wilverley,
for instance. Cicely had spoken of Old Grimmer with enthusiasm. And, as
Brian’s friend, as the partner of Pawley, her house must be open to him.
Young girls were susceptible, and it was impossible to play watch-dog in
this go-as-you-please twentieth century. Then, confident in her own
powers, she swept what she held to be an absurd possibility out of her
mind. Cicely was a Chandos. Meanwhile, she must “place” this up-to-date
young fellow more accurately. She continued sweetly:
“Have you any definite plan in your mind which might bring about this
clean bill of health?” He bowed. “What is it?”
“My plan would involve the expenditure of time——”
“I have never grudged that.”
“And—money.”
Slightly taken aback, she repeated the word:
“Money? Much money?”
“Probably some thousands of pounds.”
Lady Selina was horrified, throwing up her shapely hands in protest.
Habitually, she thought in pence, not in pounds. Her voice became sharp.
“Some _thousands_ of pounds——! What do you say to this amazing
statement, Dr. Pawley?”
Pawley, alive to a derisive gleam in Grimshaw’s eyes, replied hastily:
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Lady Selina became more and more perturbed. Grimshaw saw that he had
made an impression. It might be discreet to retire, leaving his
suggestions to soak in.
“My plan may be unworkable, Lady Selina.”
“But it is. I can tell you, in confidence, that my dear husband left
this estate to me clear of all debt. I can’t borrow money. He would turn
in his grave if I did. _Thousands of pounds_——!”
Stimson saved an unendurable situation by appearing with the tea-things.
Pawley rose. Lady Selina recovered her graciousness.
“You must stay to tea. I insist.”
Cicely came back, carrying a bunch of roses, fresh from the garden.
“Is it settled?” she asked gaily. “Do you join us?”
Grimshaw smiled back at her.
“Yes; it is settled, Miss Chandos.”
“I’m ever so glad.”
V
The partners walked home together across the park, which was not of
large extent and held no deer. Henry Chandos had put down the deer.
Sheep browsed placidly upon the rich grasses. Bordering the park was a
shrubbery of rhododendrons, and through this meandered a path which
ended at a fine wrought-iron gate opening upon the village green. As
they passed through the rhododendrons, Grimshaw noticed that they had
reverted to type—the familiar _Ponticum_.
“Lady Selina has let things rip,” he remarked.
“There isn’t too much money, as perhaps you have guessed.”
“But she told us that the estate was clear of debt.”
“To keep it so is her mission in life. Well, what did you think of her?”
“Wonderful! There is no other adjective. I can understand that there has
been a conspiracy of silence to ‘spare’ her. Forgive me for saying that
I am sure you are the chief conspirator.”
“I admit it. Goodrich has a second place. To disturb her admirable peace
of mind seemed to us—sacrilege. You upset her, but she cottoned to
you.”
“I rattled her,” said Grimshaw. “What the effect will be I can’t
predict. Obviously, I’m in for a fight. And the odds are against me,
because her son is devoted to her. I am sure that in his place I should
feel as he does. But Miss Chandos——!”
“All women are unknown quantities.”
“To old bachelors.”
Pawley rubbed his bony fingers together.
“To all of us and to themselves. I make no prognosis about Cicely. The
mother can be diagnosed with greater confidence. Henry Chandos ran this
place prehistorically. Lady Selina strolls placidly in his ruts. If I
can read the barometer, now apparently at ‘Set Stormy,’ we are likely to
witness confounding changes.”
“Here?”
“Everywhere. A universal upheaval.”
“But—good heavens!—you don’t think war is coming?”
“I am quite sure of it. A fight between Democracy and Autocracy.”
“England will keep out of it.”
“She can’t.”
They argued without acerbity, as thousands argued during those early
days of July, 1914. But it never occurred to either that war, if it did
come, would affect them personally. Soldiers and sailors would do their
duty; civilians would carry on much as usual. No modern war could last
very long. Finally, as they neared home, Grimshaw said with a laugh:
“Whatever happens, I can’t see your Autocrat ‘downed.’”
“It would be a pathetic spectacle,” observed Pawley. “I have the
kindliest feelings toward her, but I detest her system.”
“You blame Gridley.”
“Ah! He’s the source of most of the mischief. And she doesn’t know it. I
hope with all my heart that you will ‘down’ him.”
“He may ‘down’ me,” said Grimshaw, thinking of Essex experiences, where
his poorer patients had been grievously maltreated by just such another.
“I back you, my boy.” Pawley pressed a strong arm reassuringly.
VI
Alone with her daughter, Lady Selina, so to speak, uncorked herself.
Suppressed feeling bubbled forth in sparkling ebullition. Cicely
secretly felt rather flattered. As a rule, her mother withheld
confidence concerned with money. Cicely, for example, had no idea of
what the family income might be. It seemed to be adequate without
pinching. She had been promised a season in London; she was given plenty
of frocks; her hunter had cost a hundred and fifty pounds; Brian never
complained of his allowance. But, unlike her mother, Cicely had learnt
at school elementary business principles. She knew girls of her own age
who paid cash for their clothes, and passed anxious hours over the
problems of adjusting means and ends. She had discovered that it was bad
business to buy cheap shoes and underclothing. And debt was a synonym
for misery and humiliation.
Accordingly, she agreed with her mother that Mr. Grimshaw’s price for a
clean bill of health was preposterous.
“I like the young man, my dear; I am glad to entertain him but not his
ideas. It’s so easy to be lavish with other people’s money. Thousands of
pounds——!”
She repeated this intermittently, as if repetition might exorcise an
unholy suggestion.
“What does Mr. Grimshaw want to do?” asked the girl.
“Heaven knows! A system of drainage, waterworks, the rebuilding of
cottages.”
“What Lord Wilverley has done.”
“A very rich man, child. And the best of good fellows—a very sincere
friend of yours, by the way.”
“Is he?”
Then meeting the maternal eye, the girl blushed a little, much to Lady
Selina’s satisfaction. Wisely she abandoned further soundings. Arthur
Wilverley could be trusted to do his own courting. So her thought sped
back to Grimshaw. Already she had adopted a policy. Grimshaw had to be
reckoned with. To treat him coldly, to keep him at a distance, simply
meant a disturbance of the peace. If she were really “nice” to him, he
would be disarmed. In small things he should have a free hand.
Ultimately he would work with her, along her lines, without friction. So
she said lightly:
“I must ask Mr. Grimshaw to dinner. I wonder whether he belongs to the
Grimthorpe Grimshaws.”
“Does it matter?”
Lady Selina smiled tolerantly. This was one of the less happy
consequences of sending a girl to school. She said superbly:
“A Chandos ought to be able to answer that question.”
Cicely remained silent. Her great friend at school had been Arabella
Tiddle, the daughter of the millionaire pill-manufacturer. Lady
Tiddle—so Lady Selina had been credibly informed—once worked in a shoe
factory. Sometimes Lady Selina wondered what it felt like to be a
Tiddle. She shied at the name, as Cicely was well aware. Nevertheless,
Arabella had been invited to the Manor, where she comported herself
triumphantly. A small string of beautiful pearls was graciously approved
by Arabella’s hostess; whereupon the girl said ingenuously: “So very
appropriate, aren’t they?” Lady Selina, not sure of this, asked
pleasantly: “Why, my dear?” Arabella replied with a laugh: “They are
just like Daddy’s pills. Of course you know that he advertises them as
‘Tiddle’s Pearls.’” Lady Selina didn’t know this, but she smiled
amiably, and Arabella continued: “Mummy has ropes of them. _Tiddle’s
Priceless Pearls!_ Funny, isn’t it?” Lady Selina smiled again; a
different adjective occurred to her.
Cicely’s silence slightly exasperated her. Confidence ought to beget
confidence. Now that she was beginning to treat her daughter as “grown
up,” surely she might expect more response. Had Cicely learnt to hold
her tongue at school? The right selection of a school had worried Lady
Selina not a little. Dr. Pawley shared her anxieties. At thirteen Cicely
became rather anæmic, almost scraggy! Bracing air was prescribed;
reinvigorating games; the stimulus of competition in work and play.
After studying innumerable prospectuses, Lady Selina chose a big school
on the South Coast, a sort of Eton in petticoats. And there the child
had grown into a strong young woman. But, undoubtedly, she had lost
something vaguely described by Lady Selina as “bloom.” Attrition with
girls without grandfathers had rubbed it off. Miss Tiddle had no “bloom”
except upon her cheeks. The political tendencies of the school were
lamentably democratic.
She continued blandly, ignoring Cicely’s silence, taking for granted
that it meant nothing:
“I daresay Mr. Grimshaw plays tennis.”
“Fancy your not knowing——!”
“What?”
“He’s top hole at games. After leaving Winchester he played cricket for
his county. I’d bet sixpence that he plays tennis better than anyone
about here. He’s an athlete all over. He won’t play pat-ball with me. No
such luck!”
Lady Selina, after a penetrating glance at her daughter’s face, thought
to herself: “I shall see that he doesn’t.” Then she kissed Cicely and
laughed.
“We must be decently civil, my dear. That’s all.”
With that she went her way, not without misgivings. Why was it easier
for her to understand her son rather than her daughter? Brian, she felt
sure, would see eye to eye with his mother—a Chandos every inch of him.
But Cicely baffled her. Had she made a hero of this young surgeon? Did
she reckon breeding of no account? Still, her blush at mention of
Wilverley’s name was reassuring. Later, at Evensong, during a dull
sermon, she beguiled herself happily with a vision of Cicely and
Wilverley kneeling on the chancel steps, with the lawn sleeves of a
bishop raised above them in solemn benediction. She prayed fervently
that it might be so. And Cicely, at the same moment, sitting demurely by
her august mother, was wondering what sort of a woman Henry Grimshaw
would marry. Did his fancy prefer blondes to brunettes? Was he engaged
already? What deft fingers he had. Hardly had she felt the touch of them
on her lower eyelid. But she had thrilled. The fact provoked her. She
decided finally that he was the nicest young man she had ever met.
Perhaps it was as well for Lady Selina’s admirable peace of mind, not to
mention her robust Anglican piety and faith in what was established,
that she could not read Cicely as she read her son.