CUPID SPEEDS HIS SHAFTS
I
Grimshaw went back to London to pack up his traps, and on the following
Tuesday dined with his maternal uncle, Sir Dion Titherage, at the
Parthenon. Sir Dion, lately raised to the dignity of knighthood, with an
excellent practice in Belgravia, chiefly amongst elderly ladies, had
paid—as has been said—for his nephew’s schooling, and regarded the
young man with a paternal eye. Long ago Sir Dion had led to the altar of
St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, one of his well-to-do patients, much older
than himself. There had been no children. Lady Titherage was now a
confirmed hypochondriac, but likely to make old bones, thanks to the
ministering care and skill of that optimist, her husband.
A small table at the farther end of the immense dining-room had been
reserved for Sir Dion and his guest. Through a big window a glimpse
could be obtained of lawn and trees, and, beyond, the façade of a famous
terrace. Dining at such a table, a member of the learned professions
could reflect pleasantly upon the fact that the privileged occupiers of
that terrace must each possess, on a reasonable average, at least twenty
thousand a year. But few members of the Parthenon dined at their club.
Here and there, oases in the desert, were bishops, who contented
themselves with simple fare. Sir Dion pointed out these pillars of the
Establishment, a Royal Academician, a hanging judge, an eminent
architect, and the club bore, who dined at the Parthenon nearly every
night, and kept sensitive and retiring members at bay. Sir Dion said,
with a chuckle:
“I don’t dare dine here without a guest, my boy; and even then he yaps
at me—he yaps at me. Really, it’s a sad breach of our unwritten rules.
This is recognised as a Temple of Silence and Snooze. Conversation is
very properly barred.”
Grimshaw laughed. His uncle amused him. Sir Dion continued:
“We only wake up at the club elections in the drawing-room. A lot of
pilling goes on. I asked one old boy to pill a particularly aggressive
candidate, and he said curtly: ‘Why?’ I replied, ‘Because he’s a
cantankerous, unclubbable ass.’ The old boy scowled at me and said
savagely: ‘I’m a cantankerous, unclubbable ass, and I shall vote for
him.’ _And he did!_”
A carefully chosen dinner was provided, admirably cooked. Sir Dion,
after the ice, took a Corona de Corona cigar from his ample case, and
sent it to the chef with his compliments and thanks. And he exchanged a
joke with the steward when he settled his bill before leaving the
dining-room.
Not till he had finished his coffee did Sir Dion speak seriously.
“So it’s the parish pump for you, eh?”
“With the pump out of order.”
Sir Dion nodded. Then he said, portentously for him:
“You are your father’s son. He tilted against windmills all his life,
poor dear fellow! As a schoolmaster he would have climbed high and ended
as a bishop. I used to offer him sound advice, although, to do him
justice, he never asked for it or took it. Now I am tempted to say a
word or two to you.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“From what you tell me you seem to like trouble. I don’t. That, of
course, is the essential difference between us. However, your partner,
Pawley, seems to have a good practice amongst country people. And, when
he retires, you ought to earn a decent income.”
“I hope so.”
“A good country practice is not to be sneezed at, but you will sneeze at
it, I’m afraid. I see you trying to drain that snipe-bog you mention
instead of keeping step on the high-road with Pawley.”
“I shall fight for more sanitary conditions.”
“Stripped already, I see. And up against a lady of quality! Now for my
two words: ‘Go slow!’ Women never surrender their opinions to men they
dislike. It’s a pity you can’t marry her and reach your objectives that
way. What? Fifty-five! And a marriageable daughter! Another tip. Don’t
make up to the daughter. Unless——” He chuckled, lighting a fresh
cigar.
“Unless——?”
“I remember some transpontine story of a stout fellow like you who
courted a rich widow with a pretty daughter. The rich widow accused the
stout fellow of loving her money-bags more than herself. He made a very
creditable bluff. Told her to deed every dollar she possessed to her
daughter. And, begad! she called the bluff and did so. Then he bolted
with the daughter!”
The evening ended where it began—in laughter.
On the steps of the Parthenon, when the nephew thanked the uncle for his
entertainment, Sir Dion shook his hand very heartily.
“I wish you luck, my boy. If you get any of that rough shooting, send me
a bird. I like the flavour of a wild pheasant. God bless you!”
Grimshaw, as he went back to his modest diggings, reflected that Sir
Dion’s ways were not his, and yet the old fellow brimmed over with
kindness, and assuredly attained his objectives.
II
By the middle of July he was installed in rooms in Upworthy under the
fostering care of the Rockrams, two old servants from the Manor. Tom
Rockram had been Stimson’s predecessor, before the old Squire died, and
his wife had soared from scullery-maid to cook in the same
establishment. Their cottage faced the village green, and stood in its
own garden. Each spring and summer the Rockrams took in boarders, but,
at a hint from Dr. Pawley, they were glad to get a permanent
“gentleman.” Grimshaw was given a good bedroom and sitting-room, and he
had the use of Pawley’s dispensary.
Upon the faces of the two old servants were inscribed, with full
quarterings, the Chandos arms. Whatever a Chandos did was just right.
Brian, of course, in the judgment of Mrs. Rockram, was the handsomest
hussar in the kingdom; Tom Rockram spoke with even greater enthusiasm of
Cicely as the sweetest young lady in the world. Too sugary, perhaps,
these descriptions, from a hypercritical point of view, but indicating
loyalty and gratitude, qualities rare indeed in modern servants.
Grimshaw found himself valeted to perfection, and looked forward to
excellently cooked meals, a quite novel experience. The cosiness of it
all was in delightful contrast to domestic conditions in Poplar. He
wondered whether he would grow fat, like the weed on Lethe’s wharf, and
slowly rot at ease. For the first time in his life he began to spell
comfort with a capital “C.” To Pawley and Lady Selina he said
emphatically: “I never had such a billet.” To himself, he thought, with
amused apprehension: “Will this cosseting get a strangle-hold on me?”
And if it did, what of it? Good men and true toiled and moiled,
struggling on against adverse winds and currents, to achieve just such
snug anchorage.
Pawley introduced him to some of the local magnates, who smiled
graciously upon an old Wykhamist. Each day it became more certain to the
young man that a prosperous future was his if he played the cards
already in his hand. Sir Dion had been right. A sound country practice
was not to be sneezed at. And the premium paid to Pawley had been
negligible. In fine, he was treading a broad highway, walking briskly
towards fortune, if not fame. Pawley suggested that on occasion he might
ride.
“Would your means justify keeping a horse?” he asked.
“Do you mean a hunter? The doctor in boots?”
“Well, yes. A cavalier, you know, challenges attention. One day a week
in the season might be worth while from every point of view.”
Grimshaw laughed.
“And how about my research work?”
“As to that——! You see, my dear fellow, I hesitate to advise you. The
horse is a suggestion, nothing more. Long ago I gave up hunting. I’ve
regretted it. As for research work, doesn’t it exact too undivided
energies? I had to scrap my microscope before I put down my hunter.
Think it over.”
Grimshaw nodded. But he hardly dared to confess to himself how keen he
was to take up again open-air sports and pastimes. His first appearance
on the village green, as a cricketer, had been acclaimed by all
Upworthy. Lady Selina said solemnly: “Perhaps we shall beat Wilverley
next year.”
Playing cricket, he met John Exton, and exchanged some talk with him. In
Poplar it was impossible to throw a stone without hitting young men of
John’s kidney. They, however, threw the stones in Poplar quite
regardless of whom they might hit. Grimshaw knew that the Extons were
under notice to quit the old homestead; and he knew also that Lady
Selina had persuaded Lord Wilverley to entrust a small farm to Ephraim.
This had soaped the ways by which the Extons slid from one parish into
another. John was very bitter about it.
“We’ve never had a dog’s chance,” he told Grimshaw. “I don’t say, sir,
that Father was wise to buy thoroughbred stock when he hadn’t proper
buildings to house ’em in, but the old Squire egged him on to do it.
Things were a sight better in his time, because he kept the whip-hand of
Gridley. Now, Gridley does pretty much as he pleases, and my lady don’t
know what goes on behind her back. Gridley sees to it that she ain’t
bothered.”
“You’re up against a system,” said Grimshaw. “It’s no use blaming
individuals.”
“I blame my lady,” John replied doggedly.
He was not the only one in Upworthy who held that individual
responsible.
Nick Farleigh, the softy, did odd jobs for Tom Rockram, pumping water,
fetching and carrying like a retriever, blacking boots, and feeding
poultry. In common with many children of undeveloped minds, he had
strange gifts, fashioning queer objects out of unconsidered trifles.
Grimshaw won his devotion by showing him how to make a Chinese junk out
of a square of newspaper.
Nick said gratefully:
“I bain’t afeard of ’ee, zur.”
“Why should you be afraid of anybody, my boy?”
Nick became confidential.
“I be afeard o’ nothink ’cept they broody hens o’ Mrs. Rockram’s. You
know I be soft, zur, don’t ’ee?”
“Nonsense! We shall make a man of you yet, Nick.”
Nick considered this, with his head on one side. Then he whispered:
“I be soft along o’ my lady.”
Grimshaw asked Pawley to explain. With some reluctance, Pawley repeated
what he had said to Cicely, with these additions:
“Nick’s mother, just before he was born, lost her two little girls of
diphtheria. The boy was born wanting. Timothy Farleigh has never got
over it. Lady Selina had just buried the Squire. In your opinion,
Grimshaw, could mental suffering so affect and afflict an unborn child?”
“It might,” Grimshaw replied.
“Ever since Timothy Farleigh has smouldered with resentment.”
Grimshaw nodded. He had heard about Agatha Farleigh from John Exton.
Agatha was now working in London, earning good wages, but Timothy, at
the ale-house, accused Lady Selina of hounding a clever girl out of her
village.
“I smell foul weather,” said Grimshaw.
Within a week the Great War had broken out.
Upworthy remained perfectly calm.
Brian Chandos came home on short leave. His regiment would be one of the
first to go. He smoked many pipes with Grimshaw, picking up the old
friendship easily, just where he had left it, apparently the same
ingenuous youth whom Grimshaw remembered at Winchester. Really a Pacific
of essential differences rolled between them, differences of experience.
Grimshaw listened to Brian on the coming “show.” As a soldier he seemed
to know something about his “job.” As the prospective heir to a fine
property his ignorance was immeasurable. He viewed it, as it were, from
the wrong end of the telescope. What appeared big to him—the future of
foxhunting, for instance, game-preserving, and polo—was negligible to
Grimshaw in comparison with decent housing and a better wage for
land-workers. Brian cut him short when, tentatively, such reforms were
barely outlined:
“Cottages in the rural districts don’t pay, never did. We can’t raise
wages without hostilising the farmers—and I ask you, where are we if we
do that?” Again and again he silenced argument in Grimshaw by repeating
filially: “Mother knows; you talk to her; she’d do anything in reason,
anything.”
And at the first dinner at the Manor, rather to Grimshaw’s dismay, Brian
said, in a loud voice, as if it were a good joke: “I say, Mums, Old
Grimmer is a bit of a Rad. You must take him in hand. He’s an
out-and-out reformer.”
Cicely didn’t improve matters by adding:
“And a jolly good thing too. Dr. Pawley says we are antediluvians.”
Pawley was not present, having departed on his holiday. Lady Selina
looked down her nose.
“Are you quite sure Dr. Pawley said that, my dear?”
“Absolutely,” Cicely replied. “We are only modern in our frocks; and
that doesn’t apply to you, Mums.”
Unfortunately for Grimshaw, Lord Wilverley happened to be present. He,
at any rate, was recognised outside of his own county as an enlightened
and experienced agriculturist. And being a kindly man, secure in a great
position, he came to Grimshaw’s rescue. Lady Selina found herself
listening to the opinions of a magnate, who might be a son-in-law. And
the odds against such a desirable match diminished when she saw Cicely
eagerly assimilating what Wilverley said. And, of course, Wilverley
being Wilverley, could say what he pleased. Grimshaw realised, with
humorous dismay, that he was cast for the part of scapegoat. On his head
would fall the hardly-concealed resentment of the lady of the manor.
After dinner matters became worse. Brian wanted to talk to Wilverley
about horse-breeding. Lady Selina took up her embroidery. Cicely made
herself agreeable to Grimshaw, instead of improving the shining hour
with the best parti in the neighbourhood. And Grimshaw, grateful to a
charming girl, exerted himself to please and entertain. It seemed to be
predestined that he would gain in favour with the daughter what he might
lose with the mother. And who will blame him if he strove to distinguish
himself with the former after some extinguishment at the hands of the
latter? He could talk much better than Wilverley, and he knew it.
Wilverley spoke didactically. Grimshaw had a more graceful seat astride
his hobby-horse. He excelled in description, transporting Cicely to
Essex and Poplar, into the deep clay ruts of the one and the mean
streets of the other. Cicely could not help contrasting the two men, the
fidgety irritability of Wilverley with the easy good-humour of Grimshaw,
who laughed at his own failures. Wilverley grew red and heated in
argument; Grimshaw became pale and cool.
Nevertheless, there was a curious incandescence about him. Under
ordinary atmospheric pressure he might seem dull, sinking into odd
silences and introspections, but when a right vacuum was obtained, such
a vacuum as a charming young lady might present, an inquiring mind, let
us say, empty of essential facts, he glowed, giving out heat and light,
not a blazing, eye-blinking glare, but something softly and steadily
illuminating.
“I’ve had some humiliating experiences, Miss Chandos. Till you live and
work amongst the very poor, you can’t realise how difficult it is to
understand them, and how much more difficult it is for them to
understand us. Millions have never seen a woman like you. They live like
animals; they are animals; and, of course, that’s our fault.”
“Our fault?” she gasped. But she was the more interested because he had
made his theme personal.
“Oh, yes; we don’t give enough; and now, because of that, they, poor
things, at the mercy of any glib, red-rag revolutionary, want to take
too much. The privileged classes have never really exercised their
greatest privilege.”
“And what is that, Mr. Grimshaw?” she asked in a low voice.
“Why, helping others to help themselves. Ordinary charity only hinders.
Wage earners demand more than _panem et circenses_.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Bread and ‘movies.’ They don’t like dry bread; and the ‘movies’ serve
to fill them with envy for all they haven’t got.” Then, in a different
tone, with a queer astringent cynicism, he added: “I didn’t exercise my
privileges.”
“I’m sure you did,” she affirmed with conviction.
“No—I bolted. I couldn’t stick it. My own impotence maddened me.
Perhaps——” His voice died away. He began again: “It’s not what we do
that counts, but the way we do it. Talking to them is waste of time.
Words! Words! How one hates them after a time! I’ve waded through all
the dreary stuff that’s written about the poor. Most of it makes one
sick. I don’t believe that conditions can be bettered anywhere by talk,
not even when the talk is buried in the Statute Book. Something more is
needed. Some—some tremendous discipline that will change the point of
view of the classes and the masses so that they can see each other in
truer perspective. Do the waves wonder why they batter themselves into
spray against the rocks? But there is attrition all the time. Tremendous
forces win in the end.”
“Do you mean that we are the rocks?”
“We stand on the rocks, blandly looking at the waves, impressed by their
fury, but not attempting to control it and use it. Perhaps the biggest
rock on which we stand is class loyalty. I’m sure your mother prides
herself on that.”
“Of course she does.”
“Have you ever tried to analyse class loyalty?”
“No.”
“Self-preservation is behind and beneath it. At core lies a selfish,
primitive instinct—to hold on tight to what we have regardless of how
we came by it. Above this is a reticulation, a spider’s web, of
inherited prejudices and predilections, so tangled up that one despairs
of untangling them. On the surface, like a soft moss, love of ease
spreads itself. I feel that here in all my bones. I try to fight against
it. The lure of comfort——! What a bait——! Satan’s tit-bit——!”
His vehemence, the more insistent because he spoke so quietly, almost in
a whisper, made a profound impression. She had never heard any man talk
like this. The abysmal conviction in his tone amazed her. Wilverley, as
she knew, preached in and out of season a doctrine of reconstruction and
reform. But he did it with the air of a man who was grinding his own
axe, putting a finer edge upon a weapon which he intended to use to
better his own large fortune. He never lost sight of the fact that what
he did on his domains _paid_, brought grist to his mill. All his
excellent schemes for housing labourers comfortably, for paying them a
higher wage, for nourishing them adequately, for developing in them
capacities and potentialities, were really inspired by the force which
had raised his father from the lower middle class to the nobility.
Obviously, Grimshaw was actuated by no such essentially selfish motive.
He thought of others before himself; he seemed to behold a travailing
world with the detachment of a physician pledged, if need be, to
sacrifice his own comfort and advancement in the practice of his hard
profession. She said hesitatingly, groping her way towards his
conclusions:
“Surely, Mr. Grimshaw, there is something finer than that in what you
call class loyalty?”
“All loyalty is fine,” he replied, “but there can be no monopoly of it.
Do you think that the unprivileged classes do not feel it in a blind
sort of way? Of course they do. And that loyalty is a driving power
which the more unscrupulous of their mis-leaders are harnessing to their
own ambitions. Class loyalty, wherever you find it, is undiluted
Prussianism.”
She laughed a little.
“Is my mother a Prussian?” she asked mischievously.
“Your mother,” he replied less tensely, with a glance at that lady as
she bent over her embroidery, “is—is——”
“Covered with soft moss?” she suggested.
“We are all covered with moss, Miss Chandos. And, I suppose, the moss
must be raked off before we can see with clear vision.”
“You are raking some of it off me. I told you I wanted to work with you.
I do—more than ever, but you mustn’t rake at Mother. Perhaps you
noticed that Lord Wilverley tried raking at dinner.” He nodded. “Oh, you
did. Of course, she has to stand it from him.”
“Lord Wilverley, I noticed, made an impression on you.”
His eyes met hers. She noticed a twinkle in them. All tension had gone
from his pleasant voice.
“I like what he does more than I like what he says. He tries to spur
people to his ideas. You can’t spur Mother.”
“No.”
“I am glad that you are more—a—persuasive in your methods.”
“Am I?”
She smiled, nodding her head. He wondered whether there was a tincture
of the coquette in her. In criticising Wilverley was she trying to hide
her real feelings for him? He had not answered the question when
Wilverley left Brian and approached the pair on the sofa. Grimshaw made
sure he wanted to talk to Cicely, and rose at once. To his surprise,
Wilverley said without any condescension:
“I’m looking forward to making your better acquaintance, Mr. Grimshaw.
If you have no other engagement, will you dine and sleep at the Court
some day that suits you next week?”
“With great pleasure.”
A day was named, and shortly afterwards Wilverley took his leave.
Grimshaw left the Manor a few minutes later. Alone with her children,
Lady Selina said with a sigh:
“Dear me! It wasn’t a very pleasant dinner, was it?”
“I enjoyed myself,” said Cicely.
“Yes, b’Jove! We saw that, didn’t we, Mums? And the little baggage sided
against us. But we held our own—we held our own.”
Lady Selina smiled maternally, catching an echo of Brian’s father.
Cicely replied sharply:
“If you hold on too tight to what you think is your own, you may lose
it, if democracy wins this war.”
“Hark to her!” exclaimed Brian. “What a cry!”
Cicely, however, saw the expediency of running mute. She kissed her
mother and brother and went to bed. Lady Selina turned troubled eyes
upon her son.
“Have I made a mistake in being civil to this friend of yours, Brian?”
Brian hastened to reassure her: Old Grimmer was a thundering good sort.
And a mighty clever fellow, not likely to quarrel with his
bread-and-butter. Civility would tie him to his mother’s apron-strings.
Nothing like it. Ask him to shoot! Introduce him to all the swells! But
keep an eye peeled on Cis. Modern girls kicked over the traces. Arthur
Wilverley meant business. Any fool could see that. Grimshaw was a
gentleman. He wouldn’t attempt to poach in another fellow’s preserves.
All the same, make him feel the weight of obligation. Be civil, be
kind—keep it up!
Lady Selina was not quite comforted.
“Your Old Grimmer is very attractive. And, to-night, it seemed to me
that poor dear Arthur was rather eclipsed. Sometimes, Brian, I feel
discouraged, and then I want support. I can’t argue with Arthur, for
instance. He overwhelms me with words—words. And then, like your
father, I say nothing. But it comforts me greatly to feel that you think
as I do, that the old ways suffice you.”
“Ra-ther!”
“You are my dear son.”
She held his hand, gently caressing it, gazing at him with tears in her
eyes, which he pretended not to see. Thousands of mothers throughout the
land were indulging in these furtive caresses, saying little because
they feared to say too much. Thousands of sons respected such pathetic
silences.
Before Grimshaw’s brief visit to Wilverley Court, an incident took
place, trivial in itself, but fraught with far-reaching consequences.
The faithful Mrs. Rockram fell ill, taking to her bed with a neglected
cold likely to develop into pleurisy and pneumonia. Grimshaw, however,
came to the rescue and—as Mrs. Rockram affirms to this day—saved her
life. For twenty-four hours grave issues impended above a high
temperature and severe pain. Cicely was in and out of the cottage half a
dozen times, bringing what was required from the Manor kitchen, and
ministering eagerly to an old friend. Lady Selina, wisely or
otherwisely, made no protest. She must have known that two highly-strung
young people would be thrown together. But, at the moment, every young
woman in the kingdom had become a potential nurse. And also, as luck
would have it, no professional nurse could take Cicely’s place. And Mrs.
Rockram had served the Chandos family for five-and-twenty years . . .!
Man and maid, therefore, beheld each other with clear vision under the
happiest conditions of a temporary and unconventional intimacy. They
glided into comradeship, not recking where it might carry them. The
current bore them out of a prosaic present into a land of dreams, the
shadowy future where we fondly believe that we shall be more abundantly
blessed. Both were unaware of the interest and curiosity that each
kindled in the other, because, with all sincerity, they were engrossed
in a common task which exacted unceasing vigilance. Even Grimshaw, with
his habit of introspection and analysis, would have ridiculed the
suggestion of sentimental attraction between himself and Cicely. He knew
better than his amateur nurse how acute was the condition of his
patient, a stout, lymphatic woman, with but slight powers of resistance
to disease. And Cicely, for her part, could have sworn truthfully that
the mere sight of Grimshaw’s tense face, the mere sound of his incisive
voice, had frightened her out of her wits, constraining her to
uncompromising obedience and attention. For the first time she saw a man
fighting desperately to save the life of another. The only thing that
seemed to matter was to help him to the best of her ability.
Had she contented herself with that, no consequences would have ensued.
But she divined instantly that Grimshaw, unsparing of himself, needed
her special attention. Dr. Pawley’s cook was taking a holiday like her
master. The food at The Chandos Arms was primitive. And it did not occur
to Lady Selina to ask Grimshaw to stay at the Manor. Brian had rejoined
his regiment. Cicely rose triumphantly to a small emergency. Grimshaw
found cold ham on his sideboard, some delicious sandwiches and hot soup.
He gobbled these up without hazarding any conjecture as to whence they
came. Tom Rockram, however, enlightened him. The honest fellow had some
of the ham for his own dinner.
“You can thank my young lady,” he told him.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Grimshaw, “I haven’t.”
His thanks, perhaps, were heartier because belated.
The crisis passed swiftly; and Grimshaw had other patients. But Cicely
stuck to her post till Mrs. Rockram was pronounced well able to fend for
herself. By that time Cupid had sped his shafts. The victims, as yet,
felt no smart, but each magnified the other, disdaining measurements.
Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa, twin peaks, soaring into the blue!
The intimacy ended as suddenly as it had begun. Grimshaw took leave of
his comrade with unaffected regret and slightly awkward apologies.
“I’m afraid I ordered you about, Miss Chandos.”
“Oh, you did. But I liked that. _Obedience is necessary to success._
That line is engraved on my heart. I used to write it out thousands of
times when I first went to school.”
“Did you? There’s a touch of the rebel in you.”
“Yes; there is. I used to spell ‘necessary’ with one ‘s’ on purpose to
annoy the mistress who set the pun. Such a silly pun too. Vain
repetitions!”
“Exasperating everywhere.”
“Particularly in church, from the mouth of dear old Goody.”
“You _are_ a rebel. And so am I.”
“Of course I know that.” Her eyes met his frankly, with an odd
challenge. Against his discreeter judgment he felt impelled to take up
that challenge.
“Do you still want to work with a rebel?”
She eyed him with self-possession, faintly smiling. But she was thinking
how difficult it would be to describe him adequately in a letter to Miss
Arabella Tiddle. By now she was able to view him in perspective,
ripening to full maturity. Immense possibilities were indicated, she
decided. Would he expand into a splendid _somebody_? Would he “furnish
up”?—to use Brian’s favourite expression about a four-year-old. Dr.
Pawley had said of him: “He rings true,” with an allusion to the
eighteenth-century wine-glasses which he collected. And, after that
happy comparison, she had never heard Grimshaw speak without noting the
lingering resonance of his tones. Head and body were admirably
proportioned, rich in line and contour, but not aggressively so. The
careless eye would wander past him. He was, admittedly, too thin, too
pale, to please the ordinary bouncing country miss; and yet he had the
colour of a fine black-and-white print.
She answered his question charmingly:
“If you still want to work with me.”
“I do—I do. But how to go to work bothers me. You see, I am not—I fear
I never can be—diplomatic.”
All traces of the doctor had vanished. He stood before her, clothed with
an endearing humility and humanity. Cicely might, at her age, be deemed
incapable of thus summing up a passing phase in a man who attracted her,
but she grasped the essential fact: he loathed to inflict pain on
others. His mission in life was obviously to alleviate suffering. Her
first thought was: “How wisely he has chosen his profession!” She said
softly:
“I think I understand and sympathise. But my Mother——?”
She broke off abruptly, unable, perhaps unwilling, to give words to
sensibilities still inarticulate. Very eagerly he took up the broken
sentence.
“But I understand too. And just because she is your mother,” he placed,
unconsciously, the slightest emphasis on the personal pronoun, “I feel
so much the more bothered.”
“Please don’t bother too much!”
She held out her hand and went her way.
III
The visit to Wilverley, postponed on account of Mrs. Rockram’s illness,
duly took place. By this time Grimshaw was unable to disguise from
himself that Cicely had become The Woman. Without being squeamishly
modest, he could not believe that he was regarded by the maid as “The
Man.” A romantic situation might be heightened, if it could be recorded
that Cicely was The First Woman. She was nothing of the kind. But to a
man of imaginative temperament The First Woman is reincarnated in her
successors. The ideal survives. The elusive She approaches, beguiles,
and vanishes. Nevertheless, somewhere, some day, she may reappear and be
captured. A counterfeit presentment of Cicely had jilted Grimshaw rather
cruelly just before he buried himself in Essex. Babbington-Raikes, sound
psychologist, may have reflected that Champions of the Poor and
Oppressed are fashioned more easily out of men whose personal ambitions
have suffered eclipse. The gentlemen of the Lost Legion are the finest
fighters in the world.
Memories of the jilt still rankled. Like Cicely, she had shone brightly
as a young lady of quality, a brilliant of many facets. Shamelessly
breaking her engagement, she had married a rubber potentate who had
found a fortune and lost a liver in the Malay Peninsula. “O my cousin,
shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!” Now, he could thank God that
she was not his, and laugh derisively at his infatuation for her. But
how she had bewitched him!
His host at Wilverley welcomed Grimshaw with cordiality, and showed him
the model estate of the county, discussing eagerly plans for its further
improvement.
“And it pays, it pays,” he repeated several times. “You can take a
squint at my books if you like.”
“I’m sure it pays,” Grimshaw replied.
Wilverley’s father had been an ironmaster, who had bought an
impoverished property and was frowned on at first as a carpet-bagger by
the county families. They eyed him more favourably after Gladstone
ennobled him, and smiled approval when he became a Liberal-Unionist. As
a man of great executive ability he had applied business methods to
agriculture, scrapping obsolete machinery and buildings. His son—so
Grimshaw decided—seemed to have inherited his father’s business
aptitudes without his disabilities. Wilverley waxed confidential after
dinner.
“My father had a rotten digestion: bad grub when he was a kid. I can
digest anything—anything. The main trouble in the rural districts is
insufficient food, vilely cooked and poor in quality. I see to it that
my people are fed as well as my horses. Food and shelter, there you have
it in tabloid form. No able-bodied young men emigrate from here.”
Grimshaw listened, impressed by his host’s energy and cocksureness.
Obviously, this was a man who got what he wanted, because he wanted it
with a restless passion for achievement that couldn’t be denied. But the
professional eye, noting a heightened colour after meals, began to doubt
the assumption that Lord Wilverley could digest anything.
A luscious opulence characterised the immense house throughout, a
Victorian splendour of brocade, gilt cornices, mirrors, French polish,
and Axminster carpets. In effective contrast, Wilverley wore shabby
tweeds, and might have been mistaken by a short-sighted stranger for one
of his own less prosperous tenants. The amount of work he accomplished
in twenty-four hours amazed Grimshaw, who knew what hard work was. How
much time would be left to cherish a wife?
Wilverley spoke with entire frankness about the Chandos family.
“The good old sort, but reactionary; always have been. The prettiest
place in the country run abominably to seed. You have your work cut out
there. Pawley, I take it, will soon retire . . . _and then_ . . .?”
He stared fixedly at Grimshaw.
“I may retire first,” said Grimshaw.
“Then I’m mistaken in my man,” declared Wilverley, almost explosively.
“I know when I’m beaten, Lord Wilverley.” He added quietly: “But I
shan’t throw up the sponge yet. Miss Chandos is not reactionary.”
“Miss Chandos?” Wilverley frowned slightly. “Hardly out!”
“She counts.”
“Miss Chandos will marry. And, if I know her, she would never run
counter to her mother. Don’t make trouble between them, I beg you. She
sided with us the other evening merely out of a girlish desire to ginger
up a rather dull dinner.”
Grimshaw remained silent, and Wilverley began to talk about the war,
which, in his opinion, couldn’t last long, K. of K. to the contrary.
Soldiers were rank pessimists. Business interests would be paramount.
Civilisation wouldn’t tolerate the dislocation of industry . . . and so
forth.
Next morning Grimshaw left early, after promising to come again. He had
liked his host, reckoning him, quite rightly, to be an honest man and a
capable. He recalled a platitude often on the lips of his father: “We
are sent into this world to better it.” According to this gauge,
Wilverley had “made good.” And a wife, with a sense of humour, would
round off his corners, trim his quills, and conciliate his unfriends.
But probably she would give even more than she would get.
He reflected, not without bitterness, upon what Cicely Chandos would get
if she took Wilverley.
IV
During the epoch-making weeks that followed he saw little of her, being
engrossed by his work. After the battle of the Marne, Wilverley Court
was turned into a Red Cross Hospital, and Cicely enrolled herself as a
V.A.D. Brian, by this time, was in France, having survived the retreat
from Mons. Pawley had come back, much the better for a long holiday. He
congratulated his partner with almost paternal effusion:
“They all like you, my boy. Gentle and simple——!”
“The simple are not as simple as they appear,” said Grimshaw.
“Ah! You have been talking to them, eh? Any—complaints?”
“Nothing verbal. They say what they think I wish them to say. I get most
of my information from the kiddies. They give the Chandos dynasty dead
away.”
Pawley made a deprecating gesture.
“I know—I know. But what can one do?”
Grimshaw answered grimly:
“Waking, and sometimes in my dreams, that question worries me
confoundedly. I’m at the cross-roads. For the moment, I suppose, I must
mark time. Dash it!” he continued, with rare irritability, “how can I
pester Lady Selina with my pet schemes when she is absorbed with anxiety
about her son?” Had he been absolutely truthful, he would have added:
“And how can I run the risk of hostilising the mother of the girl I
love?”
“Yes, yes; God help all these poor mothers.”
For a season the nettle was dropped, to be grasped firmly later on.
To make matters more difficult for a perplexed and unhappy man in love
with a young woman apparently predestined to be the bride of another,
Lady Selina had followed her son’s advice, and was being consistently
civil and kind, a much easier task than she had anticipated inasmuch as
Cicely was absent from home. Grimshaw enjoyed some rough shooting, and
found so many snipe in the bog behind the village that he reconsidered
the propriety of draining it. Tired by his day’s work, snug in a big
arm-chair, he was sorely tempted to let things drift. But every morning,
after his cold tub, fighting instincts reasserted themselves. The
gorgeous possibility of capturing mother and daughter rose with the sun
and illumined his heaven. Two birds to one shot—a notable right and
left! Meanwhile Mrs. Rockram had become his devoted slave. To talk to
Mrs. Rockram about Cicely would be indiscreet; to listen to her chatter
on the same fascinating subject was another matter. Indeed, what news he
got of Cicely generally filtered through this loyal old retainer. From
her he learned that Wilverley had left the Court and was living with his
agent. The big house was handed over to my lord’s married sister,
apparently a formidable person, bristling, like her brother, with
restless activities. Cicely, it seemed, went to bed each night nearly
foundered!
“I ain’t one to gossip,” remarked Mrs. Rockram as November drew to a
close. “I’ve never done it, never!”
“Oh, Mrs. Rockram! What a difference between us! I love a bit of gossip.
What is gossip? A kindly indication of interest in the affairs of
others.”
“Well, sir, that’s as may be. And the housekeeper at the Court is a
particular friend of mine, and not one to carry a foolish tale.”
“Out with it, Mrs. Rockram. What tale does she wag?”
Mrs. Rockram answered cautiously:
“It ends happily, sir, as tales should do—with the wedding bells.”
“I’m still in the dark,” said Grimshaw.
He felt, as he spoke, that he should remain so. Cimmerian blackness
encompassed him, a Stygian fog. Wilverley had retreated, so to speak,
before the final assault. He had trailed clouds of glory behind him.
Thanks to his organising powers, the new hospital had been acclaimed as
a model. And it was full of heroes and hero-worshippers. Grimshaw had
hoped that his services might have been required, but red-tape vetoed
this. The medical officer in charge was a “Major” in spurs. Wilverley,
of course, had made the most of his opportunities. Mrs. Rockram went on:
“I ain’t. When I seen Miss Cicely in her uniform, I says to Mr. Rockram,
‘My lord’s a goner.’”
Grimshaw attempted to smile. The music was out of his voice as he asked:
“Is it settled?”
Mrs. Rockram was inclined to think so. Could there be a better match?
One, surely, of Heaven’s own making. She concluded: “We have always
known that my lord was sweet as sweet on her.”
Grimshaw could not envisage Wilverley as “sweet.” And Mrs. Rockram’s
evidence was flimsy, mere hearsay from the housekeeper at the Court.
Still, the very likelihood of the affair gnawed at him raveningly. A day
or two later Pawley said to him:
“Thank God, Brian is now reasonably safe!”
“Why this fervour?”
“Lady Selina expects to lose Cicely.”
“Who told you so?”
An inflection in the young man’s voice made Pawley regard him more
attentively. Grimshaw’s face, however, remained expressionless. Pawley
replied as guardedly as Mrs. Rockram:
“She admitted to me that Wilverley had dropped the handkerchief; and it
seems reasonably certain that it will be picked up. He’s a masterful
man.”
“He is,” Grimshaw assented. “Would—would Lady Selina bring pressure to
bear?”
Again Pawley’s eyes showed surprise.
“Um! Pressure? Why should there be pressure, except from him?”
Cornered, rather confused, with a tinge of colour in his pale cheeks,
Grimshaw said hastily:
“I can’t see him as a lover. He would, as you put it, drop the
handkerchief and make sure of its being picked up at once. A girl of
spirit mightn’t quite like that.”
V
With the colder weather, Upworthy boasted a cleaner bill of health,
although the more elderly villagers suffered abominably from rheumatism.
Anxious to “spare” Lady Selina, but even more anxious to mitigate
conditions which might be improved, Grimshaw tackled Gridley, the power
behind the throne exercising a sly, persistent authority which few could
measure, least of all the lady of the manor. Gridley had succeeded his
father as bailiff of the Chandos domain. Thousands of just such men are
to be found in our southern and western counties. And more than half the
misery in the rural districts can be traced to them, directly and
indirectly. Back of their abuse of power lies, of course, the indolence
of the landlord. And behind this again—ignorance. All Gridleys have in
common a desire to make things easy for their employers. They stand
doggedly as buffers between comfort and discomfort, between peace of
mind and innumerable pettifogging worries and acerbities. Villagers dare
not appeal to Cæsar. How many schoolboys beard a headmaster, indicting
some unjust member of his staff? Villagers are children. They never cut
loose from leading-strings. They whine to each other, and make a
“visiting face” in the presence of the “quality.” They live, most of
them, for the passing hour, seldom dwelling upon the future because,
instinctively, they dread it. Who denies them great qualities? But they
will be the better understood when it is admitted frankly that their
unwritten code is poles apart from the code of the privileged classes.
With the poor patience is a greater virtue than truthfulness; fidelity
ranks above chastity; justice counts for nothing in comparison with
generosity.
Gridley lived in a comfortable house at the Home Farm, with a wife whom
he regarded as a general servant, and several children. After his day’s
work, he befuddled himself with beer, but he prided himself upon rising
each morning perfectly sober. He was reasonably abstemious in local
taverns, and attended church, making the responses in a loud voice,
conscious that the approving ear of Lady Selina heard him. He was a
member of the district and parish councils. He could, and did, make life
hell for any beneath him in the social scale who presumed to thwart his
wishes and commands.
At first he showed himself obsequious and complaisant to the new doctor.
But he began to squirm under Grimshaw’s questions, wriggling out of
them, evading them, trying to throw dust into eyes penetratingly clear.
Grimshaw took his measure in five minutes. Nevertheless, for Lady
Selina’s sake, he wished to give the fellow a chance. Possibly Gridley
mistook courtesy for weakness. More than probably he took for granted
that country doctors prefer to travel along lines of least resistance.
Finally, after many exasperating and unavailing interviews, Grimshaw
spoke plainly:
“You are forcing me to the conclusion, Mr. Gridley, that you run
Upworthy to suit yourself.”
Doctor and bailiff had met outside a cottage which held a young married
woman sadly crippled by incipient arthritis. Her bed rested upon a floor
eaten up by dry-rot. Putting his foot through a board, Grimshaw had
discovered masses of thick, white, velvety fungus, which smelt horribly.
He discovered further that the waste-pipes from the eaves were choked
up; water trickled down the inside walls. When he called Gridley’s
attention to this state of things, the bailiff promptly promised
immediate repairs, which were not forthcoming. Grimshaw could have
appealed to Lady Selina. But anything of that sort meant open war with
Gridley, the precipitation of a crisis. It meant, for the lady of the
manor, an instant choice between an old servant and a comparative
stranger. It meant, if Grimshaw won (and the possibilities of losing
obtruded itself), finding a new bailiff, breaking him in, endless worry
and perplexity. To find the right man at such a time, when ability of
any sort was at a tremendous premium, might be impracticable. To add to
the difficulties of the case, he knew that witnesses for the prosecution
of a tyrant would be hard to find. Gridley, and his father before him,
had imposed silence upon Upworthy. The Extons were notable examples of
what might happen to the recalcitrant. Favours, innumerable doles—coal,
fire-wood, milk, clothing and small grants in aid—were distributed
amongst the optimists who, when Lady Selina made her periodical rounds,
presented shining faces and grateful hearts. The wise gaffers sang
praises of “honest John” behind his back and to his brazen face.
Nicodemus Burble, the octogenarian, piped the popular conviction: “I
allers says it pays to treat bailiffs wi’ respect, for why, my sonnies?
Because they can make it so danged uncomfortsome for we, if we don’t.”
Gridley, thus addressed by a young man whom he regarded hitherto as
negligible, was much taken aback. Clever enough to know that
procrastination would no longer avail him, he tried insolence instead:
“Do I? I’d have you to understand, Mr. Grimshaw, that I can mind my
business, as my father did before me, and I’ll thank you to mind yours.”
With that he turned on his heel, glaring savagely.
“Wait!” said Grimshaw, in his quietest tone.
Gridley swung round. Grimshaw met his congested glance.
“The misery in Upworthy is my business.”
“Ho, is it?”
“Yes; I can break a hornet’s nest about your ears, and I’m in the mood
to do it. I can get the medical officer of health for the county down
here, and if I do, you and your father’s business, which you manage as
abominably as he did, will be blown to—to your ultimate destination.”
Gridley stared at him in stupefaction. Hitherto, the local sanitary
inspector, with well-greased palms, had seen to it that his chief should
be spared such visitations. Altering his tone slightly, he growled out:
“Her ladyship will have something to say to that.”
“Cut her ladyship out of this. I propose to deal with you. Her ladyship
has entrusted you with powers which you have abused, grossly abused, to
your own advantage.”
Gridley, with unpleasant memories of John Exton, and confronted by a
tense athletic figure, said sullenly:
“I suppose I can’t stop you talking.”
“You can’t. You like being top dog. And because you came from the
people, you’re hard on the people. You treat them as dirt.”
Gridley laughed brutally, as a not unreasonable fear of personal
violence passed from him.
“That’s what they are, most of ’em—dirt.”
Grimshaw smiled derisively, beholding in Gridley the reactionary of the
Labour Party, the common type that rides rough-shod over the
foot-passengers, bespattering them with mud. Some of the self-styled
leaders of Labour in Poplar were just like him—arrogant, insolent and
ignorant, seeking their own advancement with specious canting words on
their thick lips, secretly distrusted by the very class whom they tried
to rule and direct. He divined that Gridley hated, in his heart, the
benefactress who trusted him, that he would be the first—given the
opportunity—to bite the hand that had fed him. And such men scorn
decent treatment. They can be subdued by the weapon they use—the lash.
Grimshaw continued, not so quietly:
“I’m on to your little games. You and that greedy idiot, the sanitary
inspector, and four-fifths of the district council, play into each
other’s hands, and laugh and wink over it.”
Gridley tried sarcasm:
“Ho! Downin’ one of your own sort now?”
“You allude to our local medical officer. I wonder how you’d like me to
take on that job?”
“Why don’t you?” He laughed again.
“I may,” replied Grimshaw incisively, “Lady Selina Chandos has always
wanted to do her best for her people, but that never suited your book.
Why? Because when light comes to her you’ll be scrapped first.”
“Have it your own way, Mr. Grimshaw, and thanks for warning me.”
“I do warn you. For the moment, I shall leave her ladyship in peace. I
am dealing with you. Mend your ways here and now. Does the new flooring
go in at once—or not?”
“I told you the job should be done. We’re short-handed.”
“Will it go in at once, within twenty-four hours?”
“Yes, it will.” He paused, adding cringingly:
“I didn’t mean to give offence, sir.”
Grimshaw replied tensely:
“Good. Keep what I’ve said to yourself, and I shall do the same.”
Within the time exacted the new flooring was put in. Grimshaw knew, of
course, that he had made a dangerous enemy, but this heartened rather
than dismayed him, salving a sensitive conscience. He believed that he
could deal with Gridley, and through Gridley with others. Lady Selina
must be left in peace till peace came back to a world in travail.