Seeing Ulland House for the first time on a fine afternoon in early May
against the jubilant green of its woodland hillside, the beholder, a
little dazzled in that first instant by the warmth of colour burning in
the ancient brick, might adapt the old dean's line and call the
coral-tinted structure rambling down the hillside, 'A rose-red dwelling
half as old as Time.'
Its original architecture had been modified by the generations as they
passed. One lord of Ulland had expressed his fancy on the eastern facade
in gable and sculptured gargoyle; another his fear or his defiance in
the squat and sturdy tower with its cautious slits in lieu of windows.
Yet another Ulland had brought home from eighteenth-century Italy a love
of colonnades and terraced gardens; and one still later had cut down to
the level of the sward the high ground-floor windows, so that where
before had been two doors or three, were now a dozen giving egress to
the gardens.
The legend so often encountered in the history of old English houses was
not neglected here--that it had been a Crusader of this family who had
himself brought home from the Holy Land the Lebanon cedar that spread
wide its level branches on the west, cutting the sunset into even bars.
Tradition also said it was a counsellor of Elizabeth who had set the
dial on the lawn. Even the latest lord had found a way to leave his
impress upon the time. He introduced 'Clock golf' at Ulland. From the
upper windows on the south and west the roving eye was caught by the
great staring face of this new timepiece on the turf--its Roman numerals
showing keen and white upon the vivid green. On the other side of the
cedar, that incorrigible Hedonist, the crumbling dial, told you in Latin
that he only marked the shining hours. But the brand new clock on the
lawn bore neither watchword nor device--seemed even to have dropped its
hands as though in modesty withheld from pointing to hours so little
worthy of record.
Two or three men, on this fine Saturday, had come down from London for
the week-end to disport themselves on the Ulland links, half a mile
beyond the park. After a couple of raw days, the afternoon had turned
out quite unseasonably warm, and though the golfers had come back
earlier than usual, not because of the heat but because one of their
number had a train to catch, they agreed it was distinctly reviving to
find tea served out of doors.
Already Lady John was in her place on the pillared colonnade, behind the
urn. Already, too, one of her pair of pretty nieces was at hand to play
the skilful lieutenant. Hermione Heriot, tactful, charming, twenty-five,
was equally ready to hand bread and butter, or, sitting quietly, to
perform the greater service--that of presenting the fresh-coloured,
discreetly-smiling vision called 'the typical English girl.' Miss Heriot
fulfilled to a nicety the requirements of those who are sensibly
reassured by the spectacle of careful conventionality allied to feminine
charm--a pleasant conversability that may be trusted to soothe and
counted on never to startle. Hermione would almost as soon have stood on
her head in Piccadilly as have said anything original, though to her
private consternation such perilous stuff had been known to harbour an
uneasy instant in her bosom. She carried such inconvenient cargo as
carefully hidden as a conspirator would a bomb under his cloak. It had
grown to be as necessary to her to agree with the views and fashions of
the majority as it was disquieting to her to see these contravened, or
even for a single hour ignored. From the crown of her carefully dressed
head to the tips of her pointed toes she was engaged in testifying her
assent to the prevailing note. Despite all this to recommend her, she
was not Lady John's favourite niece. No doubt about Jean Dunbarton
holding that honour; and, to Hermione's credit, her own love for her
cousin enabled her to accept the situation with a creditable equability.
Jean Dunbarton was due now at any moment, she having already sent over
her luggage with her maid the short two miles from the Bishop's Palace,
where the girl had dined and slept the night before.
The rest of the Ulland House party were arriving by the next train. As
Miss Levering was understood to be one of those expected it will be seen
that a justified faith in the excellence of the Ulland links had not
made Lady John unmindful of the wisdom of including among 'the
week-enders' a nice assortment of pretty women for the amusement of her
golfers in the off hours.
Of this other young lady swinging her golf club as she came across the
lawn with the men--sole petticoat among them--it could not be pretended
that any hostess, let alone one so worldly-wise as Lady John Ulland,
would look to have the above-hinted high and delicate office performed
by so upright and downright--not to say so bony--a young woman, with
face so like a horse, and the stride of a grenadier. Under her short
leather-bound skirt the great brown-booted feet seemed shamelessly to
court attention--as it were out of malice to catch your eye, while
deliberately they trampled on the tenderest traditions clinging still
about the Weaker Sex.
Lady John held in her hand the top of the jade and silver tea-caddy.
Hermione, as well as her aunt, knew that this top held four teaspoonsful
of tea. Lady John filled it once, filled it twice, and turned the
contents out each time into the gaping pot. Then, absent-mindedly, she
paused, eyeing the approaching party,--that genial silver-haired despot,
her husband, walking with Lord Borrodaile, the gawky girl between them,
except when she paused to practise a drive. The fourth person, a short,
compactly knit man, was lounging along several paces behind, but every
now and then energetically shouting out his share in the conversation.
The ground of Lady John's interest in the group seemed to consist in a
half-mechanical counting of noses. Her eyes came back to the tea-table
and she made a third addition to the jade and silver measure.
'We shall be only six for the first brew,' prompted the girl at her
side.
'Paul Filey is mooning somewhere about the garden.'
'Oh!'
'Why do you say it like that?'
Hermione's eyes rested a moment on the golfer who was bringing up the
rear. He was younger than his rather set figure had at a distance
proclaimed him.
'I was only thinking Dick Farnborough can't abide Paul,' said the girl.
'A typical product of the public school is hardly likely to appreciate
an undisciplined creature with a streak of genius in him like Paul
Filey.'
'Oh, I rather love him myself,' said the girl, lightly, 'only as Sophia
says he does talk rather rot at times.'
With her hand on the tea-urn, releasing a stream of boiling water into
the pot, Lady John glanced over the small thickset angel that poised
himself on one podgy foot upon the lid of the urn.
'Sophia's too free with her tongue. It's a mistake. It frightens people
off.'
'Men, you mean?'
'Especially men.'
'I often think,' said the young woman, 'that men--all except Paul--would
be more shocked at Sophia--if--she wasn't who she is.'
'No doubt,' agreed her aunt. 'Still I sympathize with her parents. I
don't see how they'll ever marry her. She might just as well be Miss
Jones--that girl--for all she makes of herself.'
'Yes; I've often thought so, too,' agreed Hermione, apparently conscious
that the very most was made of _her_.
'She hasn't even been taught to walk.' Lady John was still watching the
girl's approach.
'Yet she looks best out of doors,' said Hermione, firmly.
'Oh, yes! She comes into the drawing-room as if she were crossing a
ploughed field!'
'All the same,' said Hermione, under her breath, 'when she _is_ indoors
I'd rather see her walking than sitting.'
'You mean the way she crosses her legs?'
'Yes.'
'But that, too--it seems like so many other things, a question only of
degree. Nobody objects to seeing a pair of neat ankles crossed--it looks
rather nice and early Victorian. Nowadays lots of girls cross their
knees--and nobody says anything. But Sophia crosses her--well, her
_thighs_.'
And the two women laughed understandingly.
A stranger might imagine that the reason for Lady Sophia's presence in
the party was that she, by common consent, played a capital game of
golf--'for a woman.' That fact, however, was rather against her. For
people who can play the beguiling game, _want_ to play it--and want to
play it not merely now and then out of public spirit to make up a
foursome, but constantly and for pure selfish love of it. Woman may, if
she likes, take it as a compliment to her sex that this proclivity--held
to be wholly natural in a man--is called 'rather unfeminine' in a
woman. But it was a defect like the rest, forgiven the Lady Sophia for
her father's sake. Lord Borrodaile, held to be one of the most
delightful of men, was much in request for parties of this description.
One reason for his daughter's being there was that it glossed the fact
that Lady Borrodaile was not--was, indeed, seldom present, and one may
say never missed, in the houses frequented by her husband.
But as he and his friends not only did not belong to, but looked down
upon, the ultra smart set, where the larger freedoms are practised in
lieu of the lesser decencies, Lord Borrodaile lived his life as far
removed from any touch of scandal and irregularity as the most puritanic
of the bourgeoisie. Part and parcel of his fastidiousness, some
said--others, that from his Eton days he had always been a lazy beggar.
As though to show that he did not shrink from reasonable responsibility
towards his female impedimenta, any inquiry as to the absence of Lady
Borrodaile was met by reference to Sophia. In short, where other
attractive husbands brought a boring wife, Lord Borrodaile brought an
undecorative daughter. While to the onlooker nearly every aspect of this
particular young woman would seem destined to offend a beauty-loving,
critical taste like that of Borrodaile, he was probably served, as other
mortals are, by that philosophy of the senses which brings in time a
deafness and a blindness to the unloveliness that we needs must live
beside. Lord Borrodaile was far too intelligent not to see, too, that
when people had got over Lady Sophia's uncompromising exterior, they
found things in her to admire as well as to stand a little in awe of.
Unlike one another as the Borrodailes were, in one respect they
presented to the world an undivided front. From their point of view,
just as laws existed to keep other people in order, so was 'fashion' an
affair for the middle classes. The Borrodailes might dress as dowdily as
they pleased, might speak as uncompromisingly as they felt inclined.
Were they not Borrodailes of Borrodaile? Though open expression of this
spirit grows less common, they would not have denied that it is still
the prevailing temper of the older aristocracy. And so it has hitherto
been true that among its women you find that sort of freedom which is
the prerogative of those called the highest and of those called the
lowest. It is the women of all the grades between these two extremes who
have dared not to be themselves, who ape the manners, echo the
catchwords, and garb themselves in the elaborate ugliness, devised for
the blind meek millions.
As the Lady Sophia, now a little in advance of her companions, came
stalking towards the steps, out from a little path that wound among the
thick-growing laurels issued Paul Filey. He raised his eyes, and
hurriedly thrust a small book into his pocket. The young lady paused,
but only apparently to pat, or rather to administer an approving cuff
to, the Bedlington terrier lying near the lower step.
'Well,' she said over her shoulder to Filey, 'our side gave a good
account of itself that last round.'
'I was sure it would as soon as my malign influence was removed.'
'Yes; from the moment I took on Dick Farnborough, the situation assumed
a new aspect. You'll _never_ play a good game, you know, if you go
quoting Baudelaire on the links.'
'Poor Paul!' his hostess murmured to her niece, 'I always tremble when I
see him exposed to Sophia's ruthless handling.'
'Yes,' whispered Hermione. 'She says she's sure he thinks of himself as
a prose Shelley; and for some reason that infuriates Sophia.'
With a somewhat forced air of amusement, Mr. Filey was following his
critic up the steps, she still mocking at his 'drives' and the way he
negotiated his bunkers.
Arrived at the top of the little terrace, whose close-shorn turf was
level with the flagged floor of the colonnade, Mr. Filey sought refuge
near Hermione, as the storm-tossed barque, fleeing before the wind, hies
swift to the nearest haven.
Bending over the Bedlington, the Amazon remained on the top step, her
long, rather good figure garbed in stuff which Filey had said was fit
only for horse-blankets, but which was Harris tweed slackly belted by a
broad canvas girdle drawn through a buckle of steel.
'_Will_ you tell me,' he moaned in Hermione's ear, 'why the daughter of
a hundred earls has the manners of a groom, and dresses herself in odds
and ends of the harness room?'
'Sh! Somebody told her once you'd said something of that sort.'
'No!' he said. 'Who?'
'It wasn't I.'
'Of course not. But did she mind? What did she say, eh?'
'She only said, "He got that out of a novel of Miss Broughton's."'
Filey looked a little dashed. 'No! Has Miss Broughton said it, too? Then
there are more of them!' He glanced again at the Amazon. 'Horrible
thought!'
'Don't be so unreasonable. She couldn't play golf in a long skirt and
high heels!'
'Who _wants_ a woman to play golf?'
Hermione gave him his tea with a smile. She knew with an absolute
precision just how perfectly at that moment she herself was presenting
the average man's picture of the ideal type of reposeful womanhood.
As Lord John and the two other men, his companions, came up the steps in
the midst of a discussion--
'If you stop to argue, Mr. Farnborough,' said Lady John, holding out a
cup, 'you won't have time for tea before you catch that train.'
'Oh, thank you!' He hastened to relieve her, while Hermione murmured
regrets that he wasn't staying. 'Lady John didn't ask me,' he confided.
As he saw in Hermione's face a project to intercede for him, he added,
'And now I've promised my mother--we've got a lot of people coming, and
two men short!'
'Two men short! how horrible for her!' She said it half laughing, but
her view of the reality of the dilemma was apparent in her letting the
subject drop.
Farnborough, standing there tea-cup in hand, joined again in the
discussion that was going on about some unnamed politician of the day,
with whose character and destiny the future of England might quite
conceivably be involved.
Before a great while this unnamed person would be succeeding his ailing
and childless brother. There were lamentations in prospect of his too
early translation to the Upper House.
The older men had been speaking of his family, in which the tradition of
public service, generations old, had been revived in the person of this
younger son.
'I have never understood,' Lord John was saying, 'how a man with such
opportunities hasn't done more.'
'A man as able, too,' said Borrodaile, lazily. 'Think of the tribute he
wrung out of Gladstone at the very beginning of his career. Whatever we
may think of the old fox, Gladstone had an eye for men.'
'Be _quiet_, will you!' Lady Sophia administered a little whack to the
Bedlington. 'Sh! Joey! don't you hear they're talking about our cousin?'
'Who?' said Filey, bending over the lady with a peace-offering of cake.
'Why, Geoffrey Stonor,' answered Sophia.
'_Is_ it Stonor they mean?'
'Well, of course.'
'How do you know?' demanded Filey, in the pause.
'Oh, wherever there are two or three gathered together talking politics
and "the coming man"--who has such a frightful lot in him that very
little ever comes out--it's sure to be Geoffrey Stonor they mean, isn't
it, Joey?'
'Perhaps,' said her father, dryly, 'you'll just mention that to him at
dinner to-night.'
'_What!_' said Farnborough, with a keen look in his eyes. 'You don't
mean he's coming here!'
Sophia, too, had looked round at her host with frank interest.
'Comin' to play golf?'
'Well, he mayn't get here in time for a round to-night, but we're rather
expecting him by this four-thirty.'
'What fun!' Lady Sophia's long face had brightened.
'May I stay over till the next train?' Farnborough was whispering to
Lady John as he went round to her on the pretext of more cream. 'Thank
you--then I won't go till the six forty-two.'
'I didn't know,' Lady Sophia was observing in her somewhat crude way,
'that you knew Geoffrey as well as all that.'
'We don't,' said Lord John. 'He's been saying for years he wanted to
come down and try our links, but it's by a fluke that he's coming, after
all.'
'He never comes to see _us_. He's far too busy, ain't he, Joey, even if
we can't see that he accomplishes much?'
'Give him time and you'll see!' said Farnborough, with a wag of his
head.
'Yes,' said Lord John, 'he's still a young man. Barely forty.'
'Barely forty! _They_ believe in prolonging their youth, don't they?'
said Lady Sophia to no one in particular, and with her mouth rather more
full of cake than custom prescribes. 'Good thing it isn't us, ain't it,
Joey?'
'For a politician forty _is_ young,' said Farnborough.
'Oh, don't I know it!' she retorted. 'I was reading the life of Randolph
Churchill the other day, and I came across a paragraph of filial
admiration about the hold Lord Randolph had contrived to get so early in
life over the House of Commons. It occurred to me to wonder just how
much of a boy Lord Randolph was at the time. I was going to count up
when I was saved the trouble by coming to a sentence that said he was
then "an unproved stripling of thirty-two." You shouldn't laugh. It
wasn't meant sarcastic.'
'Unless you're leader of the Opposition, I suppose it's not very easy to
do much while your party's out of power,' hazarded Lady John, 'is it?'
'One of the most interesting things about our coming back will be to
watch Stonor,' said Farnborough.
'After all, they said he did very well with his Under Secretaryship
under the last Government, didn't they?' Again Lady John appealed to the
two elder men.
'Oh, yes,' said Borrodaile. 'Oh, yes.'
'And the way'--Farnborough made up for any lack of enthusiasm--'the way
he handled that Balkan question!'
'All that was pure routine,' Lord John waved it aside. 'But if Stonor
had ever looked upon politics as more than a game, he'd have been a
power long before this.'
'Ah,' said Borrodaile, slowly, 'you go as far as that? I doubt myself if
he has enough of the demagogue in him.'
'But that's just why. The English people are not like the Americans or
the French. The English have a natural distrust of the demagogue. I tell
you if Stonor once believed in anything with might and main, he'd be a
leader of men.'
'Here he is now.'
Farnborough was the first to distinguish the sound of carriage wheels
behind the shrubberies. The others looked up and listened. Yes, the
crunch of gravel. The wall of laurel was too thick to give any glimpse
from this side of the drive that wound round to the main entrance. But
some animating vision nevertheless seemed miraculously to have
penetrated the dense green wall, to the obvious enlivenment of the
company.
'It's rather exciting seeing him at close quarters,' Hermione said to
Filey.
'Yes! He's the only politician I can get up any real enthusiasm for.
He's so many-sided. I saw him yesterday at a Bond Street show looking at
caricatures of himself and all his dearest friends.'
'Really. How did he take the sacrilege?'
'Oh, he was immensely amused at the fellow's impudence. You see, Stonor
could understand the art of the thing as well as the fun--the fierce
economy of line----'
Nobody listened. There were other attempts at conversation, mere decent
pretence at not being absorbed in watching for the appearance of
Geoffrey Stonor.