Lord Loudwater came to lunch in a better temper than that in which he had
left the breakfast-table. He had ridden eight miles round and about his
estate, and the ride had soothed that seat of the evil humours--his
liver. Lady Loudwater had been careful to shut Melchisidec in her
boudoir; James Hutchings had no desire in the world to see his master's
florid face or square back, and had instructed Wilkins and Holloway, the
first and second footmen, to wait at table. Lord Loudwater therefore
could, without any ruffling of his sensibilities, give all his thought to
his food, and he did. The cooking at the castle was always excellent. If
it was not, he sent for the chef and spoke to him about it.
There was little conversation at lunch. Lady Loudwater never spoke to her
husband first, save on rare occasions about a matter of importance. It
was not that she perceived any glamour of royalty about him; she did not
wish to hear his voice. Besides, she had never found a conversational
opening so harmless that he could not contrive, were it his whim, to be
offensive about it. Besides, she had at the moment nothing to say to him.
In truth, owing to the fact that she took so many practically silent
meals with him, she was becoming rather a gourmet. The food, naturally
the most important fact, had become really the most important fact at the
meals they took together. She had come to realize this. It was the only
advantage she had ever derived from her intercourse with her husband.
At this lunch, however, she did not pay as much attention to the food as
usual, not indeed as much as it deserved. Her mind would stray from it to
Colonel Grey. She wondered what he would tell her about herself that
afternoon. He was always discovering possibilities in her which she had
never discovered for herself. She only perceived their existence when he
pointed them out to her. Then they became obvious. Also, he was always
discovering fresh facts, attractive facts, about her--about her eyes and
lips and hair and figure. He imparted each discovery to her as he made
it, without delay, and with the genuine enthusiasm of a discoverer. Of
course, he should not have done this. It was, indeed, wrong. But he had
assured her that he could not help it, that he was always blurting things
out. Since it was a habit of long standing, now probably ingrained, it
was useless to reproach him with any great severity for his frankness.
She did not do so.
For his part, the Lord Loudwater had but little to say to his wife. She
was fond of Melchisidec and indifferent to horses. For the greater part
of the meal he was hardly aware that she was at the other end of the
table. Immersed in his food and its deglutition, he was hardly sensible
of the outside world at all. Once, disturbed by Holloway's removing his
empty plate, he told her that he had seen a dog-fox on Windy Ridge;
again, when Holloway handed the cheese-straws to him, he told her that
Merry Belle's black colt had a cold. Her two replies, "Oh, did you?" and
"Has he?" appeared to fall on deaf ears. He did not continue either
conversation.
Then Lord Loudwater broke into an eloquent monologue. Wilkins had poured
out a glass of port for both of them to drink with their cheese-straws.
Lord Loudwater finished his cheese-straws, took a long sip from his
glass, rolled it lovingly over his tongue, gulped it down with a hideous
grimace, banged down his fist on the table, and roared in a terrible,
anguished voice:
"It's corked! It's corked! It's that scoundrel Hutchings! This is his way
of taking it out of me for sacking him. He's done it on purpose, the
scoundrel! Now I will gaol him! Hanged if I don't!"
"I'll get another bottle, m'lord," said Wilkins, catching up the
decanter, and hurrying towards the door.
"Get it! And be quick about it! And tell that scoundrel I'll gaol him!"
cried Lord Loudwater.
Wilkins rushed from the room bearing in his hand the decanter of
offending port; Holloway followed him to help.
Lady Loudwater sipped a little port from her glass. She was rather
inclined to take no one's word for anything which she could herself
verify. Then she took another sip.
Then she said; "Are you sure this wine's corked?"
Corked wine at the end of a really good meal is a bitter blow to any man,
an exceedingly bitter blow to a man of Lord Loudwater's sensitiveness in
such matters.
"Am I sure? Hey? Am I sure? Yes! I am sure, you little fool!" he
bellowed. "What do you know about wine? Talk about things you
understand!"
Lady Loudwater's face was twisted by a faint spasm of hate which left it
flushed. She would never grow used to being bellowed at for a fool. Once
more her husband's refusal to let her take her meals apart from him
seemed monstrous. Hardly ever did she rise from one at which she had not
been abused and insulted. She realized indeed that she had been foolish
to ask the question. But why should she sit tongue-tied before the brute?
She took another sip and said quietly: "It isn't corked."
Then she turned cold with fright.
Lord Loudwater could not believe his ears. It could not be that his wife
had contradicted him flatly. It--could--_not_--be.
He was still incredulous, breathing heavily, when the door opened and
James Hutchings appeared on the threshold. In his right hand he held the
decanter of offending port, in his left a sound cork.
He said firmly: "This wine isn't corked, m'lord. Its flavour is perfect.
Besides, a cork like this couldn't cork it."
A less sensitive man than Lord Loudwater might have risen to the
double emergency. Lord Loudwater could not. He sat perfectly still.
But his eyes rolled so horribly that the Lady Loudwater started from
her chair, uttered a faint scream, and fairly ran through the long
window into the garden.
James Hutchings advanced to the table, thumped the decanter down on
it--no way to treat an old vintage port--at Lord Loudwater's right hand,
walked out of the room, and shut the door firmly behind him.
In the great hall he smiled a triumphant, malevolent smile. Then he
called Wilkins and Holloway, who stood together in the middle of it,
cowardly dogs and shirkers, and strode past them to the door to the
servants' quarters.
A few moments later Lord Loudwater rose to his feet and staggered
dizzily along to the other end of the table. He picked up his wife's
half-emptied glass and sipped the port. It was _not_ corked. It was
incredible! He would never forgive her!
He rang the bell. Both Wilkins and Holloway answered it. He bade them
tell Hutchings to pack his belongings and go at once. If he were not out
of the castle by four o'clock, they were to kick him out. Then he went,
still scowling, to the stables.
Mr. Manley had already finished his lunch. Halfway through his
after-lunch pipe he rose, took his hat and stick, and set out to pay a
visit to Mrs. Truslove.
As he came out of the park gates he came upon the Rev. George Stebbing,
the _locum tenens_ in charge of the parish, for the vicar was away on a
holiday, enjoying a respite from his perpetual struggle with the patron
of the living, Lord Loudwater.
They fell into step and for a while discussed the local weather and local
affairs. Then Mr. Manley, who had been gifted by Heaven with a lively
imagination wholly untrammelled by any straining passion for exactitude,
entertained Mr. Stebbing with a vivid account of his experiences as
leader of the first Great Push. Mr. Manley was one of the many rather
stout, soft men who in different parts of Great Britain will till their
dying days entertain acquaintances with vivid accounts of their
experiences as leaders of the Great Pushes. Like that of most of them,
his war experience, before his weak heart had procured him his discharge
from the army, had consisted wholly of office work in England. His
account of his strenuous fighting lacked nothing of fire or
picturesqueness on that account. He was too modest to say in so many
words that but for his martial qualities there would have been no Great
Push at all, and that any success it had had was due to those martial
qualities, but that was the impression he left on Mr. Stebbing's simple
and rather plastic mind. When therefore they parted at the crossroads,
Mr. Manley went on his way in a pleasant content at having once more made
himself valued; and Mr. Stebbing went on his way feeling thankful that he
had been brought into friendly contact with a really able hero. Both of
them were the happier for their chance meeting.
Mr. Manley found Helena Truslove in her drawing-room, and when the door
closed behind the maid who had ushered him into it, he embraced her with
affectionate warmth. Then he held her out at arm's-length, and for the
several hundredth time admired her handsome, clear-skinned,
high-coloured, gipsy face, her black, rather wild eyes, and the black
hair wreathed round her head in so heavy a mass.
"It has been an awful long time between the kisses," he said.
She sighed a sigh of content and laughed softly. Then she said: "I
sometimes think that you must have had a great deal of practice."
"No," said Mr. Manley firmly. "I have never had occasion to be in
love before."
He put her back into the chair from which he had lifted her, sat down
facing her, and gazed at her with adoring eyes. He was truly very much in
love with her.
They were excellent complements the one of the other. If Mr. Manley had
the brains for two--indeed, he had the brains for half a dozen--she had
the character for two. Her chin was very unlike the chin of an eagle. She
was not, indeed, lacking in brains. Her brow forbade the supposition. But
hers was rather the practical intelligence, his the creative. That she
had the force of character, on occasion the fierceness, which he lacked,
was no small source of her attraction for him.
"And how was the hog this morning?" she said, ready to be soothing.
"The hog" was their pet name for Lord Loudwater.
"Beastly. He's an utterly loathsome fellow," said Mr. Manley with
conviction.
"Oh, no; not utterly--at any rate, not if you're independent of him," she
protested.
"Does he ever come into contact with any one who is not dependent on him?
I believe he shuns them like the pest."
"Not into close contact," she said--"at any rate, nowadays. But
I've known him to do good-natured things; and then he's very fond of
his horses."
"That makes the way he treats every human being who is in any way
dependent on him all the more disgusting," said Mr. Manley firmly.
"Oh, I don't know. It's something to be fond of animals," she said
tolerantly.
"This morning he had a devil of a row with Hutchings, the butler, you
know, and discharged him."
"That was a silly thing to do. Hutchings is not at all a good person to
have a row with," she said quickly. "I should say that he was a far more
dangerous brute than Loudwater and much more intelligent. Still, I don't
know what he could do. What was the row about?"
"Some woman sent Loudwater an anonymous letter accusing Hutchings of
having received commissions from the wine merchants."
"That would be Elizabeth Twitcher's mother. Elizabeth and Hutchings were
engaged, and about ten days ago he jilted her," said Mrs. Truslove. "I
suppose that when he was in love with her he bragged about these
commissions to her and she told her mother."
"Her mother has certainly taken it out of him for jilting her daughter.
But what an unsavoury place the castle is!" said Mr. Manley.
"With such a master--what can you expect?" said Mrs. Truslove. "Did the
hog say anything more about halving my allowance?"
Mr. Manley frowned. A few days before he had been greatly surprised to
learn from Lord Loudwater that the bulk of Helena Truslove's income was
an allowance from him. The matter had greatly exercised his mind. Why
should his employer allow her six hundred a year? It was a matter which
should be cleared up.
He said slowly: "Yes, he did. He asked what you said when I told you that
he was going to halve it, and he did not seem to like the idea of your
seeing him about it."
"He'll like my seeing him about it even less than the idea of it,"
said Mrs. Truslove firmly, and there was a sudden gleam in her wild
black eyes.
Mr. Manley looked at her, frowning faintly. Then he said in a rather
hesitating manner: "I've never asked you about it. But why does the hog
make you this allowance?"
"That's my dark past," she said in a teasing tone, smiling at him. "I
suppose that as we're going to be married so soon I ought to make a clean
breast of it, if you really want to know."
"Just as you like," said Mr. Manley, his face clearing a little at her
careless tone.
"Well, the hog treated me badly--not really badly, because I didn't care
enough about him to make it possible for him to treat me really badly,
but just as badly as he could. For when he and I first met I was on the
way to get engaged to a man, named Hardwicke--a rich city man, rather a
bore, but a man who would make an excellent husband. Loudwater knew that
Hardwicke was ready and eager to marry me, and I suppose that that helped
to make him keen on me. At any rate, he made love to me, not nearly so
badly as you'd think, and persuaded me to promise to marry him."
"I can't think how you could have done it!" cried Mr. Manley.
"How was I to know what a hog he was at home? At Trouville he was quite
nice, as I tell you. Besides, there was the title--I thought I should
like to be Lady Loudwater. You know, I do have strong impulses, and I
act on them."
"Well, after all, you didn't marry him," said Mr. Manley in a tone of
relief. "What did happen?"
"We were engaged for about two months. Then, about a month before the
date fixed for our marriage, he met Olivia Quainton, fell in love with
her, and broke off our engagement a week before our wedding-day."
"Well, of all the caddish tricks!" cried Mr. Manley.
"You can imagine how furious I was. And I wasn't going to stand it--not
from Loudwater, at any rate. I had learnt a good deal more about him in
the eleven weeks we were engaged, and, naturally, I wasn't pleased with
what I had learnt. I set out to make myself very disagreeable. I saw him
and did make myself very disagreeable. I told him a good many unpleasant
things about himself which made him much more furious than I was myself."
"I'm glad some of it got through his thick skin," said Mr. Manley.
"A good deal of it did. Then I made it clear to him that he had robbed me
of John Hardwicke and an excellent settlement in life, and told him that
I was going to bring an action for breach of promise against him. That
certainly got through his thick skin, for it's very painful to him to
spend money on any one but himself. But he made terms at once, gave me
this house furnished, and promised to allow me six hundred a year for
life. You don't think I was wrong to take it?" she added anxiously.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Manley quickly and firmly.
Her face cleared and she said: "So many people would say that it was not
nice my taking money for an injury like that."
"Rubbish! It wasn't as if you'd been in love with him," said Mr. Manley
with the firmest conviction.
"That's the exact point. You do see things," she said, smiling at him
gratefully. "If I had been, it would have been quite different."
"And how else were you to score off him except by hitting him in the
pocket? That and his stomach are his only vulnerable points," said Mr.
Manley viciously.
He was ignorant of Melchisidec's discovery of another.
"They are. And he certainly had robbed me of an income. It was only fair
that he should make up for it," she said rather plaintively.
"Absolutely fair."
"Well, those were the terms. The house is mine all right; it was properly
made over to me. But, stupidly, I didn't have a proper deed drawn up
about the money. I had his promise. One supposes that one can take the
word of an English Peer. But I think that it's really all right. I have
his letters about it."
"There's no saying. You'd better see a lawyer about it and find out. But
this isn't a very dark past," he said, and rose and came to her and
kissed her.
He was, indeed, relieved and reassured. In these circumstances the six
hundred a year was not an allowance at all. It was merely the payment of
a debt--a just debt.
"But it won't be nearly so nice for us, if the hog does manage to cut the
six hundred down to three hundred. My husband only left me a hundred a
year," she said, frowning.
"To be with you will be perfection, whatever our income is," said Mr.
Manley, with ringing conviction, and he kissed her again.
She smiled happily and said: "He shan't cut it down. I'll see that he
doesn't. When I've had a talk with him, he'll be glad enough to leave it
as it is."
"It's very likely that he's only trying it on. It's the kind of thing he
would do. But you'll find it difficult to get that talk. He's bent on
shirking it," said Mr. Manley.
"I'll see that he doesn't get the chance of shirking it," she said, and
her eyes gleamed again.
"I believe you're the only person in the world he's afraid of," he said
in a tone of admiration.
"I shouldn't wonder," she said. "At any rate, I seem to be the only
person in the world to whom he's always been civil. At least, I've never
heard of any one else."
"I'm afraid he won't be civil when you get that talk with him--if ever
you do get it," said Mr. Manley, frowning rather anxiously.
"That'll be all the worse for him," she said dauntlessly. "But, after
all, if I did fail to make him leave my income at six hundred, we should
still have this house and four hundred a year. We should still be quite
comfortable. Besides, you could keep on as his secretary, and that would
be another two hundred a year."
"I can't do that! It's out of the question!" cried Mr. Manley. "I'm
getting so to loathe the brute that I shall soon be quite unable to stand
him. As it is, I sometimes have a violent desire to wring his neck. Now
that I know that he played this measly trick on you, it will be more
violent than ever. Besides, we must have a flat in town. It's really
necessary to my work! I can do my actual writing down here fairly well.
But what I really need is to get in touch with the right people, with the
people who are really stimulating. Besides, I'm gregarious; I like mixing
with people."
"Yes. You're right. We must have a flat in town. Therefore, I must make
the hog keep to his bargain, and I will," she said firmly.
"I believe you may," he said, gazing at her determined face with
admiring eyes.
There was a pause. Then she said carelessly: "When are we going to tell
people that we're engaged?"
"Not yet awhile," said Mr. Manley quickly. "At least I don't want the
people about here to know about it. And if you come to think of it,
things being as they are, Loudwater would probably make himself more
infernally disagreeable to me than he does at present. He'd not only try
to take it out of me to annoy you, but it's just as likely as not that he
would consider my getting engaged to you as poaching on his
preserves--infernal cheek. He's the most hopelessly vain and
unreasonable sweep in the British Isles."
"I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he did. He couldn't possibly help
being a dog in the manger," she said thoughtfully. "And there's another
thing. It has just occurred to me that if he tries to halve my income for
nothing at all, he might try to stop it altogether if I got married. No;
I must get that matter settled for good and all. I'll have that talk with
him at once."
"If you can get it," said Mr. Manley doubtfully.
"I can get it," she said confidently. "You must remember that, having
lived here for nearly two years, I know all about his habits. I shall
take him by surprise. But we've talked enough about these dull things;
let's talk about something interesting. How's the play going?"
They talked about the play he was writing, and then they talked about one
another. They had their afternoon tea soon after four, for Mr. Manley had
to return to the Castle to deal with any letters that the five o'clock
post might bring.
At twenty minutes to five he left Mrs. Truslove and walked back to the
Castle. He was truly in love with Helena. She was intelligent and
appreciative. She was of his own class, with his own practical outlook on
life, born of having belonged to a middle-class family of moderate means
like himself. She was the daughter of a country architect. He could
nowhere have found a more suitable wife. He was relieved about the matter
of the reason why she received an allowance from Lord Loudwater; but he
was not relieved about the matter of its being halved. Seven hundred a
year had been an excellent income for the wife of a struggling playwright
to enjoy. It had promised him the full social life in which his genius
would most rapidly develop. He had regarded that income with great
pleasure. Ever since Lord Loudwater had bidden him inform Helena of his
intention of halving her allowance he had been bitterly angered by this
barefaced attempt to rob her and consequently her future husband. In the
light of her story the attempt had grown yet more disgraceful, and he
resented it yet more bitterly.
The further danger that Lord Loudwater might attempt to stop her income
altogether if she married, though he perceived that it was a real, even
imminent danger, did not greatly trouble him. He was full of resentment,
not fear. He felt that he loathed his employer more than ever and with
more reason.
Holloway brought the post-bag to the library, and waited while Mr.
Manley sorted the letters, that he might take those addressed to Lady
Loudwater to her rooms and those addressed to the servants to the
housekeeper's room.
As Mr. Manley inverted the bag and poured its contents on to the table,
the footman said: "'Utchings 'as gone, sir."
"We must bear up," said Mr. Manley, in a tone wholly void of any sympathy
with Hutchings in his misfortune.
"He was that furious. The things 'e said 'e'd do to his lordship!" said
Holloway in a deeply-impressed tone.
"Threatened men live long," said Mr. Manley carelessly.