Willoughby Gray Bagot, gentleman, sat back in his chair.
From where he was, he could look conveniently out of the broad windows,
across the shadowy lawns, and on to the stately timber of the sheltered
park. He did so thoughtfully, tapping his teeth with his pen. Presently
he frowned and, leaning forward, set a sheet of notepaper before him and
proceeded to write.
_Dear Sirs_,—
_I believe your advice to be good._
_I will therefore accept Mr. Harp’s offer and sell him
Chancery—park, residence and furniture, as it stands, for
forty-five thousand pounds, on one condition._
_The condition is this._
_The purchaser shall take into his service an individual whom I
will indicate, to perform the duties of Groom of the Chambers at
Chancery, at a wage of fifty pounds a year. This man shall
receive no board, but shall be permitted to occupy the lodge at
the West gate of the park, rent-free. So long as he behaves
himself and faithfully discharges his office, Mr. Harp shall
retain him in his service._
_I appreciate that this is an unusual request, but the man knows
the house and its contents as I know them myself and is deeply
attached to them. The service he will give will be worth
having._
_Yours faithfully,_
_Willoughby Gray Bagot._
_Messrs. Matthew & Scarlet,_
_Solicitors,_
_Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C._
Bagot read over his letter with tightened lips. Then he copied it
carefully and, slipping the original into an envelope, sealed, stamped
and addressed this forthwith. As he turned it about, the crest on the
back caught his eye—a rose in a mailed fist. For a moment he stared at
it: then he turned and glanced at the same emblem cut in the stone of
the aged mantelpiece. . . .
Presently he sighed.
“_Sic transit_,” he said shortly, and, clapping a hat on his head, rose
and passed out of the room.
It was true.
The glory was passing. Very soon it would have passed.
There had been a Gray Bagot at Chancery since Harry Plantagenet’s day.
In fact, that terrible king had given a Bagot the estate in return for
valour. That it was not his to give is beside the point. Men took what
they could get in those days, as they do now. And now, Mr. Albert Harp
was taking Chancery.
Like the original Bagot, Mr. Harp owed his good fortune to his prowess
in time of War. But, while Gray Bagot had won Chancery at the cost of an
eye, an arm and a slash on the thigh, which only the bone stopped, Mr.
Harp’s succession was due to a judicious administration of his business,
which was that of a purveyor of pork.
_Sic transit_ . . .
Willoughby had done what he could. But when he came back from the War,
things were in evil case.
A cold rain of demands beat upon his diminished income; the stream of
outgoings was like to burst its banks: over all, the cloud of a heavy
mortgage, once no bigger than a man’s hand, was blotting out the heaven.
Of his passionate love for Chancery, Willoughby took his capital and
gambled upon the Exchange. The franc was bound to appreciate. . . .
Mr. Harp’s offer was a bad one, as offers go. Chancery was a show place.
Charles the First had stayed there, and Cromwell too. The latter had
crossed the body of a Gray Bagot to gain admittance. Some of Chancery’s
furniture had stood in the same corners for more than three hundred
years. The library had been collected by a Bagot in the reign of Queen
Anne. Mr. Harp’s offer was absurd. Still . . . Offers were hard to come
by nowadays. Mr. Harp’s was the first that had been made in seven
months.
When all that had to be paid had been discharged, of the forty-five
thousand there would remain five thousand pounds. This, safely invested,
would bring in two hundred a year. And a man could live on that—even
one who had been a Captain in His Majesty’s Household Brigade.
_Sic transit_ . . .
Willoughby posted his letter and then walked round the park, and in by
the western gate. He passed about the lodge, marking its bulwarks. After
a final look, he turned slowly away.
“What a thought,” he said. “Two hundred and fifty a year and rent-free.
If it comes off, I shall be on _panne_ velvet.”
* * * * *
Two months had gone by, and Mr. and Mrs. Harp were beginning to grow
accustomed to the thrilling reflection that Chancery was theirs. Their
possession of the place was peaceful; their enjoyment of it quiet. But
their unconcealed delight in their acquisition was almost childish. For
days together they never went outside the gates. . . . After a week or
two of private revelry in their surroundings, they pressed invitations
upon a pack of friends and relatives, whose company they did not desire,
because their pride of ownership simply had to be served. This was
clamouring for the meat and drink of stares and ejaculations and bated
breath. Their precious toy had to be admired. As for the Groom of the
Chambers, not to advertise their employment of such a paragon would have
been tantamount to suppressing the Kohinoor. He was the light of their
eyes.
They had, of course, no idea that John Worcester, tall, quiet,
respectful, constantly about the reception rooms, dusting, ordering,
cleaning, polishing this old bureau, rehanging that picture, was
Willoughby Gray Bagot.
There was no reason why they should have perceived the masquerade. They
certainly recognized that Worcester was no ordinary servant, but the
mystery stifled curiosity, as mysteries may. One never could tell.
Revelation might cost them his service, and—the best was good enough
for them. They had never set eyes upon the vendor before the sale, and
Willoughby had spread it abroad that he was bound for New Zealand. At
the lodge he lived quietly enough, his only servant being an old groom
who kept his own counsel. In the village, two miles away, he had been
scarcely known by sight. Such letters as he received went first to a
Bank, where they were redirected to ‘Mr. Worcester.’ Captain Bagot had
covered his tracks.
It must be admitted that the Harps’ estimate was just. Willoughby gave
their home a care which money cannot buy, and themselves a service which
they had never dreamed of. He was the last word.
So far as the other servants were concerned, Mr. Worcester and all his
works were naturally regarded with a profound disgust. This was not
expressed, mainly because the staff profited so handsomely by his
labour. But the scorn and indignation which his faithful maintenance of
the reception rooms provoked, were largely responsible for the concord
which ruled the Servants’ Hall.
It was, indeed, as much the unpleasant personality of the butler as the
virtues of the Groom of the Chambers that in June determined his patrons
to attempt an important change. In a few days their guests would arrive.
If only they could induce Worcester to take the butler’s place, they
would be spared the humiliation of being treated like dirt before their
visitors, while their star servitor, instead of flitting in the
background, would be agreeably conspicuous.
They approached him delicately, without success. The Groom of the
Chambers was respectful, but resolute. He declined the offer gently, but
definitely and without hesitation. Then he excused himself and withdrew
to continue his revision of the library’s catalogue.