“’Ell,” said Mr. Harp, subjecting his nose to violence.
“Me too,” said his wife miserably. “I’d set me ’eart on that, I ’ad.
’E’ld look so lovely in a dress-soot, too. An’ now . . .”
A fat tear of disappointment made its appearance, and, after poising for
an instant upon the brow of her cheek, fell heavily into the broad
valley of her lap.
Mr. Harp rose to the occasion and crossed to her side.
“There, there, me dear,” he said kindly, “don’ take on. We can’t ’ave
everything. Bowler’s very tryin’, in course, but——”
“I ’ate the brute,” sobbed his wife. “Anyone would. Nasty, ’ulkin’
wretch. Laughin’ and sneerin’ at us ’cos we ain’t gentry; and takin’ our
money and food, ’and over fist. An’ hall the rest as bad, and that
impudent, no one would never believe. An’ the honly one wot is hones’
and respec’ful as good as in ’idin’—goes out o’ the room when we comes
in, comes in when we goes out, ’ides. . . . It’s too crool,’Arp, and
that’s the truth. Worcester’s a walkin’ treat. ’E puts a thousan’ pound
on the ’ouse—easy. An’ ’alf the blighters comin’ ’ll never know ’e’s
’ere.”
“I’ll see they know,” said Mr. Harp violently. “I’ll fix that. Besides,
they’ll ’appen acrost ’im in the course of ’is dooties—boun’ to.”
“’Snot the same,” cried his wife. “You know it ain’t. We’re buryin’ a
talent, we are. Other folk ’as fine ’ouses, but there ain’t a mansion in
London wot’s got a servant like ’im. ’E tones the whole show up. We
ain’t stylish, and as for Bowler and the rest of them rotten sneaks,
they’d let a doss-’ouse down: but Worcester’s a peach. . . . An’ we’re
_buryin’ ’im_.”
Her husband stamped to the window and regarded his smiling acres with a
dismal stare. Mrs. Harp had a knack of reciting unpleasant facts with a
pitiless clarity which paralysed consolation.
Presently, he took a cigar from his waistcoat-pocket and, after savaging
the butt, thrust his quarry reflectively between his teeth. As he felt
for a match, the idea flashed into his mind.
Trembling with excitement, he snatched the cigar from his lips, and
swung round, mouthing.
“Jane, I’ve got it! Got it in one, I ’ave! Oh, lovely! Listen ’ere.
Worcester’s Groom of the Chambers, ain’t he? Good. ’E shall ’ave a show
as’ll beat the ragtime band—’e, an’ the ’ouse and us, the ’ole year
round. ’Old me, someone: I’m that excited and wrought, I can’t talk
straight. Listen ’ere. Chancery’s a show place, ain’t it? Figures in the
’istories and guides—used to be shown, once. Well _we’ll show it
again—throw it open to visitors daily, from two to four_. The visitors
won’ worry us—I’ll love to see ’em. _An’ Worcester ’ll show ’em
round. . . ._”
With a seraphic smile, Mrs. Harp got upon her feet and began to
dance. . . .
A few days later it was announced that, by the direction of the owner,
Chancery, one of the most exquisite examples of a mediæval manor-house,
had been thrown open to the public and could be visited until further
notice any weekday between the hours of two and four o’clock.
* * * * *
The four Americans passed slowly round the broad, flagged walk and,
turning a corner of the house, found themselves once more before the
main doorway. Their tour of the apartments had lasted half an hour.
One of the men took out a note-case, but the girl touched his arm and
shook her head.
“No, no,” she whispered.
The man hesitated, pointing to the back of their guide.
“Put it away,” said the girl shortly.
Her squire obeyed, staring.
Willoughby Bagot turned.
The moment he always dreaded had arrived.
He was about to be offered payment which he could not in decency refuse.
He always gave his tips to the butler, and was thought a prize fool for
his pains, but his patrons could not know that.
“That is all that is shown, madam.”
The two women inclined their heads.
“Thank you very much,” said the elder pleasantly. “We’ve enjoyed it
immensely.”
Willoughby bowed.
For a reason which they could never satisfactorily explain, the two male
visitors raised their hats, and the party turned towards the car, which
was glittering before the lodge, two furlongs away.
Willoughby felt very grateful. . . .
From a window he watched the quartette making their way along the
avenue. He had liked them, and they had made his task easy. Besides,
throughout the tour, he had been used as a gentleman.
The girl, especially, seemed to have understood. He was faintly
surprised that she had not added her thanks to those of her—her aunt,
probably.
Suddenly the former turned and came pelting back.
The men, who were walking ahead, did not observe her movement. Her
elderly companion proceeded more leisurely.
Willoughby left the window and returned to the door.
As she arrived, he opened this readily.
“I think I’ve left my bag in one of the chambers. I fancy I put it down
in the picture-gallery.”
Willoughby led her to the staircase and she passed up. He followed
pleasedly, marking her as she went.
She was tall and slight, and moved with an easy grace. The slim, bare
hand, resting upon the banisters, was small and firm and shapely. Its
trim nails shone. Her straight back, the even poise of her head, her
beautiful ankles, would have delighted a sculptor. Her plain tussore
dress and pert little hat suited her perfectly. As for her white silk
stockings . . .
At the top of the staircase my lady turned to the right.
“I know my way, you see,” she flashed over her shoulder.
Willoughby smiled.
Her face was glowing. Its fine colour and the big brown eyes, the small
nose and the proud curve of the lips reminded the man of a picture he
once had seen. As for her friendliness, little wonder that it entered
into his soul.
The bag lay in an alcove—a little, delicate business of powder-blue and
gold. Its beads were so fine, they might have been stitches of silk.
The girl picked it up and turned to the man.
“I left this here on purpose,” she said quietly. “I wanted to speak to
you when the others were gone. You don’t remember me, but I met you in
Philadelphia, before the War. I had my hair down then. Why are you doing
this?”
“I was staying with the Stacks,” said Bagot, knitting his brows.
“That’s right. In 1914. But I tell you, my hair was down, so you
wouldn’t remember. Besides . . . What are you doing here? You were in
the Blues.”
“That’s over,” said Willoughby slowly. “Now, I’m in service. This was my
home.”
“This?”
He nodded.
“I lost my money, you see, and the place had to go. They’re very nice
people, luckily. They’ve no idea who I am, and—and it serves my turn. I
live at the second lodge.”
“How can you bear it?” said the girl.
“Easily enough,” said Bagot simply. “I couldn’t let the place down.”
“You speak as if it were a friend.”
“It’s been my people’s home for nearly eight hundred years.”
The girl turned to the door.
“You’re faithful,” she said.
Willoughby shrugged his shoulders.
“Time ties up the affections,” he said. Then, “I’m so glad you came
back. If I were still the owner, I should ask you to tea.”
“And, if I was not a companion, I should accept.” Willoughby stared. “As
it is, my mistress’ll light into me for being so long. You see,” she
continued, smiling, “we’re fellow bondsmen.” She put out a little hand.
“And now good-bye. I think she likes this part, and, if I can persuade
her to stay at Holy Brush, I’ll call at your lodge one evening and ask
for some tea. You’re a Bagot, of course.”
“I was,” corrected Willoughby. “But that—that’s over, like the rest.
I’m known as Worcester now.”
“And I,” said the girl quickly, “am known as Spring. No ‘Miss,’ or
anything. Just Spring.”
Before he could answer, she was at the head of the stairs.