“I’m afraid I’m a bad business man,” said Willoughby quietly.
“Perhaps,” said Spring. “In fact, it’s fairly obvious that,
commercially, the Gray Bagots weren’t in it with the Harps. But why be
foolish? You needn’t marry the first one that comes along. They’re not
all Harps, you know. Some of our psalteries are quite passable.”
“Would you do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. But then, I’m a fool.”
“Exactly,” said Willoughby. “So’m I.”
Spring frowned.
“Think,” she said. “Think of sitting in your own library, with servants
falling over one another to answer the bell when you rang, and hunters
in the stables and four cars, and Royalty coming to stay with you, and
money to burn, and ‘The Wife of Willoughby Bagot, Esquire’ the picture
of the year, and Chancery smiling in its sleep because a Gray Bagot was
up in the saddle again.”
“‘And hatred therewith,’” said Willoughby, producing a pipe. “Nothing
doing, you witch. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m much too foolish.
Quite idiotic, in fact. It’s hereditary. After all, I’ve much to be
thankful for. At the moment, I’m thankful for your dimple. I suppose it
always comes when you’re trying not to laugh.”
Spring covered her face and shook with merriment.
Presently she sat up soberly.
“We don’t do so badly, we servants, do we?” she said. “I guess our
respective employers aren’t laughing like that. I suppose you won’t let
me wash up?”
“Certainly not,” said Bagot. “That’s William’s affair.”
“Yes, but as often as not he does it with cold water. He told me so just
now. And that’s all wrong, you know.”
“I can’t help that,” said Bagot, lighting her cigarette. “I like my
guests to do as they feel inclined, but there’s a limit to my
hospitality. And now shall we go outside and sit on the grass? I want to
see you against a background of box.”
It was a brilliant afternoon, and the shadow of the lodge turned the
recess between the grey and green walls into a little arbour, the mouth
of which gave on to Chancery, slumbering warm in the sunshine, a quarter
of a mile away. What traffic used the road, pounded or whirred about its
business behind the close box-screen, alike blind and invisible, but
lending the little bay an air of privileged privacy like that of a
family pew.
“My summer parlour,” said Bagot, ushering his guest.
“Hereafter the Servants’ Hall,” said Spring, taking her seat upon the
turf. “Well, now I’m here, how do I look against the box?”
“You kill the poor thing,” said Bagot. “Your eyes are too bright. Never
mind. I’ll have it watered before you come next time.”
“I can’t come unasked again. I mean, there’s a limit to hospitality,
isn’t there?”
“You wicked girl,” said Willoughby. “You——”
“Why did you want to see me against the box?”
“Because good pictures should be put into good frames. I didn’t choose
the paper on my sitting-room walls, you know, but I never noticed how
very distressing it was until this afternoon.”
Spring looked up, smiling.
“Keep something for the heiress,” she said.
A car slid out of the distance, crept past the gates and stopped by the
side of the hedge, three paces away.
“We’re not far off,” said a man’s voice. “I know this property here, but
these corkscrew lanes of yours have tied me up. I can’t remember which
side the village lies. Maybe there’s a porter here. . . .”
A door was opened and someone descended into the road.
Before he could reach the gate, Bagot was out of his garden and in the
drive.
“Can I help you, sir?”
As he spoke he recognized one of the two Americans who had completed
Spring’s party the week before.
And Spring was sitting in the arbour, with blazing eyes and her
under-lip caught in her white teeth, straining her ears. . . .
The way to Holy Brush was asked and told.
The motorist re-entered his Rolls and, when this had purred into the
distance, Willoughby returned to the arbour with his eyes upon the
ground.
The look upon his face told Spring two things.
The first was that Bagot knew what was taking her compatriot to Holy
Brush. The second, that he found the knowledge acutely distasteful.
“I must go,” she said abruptly, getting upon her feet. “What are you
thinking about?”
“I was wishing,” said Bagot slowly, “that I was back at Chancery.” He
looked up suddenly. “And you?”
Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape.
“I was thinking that it’s very refreshing to discover another fool.”
* * * * *
For the next four days, when Willoughby returned to his lodge, Spring
was seated upon the turf, hatless and at her ease, awaiting his coming.
The man always assumed that she had just arrived. The assumption was
wrong. On the last three days my lady had been there two hours before he
came, ironing his washing and delicately mending his clothes. The care
of linen was not old William’s strong point. She also instructed the
groom how to wash up and, shocked by his replies to an examination upon
elementary cooking, gave him a written statement of the procedure for
roasting meat. Moreover, she taught him to deceive so cunningly, that,
when later, he volunteered that he had bought an old iron for sixpence
and had been trying his hand, his master wholly believed him and praised
his discretion. William’s ears burned.
On the fifth day, Spring did not come.
When Willoughby, approaching the lodge, could see no sign of the lady,
for an instant his heart stood still. Ridiculously enough, he had come
to expect to find her beneath his window. Hoping against hope, he
quickened his pace. . . .
Except for William, setting the table for tea, the lodge was empty.
Willoughby tried to believe that Spring was late. He washed and changed
and made a dozen excuses for not taking tea. He gave her half an
hour—three-quarters, while he smoked in the little garden or strolled
in the road. Finally, tea was served at six o’clock. Long after that he
listened to every footfall: not until half-past eleven did he retire to
rest. And all the time he knew that she was not coming, that he would
not see her that day.
Thinking things over in his bed, he became frightened. He would see her
again, of course—he hoped, many times. But a day had to come—already
it was set in Fate’s diary—when he would see her no more, when their
idyll would be definitely finished, to be presently bound in Memory and
go up to the shelf of Time. The thought shocked him. Till now, he had
never realized how pleasant she was. Her company, her ways, had become a
necessity to him. Not in four days, of course. That was absurd. Custom
is not so rapidly delivered. It was not a question of custom. Spring had
become a necessity in half an hour. The gap she filled had been yawning
for months and years, but, until it was filled, he never had known it
was there. And now he did know, and its emptiness would gape upon him.
Could he have quitted the place, changed his way of living, flung
himself into some pursuit, had he but gone to her and she not come to
him—it would have been different. As it was, so long as he cared for
Chancery, dwelt at the lodge, always between five and six he would miss
her excellence, turning his lonely parlour into a gallery of dreams.
For Willoughby, there lay her magic. She was his dream-lady. She had
come to him as dreams do come. Their instant understanding, their
immediate intimacy, their full-grown fellowship—things which should
have been impossible and yet were natural as the day—were stuff that
dreams are made of. . . .
Finding his legend good, he took it further, recklessly. He made her
mistress of Chancery, loaded her with presents, taught her to
ride. . . . The hopelessness of such fantasy did not matter at all,
because it was founded on fact—a breathing, sweet-smelling fact, that
sat beside him on the turf, all apple-green frock and white silk
stocking and tiny tennis-shoes. With her perfume in his nostrils, he
could afford to be extravagant—with her perfume in his nostrils. . . .
And now . . .
_Sic transit gloria mundi._
My lady’s absence was deliberate. Spring was as wise as she was fair.
She wished to discover whether Gray Bagot’s steady eyes counted with her
as much as she thought they did, whether she was losing her head instead
of her heart. She was not expecting for an instant to be able to read
her own soul, but she was more than hopeful of extracting a valuable
hint.
Her hope was realized.
By the time her aunt and she had dined she had become so _distraite_ as
to provoke that usually imperturbable lady’s indignation, while,
retiring at ten o’clock, she remained awake for one hour, immersed in
the distasteful reflections that Time can in no wise be recalled and
that they who fling opportunities in Fortune’s face can hardly be
surprised if their future relations with the lady are rather strained.
At last, picturing Willoughby, she fell asleep.
Let us use her heavy brown eyes, as the delicate ranks of lashes are
closing up.
Tall, spare, soldierly, the descendant of the old Gray Bagot was good to
see. His hair was fair and close cut; his complexion clear and fresh;
his nose aquiline. His mouth was well shaped; his voice pleasant; his
grey eyes, set far apart. It was, indeed, his steady, grave gaze which
was so notable. He always looked you in the face and expected to be so
regarded. He liked to see, and was perfectly content to be seen. If you
did as he expected, you had your reward. His character, his various
emotions were spread before you in such print as a child could read. If
he liked you, you saw it in his eyes, and there was a friendship made in
a second of time. If he disliked you, you saw it, and that was that. But
he never disliked anyone without just cause. As a matter of fact, he was
generous to a fault. He looked his best, I fancy, upon a horse, but so
does many a man. He had a fine, upright carriage, and his shoulders were
broad. Honest, unassuming, dignified, he did his blood credit. That
Chancery suited him is indisputable: his looks, his bearing, his ways
agreed with her: and Chancery was a show place.
Willoughby tried not to hasten upon the sixth afternoon. His working
hours were from seven till four o’clock, but, since the measure he gave
was always good, he seldom left the apartments till nearer five. To-day,
however, there had come no visitors to interrupt his labours, and by a
quarter-past four there was no more to be conveniently done.
It follows that he reached the lodge rather before he was expected—in
fact, in comfortable time to witness the delivery of a pair of pyjamas,
four soft shirts and six handkerchiefs to his valet by his _repasseuse_.
“Hullo,” said Spring cheerfully. “I guess you never dreamed I could
iron.” She turned to the groom, who was standing upon one leg. “That’s
all to-day, William. The other two need mending, so I’ll do them
to-morrow.”
“Very good, m’m.”
With an apologetic look at his master, William made good his escape.
“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Willoughby. “If I’d had the
faintest idea——”
“Live and let live,” said Spring. “It amuses me and it doesn’t hurt you,
so why deprive a poor servant of her innocent fun?” She slid a cool arm
through his. “And now take me into the garden and give me a match. By
the time you’ve changed, William will have brought us some tea.”
Willoughby did as he was bid.
It was when the meal was over that Spring put her elbows on the table
and knitted her brows.
“I want your advice.”
“That’s very easy,” said Bagot. “Let sleeping suits lie, and Grooms of
the Chambers do their own dirty work.”
The red lips tightened.
“Thanks very much,” said Spring. “Perhaps I ought to have said that the
advice I want is upon a matter upon which I value your opinion.”
Willoughby considered his finger-nails.
“I’ve got an awfully good answer to that,” he said. “A regular winner.”
“What?” suspiciously.
“Can’t think of it for the moment,” said Willoughby, “but——”
“Oh, but you will before I go. We shan’t go before next Friday. In fact
I can’t. You see, I only get off in the afternoons, and William says
there’s a waistcoat——”
“I capitulate,” said Willoughby quietly. “Friday? In three days’ time?
Is Mrs.—er—Mrs.——“.
“Le Fevre.”
“—Le Fevre weary of Holy Brush?”
“Not that I know of,” said Spring. “I want your advice.”
“Yes?” said Willoughby.
“I have been offered another situation.”
“As companion?”
“Yes.”
Bagot took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe.
“First of all,” he said slowly, “are you happy with Mrs. Le Fevre?”
“Very. She’s awfully sweet.”
“Then I take it the new situation would be an improvement financially?”
“Yes,” said Spring shortly, “it would.”
“D’you think that you’ld have as much freedom?”
“I know that I shouldn’t.”
“You might be happier.”
“I might,” said Spring. “I’m not at all sure; but I might.”