At Rosedean, the small, mid-Victorian house which every one going to and
fro between Freshley Manor and Lawford Chase was bound to pass by, Mrs.
Winslow sat in her drawing-room waiting for Godfrey Pavely.
He was coming in to see her on his way home from Pewsbury, where, at the
Bank, he spent each day at least six of his waking hours.
All the summer, up to to-day, Mrs. Winslow had always had tea in the
garden, but there was now a freshness in the air, and she thought they
would find it more comfortable indoors than out. Still, she had opened
wide the long French window, and the wind blew in, laden with pungent
autumnal scents.
Katty--the old childish name still clung to her--was a very clever
woman. She possessed the power of getting the utmost out of the people
round her, whether they were friends, acquaintances, or servants. Her
little garden was exquisitely kept, and there was no month of the year
when it did not look charming. Her little house, so far as was possible
on very limited means, was perfectly ordered.
Perhaps one secret of her success lay in the fact that she was able to
do everything herself that she asked others to do for her. Katty was a
good gardener, an excellent cook, and an exceptionally clever
dressmaker. Yet she was the last woman to make the mistake so many
clever people make--of keeping a dog and doing the barking oneself.
Katty was willing to show those she employed exactly how she wanted a
thing done, but she expected them to learn how to do it quickly and
intelligently. She had no use for the idle or the stupid.
Katty Winslow was thirty-one, but she looked much younger. She was an
exceedingly pretty woman, with brown eyes, a delicately clear, white and
pink complexion, and curling chestnut hair. She took great pains with
her appearance, and with her health. Thus she ate and drank to rule, and
almost walked to rule.
Early this last summer a bit of cruel bad luck had befallen Mrs.
Winslow. She had caught scarlet fever while on a visit, and for some
days had been very ill. But, perhaps as a result of the long, dull
convalescence, she now looked even prettier, and yes, younger, than she
had done before.
The only daughter of a well-connected but exceedingly poor half-pay
officer, Katherine Fenton, during a girlhood which lasted till she was
four-and-twenty, had been undisputed belle of Pewsbury, and of a
country-side stretching far beyond the confines of that fine old county
town. Like all beauties, she had had her triumphs and her
disappointments; and then, rather suddenly, she had made what had seemed
the irretrievable mistake of an unhappy marriage.
Bob Winslow had been weak, vain, ill-tempered, and, to a certain extent,
vicious. Thus his relations had welcomed his marriage to a clever,
capable young woman, who it was supposed would make, and keep, him
straight. The fact that she had no fortune had been regarded as
unimportant--indeed, Bob Winslow had made on his bride what was regarded
in the Pewsbury world as the splendid marriage settlement of twelve
thousand pounds.
Four and a half per cent, on that sum was now Mrs. Winslow's only
income, and out of that income there were still being paid off heavy
divorce costs, for Bob Winslow, when it had come to the point, had put
up a great fight for his Katty. Not only had he defended the case, but
he had brought on his side vague counter-charges. The Judge, rather
unkindly, had observed that the petitioner had been "somewhat
imprudent," but even so Katty had come out of the painful ordeal very
well--so much was universally allowed, even by the few people in
Pewsbury who had always disliked her, and who did not think she had
treated her husband well.
Godfrey and Laura Pavely had both been very kind to Katty over the
matter of the divorce--indeed, Mrs. Winslow had actually stayed at
Lawford Chase for many weeks during that troubled time, and Laura's
countenance had been of great value to her. This was now three years
ago, and, though they had nothing in common, the two women remained good
friends, as well as what is sometimes less usual, good neighbours.
In nothing had Katty shown herself cleverer than in her management of
Laura. In Laura Pavely's imagination Katty Winslow had her fixed place
as a friend of Godfrey's childhood, and that though he was nine years
older. Mrs. Pavely regarded Mrs. Winslow much as she would have done a
pleasant-natured sister-in-law, and she had been glad to do all that she
could for her. When some one had suggested that Katty should become
Godfrey Pavely's tenant at Rosedean, Laura had thought it an excellent
idea.
It was the fashion to call Rosedean ugly. The house had been built in
the 'sixties, by a retired butcher and grazier, and was of red brick
with white facings. But it was well built, and had far more real
distinction of appearance than the Queen Anne villas which now
surrounded Pewsbury. Also, Rosedean had been built on the site of an old
farmhouse, and Katty's lawn was fringed with some fine old trees, while
a grand old holly hedge concealed a well-stocked kitchen garden. On the
other side of the house were stabling for two horses, a coach-house, and
a paddock.
Katty had devoted a great deal of successful thought to the arrangement
of her dwelling. She knew she could neither compete with the stately
beauty of Laura's Tudor mansion, nor with the old-fashioned
eighteenth-century charm of Mrs. Tropenell's house, so she wisely made
up her mind that her surroundings should be simply bright, pretty and
cosy. Her drawing-room was in its way a delightful room, and those
walking through into it, from the rather dark, early Victorian hall,
gained an instant impression of coolness in summer, of warmth in winter,
of cheerfulness and comfort at all times.
No one but Katty herself knew the trouble to which she had been to get
the exact pattern of calendered chintz which she had made up her mind to
obtain. Katty also kept to herself the amount which she had spent, out
of her small reserve, on the thoroughly good, comfortable easy-chairs,
of varying shape, height, and depth, which played such an important, if
unobtrusive, part in the comfort of her visitors.
Every chair in Katty's sitting-room was an easy chair, with the
exception of two gilt ones which were of their kind good, and which she
had bought at a sale. They, however, were never moved away from the
places where they stood, flanking a quaint, old-fashioned cabinet now
filled with some beautiful old china which had come to Katty from a
grandmother.
Yet another peculiarity of Katty's sitting-room was the absence of
pictures. Their place was taken by mirrors. Above the mantelpiece on
which stood six delicately charming Dresden china figures was a
looking-glass of curious octagonal shape, framed in rosewood. Opposite
the French window which opened into the garden was fixed a long, narrow
mirror with a finely carved gilt wood frame. This mirror gave an air of
distinction to the room which would otherwise have been lacking, and it
also enabled Katty to see at any moment how she was looking, whether her
burnished chestnut-brown hair was quite tidy, and her gown fresh-looking
and neat.
There had been a time in her life when Katty Winslow had been
passionately fond of beautiful clothes, and able to indulge her taste.
Now, all she could hope to attain was freshness and neatness. That she
achieved these was to her credit, for they too cost, if not money, then
a good deal of thought and time, on the part of their possessor.
* * * * *
Godfrey Pavely had walked out from Pewsbury. From the Bank in the High
Street to Rosedean was rather over two miles, and he had gone along at a
steady, jog-trot pace till he had come in sight of the little house.
Then he quickened his footsteps, and a feeling of pleasurable
anticipation came over him.
The banker was very, very fond of his old friend and sometime
sweetheart. He believed it to be a straightforward, honest affection,
though he could not but be aware, deep in his heart, that "to it" was
just that little touch of sentiment which adds salt and savour to most
of the close friendships formed between a man and a woman.
As a matter of fact, Godfrey Pavely was now happier in Katty Winslow's
company than he was in that of any one else. Not only did she ply him
with a good deal of delicate flattery, which caused him always to feel
better pleased with himself when at Rosedean than when he was at The
Chase, but a great and real bond between them was their mutual interest
in all the local happenings and local gossip of the neighbourhood.
Laura was frankly indifferent to all that concerned the town of Pewsbury
and the affairs of those whom Mrs. Tropenell called the Pewsburyites.
She was not disagreeable about it; she simply didn't care. Katty, in
spite of her frequent absences, for she was a popular visitor with a
large circle of acquaintances, always came home full of an eager wish to
learn all that had happened while she had been away.
Little by little, imperceptibly as regarded himself, the banker had
fallen into the way of telling this woman, who had so oddly slipped back
into his life, everything which concerned and interested himself, every
detail of his business, and even, which he had no right to do, the
secrets of his clients.
But to this entire confidence there was one outstanding exception.
Godfrey Pavely never discussed with Katty Winslow his relations with his
wife. Laura's attitude to himself caused him, even now, sharp, almost
intolerable, humiliation. Only to Mrs. Tropenell did he ever say a word
of his resentment and soreness--and that only because she had been the
unwilling confidant of both husband and wife during that early time in
their married life when the struggle between Godfrey and Laura had been,
if almost wordless, at its sharpest and bitterest.
On one occasion, and on one only, when with Katty Winslow, had Pavely
broken his guarded silence. He had been talking, in a way which at once
fascinated and tantalised Katty, of his growing wealth, and suddenly he
had said something as to his having no son to inherit his fortune. "It's
odd to think that some day there will come along a man, a stranger to
me, who will benefit by everything I now do----" and as she had looked
up at him, at a loss for his meaning, he had gone on, slowly, "I mean
the man whom Mrs. Tropenell and Laura between them will select for my
girl's husband."
Katty, looking at him very straight out of her bright brown eyes, had
exclaimed, "You may have a son yet, Godfrey!"
She had been startled by the look of pain, of rage, and of humiliation
that had come into his sulky, obstinate-looking face, as he answered
shortly, "I think that's very unlikely."
Had Godfrey Pavely been a more imaginative man, he would probably by now
have come to regret, with a deep, voiceless regret, that he had not
married Katty instead of Laura--but being the manner of man he was, he
had, so far, done nothing of the sort. And yet? And yet, at one time,
say fifteen years ago, he had very nearly married Katty. It was a fact
which even now he would have denied, but which she never forgot.
In those days Godfrey Pavely had been a priggish, self-important young
man of twenty-six, with perhaps not so good an opinion of women as he
had now, for a man's opinion of women always alters, one way or another,
as he grows older.
Katty, at eighteen, had enjoyed playing on the cautious, judgematical
Godfrey's emotions. So well had she succeeded that at one time he could
hardly let a day go by without trying to see and to be with her alone.
But, though strongly attracted by her instinctive, girlish wiles, he was
also, quite unknowingly to her, repelled by those same wiles.
Poor Katty had made herself, in those days that now seemed to both of
them so very, very long ago, a little too cheap. Her admirer, to use a
good old word, knew that her appeal was to a side of his nature which it
behooved him to keep in check, if he was not "to make a fool of
himself." And so, just when their little world--kindly, malicious,
censorious, as the case might be--was expecting to hear of their
engagement, Godfrey Pavely suddenly left Pewsbury to spend a year in a
great Paris discount house.
The now staid country banker did not look back with any pride or
pleasure to that year in France; he had worked, but he had also ignobly
played, spending, rather joylessly, a great deal of money in the
process. Then, having secretly sown his wild oats, he had come home and
settled down to a further time of banking apprenticeship in London,
before taking over the sound family business.
Almost at once, on his return to England, he had made up his mind to
marry the beautiful, reserved, the then pathetically young Laura
Baynton, who was so constantly with Mrs. Tropenell at Freshley Manor.
Time went on, and Laura held out; but little by little, perhaps because
he saw her so seldom, he broke down her resistance. His father had
bought the Lawford Chase estate as a great bargain, many years before,
and had been content to let it on a long lease. Godfrey, on becoming his
own master at thirty, determined to live there, and his marriage to
Laura followed a year later.
During their honeymoon in Paris--a honeymoon which was curiously and
painfully unlike what Godfrey had supposed his honeymoon would and must
be--he saw in a paper a notice of Katty Fenton's engagement. Though not
given to impulsively generous actions, he went out and bought for Katty,
in the Rue de la Paix, a jewelled pendant Laura had just refused to
allow him to buy for her. In return he had received what had seemed at
the time a delightful letter of thanks, to which was the following
postscript, "There's no harm in my saying _now_, that you, dear Godfrey,
were my first love! I've always wanted you to know that. I've always
been afraid that you only thought me a sad little flirt."
The confession, and the shrewd thrust, which was so much truer than he
thought Katty knew, moved him, and he had told himself sorely that
Katty's husband at any rate would be a very lucky fellow.
Then once more he had forgotten Katty till one day, years later, "Mrs.
Winslow" had suddenly been shown into his private room at the Bank.
Looking, as he had at once become aware, even prettier and more
attractive than when he had last seen her, she had said quietly, "I'm in
great trouble, Godfrey, and I've come down from London to consult you
about it. Your father and mine were friends" (a rather exaggerated
statement that--but Pavely was in no mood to cavil), "and I don't know
who else to go to."
Shortly and simply she had described the dreadful existence she had led
since her marriage--then, suddenly, she had rolled up her right sleeve
and shown the livid bruises made by Bob Winslow the night before, in a
fit of drunken anger, on the slender, soft, white arm.
Unwontedly moved, the more so that this now unfamiliar Katty seemed to
make no excessive demand either on his pity or on his emotions, Godfrey
Pavely had thrown himself into the complicated, unsavoury business, and
very soon his old-new friend had brought him to advise her in the sense
she wished. But it was Laura who had suggested that poor Mrs. Winslow
should come and stay with them during the divorce proceedings, and while
she had been at Lawford Chase, Katty had avoided, rather than sought
out, the master of the house.
In the matter of Rosedean the banker had behaved in what he himself
considered a very handsome manner. Not only had he let the house to
Katty for about a third of what he could have got for it in the open
market, but he had allowed her a hundred pounds for "doing it up." He
believed himself to have also suggested the arrangement by which she
obtained the free services, for a certain number of half-days each week,
of a very intelligent Scotch under-gardener who was in his employ.
He had never had reason to regret his kindness. On the contrary, he and
Katty had become, as time went on, closer and closer friends, and more
and more had he come to miss her during her frequent absences from home.
Some months ago he had even ventured to tell her that he thought she
gadded about a bit too much! Why couldn't she be content to stay quietly
at Rosedean? "Look at me and Laura," he had exclaimed. "We hardly ever
go away for a holiday, and we very seldom pay a visit!" Katty had shaken
her pretty head playfully: "Ah, but you don't know how lonely I am
sometimes! Laura is most dear and kind to me, but you know, Godfrey, I
don't see her often----"
He had not liked to remind her that he very often did.
Then something happened which quite curiously quickened Godfrey Pavely's
unavowed feeling for Katty. Oliver Tropenell, a virtual stranger to them
all, came home from Mexico to spend the summer in England with his
mother. And three times, during Oliver's first fortnight in England,
Godfrey arrived at Rosedean to find the then stranger there. On these
three occasions each man had tried to sit the other out, and finally
they had left the house together. As a result of these meetings Godfrey
soon caught himself wondering with a mixture of feelings he did not care
to analyse, whether Tropenell could possibly be thinking of marrying
Katty?
He found the notion intolerable.
Then came a strange turn to the situation. Katty had gone away, on one
of those tiresome little visits she was so fond of paying, and
Providence, which means women, especially any woman placed in an
ambiguous position, to stay quietly at home, had caught her out! She had
fallen ill, when on a visit, of scarlet fever, and she had been
compelled to stay away six weeks. During those weeks he, Godfrey Pavely,
and Oliver Tropenell had become friends--on more intimate terms of
friendship than Pavely had ever expected to find himself with any man.
This was, of course, partly owing to the fortunate fact that Laura liked
Oliver too, and didn't seem to mind how often he came and went to The
Chase.
But Godfrey Pavely had a tenacious memory. He did not forget that for a
little while, at any rate, Oliver had seemed to enjoy being in Katty's
company. And when Laura, more than once since Mrs. Winslow's return to
Rosedean, had suggested asking Katty in to dinner to meet Oliver, her
husband coldly vetoed the proposal.