SONIA MARRIED
MIDAS AND SON
NINETY-SIX HOURS' LEAVE
SONIA
THE SIXTH SENSE
SHEILA INTERVENES
THE RELUCTANT LOVER
* * *
WHILE I REMEMBER
To
LORD AND LADY BEAUCHAMP
In Gratitude for their Hospitality
at Walmer Castle, where this book was begun,
and at Madresfield Court, where it was finished.
_Cusins_: Do you call poverty a crime?
_Undershaft_: The worst of crimes ... Poverty ... strikes dead the
very souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it....
BERNARD SHAW: _Major Barbara_.
CONTENTS
1. Lady Ann Spenworth Prefers Not to Discuss Her Operation
2. She Repudiates all Responsibility
3. She Touches Reluctantly on Divorce
4. She is Content with a Little Music
5. She Refuses to Become a Match-Maker
6. She Holds the _Corps Diplomatique_ to its Duty
7. She Deplores Proposals by Women
8. She Refers to Her Diary
9. She Narrates an Embarrassment Averted
10. She as a Prisoner in Her own House
11. She Finds Her Heart Warming
12. She Defends Her Consistency
THE CONFESSIONS OF A WELL-MEANING WOMAN
I
LADY ANN SPENWORTH PREFERS NOT TO DISCUSS HER OPERATION
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): You have toiled all
the way here again? Do you know, I feel I am only _beginning_ to
find out who are the _true_ friends? I am much, much better... On
Friday I am to be allowed on to the sofa and by the end of next week
Dr. Richardson promises to let me go back to Mount Street. Of course
I should have _liked_ the operation to take place there--it is one's
frame and setting, but, truly honestly, Arthur and I have not been in
a position to have any painting or papering done for so long ... The
surgeon insisted on a nursing-home. Apparatus and so on and so
forth... Quite between ourselves, I fancy that they make a very good
thing out of these homes; but I am so thankful to be well again that
I would put up with almost any imposition...
Everything went off too wonderfully. Perhaps you have seen my
brother Brackenbury? Or Ruth? Ah, I am sorry; I should have been
vastly entertained to hear what they were saying, what they _dared_
say. Ruth did indeed offer to pay the expenses of the operation--the
belated prick of conscience!--; and it was on the tip of my tongue to
say we are not yet dependent on her spasmodic charity. Also, that I
can keep my lips closed about Brackenbury without expecting a--tip!
But they know I can't _afford_ to refuse £500... If they, if
everybody would only leave one _alone_! Spied on, whispered about...
The papers made such an absurd stir! If you are known by name as
occupying any little niche, the world waits gaping below. I suppose
I ought to be flattered, but for _days_ there were callers, letters,
telephone-messages. Like Royalty _in extremis_... And I never
_pretended_ that the operation was in any sense critical...
Do you know, beyond saying that, I would much rather _not_ talk about
it? This very modern frankness... Not _you_, of course! But, when
a man like my brother-in-law Spenworth strides in here a few hours
before the anæsthetic is administered and says "What _is_ the matter
with you? Much ado about nothing, _I_ call it..." That from
Arthur's brother to Arthur's wife, when, for all he knew, he might
never see her alive again... I prefer just to say that everything
went off most satisfactorily and that I hope now to be better than I
have been for years...
It was anxiety more than anything else. A prolonged strain always
finds out the weak place: Arthur complaining that he had lost some of
his directorships and that, with the war, he was being offered none
to take their place; talk of selling the house in Mount Street, every
_corner_ filled with a wonderful memory of old happy days when the
princess almost _lived_ with me; sometimes no news from the front for
weeks, and that _could_ only mean that my boy Will was moving up with
the staff. It was just when I was at my wits' end that he wrote to
say that he must have five hundred pounds. He gave no reason, so I
assumed that one of his friends must be in trouble; and I was not to
tell Arthur... This last effort really exhausted me; and I knew
that, if I was not to be a useless encumbrance to everybody, I must
"go into dock," as Will would say, "for overhauling and repairs."
Dr. Richardson really seemed reluctant to impose any further tax on
my vitality at such a time, but I assured him that I was not afraid
of the knife. So here you find me!
A little home-sick for Mount Street and my friends? Indeed, yes;
though I have not been neglected. Are not those tulips too
magnificent? _Were_, rather... The dear princess brought them a
week ago, and I was so touched by her sweetness that I have not the
heart to throw them away. If _she_, to whom I can be nothing but a
dull old woman... I mean, it brings into relief the unkindness of
others; and I do indeed find it hard to forgive the callousness of
Spenworth and my brother Brackenbury. No, _that_--like the
operation--I would rather _not_ talk about. Their attitude was
so--wicked...
You, of course, have been under an anæsthetic. I? Not since I was a
child; and the only sensation I recall was a hammer, hammer, hammer
just as I went off, which I believe is nothing but the beating of
one's heart... But _before_ the operation... You must not think
that I am posing as a heroine; but accidents _do_ happen, and for two
days and two nights, entirely by myself... It was inevitable that
one should take stock... My thoughts went back to old days at
Brackenbury, _spacious_ old days with my dear father when he was
ambassador at Rome and Vienna (they were happy times, though the
expense crippled him); old days when my brother was a funny,
impetuous little boy--not _hard_, as he has since become... I am
fourteen years his senior; and, from the time when our dear mother
died to the time when I married Arthur, I was wife and mother and
sister at the Hall. On me devolved what, in spite of the socialists,
I venture to call the great tradition of English life...
Lying in bed here, one could not help saying "_If_ anything goes
amiss, _am_ I leaving the world better than I found it?" Under my
own vine and fig-tree I had been a good wife to Arthur and a good
mother to Will; and, if there had not always been _some_ one of good
intentions to smoothe over difficulties with the family on _both_
sides... Blessed are the peace-makers, though I have sometimes
wondered whether I did right in even tolerating my brother-in-law
Spenworth. It is probably no news to you that he very much wanted to
marry me, but I always felt that even Cheniston, even the house in
Grosvenor Square, even his immense income would not compensate me for
a husband whom I could never trust out of my sight. Arthur may be
only the younger brother, I very soon found that the old spacious
days were over; but with him one _does_ know where one is, and I have
never grudged poor Kathleen Manorby my leavings. There indeed is a
lesson for the worldly! She was in love with a poor decent young
subaltern named Laughton, more suitable for her in every way;
however, the lure of Cheniston and the opportunity of being Lady
Spenworth! ... _He_ transferred to an Indian regiment; and, if his
heart was broken, so much the worse for him. I am not superstitious;
but, when I remember that bit of treachery, when I think of
Spenworth, unfaithful from the beginning, when I see those four
dairymaid daughters and no heir... Might not some people call that a
judgement? It makes no _personal_ difference, for the ungodly will
flourish throughout _our_ time; and, though my boy Will must
ultimately succeed, he can look for nothing from his uncle in the
meantime. I have lost the thread...
Ah, yes! I have done my humble best to comfort poor Kathleen and to
give her _some_ idea how to bring up her girls if she does not want
to see them going the same way as their unhappy father. One is not
thanked for that sort of thing; Spenworth, who blusters but can never
look me in the eyes, pretends that he has refused to have me inside
Cheniston since I publicly rebuked him, though he well knows that I
will not enter the house while the present licence prevails. But one
would have thought that even he would have had serious moments, would
have felt that his soul might be required of him at any hour... A
sense of gratitude, if not verbal thanks, was what I expected...
Hoped for, rather than expected... You are quite right.
And I have tried to keep the peace on the other side, at Brackenbury.
There, I am thankful to say, there is the appearance of harmony; but,
goodness me, there is an _appearance_ of harmony when you see pigs
eating amicably out of the same trough... No, I ought not to have
said that! And I would not say it to any one else; but, when I
remember the _distinction_ of the Hall in the old, spacious days...
My poor sister-in-law Ruth--well, she knew no better; and
Brackenbury, instead of absorbing her, has allowed her to absorb him.
They seem to have _no_ sense of their position; and in the upbringing
of their children they either don't _know_ or they don't _care_.
When this war broke out, Culroyd ran away from Eton and _enlisted_.
He is in the Coldstream now, and I expect the whole thing is
forgotten, but Brackenbury had the utmost difficulty in getting him
out. And my niece Phyllida instantly set herself to learn
nursing--which, of course, in itself is altogether praiseworthy--,
but she makes it an excuse for now living entirely unchecked and
uncontrolled in London--the "bachelor-girl," I believe, is the
phrase. I did indeed force my brother to make her come to Mount
Street; but, if that preserves the _convenances_, it is the utmost
that I have achieved. When the trouble breaks out, when we find her
_liée_ with some hopelessly unsuitable "temporary gentleman" ... I?
In a rash moment I allowed Brackenbury to make some trifling
contribution to the cost of the girl's bed and board: the result is
that she treats me as a lodging-house-keeper...
It was not a cheerful retrospect; but I had done my best, I could
only say "Let me be judged on my intentions." The future... That
was what troubled me more. When Will resigns his commission,
something must be done to establish him in life until he succeeds his
uncle. He is nearly thirty and has never earned a penny beyond his
present army pay; _I_ cannot support him indefinitely; and these
frantic appeals for a hundred pounds here and five hundred pounds
there... I cannot meet them, unless I am to sell the house in Mount
Street and give up any little _niche_ that I may occupy. Frankly, I
am not prepared to do that. One's frame and setting... If his
uncles would make a proper settlement, there would be an end of all
our troubles; failing that, I must find him a well-paid appointment.
And, in another sense, I want to see him established. Exactly! That
is just what I _do_ mean. Thanks to the energy of a few pushful but
not particularly well-connected people like my Lady Maitland, social
distinctions have ceased to exist in London. I will be as democratic
as you please: I swallowed the Americans, I swallowed the South
Africans, I swallow the _rastaquouères_ daily; _I_ don't mind sitting
between a stock-broker and an actor, but it is a different thing
altogether when you come to marriage. My boy has to be protected
from the ordinary dangers and temptations; and, though I would do
nothing to influence him, it would be highly satisfactory if he met
some nice girl with a little money of her own. Naturally one would
like to see the choice falling on some one in his own immediate
world; but times are changing, and it would be regarded as
old-fashioned prejudice if one made too strong a stand against the
people who really are the only people _with_ money; or against a
foreigner... But this is all rather like crossing the bridge before
one comes to the stream...
Lying here, _very_ much depressed, I wanted to make provision for the
_immediate_ future. Now, would _you_ say I had taken leave of my
senses if I suggested that I had some claim on Brackenbury and
Spenworth? Does relationship count for nothing? Or gratitude? You
shall hear! You remember that, when you left just before my
operation, Brackenbury came in to see me. I had sent for him. I am
not a nervous woman; but accidents _do_ happen, and I wanted a last
word with them all in _case_... just in _case_... Arthur never takes
a thought for the future, and I told Brackenbury that, if anything
_did_ happen, he would be the _real_ as well as the titular head of
the family.
"It is not for me," I said, "to advise or interfere with you or Ruth
or your children. If--as I pray--Culroyd comes through unscathed, he
has all the world before him, and you have only to see that he does
not marry below his station. With Phyllida you must be more careful.
She is young, attractive, well-dowered and a little, just a _little_
headstrong. The war has made our girls quite absurdly romantic; any
one in uniform, especially if he has been wounded... And you, who
are rich, perhaps hardly realize as well as do we, who are poor, the
tricks and _crimes_ that a man will commit to marry a fortune. I do
not suggest that Phyllida should be withdrawn from her hospital--"
"Oh, she's signed on for the duration of the war," Brackenbury
interrupted.
"But I do think," I resumed, "that you should keep an eye on her..."
Perhaps there was never anything in it; but _one_ young man whom
Phyllida brought to Mount Street, a Colonel Butler, one of her own
patients... Oh, quite a presentable, manly young fellow, but
_hopelessly_ unsuitable for _Phyllida_! My boy Will first put me on
my guard when he was last home on leave; not that _he_ had any
personal interest, for all her four thousand a year or whatever it
is, but they _have_ always been brought up like brother and sister...
My last act before coming here was to make Colonel Butler promise not
to see or communicate with Phyllida until he had spoken frankly to
Brackenbury. I understand that he has been invited to the Hall "on
approval", as Will would say; and then we shall see what we shall
see. I fancy he will have the good sense to recognize that such an
alliance would be out of the question: every one would say that he
had married her for her money, and no man of any pride would tolerate
that... Phyllida, robbed of her stolen joys, was of course furious
with me for what she was courteous enough to call my "interference."
...
"Her head is screwed on quite tight," said Brackenbury, "though I
have no idea what you're insinuating."
"I am insinuating nothing," I said, "but _do_ you want to see your
only daughter married for her money by some penniless soldier--?"
"If she's in love with him, I don't care who she marries," said
Brackenbury with a quite extraordinary callousness. "He must be a
decent fellow, of course, who'll make her happy. I don't attach the
importance to Debrett that you do, Ann, especially since the war."
As _he_ had said it! I was _mute_... Every one is aware that poor
Ruth was _nobody_--the rich daughter of a Hull shipping-magnate. I
made him marry her because he _had_ to marry some one with a little
money--and much good it has been to anybody!,--but I hardly expected
to hear him _boasting_ or encouraging his _children_ to pretend that
there are no distinctions...
"Well, it's not my business, dear Brackenbury," I said. I was
feeling too _ill_ to wrangle... "When I asked you to come here, it
was because--accidents _do_ happen--I wanted to see you again,
perhaps for the last time--"
"But aren't you frightening yourself unduly?," interrupted
Brackenbury. "Arthur told me it was only--"
"Arthur knows nothing about it," I said. It is always so pleasant,
when you are facing the possibility of death, to be told that it is
all _nothing_... "I wanted to see you," I said, "about Will. You
and I have to pull together for the sake of the family. If anything
happens to me, I leave Will in your charge. His father will, of
course, do what he can, but poor Arthur has nothing but his
directorships; you must be our rock and anchor."
And then I plucked up courage to ask whether Brackenbury could not do
something _permanent_ for our boy. Even a thousand a year... It is
not as though he couldn't afford it if Ruth shewed a little
good-will, not as though either had done so extravagantly much for
their own nephew. Brackenbury did indeed undertake to pay for him at
Eton; but, as Will left before any of us expected, they were let off
lightly...
Brackenbury would only talk of increasing expenses and the burden of
taxation.
"I could face my operation with an easier mind," I said, "if I knew
that Will would never want."
"Well, some one has always pulled him out hitherto," said
Brackenbury. "I suppose some one always will." I had to _rack_ my
brains, but honestly truly the only occasion I could remember on
which he had come to our assistance was when Will as a mere boy fell
in with some men no better than common swindlers who prevailed on him
to play cards for stakes which he could not afford... "_He_ won't
want," Brackenbury went on with the insolence of a man who has never
done a hand's turn in his life, "if he'll only buckle down to it and
work. Or he could spend less money."
This, I knew, was a "dig" at me. Before my boy had time to learn how
very little distance his army pay would take him, I _had_ asked my
brother to tide him over a passing difficulty. Would you not have
thought that any uncle would have welcomed the opportunity? I said
nothing. And then Brackenbury had the assurance to criticize _my_
way of life and to ask why I kept on the house in Mount Street if it
always meant "pulling the devil by the tail," as he so elegantly
expressed it. Why did I not take a less expensive house? And so on
and so forth. I suppose he imagined that I could ask the princess to
come to Bayswater...
"Do not," I said, "let us discuss the matter any more. It is
unpleasant to be a pauper, but more unpleasant to be a beggar. If my
boy wins through with his life--"
"Oh, you needn't worry about that," said Brackenbury. "They tell me
he's on a staff which has never even heard a shot fired."
_They tell me_... Does not that phrase always put you on your guard,
as it were? Of _course_ he was quoting Culroyd, who is still young
enough to imagine that whatever he does must be right and that every
one must do as he does. Ever since Will was appointed to the staff
... I should have thought it stood to reason; you keep the _brains_
of the army to direct the war, and the _other_ people... I won't put
it even as strongly as that, but there _must_ be a division of
labour. My Lord Culroyd seems to think that any one who has _not_
run away from school and enlisted... Sometimes I have been hard put
to it to keep the peace when they have been on leave at the same
time. But I could not allow Brackenbury to make himself a ruler and
a judge...
"Is it not enough," I said, "that you have refused the last request I
may ever make? Is it necessary to add slander to ungraciousness?"
"Oh, keep cool, Ann, keep cool," said Brackenbury with his usual
elegance. "From all accounts you ain't going to die yet awhile; and,
if you do, Master Will won't be any worse off in pocket. He can earn
his living as well as another. I'll promise you this, though; if he
gets smashed up in the war, I'll see that he don't starve, but that's
the limit of my responsibility. Now, does _that_ set your mind at
rest?"
I refused to continue the discussion and sank back on my pillows.
"What," I said, "what have I done to deserve this?"...
And it was I who found Ruth for him...
Do you know, after that, it was on the tip of my tongue to say I
could not see Spenworth? He had made such a pother about coming up
from Cheniston... If _your_ brother-in-law were faced with an
operation and begged to have what would perhaps be his last word with
you ... and if, through no fault of yours, there had been unhappy
differences in the past... The nurse came in to say that he had
arrived, and I felt that I must make an effort, whatever it cost me.
He was worse than Brackenbury! What they said to each other outside
I do not profess to know; but Spenworth came in, bawling in that
hunting-field voice of his... Ah, of course, you do not know him! I
assure you, it goes through and through one's head... I begged him
to spare me; and, when I had quieted him, I referred very briefly to
our estrangement, which, I told him, was occasioned solely by my
efforts to do what in me lay to promote peace in the family. Poor
Kathleen ... betrayed and neglected; the licentiousness of life at
Cheniston--eating, drinking, smoking, gambling, racing; those four
_unhappy_ girls... A _pagan_ household...
"But," I said, "I do not want to disinter old controversies. If I
have failed in achievement, you must judge me on my intentions.
Lying here, though I am not a nervous woman, I have been compelled to
think of the uncertainty of life. Let us, Spenworth," I said, "bury
the hatchet. If anything happens to me, you must be our rock and
anchor. You are the head of the family; Arthur is your brother; Will
is your nephew--"
"No fault of mine," growled Spenworth in a way that set everything
trembling. He is obsessed by the idea that rudeness is the same
thing as humour. "What's he been up to now?"
"He has been 'up to' nothing, as you call it," I said. "But I should
face my operation with an easier mind if I knew that Will's future
was assured. _When_ the war is over and _if_ he is spared, it is
_essential_ that he should have independent means of _some_ kind. It
is pitiable that a man in his position... Do you not feel it--your
own nephew? With the present prices, a thousand a year is little
enough; but Arthur can do nothing to _increase_ his directorships;
and if my poor guidance and support are withdrawn--'
"What _is_ supposed to be the matter with you?" Spenworth interrupted.
"I can hardly discuss that with _you_," I said.
"Well, Brackenbury told me--and Arthur told Brackenbury--," he began.
"Arthur and Brackenbury know nothing about it," I said. "For some
time I have not been well, and it seemed worth the unavoidable risk
of an operation if I might hope for greater strength and comfort.
But I could not go under the anæsthetic with an easy mind if I felt
that I had in any way omitted to put my house in order. Between us,"
I said, "bygones will be bygones. Will you not give me the
satisfaction of knowing that, if we do not meet again, I am safe in
leaving Arthur and my boy to your care? You _are_ the head of the
family. Can my boy's future not be _permanently_ assured--here and
now?"
I was not bargaining or haggling; it was a direct appeal to his
generosity... Spenworth hummed and hawed for a while; then he said:
"I don't feel very much disposed to do anything more for that young
man."
"_More?_," I echoed.
"Well, I paid up once," he said. "Arthur never told you, I suppose?
Well, it was hardly a woman's province. I was acting _then_ as head
of the family ... about the time when you thought fit to criticize me
very frankly..."
I had no more idea what he was talking about than the man in the moon!
"Spenworth! I must beg for enlightenment," I said.
"Oh, we'll let bygones be bygones," he answered. "The case was never
brought to trial. But, as long as I'm likely to be called on to wipe
up little messes of that kind, I'd sooner make a sinking-fund, to
provide against emergencies, than pay Will money to get into more
mischief and then have to stump up again."
_More_ explicit than that he declined to be....
"Then," I said, "you repudiate all responsibility to your own flesh
and blood? Whether I live or die, this is a request I shall never
repeat."
"Oh, we'll see how things go," he answered. "You may not be as bad
as you think. If I find Will starving at the end of the war, I'd
undertake to pay his passage to Australia and give him a hundred a
year to stay there..."
Until you know my brother-in-law, you cannot appreciate the
_refinement_ of his humour....
"Let us," I said, "discuss this no further."
You have probably observed that a man is never content with being
_thoroughly_ ungenerous; he must always try to justify himself.
"You know," he began, very importantly, "you wouldn't have half so
much trouble with that fellow, if you'd licked him a bit more when he
was younger..."
This from _Spenworth_!
"Who," I asked, "who made thee a ruler and a judge?"
And then, truly honestly, I had to beg him to leave me in order that
I might compose myself....
Compose myself!
To shew you how unnerved I had become, I wrote down something which I
had never _breathed_ to Arthur or Will. We have always been so poor
that I had dreaded an emergency, a sudden illness, for which I should
be unable to provide. In Mount Street we are positive _Spartans_!
Well, from the day of Will's birth I have pinched and scraped,
scraped and pinched, _trying_ to put something by... A little
nest-egg... Thirty years--nearly. I have never dared invest it, in
case _something_ happened. It lies at the bank--in a separate
account--ready at a moment's notice. When I was so ill four years
ago, did I touch it? But before my operation--in case anything
happened--I told Will the _amount_ and how I had arranged for him to
be able to draw on it. What I tell _you_ is told to the grave; I
have torn up the letter; they _still_ do not know; but, when I _saw_
the amount, I was truly tempted to say "Well done, thou good and
faithful servant" ... I have lost the thread....
Ah, yes! I was saying that my nerve had entirely _gone_... I was so
much exhausted that I fell into some kind of trance. Goodness knows
the thousand and one things that go to make up a dream...
Opposites... All that sort of thing... I dreamt most wonderfully
about Will and--I wonder if you can guess? Phyllida! They have been
brought up together--cousins! She is young, high-spirited, very,
_very_ attractive; and, thanks to Brackenbury's marriage, she is
well-dowered... I said to myself in the dream "If she could marry
happily some one in her own station..." And then I seemed to see her
with Will... It was but a phantasy. I should do nothing to
encourage it, I am not at all sure that I even approve...
Alas for reality! Phyllida came and bullied me for my
"interference." ... But I told you about that. And, the day before
the operation, Arthur asked whether I really thought it was
necessary. Like that! At the eleventh hour!
"I don't trust these surgeons," he said. "They _make_ operations."
At first I was _touched_...
"Dear Arthur," I said, "I am not doing this for my amusement."
"Oh, of course not!," he answered. "All the same, I wish it could be
avoided. And, if it can't be avoided, I wish you'd kept more quiet
about it. I don't know what you said to Spenworth and Brackenbury,
but they're making the deuce's own tale of it."
I begged him to enlighten me.
"Well," said Arthur, "Spenworth says that you pretended to be at
death's door in order to force him to make a settlement on Will and
that he might have consented if he hadn't happened to know that you'd
said the same thing to Brackenbury five minutes before. About being
the head of the family and all that sort of thing. You know, Ann, it
_does_ make us look just a little bit ridiculous."
You assure me you have seen neither Brackenbury nor Ruth? I just
wondered who was privileged to hear this "deuce's own tale" ... I can
hardly ask you to believe it; but I do assure you that this is the
solemn truth; those two men were seeking to convince themselves that
I was _pretending_ to be ill in order to work on their susceptible
emotions! They seem to have had the good taste to keep their little
joke for home consumption, but you may be sure they made merry with
Ruth and Kathleen about me... _Too_ merry, perhaps; I can only think
it was conscience that made Ruth offer to pay for the operation. Or
perhaps it was curiosity... I wonder what their feelings would have
been if anything _had_ gone amiss...
No, I am thankful to say there was no hitch of any kind. The
anæsthetic was administered, I heard that hammer, hammer, hammer--and
then voices _very_ far away. It was all over! That was the
preliminary examination. Then I was subjected to that too wonderful
X-ray light and saw myself as a black skeleton with a misty-grey
covering of flesh, one's wedding-ring standing out like a black bar
round one's finger. _Too_ marvellous. I do _believe_ in this
science...
But not so marvellous as what followed. Dr. Richardson congratulated
me, and I had to beg for enlightenment.
"It will not be necessary," he said, "to operate after all. The
symptoms are exactly as you described them, but a little treatment,
principally massage..."
And that is why I am still here, though I hope to be allowed up on
Friday. But lying in bed makes one so absurdly weak! What I have
told you is for your ears alone. It would be altogether too much of
a triumph for Spenworth. Instead of feeling any thankfulness that I
had been spared the knife, he would only say... Well, you can
imagine it even from the very imperfect sketch that I have given you.
No, I am assured that massage makes the operation wholly unnecessary;
and I am already feeling much, much better. If I have not taken the
whole world into my confidence, it is partly because I detest this
modern practice of discussing one's inside ("wearing one's stomach on
one's sleeve," as Will rather naughtily describes it) and partly
because I am altogether too humble-minded to fancy that the entire
world is interested in my private affairs. When the princess asked
"How did the operation go off?," I said "Excellently, thank you,
ma'am." And that was what all the papers published. It was not
worth while telling her that the operation was found to be
unnecessary. I am not of those who feel obliged to trumpet forth
that Mrs. Tom Noddy has left Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or
Eastbourne for Gloucester Place. As Tennyson says, "Again--who
wonders and who cares?"
At the same time--I loathe Americanisms and I do conscientiously try
to express myself in what I may call the English of educated society;
we do not seem to have any literary equivalent for "mentality," so I
must ask you to pardon the neologism--will you, to _oblige_ me, try
to imagine the "mentality" of Spenworth and Brackenbury? The
sister-in-law of one, the sister of the other; _casting_ about in her
resourceful mind to discover any means of softening their hard
hearts; clapping hand to forehead; exclaiming "I have it!"; retiring
to bed; summoning the relations; making frantic appeal; exacting
death-bed promises...
Truly honestly, I don't think we have come to that yet...
And those two men have an hereditary right... Thank goodness,
neither of them knows where the House of Lords _is_! There are
moments when I feel _very_ nearly a radical...
But you agree that they are hardly the people I should wish to
discuss my operation with. And whatever I have said to you has of
course been said in confidence.
II
LADY ANN SPENWORTH REPUDIATES ALL RESPONSIBILITY
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): But this is as
delightful as it is unexpected! If we only have the carriage to
ourselves... I often say that a first-class ticket is the merest
snare and delusion; during the war it has exposed one to a new
order--I've no doubt they are very _brave_ and so forth and so on,
but that sort of thing ought to be kept for the trenches. One
doesn't want to travel with it, one certainly doesn't want to live
with it...
At least _I_ don't. There's no accounting for tastes, as my poor
niece Phyllida has been shewing. You are going to Brackenbury, of
course? Every one _does_ by this train. In the old days my father
enjoyed the privilege of being able to stop every train that ran
through Brackenbury station; he held property on both sides of the
line and was a director for very many years. One said a word to the
guard--they were a very civil lot of men--, and that was literally
all. My brother has allowed that to lapse, like everything else; and
you now have to come by the four-twenty or not at all.
I should have thought the Brackenbury parties were difficult enough
without giving everybody a gratuitous two hours in the train to grow
tired of everybody else. My sister-in-law Ruth has other qualities,
no doubt, but she will not go down to history as one of the great
English hostesses... It's not surprising, perhaps; but, if you're
not born to that sort of thing, wouldn't you make an effort to
_acquire_ it? There must be brains of _some_ kind in the family, or
the father could never have made all that money. I always felt a
certain responsibility about Ruth; Brackenbury _had_ to marry some
one with a _little_ money, and, knowing the _sort_ of girl he'd fancy
if I gave him half a chance... I was fourteen years older and knew
something of poor Brackenbury's limitations; when I met Ruth Philpot
and found that the money _did_ come from quite a respectable shipping
firm in Hull, I said: "Marry her, my dear boy, before you have a
chance of making a greater fool of yourself." And I told him I'd do
what I could for her; little hints, you understand... I'm afraid
poor Ruth was not a very apt pupil; and Brackenbury, who never had
_any_ sense of his position, was a mere broken reed. "Assert
yourself!," I used to say. "If _you_ don't absorb _her_, she'll
absorb _you_." That is the only occasion on which I have ever
interfered in matters of the heart, either to guide or check; I look
at Ruth Brackenbury and say to myself: "Ann Spenworth, you have your
lesson ever before you." I would not urge or hinder now, even with
my own son. Phyllida may try to fix responsibility on me, but I
repudiate it--entirely. In the present instance I feel that it is,
once again, the sins of the parents... As I felt it my duty to tell
them, there wouldn't have been a moment's trouble with Phyllida, if
she had been brought up differently...
I? Goodness me, no! Many, many things will have to be unsaid before
Brackenbury induces me to set foot in his house again. _You_ know
whether I am the woman to stand on my dignity, but, when one's niece
writes one letters in the third person... Indeed I know what I am
talking about! "_Lady Phyllida Lyster presents her compliments to
Lady Ann Spenworth and is not interested in any explanation that Lady
Ann may think fit to put forward._" These are the manners of the
war. From the very first I urged Brackenbury not to let her work in
that hospital; _some_ one had to go, of _course_; I'm not so foolish
as to think that a hospital would run itself without hands, but why
Phyllida? And, goodness me, if they couldn't stop her, they might
have made a few enquiries, exercised _some_ little control...
Christine Malleson is very energetic and capable, no doubt, but you
would hardly look for standards or traditions in _her_; however, she
and my Lady Maitland and the rest seem able to carry people off their
feet by sheer violence. Now Ruth and Brackenbury are paying for it.
And, of course, poor Aunt Ann is to blame for everything. For the
present I think it's best to leave them severely alone. One tries to
do what seems to be one's duty; one puts up with a great many
rebuffs; but in the end people must be left, in the homely old
phrase, to stew in their own juice...
I'm really not sure how much is supposed to be known. Phyllida will
no doubt tell you her side, simply as a means of attacking me. She
works herself into such a state! I told Brackenbury that he ought to
send her away for a complete change... I'm sick and tired of the
whole thing; I'm _sure_ it contributed to my illness; but, if it is
going to be discussed, you'd better hear the truth. The whole time
she was working at the hospital, Phyllida did me the honour to make
my house her own; and, if I questioned my own wisdom, it was because
of Will. He would be home on leave from time to time; and, perhaps
on account of a curious dream which I had about them at the time of
my operation, I was not at all sure that I wanted to see the intimacy
increasing; when he marries, it will have to be some one with a
_little_ money, but I do not want to lose him yet and I cannot feel
that Phyllida is very suitable... You can imagine, therefore,
whether I should be likely to scheme or contrive to throw them into
each other's arms; to _intrigue_ to get rivals out of the way... I
have lost the thread.
Ah, yes! Phyllida! Now, I chose my words carefully: "making my
house her own," not "staying in my charge." When I went into the
nursing-home, I _tackled_ Brackenbury...
"Please understand," I said, "that I accept no responsibility. The
child goes to and from the hospital _when_ she likes, _how_ she
likes. I know nothing of the people with whom she associates there;
and, if you like the idea of her coming in at all hours from theatres
and dances, I suppose it's all right. But I can't stop her," I said;
"I feel it my duty to tell you I can't stop her."
Brackenbury made some foolish rejoinder about Phyllida's head being
screwed on tight or her heart being in the right place. (In that
family they _express_ themselves so uncouthly. Goodness me, one need
not be a blue-stocking to realize that English _has_ a certain
dignity.) She was only doing what every other girl did, he said...
I'm as democratic as any one, but I wondered what our _father_ would
have said to the doctrine that his daughter might do a thing simply
because everybody else was doing it...
You know this Colonel Butler, perhaps? (It's only brevet-rank; if he
stays on in the army, he reverts to full lieutenant only.) I'll
confess at once that I liked him. When he was convalescent, Phyllida
brought him to luncheon one day in Mount Street, and I thought him a
decent, manly young fellow. I understand he comes from the west of
England; and that, perhaps, accounts for the accent which I thought I
detected; or, of course, he may simply have been not altogether at
ease. (When I commented on it afterwards to Phyllida, she insisted
that he was very badly shaken by his wound and the three
operations... I think that was the first time I suspected anything;
she championed him so very warmly.) I liked him--frankly. Some one
quite early in the war said something about "temporary officers" and
"temporary gentlemen"--it was very naughty, but so true!--; I said to
my boy Will, when Colonel Butler was gone:
"If they were all like _him_, the army might be proud of them."
"All I've met _are_ like him," said Phyllida, "only of course not so
much so."
I was struggling to find a meaning--Phyllida expresses herself almost
as carelessly as her poor mother, but with hardly her mother's
excuse--, when she began to pour out a catalogue of his virtues: he
had won a Military Cross and a Distinguished Service Order with a
bar, he was the youngest colonel in the army, I don't know what else.
"Who are his people?," I asked.
A name like Butler is so very misleading; it may be all right--or it
may not.
"I _really_ don't know," said Phyllida, "and, what's more, I don't
care..."
She was prattling away, but I thought it time to make one or two
enquiries. I remember saying to poor Ruth--I forget in what
connection; life is one long succession of these needless, irritating
little encounters--I remember saying that Phyllida was in the
position of a girl with no mother. It's not that Ruth and
Brackenbury aren't _fond_ of her, but they take no trouble... I
asked what our young paragon's regiment was, and you'll hardly
believe me if I tell you that it was one I had never heard of. Will
knew, of course, but then, on the staff, these things are brought to
your notice...
"And what is he in civil life?," I asked.
Phyllida didn't know. His father, I think she told me, was a
surveyor, and she presumed that he intended to be a surveyor too.
And an excellent profession, I should imagine, with the big estates
being broken up and the properties changing hands everywhere.
Brackenbury had an offer for the Hall--some wealthy contractor... I
couldn't help smiling to think how our father would have dealt with
him. Brackenbury let him off far too lightly, I thought, and tried
to justify himself to me by saying that it was a very tempting
offer... As if _they_ needed money...
I had made up my mind at the outset to do nothing precipitate. The
war has made girls quite dangerously romantic, and any opposition
might have created--artificially--a most undesirable attachment. I
knew that Phyllida had these young officers through her hands in
dozens; and, though I was naturally anxious, I knew that in a few
weeks or months our paragon would be back in Flanders or
Devonshire--out of Christine Malleson's hospital, at all events. I
commended my spirit, so to say...
He came to call--Colonel Butler did. I so little expected him--or
any one else, for that matter; the war _has_ done that for us--that
I'd given no orders, and he was shewn up. Norden--you remember him?
They took him for the army, though I wrote a personal letter to the
War Office... A man with varicose veins and three small children...
Norden would have known better, but I'd no one but maids, who don't
_know_ and don't _care_... Colonel Butler was shewn up, still not
quite at ease, and I made myself as gracious as possible. D'you
know, I thought it quite dear of him? His mother had told him that
he must always call at any house where he'd had a meal--even
luncheon, apparently, in war-time; as Will said, when I told him, I'm
glad there aren't many wild mothers like that, roaming at large...
He sat and talked--quite intelligently; I want to give him his due--;
I rang for tea... He hadn't learned the art of _going_... We got on
famously until he began speaking of Phyllida; the first time it was
"your niece," then almost at once "Phyllida." I said "_Lady_
Phyllida"--I must have said it three times, but he was quite
impervious. Then Phyllida came in and openly called him "Hilary."
... They were dining together, it seemed, and going to a play. I try
to conceal my palæolithic remains in dealing with Phyllida, but I
_did_ say "By yourselves?" Oh, yes, the most natural thing in the
world... I reminded her that Will was home on leave, but the hint
was not taken. Off they went...
If I were not very fond of Phyllida, I shouldn't take so much trouble
about her... And I always have to remember that Ruth is too busy
painting and powdering ever to think of her own daughter. I suppose
she feels that her looks are the only thing that keeps Brackenbury
enslaved... What was I saying? Oh, about poor Phyllida. It is to
_my_ credit that I insisted on a proper settlement when Brackenbury
was mooning about like a love-sick boy; she has four thousand when
she's of age and she'll have another three when the parents
die--enough, you will agree, to tempt some men. I happened to
mention at dinner that this Colonel Butler had called, and Will
became greatly concerned. It was quite disinterested, because I have
always felt that, if he ever dropped the handkerchief, I could make a
good guess who would pick it up. Will quite clearly thought, with
me, that Colonel Butler was in earnest and that poor Phyllida was
slipping into his toils...
An opportunity came to me two or three days before my operation.
Phyllida--she was quite brazen about it--admitted that she had dined
with her hero four times in one week. That was on a Saturday; I'm
glad to say that she hasn't become democratic enough to go to these
picture-houses, and there was nothing to do on Sunday. I told her
she might ask Colonel Butler to dine with us. And, when he came, I
took occasion to speak rather freely to him.
"I can't help seeing," I said, "that you are very intimate with my
niece."
"Oh, I'm devoted to Phyllida," he answered.
"_Then_," I said, "you'd cut your hand off before you did anything to
make people talk about her."
And then I rehearsed these dinners and plays...
"It's not my business," I said. "Phyllida regards me as a
lodging-house keeper, but, if your intentions are honourable, I think
you should make them known to my brother, Lord Brackenbury." ..
Well, then he became nervous and sentimental. He wouldn't compromise
Phyllida for the world; he'd every intention of speaking to
Brackenbury when the time came, but as long as he was living on his
pay and the war went on... _You_ can imagine it. He was quite
sincere. I told you I liked him; the only thing was that I didn't
think him quite suitable for Phyllida. Upbringing, _milieu_... He
was no fool; I felt he'd see it for himself before he'd been at the
Hall half an hour...
To cut a long story short, I made him promise to hold no more
communication with the child until he'd seen Brackenbury; and I told
my brother to invite him there for a weekend. I didn't see very much
of what happened, as I left the young people to themselves; but Will
entirely bore out the vague, intangible feeling... Poor Colonel
Butler _wasn't_ at home; he made my boy's life a burden for days
beforehand, asking what clothes he should take, and, when they were
there, it was "I've been away so much that I don't know what the
tariff is since the war: if I give ten shillings to the man who looks
after me, how much ought I to give the butler?" ... Things I should
have thought a man knew without asking. Will was really rather
naughty about it...
Brackenbury didn't see anything amiss. One's standard changes when
one has done that sort of thing oneself. As I always said, "If you
don't absorb her, she'll absorb you." And so it's proved. Ruth, of
course, saw only the _romance_ of it all. Goodness me, unless we're
all twins, _some_ one has to be the youngest colonel in the army...
I don't know what people mean nowadays, when they talk about
"romance." .. Brackenbury and the whole family made the absurdest
fuss--well, I won't say that, because I liked young Butler; they made
a great fuss. Even my nephew Culroyd, who's in the Coldstream, was
quite affable; "eating out of his hand" was Will's phrase. _So_
descriptive, I thought; Will has an extraordinary knack of hitting
people off...
None of them seemed to think of the money side at all. Brackenbury
was always improvident as a boy; but, until you've felt the pinch as
Will and I have done, you don't learn anything about values. Four
thousand a year _sounds_ very pleasant, but if it's now only equal to
_two_... And Phyllida has always lived up to anything she's had. "I
want it, therefore I must have it" has been her rule. Clothes,
trinkets, little treats... She has four horses, eating their heads
off, while my poor Will says he stands hat in hand before any one
who'll mount him. And her own little car... I know a brick wall
when I see one; it was no use asking Phyllida whether she thought she
could afford a husband as well as everything else. And a family; one
has to look ahead... Colonel Butler wouldn't be earning anything for
years.
He told me so. I liked him more and more, because he was so simple
and straightforward. After luncheon on the Saturday, we had a long
talk together. I think I said I'd shew him the house. As you know,
I yield to no one in my love for the dear old Hall, but Colonel
Butler was like a child. You'd have said he'd never been inside a
big house before; I don't believe he ever had... I took him
everywhere, even Phyllida's rooms; it was well for him to _see_, I
felt...
I remember he thanked me for having him invited to the Hall; from his
tone you'd have said I was playing fairy god-mother, and he credited
_me_ with the very friendly reception that every one had given him.
If the truth must be known--I wasn't taking sides; you must
understand that!--I wanted _them_ to see and I wanted _him_ to see...
As Will once said, "Half the world doesn't know how the other half
lives." _I_ felt that, when Colonel Butler stood there, everything
sinking in. A man, I suppose, always is rather bewildered at the
number of things a girl requires--frocks, gloves, hats, shoes,
stockings... You mustn't think that I shewed him Phyllida's
wardrobe! Goodness me, no! But her maid was in the room, getting
things ready for the child's return from hunting. It was almost
pathetic; one could fancy the poor young man counting on his fingers
and saying: "She _must_ have as good a room as this, she'll want to
keep on her present maid, I don't suppose she can even prepare a bath
for herself or fasten her dress or brush her hair..." But it's
better for that kind of thing to sink in at the beginning...
Wherever I took him, he seemed to be saying: "You can't do this sort
of thing without _so_ many servants, _so_ much a year." .. Will told
me that the first night at dinner... But I'm afraid Will's naughty
sometimes...
He thanked me--Colonel Butler did--in a way that suggested I hadn't
shewn him _only_ the house.
"But I've enjoyed it," I said. "I'm only sorry you weren't able to
go out with the rest."
He told me he didn't hunt, he'd never had any opportunity. There was
quite a list of things he didn't do, but he was very simple and
straightforward about them. Don't you dislike that _aggressive_
spirit which compels people to tell you how many they slept in one
room and the night-schools they attended and so forth and so on? It
makes me quite hot. I believe that's why they do it... There was
nothing of that about Colonel Butler, though the army had made him a
little _borné_. When I took him to see the stables, he shewed a
certain sentimental interest in Phyllida's horses; but his only
comment was: "I wish we were given beasts like that in the army."
And it was the army in everything that he ate or read. Phyllida, as
you know, has travelled more than most girls of her age; she wouldn't
like to drop that altogether on marrying; but, if you said "Egypt" to
Colonel Butler, it was simply a place where he'd been invalided the
first time he was wounded at Gallipoli. The war seems to make some
men curiously material... You understand I'm not criticizing him as
a soldier; I'm sure he did excellent and useful work, but the war is
only an _episode_ in our lives...
At tea he was so silent that I felt it was all sinking in very deep.
At the end he said:
"Lady Ann, may I ask your advice? You are a woman of the world----"
"Goodness me, no!," I said. "Thirty years ago I may have counted for
something there; but now I live under my own little vine and
fig-tree; I see no one; I'm out of touch; you'd find me very
old-fashioned, I fear."
"You've been very kind to me," he said, "and I want you to add to
your kindness. I'm in love with Phyllida, as you know; and she--I
think she quite likes me. Lord Brackenbury and every one here have
been simply ripping. Please tell me what you think about it."
"Do you mean, will she marry you?," I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Oh, I should think it very likely," I told him; "I wondered whether
you meant, would you make her _happy_?"
"I should certainly hope to do that," he answered.
"We all _hope_," I said...
_My_ responsibility is confined to giving him a moment's pause for
thought. Phyllida will tell you that I set him against her, poisoned
his mind, I shouldn't wonder... It's most charitable to recognize
that she really did not know what she was saying. I didn't talk
about _him_ at all; I talked about Will, about my nephew Culroyd,
their friends, their lives... Any deductions were of _his_ drawing;
and, goodness me, one need not be branded a snob for seeing that they
had been born and bred in different worlds. He seemed to think that
_love_ would overcome everything.
"If you're in _love_," he kept saying, "these things don't matter, do
they?"
What made him uncomfortable was the money question--the thought that
he would be bringing literally nothing. I was most careful not to
say anything, but every child knows that if you divide a sum of money
by two... He _would_ be living on Phyllida; and, if he loved her as
much as he pretended, he would always be feeling: "It's a frock for
her or a suit of clothes for me." A very humiliating position for
any man... I know it's the modern fashion to pretend that it doesn't
matter; Phyllida says in so many words that the advantage of money to
a girl is that she can marry where her heart leads her. A snare and
a delusion, unless you mean that a woman with money and nothing else
can occasionally buy herself _position_... I'm sure she picked that
up from her poor mother. But, if Brackenbury married on his debts,
he _did_ bring _something_; I know we all had to work very hard for
Ruth--"doing propaganda," as my boy Will says--to shew people that
the marriage was _all right_... And it will be the same with Will,
if he ever marries... Who_ever_ he marries... He _does_ bring
_something_...
Colonel Butler asked if people would think Phyllida had thrown
herself away on him. What could I say? ... But for the war, he told
me, he _would_ be earning his own living; and, do you know?, that was
the only time the cloven hoof appeared.
"We've all of us had to make sacrifices," I answered, "and the war
ought not to be made either an excuse or--an opportunity."
Goodness me, you don't suppose my boy Will _enjoyed_ the fatigues,
the dangers... The general was utterly callous towards his staff;
but Will "stuck it out", as he would say. It was the soldier's part,
and Colonel Butler knew as well as I did that it was only the war and
the accident of being wounded that had thrown him across Phyllida's
path.
"What do you mean by 'opportunity', Lady Ann?," he asked.
It was not easy to put into words... I sometimes feel that romance
has gone to the head of some of our girls; first of all, a man had
only to be in uniform, then he had only to be wounded... I _liked_
Colonel Butler, but in the old days Phyllida would not have looked at
him... And, goodness me, if you go back a generation, you can
imagine what my father would have said if a man, however pleasant,
with nothing but his pay and the clothes he stood up in... A soldier
only by the _accident_ of war... And in a regiment one had truly
honestly never heard of...
"I don't feel I can help you," I said. "Times have changed, and my
ideas are out of date. My brother may be different; have you spoken
to him?" ...
As a matter of fact any woman could have seen that it wasn't
necessary to speak; Brackenbury, all of them were throwing themselves
at the young man's head. That's why I felt that, if _I_ didn't--give
him a pause for reflection, _no_ one would. No, he hadn't said
anything yet; it seemed such presumption that, though every one was
gracious to him and Phyllida more than gracious, he wanted an outside
opinion from some one whom he was good enough to call "a woman of the
world." Was he justified in saying anything while his financial
prospects were so uncertain? Was it fair to ask Phyllida to give up
so much of the life she was accustomed to? Would people think he was
trying to marry her for her money? Was he entitled to ask her to
wait?
I said... Phyllida was not present, you understand, so anything she
tells you _can_ only be the fruit of a disordered imagination. If
Brackenbury sent her right away, the whole thing would be forgotten
in two months... I really forget what I _did_ say...
At dinner I could see that Colonel Butler was pondering my advice.
At least, when I say "advice", the limit of my responsibility is that
perhaps the _effect_ of our little talk was to check his natural
impetuosity. Things were sinking in; his own good sense, more than
anything I should have dared to say... Phyllida came down arrayed
with quite unnecessary splendour--we were only the family and Colonel
Butler. "Poor child," I thought to myself, "you fancy you're
attracting him when you're only frightening the shy bird away; you
imagine he's admiring your frock when he's only wondering how much it
cost." It was sinking in... If poor Ruth wanted her to throw
herself away on a penniless surveyor, she might have told her that
_simplicity_ was the note to strike. Phyllida won't think for
herself, and Ruth is incapable of thinking for her. Good gracious!
at dinner the child sat between Colonel Butler and my boy Will; I
don't encourage any girl to become a minx, but no man thinks the
better of you for throwing yourself at his head. A little distance,
a little indifference; until a man's jealous, he doesn't know he's in
love. She proved my point that night, both my points; Will was
furious--and with reason--at being so uncivilly neglected; and the
young paragon ... he was simply sated. When the telegram arrived...
But I thought Phyllida would have told you about that; she has been
so--immodestly candid. He returned to London next day, saying he'd
received a wire overnight. I met him the following week, and he told
me. Simple and straightforward as ever... He wanted to know how
Phyllida was; had Lady Brackenbury thought him very rude? It was one
thing or the other, he said: he could ask Phyllida to marry him or he
could go right away and forget about her ... until he had something
more to offer, I think he said... You and I know what _that_ means.
He was greatly upset and begged me to write occasionally when he was
back at the front, just to tell him how Phyllida was; he wouldn't
write to her himself, he said, because he wanted to leave her
unembarrassed and it would be too painful for him.
"If she's still unmarried when I've made good," he said, "it will be
time to begin writing then."
I suppose it was because Phyllida had never been in love before... I
was ready to make allowances, but I was _not_ prepared for the
outburst, the extravagance, the self-indulgence of grief.
"Come, come, my dear!," I said, "it would have been a very unsuitable
match; and, if you haven't the sense to realize it, he has."
She turned on me like a fury... I don't know what was in his letter
of good-bye; but I suppose it was the usual romantic promise that
he'd go away and make his fortune and then come back to claim her.
(Good riddance, too, I thought; though I _liked_ him.) Phyllida
evidently treated it quite seriously...
"If he'd been mine for a week or a day..." she kept sobbing. "I know
he'll be killed." ..
Well, he wasn't the only man in the world, but nothing that I could
say was right...
"I think he behaved very properly," I said. "He did me the honour to
ask my advice; and, if I see him again, I shall tell him so."
Then the flood-gates were opened. I--tell--you--as I tried to tell
her, but she wouldn't let me speak--that I _gave_ no advice; I wanted
him to proceed with caution, but I never even told him to wait and
think... He did it entirely on his own initiative. What he quite
rightly saw was that he could not take advantage of a young girl's
infatuation to marry her for her money. Phyllida really shocked me
with the things she said, but I'm old enough to have learnt patience;
it will not be very long before she begs my pardon and admits that
perhaps a certain measure of wisdom may be conceded to age... In the
meantime I prefer not to mix myself up in the broils and wrangles
that seem a daily feature of life at the Hall. One makes a certain
effort; and, after that, one has to leave people, in the homely old
phrase, to stew in their own juice... I need hardly tell you that
Brackenbury took her side. And poor Ruth, though I've learnt not to
expect too much of Ruth after all these years. If, for curiosity's
sake, you ask them what I am supposed to have done, I should be
deeply interested to know what they say. I have nothing but praise
for the young man. When you are in the army, one private is as good
as another; in hospital, you are a name, a bed, a case. That is so
fine, I always think; it makes this truly a _people's_ war. Colonel
Butler would have gone to the Hall sooner or later without any
prompting from me; and, once there, it was impossible for a man of
any intelligence to pretend that there were no differences... It is
so hard for me to put it into words without seeming a snob, but _you_
understand what I mean...
You will find my boy Will there. He never seems to come home without
picking up a cold, and the doctor has very sensibly recommended that
he should be given an extension of leave. I was _not_ very much set
on his going, I admit. Goodness me, any silly little ill-bred things
that Phyllida may pick up from her poor mother are forgotten as soon
as they are said; I have no need to stand on my dignity. The sins of
the fathers... Brackenbury _never_ checks her... But you know what
a girl is when she has had a disappointment, we must both of us have
seen it a dozen times ... some sort of natural recoil. If she throws
herself at Will's head... With her money they'd have enough to live
on, of course, and young people ought to be very comfortable on four
thousand a year. (It will be seven, when the parents die.) One need
not look ahead to a family; but the grandfather, Ruth's father, would
not be illiberal. But, though dear Will must marry some day, I dread
the time when I must lose him...
III
LADY ANN SPENWORTH TOUCHES RELUCTANTLY ON DIVORCE
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): I have been brought
up in a different school, that's all. "Whom God hath joined..." I
don't ask any one to share my feelings and I'm not so foolish as to
say I won't receive people who have taken a step which is at least
legal, however much one may deplore the present ease of divorce. I
do indeed try to differentiate in my attitude towards the guilty
party, but in this I am more than ever "ploughing a lonely furrow,"
as my boy Will rather picturesquely expresses it...
Nowadays it is unfashionable to heed the teachings of religion; but I
should have thought that the least consideration for patriotism,
stability... My father's maxim was that family life is the _basis_
of the state and that, when once you sanction the principle of
divorce, you are undermining the foundations of the commonwealth. So
I have at least been consistent...
That is perhaps more important than you think. The cynic cannot see
that one's principles are independent of personal considerations. If
they ever have the ill fortune to coincide even in appearance...
Indeed yes! I happen to know what I am talking about... Forgive me
if I spoke sharply; but one's nerves are not of iron, and it is not
pleasant to be charged with conspiracy by the members of one's own
family. Oh, not Spenworth! We have hardly met for years, I am
thankful to say, though my husband has more than once tried to bring
about a reconciliation. I have no personal animus; but, if the head
of an honoured family chooses to drag his name in the mire, he shall
at least not say that he has had countenance or support from even so
humble a person as his sister-in-law. I was referring to the other
side, my own people; I have an unforgiving little enemy, I fear, in
my niece Phyllida; I should mind that less if Brackenbury and his
poor wife did not seem to aid and abet her. Loyalty to the family, I
should have thought... But, once again, I was brought up in a
different school. I have told my brother, until I am tired, he ought
to send her _right_ away. It was a disappointment... Goodness me,
it is a disappointment when one cries for the moon; and, though I
thought this Colonel Butler a decent, manly fellow, he was really
nobody. He saw, without my telling him, that every one would say he
was marrying her for her money... I won't call it an _escape_ for
Phyllida, because that always sounds so spiteful. But I will allow
no one to say I made him throw her over so that I might keep her for
my own boy!
I want you to tell me frankly how much you have heard. _Literally_
nothing? Then you _will_--the very next time you go to the Hall.
Not satisfied with inventing this abominable story, Phyllida feels it
her duty to inflict it upon any one who will listen. But you must
have seen about the divorce? Not even that? Well, you are wise;
these things are unsavoury reading. The case was tried in the
summer--"Spenworth's washing-day", as my boy called it--, and the
decree will be made absolute in a few weeks' time.
It is the fashion to say that my brother-in-law was more sinned
against than sinning. Does not that formula always put you on your
guard, so to say? He was a mere boy when he succeeded to the title;
an immense estate like Cheniston offered too many temptations; his
good looks made him a prey for all the harpies; he was too kindly
ever to say "no" even to the most dissolute of his associates. And
so forth and so on... Goodness me! Arthur--my husband--was two
years younger; and, if his old father's iniquitous will did not leave
him enough money to tempt the hangers-on, at least he did not play
ducks and drakes with what he had. It is more a question of
character than of income. And Arthur had his share of good looks, as
you can see from Will. No! Whatever Spenworth did, he could always
buy indulgence. Establish for yourself the reputation of "a good
fellow"--whatever that may mean--; and you will walk on roses all
your life...
One must assume that _he_ thought the marriage would be a success,
but I am sure no one else did. I _knew_ Spenworth, you see. It is
ancient history now, but it was only when I destroyed his last hope
by marrying Arthur that he turned in desperation to Kathleen Manorby
... after remaining disconsolate for nearly ten years. For her and
her like my Will coined the description "chocolate-box beauty." She
is still attractive after twenty years... I tried to warn her, so
far as one could without having one's motives misconstrued; but she
was glamoured by the money and the title. She had several offers, I
believe, from men rather more in her own _milieu_, but it was a case
of not being able to afford the luxury of marrying a poor man.
Otherwise her first love, young Laughton, who broke his heart over
her and transferred to the Indian Army... I warned her that
Spenworth would be unfaithful before they had been married a year,
but she was too sure of her own charm and power.
Within a year! Within three months... Kathleen is a fool, but one
may feel for any woman who has had to put up with so many sordid
humiliations. If she had borne him a son, it might have been
different, but one girl after another... Four of them, and no heir
to Cheniston. Superstitious people would tell you that it was a
judgement on Spenworth for his past life and on her for her treatment
of poor young Laughton... And, little by little, Spenworth seemed to
lose all regard for human decency, until one was tempted to forget
poor Kathleen's disappointment and to feel that Providence had
decided that no son of his should ever reign in his stead. I am
utterly free from superstition myself; but it did seem curious...
He, I fancy, never quite gave up hope; as I felt it my duty to tell
him, he was on such good terms with this world that he could not
imagine another world in which his behaviour might be less leniently
regarded. When the _fourth_ girl was born and we realized that Will
_must_ ultimately succeed, I suggested that something might now be
done to enable our boy to live in a manner befitting the heir to an
historic title. Spenworth gave one of his great laughs and begged me
to wait until he was dead before I cast lots for his raiment, adding
that he had no intention of dying yet awhile. The usual blend of
arrogance and blasphemy...
Yes, my husband is the only brother. It is a matter of rather less
than no interest to either of us, for Spenworth will last our time.
His constitution is proof against even his own assaults on it.
Besides, one would hate the idea of waiting to step into a dead man's
shoes... So really the heir is Will, but _he_ is in no hurry;
Cheniston is a night-mare to him, he does not _desire_ the place.
Perhaps he dreads having to cleanse the Augean stable. You have
never stayed there, of course; I can say without unkindness that,
wherever a naked savage could have made one error in taste, poor
Kathleen has made three...
It was Will who brought the news that a divorce was pending. One
_guessed_ that Spenworth and Kathleen were living apart, but she had
let slip so many opportunities... One asked oneself what new
provocation could have roused her.
"Oh, it's a put-up job," said Will. "As Aunt Kathleen hasn't
produced a son, Spenworth wants to get free of her and marry some one
else. A man at the club told me that he was allowing her twenty
thousand a year for his liberty."
Really and truly, the interest that total strangers take in other
people's affairs the moment that sinister word "divorce" is
pronounced... Within two days the story was on every one's lips:
Spenworth was the one topic of conversation, and everything was
known. I think it is called a petition for restitution. Alas! for
twenty years it would always have been easy to produce evidence of
Spenworth's vagaries; now, I gathered, he was to "desert" Kathleen
and then refuse to obey some order to come back. I don't profess to
understand the subject; it is wholly distasteful to me...
"And what then?," I asked.
"A decree _nisi_," Will told me. "I gather my next aunt has been
chosen already."
I will not mention her name. She who marries a man that has been put
away... Perhaps I take too lofty a view of human nature, knowing my
brother-in-law as I do; but, until he _actually_ marries her, I shall
continue to look for a sign of grace.
"And now perhaps Cheniston is going to have an heir after all," said
Will.
I confess that I was thinking not at all of Cheniston at this season,
though a second marriage may revolutionize everything. The shame of
seeing my husband's elder brother, the head of an historic family, in
the Divorce Court... And already thinking of another union with
goodness knows who; and, once he begins, there is no reason why he
should ever stop. I am told that there are more than two thousand
cases waiting to be tried. The war! I always felt that you could
not have an upheaval on that scale without paying for it afterwards.
There are moments when I feel glad that my dear father did not live
to see this _bouleversement_... Mere beasts of the field...
"I cannot discuss this," I told Will.
My husband had heard the story too and was so much shocked that I
dared not allude to it. We could _do_ nothing...
I _did_ make one effort. I tried to persuade my brother to reason
with her. The opinion of an outsider--and Brackenbury has the
reputation, not perhaps very well-founded, if you consider his own
life, of being a man of the world... He would only say that, though
"dear old Spenworth" was "no end of a good fellow", he was also "no
end of a bad husband" and that, if Kathleen had had sense or spirit,
she'd have divorced him a dozen years ago. Then, against my own
inclinations, I went to see Kathleen and literally begged her to
reconsider her decision before it was too late. One might as
profitably have spoken to the dead...
She was not antagonistic in any way. Indeed, our meeting would have
been profoundly interesting, if it had not been so painful. She was
still in love with Spenworth. Men like that, dissolute and
unfaithful, seem to have an animal magnetism which holds certain
women in complete subjection. Kathleen was _miserable_ at the
thought of parting from her scamp of a husband.
"I couldn't do it if I didn't love him," she cried.
And, if you please, I was left to understand that she was effacing
herself, giving him up and making way for another woman simply
because she fancied that he would be happier. I confess I should
have had little patience with her, if she had not been so pitiable.
Life was a blank without Spenworth.
"Then why," I asked, "do you cut your own throat and drag the name of
the family through the mire? Have you _no_ sense of your position
after all these years, _no_ feeling for the rest of us?"
"It's for him," she said.
And I verily believe that, if he had told her literally to cut her
throat, she would have done it...
I have never been greatly attached to Kathleen. These backboneless,
emotional women... But I felt that _some_body must do _some_thing
for her. She came to Mount Street, and I reasoned with her again; at
Cheniston I may be less than the dust, but under my own vine and
fig-tree... In London I _have_ a certain _niche_ and I was bound to
warn her that a divorced woman is _mal vue_ in certain circles and
among certain persons who sometimes do me the honour to dine at my
house. There would be occasions on which I should be unable to
invite her. You would have said that she didn't care... She was
staying with us when the case was tried; she stayed all through the
summer, four months. No, you mustn't give me credit to which I'm not
entitled. I felt very little sympathy when she proved obdurate; but,
if one _could_ do anything to brighten her lot... I gave one or two
little parties... Trying to take her out of herself. To some extent
I succeeded. Kathleen has still the remains of good looks, though
that fair fluffiness is not a type that I admire. When I refused to
let her sit and mope in her room, she made an effort and assumed
quite an attractive appearance. Several men were impressed...
There was one in particular. I won't give you his name... And yet I
don't know why I shouldn't; if Phyllida persuades you to listen to
her story, I am sure she will spare you nothing. He was introduced
to me as Captain Laughton; and the name conveyed nothing to me until
some one reminded me of the old boy-and-girl attachment before
Kathleen married Spenworth, when this man Laughton pretended to be
heart-broken and disappeared to Central India. They had not met for
twenty years, but, when he read of the divorce proceedings, I can
only assume that he sought her out. Will met him at his club, I
think, and the man virtually invited himself to come and dine. I was
not greatly enchanted by him at our first meeting, but he was a new
interest to Kathleen (I knew nothing until _days_ afterwards when I
tackled her about her really unaccountable behaviour with him)...
And I must confess that there were moments when poor Kathleen was a
grave trial and I repented my impetuosity in asking her to stay with
us. Captain Laughton came a second time and a third. By the end of
a month he had really done us the honour to make our house his own...
There are things I can say to you that I would never breathe to a
man. I, personally, never make a mystery of my age; you will find it
in all the books, every one knows I am six years older than Arthur,
four years older than Spenworth--why conceal it? I wished Kathleen
could have been equally frank, could have seen herself as I saw her.
She is within a few months of thirty-nine, with four strapping girls;
one does expect a certain dignity and restraint at that age. I know
what you are going to say! We of the older generation _usually_
expect more than we receive. I have learnt that lesson, thank you!
Kathleen seemed to fancy that she was back in the period of this
boy-and-girl attachment to which I have alluded. She and Captain
Laughton were inseparable. He took her to _dances_ ... as if she
were eighteen! Indecent, I considered it. And I wondered what her
girls thought of their mother,--if they're capable of thinking at
all. I don't associate _brains_ with that chocolate-box beauty...
Dances, dinners, little expeditions. Every one was beginning to
smile...
"If she's not careful," Will said to me one day, "she'll cook her own
goose as well as Spenworth's."
I had to ask him to express his fears in simpler language.
"There _is_ such a person as a King's Proctor," he said, "though they
don't seem aware of it. If she plays the fool with Laughton, the
decree won't be made absolute; and she and Spenworth will be tied to
each other for the rest of their lives. That would hardly suit
_their_ book."
Do you ever feel that you have strayed into a new world? The fact of
divorce... And then this light-hearted pairing off: Spenworth with
some woman who had been setting her cap at him for years, Kathleen
with the love of her youth. They had lost all reverence for
marriage, the family; it was a game, a dance--like that figure in the
lancers, where you offer your right hand first and then your left...
I made Will explain the whole position to me again and again until I
had it quite clear in my mind. The King's Proctor, as he described
him--rather naughtily--, was "a licensed spoil-sport", who intervened
in cases where the divorce was being arranged by collusion or where
both parties had sinned.
"The office seems a sinecure," I commented.
Those two thousand petitions... They stick in my throat.
"As a rule people don't take risks," Will explained. "And it's not
often to the advantage of an outsider to come in and upset the
apple-cart. You or the guv'nor or I," he said, "could do a lot of
mischief, if we liked; but we're interested parties, and it wouldn't
look well."
I confess that I did not share his tenderness towards what is nothing
but a life of premeditated sin... Yes, I know it's _legal_, but
Parliament can make a thing legal without making it _right_. The
whole subject, however, was very distasteful, and I did not pursue
it. That night I let fall a hint to Arthur, but he was not disposed
to take any action.
"She's a bigger fool than I took her for," was all he would say.
"She's endangering her own future and Spenworth's and playing into
our hands if we chose to take advantage of our opportunity."
Whether Arthur spoke to her or not, I cannot say; but I know that she
received a very frank warning from her own solicitors. Spenworth,
too, did us the honour to write and say: "_For heaven's sake keep
that_--" I forget the actual phrasing--"_keep that man away from
Katie, or he'll do us in_." Spenworth was always noted for his
elegance of diction... If a pawn could speak, I'm sure its feelings
would be very much what mine were: pushed hither and thither in a
game that I did not begin to understand. _I_ had never asked Captain
Laughton to the house; he invited himself, and by the same token I
knew that it was no good telling him to stay away. My house was not
my own, my soul was not my own. And I had that hopeless sense that,
whatever I did, I should be wrong...
It was a trying season... Their behaviour was so extraordinary! I
pinched myself and said: "_This_ is the woman who cried to you
because she was losing Spenworth, because the light was being taken
out of her life. She was sacrificing herself to make Spenworth
happy!" I admit that I was taken in. She may have been sincere at
the time, but that is only the more discreditable. To cry for
Spenworth one day and for her Captain Laughton the next... I use the
word literally; if a single day passed without her seeing him, she
moped--for all the world like a love-sick girl who thinks her
sweetheart is tiring of her. And when they met...
I have told you that people were beginning to smile, and that should
have been humiliating enough to a woman who has achieved at least a
dignity of _position_; one said that there was nothing in it, but
that had no effect. Anything connected with divorce seems to breed a
morbid curiosity; they were being spied on, whispered about; people
who did not wait to consider that Kathleen was nearly forty assumed
that she would inevitably marry again and decided no less obstinately
that she would marry Laughton. Then the tittle-tattle press laid
hold of her. I am told that certain women, probably known to both of
us, earn a _livelihood_ by collecting gossip at one's dinner-table
and selling it at so much a scandal to these wretched papers. One is
quite defenceless... I noticed for myself--and others were
indefatigable in shewing me--little snippets saying that Lady
Spenworth and Captain Laughton had been seen at this or that garish
new restaurant. I believe that Kathleen's solicitors wrote to her a
second time...
A man at such a season does occasionally contrive to keep his head,
but Captain Laughton was no less blind and uncontrolled than
Kathleen. Will and I had arranged to go away for a few days'
motoring at the end of the summer. A car _and_ unlimited petrol--for
the first time since the war--; Sussex; the New Forest; perhaps a day
in Dorset to take luncheon with the Spokeleighs; Wiltshire,
Gloucestershire and up into Hereford. Delightful... We had planned
it months ahead--before this unhappy divorce. The problem of
Kathleen called for solution; we could not conveniently take her in
the car, and, if I left her in Mount Street, I did want to be assured
that there would be no unpleasantness...
"Captain Laughton," I said one night, when he had telephoned to know
whether he might dine. It was on the tip of my tongue to say: "My
good man, don't ask _me_! Refer your invitations to my cook..." He
was such a _boy_ that I never spoke to him as I truly honestly think
he deserved... "Captain Laughton," I said, "will you promise that,
while I'm away, you won't come here or try to see Lady Spenworth?
She is in a position," I said, "where you can easily compromise her;
a severer critic might say that you had compromised her already. If
you have her interests at heart, you have a chance of proving your
friendship to her..."
Am I unduly idealizing the past if I say that in my youth it would
have been unnecessary to speak like that to any man? Captain
Laughton was no longer a boy... Assuredly, in the school in which I
was brought up, if one _had_ spoken, one's word would have been law...
"Oh, Lady Ann, I've been talking to Kitty about that," he answered.
I think "jaunty" is the word to describe his manner; great assurance,
good humour, no thought that any one would even dream of giving him a
rebuff. "We were thinking," he continued, "that it would be such fun
if we could come too. I have a car, we wouldn't get in your way; but
we can hardly go off unattended, and I quite agree with what you say
about not compromising Kitty in London."
He took my breath away. We this, we that. Perhaps I shall take away
yours if I tell you that I acquiesced in his really impudent
proposal. Not without a struggle, you may be sure; and not without
declaring my own terms. If there were any unpleasantness, _I_ should
be held responsible. I ordained that, if I had to play the dragon, I
would be a dragon in earnest; Kathleen should come in my car, while
my Will went with Captain Laughton. Can't you picture how the other
arrangement would have worked out? The two of them mooning like
rustic lovers, forgetful of time and everything else, the car
breaking down to prolong their stolen joy... My dear, you could see
it in their faces when I launched my ultimatum...
And you could see it a hundred times a day when our tour began. Any
excuse to slip away and be together. When I suggested a _détour_ to
call on Sir Charles Spokeleigh, I was told at once that Captain
Laughton did not know him and that Kathleen disliked his wife--or had
a head-ache, I forget which. Kathleen always had a head-ache if one
suggested a little constitutional before dinner. And Captain
Laughton insisted on staying behind with her. There was no great
harm, perhaps, in an out-of-the-way village which had escaped the
contamination of the London press, but in places like Dorchester,
Gloucester, Hereford... One was known; the papers would announce us
among the new arrivals: "Lady Spenworth, Lady Ann Spenworth, Captain
Laughton..." and so on and so forth. They could not afford to take
the slightest risk. If I had yielded to their entreaties and then
the car had broken down... The King's Proctor or whoever he is would
never believe that it was an accident and that they were truly
innocent. There would be the record in the register of the hotel...
I am thankful to say that we were spared all catastrophes; and I
frankly enjoyed the tour, though it was impossible to escape a
feeling of conspiracy. The only hitch occurred at the end as we came
within thirty miles of Brackenbury. The roads there are not all that
could be desired, and I should not have contemplated for a moment the
cross-country journey, were it not that I saw an opportunity of
healing the unhappy breach with my niece Phyllida. At present she is
so terribly and unjustly bitter that there is nothing she will not
believe and say. It occurred to me that, if I, the older woman, made
the first advance... A gracious phrase or two, telling her that I
could not pass her home--my _old_ home--with the feeling that any
rancour remained... You understand. It is always worth a little
inconvenience to be gracious... And she had been speaking quite
wickedly about me...
We lunched that day at Norton and had arranged to sleep at Rugely. I
need hardly say that, when I suggested a _détour_ to Brackenbury--an
extra forty miles at most--, Kathleen discovered that she was tired
out and Captain Laughton trumped up his usual excuse that he didn't
know my brother and disliked "butting in" on strangers...
Ridiculous! I've never met a man more completely self-possessed...
For once I broke my rule and said that they might go on by themselves
and order rooms for us in Rugely. They would leave a note for us at
the General Post Office to say where we should meet them.
"Drive carefully!," Captain Laughton called out, as we started from
Norton. "It will be the devil and all, if anything happens to you."
I did not understand this new-born solicitude until my boy Will
undertook to enlighten me. And then I saw that perhaps I had been
really imprudent. After a fortnight of heart-breaking discretion, I
_had_ allowed these two feather-brained creatures to drive off
alone... If they failed to secure rooms and could not communicate
with us in time... If for any reason we did not meet at the
_rendez-vous_... I can assure you that I gave myself a headache,
just thinking of one possible disaster after another. It would _not_
have passed unnoticed; we had received ample evidence of that. Most
dreadful misconstructions would be placed on their conduct--and on
mine. The King's Proctor--really, the _name_ is so absurd; one makes
a mental picture of some strange court functionary taken straight
from the pages of that delightful Lewis Carroll book--I became
haunted by visions of the King's Proctor intervening to stay the
divorce proceedings. And then, as Will said so lucidly, Spenworth
and Kathleen would be tied to each other for the rest of their lives;
gone would be her St. Martin's summer of romance, gone would be--no,
romance is always to me a singularly beautiful word; I decline to
associate it with what my boy calls Spenworth's latest shuffle of the
matrimonial pack. The worst thing of all was that we should be held
responsible.
"I wonder what Spenworth would do if the positions were reversed,"
said Will. "If the guv'nor were elder brother and wanted an heir, if
_he_ had the chance of stopping it and keeping the inheritance for
himself... I wonder if he'd be able to resist."
"Temptation only seems strong to those who do not wish to withstand
it," I said.
Our arrival at the Hall was hardly auspicious, as my head-ache had
been growing so steadily worse that I had to ask my sister-in-law
Ruth to let me lie down if there was to be any question of my driving
on to Rugely. And, though I felt better after a cup of tea, the pain
returned when I was left for a moment with Phyllida. I sought an
opportunity for my little speech. Phyllida... It would be absurd to
feel resentment against a mere child whose nerves were obviously
unstrung, but I wondered then and I wonder now what _my_ dear mother
would have said if I had spoken, looked, behaved in such a way to
_any_ older woman. When she had _slammed_ her way out of the room, I
sank into a chair, trembling. _You_ know whether I am a limp,
nervous woman; when Ruth came in to ask--without a spice of
welcome--whether we would not stay to dinner, I was too much upset to
speak; I just nodded... If I had been stronger, I would not have
remained another moment in the house; but Will had disappeared, and I
was unequal to returning alone.
Brackenbury had the consideration to ask if I would not stay the
night. I explained the very delicate position in which we had left
Kathleen and Captain Laughton.
"Well, go if you feel up to it," said Brackenbury in what I thought
was an off-hand manner to adopt to his sister. "Or send Will, if
anybody can find what's happened to him. So long as they've _some_
one to chaperon them, they're all right."
I would have stayed if Will could have stayed with me. I would have
gone if that had been the only means of keeping by his side. Do you
know, I had the feeling that in the length and breadth of that house
he was the only one who cared whether I was well or ill, whether I
lived or died ... almost...
"I'm not sure that I _care_ to leave my mother while she's like
this," said my boy rather timidly, when he was fetched in to join the
council. It is unfashionable, I believe, for the modern son to shew
his mother any overt tenderness...
"Well, some one's got to go," said Brackenbury with unnecessary
impatience. "It's all up, if you leave those two without any one to
keep them in countenance."
"We will both go," I said.
When the car was ordered, we went into the hall and waited... After
about twenty minutes Brackenbury rang to find out the reason for the
delay. The servant came back to say that part of what I think is
called the magneto was missing. I chose my word carefully: not
"injured" or "worn-out," but "missing"--as though some one had
invaded the garage and removed the requisite part...
Brackenbury seemed to lose his head altogether.
"It's ten o'clock," he roared. "If you don't get to Hugely by
mid-night, can't you see that you'll be too late to stop a scandal?
If you _want_ to stay the divorce, say so at once, say that you're
scheming to tie up Spenworth in your own interests; and, by God, if
it comes off, _I_'ll say it until every decent man and woman will
walk out of a room when any of your gang come into it... Phyllida,"
he shouted. "Order your car! Will can drive it..."
"Aren't you afraid he may lose his way?," asked Phyllida.
I don't attempt to reproduce her voice... It was silky ... oh, and
wicked! I _tell_ myself not to mind, I try to remember that she was
overwrought and that her father was a criminal not to insist on her
going away. Phyllida was deliberately charging us with a conspiracy
to interrupt the divorce proceedings so that in time--goodness me,
when Arthur and I are dead and buried!--our boy Will might succeed.
Cheniston is a noble seat; the Spenworth title is old and was once
honoured; but neither for my husband nor my son do I want them--at
that cost.
I said nothing... I believe I murmured to myself: "You wicked
child"; but, literally, I couldn't speak. I couldn't see ... or
hear. Brackenbury was making furious arrangements. As in a dream I
saw Ruth being wrapped in a fur-coat... A car came to the door and
drove away... I asked my boy to ascertain which was my room and to
lend me the support of his arm up the stairs...
Ruth telegraphed next day from Rugely--just two words--"_All well_."
...
Will and I returned to London by train. Phyllida was in the hall,
reading the telegram, as I appeared.
"It nearly came off," she said. "I'm sorry--for your sake--that
you've had a disappointment. Time, you will find, works wonders; and
some day, perhaps, you will be more grateful than I can expect to
find you now. If I were you, I would go right away..."
What she _intended_ to convey I have no more idea than the man in the
moon... The night before, her meaning was _never_ in doubt; and I am
waiting for her to put it into words, to charge Will or me or both of
us with deliberately damaging our car...
But you will see that anything she says in her present state, poor
child, must be accepted with charitable reserve.
IV
LADY ANN SPENWORTH IS CONTENT WITH A LITTLE MUSIC
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): I am easily
satisfied, I ask for nothing better than a little music after dinner.
If only the rising generation were _rather_ less self-conscious...
When I was a girl, it was a law of the Medes and Persians that, if
any one asked us to play or sing, we at _once_ complied. None of
this modern absurdity of not playing in public, insisting on the hush
of the grave, looking round the room first to see if by chance there
is some great _maestro_ present... When I tell you that I once sang
before Jenny Lind, being too young and ignorant to know who she
was... And no one could have been sweeter...
I am not a musician in any sense of the word. (I am almost tempted
to add: "Thank goodness!") When one sees and hears the devotees at
Covent Garden, talking a language of their own which I am quite sure
half of them don't understand, ready to set one right in a moment if
one _presumes_ to offer an opinion... If any one said to me: "I want
to be a social success and I don't know how to begin," I should
answer: "Learn the musical jargon and use it _rudely_, especially to
people who for one reason or another have not had to _fight_ their
way into any little _niche_ that they may occupy." I won't mention
names... But I see you have guessed! And do you not agree? That
man, for all his millions, would be received _nowhere_ but for his
alleged love of music; but take a double box at the opera, go every
night, allow yourself to be seen at all the concerts, give immense
parties of your own, support and bring out three new geniuses a
month--everything is forgiven you!
I did not know him before the war ... when, by the way, I understand
he passed by the name of Sir Adolf Erckmann. One saw, indeed, his
not very prepossessing beard and bald head protruding from his box--a
red, anxious face and single eye-glass, positively _scattering_ bows
right and left at the people he had succeeded in getting to know in
his upward progress. Originally, I believe, a German-Jewish banker,
with immense interests of all kinds in every part of the world and a
very unsavoury domestic reputation. He was nothing to me, nor I to
him; and it would have been no true kindness for me to "take him up,"
as Connie Maitland was always urging me to do. No doubt we should
have been surfeited with invitations to Westbourne Terrace and Rock
Hill; but we are not _yet_ reduced to scouring London for free meals,
like some people we could think of, and, without being cynical, I
always felt that the Erckmanns would try to use us as a means of
getting to know Spenworth and Brackenbury so that in time their
triumphal progress might carry them to Cheniston and the Hall. If I
could have done any good, it would have been a different matter; but
you remember the Erckmanns were a test-case before the war, in the
days when the energy of Christine Malleson and my Lady Maitland and
the rest had broken down so many barriers which hitherto had been at
least a convenience. Not only Spenworth and Brackenbury, but a dozen
more as good as said that they could not continue to know me if I
consented to know Erckmann...
When the war came, things materially altered. The Erckmanns
vanished--in every sense of the word. The old friends, who had
_plagued_ me to receive him, now denied with cursing and swearing, as
it were, saying: "I know not the man." One or two of the radical
papers made a bitter personal attack on him because harmless German
hair-dressers and waiters were being interned while this wealthy
international financier, who _was_ in a position to collect
information and influence opinion, was left at large, thanks to
highly-placed friends and a title. They said that some of the
Cabinet were absolutely dependent on him... Though I saw nothing of
the man, I could not help hearing of him, for the mob broke his
windows in Westbourne Terrace whenever there was an air-raid; they
said he was shewing lights to guide the Zeppelins to Paddington.
Whether there was a _word_ of truth in it I can't say... And, when
he erected an enormous hospital at Rock Hill, even this was not
accounted to him for righteousness: the men there held him to ransom,
his own patients. Some one would whisper that he had a secret
wireless apparatus on his roof; and immediately Sir Adolf would build
another ward or a recreation-room or a picture theatre...
And in another sense they disappeared: as Will said, "Plant an
Erckmann in England, and up comes an Erskine." Poor souls, if they
had changed their names _before_ the war and if some one could have
performed an operation to rid Sir Adolphus of that appalling guttural
accent... I really began to feel sorry for them when all their
friends--led, if you please, by my Lady Maitland--turned the cold
shoulder. "Satisfy me," I said to Arthur, "that he is a truly loyal
subject, and I should like to see if I could not shew him a little
kindness."
"He's a noxious creature," said Arthur with his usual intolerance,
"but all these stories of spying and of blackmailing ministers are
sheer flumdiddle. It isn't worth his while. Whoever wins, Erskine
will make money. He's technically loyal; but he's a man without
patriotism, because the whole world is his country. For the Lord's
sake, don't throw _your_ mantle over him; as long as there _are_
national distinctions, I object to the way these international Jew
financiers settle in England for their own convenience."
"I am not," I said, "concerned with that. You may be right. Perhaps
we should all of us have done better to hold aloof and offer him no
welcome at the outset. But, do you know, I feel a certain
responsibility? _Having_ been received here, having _poured_ money
like water into the pockets of his so-called friends, will he not
form a low view of our sincerity and goodwill if every one abandons
him at a time like this? I am disinterested: we have accepted
nothing from him, we can look to him for nothing; but there is a
reproach which I feel it my duty to remove."
I could not make Arthur see that people like Connie Maitland, _liée_
with the poor man one moment and throwing him to the wolves the
next... We are not _all_ of us like that in England.
"Well, for Heaven's sake, don't ask him when _I'm_ here," was the
utmost encouragement I got from my husband.
Truly honestly, I think this stubborn opposition drove me perhaps
farther than I had first intended to go. A day or two later I found
myself in the same house as Sir Adolphus and I _spoke_ to him...
"You," I said, "do not know me; and I only know you by sight, though
I have long been acquainted with your record of generous support to
the cause of music. Will you allow a total stranger to tell you her
disgust with the venomous attacks which have been made on you since
the beginning of the war?"
Little enough, you may think; but I believe those were the first kind
words that he had heard for three or four years. The man is _not_
prepossessing, but we formed quite a friendship...
"Will not you and Lady Erskine," I said, "come and dine with me some
night? I am not in a position to _entertain_ in any sense of the
word; my boy is at the front, my husband is away on business; but
perhaps, if a family party would not bore you..."
Though I _called_ myself a total stranger, he knew very well who I
was; indeed he told me that he had always wanted to meet Brackenbury
and Spenworth (the Cheniston Romneys were, of course, his excuse)...
We arranged a night ... though, when the time came, there was not
more than the three of us. My relations with Spenworth are not so
cordial that I derive the least pleasure from seeing him at my table;
and one truly honestly _never_ knows how he is going to behave.
Brackenbury... If you do not want to accept an invitation, it is
surely possible to decline it _civilly_...
"_That_ fellow!," cried Brackenbury. "He ought to be interned."
"You really must not talk such nonsense," I said. "He is as loyal as
you are."
"I wouldn't touch him with a pole _before_ the war," said Brackenbury
with his wonted elegance. "But _now_, when even his best friends
refuse to meet him--"
"Exactly," I interrupted. "You would like him to feel that that is
our standard of sincerity and good-will."
"But how is it _your_ concern?," he asked. "You've kept clear of
that gang in the past, so why dirty your hands with it now? If you
fancy you're going to get money out of him, or a job for Will, I warn
you that you're no match for him. He'll _use_ you readily enough,
but he never does anything for anybody without looking for a return.
We don't _want_ these gentry in England."
"I met him," I answered. "I liked him, I was _sorry_ for him. And,
if I try to shew him a little kindness, I really cannot allow you,
Brackenbury, to make yourself a ruler and a judge. Do I gather that
you and Ruth would prefer _not_ to dine?"
"If it's money you want, I'd almost pay you not to meet him.
_That's_ how I feel about it."
All this, you understand, about a man he hardly knew by sight! ... I
found it in my heart to wish that Brackenbury _had_ been present when
the Erskines dined. _Nothing_ could have been more charming. He
talked too wonderfully about music; I asked him a little about
himself, _he_ asked me about _my_self--that delightful first exchange
when you are laying the foundations of friendship. Having no
children himself, he was of course most anxious to hear about
Will--what he had done before the war, where he was in France at
present, what he proposed to do when the war was over... As _he_ had
introduced the subject, I told him frankly that I found great
difficulty in making up my mind and should be truly grateful if he
would tell me, from his _very_ wide experience, what he considered
most hopeful. He promised to let me know; and, a few days later,
when I was dining with him, he asked whether I expected Will home any
time soon on leave, as he always had a certain number of openings in
his own various businesses. This from the man who never did anything
for anybody unless he expected a rich return, the man who _used_
people but never allowed any one to use _him_... I had _asked_ for
nothing; in my haste I had told Arthur that we could _look_ to him
for nothing. And if you knew; the long agony of anxiety that I have
endured... I may say, ever since we took Will away from Eton. I
have seen my darling home in Mount Street threatened... The war was
a god-send: _some_thing to keep him occupied, a _little_
pocket-money; and, so long as he was not in danger, I prayed for it
to go on...
"My dear Sir Adolphus," I said, "the _first_ time he comes home you
shall meet him."
That was in October. Suddenly, lo and behold! the armistice was upon
us, and the whole _world_ was looking out for jobs. I laboured and
_strove_ to bring Will home; and, the moment he arrived, I invited
Sir Adolphus to dine. He telegraphed that he was at Rock Hill, but
could we not spend a few days with him there? My maid was out. I
began to pack with trembling fingers...
Is it not curious that difficulties always seem to come from the
_least_ expected quarter? Here was Will's whole future secured; he
had woken up, as it were, with a golden spoon in his mouth. My dear,
I had the _utmost_ difficulty in persuading him to come at all. What
he wanted was a holiday, he said; after all he had gone through, he
was entitled to a good time. And, though he had never met the
Erskines, he had formed an unreasoning prejudice against them which
was incomprehensible in any one of his breadth of mind... I do
assure you that we reached a deadlock.
"Will," I said very firmly, "I _ask_ you to come."
"And I refuse point-blank," he answered.
"You will be sorry for it later," I warned him, "when the opportunity
has slipped beyond recall."
"Something will turn up," he predicted. Then, perhaps, he saw how
his refusal was paining me, for he added: "I've fixed up with some
fellows weeks ago that we'd all meet and see life." ...
I had already begun a letter to Lady Erskine, asking if we might
postpone our visit for a day or two, when Will came in--very much
upset--to say that his friends had broken faith with him; one had
already gone to the country, the other two were busy presenting
letters of introduction and arranging interviews... As if I had not
known all along that, the moment war was over, the whole world would
begin looking for jobs...
"_Now_," I said, "you can have no objection to accepting the
Erskines' invitation."
"Barring that I don't want to go," Will rejoined. "I draw the line
at Jews at all times and I don't in the least want to start work till
I've had a holiday."
"But others are already in the field," I urged. Lady Maitland shewed
the sublime assurance to reestablish communications and to ask Sir
Adolphus, in the name of their _old friendship_, to find an opening
for her second boy! "You can have all the holidays you want later."
To my delight I saw Will weakening.
"What's the management like?," he asked.
"Oh, my dear, everything is incredibly perfect. The house, the food,
the music--"
"You may 'ave the music--fer me," said Will. (It was some allusion
which I did not understand.) "Oh, all right! I'll come. But I
intend to have my fun out of it."
You have stayed at Rock Hill? No? Well, I am not exaggerating when
I use the word "perfection." A seventeenth-century Italian palace
with gardens that put Cheniston and my brother-in-law Spenworth to
_shame_; pictures that one somehow always thought were in the
National Gallery... And, if you care for material comfort, as--I am
not ashamed to say--I _do_, not having enjoyed enough of it to become
_blasée_... "If you cannot be rich yourself, know plenty of rich
people," as Will said the first night... In jest, of course...
If I wanted to make a criticism, I should say that Lady Erskine might
have chosen her party on less catholic lines. As patron of the arts,
Sir Adolphus is of course brought into contact with an entire world
of artists, musicians, actors and the like which is outside my ken.
He confessed that he liked "mixing people up" and trying to break
down the very rigid barriers which separate the artistic people from
the rest of us. I have not the slightest objection to that _on
principle_, but, when it necessitates meeting a number of half-naked
young actresses who truly honestly have no place in the artistic or
any other world... And when they are allowed to set the tone of the
house...
I reminded myself that, with the exception of Brackenbury Hall, I had
not stayed in a country-house for I don't know how long. Nothing, I
determined, should surprise me; in Rome... And so forth and so on.
We arrived in time for dinner, and almost the first thing I knew was
that Sir Adolphus was pressing upon me something which I think he
called a "Maiden's Sigh", which of course I imagined was the
well-known hock of that name. _Why_ hock before dinner? Sherry, if
you like... But I had determined that nothing should surprise me. I
drank it--what it contained, I do not know, but it was cold and, I
suppose, very strong, for it went _straight_ to my head! I could
drink _nothing_ at dinner until I had consumed an entire tumbler of
cold water. Indeed, I hardly knew what I was saying, but Sir
Adolphus was talking so interestingly about Rossini that I only
wanted to listen... Later, when I had proved myself a good listener,
it would be my turn to talk about Will...
Now, you dine out very much more than I do. On those _rare_
occasions when you meet somebody who _can_ talk, is it not
heart-breaking to have the conversation interrupted before you have
half finished it? In the old days, when one turned like an automaton
to one's other-hand neighbour half-way through dinner, it was
sufficiently exasperating; but one _did_ hope that, if one had not
wearied one's companion too unwarrantably, he would come up in the
drawing-room and resume what he had been saying. Nowadays dinner is
little more than a bribe offered to so many women and men to induce
them to play bridge with _you_ rather than with some one _else_. The
tables were already set, when we left the dining-room; Lady Erskine's
last words were: "You won't be long, will you?"
I do not play. Even in old days I never mastered whist. And I hope
you will not cry "Sour grapes", if I say that I do not _wish_ to
learn. I ask nothing better than a little music after dinner. If
not too modern, it does not interfere with conversation, whereas the
sight of a card-table freezes the most eloquent lips...
"What about a rubber before the others come up?," asked one of these
young actresses. I had not caught her name and perhaps I am doing
her a grave injustice; but, if I had not Lady Erskine's implied
guarantee, I should have considered her... Well, let me say I should
have been _very_ much surprised at being asked to meet her...
"I am afraid you must not count on me," I said.
The young woman reckoned up the numbers present and asked:
"What about poker, then?"
Here, I am thankful to say, Lady Erskine came to my rescue, and we
contrived to exist with nothing more exciting than conversation until
the men joined us. Then, I think, something must have been whispered
to Sir Adolphus, for he said:
"I don't think we'll have any cards to-night; they're so unsociable."
Now, I wanted, above all things, to draw Will and Sir Adolphus
together and allow them to become better acquainted. And Sir
Adolphus, I knew, wished to talk to me, for he had begun to ask at
dinner whether I thought it would interest Spenworth to see his
pictures. I therefore suggested that, if _I_ might express a wish,
it would be for a little music. Sir Adolphus assented at once and
asked one of these rather ambiguous young women to play, while I made
room for him on the sofa and beckoned to Will. The Maitland boy--it
was _not_ very tactful of the Erskines--had been invited for the same
week-end, but he was mooning about like a lost soul, looking at the
pictures and talking to Lady Erskine...
"You asked me," I began, "to contrive a meeting--"
"Won't you wait until this is over?," suggested Sir Adolphus, with a
nod towards the piano.
"I don't mind it," I said. "Now, Will has been away at the war since
the beginning of 1916..." I won't weary _you_, but I gave him a
little account of my boy's work on the staff, what were his tastes
and ambitions ... and so on and so forth. I really don't know what
this girl had begun to play, but she must have changed suddenly, for
the noise became deafening... "I really can't talk against that," I
protested.
Sir Adolphus went to the piano and whispered something, but the noise
only increased.
"And she can't play against your talking," shouted Will. "That's
Elsie Creyne, in case you don't know, and I'll bet she doesn't much
care about people talking when she's playing. I've been watching her
to see what would happen."
"Then I think, in ordinary kindness, you might have warned me," I
said. "_I_ have no wish to hurt the young woman's feelings."
"I thought it might be rather a rag," was all Will would say. "I'm
rather bored with this place. I kept going at dinner because there
was plenty of champagne; but, if somebody doesn't do something, I
shall have to brighten things up by pulling old Herr von Erckmann's
leg. He had the cheek to criticize the staff at the end of dinner; I
switched the conversation on to repatriation of aliens, but I haven't
done with him yet."
It is this boyish irresponsibility that may be Will's undoing!
_Mere_ high spirits... Before I could utter a word of warning, the
music had changed again, every one was dancing and Will had jumped up
to join them. I looked on--and marvelled; I had not seen any of
these modern dances. And, when I could bear it no longer, I turned
my back and began reading a paper...
That did in _time_ have an effect; or perhaps they merely tired of
their revels. But truly honestly, if _I_ had not made a protest,
_no_ one would. Nothing was said, but there was what I can only call
an atmosphere of guilt. Then Sir Adolphus discovered that dancing,
too, was "unsociable" and enquired whether there was not something
that we could _all_ do...
Goodness me, are we so bankrupt in intelligence that we need to be
given childish games to help us kill time? Has conversation died out
in England? And you will remember that I was being invited to meet
"artists" of every shape and size, who are never so happy as when
they are sneering at the uncultured Philistines. These "artists",
apparently, unless you encouraged them to dance or gave them rattles,
would have sat down and cried. The others--including, I am sorry to
say, Will, who was quite carried away by them--walked about saying
very loudly "What I want is a drink." ...
And I had not had a word alone with Sir Adolphus...
"What about Consequences?," asked some one.
We live and learn, as they say. I have discovered from my experience
that week-end that a certain class cannot make a suggestion or ask a
question without introducing it with the words "What about." ... They
put me on my guard now; I feel, when I hear them, that I know where I
am... But can you imagine a greater confession of failure than to
propose such a game to fifteen or twenty grown men and women,
all--presumably--in possession of their faculties?
"What about Characters?," asked some one else. "That knocks spots
off Consequences."
I give you their _argot_ in all its native elegance. You surely
would not have me paint the lily...
Before one had time to enquire or protest, one had been set at a
table and furnished with a pencil while the rules were explained. A
list of qualities, characteristics, whatever you like to call them,
was written down; a name was chosen, and we had each of us to award
marks. Thus: you might choose the Prime Minister and set out your
qualities--statesmanship, force, honesty, courage, eloquence,
amiability, good looks, personal charm and so on and so forth; each
of us had ten marks for each quality, and, if you liked, you might
give two for statesmanship and four for eloquence and ten for
courage; then, when we had all expressed our opinion--it was in
secret, and no one saw what marks any one else was allotting--the
totals were added and read out. That was the man's "character." ...
An absurd game! But, as they were too unintelligent to talk and too
disobliging to play or sing... Will was writing down the questions,
and there seems no limit to the number that may be asked.
"And what is to be the first name?" I enquired.
"Oh, it doesn't matter," he said. "You must take the whole lot in
turn. Begin with me, if you like."
Then indeed I _had_ to make a protest. I had never imagined that we
were to play with the names of the people actually in the room at
that moment! More _execrable_ taste... I was only thankful that
Will had not proposed so detestable a game and was sorry to see him
taking such a lead in it. Personalities of all kinds I abominate;
there is a new school of humour which fancies that it has been very
clever when people of better breeding would only say that it had been
unpardonably rude. Spenworth? Exactly! You could not have chosen a
better example. And games of this kind always end in one way...
"Surely," I pleaded, "we need not run the risk of hurting any one's
feelings. If you take people who are known to us all by
_reputation_..."
"Oh, it's much more fun this way," I was assured by Will. "And
there's no need for any one to be offended; all the questions are
about _good_ qualities--charm and eloquence and so forth. If you
think I have no charm, shove down a nought; that's much better than
having 'Bad temper' and being given ten marks for it by everybody.
I'll start, anyway, to give you all confidence."
I _ought_ to have resisted more strongly, but I could not let them
feel that I was what Will calls a "wet blanket" to everything they
proposed. Already they had abandoned cards and interrupted their
dancing out of deference to me... We began to play, and I confess
that I found the game _mercilessly_ tiresome. Imagine! A list of
thirty or forty questions, which you had to answer fourteen or
fifteen times over! Then a pause, while the papers were collected
and the marks added; then the totals and a great deal of discussion
and laughter and sometimes rather ill-natured facetiousness. And
then the whole thing over again!
It would have been wearisome enough if they had played
conscientiously; but, when the game was treated as a joke or a means
of being malicious in secret, it was sheer waste of time. When my
turn came, I was let off with quite a good character; but I am not
vain enough to attribute this to anything more than luck or
carelessness. I was not one of the _intimates_; they were in a hurry
to put down any marks anywhere and move on to their next victim. At
the same time I found it _exceedingly_ unpleasant when the totals
were read out--or, let me say, it _would_ have been unpleasant if the
whole game had not been so ridiculous. A hundred and fifty marks was
the maximum; and, when "Love of Music" was given, I found that I had
been accorded--twenty! I, who had been clamouring for music when
every one else wanted to gamble or indulge in negro dances... And I
have no doubt that I am indebted for the _princely_ total of twenty
to the chivalry of my host and hostess, who could not very well
criticize a guest--at least on that score... Will? You think that
Will came to my support? I do not know what had overtaken him that
night; his surroundings reacted on him until he was unrecognizable.
When we reached "Sense of Humour", he called out:
"Oh, I say, here's a lark! 'Sense of Humour; grand total, nought.'"
All I can say is, I was glad to have enough humour to see the
absurdity and to join in the general laugh. But I was furious with
Will...
You might have thought that, after I had been pilloried and held up
to the scorn of young women whom I would not allow to enter my
back-door, artists or no artists, I might have been suffered to go to
bed. But no! That would upset the totals! I must stay to the
bitter end, though my head was aching with fatigue and I could see
that the game was growing more and more ill-natured...
I heaved a sigh when we reached Sir Adolf, for his name completed the
circle. I don't know whether the others were even trying to give an
honest opinion, but I did my best according to my lights. "Good
looks"? I really think he would be the first to admit that he is not
prepossessing. "Moral character"? I'm not a scandal-monger, I hope,
but he _has_ been twice divorced. "Loyalty"? I gave him full marks
for that; otherwise I should not have been staying in his house.
"Hospitality"? He meant well, but a _guest_ has _certain_ moral
claims; I could only give him two for hospitality. "Love of Music"?
Five for that, so far as I remember. "Sense of Humour"? _Nought_!
I _couldn't_ give him any marks for humour. "Amiability"? ... But I
cannot recall the questions; there were nearly forty of them.
I sighed again when Will collected the papers and added the totals.
Then came the reading. My dear, I had been led to suppose that what
we had written was all in secret, but I _felt_ that Sir Adolphus was
guessing how we had marked him. "Good looks"? He received nothing
for that, not a single mark from the fifteen of us who were eating
his food and drinking his wine. "Amiability"? About twenty,
obviously given him by his wife and the Maitland boy, who was _very_
busy ingratiating himself; or perhaps by one of those ambiguous young
women who seemed to be on terms of such extraordinary _freedom_ with
him... "Humour"? Four or five. "Honesty"? Not more than fifteen
or twenty. It was too terrible! He tried to laugh it off; but, when
he got _no_ marks, we were _all_ exposed, and I saw him glaring at
one after another. And there was one question--"Personal Charm", I
think--when Will read out "_Minus ten_." ...
I _knew_ it would happen. There always is some kind of
unpleasantness when you begin playing with personalities and taking
risks with other people's feelings. I don't think I have ever spent
a more _distressing_ quarter of an hour. Oh, I was thankful when he
said:
"Well, so that's what you all think of me, hein? We-ell, what about
a drink, what?"
I felt--we _all_ felt--that he was really taking it in very good
part... The men trooped off to a side-table. I made my way to Will
in the hope of whispering just a word... He _had_ rather taken the
lead in this ridiculous game, and I wished him to be _extra_ sweet to
the Erskines for the rest of our visit...
"Well, _I_ call it rather a frost," I heard him say, as I drew near.
"I'd back 'Characters' to break up any house-party in England, but
everybody's taken it lying down to-night..."
I was _distressed_, for I really thought we had narrowly escaped some
great unpleasantness. And then I found that we had not escaped it
after all. Sir Adolphus came up to see that the others were looking
after me properly and asked if he might have back the pencil that he
had lent me. I surrendered it, he looked at it, pocketed it--and
passed on. The others surrendered theirs, he looked at them... Then
he came to Will...
"I was just wondering," I heard him say.
"Wondering what?," asked Will.