nought for 'Loyalty', nought for 'Honesty', nought even for
'Hospitality' ... Just wondering."
"It's a secret ballot," said Will.
"Some one gave me nought for everything except 'Personal Charm', and
there I received _minus_ ten... I was wondering who it was."
"D'you suggest I did it?," asked Will.
"Oh, I respect the secrecy of the ballot," answered Sir Adolf. "But
I noticed that you were using an indelible-ink pencil and I was
clumsy enough to spill some soda-water over some of the papers,
including the only one written with an indelible-ink pencil... But
it is all a game, is it not?"
I have never felt so uncomfortable. Sir Adolphus said nothing more;
he and Lady Erskine were _too_ sweet for the rest of the time we were
at Rock Hill. But I felt--perhaps quite wrongly--that I _could_ not
place myself under an obligation to him, I could not _invite_ a
rebuff...
Will was in no sense of the word to blame. It was entirely my fault
for not protesting more vigorously against a game in which there
would inevitably be _some_ unpleasantness, _some_ one's feelings
hurt. If we had been treated as rational beings and allowed to
talk... Or music. I am easily satisfied, I ask for nothing better
than a little music... If only the rising generation were _rather_
less self-conscious...
V
LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFUSES TO BECOME A MATCH-MAKER
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): If you will give me
a moment to set my thoughts in order, I think I can furnish the whole
story. Indeed, if you are to skate in safety this week-end at
Brackenbury, it is well to know where the ice will bear... Goodness
me, I don't suggest for a moment that there is anything to
_conceal_--I can assure you I should have had something to say before
ever receiving the girl or allowing my nephew Culroyd to meet her--my
boy Will can take care of himself--; I meant that there is so little
to tell. Surdan the name is; Hilda Surdan--and no relation to our
dear old admiral, nor to the Lacey-Surdans, nor to that wild,
eccentric tribe of Surdans who have spread over so much of Mayo...
If I may give you a hint, that is just the sort of question that you
have so particularly to avoid. I've no doubt that in a few years
they will have concocted a most convincing pedigree, linking
themselves to all and sundry, but the idea has not occurred to them
yet...
Homely, unspoiled people I thought them... The mother _very_
capable, but endearing... Immensely rich--I believe it is shipping,
but the history books are silent... Have you observed a significant
change in the biographies of the present day? We are always plunged
into the heart of things, as it were: "_called to the bar in
seventy-something, under-secretary for this or that, entered the
cabinet as secretary for the other and, on retiring, was raised to
the peerage with the title of_"--something _rather_ far-fetched and
pretentious, as a rule. After that it's plain sailing. But, if one
suggests that even a successful barrister must have had some kind of
father and mother, one is considered to have been _tactless_... I
_believe_ it was shipping... They talked a great deal about "yards",
which one always associates with that sort of thing.
I met Mrs. Surdan on one of my committees during the war. When my
niece Phyllida was working at that hospital, she befriended the
girl--Hilda--; and Mrs. Surdan made this an excuse for introducing
herself. I recognized her at once as one of the nameless, efficient
women who impose their wills on a committee; earnest and
hard-working, but occasionally rather difficult, with their assurance
and massed information. One feels that there is no subject on which
they will not put one right if one has the temerity to open one's
mouth. Judge of my surprise when Mrs. Surdan wrote that she would
like to come and ask my advice. _My_ advice!
"This is your lucky day," said Will, when I shewed him the letter.
"Perhaps they want a house in London for the season."
Until that moment I had thought of telling this Mrs. Surdan I was so
busy that we must really postpone our meeting. Will's quick brain
warned me to do nothing hasty. I don't know, whether you _remember_
the condition of Mount Street; we had not touched the house, inside
or out, since the beginning of the war; and, whenever I spoke to my
husband, he put his hands in his pockets and said: "Will you please
tell me where the money's coming from?" I'm not going to burden you
with my own sordid cares; but we are _not_ well-off, and, what with
taxation and the rise in prices, Mount Street is rather a
responsibility. I retain it because it is my frame and setting; any
little _niche_ that I may occupy is in Mount Street; and, when I part
with the house, you may feel that I have indeed abdicated. This
morning my tea was brought me on the tray that the princess gave me
as a wedding-present. But you know: the house is a museum of
memories... But it is a responsibility. Arthur's directorships are
good so far as they go, but he says there is a reaction against what
he calls "figure-head directors". Will is not yet earning anything;
and I was cruelly disappointed by Sir Adolphus Erskine when I
approached him for an appointment... So our income is _not_
increasing, and the cost of living _is_...
I told Mrs. Surdan that I should be delighted to see her at any time.
Arthur saw at _once_ the desirability of considering a good offer...
"She can have this place for the season," he said, "or for eternity.
_With_ the plate and linen. _And_ the servants. And _Will_, if
she'll take him."
When Arthur speaks like that, I never argue with him. It is
curious--one has seen the same thing a thousand times between mothers
and daughters, but men always pride themselves on being _un_petty--;
Arthur is _really_ jealous of his own son. If Will and he are left
together for any time, Arthur becomes a different man, querulous,
impossible to please. With his directorships and his clubs and his
journeys to and fro, my husband--as you must have seen--does not give
me very much of his society; I am left to support the burden of
domestic empire single-handed, but, when Will is at home, I am _glad_
for Arthur to be away. When our boy applied for a commission, all
that Arthur would say was, why hadn't he applied for it before? When
he joined the staff, why hadn't he _refused_ to join the staff? When
he left it, why hadn't he _stayed_ there? _Picking_ a quarrel... If
only I could find him some suitable employment! But when a man like
Erskine or Erckmann or whatever his name is... A broken reed, a mere
"climber" who hoped to _use_ me for securing an invitation to
Cheniston and the delectable friendship of my brother-in-law
Spenworth... I have lost the thread...
Ah, yes! For all its shabbiness, the dear old house looked more than
attractive when Mrs. Surdan arrived for dinner. Just the two of
us... I always think tea is such an inhospitable meal, and luncheon
is hardly practicable when every gleam of sunlight shews you
something more to be patched and painted... As a matter of fact I
might have spared my pains, for she was not interested in the house.
"Now, Lady Ann," she said, with the brisk, efficient manner which
always rather puts me on my guard. "Let's come to business. I want
your advice. My husband has closed down his department and is going
north immediately. I shall go with him, of course, and I want to
know what you would advise me to do with Hilda. After all the work
she's done in hospital I should like her to have a few months'
complete holiday and to enjoy herself, but obviously I want to
entrust her to some one who _will_ look after her. Hilda is a
thoroughly sensible girl, but London is a big place, and I suppose
there is no harm in saying that she _is_ very attractive and will
have a good deal of money later on. You know far better than I do
the importance of her meeting the _right_ people. What do you
suggest?"
Now, do you know, I felt so certain what she _wanted_ me to suggest
that it was on the tip of my tongue to read her one of those
abominable advertisements in the morning papers: "_A Lady of Title is
willing to chaperon a young girl; introductions..._" and so forth and
so on. People putting any position they may have up to _auction_!
Are you surprised that London is _what_ it is? I have always
wondered, when I see the really and truly _inexplicable_ young women
with whom Connie Maitland is _liée_ from time to time, whether _she_
augments her income in this way. Otherwise I fail to understand how
she keeps on that great house in Eaton Place and entertains as she
does. But that is _her_ business... If Mrs. Surdan had dared to
propose such a thing, I really think I should have asked her to leave
the house...
"Surely," I said, "_you_ are the best person to look after Hilda. I
go out very little; but, so far as I can judge, there is never any
difficulty about getting to know people in London. If you were to
take a house in some good neighbourhood and entertain a certain
amount--"
"I should only be a handicap to Hilda," she interrupted.
Do you know, I thought that _dear_ of her... It is the Lancashire
"burr", is it not? She had that--not disagreeably, but it was there.
And her directness, never rounding the edge of anything she said...
The girl, you will find, has been polished without being made
genteel. If you catch them young, a good school ... or a governess
whose ear has been trained to detect and suppress those tell-tale
oddities of speech... But you don't often find a mother with the
wisdom to recognize that and keep herself out of sight...
"I don't know _what_ to recommend," I said. "It would be no kindness
to ask her to stay here. I am a dull old woman; there are no girls
to keep her company; and my husband and I have long found that, in
entertaining, it is useless to compete with those who think in pounds
when we are forced to think in pennies."
"I should like Hilda to enjoy herself," said Mrs. Surdan. "If some
one entertained on her behalf... I should like her to be given a
ball, for instance... But, of course, it wouldn't be fair to ask
_you_."
"It wouldn't be fair on Hilda," I said.
"May Hilda's parents not judge of that?," she asked.
A woman with a quite _conquering_ smile... I wish you had met her.
It was really like a struggle not to be first through the door...
"If Hilda would _care_ to come," I said at length, "as my _guest_..."
"I can never thank you enough," said Mrs. Surdan. "She is very
tractable. Young, of course... And inexperienced about money..."
The best method of control, she thought, would be for me to suggest a
sum which would cover all her expenses of every kind and for her
husband to pay that into my account... "Hilda's pocket-money," we
agreed to call it...
It seemed an admirable arrangement, but then Mrs. Surdan has the
_practical_ brain of a man in some ways...
I took Arthur completely into my confidence...
Will...
I had great difficulty in deciding on the right method of approach
with Will. State the bald fact that the girl was coming--irrevocably
and without appeal; Will might have taken a dislike to her and made
my already difficult task harder. Make any mystery about it, and she
might have become the fruit of the one forbidden tree, as it were, a
sort of morbid craving. And that was the last thing I wanted... In
the end I told him frankly: she was young, pretty and the only child
of very rich parents who wanted to launch her on "the great world",
as the literary people call it...
"And I expect you to help me," I told Will. "I don't _know_ the
young men of the present day."
"I must have a look at her before I wish her on to any of my
friends," said Will, not very encouragingly.
You know, there are some people who feel they owe themselves a
grumble... As soon as Hilda arrived, Will behaved charmingly. You
have seen her about in London, I expect? Oh, well, she is _really_
pretty: small, exquisitely finished, with that
"look-you-straight-in-the-eyes" air which so many girls seem to have
acquired during the war. I felt--_pace_ her mother--that she was
thoroughly well able to take care of herself. Except, perhaps, in
dress. The first night she came down in a frock which hardly reached
her knees and seemed to stop short at the waist--bare arms, bare
shoulders, bare back; I was quite shocked for a moment when Will came
into the drawing-room without knocking... However, so long as it did
not set him against her... You see, I was simply not equal to taking
her out to daily luncheons, dinners, plays, dances; inevitably a good
deal devolved on Will, but he was truly sweet about it... Seeing how
_répandu_ he is...
At the same time, I was in a difficult position, for, while I never
_dreamed_ he would look at her as a wife, I should have liked him to
establish some sort of claim on the girl's father; and, if Will did
not marry her, I was not doing much to help the Surdan fortunes. You
know what men are! So long as Will was considered her natural
protector, the others kept away for fear of "poaching", as it were.
I felt it was a pity for them to be about together so much. I'm not
ashamed to call myself old-fashioned... And these garish new
restaurants and poor Hilda's "uniform undress", as Will rather
wittily expressed it, made them very conspicuous...
The girl felt it, too. One day, when he'd devoted half the night to
looking after her at a ball, she came to me--in real trouble, I
thought--, and we had a serious talk. I told her that, if _she_ had
not spoken, I _should_ have; Will was devoting himself to her so
good-naturedly that he was neglecting his own prospects and doing
nothing to secure an appointment.
"As his mother," I said, "I cannot bear to see his abilities
wasting... He needs a _good_ appointment; and I don't even know
where to _begin_ looking for one. But _you_ are not to bother your
head about _my_ affairs. Tell me, dear child, what is troubling
_you_."
So far as I could make out--she spoke very simply and nicely--, she
was afraid of getting into a false position with Will if she went
about with him so much. _Affichée_... At this ball--I had handed on
her mother's request that we should be _most_ careful whom we
introduced--Will had very unselfishly played cavalier the whole
evening; and, as she put on her cloak, some girl had asked one of
those silly, impertinent questions which do such incalculable harm...
"My dear, you must not distress yourself," I said. "You know the old
saying--'There is safety in numbers'--; for the future..."
It was quite evident to me _now _that Will did not intend to marry
her. He was furious when I even _hinted_ at such a thing... And I
will tell _you_ that I was glad. She would not have made a suitable
wife, and no amount of money will overcome those little hardly
perceptible angularities of breeding which make the difference
between a happy and an unhappy marriage. While there was any
possibility of such a thing, I _had_ to hold my peace...
That night I improvized quite a big party for her. Will was not able
to be present, as he had a long-standing engagement to dine with a
man at his club. We had encroached on his time so much that for the
first week of the new _régime_ I hardly saw him; he was simply making
up arrears with his other friends. I was lucky enough to get hold of
Culroyd, however; and, though he was hardly a substitute for Will--I
hate to say this about my own nephew, but I always feel that my poor
sister-in-law Ruth imported a bucolic strain into the blood--, he did
his best and made quite an impression on Hilda...
Indeed, I think you may say that it all started from that night... I
_never_ imagined that Culroyd would fall a victim. Hilda is
undeniably pretty and, of course, she is an heiress; but, beyond
that, she brings nothing. Culroyd _is_ heir to an earldom, and one
would have thought he might have done rather better... It's not as
if he _needed_ money. When my brother Brackenbury sacrificed himself
for the good of the family, he did it on such a scale that there was
no need for any one to follow in his footsteps for several
generations. Culroyd and Phyllida, for their age, are very well
provided for; and, of course, there is a great deal more to come.
No! I could not help feeling that he must have inherited a taste for
money with his mother's blood. It is extraordinary how rich people
seem to attract rich people. The Jews, for example... And _vice
versa_. I am sometimes so much afraid that Will may throw himself
away on some one whom he'll simply have to support all his life.
And, short of selling the roof from over my head and the clothes from
off my back, I have done all that I _can_ do... I have lost the
thread....
Ah, yes! Culroyd! I fancy I told you that for a few months my niece
Phyllida chose to fancy that she had a grievance against me. A young
war-soldier tried to trap her into marriage, glamoured no doubt by
the title and a fair presumption of money. If I could feel that I
had done _anything_ to check a most imprudent alliance, I should be
proud of the achievement; I know, however, that I have no right to
throw myself bouquets. The young man did not acquit himself well
under cross-examination, and you may judge of this "life's passion",
as poor Phyllida would like to consider it, by the fact that from
that day to this she has never heard from him. The entire family
held _me_ responsible! Hitherto, I had been on the best possible
terms with my relations--except, of course, my brother-in-law
Spenworth, and that is an honour which I would sooner be spared--;
now I was the universal scapegoat. Without yielding in _any_ way to
cynicism, let me say that I was _amused_, after my Lord Culroyd's
first meeting with Hilda Surdan, to find that he did me the honour to
make my house his own.
"Let me know some night when he and Hilda are _not_ dining here,"
said Will, when I reproached him for always now deserting us for his
club.
For some reason there has never been any great cordiality between the
cousins. Perhaps Culroyd is a _little_ bit consequential in the way
that he insists on his own dignity--a sort of instinctive attitude of
self-preservation, as though he realized that he owes everything to
an accident of sex and that, if Brackenbury and I changed places, he
would have to change places with Will... And Will may very well have
been galled by the light-hearted way in which Hilda could not get on
without him one day and got on quite comfortably without him the
next. No one likes ingratitude, though it was on the tip of my
tongue to say that he need not grudge his leavings to poor Culroyd.
It was not so easy to find a free night, as the young people seemed
to have made arrangements for days ahead, and in the end I told Will
to leave them to their whispering and silliness and talk to _me_.
"Why you ever invited her I don't know," he grumbled; and I could see
that the strain of playing cavalier for so long was telling on him.
"It was an opportunity for doing her a little kindness," I said.
"And is she going to marry Culroyd?," he asked, "or is she simply
playing with him until she finds something _better_ worth her while?"
"Isn't it rather a question whether Culroyd will marry _her_?," I
suggested. "After all, she doesn't _bring_ very much... They seem
to get on quite well together."
"I haven't seen them," said Will. "It would be amusing to watch..."
When they all met, I can't say that it was very amusing for _me_.
Will can be rather a tease when he likes, but I think it a pity to go
on with that sort of thing if other people haven't enough humour to
take it in good part. Culroyd and Hilda were so tremendously in
earnest that they couldn't bear to be chaffed; and, the stiffer they
became, the more irresistible they were to Will. I intervened once
or twice, when I thought Culroyd was losing his temper, but the
situation seemed to get suddenly out of hand; there was something
_very_ like a scene.
"If you don't know how to behave," said Culroyd--very rudely, I
thought, "do hire some one to teach you. Your manners would disgrace
a privates' canteen."
"Would they? I'm afraid I'm not a good judge," said Will.
It was neat; but, though I'm his mother, I feel he ought not to have
said it. I expect you know that Culroyd was still at Eton when the
war broke out. Brackenbury positively forbade him to take a
commission before he was eighteen, so Culroyd ran away and enlisted.
It was in the regular army, you understand, and they had every kind
of difficulty in getting him out. He joined the Coldstream
afterwards, but for a time he _was_ a private...
"A better judge of draft-dodgers, perhaps," said Culroyd.
The word was new to me, and I had to ask for enlightenment. When it
came, I was _beside_ myself with anger. The term is American and
applies to a man who "dodges" the "draft", which is their word for
conscription. A wickeder or more reckless charge could not be made.
Will applied for a commission within the first year and a half of the
war. "You can try," I said, "but I _don't_ think the doctor will
pass you." He did, however, and Will served for three years with
great distinction and was quite invaluable to his general. It was
the fashion at one time to sneer at the staff, but I have yet to
learn that war can be carried on without one; and I sometimes wonder
whether the sneers were not mingled with a little _envy_ on the part
of men who were not efficient enough to be selected.
"Culroyd, you have no business to say that," I told him.
"Will doesn't deny it," he said.
And then I thought my boy shewed both wit and dignity.
"If any one thought it worth while to call me a homicidal maniac," he
said, "I doubt if I should bother to deny it."
"They'll never accuse you of even a tendency to homicide--even in
war," muttered Culroyd, but he shewed that he had got the worst of it.
I did not like to take Hilda upstairs and leave them a chance of
reopening the wrangle; but, when I suggested that we should all go up
together, Will remembered that he had promised to meet a man at his
club.
"I'm sorry," said Hilda very nicely, though I felt that I really
ought to apologize to her for the little scene. "I wanted to talk to
you and him privately... There's no harm in speaking before you,
Lord Culroyd, because you're one of the family. My father wrote to
ask if I knew of any one suitable for a position which is being
created in one of his yards--rather a good appointment. He would
like to give it to a man who has been in the army, he says. I have
the letter upstairs and I remember that the starting salary would be
a thousand a year. I think it is the Morecambe yards." ...
My dear! ... I said to myself, "Ann Spenworth, you must keep your
head." For a dozen reasons I wanted to get Will out of London. If
Culroyd continued to _haunt_ my house, I was thankful to get Will out
of the way, though I cannot imagine that this ever entered Hilda's
little love-lorn head. And an _appointment_, when we had waited so
long! Besides, London is _not_ good for Will's health. He wakes up
_with_ a head-ache and _without_ an appetite--as a matter of
course....
I telegraphed as soon as the office opened. Mr. Surdan is a man of
business, and the appointment was settled before night. Next day I
went up to help find the boy a comfortable home. Don't be shocked
now! I am simply echoing Will when I say: "Morecambe is a
_God-forsaken_ place." _Rooms_ were out of the question, because he
must have _some_ one to look after him. I was recommended to a
worthy old clergyman, when everything else failed; and, though Will
protested beforehand, he resigned himself when we reached the house.
Just the father, the mother and two daughters, who seemed quite
fluttered on meeting Will and hearing who he was. _Quite_ pretty
girls in a "left-to-run-wild" way... Which I, personally, did not
mind. After a month of dear Hilda's nakedness it was a comfort to
drop into a world where you saw more clothes than _jeune fille_...
Oh, I don't think Will runs any risk from _them_; he _does_ realize
that love--in the homely old phrase--doesn't pay the butcher's book;
and, after that, one has only to school oneself not to fall in love
carelessly. But they will give him pleasant, bright companionship in
the long evenings...
When I returned to London, Hilda was in bed. An internal chill...
She wouldn't see a doctor, she said, as a few days' rest and warmth
were all that she needed. _I_ was not sorry to have a few days' rest
too. First Will and then Culroyd... I found my little visitor a
greater strain than I had anticipated... My "rest" was "nothing to
write home about", as Will used to say, for I found myself required
to cope with a lioness which had been robbed of its cub--Culroyd, I
mean. He came as usual expecting to see Hilda--and pretending he
_only_ wanted to see his poor old aunt! _And_ left the moment he had
swallowed his coffee! It's a good thing I'm not vain, isn't it?
Next day he came again... At first it was habit, I think; he had got
into the way of meeting this child every day. Then it became more
serious. If we are going to bless this union, I think we must also
bless Hilda's influenza. (It developed into that. And a nice time I
had! Responsible to her mother--and day after day the girl _refused_
to see a doctor.) These boys and girls go about together so freely
that there is little inducement to bring things to a head, as it
were. Goodness me, when I first met Arthur, he would have _liked_ to
go about with me everywhere, but my dear mother put her foot down
very firmly on _that_. And, when he found that it was almost
impossible for us to meet, Arthur suddenly discovered that I meant
more to him than he had suspected... So with Culroyd; history
repeating itself, so to say... Hilda was a _habit_; and, when the
habit was broken by influenza, she developed into a _need_. Culroyd
had never taken much trouble before, but now he called every
afternoon with flowers and wrote to her morning and evening. She was
quite bewildered. A very simple child...
When she was well enough to sit up on a sofa, Culroyd fumed with
impatience to see her. He insisted on coming upstairs with me,
though I told him I wasn't at all sure... And so it proved: Hilda
said she _really_ wasn't equal to meeting any one. The next day she
was rather stronger, and I prevailed on her just to let him bring the
flowers into her room.
"Aunt Ann, will you leave us alone for one moment?," he asked.
"Really, Culroyd," I said....
Oh, I know it's done, but I was brought up in a different school.
All this popping in and out of young people's bedrooms...
"Please! I _beg_ you!," he said.
And then, before I knew where I was, he had kissed me on both cheeks,
tapped at the door and disappeared... I went to see about some vases
for the flowers; and, when I came back, he was on his knees by the
bed and Hilda was stroking his head. My old heart warmed... I am
not ashamed to confess it. A radiance that you see before young
people have time to become hard, worldly...
They announced it next day to Brackenbury, though I am sure Hilda was
imprudent to travel. Though I could not fairly be saddled with any
responsibility, I was a little nervous to see how he would take it;
every family has its scapegoat, and at the Hall they have so long
found it convenient to dignify me with that position...
"Were you surprised?," I asked.
"Well, yes," Brackenbury admitted. "It was commonly reported that
you were keeping Hilda up your sleeve for Will. People told me that
it was impossible to walk into a restaurant or theatre without
meeting them. You won't deny that you did rather throw them at each
other's heads?"
"Brackenbury," I said. "If any one thought it worth while to call me
a homicidal maniac, I doubt if I should bother to deny it... But are
you pleased?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "They seem quite happy; and that's all that
matters."
And I preferred to leave it at that. It is not a great match. Ruth,
of course, is delighted, because it supports her own conduct in
marrying Brackenbury....
Even Phyllida had a good word for me--which was so gratifying!
"I hope you're all as pleased as we are," she said, with a funny,
unsmiling expression. Almost antagonistic...
I noticed that she had Hilda's trick of looking you straight in the
eyes--a sort of challenge ... quite fearless ... and ready to change
in a moment to impudence.
"I am," I said. "Your uncle Arthur is away and has not been told
yet. Will is away too."
"What's Will doing?," she asked.
"He was offered a post at Morecambe," I told her. "Hilda's father
wanted some one of experience and position, who was used to handling
men--"
She seemed to find something to smile at in that.
"What does he get?," she interrupted.
This absorption in pounds, shillings and pence comes to them
_entirely_ from their poor mother...
"A thousand a year--to start on," I told her.
"And cheap at the price," said Phyllida.
I had to beg her to enlighten me.
"Well," she said, "I don't call a thousand a year excessive to secure
Will--in Morecambe..."
Mrs. Surdan was _naturally_ pleased. For them, at least, it is a
great match.
"_I_ little thought that it would end like this, when you asked me to
take charge of Hilda for three months," I said.
And that reminded me that what they called "Hilda's pocket-money" was
lying almost untouched at the bank in Arthur's name. There had been
no ball, hardly anything... But I could not get Mrs. Surdan to say
what should be done with it...
"I'm sure you didn't," she answered.
"So, if it's a failure, don't blame me," I said. "And, if it's a
success, don't thank me."
"I shall always thank you for your kindness to Hilda," she said,
"especially when she was ill."
"That was nothing," I said.
"Hilda's parents don't think so."
And then she did a difficult thing very gracefully. We must have the
girl's room properly disinfected, she told me; I assured her that
Arthur had already received an estimate for redecorating the whole
house. Thanks to them, we were now in a position... Hilda's room,
she insisted, must be her province. I have told you that in the old
committee days she positively _imposed_ her will on the rest of us;
so now. She would not leave the house until she had dragged the
estimate out of me by main force.
The work has recently been completed. There was the usual letter to
ask if we were satisfied, and Arthur wrote out a cheque. It was
returned. Mr. Surdan had asked to have the account sent to him... I
was _beside_ myself with anger at such a liberty...
I tell this against myself, because, having gone to curse, I stayed
to pray, as it were. Mrs. Surdan wouldn't let me speak.
"Hilda is our only child, as Mr. Will is yours," she said. "If
anything had happened to her, you can imagine what we should have
thought. Is it altogether kind to say that we must not thank you for
your devotion to our little girl?"
There you have the woman--clever, direct, going _straight_ to my weak
place...
What could one say?
VI
LADY ANN SPENWORTH HOLDS THE _Corps
Diplomatique_ TO ITS DUTY
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): I feel--don't
you?--that, if the embassies can give no enlightenment, they might
just as well not be there. Paris is different, of course; nowadays
it is hardly more than a suburb of London; with that vast
cosmopolitan army always coming and going, one is hardly expected to
be one's brother's keeper. And Washington is unlike any other
capital; one goes there _en poste_--or not at all. But in Vienna or
Rome... Goodness me, in the old days when my father was ambassador,
it was a matter of course. When a new star swam into your ken, you
made enquiries in the English colony; if not known there or at the
embassy, a wise woman stayed her hand until she had a _little_
something to go on.
In London the _corps diplomatique_ is more _diplomatique_ than
_corps_. Just a swarm of warring atoms, some of them very
_charming_, all of them invaluable if a man fails you at the last
moment--a word by telephone to the Chancery: "Two men; I _must_ have
them; golf and bridge; the 4.20 from Waterloo; not to bring a
servant." ... And so on and so forth. Indispensable for entertaining
on Connie Maitland's lines. They are so nice and tractable; but
worse than useless if you go officially, as it were, for a whispered
_word_ of guidance. As witness Mrs. Sawyer...
I cannot remember where I first met her; probably at Lady
Maitland's... Sooner or later one meets everybody there; and, with
all respect to dear Connie, I, personally, should not mind if some of
her protégés came a little later and left a little sooner ... before
I had time to be involved, I mean. It is all this craze for
collecting money and, incidentally, carving a _niche_ for oneself as
the great organizer. One pictures Connie standing blindfold over a
map of England and spearing it ruthlessly with a knitting-needle.
"I, Constance Maitland," you can hear her saying, "ordain that _here_
and _here_ and _here_ I will erect hospitals, libraries and
wash-houses." ...
Whether the locality likes it or not, as it were. If the needle
pierces Grasmere, so much the worse for Grasmere. It shall have its
hospital--in mid-lake, regardless of the _needless_ additional
expense. I _am_ serious about that, because I feel that, if Connie
spent more judiciously, she would not have to appeal so persistently;
some of us _did_ contrive to keep the machine running even before my
Lady Maitland descended upon us... It does not affect me much,
because I am never able to contribute more than a trifle; one cannot
undertake her new charities indiscriminately without doing an
injustice to the old. Others are more happily placed, and my only
quarrel with Connie is that I must either drop her or else consent to
embrace _all_ her new friends. This Mrs. Sawyer, for instance...
I forget whether you were in London at the time... No, of course
not. Well, I can testify to you that her arrival created quite a
stir. The _rastaquouère_ type is not unknown to me by any means, but
I thought Mrs. Sawyer a very favourable specimen. Not more than two
or three and twenty, though these South American women reach their
prime very early--and pass it; jet-black hair and eyes, dead-white
face, scarlet lips, really beautiful teeth; altogether a very
striking young woman, with just enough of a foreign accent to give an
added charm--for those who like that sort of thing. She had a
wistful, mysterious manner which accorded well with the _ensemble_
... and with the story they told about her. I never heard her maiden
name, but I was told at once that she was one of the greatest
heiresses in Peru--or it may have been Argentina. This Sawyer was a
ne'er-do-well Irishman who had been sent to South America ... as one
_does_ have to send these people sometimes; he fascinated her,
married her, beat her (I should think) and drank himself to death,
leaving her utterly broken-hearted and disillusionized--not with
_him_ alone, but with the world... She had come to Europe to find a
new life. Such was the story that Connie Maitland shouted at one;
and, if poor Mrs. Sawyer overheard it, so much the worse for her...
A romantic setting, do you not agree? If you had seen her come into
a room with those great, tragic eyes sweeping face after face as
though she were looking for the _one_ man who would gather up the
fragments of her broken youth... If I had been a _man_... Superb
diamonds, I need _hardly_ say; and almost an arrogance of mourning,
as though she would _not_ be comforted... All the young men followed
her with their eyes--spell-bound. And some men no longer young...
Do you see much of that pathetic class of over-ripe bachelor which my
boy rather naughtily calls the "Have-Beens"? They are common, I
suppose, to every age and country, but England seems to contain more
than her fair share. Between thirty-five and fifty, not particularly
well-connected, not a _parti_ among them, not even extravagantly
popular, but useful--apparently--and _ubiquitous_. I could give you
the names of a dozen... Several of them have been in quite good
regiments at some time or other. I understand they belong to the
usual clubs; most of them dance quite competently; _all_ of them play
extremely good bridge, I am told... Several women I know make out a
stop-gap list of them; then, if they're short of a man--it is several
grades lower than the embassies, of course, and you are not expected
to give even a day's notice--, the butler can telephone to them in
turn until he finds one disengaged. Delightfully simple, is it not?
Having no personalities of their own, they accord well with every
one; having no pride, they never resent an eleventh-hour invitation;
they are too discreet to pay unduly marked attention to a married
woman, they know their place too well to attempt any intimacy with
the girls.
I am not ashamed to confess that I have an old-fashioned prejudice in
favour of a man who is a man; but the kind I am describing seem to
ask nothing more of life than invitations and more invitations--and
this strange modern privilege of being "Bunny" and "Chris" and "Theo"
to women who are old enough to have outgrown such nonsense. If you
entertain--I do not, as you are aware--, I believe it is essential to
have some such list as I have indicated; and I am told that the men
repay you by running errands and being useful in a thousand ways.
For _their_ sake I hope they never hear what other men say about
them, even the fellow-members of their little community--there is no
more contemptuous critic of "Bunny" than "Theo"--or what the women
say, for that matter. We may, if we are built that way, ask "Bunny"
or "Theo" to come and look at frocks with us; but we don't respect
the man who does... If any girl _dared_ ask Will to waste a morning,
talking to her while she sat for her portrait...
"Bunny" and "Theo" and "Chris" all pricked up their ears when they
heard about Mrs. Sawyer. It was another house for them to lunch or
dine at; and, of course, they were expected to come to the old houses
primed with all the gossip they could pick up about her. I don't
know whether any of them thought _seriously_ that they had a chance
with her; they must _surely_ realize that a woman prefers a man of
some spirit... And, if they do, they have no excuse for standing in
a ring and keeping every one else away. Of course, they were
_useful_ to her. Major Blanstock found her a house in South Audley
Street and helped her furnish it and found servants for her and so
forth and so on. He even introduced her to Connie Maitland--as a
short cut to knowing everybody, which I gather was her ambition.
Certainly there is no one to equal Connie for that. You have seen
men in the street, unloading bricks from a cart and tossing them,
three or four at a time, from one to another? Should Connie ever
sustain a reverse, she will always have a second string to her bow...
Major Blanstock _tossed_ this Mrs. Sawyer to Connie, Connie _tossed_
her to me... I was expected, I presume, to _toss_ her on to some one
else, but I happen to have been brought up in a different school;
before I undertake the responsibility of introducing a complete
stranger, I like to know _something_ about her. Goodness me, I don't
suggest that my recommendation counts for anything, but for my own
peace of mind, when somebody says "Oh, I met her at Lady
Ann's"--there _is_ an implied guarantee--, I want to feel that my
friends' confidence is not misplaced.
"Now, Major Blanstock," I said, "I want you to tell me _all_ about
your lovely young divinity, the rich widow. If I am to befriend her,
I must know a _little_ about her."
I imagine that I was not the first enquirer, for he answered with an
impatience which in other days some of us might have considered
uncivil.
"_Is_ she rich?," he asked. "I know nothing about her. I don't even
know she's a widow. I met her on the boat coming home from Buenos
Aires; and, as she'd never been in London, I tried to make her feel
at home and asked Lady Maitland to give her a helping hand."
And that was literally all I got out of him--the fountain-head.
_Connie_ knew nothing and wanted to know nothing. It was enough that
Mrs. Sawyer was presentable in herself and would attach her name to
_any_ subscription-list for _any_ amount. The others--people who are
usually well-informed--simply handed on the gossip which they had
themselves made up overnight. It was then that I approached my
diplomatic friends.
The difficulty was to know where to start. I couldn't commit myself,
I felt, by _one_ dinner, so when my Will came back... From the
north, yes. You knew that he was home? Oh, yes! Well, at the
moment he is not doing anything. The Morecambe experiment was _not_
a success; the place didn't suit him, and he didn't suit the place.
That is all I care to say on the subject. Half-truths are always
misleading; and I cannot tell you the full story, because I do not
know it. Should it not be enough to know that for days my spirit was
_crucified_? And the end is not yet... I have lost the thread...
Ah, yes. We dined _à trois_: Will and Mrs. Sawyer and I. She was
fascinating, magnetic. For the first time Will forgot all about the
odious clergyman's odious daughter... No, it slipped out. That
belongs to the unhappy Morecambe episode, and I really do not think
it very kind of you to keep trying to pump me when I have said I
prefer not to discuss it... When he returned after seeing her home,
Will wanted to know all about her, and in such a _way_... I mean, if
his voice and manner meant anything, they meant that he had met his
fate, as it were. I could tell him little. For one thing, I didn't
know; for another, his excitement had gone to my head, I saw ten
things at once and, breaking through them all, this splendid, untamed
creature with the flashing eyes walking side by side with my Will.
Such a contrast ... and _such_ a combination...
"Well, hadn't you better find out something about her?," said Will.
I promised to do my best, but one was sent from pillar to post in a
quite too ridiculous way. I _thought_ some one had told me she came
from Buenos Aires (perhaps it was only Major Blanstock's saying he
had met her on the boat coming home from there); I tried the
Argentine colony and the Legation, only to be referred to the
Brazilian Embassy; and there, though I am _sure_ they had never heard
of her, they were certain that she came from Peru. Until then, I had
never realized how many republics there were in South America; I went
from Colombia to the Argentine and from Ecuador to Chili.
_Invariably_ the first question was: "_What_ was her name before she
_became_ Mrs. Sawyer?" And that, of course, I did not know.
There is such a thing as _trop de zèle_, sometimes hardly
distinguishable from making oneself ridiculous...
"Surely," I said to Will, "our judgement of this person or that is a
better criterion than the bald (and perhaps inaccurate) statement
that a person was _born_ here and _married_ there. Connie Maitland
has asked us to shew some little kindness to our friend; and I am not
ashamed to confess that it seems _grudging_ to insist too much on
credentials. In a favourite phrase of your own, Will, she is "good
enough" for me; and, if any one says: "I met her at Lady Ann's," I
should be tempted to answer: "I hope you do not need a better
recommendation."
"I don't want to look a fool, that's all," said Will.
"My dear boy," I reassured him, "if she were a complete impostor,
does one make a fool of oneself by asking her to dinner once or
twice? If so, I am afraid I rank hospitality above my own personal
dignity."
As a matter of fact, it was all the other way. Mrs. Sawyer developed
a mania for entertaining. I went gingerly at first, for one had seen
so many _rastaquouères_ treading that road, but no fault could be
found with her methods. Either through Connie Maitland or others,
she seemed to know _every one_, and you went to the little _réunions_
in South Audley Street with the certainty that, if you did not meet
all your friends there, at least every one that you met would be a
friend. I enjoyed her parties; indeed, I only hope that she enjoyed
them as much as we did, though I confess I sometimes looked at those
tragic black eyes and wondered what amusement it could give her.
Stay! There was _one_ blot: her hospitality left one no opportunity
of making an adequate return. Where there is a marked difference of
means, I am the last to suggest that one should proceed on the
principle of "a cutlet for a cutlet and a quail for a quail", but it
is uncomfortable to feel that everything is coming from one side. My
_own_ conscience is clear, for we had done our part; Mrs. Sawyer had
in fact dined with us once in Mount Street--just Will and me; I am
not in a position to entertain in the old sense of the word--, we had
asked her again at least once, and she had never been able to come.
It was always: "Oh, won't _you_ come to _me_? And whom shall I ask
to meet you? And would you prefer just to dine or shall we go to a
play?" All in that charming almost-broken English of hers. It would
have been ungracious to refuse...
I confess that I never saw and do not see to this day how some of the
"Have-Beens" justified their existence. I mean, Will and I dined or
lunched or went to a play with her three and four times a week,
_simply_ because Major Blanstock told us that she was alone in London
and Connie Maitland had asked me to look after her. I can assure
you, we _never_ went to South Audley Street without finding a little
cluster of "Bunnies" and "Theos" and the rest.
I tackled one of them about it... This is between ourselves, but it
was Mr. Gorleigh--"Reggie" Gorleigh, I suppose I should call him, to
be in the fashion.
"You seem a _great_ friend of Mrs. Sawyer," I said. "I am always
meeting you here. Tell me; I don't know how long she is staying in
London, but one would like her to take away a pleasant memory of such
hospitality as one can shew her. Is there anything we can do to make
a little return? I hardly like to go _on_ taking with both hands."
"Well, I felt that from the first," said Mr. Gorleigh. "Geordie
Blanstock introduced me, and I came here once or twice... Then I
felt ... as you do; and I cried off. The only thing is, she _hasn't_
many friends, and I thought it wasn't quite fair, perhaps, to stay
away out of a sort of false delicacy. The poor little woman _wants_
companionship."
"Your feelings do you credit," I said as gravely as I could.
Really, it would have been laughable if it had not been so
disgusting. A man who lives by sponging on his friends for free
meals to pretend that he was coming, against his will, to give "the
poor little woman" the inestimable privilege of feeding him... But,
if you please, that was the accepted "eye-wash", as my boy would call
it. In a spirit of pure mischief, I am afraid, I went from one to
another: "Bat" Shenstone, "Laurie" Forman, "Theo" Standish, "Bunny"
Fancroft. Always the same story! _They_ didn't come to the house
for what they could get out of it; I must understand that they were
Mrs. Sawyer's _friends_. Hoity-toity! Friends with a capital "F"...
Very soon it was "Consuelo's" friends. Looking back on it all, one
seems to hear a series of commands: "on the word 'loot', quick march;
on reaching South Audley Street, halt and enter; on the word 'love'
..." and so forth and so on. No, it's not mine; Will drew a most
amusing picture... But that is literally what happened: first of
all, they were "Consuelo's" _friends_, then they were all in love
with her.
I have suggested that men of that stamp are incapable of being
serious about anything--except the next meal; but any one who was
genuinely fond of the poor woman could not help seeing that this
formal persecution was more than a joke. Will came to me after one
of her parties and said that it was high time for us to _do_
something.
"Get her _away_ from all that gang," he cried; and from the agitation
of his voice I could see that he was taking this to heart.
And, you know, it was rather dreadful to see that lovely creature
with the tragic eyes standing like a bewildered child with all these
young-old men baying round her...
"It's easier said than done," I told him.
"Uncle Tom Brackenbury's going north for the Twelfth," said Will.
"Get him to lend you the Hall and ask Consuelo down."
My brother, as you know, is of so curious a temper that I have always
been more than chary of even seeming to put myself under an
obligation to him. One had the feeling, don't you know, that, if
_he_ did not place a wrong construction on one's request, my niece
Phyllida _would_... Since Culroyd's engagement, however, poor Aunt
Ann's shoulders have been relieved a little of their burden; the
family persists in thinking that I contributed to bring it about,
whereas I rigidly set my face against any planning of that kind and
was only responsible to the extent that Hilda Surdan was staying in
my house when my nephew Culroyd met her... The point of importance,
however, is that Aunt Ann is now embarrassingly popular. Brackenbury
lent me the house almost before I asked for it...
Then I had to think how the invitation might be made most attractive
to Consuelo. After the _excitement_ of her life in London,
undoubtedly the best thing would have been to give her all the rest
and quiet that we could. There is, however, a strain of something
restless and untamed about her; one pictures her running bare-foot
through the woods or plunging into the surf by moonlight; and, though
she would overcome that in time, I could not conceal from myself
that, on the one occasion when she had dined with us _en famille_,
she had flagged... I told her that I hoped to secure some of our
common friends; and Will and I worked hard to arrange relays of the
people who would best accord, so to say...
I started with Major Blanstock, as he seemed her oldest friend. To
do him justice, after the first meeting at Connie Maitland's house, I
had never seen him with the jackals; he didn't pretend to be in love
with her, he didn't talk about the pearls of his friendship and he
didn't even refer to her as "Consuelo".
"I shall be delighted to come, if I can get away," he said.
"Your fascinating young widow is coming," I said, as a bait--though I
felt that he had long ago lost interest in her.
"_My_ widow?," he repeated. "I am alive--and unmarried, Lady Ann."
"Silly man! Our Brazilian heiress," I explained.
"Oh! Mrs. Sawyer," he said. "Is she Brazilian? I didn't know that.
But it's not fair to embarrass her with my friendship. She is almost
a stranger to me; I don't know that she's an heiress, I don't even
know that she's a widow."
"But," I said, "surely her husband drank himself to death."
"Some one told me that he _drank_," said Major Blanstock. "Whether
he drank himself to death I can't tell you. I didn't feel it was my
affair..."
I forget whether any one was with us at the time, but this story
spread... At least, it wasn't a _story_; several people, knowing
nothing of the facts, had chosen to assume that a certain woman was a
widow; one man, equally knowing nothing, said that he did not know
whether she was a widow or not. Goodness me! Did it matter two pins
one way or the other, so far as we were concerned? I should have
been sorry to find out afterwards that there had been any kind of
scandal, because one had thrown one's mantle over the woman and given
an implied guarantee, as it were. That was why I _did_ attempt to
learn a little something from my diplomatic friends... But it is
hardly too much to say that a panic ensued among the "Bunnies" and
"Theos".
"They tell me," said Mr. "Bat" Shenstone, "that Mrs. Sawyer's husband
is still living."
"Oh?," I said. That phrase--"They tell me"--! It always puts me on
my guard.
I nearly told _him_ that, if he was only a _friend_ to her, it did
not matter whether she had a husband or not... I noticed that she
was "Mrs. Sawyer" now...
The stories that I met for the next few days were so fantastic that I
really think some one must have been deliberately making them up. At
one moment the husband was in a home for inebriates, at another he
was alive and well with a formidable revolver ready for any one who
became too "friendly" with his wife; at another he was supposed to be
in prison for actually shooting a man; then she was said to have
divorced him, then he was said to have divorced her. Finally I was
assured that she had never had a husband and was an adventuress who
had come to exploit London. The money, I was told, was a decoy, and
in reality there was no money; she had been left a few thousands by
some man with whom she had been living; and she was pouring it out
right and left in the hope of ensnaring some one else before it was
all spent.
I really did not know what I should be required to believe next.
"We must clear this up," said Will one night when we were all down at
the Hall.
"Which story in particular?," I asked.
"All of them," he answered very decisively; and at once. I'm not
thinking of _us_, but we can't afford to let Consuelo have these lies
circulating about her. Why don't you talk to her and find out the
truth?"
I am not ashamed to confess that I rather shrank from the prospect.
Mrs. Sawyer had always been so singularly uncommunicative that it
seemed impertinence to peer behind the veil. And the more so when
she was one's guest. I don't think I could have screwed up courage,
if Will's forethought had not shewn me the way; but I _did_ tell her
as gently and sweetly as I could that there was always a certain idle
curiosity about foreigners who came to live in England and that, in
her case, the curiosity was increased by her beauty and immediate
success. I coaxed her to tell me a little about her life...
"What do you want to know?," she asked.
Those great black eyes---how I wish you had seen her!--became cold as
stone. I was _frightened_...
"Your husband..." I began.
"He is dead."
Truly honestly, do you know, I couldn't go on. I _did_ find out that
he had been dead eighteen months and they had been married for less
than a year and there were no children. That, at least, was her
story; one had no opportunity of testing it or catching her out ...
even if one had wanted to. _Who_ she was before, _where_ the money
came from, _if_ there was any money--not a word! To this day I don't
know whether she hailed from Paraguay or Venezuela...
"She is a widow," I was able to tell Will; and indeed I took great
pains to scotch these ridiculous stories which had been swirling
round London when I left. It was cruel that any one should say such
things of _any_ woman; and, if my boy ever thought fit to drop the
handkerchief, I did not want to have any explaining-away to do. She
was greatly attracted to him, and I fancy that the one doubt in his
mind was the immense difference in blood and breeding: Roman Catholic
(I presume; I have no certain knowledge even of that) and Anglican,
Latin and Anglo-Saxon ... and so forth and so on. We really knew so
very little about her that my boy prudently and properly did not seek
to press his advantage with her prematurely...
I sometimes feel that in London one uproots one lie only to make room
for another. A few days' "propaganda", as Will would say, convinced
people that "the mystery woman", as some one christened her, had no
homicidal husband lurking with a revolver behind the nearest bush.
But a different story became wide-spread ... indeed, universally
repeated and almost universally believed. The old story, I should
say, was revived. People said that she had come over with a few
thousands and had spent every penny of it.
"I have no more knowledge than you have," said Major Blanstock, when
I tackled him about it one day at Brackenbury; and then he added with
rather a tiresome assumption of virtue: "I didn't feel it was my
affair."
"But you're her friend," I said.
"If she gives me an opportunity of proving it."
"And in some ways her sponsor," I said.
"Oh, I would stand sponsor for her at all times," he answered. "If
your story is true, she will have an opportunity of proving the
quality of all her friends."
And there the thing ended, so far as we were concerned. Brackenbury
had lent us the house for two months; but, when Consuelo left us
after a fortnight, we were not sorry to return the following day to
London. I was in terror that Will might commit himself before we had
really found out anything; but, the moment these stories began
circulating again, he very wisely retired into his shell; I suppose
it was because she felt that no progress was being made that Consuelo
curtailed her visit. Or, perhaps, with that restlessness of hers,
she was simply bored; _my_ feelings would not suffer if she told me
that one dull old woman... I should explain that our scheme of
house-parties broke down; the women, indeed, came, but man after man
failed us at the last moment. One spent Friday morning despatching
one's staff in turn to the telephone with names and more names and
yet _more_ names...
I found it hard to believe that _all_ the "Bunnies" and "Theos" were
in such request, but no enlightenment was vouchsafed until our return
to Mount Street. If there had been a panic when we left London, the
phrase _sauve-qui-peut_ is hardly too strong for the condition we
found awaiting us. Some one had industriously spread this story that
Mrs. Sawyer was a mere adventuress, and everybody was anxiously
disclaiming all acquaintance with her. I have suggested that for
months it was impossible to enter South Audley Street without running
into Mr. "Reggie" Gorleigh; with my own ears I heard him say: "Mrs.
Sawyer? Oh, that South American woman! I _think_ I know who you
mean."
For sheer audacity...
"I don't know what else you would expect," said Major Blanstock one
day. "People in London will take anything from anybody--and go on
taking it so long as they think there's money about. If you whisper
that they may afterwards have to make a return, they vanish into thin
air. I know nothing of Mrs. Sawyer's affairs; but, if it's true that
she _has_ lost all her money, I should have thought that her friends
would have rallied round her and shewn that it made no difference.
On a strict calculation of one meal against another, they could keep
her from starving for a year or two."
"And so I have no doubt they will," I said, though I detest all this
modern weighing and balancing.
Where calculation comes in, hospitality goes out.
"She's absolutely deserted!," he cried. "I know, because I'm the
only man who goes near her."
"That, Major Blanstock," I said rather sharply, "is neither fair nor
true. Consuelo spent a fortnight with _us_, she was invited to stay
longer."
"But would you ask her again?," he sneered; and I could see that he
was most offensively hinting that we, like the rest, had dropped her
when the bubble was pricked.
"My brother has unfortunately resumed possession of Brackenbury," I
told him.
And then I really had to pretend that there was somebody at the other
end of the room who wanted to speak to me... I hope I am tolerably
good-tempered, but I will not allow every one to make himself a ruler
and a judge...
All through the summer it had been "Mrs. Sawyer this" and "Mrs.
Sawyer that". _Dear_ Consuelo was so charming, her parties were so
delightful. If one did not know her, one must take steps to become
acquainted. And so forth and so on... In the autumn there was what
I can only describe as a _guilty silence_; it was in questionable
taste to mention her; she dropped out completely, and one almost
begged one's man _not_ to bring the car home by way of South Audley
Street. Every one seemed to fear that she might present herself any
day at the door and claim to be taken in and supported by those who
had only accepted her too lavish hospitality because they were
"friends" and a little sorry for her lonely state. Then came the
great surprise...
It can only have been a surprise to people who had _jumped_ to
conclusions without troubling to collect a _shred_ of evidence... I
purposely kept my mind a blank... There were rumours; and then one
read the announcement--that she was marrying this Major Blanstock. I
believe she is a great heiress, I believe her husband _did_ drink
himself to death. And I still believe, as I always believed, that
she is a thoroughly nice, very unhappy woman...
She would never have done for Will... As you would be the first to
agree, if you had seen her. Oh, I can't describe my relief that
nothing came of _that_. The difference of blood and breeding--Roman
Catholic and Anglican, Latin and Anglo-Saxon...
But I feel that the poor woman would have been given a fairer chance
if her own people at the Legation had been able to tell us something
about her. If they can't do that, I really don't know what they are
there for or why one takes the trouble to invite them to one's
house...
VII
LADY ANN SPENWORTH DEPLORES PROPOSALS BY WOMEN
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): Oh, but I fully
believe they do it! There were rumours even before the war. To my
mind, the idea that _any_ girl should ask a man to marry her is _so_
repugnant that I can hardly think of it calmly. All so-called
"Leap-Year jokes" seem to me to be in execrable taste... _Since_ the
war, with these millions of superfluous women, I am told that it has
become quite common. You have always had the cranks who claimed that
a woman had as much right to choose a husband as a husband to choose
a wife; and now girls like my niece Phyllida say that, with the
general upset of war, a little money frightens a man away and, if you
want him to see that a difference of means is not a real obstacle,
you have to take the first step. I'm inclined to say: "Rubbish,
child, rubbish"--and _again_ "Rubbish". Since when have young men
developed these fantastic scruples? And does any girl think that the
only way of securing a man is to propose to him? I should have
_imagined_... But I was brought up in a different school...
Phyllida, of course, was struggling with her obsession. I do feel
Brackenbury incurred a responsibility in not sending her _right_
away. Ever since Colonel Butler disappeared, she has alternately
fumed and fretted. Now she is becoming hard and cynical; if she were
ten years older, you would call her "soured". Ridiculous at
one-and-twenty, or whatever she is... And she became no more normal
after giving up hope of him. Oh, yes, I'm thankful to say that I
think all that is _quite_ over, though we must expect to see an
occasional relapse; hence the discussion. She said that, if she met
her Hilary or ever found out where he was, she would throw herself
into his arms and ask him to marry her. And _sotto voce_ the
customary hateful suggestion that I had taunted him with wanting to
marry her for her money and so driven him away in order to clear the
ground for my Will. It is always on the tip of my tongue to say that
she seems very certain of my boy. But it is the modern fashion for a
girl to think she has only to drop the handkerchief... Brackenbury
patted her hand (if he had slapped her it would have been more to the
point), I went on with my work. She wanted the stimulus of a little
opposition, and that was just what I refused to give her. Then she
began talking in general terms about the difficulty that a girl has
in finding a husband nowadays: fewer men than ever, all of them
uprooted by the war and uncertain of their future, widows marrying
again, the older women remaining young so much longer. I felt that,
to some extent, it was all true, but I was surprised to hear such
truths on Phyllida's lips if she still wanted me to think she was
faithful to Colonel Butler's memory...
Culroyd's marriage made a difference, of course. He was a devoted
brother, according to his lights; and I think she is missing him
greatly. And one wedding, like one funeral, leads to another. _You_
have seen it again and again! The _trousseau_, the presents, the
letters, the general excitement, the very contagion of two young
lovers... All this coming at a time when she seemed _deliberately_
to be making herself as unhappy as possible... I knew there would be
a strong reaction, I was only afraid that she might throw herself at
my Will's head and that he might be unable to say "no". I kept him
away from the Hall as much as I could. If he _really_ wanted her, he
could drop the handkerchief--I felt--in his own good time...
"Your turn will come," I told her.
"Oh, I don't care who I marry," she answered. "I suppose I shall
need a home when I'm turned out of here; and, if so, I'd better get
to work while I'm still young enough to attract men. I'm open to any
offer; the man mustn't be _too_ hopeless a cad, that's all."
This mock-desperation would have been very cynical if it had not been
so unconvincing. I said nothing at the time; but, when I had a
moment alone with her poor mother, I _did_ feel it my duty to say
candidly that it was time _some_body did _some_thing to change the
girl's thoughts. Ruth agreed, but in a helpless, hopeless way that
always makes me wonder how Brackenbury has put up with her for so
many years. In her opinion, Phyllida was pining for her young
soldier and would continue to pine, so far as I could gather, until
she found him.
"Is it not better," I asked, "to face facts? Colonel Butler was
certainly attracted, but he realized in time that he had hardly the
means or the position to qualify him as husband to Phyllida and
son-in-law to Brackenbury. Very properly he made himself scarce; and
nothing in life became him so well as his leaving of it. You say he
has not written? He won't write;--and I respect him for it. But,
goodness me, I hope you're not going to encourage Phyllida to think
that she's broken her heart in a hopeless passion. If you won't send
her _right_ away (as, you will have the justice to remember, I felt
it my duty to suggest at the outset), let her come to me for a few
weeks and let me see if London can't provide something to turn her
thoughts."
The trouble _was_, if you will promise not to tell any one I said so,
that Phyllida's _vanity_ was hurt. When she was running after this
young man, there was so much publicity that people began to wonder;
they became spied on and whispered about; when he was summoned to
Brackenbury, every one felt that _now_ they were going to make
certain of him; when he left before his time, without saying a _word_
to her, it was naturally assumed that he had run away. Rather than
believe that any man could weary of her charms, Phyllida will
convince herself that I turned young Butler against her... Hence
this terrible bitterness...
If you ask me whether I expected to have my offer accepted, I will
frankly say "no". I think Phyllida must enjoy surprises, for she
accepted the invitation at once, though perhaps a little ungraciously
and with a suggestion that, within limits, any one was welcome to
her... Will was at home; and, though I have never been able to
decide what I should think if he told me that he was going to marry
his cousin, I was certainly beginning to feel that it was time for
him to find a suitable wife and settle down. Will is nearly thirty,
and I have always considered that a popular and good-looking bachelor
is _unfairly_ exposed to temptation in England. _They_ will let well
alone if only others would leave _them_ alone...
As witness that girl at Morecambe. I shall not tell you about that,
because I hope--nay more; I _pray_--that it is all satisfactorily
settled; and, also, I was never told the full story. It was enough
for me that he had lost a splendid appointment and now, once more,
has _nothing_ to live on; he must marry or find a job... When the
girl's father came to the house--one of these rugged,
north-of-England clergymen who always have the air of intimidating
you into a state of grace--, it was my husband whom he insisted on
seeing. I had never known Arthur in a state of such ungovernable
fury. Bursting into my room, he stamped up and down, incoherent,
beside himself... To this day I do not know what Will is supposed to
have done. The girl kissed him good-night or something. I suppose I
am the last person to condone any _freedom_, but she was a mere child
ten years younger than my boy--what more natural or innocent? The
old father spied on them... Hence the storm. Reading between the
lines, I should conjecture that the girl deliberately laid herself
out to catch Will. The one time I saw this Molly Phenton, she seemed
an attractive child, with deep-set, rather appealing eyes; a good
deal of soft brown hair, too, and pretty hands. Quiet, simply
dressed; a perfect specimen of "the old country clergyman's pretty
little daughter." And that, _I have no doubt_, was the effect she
wanted to achieve with Will, the appeal of innocence and youth to a
palate grown weary of more sophisticated charms; I wonder _more_ men
are not caught in that way... Will, I am thankful to say, pulled
back before the trap could close on him; I was really astounded that
the father had the effrontery to come all the way from Morecambe on
what was nothing less or more than a blackmailing expedition.
Futile, if nothing else; Will is not one of those men who find it
necessary to buy popularity by giving presents to all and sundry; and
I am sure he is too prudent to write a girl foolish letters...
"Arthur, do stop walking about," I said, "and tell me what has
happened."
Too often, _only_ too often, when Will has been in trouble of any
kind, I have been excluded on the pretext that this was not a woman's
province. His own mother!
"What has happened?," he shouted. "Why, we have brought into this
world as choice a young blackguard as any one is ever likely to meet.
Phenton told me so to my face; and I had to agree with him. He said
he wished he were young enough to horse-whip the fellow; I said I
agreed. He wished the girl had a brother to do it; I said again that
I agreed."
I really thought it best to let him wear himself out... When a man
speaks in that tone about his own son, when a Christian minister
talks about horse-whipping people... All these wild words made
rather less than _no_ impression on me, as I was quite sure that my
boy hadn't written anything that could be used against him.
"And what is the outcome of it all?," I ventured to ask, when the
storm had abated.
"The outcome?" When Arthur is moved, he has a most irritating trick
of repeating one's words. For thirty years I have tried to break him
of it, but he is obdurate. "You'd better find some woman who'll
marry the young scamp and keep him in order. The sooner the better.
And I wish her joy of him."
When Will returned to Mount Street--he lived at his club until the
wild clergyman returned to Morecambe--, I begged for enlightenment,
but he would say nothing. For that, I am not ashamed to confess, I
respected him; however badly this Molly Phenton (or "Molly Wanton,"
as _I_ prefer to call her) had behaved, Will was too chivalrous to
clear himself at the expense of a woman--and this though I could see
that he was worried out of his mind. To a man, _that_ is a law of
the Medes and Persians...
"Son of mine, you must try to forget the whole thing," I said. "When
you are older, I am afraid that some of your ideals will be modified;
in future, no doubt, you will be more on your guard; but you will
never be secure until you are yourself married."
"Oh, I'm open to any offer," said Will, exactly as poor Phyllida had
done.
I was disquieted, for I could see clearly that he would indeed never
feel secure from this girl until he was plighted to another woman.
When once a man is "Morning-Posted", as he would say, all other
fancied claims dissolve into thin air... The mere sight of the
Morecambe post-mark in those days sent my heart into my mouth, and I
could see that the strain of this persecution was telling on his
nerves. "Ann Spenworth," I said to myself, "you must make up your
mind; if he wants to marry Phyllida, you must not stand in the way."
...
All my life I have shrunk from the responsibility of interfering with
the destiny of a boy and girl in love. The relationship is too
delicate, the consequences are too grave. Before Phyllida came, I
reviewed the position and decided to make no change.
"Your cousin," I told Will, "is coming to us for a few weeks, and I
wish her to carry back pleasant memories of her visit. It is no
secret to you that she has been disappointed through fancying herself
in love with a man who could never have been a suitable husband for
the Earl of Brackenbury's daughter. We have to be kind to her; and,
if I know anything of girls, you will find that one who for the
moment feels forlorn and uncared-for will repay the affection of him
who can overcome her sense of loneliness and convince her that the
whole world is not indifferent to her happiness. The labour and heat
of the day," I said, "must inevitably fall on you. I cannot hope
that your cousin will be amused by the society of a dull old woman
like me; and I am unequal to the physical strain of accompanying her
to dances and plays. If you will relieve me of this burden, you will
be doing us both a kindness; and, though I cannot hope to repay you,
I should like you to feel that you may draw on me for any expenses to
which you may be put in the course of keeping her amused."
Some people--especially the _really_ good-natured--feel that they owe
themselves a grumble before ever consenting to do a kind act. Will
is like that; unless you knew him well, you might think that he made
difficulties before putting himself out in the slightest degree, but
on this occasion he promised without demur. Perhaps he hoped that in
playing cavalier to Phyllida he would turn his own thoughts from that
unhappy episode at Morecambe; I prefer to think that, having now
suffered himself, he was more sensitive to others' suffering... I
did not enquire how they spent their time; they were cousins and
could go about together without being spied on and whispered about; I
made over the car to them, kept Will supplied with little sums to
cover their amusements and asked no questions. From start to finish,
he behaved splendidly. I am not being unkind if I say that Phyllida
was sometimes a little _difficile_... You have noticed, I expect,
that, when people of a certain class become possessed of a motor-car
for the first time, their ambition is to see how fast they can drive
it. Phyllida, I am afraid--and I was sorry to see it, though I could
hardly hope for any other fruit of poor Ruth's upbringing; you may
copy the mannerisms of others, but you can only give forth the
breeding that is in you... I have lost the thread... Ah, yes!
Phyllida, I am afraid, seeing a loyal and attentive cavalier always
by her side... She tried my Will very hard; I sometimes felt that
she was deliberately experimenting to see how much he would bear.
Among places of amusement it was always _her_ choice that prevailed;
Will has a weakness for these _revues_--"you can at least smoke
there," he says--; Phyllida seemed to have developed into a
remorseless blue-stocking. By day she wore him out at exhibitions...
When he was not cooling his heels in a shop... At night he was
expected to stay up till all hours to bring her home from dances.
And so forth and so on...
Perhaps she tried us all rather hard. Money seemed to _melt_ in her
hands; and, though I did not grudge her my last penny if it was going
to turn her thoughts, I am not ashamed to confess that I have reached
an age where I set great store by my personal comfort. When you have
lived for thirty years under the same vine and fig-tree, you begin to
regard your home as a frame and setting which you are not too anxious
to share with any one; hitherto my guests, when any have done me the
honour to make my house their own, have recognized that the hostess
_has_ the first claim on their consideration. Not so Phyllida, who
seems to have been brought up in a very different school. She was
_ruthless_ in her unpunctuality at meals and in her general disregard
of every one else's convenience; plans were chopped and changed up to
the last moment, and there were times when I felt that she was
deliberately making everything as difficult as possible--almost as
though the absurd old feud had not been forgotten and I had put
myself at her mercy. More than anything else I felt the loss of the
car. They used it so unmercifully that I hourly expected the man to
give notice; and in the meantime poor Aunt Ann was left to go by
taxi--when she could find one.
I ought never to have lent it? My dear, you are preaching to the
converted, but I have a reason different from yours. I was standing
helplessly outside Covent Garden one night, when a taxi
providentially drove up and I got into it. Only when I was half-way
home did I remember that I had not told the man where to take me.
Laugh, if you will; but I have never been so frightened! The wildest
stories of kidnapping and robbery surged into my head. I was wearing
my tiara, and the man had made a bee-line for me... Yet we were
driving the shortest way to Mount Street, and the mystery was not
explained until the man--with delightful and most unexpected
civility--jumped down from the box, opened the door and stood cap in
hand, waiting to help me out. Almost as though one had been
Royalty...
"You have forgotten me, Lady Ann?," he asked.
And then I'm not sure that the second shock wasn't worse than the
first. Colonel Butler! Phyllida's soldier-hero, driving a cab! He
had won a Military Cross and a D.S.O.--with a bar, I believe; he had
always seemed a manly, straightforward young fellow--and here he was
driving a cab! "This--_this_--" I felt myself apostrophizing
Phyllida, Brackenbury, that poor fool Ruth--"this is what I've saved
you from." ... And then one had a certain revulsion of feeling: the
pity of it! ... And then stark horror! If Phyllida met him! Not
_then_; I knew she was at a dance with Will and would not be back for
hours, but at any moment when I was not there to protect her from
herself. I recalled her dreadful threat that, if she saw or heard of
Hilary Butler, she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to
marry her...
"But--of course I remember you," I said.
He smiled--without embarrassment of any kind--and walked up the steps
with me.
"Have you a key?," he asked, "or shall I ring?"
He _spoke_ so nicely... If you like, just a touch of what I think
must be West Country; but, when things were at their worst and I felt
that we had to be prepared for anything, it was a slight consolation
to know that he could easily have it drilled out of him... I could
have done the same for Ruth twenty-three years ago, but she seemed to
pride herself on her provincialism.
Now I wonder what you would have done... When Phyllida was nursing
him at the hospital--or just afterwards--, he was _always_ in Mount
Street, lunching, dining; before they took to going about by
themselves _quite_ so much, we had all been to the play, he had seen
us home--just like this--and asked me--just like this--whether I had
my key or whether he should ring... There was no one at home; even
Arthur was in the country. I felt I _couldn't_ suddenly freeze...
"I have my key, thanks," I said. "Won't you come in for a moment?"
He stopped his engine and came in... Now, I wonder what you would
have done, if you'd been in _his_ place? ... He took off coat and
gloves (he was wearing quite a presentable blue suit underneath), and
I led the way into the morning-room, where I offered him cigarettes
and something to drink ... wondering the whole time, don't you know,
why one had _done_ it and how long he would stay... _With_ the coat
and cap he seemed to divest himself of what I can only call the
professional manner; asked me if I wouldn't have a little of my own
brandy, commented on some new curtains I'd bought when we did up the
house after Hilda Culroyd's illness. _Absolutely_ at home...
"How is Phyllida?," he asked.
"My niece is very well, thank you," I answered, hardly caring--at
that moment--to notice the familiarity. "And what have _you_ been
doing with yourself since last we met?," I made haste to ask.
"Oh, as you see," he said, "I've turned taxi-man. Owner-driver. One
in action, four in support and nine training."
I had to beg for enlightenment. And I am not ashamed to confess that
his explanation, when it came, greatly increased my respect for him.
The father, one gathered, was an estate-agent and surveyor in
Devonshire, _highly_ esteemed, but neither a millionaire himself nor
in a position to make his son a millionaire simply by wishing it.
The boy had realized everything--war-bonus, wound-gratuity and the
rest--and had invested in a car which he learned to drive himself.
One always _suspected_ that here was a fortune for any young man who
was not too proud to take off his coat, and so it proved: the one car
became two, the two four and five--hence his expression "one in
action and four in support." Now, I was given to understand, he was
launching out more widely and negotiating for the purchase of _nine_
more. A few of his friends--young fellows like himself discharged
from the army--were coming into partnership with him; and in six
months he hoped to give up driving himself and to turn his business
into a limited company, partly taxis and partly those really
magnificent private cars that one sees at the opera and everywhere,
filled by people who one _knows_ could not afford to buy such things
at the present prices...
I complimented him _most warmly_ on his enterprise and determination.
"It was so obvious," he answered. "Stand outside any theatre or
restaurant on a wet night, and you'll agree with me. There are
thousands of people _living_ in London, _hundreds_ of thousands
coming to London for a few nights, who need a car and can't afford to
keep one. By the time you've ordered dinner at fifteen shillings a
head and champagne at two guineas a bottle and brandy at five
shillings a glass and cigars at four shillings a-piece and stalls at
twelve and six and anything else that occurs to you at any price that
occurs to any one else, you don't grudge an extra guinea for a car
that takes you from your house to the restaurant, from the restaurant
to the theatre and from the theatre home again. You'd spend the best
part of a guinea in fares and tips--without any certainty. For two
guineas I give you certainty and a private car. In two years no one
who can afford to dine at Claridge's or go to the stalls will _dream_
of going any other way. Whether it pays you can judge from the
progress I've made in less than a year."
Like all enthusiasts on their own hobby, he _deluged_ me with figures
until my poor head reeled. I did not complain, however, because I
felt that so long as he was doing sensible hard work he would be
unlikely to return and disturb our peace of mind. Apart from the one
formal question he had not mentioned Phyllida; and I was strengthened
in the belief which I had always held that it was a momentary
infatuation and that he proved he had overcome it when he declined to
communicate with her.
I _hope_ I did nothing to suggest that one can have too much even of
percentages and running expenses and allowances for depreciation and
the like, but he jumped up suddenly and said:
"Well, I mustn't keep you and I mustn't be late for my next job. I
hope your brother and Lady Brackenbury are all right? I see Culroyd
is married."
"They are all very well," I said, as I walked with him to the door.
"If I may ask a favour, Lady Ann, don't tell any of them what I'm
doing," he begged.
Do you know, that was the only jarring note... The first
recognition, of course, was a _shock_. "D.S.O. Taxi-driver," don't
you know? In some strange way it _grates_... Having _taken_ the
plunge, our young friend, I felt, was entitled to the highest credit,
and anything like false shame would have been discordant.
"They would be the first," I said, "to join me in applauding your
resolution and hoping for your success."
"But I want it to be a surprise," he said.
At that, my heart _sank_.
"But why?," I asked.
"For Phyllida's sake," he answered. "I've not seen her since that
week-end at the Hall, I've not written to her; and she can't write to
me, because she doesn't know where I am. I presume she's not
engaged, because I've seen no announcement of it, but I don't want to
do anything that may stand in her light. If my present scheme fails,
I shall have to start on something else; if it succeeds--and when it
succeeds--, it will be time enough for me to see what's happened to
her. I've never forgotten our talk. If I didn't love a girl, I
might cheerfully marry her for her money; but, when I _do_ love her,
I couldn't bear to have people even hinting such a thing. You told
me that she had four thousand of her own; when I can go to her father
and say that I'm making more than that--clear profit to my own
pocket--, I shan't be afraid to look any one in the face. But I've
not asked her to wait for me; and, if in the meantime she meets any
one that she wants to marry more, no one will ever hear me complain."
And then he buttoned himself into his coat--even now I couldn't
_quite_ get over the disc with the number on it, hanging from a
button-hole--, picked up his cap and held out his hand.
I walked to the door,--and then my heart seemed to stop. You may
remember that the horn of our car has a note which I at least find
unmistakable. I heard it in the distance, I heard it coming nearer.
Phyllida and Will! It was only twelve, and I had not expected them
for hours. Evidently the dance had not been to their liking. I
_prayed_ that I might prove equal to the crisis...
"Colonel Butler!," I cried. (One never troubled to think whether he
should _rightly_ be given his military rank). "Shut that door! Run
upstairs to the drawing-room! Hide there till I fetch you, but on no
account turn on the light! My niece is coming now; if you want to
avoid her..."
He acted with great decision and literally _dashed_ upstairs. I
heard the door gently closing as Will fitted his key into the lock...
My dear, I am too old for excitements of this kind; my heart was
_beating_; I had no idea what to say if they asked me why a taxi was
standing there unattended. Oh, and I felt _sure_ Phyllida would say
she had left her work or her book in the drawing-room...
It was agony! I _could_ not persuade them to go to bed. First of
all they wanted to know why _I_ was still up, then they must needs
tell me about their party, then Phyllida wanted a cigarette, then
Will wanted to give her some soda-water. One false start after
another... When at _last_ I thought I had set them moving, Phyllida
sat down again and said:
"Will dear, see if there are any letters for me, there's an angel."
Do you know, I was so much _obsessed_ by the thought of that man in
the drawing-room that I was _blind_ to everything else. As my boy
went into the hall, I felt that I had _seen_ a change without
noticing it, if you understand me. Will was transformed, elated ...
and there was a new gentleness about Phyllida. When he brought the
letters to her, I could see that he pressed her hand; and she sighed
wistfully and then smiled. _Now_ I could understand why they
complained that the dance was so crowded, no room to sit, impossible
even to talk...
"Read those upstairs, dear Phyllida," I begged.
And I took her arm and led her up, past that terrifying drawing-room,
into safety. Will ... When I returned, he wanted to talk; but I
implored him to go up and let me come to him in a moment. He was
curious, mystified ... but at least he could not doubt my
earnestness. Then at last I released my prisoner and hurried him
through the hall and into the street. When I had shut the door I
leaned against it, panting. I couldn't walk, I could hardly stand...
"And now, Will?," I said, when I was able to drag myself upstairs.
"There's nothing much to tell--as yet," he answered. "You've
probably seen that she's been getting steadily more miserable the
last few days. I asked her to-night what it was all about, though I
knew that she was eating her heart out for this Butler fellow. She
would only say that she was unhappy and lonely; and I told her that
was all rot, because any number of men would be in love with her if
she gave them half a chance. Then she said it was no good, because
she couldn't give them any love in return, her heart was dead... The
usual rot a girl talks. I told her that, so far as I was concerned,
I'd gladly risk all that; and she said she didn't care who she
married or what became of her and she wished she'd never been born...
That," said Will, "was nearer by a long chalk than I've ever been
before; and you may take it as absolutely certain that, if she
doesn't hear anything of Butler pretty soon... She dried up and
began to talk of something else when I tried to pin her to a day, but
she was quite decent to me as we drove home."
I could say nothing until I had been given time to digest his news.
Whoever Will marries must have _some_ money; he has earned nothing
since he resigned his post at Morecambe... Perhaps dear Phyllida
thinks a little too much about herself to be the perfect wife for
Will, but it is not cynical to say that, if you look for perfection
in woman or man, you will never marry. One has to consider the
balance of advantage... I did most earnestly want to see Will
established in life and settled down before those dreadful
blackmailing Phentons could make another descent on us. And it would
do Phyllida so much good to marry...
After all my excitements and alarms, I could not sleep for sheer
thankfulness. And, when my tea was brought me and Phyllida of all
people came in with it, I felt that now at last my Will must have
dropped the handkerchief and she was coming to tell me that she had
picked it up.
"My dear, what makes you so energetic?," I asked.
As a rule she insisted on lying in bed until all hours and having her
breakfast brought to her there, _making_ work for my unhappy servants.
"I want to know if you can tell me Hilary Butler's address?," she
said.
"I've never heard it," I told her. "How should I?"
"Apparently he came here yesterday. When I went down to get my bag,
I found his gloves in the hall. But they only have his initials."
I _did_ wish that Phyllida had been less collected and businesslike!
Hard, not daring to let herself go... I ought to have _looked_, I
suppose, to see that he was leaving nothing behind, but one cannot
think of everything. And now I knew that Phyllida would start all
over again...
Yet one must _expect_ an occasional relapse...
"I've never heard it," I told her again.
She did not trouble to ask anything more... Just looked at me for a
moment. I made up my mind that her visit must be cut short; if I had
met Colonel Butler, _she_ might. And I have no doubt of any kind
that she would do what she threatens and _ask_ him to marry her. And
he wouldn't refuse. Moreover, I am not _made_ of money, as she and
Will seemed to think...
Brackenbury was a fool not to send her _right_ away, as I
recommended. Nothing is decided; I sometimes wonder whether anything
ever _will_ be decided. We are precisely where we stood before...
I had time to warn Will, I am thankful to say. A girl who
shilly-shallies like that... I shall make the best of it, if I have
to; but I am not sure she is the sort of wife for my boy...
VIII
LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFERS TO HER DIARY
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): It is only a
question of habit. When I first went to Italy, at the age of
sixteen, my dear mother insisted that I should keep a diary, and I
have kept one ever since. Goodness me, I am more likely to overlook
my letters or the morning paper than forget to write up my journal.
Sometimes it is only a few lines, for the spacious days are over, I
am a dull old woman, and the most I ask of life is that I may be
allowed to live. Very often I let months go by without turning back
to see what I have written; but the record is there if I ever want to
consult it. Usually at the end of the year one likes to take stock...
Not that it is very cheerful reading, alas! But at our age we must
expect that. Another year gone, when perhaps we cannot hope to see
so very many more; another hope dashed and yet another deferred,
making the heart sick; gaps in the circle of those one loves;
increasing frailty or ill-health; and that indefinable, inexplicable
narrowing of outlook, interest, enthusiasm--and with us, I am afraid,
of worldly circumstance. Inevitable... For oneself, perhaps, one
does not mind it, but it is sometimes heart-rending to see the boys
and girls setting out with those high hopes that we have been
compelled, one by one, to discard; heart-rending, too, when those who
seemed to walk with their heads on a level with the stars trip and
sprawl like the rest...
No, I assure you I was not thinking of any one in particular. The
feeling returns with the season and is quite general. One could find
particular applications, no doubt, very near at hand. Begin where
you will: my brother-in-law Spenworth... I wonder what we shall be
thinking of him in a year's time; divorced, remarried--and nobody one
penny the worse! I am not ashamed to confess that, when the word
"divorce" is mentioned, I am translated to another sphere... Groping
blindly among things I don't understand and don't _want_ to
understand... Say what you will, we were _not_ so lax a generation
ago; those who fell remained where they fell ... or climbed back with
effort, difficulty _and an acknowledgement of wrong-doing_. Not as
of right... The new Lady Spenworth I hardly know; she who marries a
man that has been put away... I have not refused to meet her, but
the opportunity has not come my way. Whether she will be able to
_hold_ him... Perhaps if she presents him with an heir ... though I
have had to change my views on _that_ subject, as you know. Oh, I
can speak about it now; and I shall never forget, when things were at
their blackest, it was _you_ who came to me with your divine
sympathy. I could tell you the whole story if you truly honestly
would not be bored; _your_ discretion has been proved... I have lost
the thread...
Ah, yes!--the family... My nephew Culroyd--and Hilda? I am humbly
thankful to say that there has been no catastrophe so far, though
when the first, honeymoon intoxication wears off... Long may it be
delayed, for they are the one bright spot in my poor brother
Brackenbury's life. That pathetic child Phyllida is still breaking
her heart over the cabman-colonel whom I, if you please, am supposed
to have set against her in order to keep her for my boy. Thank
goodness, she does not _know_ he is driving a cab! Breaking her
heart or pretending to. And I really think my brother encourages
her. He wouldn't send her _right_ away as I advised; and now he pats
her hand and looks worried when she comes down _boasting_ that she
hasn't slept. And Ruth does the same... I don't want to _bring_ bad
luck by talking about it; but I sometimes wonder how much longer
Brackenbury will put up with that--_invertebrate woman_; I sometimes
fear that the record of the year will shew that there, too, the blow
has fallen. We have seen to our cost that the most devoted husband
and father may sometimes go apparently quite mad... I feel that
Phyllida, with her youth and her looks and her money, is being so
shamefully _wasted_...
But, until she shakes off her obsession, I should pity any man who
tried to marry her. At one time my boy Will seemed attracted to her
out of compassion for her loneliness and misery. Those were anxious
days, I can assure you, though I should have been glad to see Will
safely married to almost any one. He is undoubtedly of an age; and
what I called "the Morecambe menace"... We have heard nothing of the
Phentons (you know, I always called her Miss Molly "Wanton") since
the father conducted his blackmailing descent upon us, protesting
that Will had made this girl an offer of marriage, talking about
horse-whips. I hope and pray that it is all over, but one can never
be certain. For the last fortnight I have succeeded in _not_
thinking about them; I suppose I should be grateful to Arthur for
turning my thoughts...
You are quite right! I have tried to avoid speaking bitterly _to_
him, I must not speak bitterly _about_ him. But, when the news came
to me, I said: "Now indeed the bottom has fallen out of the world."
It was towards the end of the year, and I had been turning the pages
of my journal. Catastrophe, disappointment, anxiety... But,
whatever storms may blow, I said, I can always trust my husband.
Arthur was my rock and anchor. He and I seemed to stand erect, with
our heads level with the stars, while these others, one after
another, tripped and sprawled. And then Arthur too...
I tell you now, as I told you then: I had heard and suspected
_nothing_ until you put me on my guard. I truly believe that the
person most affected is commonly the last to hear... And Arthur's
way of life made it almost impossible for me even to guess: for years
he has spent as much time away from me as with me--his board-meetings
in London and Birmingham, his shooting ... and, with Will at home,
there was so much _unhappy_ friction that I was not sorry when one or
other went off and left me in peace for a few days. I did not
enquire; so was it surprising that, if the board-meetings and so on
were simply a _blind_, I should be the last person to hear? So with
money. My father-in-law's will was so iniquitous... Cheniston and
the house in Grosvenor Square went naturally to Spenworth; but every
penny, with the exception of a wretched thousand a year for
Arthur,--that was sheer wickedness. _My_ dear father would have done
more for me if he could; but he had impoverished himself when he was
ambassador at Vienna, and, until Brackenbury sold himself to Ruth, we
were all very, very poor. The result has been that throughout my
married life we have been forced to pinch and scrape. You may say
that the house in Mount Street was an extravagance, but one had to
live somewhere. It was for one's friends rather than oneself; I
could not ask the princess to dine with me in Bayswater... Pinch and
scrape, scrape and pinch. Arthur made a fair income by his
director's fees, but I had dreadful moments when I thought of the
future. Spenworth will do no more than he has already done--that we
know--; when I lay at death's door and begged him with what might
have been my last breath to make a settlement on Will--his own
nephew... And at Brackenbury it is canny, north-country little Ruth
who holds the purse-strings ... and dispenses her charity, offering
to pay for my operation and reminding me that, when Will was at Eton,
the bills came to them... I have felt for more years than I like to
count that pinching and scraping are my appointed lot...
Of recent months the task became almost too much for my powers. Not
only the cost of living... Will had lost this Morecambe appointment
without finding another. Arthur complained that figure-head
directors were not in so great request as formerly; he was
shame-faced about it, as though his pride were hurt; I did not then
imagine that he had to give me less money because he was giving more
in another quarter...
And you will remember that, when you told me, I refused to believe
it. Goodness me, I am not so vain as to think that the man who once
loved me _must_ always love me, but there is such a thing as
loyalty--and gratitude. I had trusted him ... and that was enough; I
did not need to tell him--or you--or even myself that he had enjoyed
the best years of my life, that I was an old woman while he was
still--thanks to me--a young man, that I had borne him a son and worn
myself out before my time in scheming and contriving for the comfort
and well-being of them both...
It was brave of you to tell me, to insist on my knowing... and
_believing_. I was _dazed_. That Arthur should be giving her
dresses and jewellery, when he could not afford to redecorate his
wife's house... And apparently it was the common talk of the clubs;
and no doubt kind friends were secretly pitying me... The last
infatuation of the middle-aged man--they were telling one another
that I was six years Arthur's senior--and what could you expect? As
if I had made any secret of my age! It is in the books. And they
were, perhaps, wondering how soon he would outgrow it and how much I
knew and whether I minded... _There_ was the rub--this savage,
impertinent curiosity. What business of theirs if my husband
humiliated me? And, strangely enough, one has so often seen it with
other women and somehow always fancied that it would never happen to
oneself. The swan-song... As a man feels that his youth is slipping
out of his grasp, he makes this one last despairing effort. And love
at that age is like a blow from a sledge-hammer; Arthur was prepared
to run away with the woman. Indeed I know what I am talking about.
Then, I felt, it _was_ time for me to intervene...
You had been clever enough to find out the address--the house, by the
way, Arthur did _not_ give her. She told me so, but without that I
knew enough of his finances to realize that it was physically
impossible--; and all the way there I tried to understand this
strange streak which apparently runs through all men. The old
phrase: "Sowing one's wild oats." ... When I married Arthur, he had
never had an _affaire_ of _any_ kind with _any_ one; and so for
thirty years. Am I very cynical in thinking that perhaps it would
have been better if he _had_? ... Spenworth, on the other hand, had
been tossed from one woman's arms to another's ever since he was a
lad at Eton. You entered his house and never knew whom you would
find at the head of his table--except that it would not be the one
you had seen there a month before; the only difference that marriage
made to him was that, while Kathleen sat at the head of his table, he
dined elsewhere. Now that he has married again in middle life, one
has no sort of guarantee. It seems impossible to frame _any_ rules
for a man of that age...
I had not spoken to Arthur beforehand, of course. He would have
spoiled everything. What I wanted was a cold, passionless talk with
this Mrs. Templedown. Two women, even in _our_ position, could
understand each other: neither of us wanted a scandal, I was prepared
to admit even that she might be genuinely fond of Arthur and would
try--according to her lights--to do the best for him. I need hardly
say that I did not dream of intimidating--Arthur was her
_property_--nor of bribing--goodness me, what had I to offer? Nor
did I feel constrained to beg for mercy or to ask what manner of life
she proposed to leave for me. I hardly think that _pride_ held me in
check, but--somehow--to go on one's knees to a young woman who
started life on the stage was hardly... Well, as my boy would say,
"It is not done." I knew she was clever, I hoped to find her
sensible; and then the only thing was to decide what to _do_...
Of course I did not send up my name...
"Say that a lady wishes to see her," I told the maid.
And I was shewn upstairs readily enough. _Not_ into the
drawing-room; I think that class of person lives entirely in her
bedroom. She was lying on the sofa in a kimono and--so far as I
could judge from the generous opportunities which she insisted on
giving me--nothing else; a lovely animal, as she was at pains that I
should see, with perfect skin, a great mane of copper hair and
golden-brown eyes. Very red lips, very white teeth; I was reminded
of a soft, beautiful lion-cub. She moved and stretched herself like
an animal, speaking as though she were only half-awake. I don't
think she could have been more than twenty. She left the stage to
marry a man in the Air Force, I understand, and he was killed at the
end of the war, leaving her very ill-provided-for... "Seductive" was
the word I was trying to think of...
"It's easy to see why men should fall down and worship _you_," I said.
"Who's in love with me now?," she asked with the laugh of a child,
_exulting_ in her beauty, as it were, until in a flash I saw that her
whole life was natural to her... Inevitable, I might say.
"Arthur Spenworth," I told her.
"Oh, he's a dear old thing," she answered.
"He is my husband," I said.
I might have added "and the father of our boy," but I would make no
_appeal_; I had come there to decide dispassionately what had to be
done... The woman jumped up and faced me, but I stood my ground.
Her eyes kept changing in expression, and I saw that she was first
bewildered ... and then defiant ... then curious ... then a little
ashamed, then defiant again and once more bewildered.
"Well?," she said; and then in spite of herself, as it were, "You're
not a bit like what I expected."
"Older perhaps?," I asked. "My dear young lady, my husband and I are
much of an age, but he carries his years better. Why, goodness me,
you are a child! Our boy must be ten years older than you... Won't
you ask me to sit down? Walking upstairs makes me out of breath, and
I want to have a little talk with you. I have only just heard of
this; and I want to know what is to be done. You will find me a
reasonable woman, I hope, and perhaps I know too much of the world to
judge hastily or reproach easily. Won't you tell me everything, so
that we may understand better how we are situated?"
Do you know, _because_ I remained dispassionate, I felt in a moment
that I was holding my own and in another moment that I was gaining
ground. I who had walked upstairs wondering whether my knees would
give way under me... It was Mrs. Templedown who was embarrassed...
And I had not sought to make myself a ruler or a judge...
I will not weary you with the story. Arthur had met her--in the
train from Birmingham! Is there not dignity and distinction in that?
He had asked her to dine with him on reaching London, they had met
three or four times, Arthur had begun giving her little presents.
How much one can _ever_ believe of such a woman's story I do not
profess to judge. She _vowed_ that their relations were innocent,
that her husband's death had left her heart-broken and that she was
simply and sincerely grateful to any man who shewed her a little
kindness; in that class I gather it is only natural for every girl to
have some benevolent elderly protector who takes her out to dinner
and gives her little presents. If it had not been Arthur, I was to
understand, it would have been some one else. I confess that her
ingenuousness rang a little hollow when she betrayed how intimately
and accurately she knew who he was--the connection with Spenworth on
one side and with Brackenbury on the other; like the rest of them,
she hunted with one quarry--or one type of quarry--definitely in
view...
After the little presents came the big presents--dresses, jewellery
and sums of money which she did not specify. One thought of the
_rags_ that one had worn oneself during the war... No shame in
telling me about _that_! She had nothing of her own except this
house which the husband had left her, and Arthur would have been hurt
if she had refused... So charming! So delicate--on both sides...
By and by Arthur seems to have become more exacting, but the girl
vowed again that she kept him at arm's length--knowing her own value,
one presumes. I did not enquire very closely into this aspect of the
campaign, as I knew only too well what was coming. When everything
else failed, he would have to offer her marriage--by way of the
Divorce Court.
"And that is how things stand now?," I asked, as she came to the end
of her story.
"That's what he _wants_," she answered. "Oh, but I can't discuss it
with you, Lady Ann."
"My dear young lady," I said, "that is just what we have to do--quite
dispassionately, to decide what's best. He is my husband, I love him
in spite of everything; you love him too, I judge, and we have to put
our heads together. You will go away with him, I take it?"
It was then that she began to cry. I knew it would come sooner or
later. _Convulsively_... I have told you that she was nothing more
nor less than a child...
"Yes," she sobbed.
"To France? Next Thursday?"
It was no second-sight on my part, I can assure you. Arthur had
arranged to visit Paris and Lyons--on business, _I_ was told--, and
the guess was natural, though Mrs. Templedown seemed to think I was
some sort of witch.
"Yes," she answered again. And then--really, you know, for all the
world as though we were at a play: "Oh, don't torture me!"
_Torture_ her...?
"And then," I said, "my husband will write to tell me he loves you
and has been unfaithful to me and is never coming back and I had
better divorce him and he is sorry for the unhappiness he is causing
me..."
Those terrible letters that the papers always publish. _I_ never
read them myself. In the school in which I was brought up, divorce
lay beyond the pale: "Whom God hath joined..."
"And then you _will_ divorce him, won't you?" she asked.
Really, you know, it was almost comic! She was afraid, after
_plunging_ herself in dishonour, that I might refuse to divorce
Arthur so that she could never marry him.
"If he asks me," I promised. "I am thinking solely of his happiness.
He could not live with you unless you were married--I am not now
thinking of _Right_ or _Wrong_; it would cause too great a scandal,
and he would have to resign his various public positions. I only
hope that the divorce will not compel him to do that, for you will
both be entirely dependent on the fees that he earns. We find it
hard enough to live on his income as it is, by ceaseless scraping and
pinching, denying ourselves little luxuries... I hope you are a good
house-keeper? ...
Do you know, as soon as I said it, I realized what an absurd question
it was. One look at her, one glance at the room, the least spark of
imagination, any guess at what she was and what her life had been!
An economical housekeeper indeed! I wish I could describe her room
to you: great bowls and vases of the most expensive flowers, boxes of
sweets, cigarettes; all the magazines and illustrated papers that one
really does think twice about before buying... Clothes, too... I am
sure that even my niece Phyllida or Culroyd's wife, who seem to have
money to burn, would not have quite such a profusion. _Lingerie_,
gloves, handkerchiefs, the _finest_ silk stockings--and everything
thrown about on floor and chairs like so much waste-paper. And I in
_rags_ that truly honestly I am ashamed for my maid to see... Her
dressing-table alone supported a small fortune--bottles and boxes and
looking-glasses and brushes that really made me feel a pauper. The
door of her bathroom was open--in that class it is a point of honour
never to shut anything or put anything away--, and I saw the most
extravagant array of salts and soaps and powders and scents ... like
the tiring-room of some great eastern queen. Things I simply
couldn't afford; we discontinued bath-salts when the war broke out
and one had an excuse for economizing, and we have never resumed them.
"I don't know what your plans are, Mrs. Templedown," I said. "If you
return to the stage, everything may be different, but I know my
husband's income to a penny. The court will no doubt insist that he
makes what provision he can for my son and myself; I should be
greatly surprised if he could allow you more than about a thousand a
year."
"Well, I suppose it's possible to manage on that," she said.
It was _pathetic_! Money had no _meaning_ for her! And, so long as
other people paid the bills, what else could you expect? It must
have required twice that sum to keep that beautiful body of hers in
its present embarrassing state of semi-nudity.
"A thousand pounds--at present prices,": I said very distinctly, "for
two people--to cover everything--, it's not much, you will find.
And, if you have been used to luxury, you will miss it more than a
person who has always had to live on a small income. That is your
affair, of course, and you mustn't think me brutal if I tell you
candidly that I'm considering my husband as much as I can and you not
at all. You are young enough to take care of yourself, but he needs
a great deal of looking after..."
I paused to let my words sink in. Of course she didn't believe me!
Because Arthur had squandered a few hundreds on her, she thought he
could produce thousands merely by pressing a bell; and, when she had
sucked him dry, she expected Spenworth and Brackenbury to come
forward. I _had_ to tell her how things really were... We should
_all_ be poorer than we are by a divorce... Though she clearly did
not believe me, she was impressed; she was thinking. In that class
one doesn't think very much, apparently. I gathered that she could
not go back to the stage; she had no position there and could only
hope for work in the chorus...
"Old Boy says it will be all right," she said, and I could see that
she was exhausted by the rare exertion of thinking. Until you have
heard your husband described as "Old Boy" by a half-naked chorus-girl
who is slowly bleeding him to death, you have not realized how highly
your self-restraint may be tested...
"I don't suggest more than that it will be an effort," I said. "My
dear young lady, I speak with some knowledge. You were married for a
few months to a husband whom you hardly saw and who spent what money
he had like water. I have kept house for more than thirty years on
an income which you would not think large, but which is bigger than
anything you can hope for. I know something of men and their ways
and their extravagances and humours. It will be a great change, and
I only hope that you will prove equal to it." I pointed--not
unkindly--at the litter in her room. "I trust for your sake as well
as his that you will learn habits of tidiness."
"Is Old Boy a fusser?," she asked.
I wish to be judged by results. If you tell me that the end has
justified the means, I give you complete freedom to say that I spoke
of Arthur as one might speak of a cook when one's name had been
furnished as a reference. I gave him a character--for his next
employer. No, indeed, he was not what the young woman could fairly
call a "fusser", but all men of his age had contracted certain
habits. He abominated untidiness and unpunctuality--the necessary
fruit of his business-training; though generous, he had long been
compelled to be _careful_ about money. I offered to shew her my
books, but she said she didn't think she could understand them. And
so on and so forth. He was very particular about his food, and in
this respect Mrs. Templedown would have to be a veritable
martinet--not only to the servants but to him.
"My dear young lady," I said, "you know what men of that age are
like--or perhaps you still don't. My husband is essentially
temperate, but he is also criminally injudicious. He thinks that an
occasional glass of champagne--he cannot afford to drink it
regularly--is good for him; _I know better_. Acidity... Whisky and
soda--two, if he likes--, one glass of port and nothing else. The
moment he takes liberties with himself, his digestion suffers, he
cannot sleep--and _you_ pay the penalty. Similarly with what he
eats; he must never be given butcher's meat more than once a day,
shell-fish of every kind are poison to him, and, though he will never
admit it, any rich sweets tell their tale next day. I could give you
a list, but you will find out for yourself... Smoking again ... one
cigar does him no harm, after two he can hardly breathe; all the
Spenworths are liable to bronchitis. And exercise. My husband was
quite an athlete as a young man; he says he doesn't need exercise,
but _I know better_. If I may speak quite openly, he suffers from
what men call 'liver.' ... I should dearly like to give you a little
list of things, if you won't think me impertinent; one does not live
with a man for more than thirty years without coming to regard him as
one's child..."
And, whether she liked it or not, then and there, I took pencil and
paper and just jotted things down. He would never put on his winter
underclothes unless some one reminded him; result--a week in bed with
a severe chill...
"You make him out to be a complete crock," said Mrs. Templedown.
Poor soul! one hardly looked for any great _elegance_ from her...
"Not that, by any means," I told her, "but, at his age, a man has to
be careful."
We were still at work on the list when her maid came in and whispered
that she had to dress and be out to dinner in half an hour. She was,
I understand, going to a dance.
"Not with Arthur!" I said.
Oh no! She was going with some friend of her husband. I told her
that, if Arthur was ever persuaded or even allowed to stay up after
midnight, one paid for it next day... She asked if I would not wait
with her while she dressed, but I was glad to escape while the maid
was still in the room. The parting, had we been by ourselves, must
inevitably have been difficult. As it was, we just shook hands...
I honestly cannot tell you whether I expected to hear anything more.
I did not know what to think and was trying to keep my mind a
blank... She came next day, when Arthur was out; it was pleasant to
feel that she knew more of his movements than I did! We--my maid and
I--were upstairs, looking through Arthur's clothes before packing
them to go abroad with him. I sent the maid out of the room and
asked if Mrs. Templedown would mind coming up to me. And, when she
came, I added practice to theory. Until you _do_ it, you're hardly
conscious of it; but you cannot be a man's wife for thirty-two years
without finding out thirty-two _thousand_ little peculiarities about
him. I had spoken about the winter underclothing already... I gave
her the prescription for his tonic and told her where to have it made
up and when he must be _forced_ to take it--the symptoms,
danger-signals... My dear, I talk _frankly_ to you and I sometimes
fear that you must think me terribly sordid, but truly honestly, if
one neglects small things, one neglects everything. You may fancy
that there is little difference between two shillings and
half-a-crown on a bottle of medicine, but, when you take the medicine
for half the year and multiply the difference by
twenty-six,--thirteen shillings! Multiply that one item of medicine
by half a hundred things... I am not very enthusiastically
supported; at dinner it is always "Why don't we ever have this or
that?," when this or that is out of season and _prohibitive_; even
Will rounded on me once and said that his poor old mother had reduced
_meanness_ to a fine art. I had to bite my lip! From _Will_... I
told poor little Mrs. Templedown everything; and, if you say that I
failed in loyalty to Arthur, I can only answer that the end must
justify the means and that I am content to be judged by results.
"And now," I said, "I can only wish you good luck. I am nothing to
you, but, if you ever feel kindly disposed to a dull old woman, do
your best for Arthur, keep him happy--for my sake. You are making a
great experiment and taking a great risk; you, and you alone, can
crown it with success. When you both ask me to divorce my husband, I
shall take the necessary steps; but I shall do nothing hastily.
Perhaps, when you have been with him for a time, you will find that
the difficulties are greater than you anticipated--or, let me say,
that success is harder of achievement than you hoped. I ask only one
thing: do not force yourselves into an extremity from any false
pride. Be candid with me, as I have been candid with you. Should
you find only _failure_ and the _prospect_ of failure, recognize it
boldly. Write to me. Say 'It has not turned out as we expected.
Your husband is coming back to you.' I shall receive him without
reproaches, I shall know nothing. He will find his favourite dinner,
his chair and cigar, his book and 'night-cap', as he calls it... I
shall be truly glad to see him back, but I look at you, with all your
youth and beauty; I know that I must not keep him if you are his hope
of happiness. Kiss me, dear child," I said, "and do better for him
than I have been able to do."
A singular meeting! She stayed with me for nearly two hours longer.
I won't say "not speaking a word", but I can say "not finishing a
sentence." Bewildered... Then she went away, and I rang for my
maid. I never heard from her again. On Thursday--_the_
Thursday--Arthur found his suit-case and kit-bag packed and labelled
in the hall. "I don't want all this," he said, "for one night." ...
And he was back again in three days. I _happen_ to know that he went
alone and returned alone--and was alone in Paris...
I was talking about the diary, was I not? It is not cheerful
reading, and much of it is dull. This entry in question: "_Arthur
returned from France tired and depressed, but very glad to be home
again..._" It does not mean much...
To any one else...
I am not crying! I am simply _worn-out_...! Oh, my dear, I am too
old for this kind of thing, apart from the long agony of humiliation.
Arthur must send me _right_ away for a _complete_ change. He _can_
afford it now...
IX
LADY ANN SPENWORTH NARRATES AN EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED
_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): When do I start,
indeed? My dear, you are not very complimentary! We have been back
nearly a week. _That_ shews how you have deserted me! ... No, I
never intended to be away for more than about a fortnight. You see,
so long as this wild beast is at large, prowling about Morecambe and
preparing to spring at any moment, I _dare_ not leave Will
unprotected. I really don't think I can add anything to what I've
already told you; my boy himself is so very uncommunicative, and
Arthur becomes alternately violent and morose when I beg in the
_humblest_ way for the _least_ enlightenment. My reading of the
position is that this "Molly Wanton" set her cap at Will and, when he
refused to have anything to do with her, _rounded_ on him until he
threw up a first-rate appointment rather than stay another hour in
Morecambe; then she _stuffed_ her foolish father with lies until the
man comes to this house like a demented creature and vows that my boy
promised to _marry_ his Molly.