SETTLED PROGRAMMES.
Mark Wellgood of Nutley had a bugbear, an evil thing to which he gave
the name of sentimentality. Wherever he saw it he hated it--and he saw
it everywhere. No matter what was the sphere of life, there was the
enemy ready to raise its head, and Mark Wellgood ready to hit that head.
In business and in public affairs he warred against it unceasingly; in
other people's religion--he had very little of his own--he was keen to
denounce it; even from the most intimate family and personal
relationships he had always been resolved to banish it, or, failing
that, to suppress its manifestations. Himself a man of uncompromising
temper and strong passions, he saw in this hated thing the root of all
the vices with which he had least sympathy. It made people cowards who
shrank from manfully taking their own parts; it made them hypocrites who
would not face the facts of human nature and human society, but sought
to cover up truths that they would have called "ugly" by specious names,
by veils, screens, and fine paraphrases. It made men soft, women
childish, and politicians flabby; it meant sheer ruin to a nation.
Sentimentality was, of course, at the bottom of what was the matter with
his daughter, of those things of which, with the aid of Isobel Vintry's
example, he hoped to cure her--her timidity and her fastidiousness. But
it was at the bottom of much more serious things than these--since to
make too much fuss about a girl's nonsensical fancies would be
sentimental in himself. Notably it was at the bottom of all shades of
opinion from Liberalism to Socialism, both included. Harry Belfield,
lunching at Nutley a week or so after his return to Meriton, had the
benefit of these views, with which, as a prospective Conservative
candidate, he was confidently expected to sympathise.
"I've only one answer to make to a Socialist," said Wellgood. "I say to
him, 'You can have my property when you're strong enough to take it.
Until then, you can't.' Under democracy we count heads instead of
breaking them. It's a bad system, but it's tolerable as long as the
matter isn't worth fighting about. When you come to vital issues, it'll
break down--it always has. We, the governing classes, shall keep our
position and our property just as long as we're able and willing to
defend them. If the Socialists mean business, they'd better stop talking
and learn to shoot."
"That might be awkward for us," said Harry, with a smile at Vivien
opposite.
"But if they think we're going to sit still and be voted out of
everything, they're much mistaken. That's what I hope, at all events,
though it needs a big effort not to despair of the country sometimes.
People won't look at the facts of nature. All nature's a fight from
beginning to end. All through, the strong hold down the weak; and the
strong grow stronger by doing it--never mind whether they're men or
beasts."
"There's a lot of truth in that; but I don't know that it would be very
popular on a platform--even on one of ours!"
"You political fellows have to wrap it up, I suppose, but the cleverer
heads among the working men know all about it--trust them! They're on
the make themselves; they want to get where we are; gammoning the common
run helps towards that. Oh, they're not sentimental! I do them the
justice to believe that."
"But isn't there a terrible lot of misery, father?" asked Vivien.
"You can't cure misery by quackery, my dear," he answered concisely.
"Half of it's their own fault, and for the rest--hasn't there always
been? So long as some people are weaker than others, they'll fare worse.
I don't see any particular attraction in the idea of making weaklings or
cowards as comfortable as the strong and the brave." His glance at his
daughter was stern. Vivien flushed a little; the particular ordeal of
that morning, a cross-country ride with her father, had not been a
brilliant success.
"To him that hath shall be given, eh?" Harry suggested.
"Matter of Scripture, Harry, and you can't get away from it!" said
Wellgood with a laugh.
Psychology is not the strong point of a mind like Wellgood's. To study
his fellow-creatures curiously seems to such a man rather unnecessary
and rather twaddling work; in its own sphere it corresponds to the hated
thing itself, to an over-scrupulous worrying about other people's
feelings or even about your own. It had not occurred to Wellgood to
study Harry Belfield. He liked him, as everybody did, and he had no idea
how vastly Harry's temperament differed from his own. Harry had many
material guarantees against folly--his birth, the property that was to
be his, the career opening before him. If Wellgood saw any signs of what
he condemned, he set them down to youth and took up the task of a mentor
with alacrity. Moreover he was glad to have Harry coming to the house;
matters were still at an early stage, but if there were a purpose in his
coming, there was nothing to be said against the project. He would
welcome an alliance with Halton, and it would be an alliance on even
terms; for Vivien had some money of her own, apart from what he could
leave her. Whether she would have Nutley or not--well, that was
uncertain. Wellgood was only forty-three and young for his years; he
might yet marry and have a son. A second marriage was more than an idea
in his head; it was an intention fully formed. The woman he meant to ask
to be his wife at the suitable moment lived in his house and sat at his
table with him--his daughter's companion, Isobel Vintry.
Isobel had sat silent through Wellgood's talk, not keenly interested in
the directly political aspect of it, but appreciating the view of human
nature and of the way of the world which underlay it. She also was on
the side of the efficient--of the people who knew what they wanted and
at any rate made a good fight to get it. Yet while she listened to
Wellgood, her eyes had often been on Harry; she too was beginning to ask
why Harry came so much to Nutley; the obvious answer filled her with a
vague stirring of discontent. An ambitious self-confident nature does
not like to be "counted out," to be reckoned out of the running before
the race is fairly begun. Why was the answer obvious? There was more
than one marriageable young woman at Nutley. Her feeling of protest was
still vague; but it was there, and when she looked at Harry's comely
face, her eyes were thoughtful.
Though Wellgood had business after lunch, Harry stayed on awhile,
sitting out on the terrace by the lake, for the day was warm and fine.
The coming of spring had mitigated the grimness of Nutley; the water
that had looked dreary and dismal in the winter now sparkled in the sun.
Harry was excellently well content with himself and his position. He
told the two girls that things were shaping very well. Old Sir George
Millington had decided to retire. He was to be the candidate; he would
start his campaign through the villages of the Division in the late
summer, when harvest was over; he could hardly be beaten; and he was
"working like a horse" at his subjects.
"The horse gets out of harness now and then!" said Isobel.
"You don't want him to kill himself with work, Isobel?" asked Vivien
reproachfully.
"Visits to Nutley help the work; they inspire me," Harry declared,
looking first at Vivien, then at Isobel. They were both, in their
different ways, pleasant to look at. Their interest in him--in all he
said and did, and in all he was going to do--was very pleasant also.
"Oh yes, I'm working all right!" he laughed. "Really I have to, because
of old Andy Hayes. He's getting quite keen on politics--reads all the
evening after he gets back from town. Well, he's good enough to think
I've read everything and know everything, and whenever we meet he pounds
me with questions. I don't want Andy to catch me out, so I have to mug
away."
"That's your friend, Vivien," said Isobel, with a smile and a nod.
"Yes, the solid man."
"Oh, I know that story. Andy told me himself. He thought you behaved
like a brick."
"He did, anyhow. Why don't you bring him here, Harry?"
"He's in town all day; I'll try and get him here some Saturday."
"Does he still stay with the--with Mr. Rock?" asked Vivien.
"No; he's taken lodgings. He's very thick with old Jack still, though.
Of course it wouldn't do to tell him so, but it's rather a bore that he
should be connected with Jack in that way. It doesn't make my mother any
keener to have him at Halton, and it's a little difficult for me to
press it."
"It does make his position seem--just rather betwixt and between,
doesn't it?" asked Isobel.
"If only it wasn't a butcher!" protested Vivien.
"O Vivien, the rules, the rules!" "Nothing against butchers," was one of
the rules.
"I know, but I would so much rather it had been a draper, or a
stationer, or something--something clean of that sort."
"I'm glad your father's not here. Be good, Vivien!"
"However it's not so bad if he doesn't stay there any more," Harry
charitably concluded. "Just going in for a drink with old
Jack--everybody does that; and after all he's no blood relation." He
laughed. "Though I dare say that's exactly what you'd call him, Vivien."
Just as he made his little joke Vivien had risen. It was her time for
"doing the flowers," one of the few congenial tasks allowed her. She
smiled and blushed at Harry's hit at her, looking very charming. Harry
indulged himself in a glance of bold admiration. It made her cheeks
redder still as she turned away, Harry looking after her till she
rounded the corner of the house. In answering the call of the voice he
had found no disappointment. Closer and more intimate acquaintance
revealed her as no less charming than she had promised to be. Harry was
sure now of what he wanted, and remained quite sure of all the wonderful
things that it was going to do for him and for his life.
Suddenly on the top of all this legitimate and proper feeling--to which
not even Mark Wellgood himself could object, since it was straight in
the way of nature--there came on Harry Belfield a sensation rare, yet
not unknown, in his career--a career still so short, yet already so
emotionally eventful.
Isobel Vintry was not looking at him--she was gazing over the lake--nor
he at her; he was engaged in the process of lighting a cigarette. Yet he
became intensely aware of her, not merely as one in his company, but as
a being who influenced him, affected him, in some sense stretched out a
hand to him. He gave a quick glance at her; she was motionless, her eyes
still aloof from him. He stirred restlessly in his chair; the air seemed
very close and heavy. He wanted to make some ordinary, some light
remark; for the moment it did not come. A remembrance of the first time
that Mrs. Freere and he had passed the bounds of ordinary friendship
struck across his mind, unpleasantly, and surely without relevance!
Isobel had said nothing, had done nothing, nor had he. Yet it was as
though some mystic sign had passed from her to him--he could not tell
whether from him to her also--a sign telling that, whatever
circumstances might do, there was in essence a link between them, a
reminder from her that she too was a woman, that she too had her power.
He did not doubt that she was utterly unconscious, but neither did he
believe that he was solely responsible, that he had merely imagined.
There was an atmosphere suddenly formed--an atmosphere still and heavy
as the afternoon air that brooded over the unruffled lake.
Harry had no desire to abide in it. His mind was made up; his heart was
single. He picked up a stone which had been swept from somewhere on to
the terrace and pitched it into the lake. A plop, and many ripples. The
heavy stillness was broken.
Isobel turned to him with a start.
"I thought you were going to sleep, Miss Vintry. I couldn't think of
anything to say, so I threw a stone into the water. I'm afraid you were
finding me awfully dull!"
"You dull! You're a change from what sometimes does seem a little
dull--life at Nutley. But perhaps you can't conceive life at Nutley
being dull?" Her eyes mocked him with the hint that she had discovered
his secret.
"Well, I think I should be rather hard to please if I found Nutley
dull," he said gaily. "But if you do, why do you stay?"
"Perpetual amusement isn't in a companion's contract, Mr. Harry.
Besides, I'm fond of Vivien. I should be sorry to leave her before the
natural end of my stay comes."
"The natural end?"
"Oh, I think you understand that." She smiled with a good-humoured scorn
at his homage to pretence.
"Well, of course, girls do marry. It's been known to happen," said
Harry, neither "cornered" nor embarrassed. "But perhaps"--he glanced at
her, wondering whether to risk a snub. His charm, his gift of gay
impudence, had so often stood him in stead and won him a liberty that a
heavy-handed man could not hope to be allowed; he was not much
afraid--"Perhaps you'd be asked to stay on--in another capacity, Miss
Vintry."
"It looks as if your thoughts were running on such things." She did not
affect not to understand, but she was not easy to corner either.
"I'm afraid they always have been," Harry confessed, a confession
without much trace of penitence.
"Mine don't often; and they're never supposed to--in my position."
"Oh, nonsense! Really that doesn't go down, Miss Vintry. Why, a girl
like you, with such--"
"Don't attempt a catalogue, please, Mr. Harry."
"You're right, quite right. I'm conscious how limited my powers are."
Harry Belfield could no more help this sort of thing than a bird can
help flying. In childhood he had probably lisped in compliments, as the
poet in numbers. In itself it was harmless, even graceful, and quite
devoid of serious meaning. Yet it was something new in his relations
with Isobel Vintry; though it had arisen out of a desire to dispel that
mysterious atmosphere, yet it was a sequel to it. Hitherto she had been
Vivien's companion. In that brief session of theirs--alone together by
the lake--she had assumed an independent existence for him, a vivid,
distinctive, rather compelling one. The impressionable mind received a
new impression, the plastic feelings suffered the moulding of a fresh
hand. Harry, who was alert to watch himself and always knew when he was
interested, was telling himself that she was such a notable foil to
Vivien; that was why he was interested. Vivien was still the centre of
gravity. The explanation vindicated his interest, preserved his loyalty,
and left his resolve unshaken. These satisfactory effects were all on
himself; the idea of effects on Isobel Vintry did not occur to him. He
was not vain, he was hardly a conscious or intentional "lady-killer." He
really suffered love affairs rather than sought them; he was driven into
them by an overpowering instinct to prove his powers. He could not help
"playing the game"--the rather hazardous game--to the full extent of his
natural ability. That extent was very considerable.
He said good-bye to her, laughingly declaring that after all he would
prepare a catalogue, and send it to her by post. Then he went into the
house, to find Vivien and pay another farewell. Left alone, Isobel rose
from her chair with an abrupt and impatient movement. She was a woman of
feelings not only more mature but far stronger than Vivien's; she had
ambitious yearnings which never crossed Vivien's simple soul. But she
was stern with herself. Perhaps she had caught and unconsciously copied
some of Wellgood's anti-sentimental attitude. She often told herself
that the feelings were merely dangerous and the yearnings silly. Yet
when others seemed tacitly to accept that view, made no account of her,
and assumed to regard her place in life as settled, she glowed with a
deep resentment against them, crying that she would make herself felt.
To-day she knew that somehow, to some degree however small, she had made
herself felt by Harry Belfield. The discovery could not be said to bring
pleasure, but it brought triumph--triumph and an oppressive
restlessness.
Wellgood strolled out of the house and joined her. "Where's Harry?" he
asked.
"He went into the house to say good-bye to Vivien; or perhaps he's gone
altogether by now."
Wellgood stood in thought, his hands in his pockets.
"He's a bit inclined to be soft, but I think we shall make a man of him.
He's got a great chance, anyhow. Vivien seems to like him, doesn't she?"
"Oh, everybody must!" She smiled at him. "Are you thinking of
match-making, like a good father?"
"She might do worse, and I'd like her to marry a man we know all about.
The poor child hasn't backbone to stand up for herself if she happened
on a rascal."
Isobel had a notion that Wellgood was over-confident if he assumed that
he, or they, knew all about Harry Belfield. His parentage, his position,
his prospects--yes. Did these exhaust the subject? But Wellgood's
downright mind would have seen only "fancies" in such a suggestion.
"If that's the programme, I must begin to think of packing up my
trunks," she said with a laugh.
He did not join in her laugh, but his stern lips relaxed into a smile.
"Lots of time to think about that," he told her, his eyes seeming to
make a careful inspection of her. "Nutley would hardly be itself without
you, Isobel."
She showed no sign of embarrassment under his scrutiny; she stood
handsome and apparently serene in her composure.
"Oh, poor Nutley would soon recover from the blow," she said. "But I
shall be sorry to go. You've been very kind to me."
"You've done your work very well. People who work well are well treated
at Nutley; people who work badly--"
"Aren't exactly petted? No, they're not, Mr. Wellgood, I know."
"You'd always do your work, whatever it might be, well, so you'd always
be well treated."
"At any rate you'll give me a good character?" she asked mockingly.
"Oh, I'll see that you get a good place," he answered her in the same
tone, but with a hint of serious meaning in his eyes.
His plan was quite definite, his confidence in the issue of it absolute.
But "one thing at a time" was among his maxims. He would like to see
Vivien's affair settled before his own was undertaken. His idea was that
his declaration and acceptance should follow on his daughter's
engagement.
Isobel was not afraid of Mark Wellgood, as his daughter was, and as so
many women would have been. She had a self-confidence equal to his own;
she added to it a subtlety which would secure her a larger share of
independence than it would be politic to claim openly. She had not
feared him as a master, and would not fear him as a husband. Moreover
she understood him far better than he read her. Understanding gives
power. And she liked him; there was much that was congenial to her in
his mind and modes of thought. He was a man, a strong man. But the
prospect at which his words hinted--she was not blind to their meaning,
and for some time back had felt little doubt of his design--did not
enrapture her. At first sight it seemed that it ought. She had no money,
her family were poor, marriage was her only chance of independence.
Nutley meant both a comfort and a status beyond her reasonable hopes.
But it meant also an end to the ambitious dreams. It was finality. Just
this life she led now for all her life--or at least all Wellgood's! He
was engrossed in the occupations of a country gentleman of moderate
means, in his estate work and his public work. He hardly ever went to
London; he never travelled farther afield; he visited little even among
his neighbours. Some of these habits a wife might modify; the essentials
of the life she would hardly be able to change. Yet, if she got the
chance, there was no question but that she ought to take it. Common
sense told her that, just as it told Wellgood that it would be absurd to
doubt of her acceptance.
Common sense might say what it liked. Her feelings were in revolt, and
their insurrection gathered fresh strength to-day. It was not so much
that Wellgood was nearly twenty years her senior. That counted, but not
as heavily as perhaps might be expected, since his youthful vigour was
still all his. It was the certainty with which his thoughts disposed of
her, his assumption that his suit would be free from difficulty and from
rivalry, his matter-of-course conclusion that Harry could come to Nutley
only for Vivien's sake. If these things wounded her woman's pride, the
softer side of her nature lamented the absence of romance, of the thrill
of love, of being wooed and won in some poetic fashion, of
everything--she found her thoughts insensibly taking this
direction--that it would be for Harry Belfield's chosen mistress to
enjoy. Nobody--least of all the man who was content to take her to wife
himself--seemed to think of her as a choice even possible to Harry. He
was, of course, for Vivien. All the joys of love, all the life of
pleasure, the participation in his career, the moving many-coloured
existence to be led by his side--all these were for Vivien. Her heart
cried out in protest at the injustice; she might not even have her
chance! It would be counted treachery if she strove for it, if she
sought to attract Harry or allowed herself to be attracted by him. She
had to stand aside; she was to be otherwise disposed of, her assent to
the arrangement being asked so confidently that it could hardly be said
to be asked at all. Suppose she did not assent? Suppose she fought for
herself, treachery or no treachery? Suppose she followed the way of her
feelings, if so be that they led her towards Harry Belfield? Suppose she
put forth what strength she had to upset Wellgood's plan, to fight for
herself?
She played with these questions as she walked up and down the terrace by
the lake. She declared to herself that she was only playing with them,
but they would not leave her.
Certainly the questions found no warrant in Harry Belfield's present
mood. He had made up his mind, his eager blood was running apace. That
very evening, as his father and he sat alone together after dinner, in
the long room graced by the two Vandykes which were the boast of Halton,
he broached the matter in confidence. Mr. Belfield was a frail man of
sixty. He had always been delicate in health, a sufferer from asthma and
prone to chills; but he was no acknowledged invalid, and would not
submit to the _role_. He did his share of county work; his judgment was
highly esteemed, his sense of honour strict and scrupulous. He had a
dryly humorous strain in him, which found food for amusement in his
son's exuberant feelings and dashing impulses, without blinding him to
their dangers.
"Well, it's not a great match, but it's quite satisfactory, Harry.
You'll find no opposition here. I like her very much, and your mother
does too, I know. But"--he smiled and lifted his brows--"it's a trifle
sudden, isn't it?"
"Sudden?" cried Harry. "Why, I've known her all my life!"
"Yes, but you haven't been in love with her all your life. And, if
report speaks true, you have been in love with some other women." Mr.
Belfield was a man of the world; his tone was patient and not unduly
severe as he referred to Harry's adventures of the heart, which had
reached his ears from friends in London.
"Yes, I know," said Harry; "but those were only--well, passing sort of
things, you know."
"And this isn't a passing sort of thing?"
"Not a bit of it; I'm dead sure of it. Well, a fellow can't tell
another--not even his father--what he feels."
"No, no, don't try; keep all that for the lady. But if I were you I'd go
a bit slow, and I wouldn't tell your mother yet. There's no particular
hurry, is there?"
Harry laughed. "Well, I suppose that depends on how one feels. I happen
to feel rather in a hurry."
"Go as slow as you can. Passing things pass: a wife's a more permanent
affair. And undoing a mistake is neither a very easy nor a very savoury
business."
"I'm absolutely sure. Still I'll try to wait and see if I can manage to
get a little bit surer still, just to please you, pater."
"Thank you, old boy; I don't think you'll repent it. And, after all, it
may be as well to give the lady time to get quite sure too--eh?" His
eyes twinkled. He was fully aware that Harry would not think a great
deal of time necessary for that. "Oh, by-the-bye," he went on, "I've a
little bit of good news for you. I've interceded with your mother on
Andy Hayes' behalf, and her heart is softened. She says she'll be very
glad to see him here--"
"Hurrah! That's very good of the mater."
"--when we're alone, or have friends who we know won't object." He
laughed a little, and Harry joined in the laugh. "A prudent woman's
prudent provisoes, Harry! I wish both you and I were as wise as your
mother is."
"Dear old Andy--he's getting quite the fashion! I'm to take him to
Nutley too."
"Excellent! Because it looks as if Nutley would be coming here to a
certain extent in the immediate future, and he'll be able to come when
Nutley does." He rose from his chair. "My throat's bothersome to-night;
I'll leave you alone with your cigarette."
Harry smoked a cigarette that seemed to emit clouds of rosy smoke. All
that lay in the past was forgotten; the future beckoned him to
glittering joys.
"Marriage is his best chance, but even that's a considerable chance with
Master Harry!" thought his father as he sat down to his book.
The one man who had serious fears--or at least doubts--about Harry
Belfield's future was his own father.
"I probably shan't live to see the trouble, if any comes," he thought.
"And if his mother does--she won't believe it's his fault."