Derek Vane did not remain long in hospital. As soon as the dressings
for his shoulder had become quite straightforward, the machine, in the
shape of two doctors from Millbank who formed the Board, took him in
its clutches once more and deposited him at a convalescent home. Not
one of the dreary, routine-like places which have been in the past
associated with convalescence, but a large country house, kindly placed
at the disposal of the War Office by its owner.
"Rumfold Hall for you, Vane," said the senior of the two doctors. "A
charming house; Lady Patterdale--a charming woman."
"Rumfold Hall!" echoed Vane. "Good Heavens! I know it well. Danced
there often during the old _régime_."
"The old régime?" The doctor looked puzzled.
"Yes. It used to belong to the Earl of Forres. He couldn't afford to
keep it up and his other places as well, so he sold it to Sir John
Patterdale. . . . Made his money in hardware, did Sir John. . . .
Surely you know Patterdale's Patent Plate."
The Board opined that it did not, and departed to the next case. It
even seemed to regard such flippancy with a certain amount of
suspicion; but then Medical Boards are things of some solemnity. . . .
And so in the course of two or three days Vane drove up to the historic
gates of Rumfold Hall in an ambulance. The house, situated in the
heart of Surrey, was surrounded by extensive grounds. The view from it
was magnificent, stretching away for miles and miles to the south, and
terminating in the purple downs: and Vane, as the car waited for the
gates to be opened, felt that indefinable thrill of pride that comes to
every man when he looks on some glorious stretch of his own country.
He noticed that the lodge-keeper had changed since he was there last,
and not, it struck him, for the better. How well he remembered old
John, with his sweet old wife, and their perfectly kept patch of garden
and spotless little kitchen. . . . He had had two sons, both in the
Grenadiers, magnificent, strapping fellows--and Vane wondered what had
become of them. . . .
Somehow he couldn't quite imagine old John not touching his hat as the
ambulance came in; whereas his successor merely gazed curiously at the
occupants, and then slouched back into the lodge. . . . Of course
hat-touching is a relic of feudalism, and, as such, too hideous to
contemplate in this age of democracy; but still--like a smile--it costs
little and gives much pleasure.
From the condition of the grounds it did not seem that the present
owner had been very greatly troubled by the labour shortage. The
flower beds were a riot of colour; the grass was short and beautifully
kept. And as the ambulance rounded a corner of the drive and the house
opened up in front Vane saw that tennis was in full swing on the lawns.
"Say--what sort of a guy is this fellow?" asked a New Zealander
opposite him suddenly. "It seems to me to be some house."
Vane looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before replying, and the
car was already slowing down before he finally spoke. "He's a
substitute for the old order of things. And according to the labels of
all substitutes, they are the last word in modern efficiency."
The car pulled up at that moment, and they stepped out to find Lady
Patterdale standing on the steps to welcome them.
Let it be said at once that Lady Patterdale was a perfect dear. One
lost sight of her incredible vulgarity in view of the charming
kindliness of her heart. And, after all, vulgarity is only
comparative. In the sanctity of the little shop in Birmingham where
Sir John had first laid the foundations of his fortune, aspirates could
drop unheeded. What mattered then, as always, was whether the heart
was in the right place. With Lady Patterdale it was. . . .
And because _au fond_, she was such a dear, it made it all the more
pathetic to see her in such surroundings. One felt, and one felt that
in the bottom of her heart she felt, that she would have been far more
happy in the kitchen. Except that in the kitchen her lost aspirates
would probably have been handed back to her on a salver, whereas in the
drawing-room they were ground into the carpet. . . . The spread of
education has made the kitchen a very dangerous place.
In appearance Lady Patterdale was short and stout; eminently the type
of woman who, if clothed according to the dictates of common sense,
would be called a "comfortable old party." One could imagine her in a
cotton dress, with her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, displaying a
pair of plump forearms and wielding a rolling pin in front of a good
hot fire. Covered with flour--her face very red--she would have been
in her element. . . . As it was, the dictates of fashion had cast
their blight over the proceedings.
The name of her dressmaker is immaterial. Originally Smith & Co. in
all probability, it had now become Smythe et Cie, and advertised in all
the most exclusive papers. Unfortunately, in the case of Lady
Patterdale they did not stop at advertising. They carried out their
dreadful threats and clothed her. The result was incredible. She
resembled nothing so much as a bursting melon. Onlookers shuddered at
times when they thought of the trust reposed by Providence and Lady
Patterdale in a few paltry hooks and eyes. The strain appeared so
terrific--the consequences of a disaster so appalling.
As Vane stepped out of the ambulance Lady Patterdale, supported on
either side by one of the nursing staff, advanced to meet him. Her
jolly old face was wreathed in smiles; cordiality and kindliness oozed
from her.
"Welcome, both of you," she cried. "Welcome to Rumfold 'all."
The Sister on her left started as if a serpent had stung her, and Vane
decided that he did not like her. Then he turned to the kindly old
woman, and smiled.
"Thank you, Lady Patterdale," he said, taking her outstretched hand.
"I'm sure it's going to be topping."
"You're just in nice time for luncheon," she continued, as she turned
to welcome the New Zealander. "And after that you'll be able to find
your way about the 'ouse."
Lunch was the only meal where all the convalescents met, as, generally,
some of them had retired before dinner. It was served in the old
banqueting hall, which, when Vane remembered it, had been used for
dancing. The officers had it to themselves, the nursing staff feeding
elsewhere. . . .
The contrast struck Vane forcibly as he sat down at the long table.
The last time he had been in the room he and three or four kindred
spirits had emptied a fruit salad into a large wind instrument just
before the band played the final gallop. . . .
"Beer, sir, or cider?" He half turned to answer, when suddenly the
voice continued, "Why, but surely, sir, it's Mr. Vane?"
He looked up and saw the same butler who had been at the Hall in the
old days.
"Why, Robert," he said delightedly, "you still here? Jove! but I'm
glad to see you. I thought Sir John had made a clean sweep of all the
staff."
The butler nodded his head sadly. "All except me, sir--me and Mrs.
Hickson. She was the housekeeper, if you remember. And she couldn't
stand it--that is, she had to leave after a year."
"Ah!" Vane's tone was non-committal. "And what's become of old
John--at the Lodge?"
"He went, sir. Sir John found him too slow." Robert poured out a
glass of beer. "He's in the village, sir. One of his sons was killed
at Noove Chappel."
"I'm sorry about that. I must go and see him."
"He'd be proud, sir, if you'd be so kind. I often goes down there
myself for a bit of a chat about the old days." With a sigh the old
butler passed on, and Vane returned to his lunch. . . .
"You seem to know our archaic friend," remarked the officer sitting
next him. "He's a dear old thing. . . ."
"He's one of a dying breed," said Vane shortly. "I would trust old
Robert with everything in the world that I possessed. . . ."
"That so?" returned the other. "Has he been here long?"
"To my certain knowledge for twenty-five years, and I believe longer.
It almost broke his heart when he heard that Lord Forres was going to
sell the place." Vane continued his lunch in silence, and suddenly a
remark from the other side of the table struck his ears.
"I say, old Side-whiskers hasn't given me my fair whack of beer." It
was a youngster speaking, and the remark was plainly audible to the old
butler two places away. For a moment his face quivered, and then he
returned to the speaker.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he remarked quietly. "Let me fill your
glass."
"Thanks, old sport. That's a bit better looking." Vane turned to his
neighbour with an amused smile.
"Truly the old order changeth," remarked the other thoughtfully. "And
one's inclined to wonder if it's changing for the better."
"Unfortunately in any consideration of that sort one is so hopelessly
biassed by one's own personal point of view," returned Vane.
"Do you think so?" He crumbled the bread beside him. "Don't you think
one can view a little episode like that in an unbiassed way? Isn't it
merely in miniature what is going on all over the country? . . . The
clash of the new spirit with the one that is centuries old."
"And you really regard that youth as being representative of the new
spirit?"
"No one man can be. But I regard him as typical of a certain phase of
that spirit. In all probability a magnificent platoon commander--there
are thousands like him who have come into being with this war. The
future of the country lies very largely in their hands. What are they
going to make of it?"
The same question--the same ceaseless refrain. Sometimes expressed,
more often not. ENGLAND in the melting pot--what was going to happen?
Unconsciously Vane's eyes rested on the figure of the old butler
standing at the end of the room. There was something noble about the
simplicity of the old man, confronted by the crashing of the system in
which he and his father, and his father's father had been born. A
puzzled look seemed ever in his eyes: the look of a dog parted from a
beloved master, in new surroundings amongst strange faces. And
officially, at any rate, the crash was entirely for the benefit of him
and his kind . . . . wherein lay the humour.
Vane laughed shortly as he pushed back his chair. "Does anything
matter save one's own comfort? Personally I think slavery would be an
admirable innovation."
Sir John Patterdale was everything that his wife was not. The
unprecedented success of his Patent Plate had enabled him to pay the
necessary money to obtain his knighthood and blossom into a county
magnate. At one time he had even thought of standing for Parliament as
an old and crusted Tory; but up to date the War had prevented the
realisation of such a charming idyll. Instead he sat on the bench and
dispensed justice.
In appearance he was an exact counterpart of his wife--short and fat;
and his favourite attitude was standing with his legs wide apart and
his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. Strong men had been
known to burst into tears on seeing him for the first time arrayed as
the sporting squire; but the role was one which he persistently tried
to fill, with the help of a yellow hunting waistcoat and check
stockings. And when it is said that he invariably bullied the
servants, if possible in front of a third person, the picture of Sir
John is tolerably complete. He was, in short, a supreme cad, with not
a single redeeming feature. Stay--that is wrong. He still retained
the love of his wife, which may perhaps--nay, surely shall--be
accounted to him for righteousness. . . .
To her he was never the vain, strutting little bounder, making himself
ridiculous and offensive by turn. She never got beyond the picture of
him when, as plain John Patterdale, having put up the shutters and
locked the door of the shop, he would come through into their little
living-room behind for his supper. First he would kiss her, and then
taking off his best coat, he would put on the old frayed one that
always hung in readiness behind the door. And after supper, they would
draw up very close together, and dream wonderful dreams about the
future. All sorts of beautiful things danced in the flames; but the
most beautiful thing of all was the reality of her John, with his arm
round her waist, and his cheek touching hers.
Sometimes now, when the real truth struck her more clearly than
usual--for she was a shrewd old woman for all her kindness of
heart--sometimes when she saw the sneers of the people who ate his salt
and drank his champagne her mind went back with a bitter stab of memory
to those early days in Birmingham. What had they got in exchange for
their love and dreams over the kitchen fire--what Dead Sea Fruit had
they plucked? If only something could happen; if only he could lose
all his money, how willingly, how joyfully would she go back with him
to the niche where they both fitted. They might even be happy once
again. . . .
He had needed her in those days: turned to her for comfort when
business was bad, taken her out on the burst--just they two alone--when
things looked up and there had been a good day's takings. The
excitement over choosing her best hat--the one with the bunches of
fruit in it. . . . As long as she lived she would never forget the
morning she tried it on, when he deserted the shop and cheered from the
bedroom door, thereby losing a prospective customer.
But now, all he cared about was that she should go to the best people
and spare no expense.
"We can afford it, my dear," he was wont to remark, "and I want you to
keep your end up with the best of 'em. You must remember my position
in the county."
Even alone with her he kept up the pretence, and she backed him
loyally. Was he not still her man; and if he was happy, what else
mattered? And she would call herself a silly old woman. . . .
But there was just once when he came back to her, and she locked away
the remembrance of that night in her secret drawer--the drawer that
contained amongst other things a little bunch of artificial grapes
which had once adorned the hat. . . .
There had been a big dinner of the no-expense-spared type; and to it
had been invited most of the County. Quite a percentage had accepted,
and it was after dinner, just before the guests were going, that the
owner of a neighbouring house had inadvertently put his thoughts into
words, not knowing that his host was within hearing.
"It makes me positively sick to see that impossible little bounder
strutting about round Rumfold."
"Impossible little bounder." It hit the little man like a blow between
the eyes, and that night, in bed, a woman with love welling over in her
heart comforted her man.
"It wasn't him that had been meant. . . . Of course not . . . . Why
the dinner had been a tremendous success. . . . Lady Sarah Wellerby
had told her so herself. . . . Had asked them over in return. . . .
And had suggested that they should give a dance, to which she and her
six unmarried daughters would be delighted to come."
But she didn't tell him that she had overheard Lady Sarah remark to the
wife of Admiral Blake that "the atrocious little cook person had better
be cultivated, she supposed. One never knows, my dear. The ballroom
is wonderful and men will come anywhere for a good supper. . . ." No,
she didn't tell him that: nor mention the misery she had suffered
during dinner. She didn't say how terrified she was of the
servants--all except old Robert, who looked at her sometimes with his
kindly, tired eyes as if he understood. She didn't even take the
opportunity of voicing the wish that was dearest to her heart; to give
it all up and go right away. She just coaxed him back to
self-confidence, and, in the morning, Sir John was Sir John once
more--as insufferable as ever. And only a tired old woman knew quite
how tired she felt. . ..
One of Sir John's pet weaknesses was having his wife and the staff
photographed. Sometimes he appeared in the group himself, but on the
whole he preferred impromptu snap-shots of himself chatting with
wounded officers in the grounds. For these posed photographs Lady
Patterdale arrayed herself in a light grey costume, with large red
crosses scattered over it: and as Vane was strolling out into the
gardens after lunch, he ran into her in this disguise in the hall.
"We're 'aving a little group taken, Captain Vane," she said as she
passed him. "You must come and be in it."
"Why, certainly, Lady Patterdale; I shall be only too delighted. Is
that the reason of the war paint?"
She laughed--a jolly, unaffected laugh. "My 'usband always likes me to
wear this when we're took. Thinks it looks better in a 'ospital."
As Vane stepped through the door with her he caught a fleeting glimpse
of officers disappearing rapidly in all directions. Confronting them
was a large camera, and some servants were arranging chairs under the
direction of the photographer. Evidently the symptoms were well known,
and Vane realised that he had been had.
This proved to be one of the occasions on which Sir John did not
appear, and so the deed did not take quite as long as usual. To the
staff it was just a matter of drill, and they arranged themselves at
once. And since they were what really mattered, and the half-dozen
patients merely appeared in the nature of a make weight, in a very
short time, to everyone's profound relief, the group had been
taken. . . . Vane, who had been sitting on the ground, with his legs
tucked under him to keep them in focus, silently suffering an acute
attack of cramp, rose and stretched himself. On the lawn, tennis had
started again; and she could see various officers dotted about the
ground in basket chairs. He was turning away, with the idea of a
stroll--possibly even of seeking out old John in the village, when from
just behind his shoulder came a musical laugh.
"Delightful," said a low, silvery voice; "quite delightful."
Vane swung round in time to catch the glint of a mocking smile--a pair
of lazy grey eyes--and then, before he could answer, or even make up
his mind if it had been he who was addressed, the girl who had spoken
moved past him and greeted Lady Patterdale. . . .
He waited just long enough to hear that worthy woman's, "My dear Joan,
'ow are you?" and then with a faintly amused smile on his lips turned
towards the cool, shady drive. Margaret's remark in the sand dunes at
Etaples anent leopards and their spots came back to him; and the
seasoned war horse scents the battle from afar. . . .