Julian entered the drawing-room at Maltenby Hall a few minutes before
dinner time that evening. His mother, who was alone and, for a wonder,
resting, held out her hand for him to kiss and welcomed him with
a charming smile. Notwithstanding her grey hair, she was still a
remarkably young-looking woman, with a great reputation as a hostess.
“My dear Julian,” she exclaimed, “you look like a ghost! Don’t tell me
that you had to sit up all night to shoot those wretched duck?”
Julian drew a chair to his mother’s side and seated himself with a
little air of relief.
“Never have I been more conscious of the inroads of age,” he confided.
“I can remember when, ten or fifteen years ago, I used to steal out
of the house in the darkness and bicycle down to the marsh with a
twenty-bore gun, on the chance of an odd shot.”
“And I suppose,” his mother went on, “after spending half the night
wading about in the salt water, you spent the other half talking to that
terrible Mr. Furley.”
“Quite right. We got cold and wet through in the evening; we sat
up talking till the small hours; we got cold and wet again this
morning--and here I am.”
“A converted sportsman,” his mother observed. “I wish you could convert
your friend, Mr. Furley. There’s a perfectly terrible article of his in
the National this month. I can’t understand a word of it, but it reads
like sheer anarchy.”
“So long as the world exists,” Julian remarked, “there must be
Socialists, and Furley is at least honest.”
“My dear Julian,” his mother protested, “how can a Socialist be honest!
Their attitude with regard to the war, too, is simply disgraceful. I
am sure that in any other country that man Fenn, for instance, would be
shot.”
“What about your house party?” Julian enquired, with bland irrelevance.
“All arrived. I suppose they’ll be down directly. Mr. Hannaway Wells is
here.”
“Good old Wells!” Julian murmured. “How does he look since he became a
Cabinet Minister?”
“Portentous,” Lady Maltenby replied; with a smile. “He doesn’t look
as though he would ever unbend. Then the Shervintons are here, and the
Princess Torski--your friend Miss Abbeway’s aunt.”
“The Princess Torski?” Julian repeated. “Who on earth is she?”
“She was English,” his mother explained, “a cousin of the Abbeways. She
married in Russia and is on her way now to France to meet her husband,
who is in command of a Russian battalion there. She seems quite a
pleasant person, but not in the least like her niece.”
“Miss Abbeway is still here, of course?”
“Naturally. I asked her for a week, and I think she means to stay.
We talked for an hour after tea this afternoon, and I found her most
interesting. She has been living in England for years, it seems, down in
Chelsea, studying sculpture.”
“She is a remarkably clever young woman,” Julian said thoughtfully, “but
a little incomprehensible. If the Princess Torski is her aunt, who were
her parents?”
“Her father,” the Countess replied, “was Colonel Richard Abbeway, who
seems to have been military attache at St. Petersburg, years ago. He
married a sister of the Princess Torski’s husband, and from her this
young woman inherited a title which she won’t use and a large fortune.
Colonel Abbeway was killed accidentally in the Russo-Japanese War, and
her mother died a few years ago.”
“No German blood, or anything of that sort, then?”
“My dear boy, what an idea!” his mother exclaimed reprovingly. “On
the contrary, the Torskis are one of the most aristocratic families
in Russia, and you know what the Abbeways are. The girl is excellently
bred, and I think her charming in every way. Whatever made you suggest
that she might have German blood in her?”
“No idea! Anyhow, I am glad she hasn’t. Who else?”
“The Bishop,” his mother continued, “looking very tired, poor dear!
Doctor George Lennard, from Oxford, two young soldiers from Norwich,
whom Charlie asked us to be civil to--and the great man himself.”
“Tell me about the great man? I don’t think I’ve seen him to speak to
since he became Prime Minister.”
“He declares that this is his first holiday this year. He is looking
rather tired, but he has had an hour’s shooting since he arrived, and
seemed to enjoy it. Here’s your father.”
The Earl of Maltenby, who entered a moment later, was depressingly
typical. He was as tall as his youngest son, with whom he shook
hands absently and whom he resembled in no other way. He had the
conventionally aristocratic features, thin lips and steely blue eyes. He
was apparently a little annoyed.
“Anything wrong, dear?” Lady Maltenby asked.
Her husband took up his position on the hearthrug.
“I am annoyed with Stenson,” he declared.
The Countess shook her head.
“It’s too bad of you, Henry,” she expostulated. “You’ve been trying to
talk politics with him. You know that the poor man was only longing
for forty-eight hours during which he could forget that he was Prime
Minister of England.”
“Precisely, my dear,” Lord Maltenby agreed. “I can assure you that I
have not transgressed in any way. A remark escaped me referring to the
impossibility of providing beaters, nowadays, and to the fact that out
of my seven keepers, five are fighting. I consider Mr. Stenson’s comment
was most improper, coming from one to whom the destinies of this country
are confided.”
“What did he say?” the Countess asked meekly.
“Something about wondering whether any man would be allowed to have
seven keepers after the war,” her husband replied, with an angry
light in his eyes. “If a man like Stenson is going to encourage these
socialistic ideas. I beg your pardon--the Bishop, my dear.”
The remaining guests drifted in within the next few moments,--the
Bishop, Julian’s godfather, a curious blend of the fashionable and
the devout, the anchorite and the man of the people; Lord and Lady
Shervinton, elderly connections of the nondescript variety; Mr. Hannaway
Wells, reserved yet, urbane, a wonderful type of the supreme success of
mediocrity; a couple of young soldiers, light-hearted and out for a good
time, of whom Julian took charge; an Oxford don, who had once been Lord
Maltenby’s tutor; and last of all the homely, very pleasant-looking,
middle-aged lady, Princess Torski, followed by her niece. There were a
few introductions still to be effected.
Whilst Lady Maltenby was engaged in this task, which she performed at
all times with the unfailing tact of a great hostess, Julian broke off
in his conversation with the two soldiers and looked steadfastly across
the room at Catherine Abbeway, as though anxious to revise or
complete his earlier impressions of her. She was of medium height, not
unreasonably slim, with a deliberate but noticeably graceful carriage.
Her complexion was inclined to be pale. She had large, soft brown eyes,
and hair of an unusual shade of chestnut brown, arranged with remarkably
effective simplicity. She wore a long string of green beads around her
neck, a black tulle gown without any relief of colour, but a little
daring in its cut. Her voice and laugh, as she stood talking to the
Bishop, were delightful, and neither her gestures nor her accent
betrayed the slightest trace of foreign blood. She was, without a doubt,
extraordinarily attractive, gracious almost to freedom in her manner,
and yet with that peculiar quality of aloofness only recognisable in the
elect,--a very appreciable charm. Julian found his undoubted admiration
only increased by his closer scrutiny. Nevertheless, as he watched
her, there was a slightly puzzled frown upon his forehead, a sense
of something like bewilderment mingled with those other feelings.
His mother, who had turned to speak to the object of his attentions,
beckoned him, and he crossed the room at once to their side.
“Julian is going to take you in to dinner, Miss Abbeway,” the Countess
announced, “and I hope you will be kind to him, for he’s been out all
night and a good part of the morning, too, shooting ducks and talking
nonsense with a terrible Socialist.”
Lady Maltenby passed on. Julian, leaning on his stick, looked down with
a new interest into the face which had seldom been out of his thoughts
since their first meeting, a few weeks ago.
“Tell me, Mr. Orden,” she asked, “which did you find the more
exhausting--tramping the marshes for sport, or discussing sociology with
your friend?”
“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “we didn’t tramp the marshes. We
stood still and got uncommonly wet. And I shot a goose, which made me
very happy.”
“Then it must have been the conversation,” she declared. “Is your friend
a prophet or only one of the multitude?”
“A prophet, most decidedly. He is a Mr. Miles Furley, of whom you must
have heard.”
She started a little.
“Miles Furley!” she repeated. “I had no idea that he lived in this part
of the world.”
“He has a small country house somewhere in Norfolk,” Julian told
her, “and he takes a cottage down here at odd times for the wild-fowl
shooting.”
“Will you take me to see him to-morrow?” she asked.
“With pleasure, so long as you promise not to talk socialism with him.”
“I will promise that readily, out of consideration to my escort. I
wonder how it is,” she went on, looking up at him a little thoughtfully,
“that you dislike serious subjects so much.”
“A frivolous turn of mind, I suppose,” he replied. “I certainly prefer
to talk art with you.”
“But nowadays,” she protested, “it is altogether the fashion down at
Chelsea to discard art and talk politics.”
“It’s a fashion I shouldn’t follow,” he advised. “I should stick to art,
if I were you.”
“Well, that depends upon how you define politics, of course. I don’t
mean Party politics. I mean the science of living, as a whole, not as a
unit.”
The Princess ambled up to them.
“I don’t know what your political views are, Mr. Orden,” she said, “but
you must look out for shocks if you discuss social questions with my
niece. In the old days they would never have allowed her to live in
Russia. Even now, I consider some of her doctrines the most pernicious I
ever heard.”
“Isn’t that terrible from an affectionate aunt!”
Catherine laughed, as the Princess passed on. “Tell me some more about
your adventures last night?”
She looked up into his face, and Julian was suddenly conscious from
whence had come that faint sense of mysterious trouble which had been
with him during the last few minutes. The slight quiver of her lips
brought it all back to him. Her mouth, beyond a doubt, with its half
tender, half mocking curve, was the mouth which he had seen in that
tangled dream of his, when he had lain fighting for consciousness upon
the marshes.