"I don't care a hang about the Middle Classes!" said Lord Buntingford,
resting his head on his hand, and slowly drawing a pen over a printed
sheet that lay before him. The sheet was headed "Middle Class Defence
League," and was an appeal to whom it might concern to join the founders
of the League in an attempt to curb the growing rapacity of the
working-classes. "Why should we be snuffed out without a struggle?" said
the circular. "We are fewer, no doubt, but we are better educated. Our
home traditions are infinitely superior. It is on the Middle Classes that
the greatness of England depends."
"Does it?" thought Lord Buntingford irritably. "I wonder."
He rose and began to pace his library, a shabby comfortable room which he
loved. The room however had distinction like its master. The distinction
came, perhaps, from its few pictures, of no great value, but witnessing
to a certain taste and knowledge on the part of the persons, long since
dead, who hung them there; from one or two cases of old Nankin; from its
old books; and from a faded but enchanting piece of tapestry behind the
cases of china, which seemed to represent a forest. The tapestry, which
covered the whole of the end wall of the room, was faded and out of
repair, but Lord Buntingford, who was a person of artistic sensibilities,
was very fond of it, and had never been able to make up his mind to spare
it long enough to have it sent to the School of Art Needlework for
mending. His cousin, Lady Cynthia Welwyn, scolded him periodically for
his negligence in the matter. But after all it was he, and not Cynthia,
who had to live in the room. She had something to do with the School, and
of course wanted jobs for her workers.
"I hope that good woman's train will be punctual," he thought to himself,
presently, as he went to a window and drew up a blind. "Otherwise I shall
have no time to look at her before Helena arrives."
He stood awhile absently surveying the prospect outside. There was first
of all a garden with some pleasant terraces, and flights of stone steps,
planned originally in the grand style, but now rather dilapidated and
ill-kept, suggesting either a general shortage of pelf on the part of the
owner--or perhaps mere neglect and indifference.
Beyond the garden stretched a green rim of park, with a gleam of water in
the middle distance which seemed to mean either a river or a pond, many
fine scattered trees, and, girdling the whole, a line of wooded hill.
Just such a view as any county--almost--in this beautiful England can
produce. It was one of the first warm days of a belated spring. A
fortnight before, park and hills and garden had been deep in snow. Now
Nature, eager, and one might think ashamed, was rushing at her neglected
work, determined to set the full spring going in a minimum of hours. The
grass seemed to be growing, and the trees leafing under the spectator's
eyes. There was already a din of cuckoos in the park, and the nesting
birds were busy.
The scene was both familiar and unfamiliar to Lord Buntingford. He had
been brought up in it as a child. But he had only inherited the Beechmark
property from his uncle just before the war, and during almost the whole
of the war he had been so hard at work, as a volunteer in the Admiralty,
that he had never been able to do more than run down once or twice a year
to see his agent, go over his home farm, and settle what timber was to be
cut before the Government commandeered it. He was not yet demobilized, as
his naval uniform showed. There was a good deal of work still to do in
his particular office, and he was more than willing to do it. But in a
few months' time at any rate--he was just now taking a fortnight's
leave--he would be once more at a loose end. That condition of things
must be altered as soon as possible. When he looked back over the years
of driving work through which he had just passed to the years of
semi-occupation before them, he shrank from those old conditions in
disgust. Something must be found to which he could enslave himself again.
Liberty was the great delusion--at least for him.
Politics?--Well, there was the House of Lords, and the possibility of
some minor office, when his Admiralty work was done. And the whole
post-war situation was only too breathless. But for a man who, as soon as
he had said Yes, was immediately seized with an insensate desire to look
once more at all the reasons which might have induced him to say No,
there was no great temptation in politics. Work was what the nation
wanted--not talk.
Agriculture and the Simple Life?--Hardly! Five years of life in London,
four of them under war conditions, had spoilt any taste for the country
he had ever possessed. He meant to do his duty by his estate, and by the
miscellaneous crowd of people, returned soldiers and others, who seemed
to wish to settle upon it. But to take the plunge seriously, to go in
heart and soul for intensive culture or scientific dairy-farming, to
spend lonely winters in the country with his bailiffs and tenants for
company--it was no good talking about it--he knew it could not be done.
And--finally--what was the good of making plans at all?--with these new
responsibilities which friendship and pity and weakness of will had
lately led him to take upon himself?--For two years at least he would not
be able to plan his life in complete freedom.
His thoughts went dismally off in the new direction. As he turned away
from the window, a long Venetian mirror close by reflected the image of a
tall man in naval uniform, with a head and face that were striking rather
than handsome--black curly hair just dusted with grey, a slight chronic
frown, remarkable blue eyes and a short silky beard. His legs were
slender in proportion to the breadth of his shoulders, and inadequate in
relation to the dignity of the head. One of them also was slightly--very
slightly--lame.
He wandered restlessly round the room again, stopping every now and then
with his hands in his pockets, to look at the books on the shelves.
Generally, he did not take in what he was looking at, but in a moment
less absent-minded than others, he happened to notice the name of a
stately octavo volume just opposite his eyes--
"Davison, on Prophecy."
"Damn Davison!"--he said to himself, with sudden temper. The outburst
seemed to clear his mind. He went to the bell and rang it. A thin woman
in a black dress appeared, a woman with a depressed and deprecating
expression which was often annoying to Lord Buntingford. It represented
somehow an appeal to the sentiment of the spectator for which there was
really no sufficient ground. Mrs. Mawson was not a widow, in spite of the
Mrs. She was a well-paid and perfectly healthy person; and there was no
reason, in Lord Buntingford's view, why she should not enjoy life. All
the same, she was very efficient and made him comfortable. He would have
raised her wages to preposterous heights to keep her.
"Is everything ready for the two ladies, Mrs. Mawson?"
"Everything, my Lord. We are expecting the pony-cart directly."
"And the car has been ordered for Miss Pitstone?"
"Oh, yes, my Lord, long ago."
"Gracious! Isn't that the cart!"
There was certainly a sound of wheels outside. Lord Buntingford hurried
to a window which commanded the drive.
"That's her! I must go and meet her."
He went into the hall, reaching the front door just as the pony-cart drew
up with a lady in black sitting beside the driver. Mrs. Mawson looked
after him. She wondered why his lordship was in such a flurry. "It's this
living alone. He isn't used to have women about. And it's a pity he
didn't stay on as he was."
Meanwhile the lady in the pony-cart, as she alighted, saw a tall man, of
somewhat remarkable appearance, standing on the steps of the porch. Her
expectations had been modest; and that she would be welcomed by her
employer in person on the doorstep of Beechmark had not been among them.
Her face flushed, and a pair of timid eyes met those of Lord Buntingford
as they shook hands.
"The train was very late," she explained in a voice of apology.
"They always are," said Lord Buntingford. "Never mind. You are in quite
good time. Miss Pitstone hasn't arrived. Norris, take Mrs. Friend's
luggage upstairs."
An ancient man-servant appeared. The small and delicately built lady on
the step looked at him appealingly.
"I am afraid there is a box besides," she said, like one confessing a
crime. "Not a big one--" she added hurriedly. "We had to leave it at the
station. The groom left word for it to be brought later."
"Of course. The car will bring it," said Lord Buntingford. "Only one
box and those bags?" he asked, smiling. "Why, that's most moderate.
Please come in."
And he led the way to the drawing-room. Reassured by his kind voice
and manner, Mrs. Friend tripped after him. "What a charming man!"
she thought.
It was a common generalization about Lord Buntingford. Mrs. Friend had
still--like others--to discover that it did not take one very far.
In the drawing-room, which was hung with French engravings mostly after
Watteau, and boasted a faded Aubusson carpet, a tea-table was set out.
Lord Buntingford, having pushed forward a seat for his guest, went
towards the tea-table, and then thought better of it.
"Perhaps you'll pour out tea--" he said pleasantly. "It'll be your
function, I think--and I always forget something."
Mrs. Friend took her seat obediently in front of the tea-table and the
Georgian silver upon it, which had a look of age and frailty as though
generations of butlers had rubbed it to the bone, and did her best not
to show the nervousness she felt. She was very anxious to please her
new employer.
"I suppose Miss Pitstone will be here before long?" she ventured, when
she had supplied both the master of the house and herself.
"Twenty minutes--" said Lord Buntingford, looking at his watch.
"Time enough for me to tell you a little more about her than I
expect you know."
And again his smile put her at ease.
She bent forward, clasping her small hands.
"Please do! It would be a great help."
He noticed the delicacy of the hands, and of her slender body. The face
attracted him--its small neat features, and brown eyes. Clearly a
lady--that was something.
"Well, I shouldn't wonder--if you found her a handful," he said
deliberately.
Mrs. Friend laughed--a little nervous laugh.
"Is she--is she very advanced?"
"Uncommonly--I believe. I may as well tell you candidly she didn't want
to come here at all. She wanted to go to college. But her mother, who was
a favourite cousin of mine, wished it. She died last autumn; and Helena
promised her that she would allow me to house her and look after her for
two years. But she regards it as a dreadful waste of time."
"I think--in your letter--you said I was to help her--in modern
languages--" murmured Mrs. Friend.
Lord Buntingford shrugged his shoulders--
"I have no doubt you could help her in a great many things. Young people,
who know her better than I do, say she's very clever. But her mother and
she were always wandering about--before the war--for her mother's health.
I don't believe she's been properly educated in anything. Of course one
can't expect a girl of nineteen to behave like a schoolgirl. If you can
induce her to take up some serious reading--Oh, I don't mean anything
tremendous!--and to keep up her music---I expect that's all her poor
mother would have wanted. When we go up to town you must take her to
concerts--the opera--that kind of thing. I dare say it will go all
right!" But the tone was one of resignation, rather than certainty.
"I'll do my best--" began Mrs. Friend.
"I'm sure you will. But--well, we'd better be frank with each other.
Helena's very handsome--very self-willed--and a good bit of an heiress.
The difficulty will be--quite candidly--_lovers_!"
They both laughed. Lord Buntingford took out his cigarette case.
"You don't mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all."
"Won't you have one yourself?" He held out the case. Mrs. Friend did not
smoke. But she inwardly compared the gesture and the man with the
forbidding figure of the old woman in Lancaster Gate with whom she had
just completed two years of solitary imprisonment, and some much-baffled
vitality in her began to revive.
Lord Buntingford threw himself back in his arm-chair, and watched the
curls of smoke for a short space--apparently in meditation.
"Of course it's no good trying the old kind of thing--strict chaperonage
and that sort of business," he said at last. "The modern girl won't
stand it."
"No, indeed she won't!" said Mrs. Friend fervently. "I should like to
tell you--I've just come from ----" She named a university. "I went to
see a cousin of mine, who's in one of the colleges there. She's going to
teach. She went up just before the war. Then she left to do some war
work, and now she's back again. She says nobody knows what to do with the
girls. All the old rules have just--_gone_!" The gesture of the small
hand was expressive. "Authority--means nothing. The girls are entering
for the sports--just like the men. They want to run the colleges--as they
please--and make all the rules themselves."
"Oh, I know--" broke in her companion. "They'll just allow the wretched
teachers and professors to teach--what their majesties choose to learn.
Otherwise--they run the show."
"Of course, they're awfully _nice_ girls--most of them," said Mrs.
Friend, with a little, puzzled wrinkling of the brow.
"Ripping! Done splendid war work and all that. But the older generation,
now that things have begun again, are jolly well up a tree--how to fit
the new to the old. I have some elderly relations at Oxbridge--a nice old
professor and his wife. Not stick-in-the-muds at all. But they tell me
the world there--where the young women are concerned--seems to be
standing on its head. Well!--as far as I can gather--I really know her
very slightly--my little cousin Helena's in just the same sort of stage.
All we people over forty might as well make our wills and have done with
it. They'll soon discover some kind device for putting us out of the way.
They've no use for us. And yet at the same time"--he flung his cigarette
into the wood-fire beside him--"the fathers and mothers who brought them
into the world will insist on clucking after them, or if they can't cluck
themselves, making other people cluck. I shall have to try and cluck
after Helena. It's absurd, and I shan't succeed, of course--how could I?
But as I told you, her mother was a dear woman--and--"
His sentence stopped abruptly. Mrs. Friend thought--"he was in love with
her." However, she got no further light on the matter. Lord Buntingford
rose, and lit another cigarette.
"I must go and write a letter before post. Well, you see, you and I have
got to do our best. Of course, you mustn't try and run her on a tight
rein--you'd be thrown before you were out of the first field--" His blue
eyes smiled down upon the little stranger lady. "And you mustn't spy upon
her. But if you're really in difficulties, come to me. We'll make out,
somehow. And now, she'll be here in a few minutes. Would you like to stay
here--or shall I ring for the housemaid to show you your room?"
"Thank you--I--think I'll stay here. Can I find a book?"
She looked round shyly.
"Scores. There are some new books"--he pointed to a side-table where
the obvious contents of a Mudie box, with some magazines, were laid
out--"and if you want old ones, that door"--he waved towards one at
the far end of the room--"will take you into the library. My
great-grandfather's collection--not mine! And then one has ridiculous
scruples about burning them! However, you'll find a few nice ones. Please
make yourself at home!" And with a slight bow to her, the first sign in
him of those manners of the _grand seigneur_ she had vaguely expected, he
was moving away, when she said hurriedly, pursuing her own thought:
"You said Miss Pitstone was very good-looking?"
"Oh, very!" He laughed. "She's exactly like Romney's Lady Hamilton. You
know the type?"
"Ye-es," said Mrs. Friend. "I think I remember--before the war--at
Agnew's? My husband took me there once." The tone was hesitating. The
little lady was clearly not learned in English art. But Lord Buntingford
liked her the better for not pretending.
"Of course. There's always an Emma, when Old Masters are on show. Romney
painted her forty or fifty times. We've got one ourselves--a sketch my
grandfather bought. If you'll come into the hall I'll show it you."
She followed obediently and, in a rather dark corner of the hall, Lord
Buntingford pointed out an unfinished sketch of Lady Hamilton--one of the
many Bacchante variants--the brown head bent a little under the ivy
leaves in the hair, the glorious laughing eyes challenging the spectator.
"Is she like that?" asked Mrs. Friend, wondering.
"Who?--my ward?" laughed Lord Buntingford. "Well, you'll see."
He walked away, and Mrs. Friend stayed a few minutes more in front of the
picture--thinking--and with half an ear listening for the sound of a
motor. She was full of tremors and depression. "I was a fool to come--a
fool to accept!" she thought. The astonishing force of the sketch--of the
creature sketched--intimidated her. If Helena Pitstone were really like
that--"How can she ever put up with me? She'll just despise me. It will
be only natural. And then if things go wrong, Lord Buntingford will find
out I'm no good--and I shall have to go!"
She gave a long sigh, lifting her eyes a little--against her will--to the
reflection of herself in an old mirror hanging beside the Romney. What a
poor little insignificant figure--beside the other! No, she had no
confidence in herself--none at all--she never had had. The people she had
lived with had indeed generally been fond of her. It was because she made
herself useful to them. Old Mrs. Browne had professed affection for
her,--till she gave notice. She turned with a shiver from the
recollection of an odious scene.
She went bade to the drawing-room and thence to the library, looking
wistfully, as she passed through it, at the pleasant hall, with its old
furniture, and its mellowed comfort. She would like to find a home here,
if only they would put up with her. For she was very homeless.
As compared with the drawing-room, the library had been evidently lived
in. Its books and shabby chairs seemed to welcome her, and the old
tapestry delighted her. She stood some minutes before it in a quiet
pleasure, dreaming herself into the forest, and discovering an old castle
in its depths. Then she noticed a portrait of an old man, labelled as by
"Frank Holl, R. A.," hanging over the mantelpiece. She supposed it was
the grandfather who had collected the books. The face and hair of the old
man had blanched indeed to a singular whiteness; but the eyes, blue under
strong eyebrows, with their concentrated look, were the eyes of the Lord
Buntingford with whom she had just been talking.
The hoot of a motor startled her, and she ran to a window which commanded
the drive. An open car was rapidly approaching. A girl was driving it,
with a man in chauffeur's uniform sitting behind her. She brought the car
smartly up to the door, then instantly jumped out, lifted the bonnet, and
stood with the chauffeur at her side, eagerly talking to him and pointing
to something in the chassis. Mrs. Friend saw Lord Buntingford run down
the steps to greet his ward. She gave him a smile and a left hand, and
went on talking. Lord Buntingford stood by, twisting his moustache, till
she had finished. Then the chauffeur, looking flushed and sulky, got into
the car, and the girl with Lord Buntingford ascended the steps. Mrs.
Friend left the window, and hurriedly went back to the drawing-room,
where tea was still spread. Through the drawing-room door she heard a
voice from the hall full of indignant energy.
"You ought to sack that man, Cousin Philip. He's spoiling that beautiful
car of yours."
"Is he? He suits me. Have you been scolding him all the way?"
"Well, I told him a few things--in your interest." Lord Buntingford
laughed. A few words followed in lowered tones.
"He is telling her about me," thought Mrs. Friend, and presently caught a
chuckle, very merry and musical, which brought an involuntary smile to
her own eyes. Then the door was thrown back, and Lord Buntingford ushered
in his ward.
"This is Mrs. Friend, Helena. She arrived just before you did."
The girl advanced with sudden gravity and offered her hand. Mrs. Friend
was conscious that the eyes behind the hand were looking her all over.
Certainly a dazzling creature!--with the ripe red and white, the
astonishing eyes, and brown hair, touched with auburn, of the Romney
sketch. The beautiful head was set off by a khaki close cap, carrying a
badge, and the khaki uniform, tunic, short skirt, and leggings, might
have been specially designed to show the health and symmetry of the
girl's young form. She seemed to walk on air, and her presence
transformed the quiet old room.
"I want some tea badly," said Miss Pitstone, throwing herself into a
chair, "and so would you, Cousin Philip, if you had been battling with
four grubby children and an idiot mother all the way from London. They
made me play 'beasts' with them. I didn't mind that, because my roaring
frightened them. But then they turned me into a fish, and fished for me
with the family umbrellas. I had distinctly the worst of it." And she
took off her cap, turning it round on her hand, and looking at the dints
in it with amusement.
"Oh, no, you never get the worst of it!" said Lord Buntingford, laughing,
as he handed her the cake. "You couldn't if you tried."
She looked up sharply. Then she turned to Mrs. Friend.
"That's the way my guardian treats me, Mrs. Friend. How can I take him
seriously?"
"I think Lord Buntingford meant it as a compliment--didn't he?" said Mrs.
Friend shyly. She knew, alack, that she had no gift for repartee.
"Oh, no, he never pays compliments--least of all to me. He has a most
critical, fault-finding mind. Haven't you, Cousin Philip?"
"What a charge!" said Lord Buntingford, lighting another cigarette. "It
won't take Mrs. Friend long to find out its absurdity."
"It will take her just twenty-four hours," said the girl stoutly. "He
used to terrify me, Mrs. Friend, when I was a little thing ... May I have
some tea, please? When he came to see us, I always knew before he had
been ten minutes in the room that my hair was coming down, or my shoes
were untied, or something dreadful was the matter with me. I can't
imagine how we shall get on, now that he is my guardian. I shall put him
in a temper twenty times a day."
"Ah, but the satisfactory thing now is that you will have to put up with
my remarks. I have a legal right now to say what I like."
"H'm," said Helena, demurring, "if there are legal rights nowadays."
"There, Mrs. Friend--you hear?" said Lord Buntingford, toying with his
cigarette, in the depths of a big chair, and watching his ward with eyes
of evident enjoyment. "You've got a Bolshevist to look after--a real
anarchist. I'm sorry for you."
"That's another of his peculiarities!" said the girl coolly, "queering
the pitch before one begins. You know you _might_ like me!--some people
do--but he'll never let you." And, bending forward, with her cup in both
hands, and her radiant eyes peering over the edge of it, she threw a most
seductive look at her new chaperon. The look seemed to say, "I've been
taking stock of you, and--well!--I think I shan't mind you."
Anyway, Mrs. Friend took it as a feeler and a friendly one. She stammered
something in reply, and then sat silent while guardian and ward plunged
into a war of chaff in which first the ward, but ultimately the guardian,
got the better. Lord Buntingford had more resource and could hold out
longer, so that at last Helena rose impatiently:
"I don't feel that I have been at all prettily welcomed--have I, Mrs.
Friend? Lord Buntingford never allows one a single good mark. He says I
have been idle all the winter since the Armistice. I haven't. I've worked
like a nigger!"
"How many dances a week, Helena?--and how many boys?" Helena first made a
face, and then laughed out.
"As many dances--of course--as one could stuff in--without taxis. I
could walk down most of the boys. But Hampstead, Chelsea, and Curzon
Street, all in one night, and only one bus between them--that did
sometimes do for me."
"When did you set up this craze?"
"Just about Christmas--I hadn't been to a dance for a year. I had been
slaving at canteen work all day"--she turned to Mrs. Friend--"and doing
chauffeur by night--you know--fetching wounded soldiers from railway
stations. And then somebody asked me to a dance, and I went. And next
morning I just made up my mind that everything else in the world was
rot, and I would go to a dance every night. So I chucked the canteen and
I chucked a good deal of the driving--except by day--and I just
dance--and dance!"
Suddenly she began to whistle a popular waltz--and the next minute the
two elder people found themselves watching open-mouthed the whirling
figure of Miss Helena Pitstone, as, singing to herself, and absorbed
apparently in some new and complicated steps, she danced down the whole
length of the drawing-room and back again. Then out of breath, with a
curtsey and a laugh, she laid a sudden hand on Mrs. Friend's arm.
"Will you come and talk to me--before dinner? I can't talk--before _him_.
Guardians are impossible people!" And with another mock curtsey to Lord
Buntingford, she hurried Mrs. Friend to the door, and then disappeared.
Her guardian, with a shrug of the shoulders, walked to his writing-table,
and wrote a hurried note.
"My dear Geoffrey--I will send to meet you at Dansworth to-morrow by the
train you name. Helena is here--very mad and very beautiful. I hope you
will stay over Sunday. Yours ever, Buntingford."
"He shall have his chance anyway," he thought, "with the others. A fair
field, and no pulling."