A LAWN MEET
The Squire may have forgotten, when he gave his consent to Virginia
being asked to Kencote on this particular date, that on the following
day the hounds would meet at Kencote, and there was to be a hunt
breakfast. He had his due share of stupidity, but he was clever enough
to see, when he did realise what had happened, that Virginia's presence
at Kencote on so public an occasion would spread abroad the fact of his
surrender as nothing else could do so pointedly.
He did not half like it. He was not quite sure in his mind exactly
what he had surrendered by consenting to receive her, but he was quite
sure that he had never meant to give up his right to make her first
visit her last if he did not approve of her, and when the mild January
day dawned and he went into his dressing-room it was with a mind
considerably perplexed, for he did not know whether he approved of her
or not, and yet here were all these people coming, who would see her
there, and possibly--the more officious of them--actually go so far as
to congratulate him on the approaching marriage in his family.
He had gone as far as that. He recognised that, whatever he thought
about the matter himself, the rest of the world, as represented by the
people amongst whom he lived, would, undoubtedly, hold that there was
cause for congratulation. He even went a little further, without
admitting it to himself: he accepted the general verdict of his
neighbours, that Virginia was a very beautiful and a very taking
person. Only he had not taken to her himself. She had tried him hard,
during the previous evening, and several times, especially after his
first glass of port, he had nearly allowed himself to fall a victim to
her charm. But he had just managed to hold out, and in the cold light
of morning, and removed from her presence, thinking also of the company
that was presently to assemble, he frowned when he thought of her, and
said aloud as he brushed his hair, which he always did the first thing
in the morning, even before he looked at the weather-glass, "Confound
the woman! Infernal nuisance! I wish the day was well over."
Presently, however, his thoughts grew rather lighter. It was a perfect
day for his favourite sport, and he was going to hunt once more. He
felt as eager as a schoolboy for it. Having received Virginia in his
house, there was no object in seeking to avoid her in the field, and
the relief to his mind in having nothing before him actually to spoil
his pleasure in a day with the hounds was so great that it reacted on
his view of Virginia, and he said, also aloud, as he folded his stock,
"I wonder if she'll do after all."
But no; that was too much. Of course she wouldn't do. She was an
American--well, perhaps that could be forgiven her: she was not
glaringly transatlantic. She had been a stage-dancer. You had to
remind yourself of the fact, but there was no doubt that it was a fact.
Ugh! She was the widow of a rascal, living on the money he had left
her, which had been got, probably, by the shadiest of courses, if not
dishonestly. That was positively damning, and he could not understand
how Dick could complaisantly accept such a situation and prepare to
live partly upon it. But perhaps she had very little money and was
deeply in debt, and there would be difficulty about that later on. He
had not thought of that before, and slid away from the thought now, as
quickly as possible. He did not want to spoil his day's pleasure. But
a gloomy tinge was imparted to his thoughts, and again he frowned at
the idea of what lay before him when the neighbours for miles round
would be collected and he would have his difficult part to play before
them.
Virginia came down to breakfast in her riding habit, which is a
becoming costume to no woman unless she is on a horse. The Squire had
an old-fashioned grudge against hunting-women in general, and he was
not cordial to Virginia, although he made every effort to act
conformably to his duties as her host. Whatever inroads she might have
made on his prejudice against her on the previous evening when, in a
dress of black chiffon with touches of heliotrope about her neck and in
her lustrous hair, she had looked lovely and surprisingly young, she
held small charm for him now, and it was with difficulty that he
brought himself to be polite to her, as she sat at his right hand
during breakfast.
Fortunately some distraction was afforded to him by the presence of
Miss Phipp, to whom he had just been introduced for the first time. He
found her astonishingly plain, and he was the sort of man who finds
food for humour in the contemplation of a plain woman. But in his
present mild state of discomfort he found no food for humour in Miss
Phipp's obvious disregard of her proper position in the house. Miss
Bird had never spoken at the breakfast table unless spoken to. She
would have considered it immodest to do so. Miss Phipp bore a leading
part in the conversation, and as she had only one subject--the
education of the young, in which the Squire possessed no overmastering
interest--by the end of the meal he was seriously considering the
necessity of giving her a snub.
Miss Phipp's thesis, which she developed with considerable force, and a
wealth of illustration drawn from her previous experience, was that a
woman's brains were every bit as good as a man's, and that she could do
just as much in the way of scholarship if her training began early and
was carried on on the right lines.
"What do _you_ think about it?" Miss Dexter asked of Nancy, who was
sitting next to her.
"I think," replied Nancy, with a side glance at Miss Phipp, "that it
depends a great deal on the teacher," at which Miss Dexter laughed,
thus giving the answer a personal application.
"_Of course_ it depends a great deal upon the teacher. That is exactly
what I said," Miss Phipp went on. "When I was at the High School there
was a girl who had taken the highest possible honours at London
University, but she was of no more use as a teacher than--than
anything. Teaching is a gift by itself, and sometimes the best
scholars do not possess it."
"I think we shall find a fox in Hartover," said the Squire. "I believe
that fellow they lost a month ago has taken up his quarters there."
"At the same time," said Miss Phipp, "for the higher forms of a school
you _must_ have women who are good scholars as well as with a gift for
teaching."
When breakfast was over the twins went out of the room one on each side
of Miss Dexter, to whom they had taken a warm fancy, and invited her to
visit their animals with them. But Miss Phipp said at once, "Oh, but I
shall want you in the schoolroom, girls. We are not to begin lessons
until Monday, but we must lose no time then, and I want to find out
beforehand exactly where you are."
The twins looked at one another. They were all standing in the hall.
"Saturday is a whole holiday," said Joan.
"That I know," replied Miss Phipp, "but it is important that we should
begin work on Monday without any delay. You can spare an hour. I
shall probably not keep you longer."
The twins looked at one another again, and then at Miss Dexter, who
preserved a perfectly passive demeanour. "I think, if you don't mind,"
said Joan, "we would rather get up an hour earlier on Monday. We
always feed the animals ourselves on Saturdays, directly after
breakfast."
"Are you going to begin with me by showing disobedience?'" asked Miss
Phipp. "I must insist now that you shall come upstairs with me."
The High School girls would have recognised this tone and quailed
before it. But Nancy said, "We'll come if mother says we must," and
Miss Phipp lost patience, and without another word walked into the
morning-room, into which she had seen Mrs. Clinton go with Virginia.
The twins looked at one another once more, and then at Miss Dexter, who
received their glance with a twinkle in her eyes. "Now you're in for
it," she said.
But the twins were rather alarmed. "We weren't rude to her, were we?"
asked Joan.
"Hadn't we better go in to mother?" asked Nancy.
"No, it's all right; we'll wait here," said Miss Dexter, and they
waited in silence until Miss Phipp marched out of the morning-room,
passed them without a word, and went upstairs.
"Now we'll go and put our hats on and go out and see the animals," said
Miss Dexter; but just then Mrs. Clinton came out to them, looking
rather concerned, and Miss Dexter left them and joined Virginia in the
morning-room.
"What happened?" she asked eagerly.
"My dear Toby," replied Virginia, "are you going to foment a quarrel
between those darling children and the bosom friend of your childhood?"
"No, I'm not," replied Miss Dexter. "I'm going to put her in the way
of settling down here. What happened?"
"What happened? Why, she came in looking as red as a tomato, and said,
'Mrs. Clinton, I want the children to come into the schoolroom for an
hour, and they refuse. Is it your wish that they shall disobey me?' or
something like that."
"They didn't refuse. What did Mrs. Clinton say?"
"She said, 'Oh, surely not, Miss Phipp,' and it turned out, as you say,
that they had only said that they would rather not. Then Mrs. Clinton
said that she didn't want them to work on Saturdays, especially to-day,
because of the meet, and the friend of your childhood flounced out of
the room without another word. Toby, that good lady is as hot as
pepper."
Then Mrs. Clinton came in again, and said, "I want the children to take
Miss Phipp out to see their animals too. They have gone up to her.
Will you go too?"
But Miss Phipp was not in the schoolroom. "You go and put on your
hats, and I'll go and find her," said Miss Dexter.
"Mother wasn't annoyed with us," said Joan. "We said we were quite
polite. We were, weren't we?"
"Your manners were a lesson to us all," said Miss Dexter.
Miss Phipp was in her bedroom, and Miss Dexter proffered the
invitation, of which she took no notice. "It's perfectly
preposterous," she said, turning an angry face upon her. "If this is
the sort of thing that is to happen my position here will be
impossible."
"My dear girl, you shouldn't lose your temper," said Miss Dexter.
"They were quite right. You've no right to expect them to work in
their playtime. Besides, you shouldn't have told Mrs. Clinton that
they were disobedient. Come out and see their rabbits and guinea-pigs."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Miss Phipp. "I shall reconsider
my position. I will not stay and teach girls who are encouraged to set
my authority at naught."
"Look here, Janet," said Miss Dexter firmly. "You are going the wrong
way to work here. You have every chance of having a real good time,
and doing something useful besides, but you can't behave in a private
family as if you were in a school."
For answer Miss Phipp burst into most feminine tears. "I'm not well,"
she sobbed. "I've got a splitting headache after yesterday's journey,
and I've lost control over myself."
"Well, lie down for a bit," advised Miss Dexter. "You'll have the
whole day to yourself, and you needn't begin to think about work until
Monday. I'll put a match to your fire. Is there anything you'd like?
If there is I'm sure you can have it."
"I'm a fool," said Miss Phipp, drying her eyes. "For goodness' sake
don't let those two know I broke down. I dare say I was wrong, but I
do want to do all I can to get them on quickly."
"I know you do. And you'll have no difficulty when the proper time
comes. They're clever girls, and nice ones too. They are quite upset
at the idea of having upset _you_."
"Are they?" said Miss Phipp drily. "Well, I think I _will_ lie down
for a bit and take some Phenacetin. No, I don't want anything else.
If I do, I can ring the bell."
So she was left to herself, and Miss Dexter accompanied the twins in
their various errands of mercy, and expressed unbounded admiration of
the breeding and intelligence of the rodents submitted to her
inspection, after which they took her for a walk round the rhododendron
dell.
They, were a little less ready with their conversation than usual, for
the late episode had been something quite new in their experience and
given them occasion for thought. At last Miss Dexter said, "If you are
worrying about Janet Phipp, I shouldn't, if I were you. She's a good
sort, and you'll get on with her all right."
"I hope we shall," said Joan, "but I'm inclined to doubt it. She's so
_very_ different to the old starling. We had any amount of fun with
her, but then, we loved her."
"Well, you'll love Miss Phipp when you know her. I've known her
for--well, I won't tell you how many years, but we're neither of us
chickens, as you can see."
"And do you love her?" asked Nancy.
"I used to, and I should again if I saw anything of her."
"Well, that's something in her favour," said Joan. "But Nancy and I
will have to talk it over and settle our course of action."
"Well, talk it over now. I shan't repeat anything you say."
"We like you very much," said Nancy. "But as you're a friend of hers,
we might not like to speak quite plainly. It's rather a serious
situation."
"Oh, you can talk quite plainly before me. I can see the situation
well enough, and it isn't as serious as you think. She has never been
in a private family before, and has had no experience except with a
horde of schoolgirls. Of course you have to keep a tight hand over
them, and when they're at school nobody has authority over them except
the teachers. She'll soon tumble to it that your mother has more say
in things than she can have. But you mustn't always be appealing to
your mother against her."
"Of course we shouldn't do that," said Joan indignantly. "We never did
with Starling, except in fun."
"Besides, we are quite capable of controlling the situation by
ourselves, when once we've settled on a course of action," said Nancy.
Miss Dexter laughed. "I've no doubt you are," she said. "Only give
her a chance. That's all I ask."
"I suppose you don't object to our exercising our humour on her?" asked
Nancy. "We have our reputation to keep up. And you must admit that
she was rather trying this morning."
"Look here," said Miss Dexter. "She's been ill, and she's not well
now. You may think it funny, but when I went in to see her just now
she cried."
"Oh, poor darling!" exclaimed Joan. "Of course we'll be kind to her,
won't we, Nancy?"
"We'll think it over," said Nancy. "We mustn't be sentimental. You're
rather inclined to it, Joan. She may have shed tears of rage at being
thwarted."
"You're a beast," said Joan uncompromisingly. "I hate to think of
people being unhappy."
"You see," Miss Dexter put in, "she's suffering under a great
disappointment. She's a splendid teacher and was getting on awfully
well, and then she broke down and has had to take a private job. Many
people would much prefer to live in a place like this, and have a good
time, instead of toiling hard at a school. But, for her, it's good-bye
to a career in life, and she can't help feeling rather sore about it."
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Joan again. "We'll take her to our hearts
and make up for it. Don't you be afraid, Toby dear--you don't mind us
calling you that, do you?--if Nancy misbehaves I know how to deal with
her."
"I don't want to misbehave," said Nancy, "and if I did you couldn't
stop me. If she treats us well we'll treat her well. I shan't make
any rash promises. I think we'd better be getting back now. People
will begin to turn up soon, and it's such fun to see them."
They went back to the house, and presently there came riding up the
drive two men in pink, and immediately after there came a dogcart and
then a carriage and then more men on horses and a lady or two, and
after that a constant succession of riders and people on wheels and on
foot, until the open stretch of park in front of the house was full of
them.
And at last the huntsman and whips came trotting slowly along the drive
and on to the grass, and the hounds streaming along with them waving
their sterns, a useful, well-matched pack, much alike in the mass, but
each with as much individuality as the men and women who thronged
around them.
Then the members of the hunt began to drift by twos and threes into the
house and into the dining-room, where the Squire was very hospitable
and hearty in pressing refreshments on them--"just a sandwich, or
something to keep out the draught," he kept on repeating, full of
pleasure at being able to feed dozens of people who didn't want
feeding, and quite forgetting for the time being his fears as to the
effect of Virginia's presence.
Virginia, not wishing any more than he to make herself a centre of the
occasion, was on her horse already, and Dick was with her, and a
handsome pair they made. So thought old Aunt Laura who had had herself
drawn up by the porch in her Bath chair, as far away as possible from
"the horses' hoofs." She had just heard that a marriage was about to
take place in the family and was full of twittering excitement at the
news.
"My nephew," she said, meaning the Rector, "told me the glad news only
this morning, my dear. I am overjoyed to hear it, and to have the
opportunity of seeing you so soon. Please do not bring your horse too
close, if you do not mind. I am somewhat nervous of animals."
"I'll bring her to see you this evening, Aunt Laura," said Dick, "or,
if she's too tired, to-morrow morning."
"I shan't be too tired," said Virginia, smiling at the old lady. "Dick
has often told me about you, Miss Clinton, but you know I have never
been in Kencote before."
The Rector had given Aunt Laura some hint of the difficulty there had
been over the engagement, and she said soothingly, "I know, my dear, I
know. But I have no doubt you will be here very often now, and I am
sure nobody will be more pleased to see you than I shall. Dear me,
what with Walter and Cicely being married two years ago and Dick and
Humphrey about to be married, one feels one belongs to a family in
which things are always happening. I only wish that my dear sisters
had been alive to take part in it all. They would have been so
pleased. But the last of them died last year, as no doubt Dick has
told you, and I am no longer able to welcome you in our old home. But
I have a very nice little house in the village, and if you will come
and drink a cup of tea with me I shall feel great gratification, and I
will show you some of my treasures. Tell me, Dick, for my eyes are not
quite what they were, is that our Cousin Humphrey?"
It was, in fact, Lord Meadshire, who in spite of a cold, which made him
hoarser than ever, had driven over with his daughter, and now, looking
frail and shrunken in his heavy fur coat, but indomitably determined to
make the best of life, came slowly across the gravel to greet once
again the only member of his own generation left alive amongst all his
relations.
"Well, Laura," he said, "this is like old times, eh?" and then he
recognised Virginia, and showed, although he did not say so, that he
was pleasantly surprised to see her there.
"You have heard, I suppose, Humphrey," said Aunt Laura, with obvious
pride in being first with the news, "that we are shortly to have yet
another wedding in the family. I have not seen dear Edward yet; I have
no doubt he is busy indoors, but will be out soon--and I shall be able
to tell him how glad I am that everything is happily settled."
Lord Meadshire's sharp old eyes twinkled up at Virginia, and at Dick,
who said, "Don't you say anything to him about it yet, Aunt Laura.
He's not quite ready for it"; and Lord Meadshire added, "You've been
given early news, Laura. We must keep it to ourselves until it is
published abroad--what? My dear"--this to Virginia--"I needn't tell
you how glad I am, and I wish you every possible happiness and
prosperity."
He stayed to chat for a few minutes with Aunt Laura after Virginia and
Dick had moved away. "It seems but yesterday," said Aunt Laura, "that
my dear father, who, of course, kept these hounds, entertained his
friends here in just such a way as this, and I was a little girl with
all my dear sisters, and you were a young man, Humphrey, very gay and
active, riding over and talking and laughing with everybody. And it is
just the same pretty scene now as it was then, although all the people
who took part in it are dead, except you and I."
"My dear Laura," wheezed Lord Meadshire, "I'm gay and active now, if it
comes to that, and so are you, in your heart of hearts. Come, let us
forget that tiresome number of years that lies behind us and go and
amuse ourselves with the rest. If I stand out here in the cold, I
shall have Emily after me--what?"
So Aunt Laura was helped out of her Bath chair, and they went into the
house together slowly, and arm in arm.
The Squire hastened to meet them and find chairs for them, rather
uncomfortably near the fire. He was loud in his expressions of
pleasure at seeing his kinsman there, and not unmindful, either, of the
comfort of Aunt Laura. He would have been beyond measure scandalised
at the charge of treating her with increased consideration since he had
learnt of her wealth, and indeed he had shown himself, as has been
said, indifferent to the possibility of her being wealthy, but there
was no doubt that she had increased in importance in his eyes during
the last week or two, and she was accordingly treated more as a
personage at Kencote than she had ever been before in her life.
Lord Meadshire accepted a glass of champagne. It was a festive
occasion, and he loved festive occasions of all sorts. Everybody in
the room came up and talked to him, and he was pleased to talk to
everybody and said the right thing to each. But presently he found the
opportunity of a word apart with the Squire.
"So you've given in, Edward--eh, what?" he remarked, with a mischievous
look in his old face, and before he could be answered, said, more
seriously, "Well, you were right to stick out if you thought it
wouldn't do--to stick out as long as you could--but you must be glad
all the bother's over now, and I feel sure you'll come to think it
isn't so bad as you thought it would be. Come now, weren't all the
rest of us right? Isn't she a dear creature?"
"I haven't given in," said the Squire shortly. "I don't know yet what
I'm going to do. Of course, if Dick has made up his mind, I'm not
going to keep him at arm's length all the rest of my life, however much
I may object to what he's doing. That's why he's here, and why she's
here."
"Ah!" said Lord Meadshire wisely. "That's the way to talk. When you
say that you're nearly at the end of your troubles."
As he drove off a little later with Lady Kemsale he told her that
Edward was conquered, although he wouldn't acknowledge it. "He's an
obstinate fellow," said Lord Meadshire, "and from what Nina told me I
should say that he's having hard work to hold out against the dear
lady. Well, she's only got to keep on being herself and he'll be at
her feet like all the rest of us."
"Dear papa," said Lady Kemsale, "Lady George has bewitched you."
"My dear," said Lord Meadshire, "I admit it fully. And if she can
bewitch me she can bewitch Edward. She's half-way on the road already."