DAVID IS CALLED TO THE BAR
1902 was the year of King Edward's break-down in health but of his
ultimate Coronation; it was the year in which Mr. Arthur Balfour
became premier; it was the year in which motors became really
well-known, familiar objects in the London streets, and hansoms (I
think) had to adopt taximeter clocks on the eve of their
displacement by taxi-cabs. It was likewise the year in which the
South African War was finally wound up and the star of Joseph
Chamberlain paled to its setting, and Mrs. Pankhurst and her
daughter Christabel founded the Women's Social and Political Union
at Manchester.
In 1903, the Fiscal controversy absorbed much of public attention,
the War Office was once more reformed, women's skirts still swept
the pavement and encumbered the ball-room, a Peeress wrote
to the _Times_ to complain of Modern Manners, Surrey beat
Something-or-other at the Oval, and modern Cricket was voted dull.
In 1904, the Russo-Japanese War was concluded, and _Fraser and
Warren_ received a year's notice from the Midland Insurance Co. that
they must vacate their premises on the fifth floor of Nos. 88-90
Chancery Lane. The business of _F. and W._ had grown so considerable
that, as the affairs of the Midland Insurance Co. had slackened, it
became intolerable to hear the lift going up and down to the fifth
floor all through the day. The housekeeper also thought it odd that
a well-dressed young gentleman should steal in and up, day after
day, after office hours to work apparently alone in _Fraser and
Warren's_ partners' room. _Fraser and Warren_ over the hand of its
junior partner, Mrs. Claridge, accepted the notice. Their business
had quite overgrown these inconveniently situated offices and a move
to the West End was projected. Mrs. Claridge's scheme for week-end
cottages had been enormously successful and had put much money not
only into the coffers of _Fraser and Warren_ but into the banking
account of that clever architect, Francis Brimley Storrington.
[I find I made an absurd mistake earlier in this book in charging
the too amorous architect with a home at "Storrington." His home
really was in a midland garden city which he had designed, but his
name--a not uncommon one--was Storrington.]
In the autumn of 1902, poor Lady Fraser died. In January, 1903,
Honoria married the impatient Colonel Armstrong. In January, 1904,
she had her first baby--a boy.
At the close of 1904 Beryl Claridge made proposals to Honoria Fraser
relative to a change in the constitution of _Fraser and Warren_.
Honoria was to have an interest still as a sleeping partner in the
concern and some voice in its management and policy. But she was to
take no active share of the office work and "Warren" was to pass out
of it altogether. Beryl pointed out it was rather a farce when the
middle partner--she herself had been made the junior partner a year
before--was perpetually and mysteriously absent, year after year,
engaged seemingly on work of her own abroad. Her architect
semi-husband moreover, who if not in the firm was doing an
increasing share of its business, wanted to know _more_ about Vivien
Warren. "Was she or was she not the daughter of the 'notorious' Mrs.
Warren; because if so..." He took of course a highly virtuous line.
Like so many other people he compounded for the sins he was
inclined to by being severe towards the misdoings of others. _His_
case--he would say to Beryl when they were together at Chelsea--was
_sui generis_, quite exceptional, they were really in a way
perfectly good people--_Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner, etc._;
whereas the _things_ that were _said_ about Mrs. Warren!... And
though Vivien was nothing nearer sin than being her daughter, still
if it were known or known more widely that _she_ was the Warren in
_Fraser and Warren_, why the wives of the wealthier clergy, for
example, and a number of Quakeresses would withdraw their affairs
from the firm's management. Whereas if only his little Berry could
become the boss, _he_ knew where to get "big money" to put behind
the Firm's dealings. The idea was all right; an association for the
special management on thoroughly honest lines of women's affairs.
They'd better get rid of that hulking young clerk, Bertie Adams, and
staff the entire concern with capable women. He himself would always
remain in the background, giving them ideas from time to time, and
if any were taken up merely being paid his fees and commissions.
David Vavasour Williams, privately consulted by Norie, put forward
no objection. He disliked Beryl and was increasingly shy of his
rather clandestine work on the fifth floor of the Midland Insurance
Chambers; besides, if and when he were called to the Bar, he would
have to cease all connection with _Fraser and Warren_. The consent
of Vivie was obtained through the Power of Attorney she had left
behind. A new deed of partnership was drawn up. Honoria insisted
that Vivien Warren must be bought out for Three Thousand pounds,
which amount was put temporarily to the banking account of David
Vavasour Williams; she herself received another Three Thousand and a
small percentage of the future profits and a share in the direction
of affairs of THE WOMEN'S CO-OPERATIVE ASSOCIATION (_Fraser and
Claridge_) so long as she left a capital of Five Thousand pounds at
their disposal.
So in 1905 David with Three Thousand pounds purchased an annuity of
£210 a year for Vivien Warren. That investment would save Vivie from
becoming at any time penniless and dependent, and consequently would
subserve the same purpose for her cousin and agent, David V.
Williams.
Going to the C. and C. Bank, Temple Bar branch, to take stock of
Vivie's affairs, he found a Thousand pounds had been paid in to her
current account. Ascertaining the name of the payee to be L.M.
Praed, he hurried off at the first opportunity to Praed's studio.
Praed was entertaining a large party of young men and women to tea
and the exhibition of some wild futurist drawings and a few rather
striking designs for stage scenery and book covers. David had
perforce to keep his questions bottled up and take part in the
rather vapid conversation that was going on between young men with
_glabre_ faces and high-pitched voices and women with rather wild
eyes.
[It struck David about this time that women were getting a little
out of hand, strained, over-inclined to laugh mirthless laughter,
greedy for sensuality, sensation, sincerity, sweetmeats. Something.
Even if they satisfied some fleeting passion or jealousy by
marrying, they soon wanted to be de-married, separated, divorced, to
don male costume, to go on the amateur stage and act Salome parts on
Sunday afternoons that most ladies of the real Stage had refused;
while the men that went about with them in these troops from
restaurant to restaurant, studio to studio, music hall to café
chantant, Brighton to Monte Carlo, Sandown to Goodwood, were shifty,
too well-dressed, too near neutrality in sex, without defined
professions, known by nicknames only, spend-thrifts, spongers,
bankrupts, and collectors of needless bric-à-brac.]
However this mob at last quitted Praddy's premises and he and David
were left alone.
Praed yawned, and almost intentionally knocked over an easel with a
semi-obscene drawing on it of a Sphynx with swelling breasts
embracing a lean young man against his will.
_David_: "Praddy! why do you tolerate such people and why prostitute
your studio to such unwholesome art?"
_Praed_: "My dear David! This is _indeed_ Satan rebuking sin. Why
there are three designs here--one I've just knocked over--beastly,
wasn't it?--that _you _ left with me when you went off at a tangent
to South Africa.... Really, we ought to have _some_ continuity you
know....
"But I agree with you.... I'm sick of the whole business of this
Nouvel Art and L'Art Nouveau, about Aubrey Beardsley and the
disgusting 'nineties generally--But what _will_ you? If Miss Vivie
Warren had condescended to accept me as a husband she might have
brought a wholesome atmosphere into my life and swept away all
this ... inspired me perhaps with some final ambition for the little
that remains of my stock of energy.... Heigh-ho! Well: what is the
quarrel now? The life I lead, the people who come here?"
_David_: "No. I hardly came about that; though dear old Praddy, I
wish I had time to look after you ... Perhaps later.... No: what I
came to ask was: what _did_ you mean the other day by paying in a
Thousand Pounds to Vivie Warren's account at her bank? She's not in
want of money so far as I know, and you can't be so very rich, even
though you design three millionaire's houses a year. Who gave you
the money to pay in to my--to Vivie's account?"
_Praed_: "Well, when Vivie herself comes to ask me, p'raps I'll
tell; but I can't see how it concerns _you_. Why not stop and
dine--à l'imprévu, but I dare say my housekeeper can rake something
together or it may not be too late to send out for a paté. We can
then talk of other things. When are you going to get your call?"
_David_: "Sorry, dear old chap, but I can't stay to dinner. I'm not
going anywhere else but I've got some papers I _must_ study before I
go to bed. But I'll stop another half-hour at any rate. Don't ring
for lights or turn up the electric lamps. I would sooner sit in the
dark studio and put my question. Who has given me that thousand
pounds?"
_Praed_: "That's _my_ business: _I_ haven't! I shan't give or lend
Vivie a penny till she consents to marry me. As to the rest, take it
and be thankful. You're not certain to get any more and I happen to
know it had what you would call a 'clean origin.'"
_David_: "You mean it didn't come from those 'Hotels'?"
_Praed_: "Well, at any rate not directly. Don't be a romantic ass, a
tiresome fool, and give me any trouble about it. A certain person I
imagine must have heard that _Fraser and Warren_ had been wound up
and couldn't bear the thought of your being hard up in consequence
... doesn't know you got a share of the purchase-money..."
* * * * *
David decided at any rate for the present to accept the addition to
his capital--you can perhaps push principle _too_ far; or, once you
plunge into affairs, you cease to be quite so high-souled. At any
rate nothing in David's middle-class mind was so horrible as penury
and the impotence that comes with it. How many months or years would
lie ahead of him before fees could be gained and a professional
income be earned? Besides he wanted to take Bertie Adams into his
service as a Clerk. A barrister must have a clerk, and David in his
peculiar circumstances could only engage one acquainted more or
less with his secret.
So Bertie Adams fulfilled the ambition he had cherished for three
years--he felt all along it was coming true. And when David was
called to the Bar--which he was with all the stately ceremonial of a
Call night at the Inner Temple in the Easter term of 1905, more
elbow room was acquired at Fig Tree Court, and Bertie Adams was
installed there as clerk to Mr. David Vavasour Williams, who had
residential chambers on the third floor, and a fair-sized Office and
small private room on the second floor. Bertie's mother had "washed"
for both Honoria and Vivie in their respective dwellings for years,
and for David after he came to live at Fig Tree Court. A substantial
douceur to the "housekeeper" had facilitated this, for in the part
of the Temple where lies Fig Tree Court the residents do not call
their ministrants "laundresses," but "housekeepers." Curiously
enough the accounts were always tendered to the absent Vivie Warren,
but Mrs. Adams noted no discrepancy in their being paid by her son
or in an unmarried lady living in the Temple under the name of David
Williams.
Installed as clerk and advised by his employer to court one of the
fair daughters of the housekeeper (Mrs. Laidly) with a view to
marriage and settling down in premises hard-by, Bertie Adams (who
like David had spent his time well between 1901 and 1905 and was now
an accomplished and serviceable barrister's clerk) soon set to work
to chum up with other clerks in this clerical hive and get for his
master small briefs, small chances for defending undefended cases in
which hapless women were concerned.
But before we deal with the career of David at the Bar, which of
course did not properly commence--even as a brilliant junior--till
the early months of 1906, let us glance at the way in which he had
passed the intervening space of time between his return from Wales
in May, 1902, and the spending of his Long Vacation of 1905 as an
Esquire by the Common Law of England called to the Bar, and entitled
to wear a becoming grey wig and gown.
He had begun in 1900 by studying Latin, Norman French--so greatly
drawn on in law terms--and English History. In the summer of 1901,
by one of those subterfuges winked at then, he had obtained two
rooms, sublet to him by a member of the Inn, in Fig Tree Court,
Inner Temple. In the autumn of that year, having made sure of his
parentage and his finance, he had approached the necessary
authorities with a view to his being admitted a member of the Inner
Temple, which meant filling up a form of declaration that he, David
Vavasour Williams, of Pontystrad, Glamorgan, a British subject, aged
twenty-four, son of the Revd. Howel Vaughan Williams, Clerk in Holy
Orders, of Pontystrad in the County of Glamorgan, was desirous of
being admitted a Student of the Honourable Society of the Inner
Temple for the purpose of being called to the Bar or of practising
under the Bar; and that he would not either directly or indirectly
apply for or take out any certificate to practise directly or
indirectly as a Pleader, Conveyancer or Draftsman in Equity without
the special permission of the Masters of the Bench of the said
Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.
Further, David declared with less assurance but perhaps within the
four corners of the bare truth that he had not acted directly or
indirectly in the capacity of a Solicitor, Attorney-at-law, Writer
to the Signet or in about thirteen other specified legal positions;
that he was not a Chartered, Incorporated or Professional Accountant
("A good job we changed the device of the Firm," he thought), a Land
Agent, a Surveyor, Patent Agent, Consulting Engineer, or even as a
clerk to any such officer. Which made him rather shivery about what
he _had_ been doing for _Fraser and Warren_, but there was little
risk that any one would find out--And finally he declared that he
was not in Trade or an undischarged bankrupt.
The next and most difficult step was to obtain two separate
Certificates from two separate barristers each of five years'
standing, to the effect that he was what he stated himself to be.
This required much thinking out, and was one of the reasons why he
did not go down as promised and spend his Christmas and New Year
with his father.
Instead he wrote to Pontystrad explaining how important it was he
should get admitted as a Student in time to commence work in Hilary
term. Did his father know any such luminary of the law or any two
such luminaries? His father regretted that he only knew of one such
barrister of over five years' standing: the distinguished son of an
old Cambridge chum. To him he wrote, venturing to recall himself,
the more eagerly since this son of an old friend was himself a
Welshman and already distinguished by his having entered Parliament,
served with the Welsh Party, written a book on Welsh history, and
married a lady of considerable wealth.
Next David applied to Rossiter with the result--as we have
seen--that he got an introduction to Mr. Stansfield. So he obtained
from Mr. Price and Mr. Stansfield the two certificates to the effect
that "David Vavasour Williams has been introduced to me by letter of
introduction from the Revd. Howel Williams" (or "Professor Michael
Rossiter, F.R.S.") "and has been seen by me; and that I, Mark
Stansfield, Barrister-at-law, King's Counsel" (or "John Price,
Barrister-at-law, Member of Parliament") "believe the said David
Vavasour Williams to be a gentleman of respectability and a proper
person to be admitted a Student of the Honourable Society of the
Inner Temple with a view to being called to the Bar."
Copies of the letters of introduction accompanied the two
certificates. These of course were not obtained without several
visits to the unsuspicious guarantors; or at least one to Mr. Price
in Paper Buildings, for whom it was enough that David claimed to be
Welsh and showed a very keen interest in the Welsh tongue and its
Indo-German affinities, and three or four to Mr. Mark Stansfield,
K.C., one of the nicest, kindliest and most learned persons David
had ever met, whom he grieved deeply at deceiving. Stansfield had a
high opinion of Rossiter. The fact that he recommended David was
quite sufficient to secure his "guarantee." But apart from that, he
felt himself greatly drawn towards this rather shy, grave,
nice-looking young fellow with the steady eyes and the keen
intelligence. He had him to dine and to lunch; drew him out--as far
as David thought it prudent to go--and was surprised David had never
been to a University ("Only to Malvern--and then I studied with an
architect in London--Who? Mr. Praed, A.R.A.--but then I travelled
for a bit, and after that I felt more than ever I wanted to go in
for the Bar"--said David, with a charming smile which lit up his
young face ordinarily so staid). Stansfield consented that David
should come and read with him, and in many ways facilitated his
progress so materially and so kindly that more than once the
compunctious young Welshman thought of discarding the impersonation;
and might have done so had not this most estimable Stansfield died
of pneumonia in the last year of David's studenthood.
Of course the preliminary examination was easily and quickly passed.
David translated his bit of Caesar's commentaries, answered
brilliantly the questions about Alfred the Great, the Anglo-Norman
kings, the Constitutions of Clarendon, Magna Charta and Mortmain,
Henry the Eighth and the Reformation, the Civil War and
Protectorate of Cromwell, the Bill of Rights and the Holy Alliance.
He paid his fees and his "caution" money; he ate the requisite six
dinners--or more, as he found them excellent and convenient--in each
term, attended all the lectures that interested him, and passed the
subsidiary examinations on them with fair or even high credit; and
finally got through his "Call-to-the-Bar" examination with tolerable
success; at any rate he passed. A friend of the deceased
Stansfield--whose death was always one of the scars in Vivie's
memory--introduced him to one of the Masters of the Bench who signed
his "call" papers. He once more made a declaration to the effect
that he was not a person in Holy Orders, that he was not a
Solicitor, Attorney-at-law, Writer to the Signet, etc., etc., a
Chartered, Incorporated or Professional Accountant; and again that
if called to the Bar, he would never become a member of the abhorred
professions over and over again enumerated; and was duly warned that
without special permission of the Masters of the Bench of the Inner
Temple he might not practise "under the Bar"--whatever that may mean
(I dare say it is some low-down procedure, only allowed in times of
scarcity). Then after having his name "screened" for twelve days in
all the Halls of the four Inns, and going in fear and trembling that
some one might turn up and object, he finally received his call to
the Bar on April 22 (if April 22 in that year was on a Sunday, then
on the following Monday) and was "called" at the Term Dinner where
he took wine with the Masters. He remembered seeing present at the
great table on the dais, besides the usual red-faced generals and
whiskered admirals, simpering statesmen, and his dearly loved
friend, Michael Rossiter--representing Science,--a more sinister
face. This was the well-known philanthropist and race-horse breeder,
Sir George Crofts, Bart., M.P. for a Norfolk borough. Their eyes
met, curiously interlocked for a moment. Sir George wondered to
himself where the dooce he had seen that, type of face before, those
grey eyes with the dark lashes. "Gad! he reminds me of Kitty Warren!
Well, I'll be damned" (he was eventually) "I wonder whether the old
gal had a son as well as that spitfire Vivie?!"
Michael whispered a word or two to one of the Masters, and David was
presently summoned to attend the Benchers and their distinguished
guests in the inner chamber to which they withdrew for wine and
dessert. Rossiter made room for him, and he had to drink a glass of
port with the Benchers. Every one was very gracious. Rossiter said:
"I was a sort of godfather to him, don't you know. David! you must
do me credit and make haste to take silk and become a Judge." Crofts
moved from where he sat next to a Bishop. ("Damn it all! I like
bein' respectable, but why _will_ they always put me next a Bishop
or an Archdeacon? It spoils all my best stories.") He came
over--dragging his chair--to Rossiter and said "I say! Will you
introduce me to our young friend here?" He was duly introduced.
"H'm, Williams? _That_ doesn't tell me much. But somehow your face
reminds me awfully of--of--some one I used to know. J'ever have a
sister?" "No," said David.
Crofts, he noticed, had aged very much in the intervening eight
years. He must now be no more than--58? But he had become very stout
and obviously suffered from blood pressure without knowing it. He
moved away a little, and David heard him talking to a Master about
Lady Crofts, who had come up to London for the season and how they
were both very anxious about his boy--"Yes, he had two children, a
boy and a girl, bless 'em--The boy had been ill with measles and
wasn't makin' quite the quick recovery they expected. What an
anxiety children were, weren't they? Though we wouldn't be without
'em, would we?" The Bencher assented out of civility, though as a
matter of fact he was an old bachelor and detested children or
anything younger than twenty-one.
David after his call was presented with a bill to pay of £99. 10_s._
His father hearing of this, insisted on sending him a cheque for
£150 out of his savings, adding he should be deeply hurt if it was
not accepted and no more said about it. How soon was David coming
down to see South Wales once more gloriously clothed with spring?
[Much of this review of the years between 1901 and 1905, many of
these sweet remembrances are being taken from Vivie's brain as she
lies on a hard bed in 1913, musing over the past days when, despite
occasional frights and anxieties, she was transcendently happy. Oh
"Sorrow's Crown of Sorrow, the remembering happier days!" She
recalled the articles she used to write from the Common Room or
Library of the Inn; how well they were received and paid for by the
editors of daily and weekly journals; what a lark they were, when
for instance she would raise a debate in the _Saturday Review_:
"Should Women be admitted to the Bar?" Or an appeal in the _Daily
News_ to do away with the Disabilities of Women. How poor
Stansfield, before he died, said he had never met any young fellow
with a tenderer heart for women, and advised him to marry whilst he
still had youth and fire. She remembered David's social success at
the great houses in the West End. How he might have gone out into
Society and shone more, much more, only he had to consider prudence
and expense; the curious women who fell in love with him, and whom
he had gently, tactfully to keep at arm's length. She remembered the
eager discussions in the Temple Debating Society, or at the "Moots"
of Gray's Inn, her successes there as an orator and a close
reasoner; how boy students formed ardent friendships for her and
prophesied her future success in Parliament, would have her promise
to take them into the Cabinet which David was to form when an
electorate swept him into power and sent the antiquated old rotters
of that day into the limbo of deserved occlusion.
She saw and heard once more the amused delight of Honoria Armstrong
over her success, and the latent jealousy of the uxorious Colonel
Armstrong if she came too often to see Honoria in Sloane Street: And
she remembered--Oh God! _How_ she remembered--the close association
in those three priceless years with her "godfather" Michael
Rossiter; Rossiter who shaped her mind--it would never take a
different turn--who was patient with her stupidity and petulance; an
elder brother, a robust yet tactful chaffer; a banisher of too much
sensibility, a constant encouragement to effort and success.
Rossiter, she knew, with her woman's instinct, was innocently in
love with her, but believed all the time he was satisfying his
craving for a son to train, a disciple who might succeed him: for he
still believed that David when he had been called to the Bar and had
flirted awhile with Themis, would yet turn his great and growing
abilities to the service of Science.
And Mrs. Rossiter in those times: Vivie smiled at the thought of her
undefined jealousy. She was anxious to be civil to a young man of
whom Michael thought so highly. She sympathized with his regret that
they had no children, but why could he not take up with one of her
cousin Bennet's boys from Manchester, or Sophy's son from
Northallerton, or one of his own brother's or sister's children? How
on earth did he become acquainted with this young man from South
Wales? But she was determined not to be separated in any way from
her husband, and so she sat with them as often and as long as she
could in the library. The studio-laboratory she could not stand with
its horrid smell of chemicals; she also dreaded vaguely that
vivisection went on there--Michael of course had a license, though
he was far too tender-hearted to torture sentient creatures. Still
he did odd things with frogs and rats and goats and monkeys; and her
dread was that she might one day burst in on one of these sacrifices
to science and see a transformed Michael, blood-stained, wielding a
knife and dangerous if interrupted in his pursuit of a discovery.
But as the long talks and conferences of the two friends--really not
so far separated in age as one of them thought--generally took place
in the library, she assisted at a large proportion of them. Rossiter
would not have had it otherwise, though to David she was at times
excessively irksome. Her husband had long viewed her as a lay figure
on these occasions. He rarely replied to her flat remarks, her
inconsequent platitudes, her yawns and quite transparent signals
that it was time for the visitor to go. Sometimes David took her
hints and left: he had no business to make himself a bore to any
one. Sometimes however Michael at last roused to consciousness of
the fretful little presence would say "What? Sweety? _You_ still up.
Trot off to bed, my poppet, or you'll lose the roses in your
cheeks."
The roses in Mrs. Rossiter's cheeks at that time were beginning to
be a trifle eczematous and of a fixed quality. Nevertheless, though
she tossed her head a little as she took up her "work" and swished
out of the great heavy door--which David opened--she was pleased to
think that Michael cared for her complexion and was solicitous about
her rest.
And Vivie's eyes swam a little as she thought about the death of
Mark Stansfield, and the genuine tears that flowed down the cheeks
of his pupils when they learnt one raw February morning from the
housekeeper of his chambers that he had died at daybreak. "A better
man never lived" they agreed. And they were right.
And she smiled again as she thought of some amongst those pupils,
the young dogs of those days, the lovers of actresses of the minor
order--ballet girls, it might have been; of the larks that went on
sometimes within and without the staid precincts of the Temple.
Harmless larks they were; but such as she had to withdraw from
discreetly. She played lawn tennis with them, she fenced
surprisingly well; but she had refused to join the "Devil's
Own"--the Inns of Court Volunteers, for prudent reasons; and though
it had leaked out that she was a good swimmer--that tiresome
impulsive Honoria had spread it abroad--she resolutely declined to
give proofs of her prowess in swimming baths. Her associates were
not so young as the undergraduates she had met in Newnham days: they
were an average ten years older. Their language at times made David
blush, but they had more discretion and reserve than the University
student, and they respected his desire to withdraw himself into
himself occasionally, and to abstain from their noisier amusements
without questioning his camaraderie.
At this point in her smiling reminiscences, the wardress clanged
open the door and slammed down a mug of cocoa and a slab of brown
bread; and rapped out some orders in such a martinet utterance that
they were difficult to understand. (Don't be alarmed! She isn't
about to be executed for having deceived the Benchers of the Inner
Temple in 1905; she is only in prison for a suffragist offence).]
I can't wind up this chapter somehow without more or less finishing
the story of Beryl Claridge. She has been a source of anxiety to my
wife--who has read these chapters one by one as they left my
typewriter. "Was it wise to bring her in?" "Well, but my dear, she
was rather a common type of the New Woman in the early nineteen
hundreds." "Yes--but--"
Of course the latent anxiety was that she might end up respectably.
And so she did. In 1906, the first Mrs. Storrington died at Ware
(Ware was where the architect husband had his legitimate home). She
had long been ill, increasingly ill of some terrible form of anæmia
which had followed the birth of her fourth child. She slowly faded
away, poor thing; and about the time David was returning from a
triumphant Christmas and New Year at Pontystrad--the Curate and his
young wife had made a most delightful partie carrée and David had
kissed the very slightly protesting Bridget under the native
mistletoe--Mrs. Storrington breathed her last, while her faithless
yet long forgiven Francis knelt by her bedside in agonies of
unavailing grief.
Well: she died and was buried, and her four children, ranging from
nine to sixteen, sobbed very much and mourned for darling Mummie
without the slightest suspicion ("'twas better so," she had always
thought) that Dad had poisoned her wells of happiness ever since he
took up with that minx at Cambridge in the very year in which
long-legged Claribel was born. A few months after the poor lady was
consigned (under a really lovely cenotaph designed by her husband)
to Ware Churchyard--no, it was to Ware cemetery; Dad introduced them
all to a very sprightly and good-looking widow, Mrs. Claridge, who
had also been bereaved years ago and left with two perfect ducks of
children, four and five years old, to whom Claribel took
instinctively (the elder ones sniffed a little, disliking "kids").
Then about Christmas time, 1906, Dad told them that Mrs. Claridge
was going to make him happy by coming to tend his motherless
children; was going to be his wife. Francis, the eldest, stomped
about the garden at Ware and swore he would go back to Rugby during
the holidays; Elspeth, the gaunt girl of fourteen and Agnes, a
dreamy and endearing child, cried themselves to sleep in each
other's arms. Claribel, however, quite approved. And whether they
liked it or not, in January, 1907, the marriage took place--at the
Registrar's--and Beryl came to live for a short time at Ware,
bringing ducksome Margery and adorable Podge. In less than a month
Beryl had won over all her step-children, except Francis, who held
out till Easter, but was reduced to allegiance by the hampers she
sent to him at Rugby--; in three months they had all moved to a much
sweller house on the Chelsea Embankment. Father--Beryl voted "Dad" a
little lower-middle class--Father had somehow become connected with
some great business establishment of which Mother was the head.
Together they were making pots of money. Francis would go to
Sandhurst, Elspeth to a finishing school in Paris (her ambition),
and the others would spend the fine months of the year rollicking
with Margery and Podge on the Sussex coast.
In 1907, also, they became aware that their new mother was not alone
in the world. A stately lady whose eyes seemed once to have done a
deal of weeping (they were destined alas! to do much more, for three
of her gallant, handsome sons were killed in the War, and _that_
finally killed the poor old Dean of Thetford), who wore a graceful
Spanish mantilla of black lace when in draughty places, came to see
them after they had moved to Garden Corner on the Chelsea
Embankment. She turned out to be the mother of Mrs. Beryl and was
quite inclined to be their grandmother as well as Margery's and
Podge's. But her husband the Dean was--it appeared--too great an
invalid to come up to town.
The second Mrs. Storrington, who was a woman of boundless energy,
could work all day with secretaries, and could dance all night, gave
brilliant parties in the season at her large Chelsea house. But she
never invited to them Mr. David Vavasour Williams, that rising young
barrister who had become so famous as a pleader of the causes of
friendless women.