Produced by Al Haines.
*SIR HARRY*
_A Love Story_
BY
ARCHIBALD MARSHALL
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1919
COPYRIGHT, 1919
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
The Quinn & Boden Company BOOK MANUFACTURERS RAHWAY NEW
JERSEY
dedication info
_*BY THE SAME AUTHOR*_
THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES
RICHARD BALDOCK
EXTON MANOR
THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER
THE ELDEST SON
THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS
THE GREATEST OF THESE
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH
WATERMEADS
UPSIDONIA
ABINGTON ABBEY
THE GRAFTONS
THE CLINTONS, AND OTHERS
SIR HARRY
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. Royd Castle
II. Lady Brent
III. The Child
IV. Fairies
V. Mrs. Brent
VI. Revolt
VII. The Log Cabin
VIII. August
IX. On the Moor
X. Viola
XI. The Woodland Pool
XII. At the Threshold
XIII. The Temple
XIV. Bastian
XV. Wilbraham
XVI. Dilemma
XVII. The End
XVIII. Afterwards
XIX. Wilbraham in London
XX. Waiting
XXI. Sidney
XXII. The Return
XXIII. Confidences
XXIV. Holiday
XXV. Mrs. Brent Knows
XXVI. Lady Brent Speaks
XXVII. Lady Brent and Viola
XXVIII. In the Balance
XXIX. Love
*SIR HARRY*
*CHAPTER I*
*ROYD CASTLE*
The Reverend David Grant, Vicar-elect of Royd, was a novelist as well as
a priest. So when he paid his preliminary visit to Royd Castle, and sat
himself down to write to his wife about it he did so with the idea of
making his letter a piece of literature; or at least of making her see.
For that was literature--making people see. He would take as much
trouble over his letter as he would over a chapter of a novel; and when
she had read it she would have a clear picture in her mind of the place
she was coming to and the people she would meet there. She had not been
able to come herself because she was close to her confinement. Poor
girl! It was rather hard luck that she should have to miss all this
excitement. They had been married thirteen years and had always looked
forward to settling into the ideal country parsonage. But either he
would have to settle in himself, or else wait a couple of months or so
until the baby was born and Ethel was well enough to take a hand in the
blissful arrangements. Longing to get to work at it as he was, with
money saved from his royalties to be spent in making their home what
they wanted it to be, he yet thought that he would prefer to wait until
she was strong again. After thirteen years of married life, in
circumstances not of the easiest, this couple still liked doings things
together.
The time and the place invited to literary composition. The time was
shortly after ten o'clock of a warm spring night, for the Castle retired
early. The place was a room which David Grant had sometimes imagined
for himself as the background for a scene in a novel, but never yet had
the satisfaction of occupying. It was a great state Tudor bedroom, with
carved and panelled walls, a stone fireplace with a fire of logs burning
in it, Flemish tapestry above, a polished oak floor with old carpets in
front of the hearth, by the heavy pillared canopied bed and in the deep
embrasure of the window. There were heavy oak chairs and tables and
presses. The washing arrangements, necessarily more modern, since in
Tudor days they washed very little, were in a closet apart. The
writing-table alone showed modernity, with everything on it in the way
of apparatus that could please a person who loved writing for its own
sake, and could appreciate its accessories. It stood in the windowed
recess, which was as large as a fair-sized room, and contained another
table for books, with a cushioned chair by its side, and still left
space for moving about from one window to the other. Wax candles in
heavy silver candle-sticks stood invitingly on the writing-table, and
elsewhere about the room. There were six of these lit when David Grant
came up, but it was so large that the effect was still one of rich
dimness, warmed into life by the glowing fire on the hearth.
David Grant's soul was full of content as he came into the room and shut
the heavy door behind him. If he couldn't write a letter in this
atmosphere that would eventually read well in his biography, he wasn't
worth his salt. He was not without occasional qualms as to whether he
actually was worth his salt as a novelist, but none of them troubled him
to-night. He was wakeful and alert; he had half a mind to sit down at
that inviting silver-laden table and write a chapter of "A Love Apart."
But no. Ethel, poor girl, must come first. He felt tender towards her;
they were going to be so happy together at Royd. And, after all, this
was a chapter in the story of their own lives, and more interesting to
both of them than a chapter in the lives of fictitious characters.
He took off his coat and put on the flannel jacket in which he was
accustomed to write. Then he went to the windows and drew back all the
heavy curtains, and opened one of the casements. His facile emotions,
always ready to be stirred by beauty, and to turn it immediately into
words, were stirred for a moment into something that he could not have
put into words as he stood there, though they came to him the moment
afterwards as he recognized how it all fitted in with the impression
encouraged in his mind by the old rich room in the old castle--the
moonlight outside, silvering the fairy glades of the park into
mysterious beauty, the silence and the sweet scents of the slumbering
earth.
The grass of the park grew right up to the stones of the castle wall on
this side. Just above him were some great beeches, which seemed to be
climbing the hill that rose behind. Below there were more trees, and
between them stretched a glade which led the eye to further undulations
of moonlit grass, and the bare trunks and branches of the trees that
bordered them. He had been rather disappointed, in coming first into
his room, to find that it did not look out on to the gardens; but under
the moon this romantic glimpse of silvered trees and fairy glades seemed
to him more beautiful than any tamed or ordered garden.
Anything might happen out there, on such a night. Oberon and Titania
suggested themselves to him; the least that could be expected to happen
was that a herd of deer led by a many-antlered stag should wander across
a moonlit glade, and give just that touch of life that was wanted to
enhance the lovely scene.
What actually did happen was that his eye was caught by a moving figure
in the shadow of the trees, and, before he had had time to wonder, or
even to be startled by it, came out into the bright stretch of grass in
front of his window, and stood looking up at him.
It was young Sir Harry, owner of Royd Castle and all the magic beauty
connected with it that was making such an impression upon the
clerico-novelist's susceptible mind, but though in that fortunate
position not yet of an age to be out under the trees of his park at this
time of night. At nine o'clock he had said good-night to his
grandmother's guest downstairs. Grant had thought it full early for a
boy of his age to be sent up to bed, as Lady Brent had actually sent
him, though without insistence, and with no protest on his part. He was
no more than sixteen, but a well-grown boy, in the evening garb of a
man; and he had sat opposite to his grandmother at the head of the table
and taken a bright part in the conversation, so that, with his title to
give him still further dignity, he had seemed altogether beyond the
stage of being sent early to bed.
However, it appeared that bed had not been the aim of his departure,
after all. He stood looking up at the window, not far above the ground,
with a smile upon his handsome young face, and asked his grandmother's
guest not to give him away. "I come out sometimes like this, when
everybody is asleep," he said. "There's no harm in it, but Granny would
try to stop me if she knew--lock me in, perhaps." He laughed freely.
"So please don't tell her," he said, and melted away into the shadows
without waiting for a promise of secrecy.
Grant rather liked that in him. He had been much attracted by young Sir
Harry, who had shown himself charmingly friendly to him in a frank and
boyish way that had yet seemed to contain something of the dignity of a
_grand seigneur_. There was something pleasing in the thought of this
handsome boy, master of the old rich beautiful house, even if he was as
yet only nominal master. It was not unpleasing either to think of him
roaming about his lovely demesne under the moonlight which made it still
more fair. Certainly there was nothing wrong in it. If he was up to
some mischief, it would only be of a kind that the women who held him in
check might call such. He was too young and too frank for the sort of
nocturnal mischief that a man might take notice of. At his age a sense
of adventure would be satisfied by being abroad in the night while he
was thought to be asleep. David Grant smiled to himself as he shut the
window. He would like to make friends with this charming boy. He was
rather pleased to have this little secret in common with him.
Now he walked about the great room, composing the lines of his letter,
as he was accustomed to walk about composing the lines of a chapter in
one of his novels. Its main "idea" was to be the pleasure he and his
wife and the children were to have in Royd Vicarage. But that must be
led up to. He must begin at the beginning, "make her see" the place,
and the people among whom they would lead their lives. The people
especially; there was room here for the neat little touches of
description upon which he prided himself. The Vicarage must come last,
and he would end on a tender note, which would please the dear girl, and
make her feel that she was part of it all, as indeed she was.
And now he was ready to begin, and sat down at the table, all on fire
with his subject. He wrote on and on until late into the night.
Sometimes he rose to put another log on to the fire, to enjoy the
crackle it made, and to sense the grateful atmosphere of the old room.
Once or twice he went to the window and looked out, never failing to be
charmed by the beauty of the scene. At these times he thought of the
boy, out there under the moon or in the dim shadows of the trees, and
wondered what he was doing, and if he would come and call up at his
window again as he returned from his wandering. He rather hoped that he
might, and left the casement open the second time he went to the window.
But by the time he had finished his letter no sound had broken the
stillness, except now and then the soft hooting of owls, and with a last
look at the moonlit glades he blew out the candles and climbed into the
great bed, very well satisfied with himself and with life in general.
"Oh, the tiresome old dear, he's trying to be literary," said Mrs.
Grant, as she embarked eagerly upon the voluminous pages. She turned
them over until she came to the description of the Vicarage towards the
end:
"Lady Brent said very kindly, 'I expect you would like to go over the
house by yourself, Mr. Grant. Harry shall go with you and show you the
cottage where the key is kept. The church, I believe, is open. We
shall expect you back to tea at half-past four, and if you have not
finished you can go back again afterwards.'
"This was just what I wanted--to moon about the house which is to be our
happy home, dearest, alone, and to build castles in the air about it.
So we started off, the boy and I. We went down the avenue----"
"H'm. H'm." Mrs. Grant skipped a page.
"It was the Vicarage of our dreams, a low stone house, facing south,
embowered in massy trees, its walls covered with creepers, the sun
glinting on its small-paned windows."
Mrs. Grant skipped a little more. She wanted to know the number of
rooms, and if possible the size of the principal ones, what the kitchen
and the back premises were like, whether the kitchen garden was large
enough to supply the house, and if it could all be managed by one man,
who would also look after the pony, and perhaps clean the boots and
knives.
She gained a hint or two as she turned over the pages quickly, and then
read them more carefully. "Well, he doesn't tell me much," she said,
"but I expect it will be all right and I'm sure I shall love it. The
drawing-room opening into the garden and the best bedroom with a view of
the sea in the distance sound jolly, and I'm glad the old darling will
have a nice room to write his nonsense in. If he is pleased with his
surroundings he always does more work, and that means more money. Oh, I
do hope his sales will go up and we shall have enough to live
comfortably on there." She went on to the end of the letter, which gave
her pleasure, as had been intended. "Dear old thing, he does lean on
me," she said. "And well he may. Well, I shall bustle about and make
things happy and comfortable for him directly I'm strong enough. Oh, my
little love, why didn't you put off your arrival for a few months
longer? But I shall adore you when you do come, and it will be lovely
to bring you up in that beautiful place. Now let's see what these Brent
people are like, if he's clever enough to give me any idea of them."
She turned back to the beginning of the letter, and read it through in
the same way as she read his novels. She knew by intuition when it was
worth while to read every word, and--well, when it wasn't.
"Young Sir Harry met me at the station. He is a handsome boy, very
bright and friendly. My heart warmed to him, and especially when he
showed a lively interest in our Jane and Pobbles. I told him that Jane
was only eleven and Pobbles nine, but he said that he wasn't so very
much older himself, and laughed as he said it, like a young wood-god,
with all the youth of the world in him. I remember once walking in an
olive wood in Italy, and suddenly meeting...
"I was rather surprised at the carriage sent to meet us. It was a
stately affair, but with the varnish dull and cracked, and the horses
fat and slow. In spite of the liveried coachman and footman on the box,
the equipage was not what one might have expected from such a house as
Royd Castle. I was inclined at first to think that it meant poverty,
which is not always unallied to state; but there are all the signs of
very ample means in this house, and I incline now to the opinion that in
a woman's house, as Royd Castle is at present, stable arrangements are
not much bothered about. Lady Brent goes about very little. In fact
there are no other houses near for her to visit. Poldaven Castle, I am
told, one of the seats of the Marquis of Avalon, lies about seven miles
off, but the family is hardly ever there. We ourselves, my dearest,
shall be very much to ourselves in this out-of-the-way corner of the
world. We shall have the people at the Castle, and our own more humble
parishioners, and--ourselves. But how happy we shall be! The beauty of
our surroundings alone would give us..."
Mrs. Grant skimmed lightly over a description of the seven-mile drive
from the little town by the sea, through rocky hilly country, bare of
trees, but golden with gorse under a soft April sky flecked with fleecy
clouds, and accepted without enthusiasm the statement that all nature,
including the young lambs and the rabbits, seemed to be laughing with
glee. She was anxious to get to Royd, which was to be her home, perhaps
for the rest of her life.
Trees had made their appearance in the landscape by the time it was
reached, and she gained an impression of a kinder richer country than
that of the coast. As they neared Royd there were picturesque
stone-built farm-houses, and then a steep village street lined with
stone-roofed cottages, their gardens bright with coloured primroses,
daffodils, ribes, berberi, aubretia and arabis, and here and there a gay
splash of cydonia japonica against a white-washed wall. Her husband was
always particular about the names of plants. No mere "early spring
flowers" for him! His descriptions were apt to read rather like a
nurseryman's catalogue, but as they both of them knew their way about
nurserymen's catalogues, she gained her picture of spring-garden colour
and was pleased with it. It would be lovely to have a real big garden
to play with, instead of the narrow oblong behind their semi-detached
villa. But she did want to get to Lady Brent, and the rest of the
household at the Castle.
The old church was at one end of the village, with a squat stone spire
on a squat tower. Description of its interior was reserved until later.
The Vicarage was beyond it, round the corner. The principal lodge gates
were opposite,--handsome iron gates between heavy stone pillars
surmounted by the Brent armorial leopards, collared and chained. A
little Tudor lodge stood on either side of the gate-pillars, and a high
stone wall ran off on either side. Young Sir Harry had told him that it
ran right round the park, which was three miles in circumference.
The description of the drive broke off here for an account of some other
things that young Sir Harry had told him. Expectation was to be
maintained a little longer. She wanted to get to the Castle, but did
not skip this part because it was rather interesting.
"The boy has never been to school. In fact, he has never slept a night
away from the Castle in all his sixteen years. He has a tutor--a Mr.
Wilbraham, who seems to have grounded him well in his classics. More of
him anon. The boy reads poetry too, and of a good kind. Altogether
rather a remarkable boy, and very good to look upon, with his crisp fair
hair, white teeth and friendly open look--a worthy head of the old
family from which he is descended. His father was killed in the South
African War, before Harry was born. He was born at the Castle and he
and his mother have lived here ever since. So much I learnt as we drove
together, and formed some picture in my mind of the people I was about
to meet."
Here followed the mental portraits of Lady Brent, Mrs. Brent and Mr.
Wilbraham, but as they bore small likeness to the originals, as
afterwards appeared, they may be omitted.
"We entered by the lodge gates, and drove through the beautiful park, I
should say for the best part of a mile. With the trees not yet in leaf,
and the great stretches of fern showing nothing but the russet of last
year's fronds, it was yet very beautiful. Herds of fallow deer were
feeding quietly on the green lawns, and a noble stag lifted his head to
look at us as we drove past, but made no attempt to escape, though he
can have been distant from us only a long mashie shot. Wood-pigeons
flew from tree-top to tree-top across the glades. I heard the tap-tap
of a woodpecker as we began to mount a rise where the trees grew
thicker, and the harsh screech of a jay, of which I caught a glimpse of
garish colour. There was a sense of peace and seclusion about this
beautiful enclosed space, as if nothing ugly from the world outside
could penetrate behind those high stone walls, and nature here rejoiced
in freedom and beauty.
"The hill became steeper, and the horses walked up it until we came to
the open ground at the top. There at last, as we drew out from under
the trees, I saw the ancient mass of the Castle with the flag flying
proudly above it, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. The ground sloped
down towards it. There was a wide open space of grass with the road
winding through, and here and there a noble beech, with which this part
of the park is chiefly planted. The ground rose again behind the
massive pile, and was once more thick with trees, so that it appeared
backed by a mass of delicate purple, which will soon take on that
delicious delicate green of young beech leaves, than which there is none
more beautiful in all nature, unless it be the emerald green of waves in
a blue sea."
"I shall look out for that in the next novel," said Mrs. Grant, at this
point. "I know that green, but he has always called it translucent
before."
"The castle is low and spreading, nowhere more than two stories in
height, except for the row of dormers in the roof, and in the middle of
the mass, where there is a great gateway leading into an inner court,
exactly like the gateway of a college. In fact the building resembles
an ancient college in many particulars. The garden is enclosed within a
stone wall, which continues the front of the building. It is on one
side only, and is very beautiful, though I have not yet explored it, and
can speak only of a lawn bounded by an arcading of yew, to which access
is gained from the long drawing-room where I was received. The stables
are in an inner courtyard behind the first. On the side opposite to the
garden, in which the room where I am now writing is situated, one looks
out straight into the park.
"Young Sir Harry took me straight into the room where the ladies of the
house were sitting at their needlework. It was a long low room,
beautifully furnished with what I should judge to be French furniture
chiefly, but with deep chintz-covered easy chairs and sofas which took
away from any formal effect it might otherwise have had. Lady Brent and
Mrs. Brent were sitting by one of the windows, of which there are a line
opening on to a sort of stone built veranda facing the garden that I
have mentioned. They rose at once to meet me. Lady Brent, whom I had
pictured as rather a dominating old lady, walking possibly with a stick,
I was surprised to find not old at all in appearance. She must have
married young, and her son, Harry's father, must have married young, as
indeed I afterwards found to have been the case. Wilbraham says that
she is still a few years short of sixty, and she does not look much over
fifty. She is not tall, but holds herself erect and moves in a stately
manner. She is not exactly handsome, but her features are pleasant to
the eye, and she has an agreeable smile. She made me welcome in a few
words, and I felt that I _was_ welcome, and immediately at home with
her.
"Of Mrs. Brent, Sir Harry's mother, it is more difficult to speak. In
the light of what I afterwards heard about her, whatever surprised me on
my first introduction to her is explained; but I am trying to give you
my first impressions. She is good-looking, but it struck me at once in
rather a common way. She would be, I suppose, about five and thirty.
She was quietly dressed and quiet-spoken; but there was a _something_.
She did not look of Lady Brent's class, and it was something of a
surprise to me to see in her the mother of Sir Harry, though in her
colouring and facial conformation she undoubtedly resembled him."
At this point Mrs. Grant was aroused by the sounds of violent
quarrelling in the little garden below the window at which she was
sitting, and looked out to see her son and daughter locked in a close
but hostile embrace. She threw up the window and called to them, but
they took no notice, and she had to go down to separate them. They were
the most charming children, and inseparable companions, but apt to
express themselves occasionally in these desperate struggles. When peace
had been restored, and they were left amicably planting mustard and
cress, she returned to her letter, longing to know more about Mrs.
Brent, and especially the reason for her appearance of commonness.
*CHAPTER II*
*LADY BRENT*
The explanation came after a description of luncheon in the great hall,
which had greatly impressed the writer, with its high timbered roof,
oriel window, and carved gallery. Mr. Wilbraham, the tutor, had been
added to the company, and was presented as a middle-aged figure, with a
somewhat discontented expression of face, but a gift of ready speech
which made the meal lively and interesting. He and the two ladies
seemed to be on the most excellent terms, and the way in which Lady
Brent deferred to the tutor, not treating him in the least as a
dependent, but as a valued member of the family circle, had struck the
Vicar-elect of Royd most agreeably. "This is a woman," he wrote, "with
brains above the ordinary, who takes pleasure in exercising them. Though
living a retired life, far from the centres of human intercourse, she
takes a lively interest in what is going on in the world. Politics were
discussed over the luncheon-table, and I found her views coincided
remarkably with my own, and together we gave, I think, a very good
account of ourselves in argument with Wilbraham, who professes to be
something of a Radical, though I noticed that he ate a very good lunch,
and is evidently not averse to sharing in the good things of the class
he affects to deride. It was all, however, very good-humoured, and when
the talk veered round to books, I found that these good people knew
really more about the latest publications than I did myself. Wilbraham
is a great reader. He acts as librarian, as well as tutor to Harry, and
seems to have _carte blanche_ to order anything down from London that he
likes. I imagine that he recommends books to Lady Brent, and she reads
a great deal too--not only fiction, but biographies, books of travel,
and even stiff works on such subjects as Philosophy.
"Of course I kept very quiet about my own humble productions, as I have
never professed to be a scholar, and aim rather at touching the
universal human mind, with stories that shall entertain but never
degrade, and should not expect to be considered very highly, or perhaps
even have been heard of by people of this calibre, though there are many
of equal intelligence among my readers. I must confess, however, that I
was gratified when Mrs. Brent, who had not taken much part in the
conversation, said: 'I have read all your books, Mr. Grant, and think
they are lovely. So touching!'
"This is the sort of compliment that I value. It is to the _simple_
mind that I make my appeal, and Mrs. Brent is quite evidently of a lower
class of intelligence than those about her. I think I detected some
deprecation in the glance that she threw at her mother-in-law
immediately after she had expressed herself with this simple, and
evidently _felt_ enthusiasm. Perhaps her opinions on literary subjects
are not considered very highly, but Lady Brent would be far too
well-bred and courteous to snub her. She said at once, very kindly:
'The Bishop told us that you were a novelist, Mr. Grant. Mr. Wilbraham
was about to send for your books, but we found that my daughter-in-law
had them already. I have not had time more than to dip into one of them,
but I promise myself much pleasure from them when I have a little more
time.' Wilbraham saved me from the necessity of finding an answer by
breaking in at once: 'I don't intend to read a single one of them,
either now or hereafter. Let that be plainly understood.' Everybody
laughed at this, and it was said in such a way that I felt no offence.
This man is evidently something of a character, and I should say had
made himself felt in this household of women. The boy likes him too. I
could see that by the way they addressed one another. They are more like
friends than master and pupil.
"Well, I felt that I had sized up Lady Brent, Wilbraham and young Harry
pretty well by the end of the meal, and the conversation that went with
it. I have a knack of doing so with people I meet, and find that upon
closer acquaintance I have seldom been wrong in my first impressions.
Mrs. Brent puzzled me a little more. Was she entirely happy? I thought
not, though there was nothing very definite to go upon. If not, it
could not be the fault of any of the three other members of the
household. She evidently adores her boy, for her face lights up
whenever she looks at him, and he treats her with an affection and
consideration that are very pleasant to see. Lady Brent treats her in
much the same way, and is evidently a woman of much kindness of heart,
for Mrs. Brent, as I have already said, is not up to her level, and
living in constant companionship with her might be expected to grate a
little on the nerves of a lady of her sort. Wilbraham would not be
likely to hide any contempt that he might feel for some one of less
intelligence than himself. He might not show it openly to the mother of
his pupil, but I should certainly have noticed it if it had been there.
But he behaved beautifully to her, and smiled when he spoke to her as if
he really liked her, and found pleasure in anything that she said. And
she seemed grateful, and smiled at him in return. They are in fact a
very happy little party, these curiously assorted people who live so
much to themselves. And yet, as I said above, the one member of it did
not strike me as being entirely happy, and I could not help wondering
why.
"Wilbraham enlightened me, as we smoked together after lunch, walking up
and down a broad garden path under the April sunshine. 'What do you
think of Mrs. Brent?' he asked me, with a side-long whimsical glance
that is very characteristic of the man.
"I was a little put out by the suddenness of the question, but took
advantage of it to be equally direct and to ask my question. 'Is there
anything to make her unhappy?'
"He laughed at that. 'I see you have your eyes open,' he said. 'I
suppose it's the novelist's trick. Any questions to ask about the rest
of us?'
"'You haven't answered my first one yet,' I replied, and he laughed
again, and said: 'Did you ever hear of Lottie Lansdowne?'
"The name seemed vaguely familiar to me, but he said, without waiting
for my reply: 'I don't suppose you ever did, but if I were you I should
tell Mrs. Brent on the first opportunity that when you were young and
going the round of the theatres that was the one name in the bill you
never could resist.'
"'I suppose you mean that Mrs. Brent was once on the stage and that was
her name,' I said. 'But I don't remember her all the same.'
"'No, I don't suppose you would,' he said again. 'As a matter of fact
the poor little thing never got beyond the smallest parts, and I doubt
if she ever would have done. But Brent fell in love with her, and
married her, and since then she has never had a chance of trying. That's
what's the matter with her, and I'm afraid it can't be helped. She's
pretty, isn't she?'
"'Yes,' I said, as he seemed to expect it of me, but she hadn't struck
me as being particularly pretty, though she might have been as a young
girl. 'You mean that she doesn't like the quiet life down here?'
"'Yes, that's what I mean,' he said. 'I'm sorry for the poor little
soul. She's like a child. Vain, I dare say, but not an ounce of harm
in her. I'm telling you this because you'd be bound to find it out for
yourself in any case. She'll probably tell you about her early triumphs
herself when you know her better. The thing to do is to keep her
pleased with herself as much as possible. There's not much to amuse her
here. We never see anybody. It suits me all right, and her ladyship;
and Harry is happy enough at present, with what he finds to do outside,
and what he has to do in. But she's different. There's nothing much
for her. She reads a lot of trashy novels----' Here he broke off
suddenly and roared with laughter, twisting his body about, and behaving
in a curious uncontrolled manner till he'd had his laugh out. Then he
said: 'I'm not going to hide from you that I _have_ tried to read one of
yours, and my opinion is that it's slush, but quite harmless slush,
which perhaps makes it worse. However, _she_ likes them; so I dare say
you'll find something in common with her, and it will be all to the good
your coming here. That's why I've told you about her. You'll be able
to help.'
"I must confess to some slight annoyance at having my work belittled in
this way. However, I suppose to a man of this sort all clean healthy
sentiment is 'slush,' and the absence of unwholesome interest in my
works would not commend them to him, though I am thankful to say that it
is no drawback to the pleasure that the people I aim at take in them.
If Mrs. Brent is one of these, I shall hope indeed to be of use to her,
and I think it speaks well for her, when her early life is taken into
consideration, that she should find my simple tales of quiet natural
life 'lovely,' as she said that she did. It has occurred to me that when
I get to know her better I may possibly gain from her some information
upon life behind the scenes, that I could make use of in my work. I
should like to draw the picture of a pure unsullied girl, going through
the life of the theatre, unspotted by it, and raising all those about
her, while she herself rises to the top of her profession, and marries a
good man, perhaps in the higher ranks of society, thus showing that
virtue is virtue everywhere and has its reward, and doing some good in
circles that I have not yet touched. However, all that is for the
future. Our immediate duty--yours and mine, dearest,--is to make
friends with this rather pathetic little lady, and to reconcile her to
her lot, which in this beautiful place, with all the love and kindness
she receives from those about her, is hardly really to be pitied.
"I told Wilbraham that I had been much struck with Lady Brent's attitude
towards her, and he became serious at once and said: 'Lady Brent is a
fine character. There's no getting over that. No, there's no getting
over that; she's a fine character.'
"I was a little surprised at the way he said it, but he's a queer sort
of fellow, though I think likable. He went on at once, as if he wanted
to remove some doubt in my mind as to Lady Brent; but, as a matter of
fact, I had none, and am as capable of judging her as he is, though of
course he has known her longer. '_She_ sees,' he said, 'that poor
little Lottie--I generally call her that to myself--can't be quite happy
shut up down here. But she's right in keeping her here. You see, Brent
was rather a wild sort of fellow. He got into mischief once or twice,
and from what I've heard she and his father weren't sorry when his
regiment was ordered off to South Africa. Well, he went, and was killed
the first time he went into action, within a month. By the time the
news came over his father himself was dying, and did die, as a matter of
fact, without knowing of it. A pretty good shock for the poor lady, eh?
Well, she had another when poor little Lottie wrote to her and said that
she had been married to Brent the week before he sailed, and there was a
baby coming. She went straight up to London and brought her down here,
and Harry was born here. Harry is rather an important person, you know.
He's the last of his line, which is an old one. This place belongs to
him, and he'll have a great deal of money from his grandmother. He's
Sir Harry Brent of Royd Castle. What he is on his mother's side must be
made as little of as possible. She's a Brent by marriage and she has to
learn to be a Brent by manners and customs, if you understand me!'
"I said that I thought I did, and that Lady Brent was quite right in
wishing to keep her in this atmosphere. But I said that I quite saw
that the more friends she had the better. I should do my best to make
friends with her, and I was sure that my wife would, who was extremely
kind-hearted.
"'Ah, that's right,' he said, with a great air of satisfaction, and just
then Harry came out and we went off together to the village and the
vicarage."
Here followed the account of the Vicarage, and of the church, but Mrs.
Grant knew there was more to come later about Mrs. Brent, and hurried on
till she got to it.
Dinner in the great hall was described, with allusions to the perfection
of the service and the livery of the servants. The conversation was
much the same as over the luncheon table, and Mrs. Brent took more part
in it. There was something different about her air. She was beautifully
dressed and her "commonness" seemed to have dropped from her. She was,
indeed, rather stately, in the manner of her mother-in-law, whom it
struck Grant that she was anxious to copy. After dinner they sat in the
long drawing-room, and Wilbraham played the piano, which he did rather
well. Soon after Harry had gone to bed, Lady Brent went out of the room
to get some silks for her embroidery. Mrs. Brent had offered to get
these for her, but she wouldn't let her. Grant was sitting near to Mrs.
Brent, and while Wilbraham played softly at the other end of the room he
talked to her.
"I said with a smile: 'I think your name used to be very well known in
other scenes than this when I was a young man, Mrs. Brent.'
"My dear, I was never more surprised than by the way she took it. She
flushed and drew up her head and looked at me straight, and said: 'Pray
what do you mean by that, Mr. Grant?'
"I felt like a fool. Of course if Wilbraham hadn't said what he had I
should never have thought of addressing her upon the subject. Being
what she is now I should have expected that she would not have wanted
her origin alluded to. But I have told you exactly what he did say, and
certainly I never meant anything but kindness to her. Still, I saw that
she might think I was simply taking a liberty, and made what recovery I
could. 'I know that you were a great ornament of the stage before you
were married,' I said. 'Please forgive me if I ought not to have
alluded to it, but you said that you had read my books, and you will
know that I take all life for my province; and when one practises one
art with all earnestness and sincerity, it is interesting to talk to
some one who has made a great success with another.'
"I think this was well said, wasn't it, dear? I'm afraid it was going
rather beyond the truth, as, from what Wilbraham had told me, I doubt if
she was much more than a chorus girl, and that only for a very short
time. But my conscience doesn't prick me for having drawn the long bow
a little. I had to disabuse her mind of the idea that I was taking a
liberty with her, and I wanted to please her in the way that Wilbraham
had indicated.
"She ceased, I think, to take offence, but she said, rather primly, with
her eyes on her needlework, which she had taken up again: 'I prefer to
forget that I was ever on the stage, Mr. Grant. It was for a very short
time, and I simply went to and from my home to the theatre, always
attended by a maid--or nearly always, and sometimes by my mother. When
I married I left the stage altogether, and have never been in a theatre
since. I don't know how you knew that I had ever belonged to it.'
"She gave me a quick little glance, and I divined somehow that it would
give her pleasure to believe that she was remembered. I won't tell you
what I said, but while I steered clear of an actual untruth, I did
manage to convey the impression that I had recognized her, and I hope I
may be forgiven for it. She said hurriedly: 'Well, we won't talk about
it any more, for I have nearly forgotten it all, and wish to forget it
altogether. And please don't tell Lady Brent that you know who I was.
We don't want Harry to know it at all--ever. She's quite right there.
Here she comes. You do like Harry, don't you, Mr. Grant? He's such a
dear boy. and all the people about here love him.'
"'What, talking about Harry?' said Lady Brent, as she joined us. 'We
all talk a great deal about Harry, Mr. Grant. I don't think there is a
boy in the world on whom greater hopes are set. We have made him happy
between us so far, but I am glad you are coming here with your young
people, to bring a little more life into this quiet place. Young people
want young life about them. It is the only thing that has been lacking
for him. And it is all too short a time before he will have to go out
into the world.'
"This all gave me a great deal to think about. I hope I have given you
such an account of everything that passed, and the important parts of
what was said to make you see it as I do. Consider this kind good lady,
gifted more than most, rich, titled, intellectual, calculated to shine
in society, yet content to live a quiet life out of the world for the
sake of the bright boy upon whom so many hopes depend. She has gone
through much trouble, with her only son and her husband reft from her
within a few weeks of one another. She cannot have welcomed the wife
whom her son had chosen, but she lives in constant companionship with
her, and treats her with every consideration. My heart warms towards
her. We are indeed fortunate in having such a chatelaine as Lady Brent
in the place in which we are to spend our lives and do our work. Of her
kindness and thoughtfulness towards myself I have not time to write, as
it is getting very late, and I must to bed. But when you come here you
will find her everything that you can wish, and I shall be surprised if
you do not make a real friend of her, a friend who will last, and on
whom you can in all things depend."
When Mrs. Grant had at last finished this voluminous letter, she
summoned Miss Minster to her, and read her many passages from it. Miss
Minster was the lady who looked after the education of Jane and Pobbles,
and had somewhat of a hard task in doing so, though she fulfilled it
without showing outward signs of stress. She was of about the same age
as Mrs. Grant--that is in the early thirties, and they had been friends
together at school. They were friends now, and Mrs. Grant trusted Miss
Minster's judgment in some things more even than she trusted her
husband's.
"Somehow, I don't see Lady Brent," said Mrs. Grant, when she had read
out all that had been written about her. "She seems to have made a
great impression upon David, but it looks to me as if it was the
impression she wanted to make."
"If any other man but David had written all that," said Miss Minster, "I
should have said that there was something behind it all. I should have
said that Lady Brent had some dark reason for keeping herself and the
rest of them shut up there, and that this Mr. Wilbraham, who doesn't
seem to behave like a tutor at all, was in the conspiracy. As it is, I
think his pen has run away with him, and they are all very ordinary
people, and there's nothing behind it at all."
"Well, my idea is just the opposite," said Mrs. Grant. "If David had
sniffed a story he would have put it in. He doesn't think there is
anything behind it. I do. Perhaps Mrs. Brent wasn't married, and this
young Sir Harry isn't the rightful heir. That would be a good reason
for Lady Brent to lie low. Perhaps Mr. Wilbraham knows about it, which
would be the reason for his not behaving like an ordinary tutor; though,
as for that, I don't think there's much in it, and he behaves like an
ordinary tutor according to David's account just as much as you behave
like an ordinary governess."
"A good point as far as it goes," said Miss Minster, "and a joyous life
it would be for you if I did behave like an ordinary governess. But
you're worse than David in making up twopence coloured stories. I don't
think we need worry ourselves about the Brents till we get down there.
Then we shall be able to judge for ourselves. No man ever knows what a
woman is really like the first time he sees her. Whatever Lady Brent
and Mrs. Brent are like, you may depend upon it that we shan't find them
in the least as David has described them. Now read what he says about
the Vicarage again, and see if we can make anything of that, beyond that
it is embowered in massy trees."
*CHAPTER III*
*THE CHILD*
When young Sir Harry had made that laughing appeal to the figure framed
in the square of orange light above him, and turned away into the
shadows, he had already forgotten that there had been a witness to his
escapade.
It was no escapade to him, but a serious quest, about which played all
the warm palpitations and eager emotions of high romance. To-night, if
ever, with the earth moving towards the soft riot of spring, with the
air still and brooding as if summer were already here, though sharp and
clean, scoured by the wind and washed to gentleness again by the showers
of April, with the moonlight so strong that in the shadows of the trees
there was no darkness, but diffused and quivering light hardly less
bright than the light of day, and to the eyes of the spirit infinitely
more discerning--surely to-night he might hope to see the fairies
dancing in their rings, and the little men stealing in and out among the
tree-branches!
He longed passionately to see the fairies. The beauty of the earth
meant so much to him. All through his childhood his love for it had
grown and grown till it had become almost a pain to him. For though it
meant so much he did not know what it meant. It had always seemed to be
leading him up to something, some great discovery, or some great joy--at
least some great emotion--which would give it just that meaning that
would tune his soul to it and entrench him safely behind some knowledge,
hidden from mortal eyes, where he could survey life as it was, perfect
and blissful, and withal secret. The fairies, if he could only look upon
them once, would give him the secret. Surely they would not withhold
themselves from him on such a night as this.
He pictured himself lying on the warm beech-mast in the shadows of some
great tree that stood sentinel over a stretch of moonlit lawn, watching
the delicate gossamer figures at their revels, their iridescent wings
softly gleaming, their petalled skirts flying, their tiny limbs
twinkling; and perhaps he would hear the high tenuous chime of their
laughter as they gave themselves up to their delicious merriment. He
would lie very still, hardly breathing. The mortal grossness which he
felt to be in him should not cast its shadow over their bright
evanescent spirit. He would keep, oh, so still, and just watch, and
grow happier and happier, and at last--know. The grossness would be
purged from him. When the moon drooped and the fairy dancers melted
away, he would have seen behind the veil. After that he would never
suffer again from the perplexing thought that there was some great thing
hidden from him, that just when beauty gripped his soul and seemed to
have something to tell him, and he stood ready to receive the message,
there was only silence and a sense of loss, which made him sad. Nature
would speak to him, as she had always seemed to be speaking to him, but
now he would understand, and answer, and life would be more beautiful
than it had ever been before.
He had always hugged secrets to himself ever since he could remember,
secrets that it would have seemed to him the deepest shame that any one
should surprise. Once on a summer's evening, when he had been lying in
his little cot by his mother's bed, whiling away the long daylight hour
by telling himself a most absorbing story, which at that time he was
going through from night to night, he had become so worked up by it that
he carried on the dialogue in a clear audible voice. A warning knock
came upon the bedroom door, and that particular story was cut short
never to be resumed. It was the time when his mother and grandmother
were dining, and his nurse and all the other servants were down below.
He had not thought that it was possible that he could have been
overheard. He had been acting a garden story. The characters were the
Garden, the flowers and himself. The Garden was a very kind and
gracious lady who led him, a little boy called Arnold, with black
straight hair--he preferred that sort to his own fair curls--to one
flower after another, and told him whether they had been good or
naughty. The flowers were mostly children, but a few, such as geraniums
and fuchsias, were grown up. The geraniums never took any notice of
him, and he did not like them on that account, but looked the other way
when they were rebuked. This fortunately happened but seldom, as they
usually behaved with propriety, though stiff and obstinate in character.
The roses he often pleaded for, because they were so beautiful. Vanity
was their besetting sin, and the Garden often had to tell them--in
language much the same as that used by the Vicar in church--that they
were no more in her sight than the humblest and poorest flowers. But he
could not bear to see their beautiful petals scattered, which happened
as a punishment if they had flaunted themselves beyond hope of
forgiveness. It was coming to be his idea, as the story progressed,
that some day he would make a strong appeal to the Garden to abolish
this punishment altogether. Then no flowers would ever die, but only go
to sleep in the winter, and he would be the great hero of the flowers,
with hair blacker and straighter than ever, and whenever he went among
them they would bow and curtsey to him, but nobody would see them doing
it except himself.