It appeared paradoxical that, whereas Rose had resented Squires largely
on Cecil’s account, she found the familiar life in Ovington Street,
agreeable to herself, resented by her little boy.
After the novelty of the first two days, he fretted and was
discontented. Rose took him for walks, but when it rained he was
obliged to remain in the sitting-room, with no amusement beyond a small
musical box that played “Rousseau’s Dream” over and over again, and
some old bound numbers of _The Quiver_.
He missed the garden at Squires, the animals, the rides and drives
to which he had become accustomed. As his mother ruefully perceived,
he even missed his governess, little Miss Wade. He was not exactly
naughty, but lifeless and fretful, and Rose began to see, at first
dimly and unwillingly, that her fanciful plan of resuming existence
over the pawnbroker’s shop was not destined to mature.
The routine of that life was little changed from the days when she
remembered it first.
Breakfast was at eight, and by nine o’clock, Millar had arrived and
Felix Menebees had taken the steel door of the shop off its hinges,
pushed up the steel blinds, and taken away their grooved supports to
the yard at the back of the house. Every day Felix cleaned the windows,
threw sawdust on the floor, and swept it up again. The endless task of
cleaning and polishing the plate and silver in stock was also his, and
Rose gave him the assistance that she had sometimes, in the past, given
to Artie Millar. Dinner was at mid-day, and the afternoon work was
almost a repetition of the morning’s. At seven the pledge-office shut,
and at eight the shop.
It seemed to Rose that even Uncle Alfred’s clients were identical with
those she had known years ago. The same shabby women seemed to come
in, with the same small pieces of jewellery, faithfully put into pawn
every Thursday morning and redeemed every Saturday afternoon. The same
depressed and earnest-looking Jews brought in praying-shawls, brass
candlesticks, and small brass mortars and pestles, the latter to be
redeemed only in time for the Passover. Even the self-same arguments,
that had once taken place between Uncle Alfred and various of his
clientèle, now took place between them and Artie Millar.
“How much?”
“Thirty bob.”
“Just a moment.”
The moment was the one, or frequently the four or five, during which
Millar would examine the gold ring brought by the customer, and find
it, in the majority of cases, just below the market weight required for
the sum asked.
“Is twenty-five shillings any good to you?”
“No. I want thirty shillings badly. The fact is, the lady friend I’m
lodging with is laid up, and I’ve had to get in one or two little
things, and there’s been a trouble, like, with the landlord....”
The assistant always ruthlessly cut short these interpolations that as
invariably awoke in Rose an eager thrill of interested curiosity.
“Sorry, can’t let you have more than twenty-five shillings; it’s not
heavy enough.”
“Could you make it twenty-seven and six?”
Impossible, to Rose, to disappoint that last humble attempt at a
compromise. But Artie Millar never seemed to find any difficulty in
disassociating sentiment from business.
“Can’t be done. Twenty-five is all I can manage.”
“Very well, let’s have it.”
The client always succumbed, and Artie Millar always concluded by
calling out impassively:
“Felix, make out this ticket.”
He seldom asked whether or no the penny for the ticket were
forthcoming. His experienced eye told him, apparently, whether it would
be produced, or, without words, must be deducted from the money handed
over the counter in exchange for the trinket.
Rose felt a little surprised sometimes, recalling her early affair with
Millar. Her view of him was now singularly devoid of glamour, and she
wondered at the complete absence of the magnetic attraction that each
had once had for the other.
“It was youth, I suppose,” she told herself rather wistfully.
It had been youth, also, that had caused her to fall in love with
graceless Jim Aviolet, and give herself to him in marriage.
“As bad a day’s work as ever I did in my life,” Rose now summed up that
episode to herself with a sigh, adding always with remorseful loyalty,
“except for Ces.”
She had Cecil with her all day now, and at night he slept in a cot
drawn across the foot of her bed. She felt him to be hers again, as she
had never felt him so at Squires, and rejoiced fiercely.
Nevertheless it dawned upon her slowly, but certainly, that Cecil was
neither as well nor as happy as he had been at Squires.
Healthy he had always been, but he was not a robust child, and
in rather less than a week the difference in diet, the cramped
accommodation, and, perhaps, most of all, the absence of country air
and exercise, had taken some of the colour from his face and drawn dark
lines beneath his eyes.
“Grandmama would say I was selfish, fast enough, if she saw him now,
and I’m not sure she’d be so far out as she generally is, either,” Rose
reflected desperately.
She consulted Uncle Alfred.
“About how I’m to live, Uncle,” she began abruptly. “What would you say
would be a good way for me making money?”
“I thought your husband’s family were providing for you?”
“I mean, supposing I didn’t want them to go on providing for me.”
“Why should I suppose you wishful of casting aside that which the Lord
has raised up for the widow and the orphan? Be thankful for their
assistance, and do nothing to forfeit it, is my advice to you.”
The Scriptural turns of phrase employed by Mr. Smith rarely interfered
with the eminent practicalness of his point of view.
“You don’t _know_ what the life is like, at that place. I’d go mad if I
had to go on there year after year. They never do anything but go for
walks in the mud and talk about their beastly gardens and their horrid
animals.”
“Fashionable folk are very godless, I understand,” said Uncle Alfred.
“I wouldn’t so much mind their being godless--and they aren’t, all--my
mother-in-law is as ‘pi’ as can be--but they all seem to me to be half
alive. There’s a girl there that they all seem dotty about--I daresay
she’ll marry Ford one of these days. Well, I give you my word, Uncle,
she’s a perfect _fool_. She can mess about with dogs and things, and
shoot, and they all think she’s clever, just because of that. It shows
you what they’re like, doesn’t it?”
“You need not adapt yourself to their standards,” Uncle Alfred said,
uncompromising rather than tactful. “But I presume that when your boy
once goes to school you will make your home elsewhere.”
“I haven’t made up my mind about Cecil going to school.”
“It is your duty to ensure the advantages of a good education for him,
Rose. Did I understand that there is a governess engaged especially for
him?”
“Yes. The best of everything is their motto, I will say that for them.”
“H’m. Are they interested in antiques--china and the like?”
“They’ve got more antiques in the house, and have had for about a
thousand years, than goes through the shop in a twelvemonth,” returned
Rose with candour.
“You can take some catalogues with you when you go back,” said her
uncle, unmoved.
“All right. If I do go back.”
“If?”
“Uncle, I do want to bring up Cecil my own way, and I’ve been wondering
if him and me need go back to Squires at all.”
“My dear niece, listen to me. You are flying in the face of Providence
when you suggest quarrelling with those who are prepared to give
your child all the advantages to which he is entitled, but which you
yourself are not in a position to bestow upon him. Wealth is dross
compared to the riches of the Spirit, and the highest in the land are
but as the beasts of the field that perish, if they know not Christ,”
said Uncle Alfred with great rapidity, “but you should look upon all
these things as being means to an end. You can do a great deal for
others with riches at your command.”
His eyes glistened covetously, and Rose remembered her mother’s
tolerant verdict that Uncle Alfred was always on the near side, unless
it was for a Foreign Mission.
“Haven’t they offered to send Cecil to a good school?”
“Not so much offered, as taken it for granted that I’d want him to go.”
“It is most handsome--most handsome. I consider you a very fortunate
woman, Rose. And if, when the boy has gone to school, you wish to
return to your old quarters here, I am perfectly prepared to come to an
arrangement with you.”
“I’m sure it’s very kind of you, Uncle Alfred, but the fact is, I’m not
keen on Ces going to any of their precious schools. What I’m wondering
is if him and me couldn’t get off somewhere on our own, and if the
Aviolets get their monkey up and cut off my allowance, what I can do to
earn enough money for us both.”
“Nothing,” said Uncle Alfred crisply. “Nothing. Untrained young women
with no especial aptitude can only earn their living in one profession,
and that is not one which I could pollute your ears by mentioning.”
“Goodness, Uncle A., you do pass the most far-fetched remarks,” his
niece exclaimed, stifling a laugh.
“Let me hear no more nonsense as to your husband’s relations. God is
not mocked, and it would be neither more nor less than deliberate
mockery to reject the provision that He has obviously made for you and
your child. You must bow to His decrees, and let me tell you that the
task, in your case, should be a particularly easy one.”
There was a tone of finality about Uncle Alfred’s delivery of his
exordium that Rose knew of old.
His verdict, once given, would never be recalled.
“However, thank goodness, I know Uncle A.,” his niece reflected. “His
bark’s worse than his bite, and he’d keep us here, worst come to the
worst, if I could scrape up money for our board. Only what can I do
with Cecil?”
When she had been away for nearly a fortnight, a letter came from
Squires. The sight of the thick blue-grey notepaper, with the stamped
address on the corner, brought the atmosphere of the place for an
instant into the crowded, untidy bedroom, full of cheap and ugly
furniture, where Rose stood and read it.
My dear Rose,
I had hoped to hear from you before this. Could you let me know what
day you and Cecil are returning, as I must write to Miss Wade?
I hope the boy is well, and not giving you too much trouble, with
no one to relieve you of him. We quite miss him here, and I do not
like to think of him in London fogs, which I see by the papers are
beginning now. Quite fine weather here since you left, though not much
sun, and the poor garden is beginning to look dull.
Yours affectionately,
Catherine Aviolet.
P. S. Ford has been down to Hurst, the preparatory school we thought
of for Cecil, and was very favourably impressed. He is anxious to talk
it all over with you.
Rose was roused to one of her sudden, vehement furies.
“That settles it! I _won’t_ go back there, nor let Cecil either.”
She dashed into the shop, where Felix Menebees had just put up the
shutters.
“Is Mr. Millar there?”
“Here, Mrs. Aviolet.”
“I say, I want to ask you something. Is it true that a person--a
child’s guardian--has equal rights with the child’s mother?”
“In what respect, Mrs. Aviolet?”
“Any respect,” said Rose impatiently. “If he’s appointed by the child’s
father’s will, I mean.”
“Felix, bring me Whittaker’s Almanac,” commanded Millar.
“Oh, will it be there? I never thought of that. It might tell me a lot
of things. May I have it?”
“Certainly. If I can be of any assistance----?”
“No, no, I know you’re busy.”
Rose snatched the volume from the hands of Felix Menebees and took it
away.
That night she asked Cecil, who was awake and restless when she came to
bed:
“Wouldn’t you like to come right away with Mummie somewhere?”
“Away from here?” Cecil asked eagerly. “I’d like to, Mummie. It’s dull
here, isn’t it?”
“Poor darling! But you did enjoy the Zoo, and going on the tops of the
’buses, you know.”
“Those were treats,” Cecil observed shrewdly. “Treats are always fun,
but when it isn’t a treat day, I don’t like London, Mummie. I’d rather
be at home again.”
She realized that by “home” he meant Squires, and that Squires, though
she felt it hostile, herself, had been home to his forbears for many
generations. She stifled within herself a lurking remorsefulness.
“Wouldn’t it be fun if you and I went in a ship together, to a very
nice country place--real country--and stayed there for a bit?”
“Ceylon?” inquired Cecil in a puzzled voice.
“No, no, not as far as that. Perhaps France, or somewhere like that.”
“But aren’t we going back to Squires?”
“I don’t know, lovey.”
“But I want to ride again, and to play cricket. And I want to go to
school, where that little boy is who bowls so well.”
Rose realized with dismay the odd tenacity of a child’s memory.
Cecil had begun to cry.
“I don’t like London any more.”
“I’m going to take you away from London, my precious ducky, truly I am.”
“Back to Squires?” sobbed Cecil.
“I don’t know. Don’t cry, lovey. Don’t you feel well?”
She kissed and petted him with vehement affection and secret anxiety at
his unwonted fretfulness.
Long after he had fallen asleep, Rose lay wide awake, revolving in her
own mind _Family Herald_ schemes for taking Cecil abroad and living
there with him under her maiden name, while she earned money for them
both by some unspecified means that refused persistently to materialize
into a concrete probability.
She could not make up her mind to answer Lady Aviolet’s letter next
day, and instead of doing so, took Cecil to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Works.
The little boy was wildly excited, and Rose, herself childishly
delighted at his pleasure, let him remain there until it was almost
closing time.
“We shall be late for supper, Ces. I hope we get a ’bus quickly.”
Mrs. Smith’s training had not led Rose to look lightly upon the taking
of cabs.
They came out into Baker Street to find that a thick London fog had
enveloped everything.
“Lord! Catch hold of my hand, Ces,” said his mother, dismayed. “This is
the pea-soup variety and no mistake. You could cut it with a knife.”
“Why are there no lights? Oh, doesn’t it smell funny! What’s that
bell?” chattered Cecil.
Rose paid scant attention to his excitement, beyond gripping him more
firmly by the hand.
“I _know_ there’s a policeman at the crossing,” she muttered.
It took them ten minutes to reach the policeman, and a very great
deal longer to obey his injunctions and return to Ovington Street by
Underground Railway.
Cecil was coughing before they arrived, and that night, for the first
time, had a mild attack of croup.
Rose was terrified.
She had never seen croup before, had not the least idea of what to do,
and frantically tore downstairs in her dressing-gown in search of Uncle
Alfred’s old-fashioned volume of “The Doctor in the Home.”
It was Felix Menebees who turned up the page for her, as soon as he
understood why Mrs. Aviolet was in the shop in the middle of the night.
“I’ll find it, and I’ll get what’s wanted. You go back to him,” said
the boy, vigorously licking his thumb in order to turn the pages faster.
He heated water for her, and carried it upstairs, and together they
plunged little, gasping Cecil into the bath, and watched his terrified
face slowly lose its blueish tinge and his laboured breathing gradually
become natural.
“He’s better now, Mrs. Aviolet,” said Felix consolingly. “I’ll run out
and get the doctor for you, though, if you like.”
“You _are_ a brick. I’ll never forget it, never! Look, he’ll be asleep
directly. I don’t think we need have the doctor now, though I’ll have
to send for him to-morrow. Go back and get some sleep, Felix. You’ve
been so kind and such a help.”
“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Aviolet,” said Felix politely.
He went back to his mattress beside the safe.
Rose sat by the side of the cot where Cecil, still rolled in his
dressing-gown under the sheet and blankets, lay asleep against his
pillow.
Her yellow hair, thick and straight, kept on falling across her
forehead, and she pushed it back, absently, again and again.
Her eyes were fixed upon the child, her thoughts, in her inexperience,
full of the terror of losing him.
“He wasn’t ever ill at Squires ... and if he had been, there’d have
been Dr. Lucian, and no difficulty about hot water, either, whatever
time of night.... Felix _was_ good! The idea of a lad like him getting
the mustard for the bath, and helping me, and everything. But if he
hadn’t been there, I’d have been properly done--I bet Uncle A. wouldn’t
be any more use than a poke in the eye with a dirty stick, and I
suppose the girl sleeps like the dead, the same as all servants. That
old Dawson would have come, though, at Squires ... and they’d have had
ipecacuanha in the house, for certain, and anything one wanted. A fire
in his room, most likely, on a night like this. And Cecil was happier
there than he is here!”
Tears filled her eyes.
“If I go back, they’ll send him to one of their schools, and he isn’t
fit for it--he isn’t fit for it.”
That impassioned conviction was still there, as vehemently as on the
night when she had confronted the Aviolets in the drawing-room after
dinner, and had made her scene. But Cecil’s illness, and his wistful
and unconscious resignation to the lack of those material comforts of
which Squires was so prodigal, caused Rose to suffer a new misery of
uncertainty.
In the morning, she asked Felix to go for the doctor.
“I’ll stop on my way to fetch the milk, Mrs. Aviolet. How is he?”
“All right, thank goodness. Only just a little bit hoarse, and coughing
the tiniest bit. It was all that rotten fog; he isn’t a bit delicate
really, and he’s never had croup in his life before.”
She repeated this to the doctor when he came, a common, overworked
little man, who barely listened to her.
“All right, all right. He may get another attack about the same time
to-night--or he may not. If he does, make him sick--that’ll cut it
short. Croup isn’t dangerous, so you needn’t be frightened. Keep him
indoors while this weather lasts.”
“In bed?”
“What for? He’s all right, you know. These attacks are nasty while
they last, but there’s nothing to make a fuss about. Good-morning,
Mrs.--er--H’m.”
The doctor hurried away, leaving Rose to assimilate the difference
between Mrs. Jim Aviolet sending for the doctor to come to Squires,
and Mrs.--er--H’m summoning medical assistance to the bedroom over the
pawnbroker’s shop in Ovington Street.
“I’ve told the girl that she may light the gas-fire in the
sitting-room,” Uncle Alfred announced to her later, “so the little chap
can go down there; and I’ve put out Foxe’s ‘Book of Martyrs’ to amuse
him.”
“Thank you very much, Uncle,” said Rose, sincerely grateful.
It was Wednesday, when the shop closed early, and Felix Menebees came
upstairs after dinner and said that he would play Halma with Cecil.
He blushed all over his pale, spectacled face when Rose thanked him
ardently.
“It’s nothing, Mrs. Aviolet. Pleased to do it, I’m sure,” he murmured.
“Well, I’ll go out for a bit. I want some things from the chemist. That
doctor seemed to think the croup might come on again to-night, and I’m
not going to be taken unawares again, if I know it.”
She went out into the damp, foggy afternoon, very raw and cold.
Her mind misgave her more and more as she thought of writing to Lady
Aviolet, announcing that she and Cecil would not return to Squires. How
could she cope with the economic problem that might ensue?
The streets seemed to be crowded with shoppers, hurrying, as she
herself was hurrying, many of the women holding muffs against their
cold faces, as though to protect themselves from the foulness of the
atmosphere.
“Mrs. Aviolet!”
Rose turned her head sharply and confronted Lord Charlesbury.
“Oh, I _am_ surprised to see you!” she cried, loudly and naïvely. “I
didn’t know you were in London.”
“Then I had the advantage of you, for I saw your brother-in-law
yesterday, and he told me you were here. Which way are you going?”
“Only as far as the chemist at the corner there, and then straight back
home.”
“It’s beastly weather, isn’t it?” he agreed. “May I come with you?”
“Oh, do,” said Rose.
She was rather surprised at the extent of her own pleasure in the
meeting. But he, also, had looked pleased.
Besides, it was nice to walk beside a man again, and have the
swing-door of the chemist’s shop pushed open for one, and one’s parcel
taken charge of as a matter of course.
“Won’t you let me take you somewhere for some tea? It’s such a dismal
afternoon, do take pity on me and cheer me up.”
“Aren’t you busy?”
“My business is done, and I have an hour or more before I need think of
catching my train. If you’ve no other engagement yourself----”
“Oh, no. I want to get back to Cecil, but he’ll be all right for a
little while. I’d like to come.”
“I’m so glad.” His voice really did sound glad. “Now, where would you
like to go?”
“There’s an A.B.C. shop not far from here,” Rose suggested.
“That would be very nice. Or suppose we go to that place in Bond
Street--Verreys? Do you know it?”
“No.”
“Then do let me take you there. It’s really quite a nice place.”
He raised his stick for an instant, and a hansom drew up beside the
kerb. Rose involuntarily recollected the impassioned gesticulations and
shrill whistling with which cabs, when rendered inevitable on account
of luggage, were summoned to the door by Uncle Alfred.
“Have you heard from Squires lately?”
“I had a letter from my mother-in-law a few days ago, asking when me
and Ces were going back there. And I haven’t answered it yet, either.”
A sigh lifted her breast as she remembered the necessity for answering
that letter.
Lord Charlesbury’s kind, grave eyes looked at her with their interested
gaze. She suddenly felt that it would be a relief to tell him of her
perplexity.
When they were seated at the small table in the warm, lighted
restaurant, she did so.
“Look here, I want to tell you something. I’ve practically made up my
mind--at least I had till yesterday--not to go back to Squires at all.”
Charlesbury put up his eyeglass with a quick gesture that seemed to
indicate that he was startled, but made no reply.
“You’ve seen me there, me and Ces--you know very well we don’t fit in
there,” she said defiantly.
“Forgive me if I say that I think that could be put right easily
enough, if you were willing to try,” he said gently. “And I’m sure your
boy is happy there.”
Rose winced. “You’ve hit the nail on the head,” she curtly admitted.
“That’s just what’s threatening to upset my apple-cart. Ces was happy
there, in spite of that silly ass of a Wade, and he was well and strong
there. He’s been ill since I’ve had him up here. Not really ill, you
know, but he had croup last night and he doesn’t look like the same
kid.”
“Poor little chap! I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s getting better.”
“The croup is better--at least, unless he gets it again to-night. But I
don’t think London suits him like the country.”
“Probably not. The country is the place for kiddies, isn’t it, and
London is no great catch for any one at this time of year.”
Their tea was brought to them, and Rose poured it out, carefully
putting milk into the bottom of each cup first.
“Sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
She dropped two lumps into her own cup and stirred them round and round
with her teaspoon, absently, while she went on talking.
“I did think of perhaps taking Ces abroad with me somewhere. One can
live awfully cheaply at some of those French places, I believe.”
Lord Charlesbury reflectively answered, “I see,” but it was obvious
enough that he was puzzled. At last he said:
“D’you know, I can’t help feeling that there’s something at the back
of your mind that I haven’t quite grasped. I’m a stupid fellow, Mrs.
Aviolet, and you must help me. What’s the idea of leaving England?”
“I didn’t mean to give any one my address. I don’t want Ford to have
anything to do with Cecil’s bringing up.”
“But isn’t he his guardian?”
“Yes,” said Rose viciously. “Thanks to Jim’s absurd will, he is. But
isn’t there something called the Law of Extradition--I found it in
Whittaker’s Almanac--that would prevent him doing anything in a foreign
country? I didn’t understand it all, but it gave me the idea of going
abroad.”
“I see,” said Charlesbury again, and passed his hand across his mouth.
“No, I don’t think the Laws of Extradition would really help you very
much. For one thing, the legal guardian of a minor has a certain right
to determine the minor’s place of residence, and I don’t think Ford
Aviolet would care about having your little boy brought up in France.
In fact, if you think it over I’m almost sure you won’t really care
about the idea yourself, you know. Cecil is English, after all. Don’t
you really think it would be better for him to grow up in his own
country?”
“Of course I do!” she cried. “But I’ve told you before--and I’ve told
them, too--that Cecil isn’t fit for the ordinary English public-school
education.”
“I remember.”
Charlesbury remained silent, his face reflective.
Rose stared at him hopefully, half expecting that he would present some
hitherto undreamed-of solution to her problem.
“Is there any reason to decide that question of the public school at
all, at present? You told me at Squires that it wasn’t the general
principles of the public-school system that you disliked, but its
application in Cecil’s particular case. Isn’t that so?”
She nodded vehemently.
“Why not wait and see how the boy gets on? Why, it’s at least four
years and a half before he could enter any public school. Let Ford
put his name down for half a dozen places if he likes, and reserve to
yourself the right of re-opening the whole question by the time the boy
is old enough for it to be thought of seriously. He may have altered in
all sorts of respects by that time.”
“And meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile,” said Charlesbury, smiling at her, “let him go back to
Squires and get thoroughly strong and healthy. A sound mind in a sound
body, you know.... I know you’ll put up with a possibly uncongenial
atmosphere for yourself, if it’s for his sake.”
“But that Wade woman won’t stay on for ever. She thinks she’s getting
him ready for school, as it is.”
“I hope she is.”
Rose made a quick, protesting movement.
“Don’t be vexed with me,” he said, smiling. “I know you won’t think me
impertinent, if I say that I do so want you to go and have a look at
Hurst for yourself, one day. Where my boy Hugh is, you know. I think
you’d like the headmaster’s wife, Mrs. Lambert. A visit won’t commit
you to anything at all, and I think you’d be struck by the amount of
individual attention that each boy gets. They’re only little fellows,
there, after all, and not more than fifty of them, all told. Mr.
Lambert makes a point of their manners and morals, as well as their
health. His own boy is in the school, too.”
“I might perhaps go and see the place,” said Rose slowly. “But don’t
think for a minute that I’m likely to change about my Cecil. I’m not.
As long as he’s what he is, I’m certain he isn’t fit for school.”
“He’s such a little fellow, and they alter so quickly. The faults that
trouble you so much now will probably disappear as he grows older and
wiser. And do, please, realize that they do really want to do the
best thing for him at Squires. Even if they are rather slow, and very
conservative.”
“Perhaps the old people do. It isn’t their fault if they’re stupid. But
Ford--oh, he’s different!”
Charlesbury smiled at her.
“I don’t think you’ll find Ford nearly so difficult when you get back
to Squires.”
She noticed that he was taking her return for granted, but it did not
vex her.
“The fact is, I heard a piece of news from him yesterday. They’re
probably waiting to tell you till they see you--but I’m going to
forestall them, as I’m an old friend, and they must forgive me. Ford
Aviolet is going to be married.”
X
Rose opened her brown eyes very wide. “The great Ford! I can guess who
it is, can’t I?”
“I expect so,” said Charlesbury, smiling.
“The Grierson-Amberly girl? I thought so. Aren’t the Aviolets delighted
about it?”
“I think they are. She’s a distant cousin, you know, and it’s very
suitable in every way. I know Lady Aviolet has been hoping for
something of the kind; I believe they’ve been rather afraid that Ford
would never marry.”
“I suppose they thought no one would ever be good enough for him. I’m
certain he thought so himself.”
Lord Charlesbury shook his head. “I wish I knew why you’re so hard on
my friend Ford. I grant you that he’s been spoilt, and he has some
irritating mannerisms, but he’s all right if you take him the right
way. And he has brains, too, which ought to appeal to you.”
Rose smiled frankly at the implied compliment to herself.
“I’m not sure, though, that that isn’t the most sickening thing of all,
about Ford. He has got brains. Time and again he could have explained
what I really meant about Cecil, for instance, to the old people--and
he just didn’t. He could have made them understand things--he’s
educated, and I know very well I’m not,” said Rose calmly, “but he
never helped me out--not once. The night after you left Squires, them
and me had a bit of a flare-up. At least, I was frantic. They were
as calm as could be, just thinking what a pity it was I should be so
common. I was trying to tell them why I wouldn’t let Ces go to school,
but they hadn’t the faintest idea of what I was driving at. They
couldn’t understand that a thing which had always been a success in a
general way might fail in a particular case. When I tried to explain,
they just thought it was because I didn’t know anything about public
schools, or because I spoilt Ces, and thought him delicate. Talking to
them was like trying to describe a colour to people who’ve been born
blind. But not Ford. _He_ understood. He could have made the others see
what I meant, even if they hadn’t agreed with me. But he didn’t. Ford
hates me.”
“Why should he hate you?”
“I think,” said Rose Aviolet slowly, “that it’s because I’m alive,
and Ford isn’t. He can’t get away from traditions. I think he tried
to, especially when he went out to South Africa to fight, but he just
couldn’t.”
Charlesbury looked keenly at her. “Do you know that you’re something of
a psychologist, Mrs. Aviolet?”
“I don’t think I know what a psychologist is, exactly. But that’s what
I think about Ford. He just doesn’t fit in. He is a tiny bit different,
if you come to think of it--he’s clever, and he likes books, and china,
and he reads. And doesn’t he say he’s a Socialist? He breaks away from
the Aviolet tradition in those sort of ways, doesn’t he? But what I
feel is, that he’s holding on to it with the other hand all the time
too. He wants to be alive, but he wants to belong to Squires as well.”
“And the two don’t square. I see,” said Charlesbury reflectively.
“Some people could make them square. _You_ could,” she returned
crudely. “But it wants somebody stronger than Ford to do it, and I
think he knows it. He’s sort of afraid, isn’t he?”
“That’s, as you say, tradition--holding him back all the time. Perhaps
you’re right, and he hasn’t the courage of his emotions.”
“That’s just what I meant,” Rose assented admiringly, “only I couldn’t
have described it like that. He hasn’t got the courage of his emotions.
And I think, myself, that he’s jealous, downright jealous, because he
knows that I have.”
“The things that matter, to you, do matter so very much?”
She nodded. “Ford knows that he doesn’t care about anything in the
world one quarter as much as I care about Cecil’s little finger. And I
think he wants to care--he wants to come alive.”
“Won’t Diana Grierson-Amberly help him to come alive, now?”
Rose looked at him, as though to see if he were really in earnest, and
then uttered a derisive laugh.
“He’ll go down among the dead men for ever and ever now,” she asserted
sweepingly. “But they’ll have Aviolet babies, and one of them will cut
out my Cecil, thank goodness, and carry on the Squires traditions.”
“You don’t want Squires for your boy?”
“Part of me does, perhaps,” she confessed. “When I see how safe and
solid it all is, you know, and when I think of what it means to be
poor, and always hard up, and more or less in debt. But I know all the
time, really, that Ces would never belong. Not altogether. After all,
he’s half Smith. And if you don’t belong, well, it’s like Ford. You’re
shamming and struggling and captive, all at the same time. And that’s
awful.”
“You are very wise,” said Charlesbury slowly.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Indeed, I’m not. But I do want you, very much, to be wiser still.
Won’t you, for Cecil’s sake, compromise, and come back to Squires for a
little while?”
“And have them badger me about school again?”
“I don’t think they will. Besides, you know,” he smiled at her,
“I’m still secretly hoping that Hurst and Mrs. Lambert will make a
difference to your views. You see, supposing Cecil went there for a
term or two, it would be simply experiment. It need not commit you
to sending him to a public school later on. It may, even, prove to
the Aviolets that your idea is correct, and Cecil is unsuited to
school-life altogether. Hurst would be the test.”
“It sounds to me like the thin end of the wedge,” said Rose bluntly.
“But, at least, you do see my point of view, and don’t talk as if I
were a fool that just couldn’t face parting with her darling.”
“I know very well that you only want what will be best for the boy in
the long run,” said Charlesbury gravely.
“That’s all. And it isn’t only the long run. It’s now, too. He isn’t
well and happy like he was there. I never realized the difference that
fresh air, and plenty of room, and the best of everything can make to
a kid.”
“It does make a difference,” Charlesbury said levelly. “And moral
fitness depends a great deal on physical fitness, doesn’t it, so that
one wants to keep them up to the mark, from every point of view.”
Rose gazed at him, her honest, startled eyes full of a new apprehension.
“You mean that it mayn’t even be the best thing for his--his character,
to take him away from Squires? Oh, I never thought of that.”
Charlesbury let her assimilate it in silence, her strong, capable hand
twisting the wedding-ring on her big, straight-cut finger.
At last she lifted her head. “Perhaps you’re right. And, anyway, I
don’t know how I can stand him being ill, and not comfortable. Though
mind you,” she added with sudden warmth, “my Uncle Alfred that I’m
with, he’s as kind as ever he can be, and had a fire lit on purpose for
Ces--and he’s on the near side, is Uncle A., so it means something,
coming from him. But, of course, his house isn’t run like Squires is,
not by long chalks, and there’s no use pretending it is.”
“Very few houses are as comfortable as Squires. And I know Lady Aviolet
looks forward to having Cecil there again. She told me so.”
“They think I’m coming back all right?”
“Certainly they do. I don’t think it’s ever entered their minds that
you should do anything else.”
Rose laughed in a rather shame-faced manner. “Perhaps that’s as well.
No one likes eating humble pie, now, do they? I’d just as soon they
didn’t know I thought of not coming back at all--if I _do_ go back,
that is.”
“I think you mean ‘_When_ I do go back,’ don’t you?” said Charlesbury
with his friendly smile. “Why not let me send off a telegram for you,
saying you’ll be back by the three o’clock train to-morrow? I don’t
mind betting you’ll find sunshine in the country.”
“Wouldn’t that be good for Ces!” she murmured aloud wistfully. “Well,
I suppose I’ll do it. One thing is, they’ll be too busy about Ford to
think much about me.”
“Of course they will. A wedding is always an excitement.”
“I shouldn’t think my in-laws could ever get excited about anything,
any more than a couple of old cod-fish,” said Mrs. Aviolet
nonchalantly. “But it’ll be something to talk about, besides Cecil’s
going to school and that everlasting old garden. I must get back now to
Cecil,” she added abruptly.
Lord Charlesbury asked for his bill, and paid it, in spite of an
ungracefully worded attempt from Rose to make herself responsible for
her own share.
He took her to Ovington Street in a hansom, and they sent a telegram,
on the way, to Lady Aviolet, to announce Rose’s return.
“Good-bye,” said Rose, at the door of the pawnshop. “It’s early closing
to-day. I’m going in by the area. Thank you for the tea.”
“I’m so glad to have seen you. Thank you for giving me one of the
pleasantest afternoons that I’ve spent for a long while.”
“I haven’t made you late for your train, have I?” she cried in sudden
alarm.
“No, there’s plenty of time. I shall keep this fellow on and go
straight to the station. I hope the little chap will be all right
to-night, and I shall think of you both in the country to-morrow.
Good-bye.”
Rose ran upstairs, astonished at finding herself committed to an
immediate return to Squires, and yet surprisingly unperturbed at the
prospect.
She found Cecil entertaining Felix Menebees with stories of his life in
Ceylon, to which she did not allow herself to pay conscious attention.
The little boy was not coughing, but he looked pale and languid, and
her heart contracted strangely at his sudden flush of joy when she told
him that they would go back to the country next day.
“Oh, Mrs. Aviolet!” said Felix Menebees, and looked at her in dismay
through his spectacles.
“It’ll be the best thing to put him right, won’t it?” Rose said. “And
we’re really only supposed to be here on a visit, you know. But we
shall be back again one of these days, I expect.”
She had only the vaguest of projects in her mind, besides the desire
to cheer the disconsolate Felix, but Cecil, with one of the sudden,
uncanny intuitions of childhood, put the idea into words for her.
“Mummie’ll come here when I’ve been sent to school, Felix. And perhaps
I’ll spend some of my holidays here, and tell you all about my school.”
“You know nothing about it,” cried his mother abruptly. “Come on,
lovey, say good-night to Felix and thank him for being so kind to you.”
She hurried him upstairs to bed.
At supper, Uncle Alfred learned that his guests were proposing to leave
him on the morrow.
“You are very impetuous, Rose,” he remarked with displeasure. “Why
not have warned me of your intentions earlier? The girl, by my
instructions, has ordered butcher’s meat for to-morrow, entirely on
your child’s account.”
Rose entered whole-heartedly into this practical objection to her
scheme.
“If it hasn’t been delivered yet, couldn’t we stop it?”
“I will speak to the girl.”
“It isn’t that we haven’t been happy, as you very well know, Uncle
Alfred. But I daresay the country will get rid of Cecil’s cough before
it’s got a hold on him, so to speak, and they’re expecting us back at
Squires.”
“If you’ve told them you’re coming to-morrow, you must abide by it,”
Uncle Alfred declared gloomily. “It’s worse than useless to have extra
food ordered in twice over. Are they expecting you?”
“Yes, they are.”
Rose dared not admit to the telegram. The sight of a telegram was not
infrequent at Squires, but in Ovington Street, a telegram signified a
first cause of considerable magnitude. She knew that Uncle Alfred would
have considered that a post-card could sufficiently announce the date
and hour of her arrival, and in her heart, Rose agreed with him. The
telegram had been Lord Charlesbury’s doing, like so much else.
Cecil had no return of croup, and the next day they left the rooms over
the pawnshop.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Aviolet,” said Felix Menebees wistfully. “I hope the
country will do Cecil a great deal of good.”
“Good-bye, Felix. Thank you for what you did that night he was ill.
I’ll never forget it. I expect you’ll see us here one of these days
again.”
Rose heartily shook the pale youth’s hand.
Her farewell to Artie Millar, in whom she had long ceased to be
interested, was tepid by comparison. Uncle Alfred addressed his parting
speech to his guests from the top of the stairs, where he had received
them a fortnight earlier.
“Good-bye to you, Rose, good-bye to you, my little fellow. You are
extremely fortunate in having one of the stately homes of England, as
the poet calls them, thus thrown open to you. I feel sure,” said Uncle
Alfred, with a doubting eye fixed upon his niece, “I feel _certain_
that you appreciate your good fortune to the full. And I am equally
sure, my dear niece, if you will allow an old man to speak a word in
season, that you will remember from Whom all blessings flow. Take no
credit unto yourself for those things which are Cæsar’s. And remember
that I am prepared to enter into an arrangement with you, Rose, at any
time, should you wish to return here when your boy has gone to school.”
Rose quite understood that this was the nearest approach to a cordial
invitation that Uncle Alfred would permit himself, and enough of his
blood ran in her own veins for her to take the suggested “arrangement”
in the matter-of-course spirit in which he proposed it.
She said, “Thanks very much indeed, Uncle,” in an affectionate way,
kissed him resoundingly, and ran downstairs.
Cecil was in high spirits. “Shall I ride the pony again, Mummie,
and will Uncle Ford let me carry the rabbits for him when he’s been
shooting?”
“I daresay, darling.”
“Will Miss Wade be there?”
“Yes. Are you glad?”
“I’ll be able to tell her all about London,” said Cecil reflectively.
“I don’t think she knows much about London, Mummie.”
As the train took them further away from the city, the air lightened,
and they presently ran into clear autumn sunshine.
At the end of the journey, the carriage from Squires was awaiting them.
Their return, which Rose looked upon as a milestone, roused no
excitement at Squires.
“How are you, my dear?” said Lady Aviolet placidly, and gently bumped
Rose’s face with her own. She kissed her grandson with more cordiality,
remarked that he was looking pale, and told him that Miss Wade was
returning from her holiday the next day.
“And you’ll have to work hard at your lessons, Cecil, to make up for
your time away.”
“I went to Madam Tussawds in London,” Cecil announced.
“Mme. _Tussaud_,” said Lady Aviolet.
“Mummie says Tussawd.”
“Don’t answer back, Cecil, it’s a bad habit. Ring the bell for the hot
water, and we’ll have tea.”
The silver kettle and the hot scones, the cut bread-and-butter and the
various cakes, seemed oddly elaborate after Ovington Street.
“What a good tea!” said little Cecil.
Neither Ford nor Sir Thomas was present.
“We have a piece of news for you, Rose,” her mother-in-law presently
said, when Cecil had been sent away in Dawson’s charge to the nursery.
“I think I know already.”
“Indeed?”
“I met Lord Charlesbury yesterday, and he told me--about Ford, isn’t
it?”
“Did you meet Laurence Charlesbury?”
“Yes. I had tea with him.”
To her own disgust, Rose suddenly heard her voice becoming loud and
defiant.
“Oh, yes--how nice! Where did you meet?”
“In the Brompton Road, and we went to a place in Bond Street. He told
me that Ford is engaged to be married.”
“Yes, my dear, to Diana. Sir Thomas and I are very pleased about it.
Let me give you another cup of tea?”
“No, thanks. Do tell me how it all happened.”
Rose, however much she might dislike Ford, and however cheaply she
might hold Diana, was quite incapable of being anything but thrilled
and excited over every detail concerning an engagement.
“How it happened?” Lady Aviolet repeated with a certain blankness.
“When did he propose to her and where, and has he given her a ring
yet?” Rose earnestly inquired.
Lady Aviolet laughed gently. “How very nice of you to be so much
interested in them!”
Her voice held the intonation that generally accompanies the words,
“How very foolish of you ...” but she looked at Rose with her usual
bleakly kind obtuseness of gaze.
“I believe, since you want so much to hear details, that they settled
it in the train, last Saturday. Ford had been to see a man on business,
and on his way back he met Diana at the Junction. She was travelling
home--with her maid, of course--from some visit or other, and they got
into the same train.”
“Is she--are they--does she--are they very much in love?” Rose blurted
out, intensely curious.
“They’ve known one another all their lives, you know. Ford has always
been very devoted to her, and I’m sure she is to him. Diana is such a
thoroughly nice girl.”
“Has he been in love with her long?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, my dear. One always felt that if Ford did
ask any girl to marry him, it would probably be Diana. But two or three
men have very much wanted to marry her, and I’ve sometimes been afraid
that Ford might delay too long.”
“Have they _really_?”
Rose’s voice held all the astonishment that she invariably experienced
at each allusion to the attractions of Miss Grierson-Amberly.
“She could have made a most excellent marriage the year she came out.
But her mother, of course, would never have dreamt of persuading her in
any way, though I believe she was disappointed at the time. But they’re
delighted about this, now, and so all is very well.”
“When are they going to be married?”
“Well, that’s hardly settled yet. Diana is coming to stay here for a
little while, we hope, next month, and no doubt they’ll arrange it
then. I hope it may be some time in the spring or early summer.”
“I do love weddings,” said Rose emphatically.
“Do you, my dear?” Lady Aviolet’s voice, though amiable, displayed not
the least interest in Rose’s gushing enthusiasms.
“There will be a good deal of business to be settled before their
wedding takes place, quite apart from Diana’s preparations, and her
trousseau and things. Of course, in a sense, this alters your little
Cecil’s prospects, but I think you can trust Ford to see that his
interests are considered in every possible way.”
“I only hope to goodness,” said Rose fervently, “that Ford and Diana
will have half a dozen kids of their own.”
A certain quality of taken-abackness in the silence that ensued
conveyed to Rose that her aspirations might be open to the accusation
of a lack of delicacy.
With unwonted discretion, she did not endeavour to rectify the mistake
by volubly explaining it.
She found, to her surprise, that her stay in London had the effect
of rendering Squires more bearable to her. She appreciated anew the
material comfort of the big, luxurious house, and was happy when she
saw Cecil regaining his colour and his appetite.
Ford was very often away, sometimes in London on business connected
with his marriage, and sometimes at Diana’s home on the other side of
the county.
He received Rose’s congratulations, which were curt, with his habitual
equanimity, and added, after thanking her:
“You need not be afraid that Cecil’s interests will be allowed to
suffer by this, Rose.”
“I wasn’t.”
“His welfare still remains one of my first responsibilities,” said her
brother-in-law suavely.
She made no answer.
A little later on, Diana Grierson-Amberly came to stay at Squires.
She was friendly to Rose, very kind to Cecil, deferentially
affectionate to Sir Thomas and Lady Aviolet--but then she had been all
of these things before. Equally, her manner towards Ford was almost
unaltered.
Her nearest approach to an endearment was “My dear old boy,” and she
displayed neither blush nor tremor at the mild, stereotyped jokes about
engaged couples in which her future father-in-law occasionally indulged.
To Diana, it was evidently all relegated to the same class as that
which she cheerfully and pleasantly hailed as “chaff.”
She seemed amused, if also faintly gratified, by Rose’s schoolgirl
excitement.
“What’s your ring? Oh, it’s lovely! What an enormous diamond! Are
diamonds your favourite stones?”
“Yes, I think they are. Ford had several down from Hunt’s for me to
choose from. He’s given me a beautiful pendant too, but I shan’t wear
that till I’m married.”
She uttered the words most matter-of-factly, and Rose remembered her
own brief, delirious engagement to Jim, and the glamour of romance that
had surrounded every token of their hastily plighted troth.
“But then,” she reflected, “I was much younger than Diana, and I’d
never had a proposal before, and apparently she’s had dozens--God knows
why, or what any one can see in her. And she’s known Ford all her life,
and I’d only known Jim three weeks, and come to that, I’d have done
better never to have set eyes on him--except for my Ces.”
But although her habit of facing facts refused to allow Rose the
sentimental luxury of a slurred retrospect, she felt very certain that
her short-lived and exceedingly ill-starred love-affair had given her
such moments of bliss as Diana, in her decorous betrothal, had never
known, and never would know. Diana, however, in place of these, had a
number of very substantial satisfactions.
She was much absorbed in her trousseau, a great part of which was being
made for her at one of the many charitable institutions in which Lady
Aviolet was interested, and she received an enormous number of wedding
presents, testifying to her own popularity as well as to the good-will
of her friends and relations.
There was also, to occupy her, the question of her new home.
“Naturally, we want to live in the country and to stick to these
parts,” said Diana.
“I suppose so.” Rose’s acquiescence was dubious.
“I don’t really think it would be a good plan to start at Squires, do
you?”
“Rotten.”
“I’m very fond of Cousin Catherine, and all of them, and they’ve been
perfectly sweet to me, always, but Mother says, and I must say I agree
with her--that those arrangements are always rather a risk.”
“I should _think_ so.”
“I’ve got heaps of ideas for furnishing. You must help me choose the
chintzes and things, won’t you?”
“I’d love to,” said Rose, gratified.
She was ready to take an eager interest in their selection, and in fact
did so, but the violent blues and purples that she admired accorded
ill with the blended art-shades preferred by Diana. They agreed better
over the furniture, for Rose had imbibed from Uncle Alfred a genuine
respect for what she termed “the antiques line” and Diana shared Ford’s
fondness for picking up possible bargains in second-hand shops.
Once or twice Rose accompanied the bride-elect on such expeditions when
Ford was not available. She felt herself to have done Diana a service
by arguing so violently with the old proprietor of the curiosity-shop
they visited that he at last parted with the Empire gilt mirror
selected by Diana for a price that was very little above its intrinsic
value.
Diana, however, seemed more embarrassed than obliged, and did not again
invite Rose to shop with her.
It was finally arranged that the wedding should take place early in
June, and Diana lost herself in a maze of letter-writing, consulting of
catalogues, and trying-on of clothes.
She paid another visit to Squires three weeks before the date of her
wedding, and declared her intention of having a thorough rest.
Rose thought her indeed looking tired and with something less than her
usual well-bred security of manner.
“Isn’t all this preliminary fuss rather awful?” she one day abruptly
inquired.
“How do you mean, Rose?”
Rose had no aptitude for definitions. “I know _I_ should hate it,
that’s all,” she said vaguely. “But I was only engaged a week.”
“But why?” Diana inquired, politely puzzled.
“Oh, it all happened on board ship, and I had a row with the woman I
was travelling with, and I didn’t know anybody out there, so Jim just
had to fix things up as quickly as he possibly could, and we were
married two days after we landed. A woman who’d been on the boat was
kind to me, and had me to stay with her till the wedding----”
“But how dreadful for you--and you must have been so very young, too!”
“Seventeen, I was.”
“I’m very glad I wasn’t married at seventeen,” said Diana, with an
unaccustomed wistfulness that robbed the words of any offensive
intention. “I think one’s so romantic at seventeen, don’t you? I mean,
one expects so much.”
“So one ought to, in marriage,” Rose declared stoutly. “I daresay you
know that I made rather a hash of things myself, but I do believe one
can be most frightfully happy in this world, whatever any one says. It
_can_ be more glorious than one’s maddest dreams----”
She stopped short. Diana had attempted her usual rather meaningless
little laugh, but had broken down half-way.
“What’s the matter?” said Rose. She put out her hand rather timidly,
but Diana did not repulse it--rather did she appear to cling to the
big, warm, enveloping grasp.
“Are you frightened?” asked Rose wonderingly.
“I’m tired and--and silly, I daresay. You see, it’s such a tremendous
step in one’s life, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” said Rose energetically. “And it lasts for ever, too.
At least, unless they die, like mine did, but you can’t marry on the
off-chance of that, after all.”
“Oh, don’t!”
“I didn’t mean that I thought you meant that,” Rose explained, with
habitual lucidity. “I suppose you wouldn’t be marrying him, unless you
felt sure?”
“No,” said Diana faintly.
Rose looked at her. “You know, it’s still not too late, if you _don’t_
feel perfectly certain. I know how awful it would be, after all those
good, expensive presents, and all the money that’s been spent on
furnishing the house, too--but, if I were you, I’d chuck it all up now,
sooner than do it when you don’t really feel like it. I don’t suppose
I’d have married Jim, you know, if I’d been a bit older, but I did
have a certain amount of run for my money, because I was in love with
him--at first. Just enough to show me that if one really cared, and the
man did too--it would simply be heaven.”
“That’s what they say in books.”
“Well, I suppose that the people who write the books _know_,” said Rose
simply.
Diana began to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I don’t know why I’m so silly and unlike myself. Of course, I’ve known
him all my life, and we’ve always been fond of one another. It’s only
that being married to a man is--is rather frightening, in a way, don’t
you think?”
“It wouldn’t be, if you loved him.” Rose was staunch to her creed.
“When I was a schoolgirl my mother used to tell me that when one really
cared about a man, one cared with one’s body as well as one’s soul. And
nothing to be ashamed of, either, she used to say.”
That Diana did not share Mrs. Smith’s opinion was evident. Her fair
face and neck crimsoned.
“Oh, please----” she said hurriedly, and burst into tears.
“You poor kid! I’m awfully sorry--I didn’t mean to upset you!”
“It’s all right--I’ll go to my room. I don’t think I can be very well.
Do forgive me for being so stupid.”
She hastened to the door, but Rose caught her hand again and said very
earnestly:
“Look here, just half a minute. Listen: if you do really feel that you
can’t carry on with this Ford business, will you tell me, and I swear
I’ll stand all the racket for you--tell him myself, even if it’s only
five minutes before he starts for the wedding--and--and----”
Diana wrenched her hand away. “I know you mean to be kind, but you
mustn’t talk like that. I’m tired, and silly, and I’ve made you think
all sorts of nonsense. Please, please forget it--and don’t let’s ever
speak about it again.”
Her voice broke once more, and she hurried upstairs, leaving Rose
staring blankly after her.