Was there any reason why they should wait for a year?
That was the question which came up for discussion between them every
time they met, which was usually once a day. It was, as a rule, at
the hour of parting that the question came up for dispassionate
consideration. And they discussed it quite dispassionately, he with
his arms clasping her shoulders, and she enjoying an extremely close
inspection of the sapphire in his tie, at intervals of pulling his
moustache into fantastic twists, merging through this medium his
identity into that of many distinguished personages, Imperial as well as
Presidential, and even poetical.
“A year! Great Gloriana! What rot! A whole year? But why--why?”
“Why, indeed? But your mother--she takes the year for granted.”
“And I suppose your father would turn you out of his house if you were
to marry me inside that time?”
“That would be almost certain. It is generally assumed that a year----”
And here there would be an interval--a breathless interlude in the
academic consideration of that nice question in the etiquette of
wedlock.
And then they got tired of discussing it, and it was relegated to the
lovers’ limbo of the unnecessary.
But if there were grave reasons (in the eyes of such people as accepted
the conventional as the inevitable) why they should not be married for a
year, there did not seem to be any reason why the intentions of the pair
should be concealed for the same period. Mr. Wingfield appeared several
times in the High Street of Framsby with Miss Wadhurst beside him in his
motor; and after the third time of observing so remarkable an incident,
some of the onlookers made an honest attempt to account for it. The best
set discussed it, and agreed that, being people of the world, they
would not shake their heads in condemnation of the antics of a
young reprobate. When a young reprobate has a rent roll of something
approaching fifteen thousand a year his peccadilloes must be looked on
with the eye of leniency.
The fiat having gone forth to this effect, the members of the best set
looked indulgently into the shop windows when they noticed the approach
of the motor with the silly young man and the foolish young woman side
by side. This was very advanced, the best set thought--it put them on a
level of tact with the best set in Trouville or Monte Carlo, where
they understood such incidents were quite usual. But of course when the
mothers came upon Mr. Wingfield when he was alone, they did not fail to
recognize him or to do their best to induce him to accompany them home
to tea. Equally as a matter of course when they met Priscilla they
either looked across the street or at the telegraph wires between the
roofs in front of them. The elderly ones sniffed, and the younger ones
sneered.
But when one day Miss Wadhurst appeared by the side of Mrs. Wingfield
in her victoria the impression produced in Framsby was indescribable.
It was paralysing. A four-line whip was passed round the members of the
best set calling them to their places in the front row of the pavilion
seats at the Tennis and Croquet Club to discuss the situation.
“The poor old lady! She could have no idea of what has been going on!”
“It would be an act of duty--certainly of charity--to give her a hint.”
“Or write her a letter--not necessarily signed--charity is sometimes all
the more effective when bestowed anonymously.”
“That girl is artful enough for anything.”
“And pushing enough for anything. Did you notice how she was always
throwing herself in the way of the Countess at the Open Meeting?”
“Surely Mr. Possnett will think it his duty to warn Mrs. Wingfield.”
(The Reverend Osney Possnett was the Vicar of Athalsdean.)
So the discussion of the grave and disturbing social question went on
among the members of the front row; and the caterer, observing askance
the amount of tea and tea cake incidentally consumed, made up his mind
that if another question came forward demanding the same amount of
sustenance as that--whatever it was--which was now being dealt with, he
would be compelled to increase his _per capita_ charge from sixpence to
ninepence.
And then, just when they were warming on the question, stimulated by
copious cups, the effect of which all the cucumber sandwiches failed to
neutralize, Rosa Caffyn entered the pavilion with Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst,
and asked for tea for two.
Mrs. Gifford, the wife of the Colonial Civil Servant, who was the leader
of the best set, was quick to perceive her opportunity. She knew that
Rosa Caffyn was, in the face of all opposition, the friend of Priscilla
Wadhurst, and so might be made the means of conveying to that young
woman some idea of the grave scandal that her conduct was exciting. She
rose from her place and hurried to Rosa’s table.
“We have just been discussing a very disagreeable incident,” she
remarked, after greeting the girl and Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst.
“Oh, then we have arrived quite opportunely to give you a chance of
discussing a very delightful one,” cried Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst.
“We have not heard any delightful one,” said Mrs. Gifford.
“What, do you mean to say that you have not heard that that pretty Miss
Wadhurst, the girl with that wonderful hair, you know, is engaged to
Jack Wingfield? Why, where have you been living? Don’t you take in the
_Morning Post?_ No? Oh, well, I suppose it would not contain much to
interest you.”
Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst was very much of the county; she was indifferent
to Framsby’s “sets.” She watched with malicious interest the collapse of
the leader of the best and resumed her revelation.
“Oh, yes; it was in the _Post_ this morning, ‘A marriage is arranged,’
and the rest of it. I knew that you would all be glad to hear of it, but
I thought that you would be the first to get the pleasant news. Rosa and
I are driving to the Manor to offer our felicitations. Miss Wadhurst
is staying there with Mrs. Wingfield. It’s so nice when a handsome and
clever girl like that is making a good match; and the poor girl deserves
something good as a set-off against that unlucky affair of hers.”
“She is a clever young woman,” said Mrs. Gifford spitefully. “Oh, yes, a
very clever young woman! I hear that she milks her father’s cows.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Gifford, you are very far behind the times,” laughed
Rosa. “Nobody milks cows nowadays. You might as well talk of Priscilla
using one of the old barrel churns. It’s all done by machinery.”
“And will you have some of the machine-made in your tea, Rosa?” asked
Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst, poising the jug over the cups which had just been
brought to the table.
“Thank you--that’s enough,” said Rosa. “And let me offer you some of the
machine-made butter on the machine-made bread.”
“I think I’ll try a hand at a hand-made sandwich,” said Mrs.
Bowlby-Sutherst. “There’s a joke in that somewhere, I feel--can you
catch it?”
“Hand-made sandwiches made by the handmaid of the caterer--is that it?”
asked Rosa after a thoughtful frown--the frown of the habitual prize
acrostic-solver and anagram-maker of the English vicarage.
Mrs. Gifford felt rather neglected when the two others laughed together
quite merrily. She rather thought that she would take a stroll round the
grounds.
“One of the cats,” whispered Rosa.
“The leader of the tabbies,” assented Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst. “But don’t
you make any mistake, my dear: although she’s wild to hear that your
friend is doing so well for herself----”
“And for Mr. Wingfield.”
“And for Mr. Wingfield--in spite of that, you may rest perfectly certain
that she will leave cards with pencilled congratulations upon the Manor
people as early as possible to-morrow. Another sandwich?”
And that prognosis turned out to be correct. Several members of the best
set called at the Manor the next day and left congratulatory cards. They
had in view the possibility of future _fêtes_ at the Manor; they would
do any reasonable amount of calling or crawling to get invited to a
garden-party given by a county person; and Miss Wadhurst was to be
promoted over the heads of a large number of aspirants to a position in
the county.
Although there were a certain number of persons who affirmed that she
was showing very doubtful taste indeed in becoming engaged to any one,
even a man with a rent roll of something like fifteen thousand a year,
within a few months after receiving the news of the death of the other
man, still Miss Wadhurst got quite a large number of cards of the same
nature from ladies who had done their best to keep her in her place in
the past, and who were clearly hoping that their failure to do so would
prejudice her in their favour in the days to come.
But when a month had passed and the people of Framsby had almost ceased
discussing the question of the advancement of Miss Wadhurst, there came
a faint rumour to the effect that the _rapprochement_ between the young
couple was not quite so complete as it had been. They were no longer
seen together either on foot or in the motor, and while heads were being
shaken and significant winks exchanged, the definite announcement
was made (by Mrs. Gifford) that a final rupture had taken place. The
engagement was broken off, and the principals to that pencilled contract
had separated.
A small and discreet commission of enquiry made their report on the
subject, the tenor of which removed any doubt that might possibly remain
on any mind. Investigations proved that the young man had elected to
run away; and the fact that his mother had affirmed that he had gone
on business, even specifying this business and alleging that he was
endeavouring to find a substitute for Mr. Dunning, the agent, whose
health had unfortunately broken down, necessitating his taking a long
voyage, suggested that she had had a hand in the breaking off of the
engagement. As for the young woman, it was thought very natural that
she should desire to avoid the humiliation of meeting, under altered
conditions, her Framsby friends, whose cards of congratulation she had
never so much as acknowledged.
Rosa Caffyn knew all about her, and when interrogated, said that
Priscilla had gone to pay a visit to a girl friend of hers in
Dorsetshire, who was at the point of leaving England with her father, a
major-general in the army, about to take up an appointment in the Bengal
Presidency. This was Rosa’s story, and every one acknowledged that Rosa
was a staunch friend to Priscilla, unfortunate though the latter had
been; for she was ready to deny the breaking off of the engagement--to
be exact, she had not quite gone so far as to deny it in so many words:
being the daughter of a parson, however, she was sufficiently adroit
in choosing words which by themselves expressed what was the truth, and
could not be regarded as compromising, should it be found out, later
on, that they had been the means of promulgating a falsehood. “Every one
knows how guarded clergymen can be in this way,” said Mrs. Gifford and
her friends.
Rosa’s exact words, when questioned, were these:--“She said nothing to
me about the engagement being broken off.”
Oh, yes; Rosa was a staunch friend, but it could do her no good to
suggest in this way that the engagement was still unbroken; the whole
truth was bound to come out eventually.
Of course, Mrs. Wingfield could not be asked directly if there was any
truth in the report. Being a semi-invalid she was rarely at home to any
of the Framsby people. But as ten days had passed and her son had not
yet returned to the Manor, it might surely be assumed that the lady’s
story about her son’s expedition in search of a new agent was partaking
of the character of Rosa Caffyn’s statement. Estate agents were not
so rare as black swans, they said; a man on the look-out for one could
certainly manage to obtain a specimen in less than ten days.
Then there was Farmer Wadhurst; he was a straightforward man and a
man of business, and though officially connected with the church, yet
without that adroitness at misleading through the medium of verbally
accurate phrases, which--according to Framsby’s best set--is
characteristic of parsons and the members of their families--Mr.
Wadhurst might be approached on the subject of his daughters engagement.
But Mr. Wadhurst was not easy of approach on social matters, though
always ready to talk of “cake.” He had his theories regarding this form
of confectionery for milch kine, and was always ready to say which breed
should take the cake, and in what quantities. But he quickly repelled
the approach of such persons as came to congratulate him on the
engagement of his daughter--a fact that caused them to wink at their
friends and say that that was the right position for a yeoman to take up
in respect of his daughter’s engagement to the young squire. He was not
going to stand congratulations on such a thing. He was an English yeoman
and he paid his way, and he wasn’t the man to regard an alliance with
the Manor as a tremendous thing for him or his daughter either. He knew
all about the Wadhursts, and he knew all about the Wingfields, and he
wasn’t going to truckle down to any Wingfields, or, for that matter, to
the Duke himself; no, not he.
This was Farmer Wadhurst. But someone, stimulated by a desire to find
out the exact truth, managed to approach him--a tradesman who enjoyed
the Gifford custom.
“We haven’t seen your young lady about of late, sir,” he remarked when
the business excuse had been completed. “We hope that she’s well, and
nothing wrong, sir.”
“You could hardly have seen her here, for she’s been in Dorset for the
past fortnight, and so far as I know she’s in good health,” said Farmer
Wadhurst. But in the act of leaving the shop a thought seemed to occur
to him. He turned round, and looked at the tradesman suspiciously.
“What did you mean by that?” he asked.
“Mean by what?”
“By ‘nothing wrong’? What do you suspect is wrong?”
The man held up horny hands of protest.
“Bless your heart! Mr. Wadhurst, you musn’t take me up like that,” he
cried. “I meant nought more’n or’nary remark. I’d be the last man in
Framsby to hint at ought being wrong; I would indeed, sir, as I hope
you know. I’ve all’ays said that in this case it is the man that’s the
really lucky one, and I don’t care who knows it, Mr. Wadhurst.”
Mr. Wadhurst gave a searching glance at the man, and then left the shop.
He was not quite satisfied with the explanation which the man had given
him of his use of that very ordinary phrase. “Nothing wrong--nothing
wrong--we hope there’s nothing wrong”--the words buzzed about him all
the time he was walking down the High Street. “Nothing wrong!” Why, what
could there be wrong? What could there be wrong? What sort of gossip was
going about? Who had been saying that anything was wrong?
He went down the street to where his dogcart was waiting for him, and
mounting to his seat, drove off in the direction of the farm; but before
he had gone more than half a mile along the road he turned his horse
about, and drove quickly back to Framsby. He pulled up at the post
office, and, descending, entered the place and, after a considerable
amount of thought, composed and wrote out a telegram.
Then he mounted his dogcart and drove off to his farm.