The knowledge which came in its fulness to Mame in an after-luncheon
talk with Lady Kidderminster, that the Towers was let to the Childwicks
on a lease of seven years with an option of purchase, did nothing
to stem the growing tide of her gloom. She might have guessed. But
the recognised fact hit her hard. The Childwicks of all people! That
supercilious queen to get away with the whole bag of tricks.
Lady K. was quite candid. She had the same openness in discussing high
finance as in less intimate affairs of life. Since the War they had
simply been hanging on by their eyelids as it were. The Scotch property
had gone; so had the property in Lancashire; the town house was let,
also to the Childwicks, those providential folk, who had lately decided
to make England their home. Everybody thought it _so_ fortunate to have
such _good_ tenants for the Towers; people who could not only afford
to keep up the place in the old way, but who were likely to take a
permanent interest in it.
Miss Du Rance was constrained to think so too. As she peered into
the eyes of Bill’s mother she could not help admiring her fortitude.
How this dame must loathe her, little interloper! What plans she had
wrecked! Yet there was nothing about this woman, and there never had
been, to give the least inkling of what her real feelings were towards
her.
Not once, it was true, since Mame’s arrival at the Dower House, had
Lady Kidderminster mentioned Bill. The other queer old pet, that Miss
Carruthers, had also refrained from mentioning him. Otherwise all
was ease and charm and friendliness, although it sure had a trick of
fizzling into the dead alive.
This quality of not being quite on the earth, so to speak, was not
confined to the inmates of the Dower House. It was shared by the
friends and neighbours. Screams of all kinds seemed to make a point of
turning up about teatime. Almost invariably they were of Mame’s own
sex. And such clothes as they wore! And such comic one-horse shays as
for the most part they came in! Frightfully well-bred they were with
real Court manners, full of ceremonial. Had good Lady K. been England’s
queen these dear old buzzards could not have treated her with more
deference.
It was the air these callers had of being half alive that most
impressed Mame. Her mind went back to the tabbies of Fotheringay House,
at whose hands she had endured long weeks of boredom. These friends of
the family were a different breed of tabby; they were politer, gentler,
less inclined to scratch, but their faces were just as pinched and
bloodless and their style of dressing quite as odd. Such drolls as they
were with their long tailor-mades and stiff boned net collars, and
their queer hats and trinkets and stout boots with very flat heels.
They looked depressing. And they were depressing. Their talk in the
main was of bulbs. Mame was not in the least interested in bulbs. She
could raise no enthusiasm over what these funniments were going to put
in in the spring. These gardeners, inoffensive and well meaning though
they were, bored Mame to tears. If this was the social life of an
English county, she opined she was the sort of mouse that would stay in
the town.
Three days of the Dower House began to tell on Miss Du Rance. It may
have been the food, the people, a peculiarity of the air, but she began
to feel as lacking in zip as the friends and neighbours. At the mere
sight of them she had an inclination to weep; and strange to say at the
sight of her one or two of these old things, who evidently were pretty
deep in the family confidence, seemed inclined to do the same. One old
pet, indeed, with just a shade more kick than the rest--Miss Carruthers
said she had been a Bedchamber-woman to Queen Victoria--managed to
convey a hint to Miss Du Rance that the friends and neighbours could
only regard her in the light of a national calamity.
All this was discouraging. Even had there been no thoughts of Gwendolen
Childwick to disturb Mame o’nights, this visit to Bill’s mother would
hardly have been a bed of roses. She missed sadly the brisk life,
the gay companionship of London. Here was nothing doing. From early
morn till dewy eve there was nothing doing. She dipped into a few
old-fashioned novels; she read the _Morning Post_, which was not
delivered until the afternoon; she was initiated into various games of
patience by the kindly but mournful Miss Carruthers; she strolled about
the garden with Lady Kidderminster and learned to give an opinion on
the few remaining asters, chrysanthemums and dahlias, but somehow you
could not call it being alive.
By now, moreover, there was beginning to arise in Mame a feeling of
remorse. It was not an emotion she would ever have suspected herself
of harbouring. Practical go-getters have not, as a rule, much time for
remorse. They are usually too busy. Besides, where was the use? Remorse
never cut ice since the world began.
To make matters worse, on the morning of the fifth day came a letter
from Bill. He wrote with far less than his usual optimism. In fact
he was just a bit troubled. He had been talking things over with his
mother, whom he had seen when she came up to town; and she had said
the family finances were in such a tangle that if he married Mame
there would be absolutely no money for a separate establishment. She
took rather a gloomy view of the whole matter, but personally, he was
quite willing “to chance it” if Mame was. He sent her heaps of love and
he was counting the hours for her return and he thought that in the
circumstances the sooner they were “spliced” the better.
The letter was full of affection and humour, yet Mame could not rid her
mind of the feeling that breakers were ahead. She was perturbed. And
something which happened in the course of that very afternoon deepened
a sense of unrest.
“Do you care to come and see the Towers, my dear?” asked Lady
Kidderminster, as they lingered over their afternoon luncheon coffee.
“The Childwicks are away, but I’m sure the housekeeper, Mrs. Norris,
will not mind your looking over the house if it will interest you.”
Nothing would interest Mame more.
“So glad. We will go along presently. It is such a good day for a walk.”
The day was really good, one of those soft, mildly sunny days of late
September that lure one so genially into the open. From the Dower House
to the Towers, door to door, was just a mile; and Mame, sauntering with
Lady Kidderminster, found the pilgrimage rather enjoyable. Her hostess
was still very kind and friendly even if an inward weight seemed to be
bearing her down. Mame longed to speak of Bill. She would like to have
drawn Mommer on the subject of when they would be able to marry; yet to
butt in upon that vexed question might entirely spoil the pleasure of
their stroll.
Mame was impressed by the Towers. She felt justified in calling it
a palace. It certainly was a wonderful house; one of the oldest and
finest in England and very well kept. A lovely park of many rich
woodland acres gave it just the setting that it needed. In spite of
Mame’s determination to remain a democrat at heart, she could not
overcome a slight feeling of awe as they passed through the lodge
gates, so impressively emblazoned, and walked slowly along the glorious
avenue that led to the Treherne home. The place had such an air. Fancy
having it for one’s very own to live in.
She was entitled, in a sense, to a feeling of proprietorship, yet only
too well did she know that she did not in the least match up with
Warlington Towers. After all, she could not help thinking ruefully
as they came up to the main entrance, with doors of solid black oak,
she was the merest nobody, a little newspaper girl, a sharp-witted
adventuress who had not even put herself through college. Who was Mame
Durrance, the rejected of New York and London, that she should fix
herself into such a frame. It was wrong for a go-getter to have these
ideas, but there was something in the grandeur, the style, the solidity
of this mansion which had stood just like that since the time of the
Tudors, which kind of put one over on you. If you had any feelings at
all, if you had a streak of imagination, however slight, a vein of
idealism, however weak, a tendency to uplift or inconveniences of that
kind, this house was bound to get you thinking.
They learned from the housekeeper that the Childwicks were expected
next week, when a large party would assemble for the shooting. But Mame
was not much impressed by the news. That girl Gwendolen, for all her
dollars and her airs, was almost as much an interloper. What was Three
Ply Flannelette anyway? Not so much better, was it, than writing for
the press?
Bitter thoughts accompanied Mame through the nobly proportioned
rooms, up the majestic staircase and then down again to the noblest
room of all. It seemed vast, that particular room; the sense of its
magnitude came out and hit you as you entered. The view from its great
windows was unforgettable, but it was the room itself and the things
it contained that made it so memorable. Tapestries, sofas, cabinets,
chairs, tables, lovely bric-a-brac and candelabra, all were perfect in
their kind and united in ministry to the higher perfection of which
they formed a part.
It was the pictures on the walls that gave perhaps the biggest thrill.
Portraits mostly: Lelys, Knellers and those old johns of the eighteenth
century who knew how to put historical folks upon canvas. Among the
famous guys in steel breastplates and periwigs and contemporary janes
in ruffs and powder and what not, was a picture of a young man in
knee-breeches and silk stockings and a stiff flounced coat with a
sword, who might have been Bill. The resemblance was astonishing.
Had Bill exchanged his modern tailor for that funny yet superbly
picturesque rig that is just how he would have looked.
Mame was so struck by this likeness that she stopped to gaze at the
words at the foot of the gilt frame:
“William, third marquis of Kidderminster. By Sir Peter Lely.”
Yes, it was the real thing, this picture. But what, after all, was
it compared to the room it was in and the harmony of which it was a
symbol? History, romance, power seemed all around. Again the spirit of
place got Mame thinking.
It was the gentle, low voice of Lady Kidderminster that brought her
slowly back to the present and to her own self. “Shall we rest a
moment, my dear? Here in the sun. This is always my favourite spot;
how one loves a room facing south! There is more real warmth here than
anywhere else in the house.”
As Lady Kidderminster spoke she sat down on a large, high-backed sofa,
very choicely carved, which was placed immediately below Lely’s third
marquis. She made a place beside her for Mame, who sat down too. There
the sun was very pleasant, as it streamed in through the great window
opposite. The trees of the park could be seen and the deer browsing
under them. Not so much as the ticking of a clock broke the rapt
stillness. What a peace there was upon everything, what order, what a
hushed solemnity! It was like being in a cathedral. The aura of this
room in its grandeur and stateliness was overpowering.
Mame was seldom at a loss for words. But seated on this sofa by the
side of Lady Kidderminster she felt a little shy of the sound of
her own voice. Somehow it didn’t seem to belong. She waited for her
companion to say something. Those sweet and quiet tones went so much
better with the carpets and the pictures and the scene beyond those
windows.
Suddenly Mame grew aware that the hand next hers had taken it in its
clasp. Then very softly and quietly Bill’s mother began to talk. Her
beautiful low voice in its ordered perfection was as much a part of
those surroundings as all the other lovely things of which Mame could
not help being sensible. Yet the words it wove soon began to press upon
her heart.
In a fashion of curious simplicity, which revealed everything in the
most practical and matter-of-fact way, Bill’s mother showed what an
effort she had made to hold on to this inheritance. Everybody had hoped
that he would marry Miss Childwick. She was deeply in love with him,
and there was a time, only a short month or so ago, when it was thought
that he was in love with her. A marriage had been almost arranged for
the early summer, yet for some trivial reason it had been deferred. And
now, and now, the gentle tones deepened into tragedy, it would never
take place, and Bill would have to give up the last and dearest of his
possessions.
Great sacrifices had been made to keep things going against the time
when he should marry. They owed it to him to do that. And he, dear
fellow, owed it, not to those who were proud to make sacrifices, but to
the order of things, so long established, of which he was the _clou_,
to marry in a direction that would ensure their maintenance.
“You see, my dear,” said Lady Kidderminster, and for the first time a
faint gleam of humour lit that lovely voice of ever-deepening tragedy,
“it is not that we own places like the Towers. They own us. It is
Bill’s duty to those who have made this old house what it is”--she
waved a gentle hand to those solemn assenting walls “to keep it in
the state to which it has pleased providence to call it. I hope you
appreciate, my dear, what a dreadful wrench it is going to be, not only
for us, but for this old house, with so many historical associations,
to pass into other hands.”
Only too well was Mame able to appreciate that. The streak of
imagination in her had never been so uncomfortable as at that painful
moment.
“I simply cannot bear to think of his losing all this,” Bill’s mother
went on. “I simply cannot bear to think of all this losing him. They
need each other; they were created for each other; they can never be
as they were if they are allowed to drift apart. The Childwicks are
excellent people and they have a lien on this house, which may be
exercised if dear Gwendolen does not marry Bill. They will, I am sure,
do the place no dishonour, but I, for one, cannot bear to think of such
a break in a long tradition. The Towers expects the head of the family
to do his duty by it, in the way of his forbears who made it the thing
it is.”
Mame did not speak. Not only was she seeing certain things at a new
angle, she was also seeing the world in general in a new way. The
process was distinctly irksome.
“Any girl who really cares for him,” Lady K. went on with that candour
which to Mame was so surprising, “will understand what life exacts of
him, will understand where his duty lies.”
In the silence that followed these words Mame hardly ventured to
look at the face of the woman who sat by her side. But she saw that
Lady Kidderminster’s eyes were wet. This was a brave woman. It was
impossible not to respect her point of view. Indeed, seated in that
room, with all those associations clustering about it, there seemed to
be only one way of looking at things. And that was the way of Bill’s
mother.