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Title: The confessions of a well-meaning woman

Author: Stephen McKenna

Release date: July 19, 2023 [eBook #71228]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Cassell and Company, 1922

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFESSIONS OF A WELL-MEANING WOMAN ***







  The Confessions of a
  Well-Meaning Woman


  By

  STEPHEN McKENNA



  CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
  London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne




First published 1922.




  _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

  THE SENSATIONALISTS
    Part III: The Secret Victory

  THE SENSATIONALISTS
    Part II: The Education of Eric Lane

  THE SENSATIONALISTS
    Part I: Lady Lilith

  SONIA MARRIED

  MIDAS AND SON

  NINETY-SIX HOURS' LEAVE

  SONIA

  THE SIXTH SENSE

  SHEILA INTERVENES

  THE RELUCTANT LOVER

  * * *

  WHILE I REMEMBER




  To

  LORD AND LADY BEAUCHAMP

  In Gratitude for their Hospitality
  at Walmer Castle, where this book was begun,
  and at Madresfield Court, where it was finished.




_Cusins_: Do you call poverty a crime?

_Undershaft_: The worst of crimes ... Poverty ... strikes dead the
very souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it....

BERNARD SHAW: _Major Barbara_.




CONTENTS


1. Lady Ann Spenworth Prefers Not to Discuss Her Operation

2. She Repudiates all Responsibility

3. She Touches Reluctantly on Divorce

4. She is Content with a Little Music

5. She Refuses to Become a Match-Maker

6. She Holds the _Corps Diplomatique_ to its Duty

7. She Deplores Proposals by Women

8. She Refers to Her Diary

9. She Narrates an Embarrassment Averted

10. She as a Prisoner in Her own House

11. She Finds Her Heart Warming

12. She Defends Her Consistency




THE CONFESSIONS OF A WELL-MEANING WOMAN



I

LADY ANN SPENWORTH PREFERS NOT TO DISCUSS HER OPERATION

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): You have toiled all
the way here again?  Do you know, I feel I am only _beginning_ to
find out who are the _true_ friends?  I am much, much better...  On
Friday I am to be allowed on to the sofa and by the end of next week
Dr. Richardson promises to let me go back to Mount Street.  Of course
I should have _liked_ the operation to take place there--it is one's
frame and setting, but, truly honestly, Arthur and I have not been in
a position to have any painting or papering done for so long ... The
surgeon insisted on a nursing-home.  Apparatus and so on and so
forth...  Quite between ourselves, I fancy that they make a very good
thing out of these homes; but I am so thankful to be well again that
I would put up with almost any imposition...

Everything went off too wonderfully.  Perhaps you have seen my
brother Brackenbury?  Or Ruth?  Ah, I am sorry; I should have been
vastly entertained to hear what they were saying, what they _dared_
say.  Ruth did indeed offer to pay the expenses of the operation--the
belated prick of conscience!--; and it was on the tip of my tongue to
say we are not yet dependent on her spasmodic charity.  Also, that I
can keep my lips closed about Brackenbury without expecting a--tip!
But they know I can't _afford_ to refuse £500...  If they, if
everybody would only leave one _alone_!  Spied on, whispered about...

The papers made such an absurd stir!  If you are known by name as
occupying any little niche, the world waits gaping below.  I suppose
I ought to be flattered, but for _days_ there were callers, letters,
telephone-messages.  Like Royalty _in extremis_...  And I never
_pretended_ that the operation was in any sense critical...

Do you know, beyond saying that, I would much rather _not_ talk about
it?  This very modern frankness...  Not _you_, of course!  But, when
a man like my brother-in-law Spenworth strides in here a few hours
before the anæsthetic is administered and says "What _is_ the matter
with you?  Much ado about nothing, _I_ call it..."  That from
Arthur's brother to Arthur's wife, when, for all he knew, he might
never see her alive again...  I prefer just to say that everything
went off most satisfactorily and that I hope now to be better than I
have been for years...

It was anxiety more than anything else.  A prolonged strain always
finds out the weak place: Arthur complaining that he had lost some of
his directorships and that, with the war, he was being offered none
to take their place; talk of selling the house in Mount Street, every
_corner_ filled with a wonderful memory of old happy days when the
princess almost _lived_ with me; sometimes no news from the front for
weeks, and that _could_ only mean that my boy Will was moving up with
the staff.  It was just when I was at my wits' end that he wrote to
say that he must have five hundred pounds.  He gave no reason, so I
assumed that one of his friends must be in trouble; and I was not to
tell Arthur...  This last effort really exhausted me; and I knew
that, if I was not to be a useless encumbrance to everybody, I must
"go into dock," as Will would say, "for overhauling and repairs."
Dr. Richardson really seemed reluctant to impose any further tax on
my vitality at such a time, but I assured him that I was not afraid
of the knife.  So here you find me!

A little home-sick for Mount Street and my friends?  Indeed, yes;
though I have not been neglected.  Are not those tulips too
magnificent?  _Were_, rather...  The dear princess brought them a
week ago, and I was so touched by her sweetness that I have not the
heart to throw them away.  If _she_, to whom I can be nothing but a
dull old woman...  I mean, it brings into relief the unkindness of
others; and I do indeed find it hard to forgive the callousness of
Spenworth and my brother Brackenbury.  No, _that_--like the
operation--I would rather _not_ talk about.  Their attitude was
so--wicked...

You, of course, have been under an anæsthetic.  I?  Not since I was a
child; and the only sensation I recall was a hammer, hammer, hammer
just as I went off, which I believe is nothing but the beating of
one's heart...  But _before_ the operation...  You must not think
that I am posing as a heroine; but accidents _do_ happen, and for two
days and two nights, entirely by myself...  It was inevitable that
one should take stock...  My thoughts went back to old days at
Brackenbury, _spacious_ old days with my dear father when he was
ambassador at Rome and Vienna (they were happy times, though the
expense crippled him); old days when my brother was a funny,
impetuous little boy--not _hard_, as he has since become...  I am
fourteen years his senior; and, from the time when our dear mother
died to the time when I married Arthur, I was wife and mother and
sister at the Hall.  On me devolved what, in spite of the socialists,
I venture to call the great tradition of English life...

Lying in bed here, one could not help saying "_If_ anything goes
amiss, _am_ I leaving the world better than I found it?"  Under my
own vine and fig-tree I had been a good wife to Arthur and a good
mother to Will; and, if there had not always been _some_ one of good
intentions to smoothe over difficulties with the family on _both_
sides...  Blessed are the peace-makers, though I have sometimes
wondered whether I did right in even tolerating my brother-in-law
Spenworth.  It is probably no news to you that he very much wanted to
marry me, but I always felt that even Cheniston, even the house in
Grosvenor Square, even his immense income would not compensate me for
a husband whom I could never trust out of my sight.  Arthur may be
only the younger brother, I very soon found that the old spacious
days were over; but with him one _does_ know where one is, and I have
never grudged poor Kathleen Manorby my leavings.  There indeed is a
lesson for the worldly!  She was in love with a poor decent young
subaltern named Laughton, more suitable for her in every way;
however, the lure of Cheniston and the opportunity of being Lady
Spenworth! ... _He_ transferred to an Indian regiment; and, if his
heart was broken, so much the worse for him.  I am not superstitious;
but, when I remember that bit of treachery, when I think of
Spenworth, unfaithful from the beginning, when I see those four
dairymaid daughters and no heir...  Might not some people call that a
judgement?  It makes no _personal_ difference, for the ungodly will
flourish throughout _our_ time; and, though my boy Will must
ultimately succeed, he can look for nothing from his uncle in the
meantime.  I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes!  I have done my humble best to comfort poor Kathleen and to
give her _some_ idea how to bring up her girls if she does not want
to see them going the same way as their unhappy father.  One is not
thanked for that sort of thing; Spenworth, who blusters but can never
look me in the eyes, pretends that he has refused to have me inside
Cheniston since I publicly rebuked him, though he well knows that I
will not enter the house while the present licence prevails.  But one
would have thought that even he would have had serious moments, would
have felt that his soul might be required of him at any hour...  A
sense of gratitude, if not verbal thanks, was what I expected...

Hoped for, rather than expected...  You are quite right.

And I have tried to keep the peace on the other side, at Brackenbury.
There, I am thankful to say, there is the appearance of harmony; but,
goodness me, there is an _appearance_ of harmony when you see pigs
eating amicably out of the same trough...  No, I ought not to have
said that!  And I would not say it to any one else; but, when I
remember the _distinction_ of the Hall in the old, spacious days...
My poor sister-in-law Ruth--well, she knew no better; and
Brackenbury, instead of absorbing her, has allowed her to absorb him.
They seem to have _no_ sense of their position; and in the upbringing
of their children they either don't _know_ or they don't _care_.
When this war broke out, Culroyd ran away from Eton and _enlisted_.
He is in the Coldstream now, and I expect the whole thing is
forgotten, but Brackenbury had the utmost difficulty in getting him
out.  And my niece Phyllida instantly set herself to learn
nursing--which, of course, in itself is altogether praiseworthy--,
but she makes it an excuse for now living entirely unchecked and
uncontrolled in London--the "bachelor-girl," I believe, is the
phrase.  I did indeed force my brother to make her come to Mount
Street; but, if that preserves the _convenances_, it is the utmost
that I have achieved.  When the trouble breaks out, when we find her
_liée_ with some hopelessly unsuitable "temporary gentleman" ... I?
In a rash moment I allowed Brackenbury to make some trifling
contribution to the cost of the girl's bed and board: the result is
that she treats me as a lodging-house-keeper...

It was not a cheerful retrospect; but I had done my best, I could
only say "Let me be judged on my intentions."  The future...  That
was what troubled me more.  When Will resigns his commission,
something must be done to establish him in life until he succeeds his
uncle.  He is nearly thirty and has never earned a penny beyond his
present army pay; _I_ cannot support him indefinitely; and these
frantic appeals for a hundred pounds here and five hundred pounds
there...  I cannot meet them, unless I am to sell the house in Mount
Street and give up any little _niche_ that I may occupy.  Frankly, I
am not prepared to do that.  One's frame and setting...  If his
uncles would make a proper settlement, there would be an end of all
our troubles; failing that, I must find him a well-paid appointment.
And, in another sense, I want to see him established.  Exactly!  That
is just what I _do_ mean.  Thanks to the energy of a few pushful but
not particularly well-connected people like my Lady Maitland, social
distinctions have ceased to exist in London.  I will be as democratic
as you please: I swallowed the Americans, I swallowed the South
Africans, I swallow the _rastaquouères_ daily; _I_ don't mind sitting
between a stock-broker and an actor, but it is a different thing
altogether when you come to marriage.  My boy has to be protected
from the ordinary dangers and temptations; and, though I would do
nothing to influence him, it would be highly satisfactory if he met
some nice girl with a little money of her own.  Naturally one would
like to see the choice falling on some one in his own immediate
world; but times are changing, and it would be regarded as
old-fashioned prejudice if one made too strong a stand against the
people who really are the only people _with_ money; or against a
foreigner...  But this is all rather like crossing the bridge before
one comes to the stream...

Lying here, _very_ much depressed, I wanted to make provision for the
_immediate_ future.  Now, would _you_ say I had taken leave of my
senses if I suggested that I had some claim on Brackenbury and
Spenworth?  Does relationship count for nothing?  Or gratitude?  You
shall hear!  You remember that, when you left just before my
operation, Brackenbury came in to see me.  I had sent for him.  I am
not a nervous woman; but accidents _do_ happen, and I wanted a last
word with them all in _case_... just in _case_...  Arthur never takes
a thought for the future, and I told Brackenbury that, if anything
_did_ happen, he would be the _real_ as well as the titular head of
the family.

"It is not for me," I said, "to advise or interfere with you or Ruth
or your children.  If--as I pray--Culroyd comes through unscathed, he
has all the world before him, and you have only to see that he does
not marry below his station.  With Phyllida you must be more careful.
She is young, attractive, well-dowered and a little, just a _little_
headstrong.  The war has made our girls quite absurdly romantic; any
one in uniform, especially if he has been wounded...  And you, who
are rich, perhaps hardly realize as well as do we, who are poor, the
tricks and _crimes_ that a man will commit to marry a fortune.  I do
not suggest that Phyllida should be withdrawn from her hospital--"

"Oh, she's signed on for the duration of the war," Brackenbury
interrupted.

"But I do think," I resumed, "that you should keep an eye on her..."

Perhaps there was never anything in it; but _one_ young man whom
Phyllida brought to Mount Street, a Colonel Butler, one of her own
patients...  Oh, quite a presentable, manly young fellow, but
_hopelessly_ unsuitable for _Phyllida_!  My boy Will first put me on
my guard when he was last home on leave; not that _he_ had any
personal interest, for all her four thousand a year or whatever it
is, but they _have_ always been brought up like brother and sister...
My last act before coming here was to make Colonel Butler promise not
to see or communicate with Phyllida until he had spoken frankly to
Brackenbury.  I understand that he has been invited to the Hall "on
approval", as Will would say; and then we shall see what we shall
see.  I fancy he will have the good sense to recognize that such an
alliance would be out of the question: every one would say that he
had married her for her money, and no man of any pride would tolerate
that...  Phyllida, robbed of her stolen joys, was of course furious
with me for what she was courteous enough to call my "interference."
...

"Her head is screwed on quite tight," said Brackenbury, "though I
have no idea what you're insinuating."

"I am insinuating nothing," I said, "but _do_ you want to see your
only daughter married for her money by some penniless soldier--?"

"If she's in love with him, I don't care who she marries," said
Brackenbury with a quite extraordinary callousness.  "He must be a
decent fellow, of course, who'll make her happy.  I don't attach the
importance to Debrett that you do, Ann, especially since the war."

As _he_ had said it!  I was _mute_...  Every one is aware that poor
Ruth was _nobody_--the rich daughter of a Hull shipping-magnate.  I
made him marry her because he _had_ to marry some one with a little
money--and much good it has been to anybody!,--but I hardly expected
to hear him _boasting_ or encouraging his _children_ to pretend that
there are no distinctions...

"Well, it's not my business, dear Brackenbury," I said.  I was
feeling too _ill_ to wrangle...  "When I asked you to come here, it
was because--accidents _do_ happen--I wanted to see you again,
perhaps for the last time--"

"But aren't you frightening yourself unduly?," interrupted
Brackenbury.  "Arthur told me it was only--"

"Arthur knows nothing about it," I said.  It is always so pleasant,
when you are facing the possibility of death, to be told that it is
all _nothing_...  "I wanted to see you," I said, "about Will.  You
and I have to pull together for the sake of the family.  If anything
happens to me, I leave Will in your charge.  His father will, of
course, do what he can, but poor Arthur has nothing but his
directorships; you must be our rock and anchor."

And then I plucked up courage to ask whether Brackenbury could not do
something _permanent_ for our boy.  Even a thousand a year...  It is
not as though he couldn't afford it if Ruth shewed a little
good-will, not as though either had done so extravagantly much for
their own nephew.  Brackenbury did indeed undertake to pay for him at
Eton; but, as Will left before any of us expected, they were let off
lightly...

Brackenbury would only talk of increasing expenses and the burden of
taxation.

"I could face my operation with an easier mind," I said, "if I knew
that Will would never want."

"Well, some one has always pulled him out hitherto," said
Brackenbury.  "I suppose some one always will."  I had to _rack_ my
brains, but honestly truly the only occasion I could remember on
which he had come to our assistance was when Will as a mere boy fell
in with some men no better than common swindlers who prevailed on him
to play cards for stakes which he could not afford...  "_He_ won't
want," Brackenbury went on with the insolence of a man who has never
done a hand's turn in his life, "if he'll only buckle down to it and
work.  Or he could spend less money."

This, I knew, was a "dig" at me.  Before my boy had time to learn how
very little distance his army pay would take him, I _had_ asked my
brother to tide him over a passing difficulty.  Would you not have
thought that any uncle would have welcomed the opportunity?  I said
nothing.  And then Brackenbury had the assurance to criticize _my_
way of life and to ask why I kept on the house in Mount Street if it
always meant "pulling the devil by the tail," as he so elegantly
expressed it.  Why did I not take a less expensive house?  And so on
and so forth.  I suppose he imagined that I could ask the princess to
come to Bayswater...

"Do not," I said, "let us discuss the matter any more.  It is
unpleasant to be a pauper, but more unpleasant to be a beggar.  If my
boy wins through with his life--"

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," said Brackenbury.  "They tell me
he's on a staff which has never even heard a shot fired."

_They tell me_...  Does not that phrase always put you on your guard,
as it were?  Of _course_ he was quoting Culroyd, who is still young
enough to imagine that whatever he does must be right and that every
one must do as he does.  Ever since Will was appointed to the staff
... I should have thought it stood to reason; you keep the _brains_
of the army to direct the war, and the _other_ people...  I won't put
it even as strongly as that, but there _must_ be a division of
labour.  My Lord Culroyd seems to think that any one who has _not_
run away from school and enlisted...  Sometimes I have been hard put
to it to keep the peace when they have been on leave at the same
time.  But I could not allow Brackenbury to make himself a ruler and
a judge...

"Is it not enough," I said, "that you have refused the last request I
may ever make?  Is it necessary to add slander to ungraciousness?"

"Oh, keep cool, Ann, keep cool," said Brackenbury with his usual
elegance.  "From all accounts you ain't going to die yet awhile; and,
if you do, Master Will won't be any worse off in pocket.  He can earn
his living as well as another.  I'll promise you this, though; if he
gets smashed up in the war, I'll see that he don't starve, but that's
the limit of my responsibility.  Now, does _that_ set your mind at
rest?"

I refused to continue the discussion and sank back on my pillows.

"What," I said, "what have I done to deserve this?"...

And it was I who found Ruth for him...

Do you know, after that, it was on the tip of my tongue to say I
could not see Spenworth?  He had made such a pother about coming up
from Cheniston...  If _your_ brother-in-law were faced with an
operation and begged to have what would perhaps be his last word with
you ... and if, through no fault of yours, there had been unhappy
differences in the past...  The nurse came in to say that he had
arrived, and I felt that I must make an effort, whatever it cost me.
He was worse than Brackenbury!  What they said to each other outside
I do not profess to know; but Spenworth came in, bawling in that
hunting-field voice of his...  Ah, of course, you do not know him!  I
assure you, it goes through and through one's head...  I begged him
to spare me; and, when I had quieted him, I referred very briefly to
our estrangement, which, I told him, was occasioned solely by my
efforts to do what in me lay to promote peace in the family.  Poor
Kathleen ... betrayed and neglected; the licentiousness of life at
Cheniston--eating, drinking, smoking, gambling, racing; those four
_unhappy_ girls...  A _pagan_ household...

"But," I said, "I do not want to disinter old controversies.  If I
have failed in achievement, you must judge me on my intentions.
Lying here, though I am not a nervous woman, I have been compelled to
think of the uncertainty of life.  Let us, Spenworth," I said, "bury
the hatchet.  If anything happens to me, you must be our rock and
anchor.  You are the head of the family; Arthur is your brother; Will
is your nephew--"

"No fault of mine," growled Spenworth in a way that set everything
trembling.  He is obsessed by the idea that rudeness is the same
thing as humour.  "What's he been up to now?"

"He has been 'up to' nothing, as you call it," I said.  "But I should
face my operation with an easier mind if I knew that Will's future
was assured.  _When_ the war is over and _if_ he is spared, it is
_essential_ that he should have independent means of _some_ kind.  It
is pitiable that a man in his position...  Do you not feel it--your
own nephew?  With the present prices, a thousand a year is little
enough; but Arthur can do nothing to _increase_ his directorships;
and if my poor guidance and support are withdrawn--'

"What _is_ supposed to be the matter with you?" Spenworth interrupted.

"I can hardly discuss that with _you_," I said.

"Well, Brackenbury told me--and Arthur told Brackenbury--," he began.

"Arthur and Brackenbury know nothing about it," I said.  "For some
time I have not been well, and it seemed worth the unavoidable risk
of an operation if I might hope for greater strength and comfort.
But I could not go under the anæsthetic with an easy mind if I felt
that I had in any way omitted to put my house in order.  Between us,"
I said, "bygones will be bygones.  Will you not give me the
satisfaction of knowing that, if we do not meet again, I am safe in
leaving Arthur and my boy to your care?  You _are_ the head of the
family.  Can my boy's future not be _permanently_ assured--here and
now?"

I was not bargaining or haggling; it was a direct appeal to his
generosity...  Spenworth hummed and hawed for a while; then he said:

"I don't feel very much disposed to do anything more for that young
man."

"_More?_," I echoed.

"Well, I paid up once," he said.  "Arthur never told you, I suppose?
Well, it was hardly a woman's province.  I was acting _then_ as head
of the family ... about the time when you thought fit to criticize me
very frankly..."

I had no more idea what he was talking about than the man in the moon!

"Spenworth!  I must beg for enlightenment," I said.

"Oh, we'll let bygones be bygones," he answered.  "The case was never
brought to trial.  But, as long as I'm likely to be called on to wipe
up little messes of that kind, I'd sooner make a sinking-fund, to
provide against emergencies, than pay Will money to get into more
mischief and then have to stump up again."

_More_ explicit than that he declined to be....

"Then," I said, "you repudiate all responsibility to your own flesh
and blood?  Whether I live or die, this is a request I shall never
repeat."

"Oh, we'll see how things go," he answered.  "You may not be as bad
as you think.  If I find Will starving at the end of the war, I'd
undertake to pay his passage to Australia and give him a hundred a
year to stay there..."

Until you know my brother-in-law, you cannot appreciate the
_refinement_ of his humour....

"Let us," I said, "discuss this no further."

You have probably observed that a man is never content with being
_thoroughly_ ungenerous; he must always try to justify himself.

"You know," he began, very importantly, "you wouldn't have half so
much trouble with that fellow, if you'd licked him a bit more when he
was younger..."

This from _Spenworth_!

"Who," I asked, "who made thee a ruler and a judge?"

And then, truly honestly, I had to beg him to leave me in order that
I might compose myself....

Compose myself!

To shew you how unnerved I had become, I wrote down something which I
had never _breathed_ to Arthur or Will.  We have always been so poor
that I had dreaded an emergency, a sudden illness, for which I should
be unable to provide.  In Mount Street we are positive _Spartans_!
Well, from the day of Will's birth I have pinched and scraped,
scraped and pinched, _trying_ to put something by...  A little
nest-egg...  Thirty years--nearly.  I have never dared invest it, in
case _something_ happened.  It lies at the bank--in a separate
account--ready at a moment's notice.  When I was so ill four years
ago, did I touch it?  But before my operation--in case anything
happened--I told Will the _amount_ and how I had arranged for him to
be able to draw on it.  What I tell _you_ is told to the grave; I
have torn up the letter; they _still_ do not know; but, when I _saw_
the amount, I was truly tempted to say "Well done, thou good and
faithful servant" ... I have lost the thread....

Ah, yes!  I was saying that my nerve had entirely _gone_...  I was so
much exhausted that I fell into some kind of trance.  Goodness knows
the thousand and one things that go to make up a dream...
Opposites...  All that sort of thing...  I dreamt most wonderfully
about Will and--I wonder if you can guess?  Phyllida!  They have been
brought up together--cousins!  She is young, high-spirited, very,
_very_ attractive; and, thanks to Brackenbury's marriage, she is
well-dowered...  I said to myself in the dream "If she could marry
happily some one in her own station..."  And then I seemed to see her
with Will...  It was but a phantasy.  I should do nothing to
encourage it, I am not at all sure that I even approve...

Alas for reality!  Phyllida came and bullied me for my
"interference." ... But I told you about that.  And, the day before
the operation, Arthur asked whether I really thought it was
necessary.  Like that!  At the eleventh hour!

"I don't trust these surgeons," he said.  "They _make_ operations."

At first I was _touched_...

"Dear Arthur," I said, "I am not doing this for my amusement."

"Oh, of course not!," he answered.  "All the same, I wish it could be
avoided.  And, if it can't be avoided, I wish you'd kept more quiet
about it.  I don't know what you said to Spenworth and Brackenbury,
but they're making the deuce's own tale of it."

I begged him to enlighten me.

"Well," said Arthur, "Spenworth says that you pretended to be at
death's door in order to force him to make a settlement on Will and
that he might have consented if he hadn't happened to know that you'd
said the same thing to Brackenbury five minutes before.  About being
the head of the family and all that sort of thing.  You know, Ann, it
_does_ make us look just a little bit ridiculous."

You assure me you have seen neither Brackenbury nor Ruth?  I just
wondered who was privileged to hear this "deuce's own tale" ... I can
hardly ask you to believe it; but I do assure you that this is the
solemn truth; those two men were seeking to convince themselves that
I was _pretending_ to be ill in order to work on their susceptible
emotions!  They seem to have had the good taste to keep their little
joke for home consumption, but you may be sure they made merry with
Ruth and Kathleen about me...  _Too_ merry, perhaps; I can only think
it was conscience that made Ruth offer to pay for the operation.  Or
perhaps it was curiosity...  I wonder what their feelings would have
been if anything _had_ gone amiss...

No, I am thankful to say there was no hitch of any kind.  The
anæsthetic was administered, I heard that hammer, hammer, hammer--and
then voices _very_ far away.  It was all over!  That was the
preliminary examination.  Then I was subjected to that too wonderful
X-ray light and saw myself as a black skeleton with a misty-grey
covering of flesh, one's wedding-ring standing out like a black bar
round one's finger.  _Too_ marvellous.  I do _believe_ in this
science...

But not so marvellous as what followed.  Dr. Richardson congratulated
me, and I had to beg for enlightenment.

"It will not be necessary," he said, "to operate after all.  The
symptoms are exactly as you described them, but a little treatment,
principally massage..."

And that is why I am still here, though I hope to be allowed up on
Friday.  But lying in bed makes one so absurdly weak!  What I have
told you is for your ears alone.  It would be altogether too much of
a triumph for Spenworth.  Instead of feeling any thankfulness that I
had been spared the knife, he would only say...  Well, you can
imagine it even from the very imperfect sketch that I have given you.
No, I am assured that massage makes the operation wholly unnecessary;
and I am already feeling much, much better.  If I have not taken the
whole world into my confidence, it is partly because I detest this
modern practice of discussing one's inside ("wearing one's stomach on
one's sleeve," as Will rather naughtily describes it) and partly
because I am altogether too humble-minded to fancy that the entire
world is interested in my private affairs.  When the princess asked
"How did the operation go off?," I said "Excellently, thank you,
ma'am."  And that was what all the papers published.  It was not
worth while telling her that the operation was found to be
unnecessary.  I am not of those who feel obliged to trumpet forth
that Mrs. Tom Noddy has left Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or
Eastbourne for Gloucester Place.  As Tennyson says, "Again--who
wonders and who cares?"

At the same time--I loathe Americanisms and I do conscientiously try
to express myself in what I may call the English of educated society;
we do not seem to have any literary equivalent for "mentality," so I
must ask you to pardon the neologism--will you, to _oblige_ me, try
to imagine the "mentality" of Spenworth and Brackenbury?  The
sister-in-law of one, the sister of the other; _casting_ about in her
resourceful mind to discover any means of softening their hard
hearts; clapping hand to forehead; exclaiming "I have it!"; retiring
to bed; summoning the relations; making frantic appeal; exacting
death-bed promises...

Truly honestly, I don't think we have come to that yet...

And those two men have an hereditary right...  Thank goodness,
neither of them knows where the House of Lords _is_!  There are
moments when I feel _very_ nearly a radical...

But you agree that they are hardly the people I should wish to
discuss my operation with.  And whatever I have said to you has of
course been said in confidence.




II

LADY ANN SPENWORTH REPUDIATES ALL RESPONSIBILITY

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): But this is as
delightful as it is unexpected!  If we only have the carriage to
ourselves...  I often say that a first-class ticket is the merest
snare and delusion; during the war it has exposed one to a new
order--I've no doubt they are very _brave_ and so forth and so on,
but that sort of thing ought to be kept for the trenches.  One
doesn't want to travel with it, one certainly doesn't want to live
with it...

At least _I_ don't.  There's no accounting for tastes, as my poor
niece Phyllida has been shewing.  You are going to Brackenbury, of
course?  Every one _does_ by this train.  In the old days my father
enjoyed the privilege of being able to stop every train that ran
through Brackenbury station; he held property on both sides of the
line and was a director for very many years.  One said a word to the
guard--they were a very civil lot of men--, and that was literally
all.  My brother has allowed that to lapse, like everything else; and
you now have to come by the four-twenty or not at all.

I should have thought the Brackenbury parties were difficult enough
without giving everybody a gratuitous two hours in the train to grow
tired of everybody else.  My sister-in-law Ruth has other qualities,
no doubt, but she will not go down to history as one of the great
English hostesses...  It's not surprising, perhaps; but, if you're
not born to that sort of thing, wouldn't you make an effort to
_acquire_ it?  There must be brains of _some_ kind in the family, or
the father could never have made all that money.  I always felt a
certain responsibility about Ruth; Brackenbury _had_ to marry some
one with a _little_ money, and, knowing the _sort_ of girl he'd fancy
if I gave him half a chance...  I was fourteen years older and knew
something of poor Brackenbury's limitations; when I met Ruth Philpot
and found that the money _did_ come from quite a respectable shipping
firm in Hull, I said: "Marry her, my dear boy, before you have a
chance of making a greater fool of yourself."   And I told him I'd do
what I could for her; little hints, you understand...  I'm afraid
poor Ruth was not a very apt pupil; and Brackenbury, who never had
_any_ sense of his position, was a mere broken reed.  "Assert
yourself!," I used to say.  "If _you_ don't absorb _her_, she'll
absorb _you_."  That is the only occasion on which I have ever
interfered in matters of the heart, either to guide or check; I look
at Ruth Brackenbury and say to myself: "Ann Spenworth, you have your
lesson ever before you."  I would not urge or hinder now, even with
my own son.  Phyllida may try to fix responsibility on me, but I
repudiate it--entirely.  In the present instance I feel that it is,
once again, the sins of the parents...  As I felt it my duty to tell
them, there wouldn't have been a moment's trouble with Phyllida, if
she had been brought up differently...

I?  Goodness me, no!  Many, many things will have to be unsaid before
Brackenbury induces me to set foot in his house again.  _You_ know
whether I am the woman to stand on my dignity, but, when one's niece
writes one letters in the third person...  Indeed I know what I am
talking about!  "_Lady Phyllida Lyster presents her compliments to
Lady Ann Spenworth and is not interested in any explanation that Lady
Ann may think fit to put forward._"  These are the manners of the
war.  From the very first I urged Brackenbury not to let her work in
that hospital; _some_ one had to go, of _course_; I'm not so foolish
as to think that a hospital would run itself without hands, but why
Phyllida?  And, goodness me, if they couldn't stop her, they might
have made a few enquiries, exercised _some_ little control...
Christine Malleson is very energetic and capable, no doubt, but you
would hardly look for standards or traditions in _her_; however, she
and my Lady Maitland and the rest seem able to carry people off their
feet by sheer violence.  Now Ruth and Brackenbury are paying for it.
And, of course, poor Aunt Ann is to blame for everything.  For the
present I think it's best to leave them severely alone.  One tries to
do what seems to be one's duty; one puts up with a great many
rebuffs; but in the end people must be left, in the homely old
phrase, to stew in their own juice...

I'm really not sure how much is supposed to be known.  Phyllida will
no doubt tell you her side, simply as a means of attacking me.  She
works herself into such a state!  I told Brackenbury that he ought to
send her away for a complete change...  I'm sick and tired of the
whole thing; I'm _sure_ it contributed to my illness; but, if it is
going to be discussed, you'd better hear the truth.  The whole time
she was working at the hospital, Phyllida did me the honour to make
my house her own; and, if I questioned my own wisdom, it was because
of Will.  He would be home on leave from time to time; and, perhaps
on account of a curious dream which I had about them at the time of
my operation, I was not at all sure that I wanted to see the intimacy
increasing; when he marries, it will have to be some one with a
_little_ money, but I do not want to lose him yet and I cannot feel
that Phyllida is very suitable...  You can imagine, therefore,
whether I should be likely to scheme or contrive to throw them into
each other's arms; to _intrigue_ to get rivals out of the way...  I
have lost the thread.

Ah, yes!  Phyllida!  Now, I chose my words carefully: "making my
house her own," not "staying in my charge."  When I went into the
nursing-home, I _tackled_ Brackenbury...

"Please understand," I said, "that I accept no responsibility.  The
child goes to and from the hospital _when_ she likes, _how_ she
likes.  I know nothing of the people with whom she associates there;
and, if you like the idea of her coming in at all hours from theatres
and dances, I suppose it's all right.  But I can't stop her," I said;
"I feel it my duty to tell you I can't stop her."

Brackenbury made some foolish rejoinder about Phyllida's head being
screwed on tight or her heart being in the right place.  (In that
family they _express_ themselves so uncouthly.  Goodness me, one need
not be a blue-stocking to realize that English _has_ a certain
dignity.)  She was only doing what every other girl did, he said...
I'm as democratic as any one, but I wondered what our _father_ would
have said to the doctrine that his daughter might do a thing simply
because everybody else was doing it...

You know this Colonel Butler, perhaps?  (It's only brevet-rank; if he
stays on in the army, he reverts to full lieutenant only.)  I'll
confess at once that I liked him.  When he was convalescent, Phyllida
brought him to luncheon one day in Mount Street, and I thought him a
decent, manly young fellow.  I understand he comes from the west of
England; and that, perhaps, accounts for the accent which I thought I
detected; or, of course, he may simply have been not altogether at
ease.  (When I commented on it afterwards to Phyllida, she insisted
that he was very badly shaken by his wound and the three
operations...  I think that was the first time I suspected anything;
she championed him so very warmly.)  I liked him--frankly.  Some one
quite early in the war said something about "temporary officers" and
"temporary gentlemen"--it was very naughty, but so true!--; I said to
my boy Will, when Colonel Butler was gone:

"If they were all like _him_, the army might be proud of them."

"All I've met _are_ like him," said Phyllida, "only of course not so
much so."

I was struggling to find a meaning--Phyllida expresses herself almost
as carelessly as her poor mother, but with hardly her mother's
excuse--, when she began to pour out a catalogue of his virtues: he
had won a Military Cross and a Distinguished Service Order with a
bar, he was the youngest colonel in the army, I don't know what else.

"Who are his people?," I asked.

A name like Butler is so very misleading; it may be all right--or it
may not.

"I _really_ don't know," said Phyllida, "and, what's more, I don't
care..."

She was prattling away, but I thought it time to make one or two
enquiries.  I remember saying to poor Ruth--I forget in what
connection; life is one long succession of these needless, irritating
little encounters--I remember saying that Phyllida was in the
position of a girl with no mother.  It's not that Ruth and
Brackenbury aren't _fond_ of her, but they take no trouble...  I
asked what our young paragon's regiment was, and you'll hardly
believe me if I tell you that it was one I had never heard of.  Will
knew, of course, but then, on the staff, these things are brought to
your notice...

"And what is he in civil life?," I asked.

Phyllida didn't know.  His father, I think she told me, was a
surveyor, and she presumed that he intended to be a surveyor too.
And an excellent profession, I should imagine, with the big estates
being broken up and the properties changing hands everywhere.
Brackenbury had an offer for the Hall--some wealthy contractor...  I
couldn't help smiling to think how our father would have dealt with
him.  Brackenbury let him off far too lightly, I thought, and tried
to justify himself to me by saying that it was a very tempting
offer...  As if _they_ needed money...

I had made up my mind at the outset to do nothing precipitate.  The
war has made girls quite dangerously romantic, and any opposition
might have created--artificially--a most undesirable attachment.  I
knew that Phyllida had these young officers through her hands in
dozens; and, though I was naturally anxious, I knew that in a few
weeks or months our paragon would be back in Flanders or
Devonshire--out of Christine Malleson's hospital, at all events.  I
commended my spirit, so to say...

He came to call--Colonel Butler did.  I so little expected him--or
any one else, for that matter; the war _has_ done that for us--that
I'd given no orders, and he was shewn up.  Norden--you remember him?
They took him for the army, though I wrote a personal letter to the
War Office...  A man with varicose veins and three small children...
Norden would have known better, but I'd no one but maids, who don't
_know_ and don't _care_...  Colonel Butler was shewn up, still not
quite at ease, and I made myself as gracious as possible.  D'you
know, I thought it quite dear of him?  His mother had told him that
he must always call at any house where he'd had a meal--even
luncheon, apparently, in war-time; as Will said, when I told him, I'm
glad there aren't many wild mothers like that, roaming at large...
He sat and talked--quite intelligently; I want to give him his due--;
I rang for tea...  He hadn't learned the art of _going_...  We got on
famously until he began speaking of Phyllida; the first time it was
"your niece," then almost at once "Phyllida."  I said "_Lady_
Phyllida"--I must have said it three times, but he was quite
impervious.  Then Phyllida came in and openly called him "Hilary."
... They were dining together, it seemed, and going to a play.  I try
to conceal my palæolithic remains in dealing with Phyllida, but I
_did_ say "By yourselves?"  Oh, yes, the most natural thing in the
world...  I reminded her that Will was home on leave, but the hint
was not taken.  Off they went...

If I were not very fond of Phyllida, I shouldn't take so much trouble
about her...  And I always have to remember that Ruth is too busy
painting and powdering ever to think of her own daughter.  I suppose
she feels that her looks are the only thing that keeps Brackenbury
enslaved...  What was I saying?  Oh, about poor Phyllida.  It is to
_my_ credit that I insisted on a proper settlement when Brackenbury
was mooning about like a love-sick boy; she has four thousand when
she's of age and she'll have another three when the parents
die--enough, you will agree, to tempt some men.  I happened to
mention at dinner that this Colonel Butler had called, and Will
became greatly concerned.  It was quite disinterested, because I have
always felt that, if he ever dropped the handkerchief, I could make a
good guess who would pick it up.  Will quite clearly thought, with
me, that Colonel Butler was in earnest and that poor Phyllida was
slipping into his toils...

An opportunity came to me two or three days before my operation.
Phyllida--she was quite brazen about it--admitted that she had dined
with her hero four times in one week.  That was on a Saturday; I'm
glad to say that she hasn't become democratic enough to go to these
picture-houses, and there was nothing to do on Sunday.  I told her
she might ask Colonel Butler to dine with us.  And, when he came, I
took occasion to speak rather freely to him.

"I can't help seeing," I said, "that you are very intimate with my
niece."

"Oh, I'm devoted to Phyllida," he answered.

"_Then_," I said, "you'd cut your hand off before you did anything to
make people talk about her."

And then I rehearsed these dinners and plays...

"It's not my business," I said.  "Phyllida regards me as a
lodging-house keeper, but, if your intentions are honourable, I think
you should make them known to my brother, Lord Brackenbury." ..

Well, then he became nervous and sentimental.  He wouldn't compromise
Phyllida for the world; he'd every intention of speaking to
Brackenbury when the time came, but as long as he was living on his
pay and the war went on...  _You_ can imagine it.  He was quite
sincere.  I told you I liked him; the only thing was that I didn't
think him quite suitable for Phyllida.  Upbringing, _milieu_...  He
was no fool; I felt he'd see it for himself before he'd been at the
Hall half an hour...

To cut a long story short, I made him promise to hold no more
communication with the child until he'd seen Brackenbury; and I told
my brother to invite him there for a weekend.  I didn't see very much
of what happened, as I left the young people to themselves; but Will
entirely bore out the vague, intangible feeling...  Poor Colonel
Butler _wasn't_ at home; he made my boy's life a burden for days
beforehand, asking what clothes he should take, and, when they were
there, it was "I've been away so much that I don't know what the
tariff is since the war: if I give ten shillings to the man who looks
after me, how much ought I to give the butler?" ... Things I should
have thought a man knew without asking.  Will was really rather
naughty about it...

Brackenbury didn't see anything amiss.  One's standard changes when
one has done that sort of thing oneself.  As I always said, "If you
don't absorb her, she'll absorb you."  And so it's proved.  Ruth, of
course, saw only the _romance_ of it all.  Goodness me, unless we're
all twins, _some_ one has to be the youngest colonel in the army...
I don't know what people mean nowadays, when they talk about
"romance." .. Brackenbury and the whole family made the absurdest
fuss--well, I won't say that, because I liked young Butler; they made
a great fuss.  Even my nephew Culroyd, who's in the Coldstream, was
quite affable; "eating out of his hand" was Will's phrase.  _So_
descriptive, I thought; Will has an extraordinary knack of hitting
people off...

None of them seemed to think of the money side at all.  Brackenbury
was always improvident as a boy; but, until you've felt the pinch as
Will and I have done, you don't learn anything about values.  Four
thousand a year _sounds_ very pleasant, but if it's now only equal to
_two_...  And Phyllida has always lived up to anything she's had.  "I
want it, therefore I must have it" has been her rule.  Clothes,
trinkets, little treats...  She has four horses, eating their heads
off, while my poor Will says he stands hat in hand before any one
who'll mount him.  And her own little car...  I know a brick wall
when I see one; it was no use asking Phyllida whether she thought she
could afford a husband as well as everything else.  And a family; one
has to look ahead...  Colonel Butler wouldn't be earning anything for
years.

He told me so.  I liked him more and more, because he was so simple
and straightforward.  After luncheon on the Saturday, we had a long
talk together.  I think I said I'd shew him the house.  As you know,
I yield to no one in my love for the dear old Hall, but Colonel
Butler was like a child.  You'd have said he'd never been inside a
big house before; I don't believe he ever had...  I took him
everywhere, even Phyllida's rooms; it was well for him to _see_, I
felt...

I remember he thanked me for having him invited to the Hall; from his
tone you'd have said I was playing fairy god-mother, and he credited
_me_ with the very friendly reception that every one had given him.
If the truth must be known--I wasn't taking sides; you must
understand that!--I wanted _them_ to see and I wanted _him_ to see...
As Will once said, "Half the world doesn't know how the other half
lives."  _I_ felt that, when Colonel Butler stood there, everything
sinking in.  A man, I suppose, always is rather bewildered at the
number of things a girl requires--frocks, gloves, hats, shoes,
stockings...  You mustn't think that I shewed him Phyllida's
wardrobe!  Goodness me, no!  But her maid was in the room, getting
things ready for the child's return from hunting.  It was almost
pathetic; one could fancy the poor young man counting on his fingers
and saying: "She _must_ have as good a room as this, she'll want to
keep on her present maid, I don't suppose she can even prepare a bath
for herself or fasten her dress or brush her hair..."  But it's
better for that kind of thing to sink in at the beginning...
Wherever I took him, he seemed to be saying: "You can't do this sort
of thing without _so_ many servants, _so_ much a year." .. Will told
me that the first night at dinner...  But I'm afraid Will's naughty
sometimes...

He thanked me--Colonel Butler did--in a way that suggested I hadn't
shewn him _only_ the house.

"But I've enjoyed it," I said.  "I'm only sorry you weren't able to
go out with the rest."

He told me he didn't hunt, he'd never had any opportunity.  There was
quite a list of things he didn't do, but he was very simple and
straightforward about them.  Don't you dislike that _aggressive_
spirit which compels people to tell you how many they slept in one
room and the night-schools they attended and so forth and so on?  It
makes me quite hot.  I believe that's why they do it...  There was
nothing of that about Colonel Butler, though the army had made him a
little _borné_.  When I took him to see the stables, he shewed a
certain sentimental interest in Phyllida's horses; but his only
comment was: "I wish we were given beasts like that in the army."
And it was the army in everything that he ate or read.  Phyllida, as
you know, has travelled more than most girls of her age; she wouldn't
like to drop that altogether on marrying; but, if you said "Egypt" to
Colonel Butler, it was simply a place where he'd been invalided the
first time he was wounded at Gallipoli.  The war seems to make some
men curiously material...  You understand I'm not criticizing him as
a soldier; I'm sure he did excellent and useful work, but the war is
only an _episode_ in our lives...

At tea he was so silent that I felt it was all sinking in very deep.
At the end he said:

"Lady Ann, may I ask your advice?  You are a woman of the world----"

"Goodness me, no!," I said.  "Thirty years ago I may have counted for
something there; but now I live under my own little vine and
fig-tree; I see no one; I'm out of touch; you'd find me very
old-fashioned, I fear."

"You've been very kind to me," he said, "and I want you to add to
your kindness.  I'm in love with Phyllida, as you know; and she--I
think she quite likes me.  Lord Brackenbury and every one here have
been simply ripping.  Please tell me what you think about it."

"Do you mean, will she marry you?," I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Oh, I should think it very likely," I told him; "I wondered whether
you meant, would you make her _happy_?"

"I should certainly hope to do that," he answered.

"We all _hope_," I said...

_My_ responsibility is confined to giving him a moment's pause for
thought.  Phyllida will tell you that I set him against her, poisoned
his mind, I shouldn't wonder...  It's most charitable to recognize
that she really did not know what she was saying.  I didn't talk
about _him_ at all; I talked about Will, about my nephew Culroyd,
their friends, their lives...  Any deductions were of _his_ drawing;
and, goodness me, one need not be branded a snob for seeing that they
had been born and bred in different worlds.  He seemed to think that
_love_ would overcome everything.

"If you're in _love_," he kept saying, "these things don't matter, do
they?"

What made him uncomfortable was the money question--the thought that
he would be bringing literally nothing.  I was most careful not to
say anything, but every child knows that if you divide a sum of money
by two...  He _would_ be living on Phyllida; and, if he loved her as
much as he pretended, he would always be feeling: "It's a frock for
her or a suit of clothes for me."  A very humiliating position for
any man...  I know it's the modern fashion to pretend that it doesn't
matter; Phyllida says in so many words that the advantage of money to
a girl is that she can marry where her heart leads her.  A snare and
a delusion, unless you mean that a woman with money and nothing else
can occasionally buy herself _position_...  I'm sure she picked that
up from her poor mother.  But, if Brackenbury married on his debts,
he _did_ bring _something_; I know we all had to work very hard for
Ruth--"doing propaganda," as my boy Will says--to shew people that
the marriage was _all right_...  And it will be the same with Will,
if he ever marries...  Who_ever_ he marries...  He _does_ bring
_something_...

Colonel Butler asked if people would think Phyllida had thrown
herself away on him.  What could I say? ... But for the war, he told
me, he _would_ be earning his own living; and, do you know?, that was
the only time the cloven hoof appeared.

"We've all of us had to make sacrifices," I answered, "and the war
ought not to be made either an excuse or--an opportunity."

Goodness me, you don't suppose my boy Will _enjoyed_ the fatigues,
the dangers...  The general was utterly callous towards his staff;
but Will "stuck it out", as he would say.  It was the soldier's part,
and Colonel Butler knew as well as I did that it was only the war and
the accident of being wounded that had thrown him across Phyllida's
path.

"What do you mean by 'opportunity', Lady Ann?," he asked.

It was not easy to put into words...  I sometimes feel that romance
has gone to the head of some of our girls; first of all, a man had
only to be in uniform, then he had only to be wounded...  I _liked_
Colonel Butler, but in the old days Phyllida would not have looked at
him...  And, goodness me, if you go back a generation, you can
imagine what my father would have said if a man, however pleasant,
with nothing but his pay and the clothes he stood up in...  A soldier
only by the _accident_ of war...  And in a regiment one had truly
honestly never heard of...

"I don't feel I can help you," I said.  "Times have changed, and my
ideas are out of date.  My brother may be different; have you spoken
to him?" ...

As a matter of fact any woman could have seen that it wasn't
necessary to speak; Brackenbury, all of them were throwing themselves
at the young man's head.  That's why I felt that, if _I_ didn't--give
him a pause for reflection, _no_ one would.  No, he hadn't said
anything yet; it seemed such presumption that, though every one was
gracious to him and Phyllida more than gracious, he wanted an outside
opinion from some one whom he was good enough to call "a woman of the
world."  Was he justified in saying anything while his financial
prospects were so uncertain?  Was it fair to ask Phyllida to give up
so much of the life she was accustomed to?  Would people think he was
trying to marry her for her money?  Was he entitled to ask her to
wait?

I said...  Phyllida was not present, you understand, so anything she
tells you _can_ only be the fruit of a disordered imagination.  If
Brackenbury sent her right away, the whole thing would be forgotten
in two months...  I really forget what I _did_ say...

At dinner I could see that Colonel Butler was pondering my advice.
At least, when I say "advice", the limit of my responsibility is that
perhaps the _effect_ of our little talk was to check his natural
impetuosity.  Things were sinking in; his own good sense, more than
anything I should have dared to say...  Phyllida came down arrayed
with quite unnecessary splendour--we were only the family and Colonel
Butler.  "Poor child," I thought to myself, "you fancy you're
attracting him when you're only frightening the shy bird away; you
imagine he's admiring your frock when he's only wondering how much it
cost."  It was sinking in...  If poor Ruth wanted her to throw
herself away on a penniless surveyor, she might have told her that
_simplicity_ was the note to strike.  Phyllida won't think for
herself, and Ruth is incapable of thinking for her.  Good gracious!
at dinner the child sat between Colonel Butler and my boy Will; I
don't encourage any girl to become a minx, but no man thinks the
better of you for throwing yourself at his head.  A little distance,
a little indifference; until a man's jealous, he doesn't know he's in
love.  She proved my point that night, both my points; Will was
furious--and with reason--at being so uncivilly neglected; and the
young paragon ... he was simply sated.  When the telegram arrived...

But I thought Phyllida would have told you about that; she has been
so--immodestly candid.  He returned to London next day, saying he'd
received a wire overnight.  I met him the following week, and he told
me.  Simple and straightforward as ever...  He wanted to know how
Phyllida was; had Lady Brackenbury thought him very rude?  It was one
thing or the other, he said: he could ask Phyllida to marry him or he
could go right away and forget about her ...  until he had something
more to offer, I think he said...  You and I know what _that_ means.
He was greatly upset and begged me to write occasionally when he was
back at the front, just to tell him how Phyllida was; he wouldn't
write to her himself, he said, because he wanted to leave her
unembarrassed and it would be too painful for him.

"If she's still unmarried when I've made good," he said, "it will be
time to begin writing then."

I suppose it was because Phyllida had never been in love before...  I
was ready to make allowances, but I was _not_ prepared for the
outburst, the extravagance, the self-indulgence of grief.

"Come, come, my dear!," I said, "it would have been a very unsuitable
match; and, if you haven't the sense to realize it, he has."

She turned on me like a fury...  I don't know what was in his letter
of good-bye; but I suppose it was the usual romantic promise that
he'd go away and make his fortune and then come back to claim her.
(Good riddance, too, I thought; though I _liked_ him.)  Phyllida
evidently treated it quite seriously...

"If he'd been mine for a week or a day..." she kept sobbing.  "I know
he'll be killed." ..

Well, he wasn't the only man in the world, but nothing that I could
say was right...

"I think he behaved very properly," I said.  "He did me the honour to
ask my advice; and, if I see him again, I shall tell him so."

Then the flood-gates were opened.  I--tell--you--as I tried to tell
her, but she wouldn't let me speak--that I _gave_ no advice; I wanted
him to proceed with caution, but I never even told him to wait and
think...  He did it entirely on his own initiative.  What he quite
rightly saw was that he could not take advantage of a young girl's
infatuation to marry her for her money.  Phyllida really shocked me
with the things she said, but I'm old enough to have learnt patience;
it will not be very long before she begs my pardon and admits that
perhaps a certain measure of wisdom may be conceded to age...  In the
meantime I prefer not to mix myself up in the broils and wrangles
that seem a daily feature of life at the Hall.  One makes a certain
effort; and, after that, one has to leave people, in the homely old
phrase, to stew in their own juice...  I need hardly tell you that
Brackenbury took her side.  And poor Ruth, though I've learnt not to
expect too much of Ruth after all these years.  If, for curiosity's
sake, you ask them what I am supposed to have done, I should be
deeply interested to know what they say.  I have nothing but praise
for the young man.  When you are in the army, one private is as good
as another; in hospital, you are a name, a bed, a case.  That is so
fine, I always think; it makes this truly a _people's_ war.  Colonel
Butler would have gone to the Hall sooner or later without any
prompting from me; and, once there, it was impossible for a man of
any intelligence to pretend that there were no differences...  It is
so hard for me to put it into words without seeming a snob, but _you_
understand what I mean...

You will find my boy Will there.  He never seems to come home without
picking up a cold, and the doctor has very sensibly recommended that
he should be given an extension of leave.  I was _not_ very much set
on his going, I admit.  Goodness me, any silly little ill-bred things
that Phyllida may pick up from her poor mother are forgotten as soon
as they are said; I have no need to stand on my dignity.  The sins of
the fathers...  Brackenbury _never_ checks her...  But you know what
a girl is when she has had a disappointment, we must both of us have
seen it a dozen times ... some sort of natural recoil.  If she throws
herself at Will's head...  With her money they'd have enough to live
on, of course, and young people ought to be very comfortable on four
thousand a year.  (It will be seven, when the parents die.)  One need
not look ahead to a family; but the grandfather, Ruth's father, would
not be illiberal.  But, though dear Will must marry some day, I dread
the time when I must lose him...




III

LADY ANN SPENWORTH TOUCHES RELUCTANTLY ON DIVORCE

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): I have been brought
up in a different school, that's all.  "Whom God hath joined..."  I
don't ask any one to share my feelings and I'm not so foolish as to
say I won't receive people who have taken a step which is at least
legal, however much one may deplore the present ease of divorce.  I
do indeed try to differentiate in my attitude towards the guilty
party, but in this I am more than ever "ploughing a lonely furrow,"
as my boy Will rather picturesquely expresses it...

Nowadays it is unfashionable to heed the teachings of religion; but I
should have thought that the least consideration for patriotism,
stability...  My father's maxim was that family life is the _basis_
of the state and that, when once you sanction the principle of
divorce, you are undermining the foundations of the commonwealth.  So
I have at least been consistent...

That is perhaps more important than you think.  The cynic cannot see
that one's principles are independent of personal considerations.  If
they ever have the ill fortune to coincide even in appearance...
Indeed yes!  I happen to know what I am talking about...  Forgive me
if I spoke sharply; but one's nerves are not of iron, and it is not
pleasant to be charged with conspiracy by the members of one's own
family.  Oh, not Spenworth!  We have hardly met for years, I am
thankful to say, though my husband has more than once tried to bring
about a reconciliation.  I have no personal animus; but, if the head
of an honoured family chooses to drag his name in the mire, he shall
at least not say that he has had countenance or support from even so
humble a person as his sister-in-law.  I was referring to the other
side, my own people; I have an unforgiving little enemy, I fear, in
my niece Phyllida; I should mind that less if Brackenbury and his
poor wife did not seem to aid and abet her.  Loyalty to the family, I
should have thought...  But, once again, I was brought up in a
different school.  I have told my brother, until I am tired, he ought
to send her _right_ away.  It was a disappointment...  Goodness me,
it is a disappointment when one cries for the moon; and, though I
thought this Colonel Butler a decent, manly fellow, he was really
nobody.  He saw, without my telling him, that every one would say he
was marrying her for her money...  I won't call it an _escape_ for
Phyllida, because that always sounds so spiteful.  But I will allow
no one to say I made him throw her over so that I might keep her for
my own boy!

I want you to tell me frankly how much you have heard.  _Literally_
nothing?  Then you _will_--the very next time you go to the Hall.
Not satisfied with inventing this abominable story, Phyllida feels it
her duty to inflict it upon any one who will listen.  But you must
have seen about the divorce?  Not even that?  Well, you are wise;
these things are unsavoury reading.  The case was tried in the
summer--"Spenworth's washing-day", as my boy called it--, and the
decree will be made absolute in a few weeks' time.

It is the fashion to say that my brother-in-law was more sinned
against than sinning.  Does not that formula always put you on your
guard, so to say?  He was a mere boy when he succeeded to the title;
an immense estate like Cheniston offered too many temptations; his
good looks made him a prey for all the harpies; he was too kindly
ever to say "no" even to the most dissolute of his associates.  And
so forth and so on...  Goodness me!  Arthur--my husband--was two
years younger; and, if his old father's iniquitous will did not leave
him enough money to tempt the hangers-on, at least he did not play
ducks and drakes with what he had.  It is more a question of
character than of income.  And Arthur had his share of good looks, as
you can see from Will.  No!  Whatever Spenworth did, he could always
buy indulgence.  Establish for yourself the reputation of "a good
fellow"--whatever that may mean--; and you will walk on roses all
your life...

One must assume that _he_ thought the marriage would be a success,
but I am sure no one else did.  I _knew_ Spenworth, you see.  It is
ancient history now, but it was only when I destroyed his last hope
by marrying Arthur that he turned in desperation to Kathleen Manorby
... after remaining disconsolate for nearly ten years.  For her and
her like my Will coined the description "chocolate-box beauty."  She
is still attractive after twenty years...  I tried to warn her, so
far as one could without having one's motives misconstrued; but she
was glamoured by the money and the title.  She had several offers, I
believe, from men rather more in her own _milieu_, but it was a case
of not being able to afford the luxury of marrying a poor man.
Otherwise her first love, young Laughton, who broke his heart over
her and transferred to the Indian Army...  I warned her that
Spenworth would be unfaithful before they had been married a year,
but she was too sure of her own charm and power.

Within a year!  Within three months...  Kathleen is a fool, but one
may feel for any woman who has had to put up with so many sordid
humiliations.  If she had borne him a son, it might have been
different, but one girl after another...  Four of them, and no heir
to Cheniston.  Superstitious people would tell you that it was a
judgement on Spenworth for his past life and on her for her treatment
of poor young Laughton...  And, little by little, Spenworth seemed to
lose all regard for human decency, until one was tempted to forget
poor Kathleen's disappointment and to feel that Providence had
decided that no son of his should ever reign in his stead.  I am
utterly free from superstition myself; but it did seem curious...
He, I fancy, never quite gave up hope; as I felt it my duty to tell
him, he was on such good terms with this world that he could not
imagine another world in which his behaviour might be less leniently
regarded.  When the _fourth_ girl was born and we realized that Will
_must_ ultimately succeed, I suggested that something might now be
done to enable our boy to live in a manner befitting the heir to an
historic title.  Spenworth gave one of his great laughs and begged me
to wait until he was dead before I cast lots for his raiment, adding
that he had no intention of dying yet awhile.  The usual blend of
arrogance and blasphemy...

Yes, my husband is the only brother.  It is a matter of rather less
than no interest to either of us, for Spenworth will last our time.
His constitution is proof against even his own assaults on it.
Besides, one would hate the idea of waiting to step into a dead man's
shoes...  So really the heir is Will, but _he_ is in no hurry;
Cheniston is a night-mare to him, he does not _desire_ the place.
Perhaps he dreads having to cleanse the Augean stable.  You have
never stayed there, of course; I can say without unkindness that,
wherever a naked savage could have made one error in taste, poor
Kathleen has made three...

It was Will who brought the news that a divorce was pending.  One
_guessed_ that Spenworth and Kathleen were living apart, but she had
let slip so many opportunities...  One asked oneself what new
provocation could have roused her.

"Oh, it's a put-up job," said Will.  "As Aunt Kathleen hasn't
produced a son, Spenworth wants to get free of her and marry some one
else.  A man at the club told me that he was allowing her twenty
thousand a year for his liberty."

Really and truly, the interest that total strangers take in other
people's affairs the moment that sinister word "divorce" is
pronounced...  Within two days the story was on every one's lips:
Spenworth was the one topic of conversation, and everything was
known.  I think it is called a petition for restitution.  Alas! for
twenty years it would always have been easy to produce evidence of
Spenworth's vagaries; now, I gathered, he was to "desert" Kathleen
and then refuse to obey some order to come back.  I don't profess to
understand the subject; it is wholly distasteful to me...

"And what then?," I asked.

"A decree _nisi_," Will told me.  "I gather my next aunt has been
chosen already."

I will not mention her name.  She who marries a man that has been put
away...  Perhaps I take too lofty a view of human nature, knowing my
brother-in-law as I do; but, until he _actually_ marries her, I shall
continue to look for a sign of grace.

"And now perhaps Cheniston is going to have an heir after all," said
Will.

I confess that I was thinking not at all of Cheniston at this season,
though a second marriage may revolutionize everything.  The shame of
seeing my husband's elder brother, the head of an historic family, in
the Divorce Court...  And already thinking of another union with
goodness knows who; and, once he begins, there is no reason why he
should ever stop.  I am told that there are more than two thousand
cases waiting to be tried.  The war!  I always felt that you could
not have an upheaval on that scale without paying for it afterwards.
There are moments when I feel glad that my dear father did not live
to see this _bouleversement_...  Mere beasts of the field...

"I cannot discuss this," I told Will.

My husband had heard the story too and was so much shocked that I
dared not allude to it.  We could _do_ nothing...

I _did_ make one effort.  I tried to persuade my brother to reason
with her.  The opinion of an outsider--and Brackenbury has the
reputation, not perhaps very well-founded, if you consider his own
life, of being a man of the world...  He would only say that, though
"dear old Spenworth" was "no end of a good fellow", he was also "no
end of a bad husband" and that, if Kathleen had had sense or spirit,
she'd have divorced him a dozen years ago.  Then, against my own
inclinations, I went to see Kathleen and literally begged her to
reconsider her decision before it was too late.  One might as
profitably have spoken to the dead...

She was not antagonistic in any way.  Indeed, our meeting would have
been profoundly interesting, if it had not been so painful.  She was
still in love with Spenworth.  Men like that, dissolute and
unfaithful, seem to have an animal magnetism which holds certain
women in complete subjection.  Kathleen was _miserable_ at the
thought of parting from her scamp of a husband.

"I couldn't do it if I didn't love him," she cried.

And, if you please, I was left to understand that she was effacing
herself, giving him up and making way for another woman simply
because she fancied that he would be happier.  I confess I should
have had little patience with her, if she had not been so pitiable.
Life was a blank without Spenworth.

"Then why," I asked, "do you cut your own throat and drag the name of
the family through the mire?  Have you _no_ sense of your position
after all these years, _no_ feeling for the rest of us?"

"It's for him," she said.

And I verily believe that, if he had told her literally to cut her
throat, she would have done it...

I have never been greatly attached to Kathleen.  These backboneless,
emotional women...  But I felt that _some_body must do _some_thing
for her.  She came to Mount Street, and I reasoned with her again; at
Cheniston I may be less than the dust, but under my own vine and
fig-tree...  In London I _have_ a certain _niche_ and I was bound to
warn her that a divorced woman is _mal vue_ in certain circles and
among certain persons who sometimes do me the honour to dine at my
house.  There would be occasions on which I should be unable to
invite her.  You would have said that she didn't care...  She was
staying with us when the case was tried; she stayed all through the
summer, four months.  No, you mustn't give me credit to which I'm not
entitled.  I felt very little sympathy when she proved obdurate; but,
if one _could_ do anything to brighten her lot...  I gave one or two
little parties...  Trying to take her out of herself.  To some extent
I succeeded.  Kathleen has still the remains of good looks, though
that fair fluffiness is not a type that I admire.  When I refused to
let her sit and mope in her room, she made an effort and assumed
quite an attractive appearance.  Several men were impressed...

There was one in particular.  I won't give you his name...  And yet I
don't know why I shouldn't; if Phyllida persuades you to listen to
her story, I am sure she will spare you nothing.  He was introduced
to me as Captain Laughton; and the name conveyed nothing to me until
some one reminded me of the old boy-and-girl attachment before
Kathleen married Spenworth, when this man Laughton pretended to be
heart-broken and disappeared to Central India.  They had not met for
twenty years, but, when he read of the divorce proceedings, I can
only assume that he sought her out.  Will met him at his club, I
think, and the man virtually invited himself to come and dine.  I was
not greatly enchanted by him at our first meeting, but he was a new
interest to Kathleen (I knew nothing until _days_ afterwards when I
tackled her about her really unaccountable behaviour with him)...
And I must confess that there were moments when poor Kathleen was a
grave trial and I repented my impetuosity in asking her to stay with
us.  Captain Laughton came a second time and a third.  By the end of
a month he had really done us the honour to make our house his own...

There are things I can say to you that I would never breathe to a
man.  I, personally, never make a mystery of my age; you will find it
in all the books, every one knows I am six years older than Arthur,
four years older than Spenworth--why conceal it?  I wished Kathleen
could have been equally frank, could have seen herself as I saw her.
She is within a few months of thirty-nine, with four strapping girls;
one does expect a certain dignity and restraint at that age.  I know
what you are going to say!  We of the older generation _usually_
expect more than we receive.  I have learnt that lesson, thank you!
Kathleen seemed to fancy that she was back in the period of this
boy-and-girl attachment to which I have alluded.  She and Captain
Laughton were inseparable.  He took her to _dances_ ... as if she
were eighteen!  Indecent, I considered it.  And I wondered what her
girls thought of their mother,--if they're capable of thinking at
all.  I don't associate _brains_ with that chocolate-box beauty...
Dances, dinners, little expeditions.  Every one was beginning to
smile...

"If she's not careful," Will said to me one day, "she'll cook her own
goose as well as Spenworth's."

I had to ask him to express his fears in simpler language.

"There _is_ such a person as a King's Proctor," he said, "though they
don't seem aware of it.  If she plays the fool with Laughton, the
decree won't be made absolute; and she and Spenworth will be tied to
each other for the rest of their lives.  That would hardly suit
_their_ book."

Do you ever feel that you have strayed into a new world?  The fact of
divorce...  And then this light-hearted pairing off: Spenworth with
some woman who had been setting her cap at him for years, Kathleen
with the love of her youth.  They had lost all reverence for
marriage, the family; it was a game, a dance--like that figure in the
lancers, where you offer your right hand first and then your left...
I made Will explain the whole position to me again and again until I
had it quite clear in my mind.  The King's Proctor, as he described
him--rather naughtily--, was "a licensed spoil-sport", who intervened
in cases where the divorce was being arranged by collusion or where
both parties had sinned.

"The office seems a sinecure," I commented.

Those two thousand petitions...  They stick in my throat.

"As a rule people don't take risks," Will explained.  "And it's not
often to the advantage of an outsider to come in and upset the
apple-cart.  You or the guv'nor or I," he said, "could do a lot of
mischief, if we liked; but we're interested parties, and it wouldn't
look well."

I confess that I did not share his tenderness towards what is nothing
but a life of premeditated sin...  Yes, I know it's _legal_, but
Parliament can make a thing legal without making it _right_.  The
whole subject, however, was very distasteful, and I did not pursue
it.  That night I let fall a hint to Arthur, but he was not disposed
to take any action.

"She's a bigger fool than I took her for," was all he would say.
"She's endangering her own future and Spenworth's and playing into
our hands if we chose to take advantage of our opportunity."

Whether Arthur spoke to her or not, I cannot say; but I know that she
received a very frank warning from her own solicitors.  Spenworth,
too, did us the honour to write and say: "_For heaven's sake keep
that_--" I forget the actual phrasing--"_keep that man away from
Katie, or he'll do us in_."  Spenworth was always noted for his
elegance of diction...  If a pawn could speak, I'm sure its feelings
would be very much what mine were: pushed hither and thither in a
game that I did not begin to understand.  _I_ had never asked Captain
Laughton to the house; he invited himself, and by the same token I
knew that it was no good telling him to stay away.  My house was not
my own, my soul was not my own.  And I had that hopeless sense that,
whatever I did, I should be wrong...

It was a trying season...  Their behaviour was so extraordinary!  I
pinched myself and said: "_This_ is the woman who cried to you
because she was losing Spenworth, because the light was being taken
out of her life.  She was sacrificing herself to make Spenworth
happy!"  I admit that I was taken in.  She may have been sincere at
the time, but that is only the more discreditable.  To cry for
Spenworth one day and for her Captain Laughton the next...  I use the
word literally; if a single day passed without her seeing him, she
moped--for all the world like a love-sick girl who thinks her
sweetheart is tiring of her.  And when they met...

I have told you that people were beginning to smile, and that should
have been humiliating enough to a woman who has achieved at least a
dignity of _position_; one said that there was nothing in it, but
that had no effect.  Anything connected with divorce seems to breed a
morbid curiosity; they were being spied on, whispered about; people
who did not wait to consider that Kathleen was nearly forty assumed
that she would inevitably marry again and decided no less obstinately
that she would marry Laughton.  Then the tittle-tattle press laid
hold of her.  I am told that certain women, probably known to both of
us, earn a _livelihood_ by collecting gossip at one's dinner-table
and selling it at so much a scandal to these wretched papers.  One is
quite defenceless...  I noticed for myself--and others were
indefatigable in shewing me--little snippets saying that Lady
Spenworth and Captain Laughton had been seen at this or that garish
new restaurant.  I believe that Kathleen's solicitors wrote to her a
second time...

A man at such a season does occasionally contrive to keep his head,
but Captain Laughton was no less blind and uncontrolled than
Kathleen.  Will and I had arranged to go away for a few days'
motoring at the end of the summer.  A car _and_ unlimited petrol--for
the first time since the war--; Sussex; the New Forest; perhaps a day
in Dorset to take luncheon with the Spokeleighs; Wiltshire,
Gloucestershire and up into Hereford.  Delightful...  We had planned
it months ahead--before this unhappy divorce.  The problem of
Kathleen called for solution; we could not conveniently take her in
the car, and, if I left her in Mount Street, I did want to be assured
that there would be no unpleasantness...

"Captain Laughton," I said one night, when he had telephoned to know
whether he might dine.  It was on the tip of my tongue to say: "My
good man, don't ask _me_!  Refer your invitations to my cook..."  He
was such a _boy_ that I never spoke to him as I truly honestly think
he deserved...  "Captain Laughton," I said, "will you promise that,
while I'm away, you won't come here or try to see Lady Spenworth?
She is in a position," I said, "where you can easily compromise her;
a severer critic might say that you had compromised her already.  If
you have her interests at heart, you have a chance of proving your
friendship to her..."

Am I unduly idealizing the past if I say that in my youth it would
have been unnecessary to speak like that to any man?  Captain
Laughton was no longer a boy...  Assuredly, in the school in which I
was brought up, if one _had_ spoken, one's word would have been law...

"Oh, Lady Ann, I've been talking to Kitty about that," he answered.
I think "jaunty" is the word to describe his manner; great assurance,
good humour, no thought that any one would even dream of giving him a
rebuff.  "We were thinking," he continued, "that it would be such fun
if we could come too.  I have a car, we wouldn't get in your way; but
we can hardly go off unattended, and I quite agree with what you say
about not compromising Kitty in London."

He took my breath away.  We this, we that.  Perhaps I shall take away
yours if I tell you that I acquiesced in his really impudent
proposal.  Not without a struggle, you may be sure; and not without
declaring my own terms.  If there were any unpleasantness, _I_ should
be held responsible.  I ordained that, if I had to play the dragon, I
would be a dragon in earnest; Kathleen should come in my car, while
my Will went with Captain Laughton.  Can't you picture how the other
arrangement would have worked out?  The two of them mooning like
rustic lovers, forgetful of time and everything else, the car
breaking down to prolong their stolen joy...  My dear, you could see
it in their faces when I launched my ultimatum...

And you could see it a hundred times a day when our tour began.  Any
excuse to slip away and be together.  When I suggested a _détour_ to
call on Sir Charles Spokeleigh, I was told at once that Captain
Laughton did not know him and that Kathleen disliked his wife--or had
a head-ache, I forget which.  Kathleen always had a head-ache if one
suggested a little constitutional before dinner.  And Captain
Laughton insisted on staying behind with her.  There was no great
harm, perhaps, in an out-of-the-way village which had escaped the
contamination of the London press, but in places like Dorchester,
Gloucester, Hereford...  One was known; the papers would announce us
among the new arrivals: "Lady Spenworth, Lady Ann Spenworth, Captain
Laughton..." and so on and so forth.  They could not afford to take
the slightest risk.  If I had yielded to their entreaties and then
the car had broken down...  The King's Proctor or whoever he is would
never believe that it was an accident and that they were truly
innocent.  There would be the record in the register of the hotel...

I am thankful to say that we were spared all catastrophes; and I
frankly enjoyed the tour, though it was impossible to escape a
feeling of conspiracy.  The only hitch occurred at the end as we came
within thirty miles of Brackenbury.  The roads there are not all that
could be desired, and I should not have contemplated for a moment the
cross-country journey, were it not that I saw an opportunity of
healing the unhappy breach with my niece Phyllida.  At present she is
so terribly and unjustly bitter that there is nothing she will not
believe and say.  It occurred to me that, if I, the older woman, made
the first advance...  A gracious phrase or two, telling her that I
could not pass her home--my _old_ home--with the feeling that any
rancour remained...  You understand.  It is always worth a little
inconvenience to be gracious...  And she had been speaking quite
wickedly about me...

We lunched that day at Norton and had arranged to sleep at Rugely.  I
need hardly say that, when I suggested a _détour_ to Brackenbury--an
extra forty miles at most--, Kathleen discovered that she was tired
out and Captain Laughton trumped up his usual excuse that he didn't
know my brother and disliked "butting in" on strangers...
Ridiculous!  I've never met a man more completely self-possessed...
For once I broke my rule and said that they might go on by themselves
and order rooms for us in Rugely.  They would leave a note for us at
the General Post Office to say where we should meet them.

"Drive carefully!," Captain Laughton called out, as we started from
Norton.  "It will be the devil and all, if anything happens to you."

I did not understand this new-born solicitude until my boy Will
undertook to enlighten me.  And then I saw that perhaps I had been
really imprudent.  After a fortnight of heart-breaking discretion, I
_had_ allowed these two feather-brained creatures to drive off
alone...  If they failed to secure rooms and could not communicate
with us in time...  If for any reason we did not meet at the
_rendez-vous_...  I can assure you that I gave myself a headache,
just thinking of one possible disaster after another.  It would _not_
have passed unnoticed; we had received ample evidence of that.  Most
dreadful misconstructions would be placed on their conduct--and on
mine.  The King's Proctor--really, the _name_ is so absurd; one makes
a mental picture of some strange court functionary taken straight
from the pages of that delightful Lewis Carroll book--I became
haunted by visions of the King's Proctor intervening to stay the
divorce proceedings.  And then, as Will said so lucidly, Spenworth
and Kathleen would be tied to each other for the rest of their lives;
gone would be her St. Martin's summer of romance, gone would be--no,
romance is always to me a singularly beautiful word; I decline to
associate it with what my boy calls Spenworth's latest shuffle of the
matrimonial pack.  The worst thing of all was that we should be held
responsible.

"I wonder what Spenworth would do if the positions were reversed,"
said Will.  "If the guv'nor were elder brother and wanted an heir, if
_he_ had the chance of stopping it and keeping the inheritance for
himself...  I wonder if he'd be able to resist."

"Temptation only seems strong to those who do not wish to withstand
it," I said.

Our arrival at the Hall was hardly auspicious, as my head-ache had
been growing so steadily worse that I had to ask my sister-in-law
Ruth to let me lie down if there was to be any question of my driving
on to Rugely.  And, though I felt better after a cup of tea, the pain
returned when I was left for a moment with Phyllida.  I sought an
opportunity for my little speech.  Phyllida...  It would be absurd to
feel resentment against a mere child whose nerves were obviously
unstrung, but I wondered then and I wonder now what _my_ dear mother
would have said if I had spoken, looked, behaved in such a way to
_any_ older woman.  When she had _slammed_ her way out of the room, I
sank into a chair, trembling.  _You_ know whether I am a limp,
nervous woman; when Ruth came in to ask--without a spice of
welcome--whether we would not stay to dinner, I was too much upset to
speak; I just nodded...  If I had been stronger, I would not have
remained another moment in the house; but Will had disappeared, and I
was unequal to returning alone.

Brackenbury had the consideration to ask if I would not stay the
night.  I explained the very delicate position in which we had left
Kathleen and Captain Laughton.

"Well, go if you feel up to it," said Brackenbury in what I thought
was an off-hand manner to adopt to his sister.  "Or send Will, if
anybody can find what's happened to him.  So long as they've _some_
one to chaperon them, they're all right."

I would have stayed if Will could have stayed with me.  I would have
gone if that had been the only means of keeping by his side.  Do you
know, I had the feeling that in the length and breadth of that house
he was the only one who cared whether I was well or ill, whether I
lived or died ... almost...

"I'm not sure that I _care_ to leave my mother while she's like
this," said my boy rather timidly, when he was fetched in to join the
council.  It is unfashionable, I believe, for the modern son to shew
his mother any overt tenderness...

"Well, some one's got to go," said Brackenbury with unnecessary
impatience.  "It's all up, if you leave those two without any one to
keep them in countenance."

"We will both go," I said.

When the car was ordered, we went into the hall and waited...  After
about twenty minutes Brackenbury rang to find out the reason for the
delay.  The servant came back to say that part of what I think is
called the magneto was missing.  I chose my word carefully: not
"injured" or "worn-out," but "missing"--as though some one had
invaded the garage and removed the requisite part...

Brackenbury seemed to lose his head altogether.

"It's ten o'clock," he roared.  "If you don't get to Hugely by
mid-night, can't you see that you'll be too late to stop a scandal?
If you _want_ to stay the divorce, say so at once, say that you're
scheming to tie up Spenworth in your own interests; and, by God, if
it comes off, _I_'ll say it until every decent man and woman will
walk out of a room when any of your gang come into it...  Phyllida,"
he shouted.  "Order your car!  Will can drive it..."

"Aren't you afraid he may lose his way?," asked Phyllida.

I don't attempt to reproduce her voice...  It was silky ... oh, and
wicked!  I _tell_ myself not to mind, I try to remember that she was
overwrought and that her father was a criminal not to insist on her
going away.  Phyllida was deliberately charging us with a conspiracy
to interrupt the divorce proceedings so that in time--goodness me,
when Arthur and I are dead and buried!--our boy Will might succeed.
Cheniston is a noble seat; the Spenworth title is old and was once
honoured; but neither for my husband nor my son do I want them--at
that cost.

I said nothing...  I believe I murmured to myself: "You wicked
child"; but, literally, I couldn't speak.  I couldn't see ... or
hear.  Brackenbury was making furious arrangements.  As in a dream I
saw Ruth being wrapped in a fur-coat...  A car came to the door and
drove away...  I asked my boy to ascertain which was my room and to
lend me the support of his arm up the stairs...

Ruth telegraphed next day from Rugely--just two words--"_All well_."
...

Will and I returned to London by train.  Phyllida was in the hall,
reading the telegram, as I appeared.

"It nearly came off," she said.  "I'm sorry--for your sake--that
you've had a disappointment.  Time, you will find, works wonders; and
some day, perhaps, you will be more grateful than I can expect to
find you now.  If I were you, I would go right away..."

What she _intended_ to convey I have no more idea than the man in the
moon...  The night before, her meaning was _never_ in doubt; and I am
waiting for her to put it into words, to charge Will or me or both of
us with deliberately damaging our car...

But you will see that anything she says in her present state, poor
child, must be accepted with charitable reserve.




IV

LADY ANN SPENWORTH IS CONTENT WITH A LITTLE MUSIC

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): I am easily
satisfied, I ask for nothing better than a little music after dinner.
If only the rising generation were _rather_ less self-conscious...
When I was a girl, it was a law of the Medes and Persians that, if
any one asked us to play or sing, we at _once_ complied.  None of
this modern absurdity of not playing in public, insisting on the hush
of the grave, looking round the room first to see if by chance there
is some great _maestro_ present...  When I tell you that I once sang
before Jenny Lind, being too young and ignorant to know who she
was...  And no one could have been sweeter...

I am not a musician in any sense of the word.  (I am almost tempted
to add: "Thank goodness!")  When one sees and hears the devotees at
Covent Garden, talking a language of their own which I am quite sure
half of them don't understand, ready to set one right in a moment if
one _presumes_ to offer an opinion...  If any one said to me: "I want
to be a social success and I don't know how to begin," I should
answer: "Learn the musical jargon and use it _rudely_, especially to
people who for one reason or another have not had to _fight_ their
way into any little _niche_ that they may occupy."  I won't mention
names...  But I see you have guessed!  And do you not agree?  That
man, for all his millions, would be received _nowhere_ but for his
alleged love of music; but take a double box at the opera, go every
night, allow yourself to be seen at all the concerts, give immense
parties of your own, support and bring out three new geniuses a
month--everything is forgiven you!

I did not know him before the war ... when, by the way, I understand
he passed by the name of Sir Adolf Erckmann.  One saw, indeed, his
not very prepossessing beard and bald head protruding from his box--a
red, anxious face and single eye-glass, positively _scattering_ bows
right and left at the people he had succeeded in getting to know in
his upward progress.  Originally, I believe, a German-Jewish banker,
with immense interests of all kinds in every part of the world and a
very unsavoury domestic reputation.  He was nothing to me, nor I to
him; and it would have been no true kindness for me to "take him up,"
as Connie Maitland was always urging me to do.  No doubt we should
have been surfeited with invitations to Westbourne Terrace and Rock
Hill; but we are not _yet_ reduced to scouring London for free meals,
like some people we could think of, and, without being cynical, I
always felt that the Erckmanns would try to use us as a means of
getting to know Spenworth and Brackenbury so that in time their
triumphal progress might carry them to Cheniston and the Hall.  If I
could have done any good, it would have been a different matter; but
you remember the Erckmanns were a test-case before the war, in the
days when the energy of Christine Malleson and my Lady Maitland and
the rest had broken down so many barriers which hitherto had been at
least a convenience.  Not only Spenworth and Brackenbury, but a dozen
more as good as said that they could not continue to know me if I
consented to know Erckmann...

When the war came, things materially altered.  The Erckmanns
vanished--in every sense of the word.  The old friends, who had
_plagued_ me to receive him, now denied with cursing and swearing, as
it were, saying: "I know not the man."  One or two of the radical
papers made a bitter personal attack on him because harmless German
hair-dressers and waiters were being interned while this wealthy
international financier, who _was_ in a position to collect
information and influence opinion, was left at large, thanks to
highly-placed friends and a title.  They said that some of the
Cabinet were absolutely dependent on him...  Though I saw nothing of
the man, I could not help hearing of him, for the mob broke his
windows in Westbourne Terrace whenever there was an air-raid; they
said he was shewing lights to guide the Zeppelins to Paddington.
Whether there was a _word_ of truth in it I can't say...  And, when
he erected an enormous hospital at Rock Hill, even this was not
accounted to him for righteousness: the men there held him to ransom,
his own patients.  Some one would whisper that he had a secret
wireless apparatus on his roof; and immediately Sir Adolf would build
another ward or a recreation-room or a picture theatre...

And in another sense they disappeared: as Will said, "Plant an
Erckmann in England, and up comes an Erskine."  Poor souls, if they
had changed their names _before_ the war and if some one could have
performed an operation to rid Sir Adolphus of that appalling guttural
accent...  I really began to feel sorry for them when all their
friends--led, if you please, by my Lady Maitland--turned the cold
shoulder.  "Satisfy me," I said to Arthur, "that he is a truly loyal
subject, and I should like to see if I could not shew him a little
kindness."

"He's a noxious creature," said Arthur with his usual intolerance,
"but all these stories of spying and of blackmailing ministers are
sheer flumdiddle.  It isn't worth his while.  Whoever wins, Erskine
will make money.  He's technically loyal; but he's a man without
patriotism, because the whole world is his country.  For the Lord's
sake, don't throw _your_ mantle over him; as long as there _are_
national distinctions, I object to the way these international Jew
financiers settle in England for their own convenience."

"I am not," I said, "concerned with that.  You may be right.  Perhaps
we should all of us have done better to hold aloof and offer him no
welcome at the outset.  But, do you know, I feel a certain
responsibility?  _Having_ been received here, having _poured_ money
like water into the pockets of his so-called friends, will he not
form a low view of our sincerity and goodwill if every one abandons
him at a time like this?  I am disinterested: we have accepted
nothing from him, we can look to him for nothing; but there is a
reproach which I feel it my duty to remove."

I could not make Arthur see that people like Connie Maitland, _liée_
with the poor man one moment and throwing him to the wolves the
next...  We are not _all_ of us like that in England.

"Well, for Heaven's sake, don't ask him when _I'm_ here," was the
utmost encouragement I got from my husband.

Truly honestly, I think this stubborn opposition drove me perhaps
farther than I had first intended to go.  A day or two later I found
myself in the same house as Sir Adolphus and I _spoke_ to him...

"You," I said, "do not know me; and I only know you by sight, though
I have long been acquainted with your record of generous support to
the cause of music.  Will you allow a total stranger to tell you her
disgust with the venomous attacks which have been made on you since
the beginning of the war?"

Little enough, you may think; but I believe those were the first kind
words that he had heard for three or four years.  The man is _not_
prepossessing, but we formed quite a friendship...

"Will not you and Lady Erskine," I said, "come and dine with me some
night?  I am not in a position to _entertain_ in any sense of the
word; my boy is at the front, my husband is away on business; but
perhaps, if a family party would not bore you..."

Though I _called_ myself a total stranger, he knew very well who I
was; indeed he told me that he had always wanted to meet Brackenbury
and Spenworth (the Cheniston Romneys were, of course, his excuse)...
We arranged a night ... though, when the time came, there was not
more than the three of us.  My relations with Spenworth are not so
cordial that I derive the least pleasure from seeing him at my table;
and one truly honestly _never_ knows how he is going to behave.
Brackenbury...  If you do not want to accept an invitation, it is
surely possible to decline it _civilly_...

"_That_ fellow!," cried Brackenbury.  "He ought to be interned."

"You really must not talk such nonsense," I said.  "He is as loyal as
you are."

"I wouldn't touch him with a pole _before_ the war," said Brackenbury
with his wonted elegance.  "But _now_, when even his best friends
refuse to meet him--"

"Exactly," I interrupted.  "You would like him to feel that that is
our standard of sincerity and good-will."

"But how is it _your_ concern?," he asked.  "You've kept clear of
that gang in the past, so why dirty your hands with it now?  If you
fancy you're going to get money out of him, or a job for Will, I warn
you that you're no match for him.  He'll _use_ you readily enough,
but he never does anything for anybody without looking for a return.
We don't _want_ these gentry in England."

"I met him," I answered.  "I liked him, I was _sorry_ for him.  And,
if I try to shew him a little kindness, I really cannot allow you,
Brackenbury, to make yourself a ruler and a judge.  Do I gather that
you and Ruth would prefer _not_ to dine?"

"If it's money you want, I'd almost pay you not to meet him.
_That's_ how I feel about it."

All this, you understand, about a man he hardly knew by sight! ... I
found it in my heart to wish that Brackenbury _had_ been present when
the Erskines dined.  _Nothing_ could have been more charming.  He
talked too wonderfully about music; I asked him a little about
himself, _he_ asked me about _my_self--that delightful first exchange
when you are laying the foundations of friendship.  Having no
children himself, he was of course most anxious to hear about
Will--what he had done before the war, where he was in France at
present, what he proposed to do when the war was over...  As _he_ had
introduced the subject, I told him frankly that I found great
difficulty in making up my mind and should be truly grateful if he
would tell me, from his _very_ wide experience, what he considered
most hopeful.  He promised to let me know; and, a few days later,
when I was dining with him, he asked whether I expected Will home any
time soon on leave, as he always had a certain number of openings in
his own various businesses.  This from the man who never did anything
for anybody unless he expected a rich return, the man who _used_
people but never allowed any one to use _him_...  I had _asked_ for
nothing; in my haste I had told Arthur that we could _look_ to him
for nothing.  And if you knew; the long agony of anxiety that I have
endured...  I may say, ever since we took Will away from Eton.  I
have seen my darling home in Mount Street threatened...  The war was
a god-send: _some_thing to keep him occupied, a _little_
pocket-money; and, so long as he was not in danger, I prayed for it
to go on...

"My dear Sir Adolphus," I said, "the _first_ time he comes home you
shall meet him."

That was in October.  Suddenly, lo and behold! the armistice was upon
us, and the whole _world_ was looking out for jobs.  I laboured and
_strove_ to bring Will home; and, the moment he arrived, I invited
Sir Adolphus to dine.  He telegraphed that he was at Rock Hill, but
could we not spend a few days with him there?  My maid was out.  I
began to pack with trembling fingers...

Is it not curious that difficulties always seem to come from the
_least_ expected quarter?  Here was Will's whole future secured; he
had woken up, as it were, with a golden spoon in his mouth.  My dear,
I had the _utmost_ difficulty in persuading him to come at all.  What
he wanted was a holiday, he said; after all he had gone through, he
was entitled to a good time.  And, though he had never met the
Erskines, he had formed an unreasoning prejudice against them which
was incomprehensible in any one of his breadth of mind...  I do
assure you that we reached a deadlock.

"Will," I said very firmly, "I _ask_ you to come."

"And I refuse point-blank," he answered.

"You will be sorry for it later," I warned him, "when the opportunity
has slipped beyond recall."

"Something will turn up," he predicted.  Then, perhaps, he saw how
his refusal was paining me, for he added: "I've fixed up with some
fellows weeks ago that we'd all meet and see life." ...

I had already begun a letter to Lady Erskine, asking if we might
postpone our visit for a day or two, when Will came in--very much
upset--to say that his friends had broken faith with him; one had
already gone to the country, the other two were busy presenting
letters of introduction and arranging interviews...  As if I had not
known all along that, the moment war was over, the whole world would
begin looking for jobs...

"_Now_," I said, "you can have no objection to accepting the
Erskines' invitation."

"Barring that I don't want to go," Will rejoined.  "I draw the line
at Jews at all times and I don't in the least want to start work till
I've had a holiday."

"But others are already in the field," I urged.  Lady Maitland shewed
the sublime assurance to reestablish communications and to ask Sir
Adolphus, in the name of their _old friendship_, to find an opening
for her second boy!  "You can have all the holidays you want later."

To my delight I saw Will weakening.

"What's the management like?," he asked.

"Oh, my dear, everything is incredibly perfect.  The house, the food,
the music--"

"You may 'ave the music--fer me," said Will.  (It was some allusion
which I did not understand.)  "Oh, all right!  I'll come.  But I
intend to have my fun out of it."

You have stayed at Rock Hill?  No?  Well, I am not exaggerating when
I use the word "perfection."  A seventeenth-century Italian palace
with gardens that put Cheniston and my brother-in-law Spenworth to
_shame_; pictures that one somehow always thought were in the
National Gallery...  And, if you care for material comfort, as--I am
not ashamed to say--I _do_, not having enjoyed enough of it to become
_blasée_...  "If you cannot be rich yourself, know plenty of rich
people," as Will said the first night...  In jest, of course...

If I wanted to make a criticism, I should say that Lady Erskine might
have chosen her party on less catholic lines.  As patron of the arts,
Sir Adolphus is of course brought into contact with an entire world
of artists, musicians, actors and the like which is outside my ken.
He confessed that he liked "mixing people up" and trying to break
down the very rigid barriers which separate the artistic people from
the rest of us.  I have not the slightest objection to that _on
principle_, but, when it necessitates meeting a number of half-naked
young actresses who truly honestly have no place in the artistic or
any other world...  And when they are allowed to set the tone of the
house...

I reminded myself that, with the exception of Brackenbury Hall, I had
not stayed in a country-house for I don't know how long.  Nothing, I
determined, should surprise me; in Rome...  And so forth and so on.
We arrived in time for dinner, and almost the first thing I knew was
that Sir Adolphus was pressing upon me something which I think he
called a "Maiden's Sigh", which of course I imagined was the
well-known hock of that name.  _Why_ hock before dinner?  Sherry, if
you like...  But I had determined that nothing should surprise me.  I
drank it--what it contained, I do not know, but it was cold and, I
suppose, very strong, for it went _straight_ to my head!  I could
drink _nothing_ at dinner until I had consumed an entire tumbler of
cold water.  Indeed, I hardly knew what I was saying, but Sir
Adolphus was talking so interestingly about Rossini that I only
wanted to listen...  Later, when I had proved myself a good listener,
it would be my turn to talk about Will...

Now, you dine out very much more than I do.  On those _rare_
occasions when you meet somebody who _can_ talk, is it not
heart-breaking to have the conversation interrupted before you have
half finished it?  In the old days, when one turned like an automaton
to one's other-hand neighbour half-way through dinner, it was
sufficiently exasperating; but one _did_ hope that, if one had not
wearied one's companion too unwarrantably, he would come up in the
drawing-room and resume what he had been saying.  Nowadays dinner is
little more than a bribe offered to so many women and men to induce
them to play bridge with _you_ rather than with some one _else_.  The
tables were already set, when we left the dining-room; Lady Erskine's
last words were: "You won't be long, will you?"

I do not play.  Even in old days I never mastered whist.  And I hope
you will not cry "Sour grapes", if I say that I do not _wish_ to
learn.  I ask nothing better than a little music after dinner.  If
not too modern, it does not interfere with conversation, whereas the
sight of a card-table freezes the most eloquent lips...

"What about a rubber before the others come up?," asked one of these
young actresses.  I had not caught her name and perhaps I am doing
her a grave injustice; but, if I had not Lady Erskine's implied
guarantee, I should have considered her...  Well, let me say I should
have been _very_ much surprised at being asked to meet her...

"I am afraid you must not count on me," I said.

The young woman reckoned up the numbers present and asked:

"What about poker, then?"

Here, I am thankful to say, Lady Erskine came to my rescue, and we
contrived to exist with nothing more exciting than conversation until
the men joined us.  Then, I think, something must have been whispered
to Sir Adolphus, for he said:

"I don't think we'll have any cards to-night; they're so unsociable."

Now, I wanted, above all things, to draw Will and Sir Adolphus
together and allow them to become better acquainted.  And Sir
Adolphus, I knew, wished to talk to me, for he had begun to ask at
dinner whether I thought it would interest Spenworth to see his
pictures.  I therefore suggested that, if _I_ might express a wish,
it would be for a little music.  Sir Adolphus assented at once and
asked one of these rather ambiguous young women to play, while I made
room for him on the sofa and beckoned to Will.  The Maitland boy--it
was _not_ very tactful of the Erskines--had been invited for the same
week-end, but he was mooning about like a lost soul, looking at the
pictures and talking to Lady Erskine...

"You asked me," I began, "to contrive a meeting--"

"Won't you wait until this is over?," suggested Sir Adolphus, with a
nod towards the piano.

"I don't mind it," I said.  "Now, Will has been away at the war since
the beginning of 1916..."  I won't weary _you_, but I gave him a
little account of my boy's work on the staff, what were his tastes
and ambitions ... and so on and so forth.  I really don't know what
this girl had begun to play, but she must have changed suddenly, for
the noise became deafening...  "I really can't talk against that," I
protested.

Sir Adolphus went to the piano and whispered something, but the noise
only increased.

"And she can't play against your talking," shouted Will.  "That's
Elsie Creyne, in case you don't know, and I'll bet she doesn't much
care about people talking when she's playing.  I've been watching her
to see what would happen."

"Then I think, in ordinary kindness, you might have warned me," I
said.  "_I_ have no wish to hurt the young woman's feelings."

"I thought it might be rather a rag," was all Will would say.  "I'm
rather bored with this place.  I kept going at dinner because there
was plenty of champagne; but, if somebody doesn't do something, I
shall have to brighten things up by pulling old Herr von Erckmann's
leg.  He had the cheek to criticize the staff at the end of dinner; I
switched the conversation on to repatriation of aliens, but I haven't
done with him yet."

It is this boyish irresponsibility that may be Will's undoing!
_Mere_ high spirits...  Before I could utter a word of warning, the
music had changed again, every one was dancing and Will had jumped up
to join them.  I looked on--and marvelled; I had not seen any of
these modern dances.  And, when I could bear it no longer, I turned
my back and began reading a paper...

That did in _time_ have an effect; or perhaps they merely tired of
their revels.  But truly honestly, if _I_ had not made a protest,
_no_ one would.  Nothing was said, but there was what I can only call
an atmosphere of guilt.  Then Sir Adolphus discovered that dancing,
too, was "unsociable" and enquired whether there was not something
that we could _all_ do...

Goodness me, are we so bankrupt in intelligence that we need to be
given childish games to help us kill time?  Has conversation died out
in England?  And you will remember that I was being invited to meet
"artists" of every shape and size, who are never so happy as when
they are sneering at the uncultured Philistines.  These "artists",
apparently, unless you encouraged them to dance or gave them rattles,
would have sat down and cried.  The others--including, I am sorry to
say, Will, who was quite carried away by them--walked about saying
very loudly "What I want is a drink." ...

And I had not had a word alone with Sir Adolphus...

"What about Consequences?," asked some one.

We live and learn, as they say.  I have discovered from my experience
that week-end that a certain class cannot make a suggestion or ask a
question without introducing it with the words "What about." ... They
put me on my guard now; I feel, when I hear them, that I know where I
am...  But can you imagine a greater confession of failure than to
propose such a game to fifteen or twenty grown men and women,
all--presumably--in possession of their faculties?

"What about Characters?," asked some one else.  "That knocks spots
off Consequences."

I give you their _argot_ in all its native elegance.  You surely
would not have me paint the lily...

Before one had time to enquire or protest, one had been set at a
table and furnished with a pencil while the rules were explained.  A
list of qualities, characteristics, whatever you like to call them,
was written down; a name was chosen, and we had each of us to award
marks.  Thus: you might choose the Prime Minister and set out your
qualities--statesmanship, force, honesty, courage, eloquence,
amiability, good looks, personal charm and so on and so forth; each
of us had ten marks for each quality, and, if you liked, you might
give two for statesmanship and four for eloquence and ten for
courage; then, when we had all expressed our opinion--it was in
secret, and no one saw what marks any one else was allotting--the
totals were added and read out.  That was the man's "character." ...

An absurd game!  But, as they were too unintelligent to talk and too
disobliging to play or sing...  Will was writing down the questions,
and there seems no limit to the number that may be asked.

"And what is to be the first name?" I enquired.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," he said.  "You must take the whole lot in
turn.  Begin with me, if you like."

Then indeed I _had_ to make a protest.  I had never imagined that we
were to play with the names of the people actually in the room at
that moment!  More _execrable_ taste...  I was only thankful that
Will had not proposed so detestable a game and was sorry to see him
taking such a lead in it.  Personalities of all kinds I abominate;
there is a new school of humour which fancies that it has been very
clever when people of better breeding would only say that it had been
unpardonably rude.  Spenworth?  Exactly!  You could not have chosen a
better example.  And games of this kind always end in one way...

"Surely," I pleaded, "we need not run the risk of hurting any one's
feelings.  If you take people who are known to us all by
_reputation_..."

"Oh, it's much more fun this way," I was assured by Will.  "And
there's no need for any one to be offended; all the questions are
about _good_ qualities--charm and eloquence and so forth.  If you
think I have no charm, shove down a nought; that's much better than
having 'Bad temper' and being given ten marks for it by everybody.
I'll start, anyway, to give you all confidence."

I _ought_ to have resisted more strongly, but I could not let them
feel that I was what Will calls a "wet blanket" to everything they
proposed.  Already they had abandoned cards and interrupted their
dancing out of deference to me...  We began to play, and I confess
that I found the game _mercilessly_ tiresome.  Imagine!  A list of
thirty or forty questions, which you had to answer fourteen or
fifteen times over!  Then a pause, while the papers were collected
and the marks added; then the totals and a great deal of discussion
and laughter and sometimes rather ill-natured facetiousness.  And
then the whole thing over again!

It would have been wearisome enough if they had played
conscientiously; but, when the game was treated as a joke or a means
of being malicious in secret, it was sheer waste of time.  When my
turn came, I was let off with quite a good character; but I am not
vain enough to attribute this to anything more than luck or
carelessness.  I was not one of the _intimates_; they were in a hurry
to put down any marks anywhere and move on to their next victim.  At
the same time I found it _exceedingly_ unpleasant when the totals
were read out--or, let me say, it _would_ have been unpleasant if the
whole game had not been so ridiculous.  A hundred and fifty marks was
the maximum; and, when "Love of Music" was given, I found that I had
been accorded--twenty!  I, who had been clamouring for music when
every one else wanted to gamble or indulge in negro dances...  And I
have no doubt that I am indebted for the _princely_ total of twenty
to the chivalry of my host and hostess, who could not very well
criticize a guest--at least on that score...  Will?  You think that
Will came to my support?  I do not know what had overtaken him that
night; his surroundings reacted on him until he was unrecognizable.
When we reached "Sense of Humour", he called out:

"Oh, I say, here's a lark!  'Sense of Humour; grand total, nought.'"

All I can say is, I was glad to have enough humour to see the
absurdity and to join in the general laugh.  But I was furious with
Will...

You might have thought that, after I had been pilloried and held up
to the scorn of young women whom I would not allow to enter my
back-door, artists or no artists, I might have been suffered to go to
bed.  But no!  That would upset the totals!  I must stay to the
bitter end, though my head was aching with fatigue and I could see
that the game was growing more and more ill-natured...

I heaved a sigh when we reached Sir Adolf, for his name completed the
circle.  I don't know whether the others were even trying to give an
honest opinion, but I did my best according to my lights.  "Good
looks"?  I really think he would be the first to admit that he is not
prepossessing.  "Moral character"?  I'm not a scandal-monger, I hope,
but he _has_ been twice divorced.  "Loyalty"?  I gave him full marks
for that; otherwise I should not have been staying in his house.
"Hospitality"?  He meant well, but a _guest_ has _certain_ moral
claims; I could only give him two for hospitality.  "Love of Music"?
Five for that, so far as I remember.  "Sense of Humour"?  _Nought_!
I _couldn't_ give him any marks for humour.  "Amiability"? ... But I
cannot recall the questions; there were nearly forty of them.

I sighed again when Will collected the papers and added the totals.
Then came the reading.  My dear, I had been led to suppose that what
we had written was all in secret, but I _felt_ that Sir Adolphus was
guessing how we had marked him.  "Good looks"?  He received nothing
for that, not a single mark from the fifteen of us who were eating
his food and drinking his wine.  "Amiability"?  About twenty,
obviously given him by his wife and the Maitland boy, who was _very_
busy ingratiating himself; or perhaps by one of those ambiguous young
women who seemed to be on terms of such extraordinary _freedom_ with
him...  "Humour"?  Four or five.  "Honesty"?  Not more than fifteen
or twenty.  It was too terrible!  He tried to laugh it off; but, when
he got _no_ marks, we were _all_ exposed, and I saw him glaring at
one after another.  And there was one question--"Personal Charm", I
think--when Will read out "_Minus ten_." ...

I _knew_ it would happen.  There always is some kind of
unpleasantness when you begin playing with personalities and taking
risks with other people's feelings.  I don't think I have ever spent
a more _distressing_ quarter of an hour.  Oh, I was thankful when he
said:

"Well, so that's what you all think of me, hein?  We-ell, what about
a drink, what?"

I felt--we _all_ felt--that he was really taking it in very good
part...  The men trooped off to a side-table.  I made my way to Will
in the hope of whispering just a word...  He _had_ rather taken the
lead in this ridiculous game, and I wished him to be _extra_ sweet to
the Erskines for the rest of our visit...

"Well, _I_ call it rather a frost," I heard him say, as I drew near.
"I'd back 'Characters' to break up any house-party in England, but
everybody's taken it lying down to-night..."

I was _distressed_, for I really thought we had narrowly escaped some
great unpleasantness.  And then I found that we had not escaped it
after all.  Sir Adolphus came up to see that the others were looking
after me properly and asked if he might have back the pencil that he
had lent me.  I surrendered it, he looked at it, pocketed it--and
passed on.  The others surrendered theirs, he looked at them...  Then
he came to Will...

"I was just wondering," I heard him say.

"Wondering what?," asked Will.

"Who gave me _minus_ ten for--'Personal Charm', wasn't it?  And
nought for 'Loyalty', nought for 'Honesty', nought even for
'Hospitality' ... Just wondering."

"It's a secret ballot," said Will.

"Some one gave me nought for everything except 'Personal Charm', and
there I received _minus_ ten...  I was wondering who it was."

"D'you suggest I did it?," asked Will.

"Oh, I respect the secrecy of the ballot," answered Sir Adolf.  "But
I noticed that you were using an indelible-ink pencil and I was
clumsy enough to spill some soda-water over some of the papers,
including the only one written with an indelible-ink pencil...  But
it is all a game, is it not?"

I have never felt so uncomfortable.  Sir Adolphus said nothing more;
he and Lady Erskine were _too_ sweet for the rest of the time we were
at Rock Hill.  But I felt--perhaps quite wrongly--that I _could_ not
place myself under an obligation to him, I could not _invite_ a
rebuff...

Will was in no sense of the word to blame.  It was entirely my fault
for not protesting more vigorously against a game in which there
would inevitably be _some_ unpleasantness, _some_ one's feelings
hurt.  If we had been treated as rational beings and allowed to
talk...  Or music.  I am easily satisfied, I ask for nothing better
than a little music...  If only the rising generation were _rather_
less self-conscious...




V

LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFUSES TO BECOME A MATCH-MAKER

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): If you will give me
a moment to set my thoughts in order, I think I can furnish the whole
story.  Indeed, if you are to skate in safety this week-end at
Brackenbury, it is well to know where the ice will bear...  Goodness
me, I don't suggest for a moment that there is anything to
_conceal_--I can assure you I should have had something to say before
ever receiving the girl or allowing my nephew Culroyd to meet her--my
boy Will can take care of himself--; I meant that there is so little
to tell.  Surdan the name is; Hilda Surdan--and no relation to our
dear old admiral, nor to the Lacey-Surdans, nor to that wild,
eccentric tribe of Surdans who have spread over so much of Mayo...
If I may give you a hint, that is just the sort of question that you
have so particularly to avoid.  I've no doubt that in a few years
they will have concocted a most convincing pedigree, linking
themselves to all and sundry, but the idea has not occurred to them
yet...

Homely, unspoiled people I thought them...  The mother _very_
capable, but endearing...  Immensely rich--I believe it is shipping,
but the history books are silent...  Have you observed a significant
change in the biographies of the present day?  We are always plunged
into the heart of things, as it were: "_called to the bar in
seventy-something, under-secretary for this or that, entered the
cabinet as secretary for the other and, on retiring, was raised to
the peerage with the title of_"--something _rather_ far-fetched and
pretentious, as a rule.  After that it's plain sailing.  But, if one
suggests that even a successful barrister must have had some kind of
father and mother, one is considered to have been _tactless_...  I
_believe_ it was shipping...  They talked a great deal about "yards",
which one always associates with that sort of thing.

I met Mrs. Surdan on one of my committees during the war.  When my
niece Phyllida was working at that hospital, she befriended the
girl--Hilda--; and Mrs. Surdan made this an excuse for introducing
herself.  I recognized her at once as one of the nameless, efficient
women who impose their wills on a committee; earnest and
hard-working, but occasionally rather difficult, with their assurance
and massed information.  One feels that there is no subject on which
they will not put one right if one has the temerity to open one's
mouth.  Judge of my surprise when Mrs. Surdan wrote that she would
like to come and ask my advice.  _My_ advice!

"This is your lucky day," said Will, when I shewed him the letter.
"Perhaps they want a house in London for the season."

Until that moment I had thought of telling this Mrs. Surdan I was so
busy that we must really postpone our meeting.  Will's quick brain
warned me to do nothing hasty.  I don't know, whether you _remember_
the condition of Mount Street; we had not touched the house, inside
or out, since the beginning of the war; and, whenever I spoke to my
husband, he put his hands in his pockets and said: "Will you please
tell me where the money's coming from?"  I'm not going to burden you
with my own sordid cares; but we are _not_ well-off, and, what with
taxation and the rise in prices, Mount Street is rather a
responsibility.  I retain it because it is my frame and setting; any
little _niche_ that I may occupy is in Mount Street; and, when I part
with the house, you may feel that I have indeed abdicated.  This
morning my tea was brought me on the tray that the princess gave me
as a wedding-present.  But you know: the house is a museum of
memories...  But it is a responsibility.  Arthur's directorships are
good so far as they go, but he says there is a reaction against what
he calls "figure-head directors".  Will is not yet earning anything;
and I was cruelly disappointed by Sir Adolphus Erskine when I
approached him for an appointment...  So our income is _not_
increasing, and the cost of living _is_...

I told Mrs. Surdan that I should be delighted to see her at any time.
Arthur saw at _once_ the desirability of considering a good offer...

"She can have this place for the season," he said, "or for eternity.
_With_ the plate and linen.  _And_ the servants.  And _Will_, if
she'll take him."

When Arthur speaks like that, I never argue with him.  It is
curious--one has seen the same thing a thousand times between mothers
and daughters, but men always pride themselves on being _un_petty--;
Arthur is _really_ jealous of his own son.  If Will and he are left
together for any time, Arthur becomes a different man, querulous,
impossible to please.  With his directorships and his clubs and his
journeys to and fro, my husband--as you must have seen--does not give
me very much of his society; I am left to support the burden of
domestic empire single-handed, but, when Will is at home, I am _glad_
for Arthur to be away.  When our boy applied for a commission, all
that Arthur would say was, why hadn't he applied for it before?  When
he joined the staff, why hadn't he _refused_ to join the staff?  When
he left it, why hadn't he _stayed_ there?  _Picking_ a quarrel...  If
only I could find him some suitable employment!  But when a man like
Erskine or Erckmann or whatever his name is...  A broken reed, a mere
"climber" who hoped to _use_ me for securing an invitation to
Cheniston and the delectable friendship of my brother-in-law
Spenworth...  I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes!  For all its shabbiness, the dear old house looked more than
attractive when Mrs. Surdan arrived for dinner.  Just the two of
us...  I always think tea is such an inhospitable meal, and luncheon
is hardly practicable when every gleam of sunlight shews you
something more to be patched and painted...  As a matter of fact I
might have spared my pains, for she was not interested in the house.

"Now, Lady Ann," she said, with the brisk, efficient manner which
always rather puts me on my guard.  "Let's come to business.  I want
your advice.  My husband has closed down his department and is going
north immediately.  I shall go with him, of course, and I want to
know what you would advise me to do with Hilda.  After all the work
she's done in hospital I should like her to have a few months'
complete holiday and to enjoy herself, but obviously I want to
entrust her to some one who _will_ look after her.  Hilda is a
thoroughly sensible girl, but London is a big place, and I suppose
there is no harm in saying that she _is_ very attractive and will
have a good deal of money later on.  You know far better than I do
the importance of her meeting the _right_ people.  What do you
suggest?"

Now, do you know, I felt so certain what she _wanted_ me to suggest
that it was on the tip of my tongue to read her one of those
abominable advertisements in the morning papers: "_A Lady of Title is
willing to chaperon a young girl; introductions..._" and so forth and
so on.  People putting any position they may have up to _auction_!
Are you surprised that London is _what_ it is?  I have always
wondered, when I see the really and truly _inexplicable_ young women
with whom Connie Maitland is _liée_ from time to time, whether _she_
augments her income in this way.  Otherwise I fail to understand how
she keeps on that great house in Eaton Place and entertains as she
does.  But that is _her_ business...  If Mrs. Surdan had dared to
propose such a thing, I really think I should have asked her to leave
the house...

"Surely," I said, "_you_ are the best person to look after Hilda.  I
go out very little; but, so far as I can judge, there is never any
difficulty about getting to know people in London.  If you were to
take a house in some good neighbourhood and entertain a certain
amount--"

"I should only be a handicap to Hilda," she interrupted.

Do you know, I thought that _dear_ of her...  It is the Lancashire
"burr", is it not?  She had that--not disagreeably, but it was there.
And her directness, never rounding the edge of anything she said...
The girl, you will find, has been polished without being made
genteel.  If you catch them young, a good school ... or a governess
whose ear has been trained to detect and suppress those tell-tale
oddities of speech...  But you don't often find a mother with the
wisdom to recognize that and keep herself out of sight...

"I don't know _what_ to recommend," I said.  "It would be no kindness
to ask her to stay here.  I am a dull old woman; there are no girls
to keep her company; and my husband and I have long found that, in
entertaining, it is useless to compete with those who think in pounds
when we are forced to think in pennies."

"I should like Hilda to enjoy herself," said Mrs. Surdan.  "If some
one entertained on her behalf...  I should like her to be given a
ball, for instance...  But, of course, it wouldn't be fair to ask
_you_."

"It wouldn't be fair on Hilda," I said.

"May Hilda's parents not judge of that?," she asked.

A woman with a quite _conquering_ smile...  I wish you had met her.

It was really like a struggle not to be first through the door...

"If Hilda would _care_ to come," I said at length, "as my _guest_..."

"I can never thank you enough," said Mrs. Surdan.  "She is very
tractable.  Young, of course...  And inexperienced about money..."

The best method of control, she thought, would be for me to suggest a
sum which would cover all her expenses of every kind and for her
husband to pay that into my account...  "Hilda's pocket-money," we
agreed to call it...

It seemed an admirable arrangement, but then Mrs. Surdan has the
_practical_ brain of a man in some ways...

I took Arthur completely into my confidence...

Will...

I had great difficulty in deciding on the right method of approach
with Will.  State the bald fact that the girl was coming--irrevocably
and without appeal; Will might have taken a dislike to her and made
my already difficult task harder.  Make any mystery about it, and she
might have become the fruit of the one forbidden tree, as it were, a
sort of morbid craving.  And that was the last thing I wanted...  In
the end I told him frankly: she was young, pretty and the only child
of very rich parents who wanted to launch her on "the great world",
as the literary people call it...

"And I expect you to help me," I told Will.  "I don't _know_ the
young men of the present day."

"I must have a look at her before I wish her on to any of my
friends," said Will, not very encouragingly.

You know, there are some people who feel they owe themselves a
grumble...  As soon as Hilda arrived, Will behaved charmingly.  You
have seen her about in London, I expect?  Oh, well, she is _really_
pretty: small, exquisitely finished, with that
"look-you-straight-in-the-eyes" air which so many girls seem to have
acquired during the war.  I felt--_pace_ her mother--that she was
thoroughly well able to take care of herself.  Except, perhaps, in
dress.  The first night she came down in a frock which hardly reached
her knees and seemed to stop short at the waist--bare arms, bare
shoulders, bare back; I was quite shocked for a moment when Will came
into the drawing-room without knocking...  However, so long as it did
not set him against her...  You see, I was simply not equal to taking
her out to daily luncheons, dinners, plays, dances; inevitably a good
deal devolved on Will, but he was truly sweet about it...  Seeing how
_répandu_ he is...

At the same time, I was in a difficult position, for, while I never
_dreamed_ he would look at her as a wife, I should have liked him to
establish some sort of claim on the girl's father; and, if Will did
not marry her, I was not doing much to help the Surdan fortunes.  You
know what men are!  So long as Will was considered her natural
protector, the others kept away for fear of "poaching", as it were.
I felt it was a pity for them to be about together so much.  I'm not
ashamed to call myself old-fashioned...  And these garish new
restaurants and poor Hilda's "uniform undress", as Will rather
wittily expressed it, made them very conspicuous...

The girl felt it, too.  One day, when he'd devoted half the night to
looking after her at a ball, she came to me--in real trouble, I
thought--, and we had a serious talk.  I told her that, if _she_ had
not spoken, I _should_ have; Will was devoting himself to her so
good-naturedly that he was neglecting his own prospects and doing
nothing to secure an appointment.

"As his mother," I said, "I cannot bear to see his abilities
wasting...  He needs a _good_ appointment; and I don't even know
where to _begin_ looking for one.  But _you_ are not to bother your
head about _my_ affairs.  Tell me, dear child, what is troubling
_you_."

So far as I could make out--she spoke very simply and nicely--, she
was afraid of getting into a false position with Will if she went
about with him so much.  _Affichée_...  At this ball--I had handed on
her mother's request that we should be _most_ careful whom we
introduced--Will had very unselfishly played cavalier the whole
evening; and, as she put on her cloak, some girl had asked one of
those silly, impertinent questions which do such incalculable harm...

"My dear, you must not distress yourself," I said.  "You know the old
saying--'There is safety in numbers'--; for the future..."

It was quite evident to me _now _that Will did not intend to marry
her.  He was furious when I even _hinted_ at such a thing...  And I
will tell _you_ that I was glad.  She would not have made a suitable
wife, and no amount of money will overcome those little hardly
perceptible angularities of breeding which make the difference
between a happy and an unhappy marriage.  While there was any
possibility of such a thing, I _had_ to hold my peace...

That night I improvized quite a big party for her.  Will was not able
to be present, as he had a long-standing engagement to dine with a
man at his club.  We had encroached on his time so much that for the
first week of the new _régime_ I hardly saw him; he was simply making
up arrears with his other friends.  I was lucky enough to get hold of
Culroyd, however; and, though he was hardly a substitute for Will--I
hate to say this about my own nephew, but I always feel that my poor
sister-in-law Ruth imported a bucolic strain into the blood--, he did
his best and made quite an impression on Hilda...

Indeed, I think you may say that it all started from that night...  I
_never_ imagined that Culroyd would fall a victim.  Hilda is
undeniably pretty and, of course, she is an heiress; but, beyond
that, she brings nothing.  Culroyd _is_ heir to an earldom, and one
would have thought he might have done rather better...  It's not as
if he _needed_ money.  When my brother Brackenbury sacrificed himself
for the good of the family, he did it on such a scale that there was
no need for any one to follow in his footsteps for several
generations.  Culroyd and Phyllida, for their age, are very well
provided for; and, of course, there is a great deal more to come.
No!  I could not help feeling that he must have inherited a taste for
money with his mother's blood.  It is extraordinary how rich people
seem to attract rich people.  The Jews, for example...  And _vice
versa_.  I am sometimes so much afraid that Will may throw himself
away on some one whom he'll simply have to support all his life.
And, short of selling the roof from over my head and the clothes from
off my back, I have done all that I _can_ do...  I have lost the
thread....

Ah, yes!  Culroyd!  I fancy I told you that for a few months my niece
Phyllida chose to fancy that she had a grievance against me.  A young
war-soldier tried to trap her into marriage, glamoured no doubt by
the title and a fair presumption of money.  If I could feel that I
had done _anything_ to check a most imprudent alliance, I should be
proud of the achievement; I know, however, that I have no right to
throw myself bouquets.  The young man did not acquit himself well
under cross-examination, and you may judge of this "life's passion",
as poor Phyllida would like to consider it, by the fact that from
that day to this she has never heard from him.  The entire family
held _me_ responsible!  Hitherto, I had been on the best possible
terms with my relations--except, of course, my brother-in-law
Spenworth, and that is an honour which I would sooner be spared--;
now I was the universal scapegoat.  Without yielding in _any_ way to
cynicism, let me say that I was _amused_, after my Lord Culroyd's
first meeting with Hilda Surdan, to find that he did me the honour to
make my house his own.

"Let me know some night when he and Hilda are _not_ dining here,"
said Will, when I reproached him for always now deserting us for his
club.

For some reason there has never been any great cordiality between the
cousins.  Perhaps Culroyd is a _little_ bit consequential in the way
that he insists on his own dignity--a sort of instinctive attitude of
self-preservation, as though he realized that he owes everything to
an accident of sex and that, if Brackenbury and I changed places, he
would have to change places with Will...  And Will may very well have
been galled by the light-hearted way in which Hilda could not get on
without him one day and got on quite comfortably without him the
next.  No one likes ingratitude, though it was on the tip of my
tongue to say that he need not grudge his leavings to poor Culroyd.

It was not so easy to find a free night, as the young people seemed
to have made arrangements for days ahead, and in the end I told Will
to leave them to their whispering and silliness and talk to _me_.

"Why you ever invited her I don't know," he grumbled; and I could see
that the strain of playing cavalier for so long was telling on him.

"It was an opportunity for doing her a little kindness," I said.

"And is she going to marry Culroyd?," he asked, "or is she simply
playing with him until she finds something _better_ worth her while?"

"Isn't it rather a question whether Culroyd will marry _her_?," I
suggested.  "After all, she doesn't _bring_ very much...  They seem
to get on quite well together."

"I haven't seen them," said Will.  "It would be amusing to watch..."

When they all met, I can't say that it was very amusing for _me_.
Will can be rather a tease when he likes, but I think it a pity to go
on with that sort of thing if other people haven't enough humour to
take it in good part.  Culroyd and Hilda were so tremendously in
earnest that they couldn't bear to be chaffed; and, the stiffer they
became, the more irresistible they were to Will.  I intervened once
or twice, when I thought Culroyd was losing his temper, but the
situation seemed to get suddenly out of hand; there was something
_very_ like a scene.

"If you don't know how to behave," said Culroyd--very rudely, I
thought, "do hire some one to teach you.  Your manners would disgrace
a privates' canteen."

"Would they?  I'm afraid I'm not a good judge," said Will.

It was neat; but, though I'm his mother, I feel he ought not to have
said it.  I expect you know that Culroyd was still at Eton when the
war broke out.  Brackenbury positively forbade him to take a
commission before he was eighteen, so Culroyd ran away and enlisted.
It was in the regular army, you understand, and they had every kind
of difficulty in getting him out.  He joined the Coldstream
afterwards, but for a time he _was_ a private...

"A better judge of draft-dodgers, perhaps," said Culroyd.

The word was new to me, and I had to ask for enlightenment.  When it
came, I was _beside_ myself with anger.  The term is American and
applies to a man who "dodges" the "draft", which is their word for
conscription.  A wickeder or more reckless charge could not be made.
Will applied for a commission within the first year and a half of the
war.  "You can try," I said, "but I _don't_ think the doctor will
pass you."  He did, however, and Will served for three years with
great distinction and was quite invaluable to his general.  It was
the fashion at one time to sneer at the staff, but I have yet to
learn that war can be carried on without one; and I sometimes wonder
whether the sneers were not mingled with a little _envy_ on the part
of men who were not efficient enough to be selected.

"Culroyd, you have no business to say that," I told him.

"Will doesn't deny it," he said.

And then I thought my boy shewed both wit and dignity.

"If any one thought it worth while to call me a homicidal maniac," he
said, "I doubt if I should bother to deny it."

"They'll never accuse you of even a tendency to homicide--even in
war," muttered Culroyd, but he shewed that he had got the worst of it.

I did not like to take Hilda upstairs and leave them a chance of
reopening the wrangle; but, when I suggested that we should all go up
together, Will remembered that he had promised to meet a man at his
club.

"I'm sorry," said Hilda very nicely, though I felt that I really
ought to apologize to her for the little scene.  "I wanted to talk to
you and him privately...  There's no harm in speaking before you,
Lord Culroyd, because you're one of the family.  My father wrote to
ask if I knew of any one suitable for a position which is being
created in one of his yards--rather a good appointment.  He would
like to give it to a man who has been in the army, he says.  I have
the letter upstairs and I remember that the starting salary would be
a thousand a year.  I think it is the Morecambe yards." ...

My dear! ... I said to myself, "Ann Spenworth, you must keep your
head."  For a dozen reasons I wanted to get Will out of London.  If
Culroyd continued to _haunt_ my house, I was thankful to get Will out
of the way, though I cannot imagine that this ever entered Hilda's
little love-lorn head.  And an _appointment_, when we had waited so
long!  Besides, London is _not_ good for Will's health.  He wakes up
_with_ a head-ache and _without_ an appetite--as a matter of
course....

I telegraphed as soon as the office opened.  Mr. Surdan is a man of
business, and the appointment was settled before night.  Next day I
went up to help find the boy a comfortable home.  Don't be shocked
now!  I am simply echoing Will when I say: "Morecambe is a
_God-forsaken_ place."  _Rooms_ were out of the question, because he
must have _some_ one to look after him.  I was recommended to a
worthy old clergyman, when everything else failed; and, though Will
protested beforehand, he resigned himself when we reached the house.
Just the father, the mother and two daughters, who seemed quite
fluttered on meeting Will and hearing who he was.  _Quite_ pretty
girls in a "left-to-run-wild" way...  Which I, personally, did not
mind.  After a month of dear Hilda's nakedness it was a comfort to
drop into a world where you saw more clothes than _jeune fille_...
Oh, I don't think Will runs any risk from _them_; he _does_ realize
that love--in the homely old phrase--doesn't pay the butcher's book;
and, after that, one has only to school oneself not to fall in love
carelessly.  But they will give him pleasant, bright companionship in
the long evenings...

When I returned to London, Hilda was in bed.  An internal chill...
She wouldn't see a doctor, she said, as a few days' rest and warmth
were all that she needed.  _I_ was not sorry to have a few days' rest
too.  First Will and then Culroyd...  I found my little visitor a
greater strain than I had anticipated...  My "rest" was "nothing to
write home about", as Will used to say, for I found myself required
to cope with a lioness which had been robbed of its cub--Culroyd, I
mean.  He came as usual expecting to see Hilda--and pretending he
_only_ wanted to see his poor old aunt!  _And_ left the moment he had
swallowed his coffee!  It's a good thing I'm not vain, isn't it?
Next day he came again...  At first it was habit, I think; he had got
into the way of meeting this child every day.  Then it became more
serious.  If we are going to bless this union, I think we must also
bless Hilda's influenza.  (It developed into that.  And a nice time I
had!  Responsible to her mother--and day after day the girl _refused_
to see a doctor.)  These boys and girls go about together so freely
that there is little inducement to bring things to a head, as it
were.  Goodness me, when I first met Arthur, he would have _liked_ to
go about with me everywhere, but my dear mother put her foot down
very firmly on _that_.  And, when he found that it was almost
impossible for us to meet, Arthur suddenly discovered that I meant
more to him than he had suspected...  So with Culroyd; history
repeating itself, so to say...  Hilda was a _habit_; and, when the
habit was broken by influenza, she developed into a _need_.  Culroyd
had never taken much trouble before, but now he called every
afternoon with flowers and wrote to her morning and evening.  She was
quite bewildered.  A very simple child...

When she was well enough to sit up on a sofa, Culroyd fumed with
impatience to see her.  He insisted on coming upstairs with me,
though I told him I wasn't at all sure...  And so it proved: Hilda
said she _really_ wasn't equal to meeting any one.  The next day she
was rather stronger, and I prevailed on her just to let him bring the
flowers into her room.

"Aunt Ann, will you leave us alone for one moment?," he asked.

"Really, Culroyd," I said....

Oh, I know it's done, but I was brought up in a different school.
All this popping in and out of young people's bedrooms...

"Please!  I _beg_ you!," he said.

And then, before I knew where I was, he had kissed me on both cheeks,
tapped at the door and disappeared...  I went to see about some vases
for the flowers; and, when I came back, he was on his knees by the
bed and Hilda was stroking his head.  My old heart warmed...  I am
not ashamed to confess it.  A radiance that you see before young
people have time to become hard, worldly...

They announced it next day to Brackenbury, though I am sure Hilda was
imprudent to travel.  Though I could not fairly be saddled with any
responsibility, I was a little nervous to see how he would take it;
every family has its scapegoat, and at the Hall they have so long
found it convenient to dignify me with that position...

"Were you surprised?," I asked.

"Well, yes," Brackenbury admitted.  "It was commonly reported that
you were keeping Hilda up your sleeve for Will.  People told me that
it was impossible to walk into a restaurant or theatre without
meeting them.  You won't deny that you did rather throw them at each
other's heads?"

"Brackenbury," I said.  "If any one thought it worth while to call me
a homicidal maniac, I doubt if I should bother to deny it...  But are
you pleased?"

"Oh, yes," he said.  "They seem quite happy; and that's all that
matters."

And I preferred to leave it at that.  It is not a great match.  Ruth,
of course, is delighted, because it supports her own conduct in
marrying Brackenbury....

Even Phyllida had a good word for me--which was so gratifying!

"I hope you're all as pleased as we are," she said, with a funny,
unsmiling expression.  Almost antagonistic...

I noticed that she had Hilda's trick of looking you straight in the
eyes--a sort of challenge ... quite fearless ... and ready to change
in a moment to impudence.

"I am," I said.  "Your uncle Arthur is away and has not been told
yet.  Will is away too."

"What's Will doing?," she asked.

"He was offered a post at Morecambe," I told her.  "Hilda's father
wanted some one of experience and position, who was used to handling
men--"

She seemed to find something to smile at in that.

"What does he get?," she interrupted.

This absorption in pounds, shillings and pence comes to them
_entirely_ from their poor mother...

"A thousand a year--to start on," I told her.

"And cheap at the price," said Phyllida.

I had to beg her to enlighten me.

"Well," she said, "I don't call a thousand a year excessive to secure
Will--in Morecambe..."

Mrs. Surdan was _naturally_ pleased.  For them, at least, it is a
great match.

"_I_ little thought that it would end like this, when you asked me to
take charge of Hilda for three months," I said.

And that reminded me that what they called "Hilda's pocket-money" was
lying almost untouched at the bank in Arthur's name.  There had been
no ball, hardly anything...  But I could not get Mrs. Surdan to say
what should be done with it...

"I'm sure you didn't," she answered.

"So, if it's a failure, don't blame me," I said.  "And, if it's a
success, don't thank me."

"I shall always thank you for your kindness to Hilda," she said,
"especially when she was ill."

"That was nothing," I said.

"Hilda's parents don't think so."

And then she did a difficult thing very gracefully.  We must have the
girl's room properly disinfected, she told me; I assured her that
Arthur had already received an estimate for redecorating the whole
house.  Thanks to them, we were now in a position...  Hilda's room,
she insisted, must be her province.  I have told you that in the old
committee days she positively _imposed_ her will on the rest of us;
so now.  She would not leave the house until she had dragged the
estimate out of me by main force.

The work has recently been completed.  There was the usual letter to
ask if we were satisfied, and Arthur wrote out a cheque.  It was
returned.  Mr. Surdan had asked to have the account sent to him...  I
was _beside_ myself with anger at such a liberty...

I tell this against myself, because, having gone to curse, I stayed
to pray, as it were.  Mrs. Surdan wouldn't let me speak.

"Hilda is our only child, as Mr. Will is yours," she said.  "If
anything had happened to her, you can imagine what we should have
thought.  Is it altogether kind to say that we must not thank you for
your devotion to our little girl?"

There you have the woman--clever, direct, going _straight_ to my weak
place...

What could one say?




VI

  LADY ANN SPENWORTH HOLDS THE _Corps
  Diplomatique_ TO ITS DUTY

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): I feel--don't
you?--that, if the embassies can give no enlightenment, they might
just as well not be there.  Paris is different, of course; nowadays
it is hardly more than a suburb of London; with that vast
cosmopolitan army always coming and going, one is hardly expected to
be one's brother's keeper.  And Washington is unlike any other
capital; one goes there _en poste_--or not at all.  But in Vienna or
Rome...  Goodness me, in the old days when my father was ambassador,
it was a matter of course.  When a new star swam into your ken, you
made enquiries in the English colony; if not known there or at the
embassy, a wise woman stayed her hand until she had a _little_
something to go on.

In London the _corps diplomatique_ is more _diplomatique_ than
_corps_.  Just a swarm of warring atoms, some of them very
_charming_, all of them invaluable if a man fails you at the last
moment--a word by telephone to the Chancery: "Two men; I _must_ have
them; golf and bridge; the 4.20 from Waterloo; not to bring a
servant." ... And so on and so forth.  Indispensable for entertaining
on Connie Maitland's lines.  They are so nice and tractable; but
worse than useless if you go officially, as it were, for a whispered
_word_ of guidance.  As witness Mrs. Sawyer...

I cannot remember where I first met her; probably at Lady
Maitland's...  Sooner or later one meets everybody there; and, with
all respect to dear Connie, I, personally, should not mind if some of
her protégés came a little later and left a little sooner ... before
I had time to be involved, I mean.  It is all this craze for
collecting money and, incidentally, carving a _niche_ for oneself as
the great organizer.  One pictures Connie standing blindfold over a
map of England and spearing it ruthlessly with a knitting-needle.
"I, Constance Maitland," you can hear her saying, "ordain that _here_
and _here_ and _here_ I will erect hospitals, libraries and
wash-houses." ...

Whether the locality likes it or not, as it were.  If the needle
pierces Grasmere, so much the worse for Grasmere.  It shall have its
hospital--in mid-lake, regardless of the _needless_ additional
expense.  I _am_ serious about that, because I feel that, if Connie
spent more judiciously, she would not have to appeal so persistently;
some of us _did_ contrive to keep the machine running even before my
Lady Maitland descended upon us...  It does not affect me much,
because I am never able to contribute more than a trifle; one cannot
undertake her new charities indiscriminately without doing an
injustice to the old.  Others are more happily placed, and my only
quarrel with Connie is that I must either drop her or else consent to
embrace _all_ her new friends.  This Mrs. Sawyer, for instance...

I forget whether you were in London at the time...  No, of course
not.  Well, I can testify to you that her arrival created quite a
stir.  The _rastaquouère_ type is not unknown to me by any means, but
I thought Mrs. Sawyer a very favourable specimen.  Not more than two
or three and twenty, though these South American women reach their
prime very early--and pass it; jet-black hair and eyes, dead-white
face, scarlet lips, really beautiful teeth; altogether a very
striking young woman, with just enough of a foreign accent to give an
added charm--for those who like that sort of thing.  She had a
wistful, mysterious manner which accorded well with the _ensemble_
... and with the story they told about her.  I never heard her maiden
name, but I was told at once that she was one of the greatest
heiresses in Peru--or it may have been Argentina.  This Sawyer was a
ne'er-do-well Irishman who had been sent to South America ... as one
_does_ have to send these people sometimes; he fascinated her,
married her, beat her (I should think) and drank himself to death,
leaving her utterly broken-hearted and disillusionized--not with
_him_ alone, but with the world...  She had come to Europe to find a
new life.  Such was the story that Connie Maitland shouted at one;
and, if poor Mrs. Sawyer overheard it, so much the worse for her...

A romantic setting, do you not agree?  If you had seen her come into
a room with those great, tragic eyes sweeping face after face as
though she were looking for the _one_ man who would gather up the
fragments of her broken youth...  If I had been a _man_...  Superb
diamonds, I need _hardly_ say; and almost an arrogance of mourning,
as though she would _not_ be comforted...  All the young men followed
her with their eyes--spell-bound.  And some men no longer young...

Do you see much of that pathetic class of over-ripe bachelor which my
boy rather naughtily calls the "Have-Beens"?  They are common, I
suppose, to every age and country, but England seems to contain more
than her fair share.  Between thirty-five and fifty, not particularly
well-connected, not a _parti_ among them, not even extravagantly
popular, but useful--apparently--and _ubiquitous_.  I could give you
the names of a dozen...  Several of them have been in quite good
regiments at some time or other.  I understand they belong to the
usual clubs; most of them dance quite competently; _all_ of them play
extremely good bridge, I am told...  Several women I know make out a
stop-gap list of them; then, if they're short of a man--it is several
grades lower than the embassies, of course, and you are not expected
to give even a day's notice--, the butler can telephone to them in
turn until he finds one disengaged.  Delightfully simple, is it not?
Having no personalities of their own, they accord well with every
one; having no pride, they never resent an eleventh-hour invitation;
they are too discreet to pay unduly marked attention to a married
woman, they know their place too well to attempt any intimacy with
the girls.

I am not ashamed to confess that I have an old-fashioned prejudice in
favour of a man who is a man; but the kind I am describing seem to
ask nothing more of life than invitations and more invitations--and
this strange modern privilege of being "Bunny" and "Chris" and "Theo"
to women who are old enough to have outgrown such nonsense.  If you
entertain--I do not, as you are aware--, I believe it is essential to
have some such list as I have indicated; and I am told that the men
repay you by running errands and being useful in a thousand ways.
For _their_ sake I hope they never hear what other men say about
them, even the fellow-members of their little community--there is no
more contemptuous critic of "Bunny" than "Theo"--or what the women
say, for that matter.  We may, if we are built that way, ask "Bunny"
or "Theo" to come and look at frocks with us; but we don't respect
the man who does...  If any girl _dared_ ask Will to waste a morning,
talking to her while she sat for her portrait...

"Bunny" and "Theo" and "Chris" all pricked up their ears when they
heard about Mrs. Sawyer.  It was another house for them to lunch or
dine at; and, of course, they were expected to come to the old houses
primed with all the gossip they could pick up about her.  I don't
know whether any of them thought _seriously_ that they had a chance
with her; they must _surely_ realize that a woman prefers a man of
some spirit...  And, if they do, they have no excuse for standing in
a ring and keeping every one else away.  Of course, they were
_useful_ to her.  Major Blanstock found her a house in South Audley
Street and helped her furnish it and found servants for her and so
forth and so on.  He even introduced her to Connie Maitland--as a
short cut to knowing everybody, which I gather was her ambition.

Certainly there is no one to equal Connie for that.  You have seen
men in the street, unloading bricks from a cart and tossing them,
three or four at a time, from one to another?  Should Connie ever
sustain a reverse, she will always have a second string to her bow...
Major Blanstock _tossed_ this Mrs. Sawyer to Connie, Connie _tossed_
her to me...  I was expected, I presume, to _toss_ her on to some one
else, but I happen to have been brought up in a different school;
before I undertake the responsibility of introducing a complete
stranger, I like to know _something_ about her.  Goodness me, I don't
suggest that my recommendation counts for anything, but for my own
peace of mind, when somebody says "Oh, I met her at Lady
Ann's"--there _is_ an implied guarantee--, I want to feel that my
friends' confidence is not misplaced.

"Now, Major Blanstock," I said, "I want you to tell me _all_ about
your lovely young divinity, the rich widow.  If I am to befriend her,
I must know a _little_ about her."

I imagine that I was not the first enquirer, for he answered with an
impatience which in other days some of us might have considered
uncivil.

"_Is_ she rich?," he asked.  "I know nothing about her.  I don't even
know she's a widow.  I met her on the boat coming home from Buenos
Aires; and, as she'd never been in London, I tried to make her feel
at home and asked Lady Maitland to give her a helping hand."

And that was literally all I got out of him--the fountain-head.
_Connie_ knew nothing and wanted to know nothing.  It was enough that
Mrs. Sawyer was presentable in herself and would attach her name to
_any_ subscription-list for _any_ amount.  The others--people who are
usually well-informed--simply handed on the gossip which they had
themselves made up overnight.  It was then that I approached my
diplomatic friends.

The difficulty was to know where to start.  I couldn't commit myself,
I felt, by _one_ dinner, so when my Will came back...  From the
north, yes.  You knew that he was home?  Oh, yes!  Well, at the
moment he is not doing anything.  The Morecambe experiment was _not_
a success; the place didn't suit him, and he didn't suit the place.
That is all I care to say on the subject.  Half-truths are always
misleading; and I cannot tell you the full story, because I do not
know it.  Should it not be enough to know that for days my spirit was
_crucified_?  And the end is not yet...  I have lost the thread...
Ah, yes.  We dined _à trois_: Will and Mrs. Sawyer and I.  She was
fascinating, magnetic.  For the first time Will forgot all about the
odious clergyman's odious daughter...  No, it slipped out.  That
belongs to the unhappy Morecambe episode, and I really do not think
it very kind of you to keep trying to pump me when I have said I
prefer not to discuss it...  When he returned after seeing her home,
Will wanted to know all about her, and in such a _way_...  I mean, if
his voice and manner meant anything, they meant that he had met his
fate, as it were.  I could tell him little.  For one thing, I didn't
know; for another, his excitement had gone to my head, I saw ten
things at once and, breaking through them all, this splendid, untamed
creature with the flashing eyes walking side by side with my Will.
Such a contrast ... and _such_ a combination...

"Well, hadn't you better find out something about her?," said Will.

I promised to do my best, but one was sent from pillar to post in a
quite too ridiculous way.  I _thought_ some one had told me she came
from Buenos Aires (perhaps it was only Major Blanstock's saying he
had met her on the boat coming home from there); I tried the
Argentine colony and the Legation, only to be referred to the
Brazilian Embassy; and there, though I am _sure_ they had never heard
of her, they were certain that she came from Peru.  Until then, I had
never realized how many republics there were in South America; I went
from Colombia to the Argentine and from Ecuador to Chili.
_Invariably_ the first question was: "_What_ was her name before she
_became_ Mrs. Sawyer?"  And that, of course, I did not know.

There is such a thing as _trop de zèle_, sometimes hardly
distinguishable from making oneself ridiculous...

"Surely," I said to Will, "our judgement of this person or that is a
better criterion than the bald (and perhaps inaccurate) statement
that a person was _born_ here and _married_ there.  Connie Maitland
has asked us to shew some little kindness to our friend; and I am not
ashamed to confess that it seems _grudging_ to insist too much on
credentials.  In a favourite phrase of your own, Will, she is "good
enough" for me; and, if any one says: "I met her at Lady Ann's," I
should be tempted to answer: "I hope you do not need a better
recommendation."

"I don't want to look a fool, that's all," said Will.

"My dear boy," I reassured him, "if she were a complete impostor,
does one make a fool of oneself by asking her to dinner once or
twice?  If so, I am afraid I rank hospitality above my own personal
dignity."

As a matter of fact, it was all the other way.  Mrs. Sawyer developed
a mania for entertaining.  I went gingerly at first, for one had seen
so many _rastaquouères_ treading that road, but no fault could be
found with her methods.  Either through Connie Maitland or others,
she seemed to know _every one_, and you went to the little _réunions_
in South Audley Street with the certainty that, if you did not meet
all your friends there, at least every one that you met would be a
friend.  I enjoyed her parties; indeed, I only hope that she enjoyed
them as much as we did, though I confess I sometimes looked at those
tragic black eyes and wondered what amusement it could give her.

Stay!  There was _one_ blot: her hospitality left one no opportunity
of making an adequate return.  Where there is a marked difference of
means, I am the last to suggest that one should proceed on the
principle of "a cutlet for a cutlet and a quail for a quail", but it
is uncomfortable to feel that everything is coming from one side.  My
_own_ conscience is clear, for we had done our part; Mrs. Sawyer had
in fact dined with us once in Mount Street--just Will and me; I am
not in a position to entertain in the old sense of the word--, we had
asked her again at least once, and she had never been able to come.
It was always: "Oh, won't _you_ come to _me_?  And whom shall I ask
to meet you?  And would you prefer just to dine or shall we go to a
play?"  All in that charming almost-broken English of hers.  It would
have been ungracious to refuse...

I confess that I never saw and do not see to this day how some of the
"Have-Beens" justified their existence.  I mean, Will and I dined or
lunched or went to a play with her three and four times a week,
_simply_ because Major Blanstock told us that she was alone in London
and Connie Maitland had asked me to look after her.  I can assure
you, we _never_ went to South Audley Street without finding a little
cluster of "Bunnies" and "Theos" and the rest.

I tackled one of them about it...  This is between ourselves, but it
was Mr. Gorleigh--"Reggie" Gorleigh, I suppose I should call him, to
be in the fashion.

"You seem a _great_ friend of Mrs. Sawyer," I said.  "I am always
meeting you here.  Tell me; I don't know how long she is staying in
London, but one would like her to take away a pleasant memory of such
hospitality as one can shew her.  Is there anything we can do to make
a little return?  I hardly like to go _on_ taking with both hands."

"Well, I felt that from the first," said Mr. Gorleigh.  "Geordie
Blanstock introduced me, and I came here once or twice...  Then I
felt ... as you do; and I cried off.  The only thing is, she _hasn't_
many friends, and I thought it wasn't quite fair, perhaps, to stay
away out of a sort of false delicacy.  The poor little woman _wants_
companionship."

"Your feelings do you credit," I said as gravely as I could.

Really, it would have been laughable if it had not been so
disgusting.  A man who lives by sponging on his friends for free
meals to pretend that he was coming, against his will, to give "the
poor little woman" the inestimable privilege of feeding him...  But,
if you please, that was the accepted "eye-wash", as my boy would call
it.  In a spirit of pure mischief, I am afraid, I went from one to
another: "Bat" Shenstone, "Laurie" Forman, "Theo" Standish, "Bunny"
Fancroft.  Always the same story!  _They_ didn't come to the house
for what they could get out of it; I must understand that they were
Mrs. Sawyer's _friends_.  Hoity-toity!  Friends with a capital "F"...

Very soon it was "Consuelo's" friends.  Looking back on it all, one
seems to hear a series of commands: "on the word 'loot', quick march;
on reaching South Audley Street, halt and enter; on the word 'love'
..." and so forth and so on.  No, it's not mine; Will drew a most
amusing picture...  But that is literally what happened: first of
all, they were "Consuelo's" _friends_, then they were all in love
with her.

I have suggested that men of that stamp are incapable of being
serious about anything--except the next meal; but any one who was
genuinely fond of the poor woman could not help seeing that this
formal persecution was more than a joke.  Will came to me after one
of her parties and said that it was high time for us to _do_
something.

"Get her _away_ from all that gang," he cried; and from the agitation
of his voice I could see that he was taking this to heart.

And, you know, it was rather dreadful to see that lovely creature
with the tragic eyes standing like a bewildered child with all these
young-old men baying round her...

"It's easier said than done," I told him.

"Uncle Tom Brackenbury's going north for the Twelfth," said Will.
"Get him to lend you the Hall and ask Consuelo down."

My brother, as you know, is of so curious a temper that I have always
been more than chary of even seeming to put myself under an
obligation to him.  One had the feeling, don't you know, that, if
_he_ did not place a wrong construction on one's request, my niece
Phyllida _would_...  Since Culroyd's engagement, however, poor Aunt
Ann's shoulders have been relieved a little of their burden; the
family persists in thinking that I contributed to bring it about,
whereas I rigidly set my face against any planning of that kind and
was only responsible to the extent that Hilda Surdan was staying in
my house when my nephew Culroyd met her...  The point of importance,
however, is that Aunt Ann is now embarrassingly popular.  Brackenbury
lent me the house almost before I asked for it...

Then I had to think how the invitation might be made most attractive
to Consuelo.  After the _excitement_ of her life in London,
undoubtedly the best thing would have been to give her all the rest
and quiet that we could.  There is, however, a strain of something
restless and untamed about her; one pictures her running bare-foot
through the woods or plunging into the surf by moonlight; and, though
she would overcome that in time, I could not conceal from myself
that, on the one occasion when she had dined with us _en famille_,
she had flagged...  I told her that I hoped to secure some of our
common friends; and Will and I worked hard to arrange relays of the
people who would best accord, so to say...

I started with Major Blanstock, as he seemed her oldest friend.  To
do him justice, after the first meeting at Connie Maitland's house, I
had never seen him with the jackals; he didn't pretend to be in love
with her, he didn't talk about the pearls of his friendship and he
didn't even refer to her as "Consuelo".

"I shall be delighted to come, if I can get away," he said.

"Your fascinating young widow is coming," I said, as a bait--though I
felt that he had long ago lost interest in her.

"_My_ widow?," he repeated.  "I am alive--and unmarried, Lady Ann."

"Silly man!  Our Brazilian heiress," I explained.

"Oh!  Mrs. Sawyer," he said.  "Is she Brazilian?  I didn't know that.
But it's not fair to embarrass her with my friendship.  She is almost
a stranger to me; I don't know that she's an heiress, I don't even
know that she's a widow."

"But," I said, "surely her husband drank himself to death."

"Some one told me that he _drank_," said Major Blanstock.  "Whether
he drank himself to death I can't tell you.  I didn't feel it was my
affair..."

I forget whether any one was with us at the time, but this story
spread...  At least, it wasn't a _story_; several people, knowing
nothing of the facts, had chosen to assume that a certain woman was a
widow; one man, equally knowing nothing, said that he did not know
whether she was a widow or not.  Goodness me!  Did it matter two pins
one way or the other, so far as we were concerned?  I should have
been sorry to find out afterwards that there had been any kind of
scandal, because one had thrown one's mantle over the woman and given
an implied guarantee, as it were.  That was why I _did_ attempt to
learn a little something from my diplomatic friends...  But it is
hardly too much to say that a panic ensued among the "Bunnies" and
"Theos".

"They tell me," said Mr. "Bat" Shenstone, "that Mrs. Sawyer's husband
is still living."

"Oh?," I said.  That phrase--"They tell me"--!  It always puts me on
my guard.

I nearly told _him_ that, if he was only a _friend_ to her, it did
not matter whether she had a husband or not...  I noticed that she
was "Mrs. Sawyer" now...

The stories that I met for the next few days were so fantastic that I
really think some one must have been deliberately making them up.  At
one moment the husband was in a home for inebriates, at another he
was alive and well with a formidable revolver ready for any one who
became too "friendly" with his wife; at another he was supposed to be
in prison for actually shooting a man; then she was said to have
divorced him, then he was said to have divorced her.  Finally I was
assured that she had never had a husband and was an adventuress who
had come to exploit London.  The money, I was told, was a decoy, and
in reality there was no money; she had been left a few thousands by
some man with whom she had been living; and she was pouring it out
right and left in the hope of ensnaring some one else before it was
all spent.

I really did not know what I should be required to believe next.

"We must clear this up," said Will one night when we were all down at
the Hall.

"Which story in particular?," I asked.

"All of them," he answered very decisively; and at once.  I'm not
thinking of _us_, but we can't afford to let Consuelo have these lies
circulating about her.  Why don't you talk to her and find out the
truth?"

I am not ashamed to confess that I rather shrank from the prospect.
Mrs. Sawyer had always been so singularly uncommunicative that it
seemed impertinence to peer behind the veil.  And the more so when
she was one's guest.  I don't think I could have screwed up courage,
if Will's forethought had not shewn me the way; but I _did_ tell her
as gently and sweetly as I could that there was always a certain idle
curiosity about foreigners who came to live in England and that, in
her case, the curiosity was increased by her beauty and immediate
success.  I coaxed her to tell me a little about her life...

"What do you want to know?," she asked.

Those great black eyes---how I wish you had seen her!--became cold as
stone.  I was _frightened_...

"Your husband..." I began.

"He is dead."

Truly honestly, do you know, I couldn't go on.  I _did_ find out that
he had been dead eighteen months and they had been married for less
than a year and there were no children.  That, at least, was her
story; one had no opportunity of testing it or catching her out ...
even if one had wanted to.  _Who_ she was before, _where_ the money
came from, _if_ there was any money--not a word!  To this day I don't
know whether she hailed from Paraguay or Venezuela...

"She is a widow," I was able to tell Will; and indeed I took great
pains to scotch these ridiculous stories which had been swirling
round London when I left.  It was cruel that any one should say such
things of _any_ woman; and, if my boy ever thought fit to drop the
handkerchief, I did not want to have any explaining-away to do.  She
was greatly attracted to him, and I fancy that the one doubt in his
mind was the immense difference in blood and breeding: Roman Catholic
(I presume; I have no certain knowledge even of that) and Anglican,
Latin and Anglo-Saxon ... and so forth and so on.  We really knew so
very little about her that my boy prudently and properly did not seek
to press his advantage with her prematurely...

I sometimes feel that in London one uproots one lie only to make room
for another.  A few days' "propaganda", as Will would say, convinced
people that "the mystery woman", as some one christened her, had no
homicidal husband lurking with a revolver behind the nearest bush.
But a different story became wide-spread ... indeed, universally
repeated and almost universally believed.  The old story, I should
say, was revived.  People said that she had come over with a few
thousands and had spent every penny of it.

"I have no more knowledge than you have," said Major Blanstock, when
I tackled him about it one day at Brackenbury; and then he added with
rather a tiresome assumption of virtue: "I didn't feel it was my
affair."

"But you're her friend," I said.

"If she gives me an opportunity of proving it."

"And in some ways her sponsor," I said.

"Oh, I would stand sponsor for her at all times," he answered.  "If
your story is true, she will have an opportunity of proving the
quality of all her friends."

And there the thing ended, so far as we were concerned.  Brackenbury
had lent us the house for two months; but, when Consuelo left us
after a fortnight, we were not sorry to return the following day to
London.  I was in terror that Will might commit himself before we had
really found out anything; but, the moment these stories began
circulating again, he very wisely retired into his shell; I suppose
it was because she felt that no progress was being made that Consuelo
curtailed her visit.  Or, perhaps, with that restlessness of hers,
she was simply bored; _my_ feelings would not suffer if she told me
that one dull old woman...  I should explain that our scheme of
house-parties broke down; the women, indeed, came, but man after man
failed us at the last moment.  One spent Friday morning despatching
one's staff in turn to the telephone with names and more names and
yet _more_ names...

I found it hard to believe that _all_ the "Bunnies" and "Theos" were
in such request, but no enlightenment was vouchsafed until our return
to Mount Street.  If there had been a panic when we left London, the
phrase _sauve-qui-peut_ is hardly too strong for the condition we
found awaiting us.  Some one had industriously spread this story that
Mrs. Sawyer was a mere adventuress, and everybody was anxiously
disclaiming all acquaintance with her.  I have suggested that for
months it was impossible to enter South Audley Street without running
into Mr. "Reggie" Gorleigh; with my own ears I heard him say: "Mrs.
Sawyer?  Oh, that South American woman!  I _think_ I know who you
mean."

For sheer audacity...

"I don't know what else you would expect," said Major Blanstock one
day.  "People in London will take anything from anybody--and go on
taking it so long as they think there's money about.  If you whisper
that they may afterwards have to make a return, they vanish into thin
air.  I know nothing of Mrs. Sawyer's affairs; but, if it's true that
she _has_ lost all her money, I should have thought that her friends
would have rallied round her and shewn that it made no difference.
On a strict calculation of one meal against another, they could keep
her from starving for a year or two."

"And so I have no doubt they will," I said, though I detest all this
modern weighing and balancing.

Where calculation comes in, hospitality goes out.

"She's absolutely deserted!," he cried.  "I know, because I'm the
only man who goes near her."

"That, Major Blanstock," I said rather sharply, "is neither fair nor
true.  Consuelo spent a fortnight with _us_, she was invited to stay
longer."

"But would you ask her again?," he sneered; and I could see that he
was most offensively hinting that we, like the rest, had dropped her
when the bubble was pricked.

"My brother has unfortunately resumed possession of Brackenbury," I
told him.

And then I really had to pretend that there was somebody at the other
end of the room who wanted to speak to me...  I hope I am tolerably
good-tempered, but I will not allow every one to make himself a ruler
and a judge...

All through the summer it had been "Mrs. Sawyer this" and "Mrs.
Sawyer that".  _Dear_ Consuelo was so charming, her parties were so
delightful.  If one did not know her, one must take steps to become
acquainted.  And so forth and so on...  In the autumn there was what
I can only describe as a _guilty silence_; it was in questionable
taste to mention her; she dropped out completely, and one almost
begged one's man _not_ to bring the car home by way of South Audley
Street.  Every one seemed to fear that she might present herself any
day at the door and claim to be taken in and supported by those who
had only accepted her too lavish hospitality because they were
"friends" and a little sorry for her lonely state.  Then came the
great surprise...

It can only have been a surprise to people who had _jumped_ to
conclusions without troubling to collect a _shred_ of evidence...  I
purposely kept my mind a blank...  There were rumours; and then one
read the announcement--that she was marrying this Major Blanstock.  I
believe she is a great heiress, I believe her husband _did_ drink
himself to death.  And I still believe, as I always believed, that
she is a thoroughly nice, very unhappy woman...

She would never have done for Will...  As you would be the first to
agree, if you had seen her.  Oh, I can't describe my relief that
nothing came of _that_.  The difference of blood and breeding--Roman
Catholic and Anglican, Latin and Anglo-Saxon...

But I feel that the poor woman would have been given a fairer chance
if her own people at the Legation had been able to tell us something
about her.  If they can't do that, I really don't know what they are
there for or why one takes the trouble to invite them to one's
house...




VII

LADY ANN SPENWORTH DEPLORES PROPOSALS BY WOMEN

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): Oh, but I fully
believe they do it!  There were rumours even before the war.  To my
mind, the idea that _any_ girl should ask a man to marry her is _so_
repugnant that I can hardly think of it calmly.  All so-called
"Leap-Year jokes" seem to me to be in execrable taste...  _Since_ the
war, with these millions of superfluous women, I am told that it has
become quite common.  You have always had the cranks who claimed that
a woman had as much right to choose a husband as a husband to choose
a wife; and now girls like my niece Phyllida say that, with the
general upset of war, a little money frightens a man away and, if you
want him to see that a difference of means is not a real obstacle,
you have to take the first step.  I'm inclined to say: "Rubbish,
child, rubbish"--and _again_ "Rubbish".  Since when have young men
developed these fantastic scruples?  And does any girl think that the
only way of securing a man is to propose to him?  I should have
_imagined_...  But I was brought up in a different school...

Phyllida, of course, was struggling with her obsession.  I do feel
Brackenbury incurred a responsibility in not sending her _right_
away.  Ever since Colonel Butler disappeared, she has alternately
fumed and fretted.  Now she is becoming hard and cynical; if she were
ten years older, you would call her "soured".  Ridiculous at
one-and-twenty, or whatever she is...  And she became no more normal
after giving up hope of him.  Oh, yes, I'm thankful to say that I
think all that is _quite_ over, though we must expect to see an
occasional relapse; hence the discussion.  She said that, if she met
her Hilary or ever found out where he was, she would throw herself
into his arms and ask him to marry her.  And _sotto voce_ the
customary hateful suggestion that I had taunted him with wanting to
marry her for her money and so driven him away in order to clear the
ground for my Will.  It is always on the tip of my tongue to say that
she seems very certain of my boy.  But it is the modern fashion for a
girl to think she has only to drop the handkerchief...  Brackenbury
patted her hand (if he had slapped her it would have been more to the
point), I went on with my work.  She wanted the stimulus of a little
opposition, and that was just what I refused to give her.  Then she
began talking in general terms about the difficulty that a girl has
in finding a husband nowadays: fewer men than ever, all of them
uprooted by the war and uncertain of their future, widows marrying
again, the older women remaining young so much longer.  I felt that,
to some extent, it was all true, but I was surprised to hear such
truths on Phyllida's lips if she still wanted me to think she was
faithful to Colonel Butler's memory...

Culroyd's marriage made a difference, of course.  He was a devoted
brother, according to his lights; and I think she is missing him
greatly.  And one wedding, like one funeral, leads to another.  _You_
have seen it again and again!  The _trousseau_, the presents, the
letters, the general excitement, the very contagion of two young
lovers...  All this coming at a time when she seemed _deliberately_
to be making herself as unhappy as possible...  I knew there would be
a strong reaction, I was only afraid that she might throw herself at
my Will's head and that he might be unable to say "no".  I kept him
away from the Hall as much as I could.  If he _really_ wanted her, he
could drop the handkerchief--I felt--in his own good time...

"Your turn will come," I told her.

"Oh, I don't care who I marry," she answered.  "I suppose I shall
need a home when I'm turned out of here; and, if so, I'd better get
to work while I'm still young enough to attract men.  I'm open to any
offer; the man mustn't be _too_ hopeless a cad, that's all."

This mock-desperation would have been very cynical if it had not been
so unconvincing.  I said nothing at the time; but, when I had a
moment alone with her poor mother, I _did_ feel it my duty to say
candidly that it was time _some_body did _some_thing to change the
girl's thoughts.  Ruth agreed, but in a helpless, hopeless way that
always makes me wonder how Brackenbury has put up with her for so
many years.  In her opinion, Phyllida was pining for her young
soldier and would continue to pine, so far as I could gather, until
she found him.

"Is it not better," I asked, "to face facts?  Colonel Butler was
certainly attracted, but he realized in time that he had hardly the
means or the position to qualify him as husband to Phyllida and
son-in-law to Brackenbury.  Very properly he made himself scarce; and
nothing in life became him so well as his leaving of it.  You say he
has not written?  He won't write;--and I respect him for it.  But,
goodness me, I hope you're not going to encourage Phyllida to think
that she's broken her heart in a hopeless passion.  If you won't send
her _right_ away (as, you will have the justice to remember, I felt
it my duty to suggest at the outset), let her come to me for a few
weeks and let me see if London can't provide something to turn her
thoughts."

The trouble _was_, if you will promise not to tell any one I said so,
that Phyllida's _vanity_ was hurt.  When she was running after this
young man, there was so much publicity that people began to wonder;
they became spied on and whispered about; when he was summoned to
Brackenbury, every one felt that _now_ they were going to make
certain of him; when he left before his time, without saying a _word_
to her, it was naturally assumed that he had run away.  Rather than
believe that any man could weary of her charms, Phyllida will
convince herself that I turned young Butler against her...  Hence
this terrible bitterness...

If you ask me whether I expected to have my offer accepted, I will
frankly say "no".  I think Phyllida must enjoy surprises, for she
accepted the invitation at once, though perhaps a little ungraciously
and with a suggestion that, within limits, any one was welcome to
her...  Will was at home; and, though I have never been able to
decide what I should think if he told me that he was going to marry
his cousin, I was certainly beginning to feel that it was time for
him to find a suitable wife and settle down.  Will is nearly thirty,
and I have always considered that a popular and good-looking bachelor
is _unfairly_ exposed to temptation in England.  _They_ will let well
alone if only others would leave _them_ alone...

As witness that girl at Morecambe.  I shall not tell you about that,
because I hope--nay more; I _pray_--that it is all satisfactorily
settled; and, also, I was never told the full story.  It was enough
for me that he had lost a splendid appointment and now, once more,
has _nothing_ to live on; he must marry or find a job...  When the
girl's father came to the house--one of these rugged,
north-of-England clergymen who always have the air of intimidating
you into a state of grace--, it was my husband whom he insisted on
seeing.  I had never known Arthur in a state of such ungovernable
fury.  Bursting into my room, he stamped up and down, incoherent,
beside himself...  To this day I do not know what Will is supposed to
have done.  The girl kissed him good-night or something.  I suppose I
am the last person to condone any _freedom_, but she was a mere child
ten years younger than my boy--what more natural or innocent?  The
old father spied on them...  Hence the storm.  Reading between the
lines, I should conjecture that the girl deliberately laid herself
out to catch Will.  The one time I saw this Molly Phenton, she seemed
an attractive child, with deep-set, rather appealing eyes; a good
deal of soft brown hair, too, and pretty hands.  Quiet, simply
dressed; a perfect specimen of "the old country clergyman's pretty
little daughter."  And that, _I have no doubt_, was the effect she
wanted to achieve with Will, the appeal of innocence and youth to a
palate grown weary of more sophisticated charms; I wonder _more_ men
are not caught in that way...  Will, I am thankful to say, pulled
back before the trap could close on him; I was really astounded that
the father had the effrontery to come all the way from Morecambe on
what was nothing less or more than a blackmailing expedition.
Futile, if nothing else; Will is not one of those men who find it
necessary to buy popularity by giving presents to all and sundry; and
I am sure he is too prudent to write a girl foolish letters...

"Arthur, do stop walking about," I said, "and tell me what has
happened."

Too often, _only_ too often, when Will has been in trouble of any
kind, I have been excluded on the pretext that this was not a woman's
province.  His own mother!

"What has happened?," he shouted.  "Why, we have brought into this
world as choice a young blackguard as any one is ever likely to meet.
Phenton told me so to my face; and I had to agree with him.  He said
he wished he were young enough to horse-whip the fellow; I said I
agreed.  He wished the girl had a brother to do it; I said again that
I agreed."

I really thought it best to let him wear himself out...  When a man
speaks in that tone about his own son, when a Christian minister
talks about horse-whipping people...  All these wild words made
rather less than _no_ impression on me, as I was quite sure that my
boy hadn't written anything that could be used against him.

"And what is the outcome of it all?," I ventured to ask, when the
storm had abated.

"The outcome?"  When Arthur is moved, he has a most irritating trick
of repeating one's words.  For thirty years I have tried to break him
of it, but he is obdurate.  "You'd better find some woman who'll
marry the young scamp and keep him in order.  The sooner the better.
And I wish her joy of him."

When Will returned to Mount Street--he lived at his club until the
wild clergyman returned to Morecambe--, I begged for enlightenment,
but he would say nothing.  For that, I am not ashamed to confess, I
respected him; however badly this Molly Phenton (or "Molly Wanton,"
as _I_ prefer to call her) had behaved, Will was too chivalrous to
clear himself at the expense of a woman--and this though I could see
that he was worried out of his mind.  To a man, _that_ is a law of
the Medes and Persians...

"Son of mine, you must try to forget the whole thing," I said.  "When
you are older, I am afraid that some of your ideals will be modified;
in future, no doubt, you will be more on your guard; but you will
never be secure until you are yourself married."

"Oh, I'm open to any offer," said Will, exactly as poor Phyllida had
done.

I was disquieted, for I could see clearly that he would indeed never
feel secure from this girl until he was plighted to another woman.
When once a man is "Morning-Posted", as he would say, all other
fancied claims dissolve into thin air...  The mere sight of the
Morecambe post-mark in those days sent my heart into my mouth, and I
could see that the strain of this persecution was telling on his
nerves.  "Ann Spenworth," I said to myself, "you must make up your
mind; if he wants to marry Phyllida, you must not stand in the way."
...

All my life I have shrunk from the responsibility of interfering with
the destiny of a boy and girl in love.  The relationship is too
delicate, the consequences are too grave.  Before Phyllida came, I
reviewed the position and decided to make no change.

"Your cousin," I told Will, "is coming to us for a few weeks, and I
wish her to carry back pleasant memories of her visit.  It is no
secret to you that she has been disappointed through fancying herself
in love with a man who could never have been a suitable husband for
the Earl of Brackenbury's daughter.  We have to be kind to her; and,
if I know anything of girls, you will find that one who for the
moment feels forlorn and uncared-for will repay the affection of him
who can overcome her sense of loneliness and convince her that the
whole world is not indifferent to her happiness.  The labour and heat
of the day," I said, "must inevitably fall on you.  I cannot hope
that your cousin will be amused by the society of a dull old woman
like me; and I am unequal to the physical strain of accompanying her
to dances and plays.  If you will relieve me of this burden, you will
be doing us both a kindness; and, though I cannot hope to repay you,
I should like you to feel that you may draw on me for any expenses to
which you may be put in the course of keeping her amused."

Some people--especially the _really_ good-natured--feel that they owe
themselves a grumble before ever consenting to do a kind act.  Will
is like that; unless you knew him well, you might think that he made
difficulties before putting himself out in the slightest degree, but
on this occasion he promised without demur.  Perhaps he hoped that in
playing cavalier to Phyllida he would turn his own thoughts from that
unhappy episode at Morecambe; I prefer to think that, having now
suffered himself, he was more sensitive to others' suffering...  I
did not enquire how they spent their time; they were cousins and
could go about together without being spied on and whispered about; I
made over the car to them, kept Will supplied with little sums to
cover their amusements and asked no questions.  From start to finish,
he behaved splendidly.  I am not being unkind if I say that Phyllida
was sometimes a little _difficile_...  You have noticed, I expect,
that, when people of a certain class become possessed of a motor-car
for the first time, their ambition is to see how fast they can drive
it.  Phyllida, I am afraid--and I was sorry to see it, though I could
hardly hope for any other fruit of poor Ruth's upbringing; you may
copy the mannerisms of others, but you can only give forth the
breeding that is in you...  I have lost the thread...  Ah, yes!
Phyllida, I am afraid, seeing a loyal and attentive cavalier always
by her side...  She tried my Will very hard; I sometimes felt that
she was deliberately experimenting to see how much he would bear.

Among places of amusement it was always _her_ choice that prevailed;
Will has a weakness for these _revues_--"you can at least smoke
there," he says--; Phyllida seemed to have developed into a
remorseless blue-stocking.  By day she wore him out at exhibitions...
When he was not cooling his heels in a shop...  At night he was
expected to stay up till all hours to bring her home from dances.
And so forth and so on...

Perhaps she tried us all rather hard.  Money seemed to _melt_ in her
hands; and, though I did not grudge her my last penny if it was going
to turn her thoughts, I am not ashamed to confess that I have reached
an age where I set great store by my personal comfort.  When you have
lived for thirty years under the same vine and fig-tree, you begin to
regard your home as a frame and setting which you are not too anxious
to share with any one; hitherto my guests, when any have done me the
honour to make my house their own, have recognized that the hostess
_has_ the first claim on their consideration.  Not so Phyllida, who
seems to have been brought up in a very different school.  She was
_ruthless_ in her unpunctuality at meals and in her general disregard
of every one else's convenience; plans were chopped and changed up to
the last moment, and there were times when I felt that she was
deliberately making everything as difficult as possible--almost as
though the absurd old feud had not been forgotten and I had put
myself at her mercy.  More than anything else I felt the loss of the
car.  They used it so unmercifully that I hourly expected the man to
give notice; and in the meantime poor Aunt Ann was left to go by
taxi--when she could find one.

I ought never to have lent it?  My dear, you are preaching to the
converted, but I have a reason different from yours.  I was standing
helplessly outside Covent Garden one night, when a taxi
providentially drove up and I got into it.  Only when I was half-way
home did I remember that I had not told the man where to take me.
Laugh, if you will; but I have never been so frightened!  The wildest
stories of kidnapping and robbery surged into my head.  I was wearing
my tiara, and the man had made a bee-line for me...  Yet we were
driving the shortest way to Mount Street, and the mystery was not
explained until the man--with delightful and most unexpected
civility--jumped down from the box, opened the door and stood cap in
hand, waiting to help me out.  Almost as though one had been
Royalty...

"You have forgotten me, Lady Ann?," he asked.

And then I'm not sure that the second shock wasn't worse than the
first.  Colonel Butler!  Phyllida's soldier-hero, driving a cab!  He
had won a Military Cross and a D.S.O.--with a bar, I believe; he had
always seemed a manly, straightforward young fellow--and here he was
driving a cab!  "This--_this_--"  I felt myself apostrophizing
Phyllida, Brackenbury, that poor fool Ruth--"this is what I've saved
you from." ... And then one had a certain revulsion of feeling: the
pity of it! ... And then stark horror!  If Phyllida met him!  Not
_then_; I knew she was at a dance with Will and would not be back for
hours, but at any moment when I was not there to protect her from
herself.  I recalled her dreadful threat that, if she saw or heard of
Hilary Butler, she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to
marry her...

"But--of course I remember you," I said.

He smiled--without embarrassment of any kind--and walked up the steps
with me.

"Have you a key?," he asked, "or shall I ring?"

He _spoke_ so nicely...  If you like, just a touch of what I think
must be West Country; but, when things were at their worst and I felt
that we had to be prepared for anything, it was a slight consolation
to know that he could easily have it drilled out of him...  I could
have done the same for Ruth twenty-three years ago, but she seemed to
pride herself on her provincialism.

Now I wonder what you would have done...  When Phyllida was nursing
him at the hospital--or just afterwards--, he was _always_ in Mount
Street, lunching, dining; before they took to going about by
themselves _quite_ so much, we had all been to the play, he had seen
us home--just like this--and asked me--just like this--whether I had
my key or whether he should ring...  There was no one at home; even
Arthur was in the country.  I felt I _couldn't_ suddenly freeze...

"I have my key, thanks," I said.  "Won't you come in for a moment?"

He stopped his engine and came in...  Now, I wonder what you would
have done, if you'd been in _his_ place? ... He took off coat and
gloves (he was wearing quite a presentable blue suit underneath), and
I led the way into the morning-room, where I offered him cigarettes
and something to drink ... wondering the whole time, don't you know,
why one had _done_ it and how long he would stay...  _With_ the coat
and cap he seemed to divest himself of what I can only call the
professional manner; asked me if I wouldn't have a little of my own
brandy, commented on some new curtains I'd bought when we did up the
house after Hilda Culroyd's illness.  _Absolutely_ at home...

"How is Phyllida?," he asked.

"My niece is very well, thank you," I answered, hardly caring--at
that moment--to notice the familiarity.  "And what have _you_ been
doing with yourself since last we met?," I made haste to ask.

"Oh, as you see," he said, "I've turned taxi-man.  Owner-driver.  One
in action, four in support and nine training."

I had to beg for enlightenment.  And I am not ashamed to confess that
his explanation, when it came, greatly increased my respect for him.
The father, one gathered, was an estate-agent and surveyor in
Devonshire, _highly_ esteemed, but neither a millionaire himself nor
in a position to make his son a millionaire simply by wishing it.
The boy had realized everything--war-bonus, wound-gratuity and the
rest--and had invested in a car which he learned to drive himself.
One always _suspected_ that here was a fortune for any young man who
was not too proud to take off his coat, and so it proved: the one car
became two, the two four and five--hence his expression "one in
action and four in support."  Now, I was given to understand, he was
launching out more widely and negotiating for the purchase of _nine_
more.  A few of his friends--young fellows like himself discharged
from the army--were coming into partnership with him; and in six
months he hoped to give up driving himself and to turn his business
into a limited company, partly taxis and partly those really
magnificent private cars that one sees at the opera and everywhere,
filled by people who one _knows_ could not afford to buy such things
at the present prices...

I complimented him _most warmly_ on his enterprise and determination.

"It was so obvious," he answered.  "Stand outside any theatre or
restaurant on a wet night, and you'll agree with me.  There are
thousands of people _living_ in London, _hundreds_ of thousands
coming to London for a few nights, who need a car and can't afford to
keep one.  By the time you've ordered dinner at fifteen shillings a
head and champagne at two guineas a bottle and brandy at five
shillings a glass and cigars at four shillings a-piece and stalls at
twelve and six and anything else that occurs to you at any price that
occurs to any one else, you don't grudge an extra guinea for a car
that takes you from your house to the restaurant, from the restaurant
to the theatre and from the theatre home again.  You'd spend the best
part of a guinea in fares and tips--without any certainty.  For two
guineas I give you certainty and a private car.  In two years no one
who can afford to dine at Claridge's or go to the stalls will _dream_
of going any other way.  Whether it pays you can judge from the
progress I've made in less than a year."

Like all enthusiasts on their own hobby, he _deluged_ me with figures
until my poor head reeled.  I did not complain, however, because I
felt that so long as he was doing sensible hard work he would be
unlikely to return and disturb our peace of mind.  Apart from the one
formal question he had not mentioned Phyllida; and I was strengthened
in the belief which I had always held that it was a momentary
infatuation and that he proved he had overcome it when he declined to
communicate with her.

I _hope_ I did nothing to suggest that one can have too much even of
percentages and running expenses and allowances for depreciation and
the like, but he jumped up suddenly and said:

"Well, I mustn't keep you and I mustn't be late for my next job.  I
hope your brother and Lady Brackenbury are all right?  I see Culroyd
is married."

"They are all very well," I said, as I walked with him to the door.

"If I may ask a favour, Lady Ann, don't tell any of them what I'm
doing," he begged.

Do you know, that was the only jarring note...  The first
recognition, of course, was a _shock_.  "D.S.O. Taxi-driver," don't
you know?  In some strange way it _grates_...  Having _taken_ the
plunge, our young friend, I felt, was entitled to the highest credit,
and anything like false shame would have been discordant.

"They would be the first," I said, "to join me in applauding your
resolution and hoping for your success."

"But I want it to be a surprise," he said.

At that, my heart _sank_.

"But why?," I asked.

"For Phyllida's sake," he answered.  "I've not seen her since that
week-end at the Hall, I've not written to her; and she can't write to
me, because she doesn't know where I am.  I presume she's not
engaged, because I've seen no announcement of it, but I don't want to
do anything that may stand in her light.  If my present scheme fails,
I shall have to start on something else; if it succeeds--and when it
succeeds--, it will be time enough for me to see what's happened to
her.  I've never forgotten our talk.  If I didn't love a girl, I
might cheerfully marry her for her money; but, when I _do_ love her,
I couldn't bear to have people even hinting such a thing.  You told
me that she had four thousand of her own; when I can go to her father
and say that I'm making more than that--clear profit to my own
pocket--, I shan't be afraid to look any one in the face.  But I've
not asked her to wait for me; and, if in the meantime she meets any
one that she wants to marry more, no one will ever hear me complain."

And then he buttoned himself into his coat--even now I couldn't
_quite_ get over the disc with the number on it, hanging from a
button-hole--, picked up his cap and held out his hand.

I walked to the door,--and then my heart seemed to stop.  You may
remember that the horn of our car has a note which I at least find
unmistakable.  I heard it in the distance, I heard it coming nearer.
Phyllida and Will!  It was only twelve, and I had not expected them
for hours.  Evidently the dance had not been to their liking.  I
_prayed_ that I might prove equal to the crisis...

"Colonel Butler!," I cried.  (One never troubled to think whether he
should _rightly_ be given his military rank).  "Shut that door!  Run
upstairs to the drawing-room!  Hide there till I fetch you, but on no
account turn on the light!  My niece is coming now; if you want to
avoid her..."

He acted with great decision and literally _dashed_ upstairs.  I
heard the door gently closing as Will fitted his key into the lock...
My dear, I am too old for excitements of this kind; my heart was
_beating_; I had no idea what to say if they asked me why a taxi was
standing there unattended.  Oh, and I felt _sure_ Phyllida would say
she had left her work or her book in the drawing-room...

It was agony!  I _could_ not persuade them to go to bed.  First of
all they wanted to know why _I_ was still up, then they must needs
tell me about their party, then Phyllida wanted a cigarette, then
Will wanted to give her some soda-water.  One false start after
another...  When at _last_ I thought I had set them moving, Phyllida
sat down again and said:

"Will dear, see if there are any letters for me, there's an angel."

Do you know, I was so much _obsessed_ by the thought of that man in
the drawing-room that I was _blind_ to everything else.  As my boy
went into the hall, I felt that I had _seen_ a change without
noticing it, if you understand me.  Will was transformed, elated ...
and there was a new gentleness about Phyllida.  When he brought the
letters to her, I could see that he pressed her hand; and she sighed
wistfully and then smiled.  _Now_ I could understand why they
complained that the dance was so crowded, no room to sit, impossible
even to talk...

"Read those upstairs, dear Phyllida," I begged.

And I took her arm and led her up, past that terrifying drawing-room,
into safety.  Will ... When I returned, he wanted to talk; but I
implored him to go up and let me come to him in a moment.  He was
curious, mystified ... but at least he could not doubt my
earnestness.  Then at last I released my prisoner and hurried him
through the hall and into the street.  When I had shut the door I
leaned against it, panting.  I couldn't walk, I could hardly stand...

"And now, Will?," I said, when I was able to drag myself upstairs.

"There's nothing much to tell--as yet," he answered.  "You've
probably seen that she's been getting steadily more miserable the
last few days.  I asked her to-night what it was all about, though I
knew that she was eating her heart out for this Butler fellow.  She
would only say that she was unhappy and lonely; and I told her that
was all rot, because any number of men would be in love with her if
she gave them half a chance.  Then she said it was no good, because
she couldn't give them any love in return, her heart was dead...  The
usual rot a girl talks.  I told her that, so far as I was concerned,
I'd gladly risk all that; and she said she didn't care who she
married or what became of her and she wished she'd never been born...
That," said Will, "was nearer by a long chalk than I've ever been
before; and you may take it as absolutely certain that, if she
doesn't hear anything of Butler pretty soon...  She dried up and
began to talk of something else when I tried to pin her to a day, but
she was quite decent to me as we drove home."

I could say nothing until I had been given time to digest his news.
Whoever Will marries must have _some_ money; he has earned nothing
since he resigned his post at Morecambe...  Perhaps dear Phyllida
thinks a little too much about herself to be the perfect wife for
Will, but it is not cynical to say that, if you look for perfection
in woman or man, you will never marry.  One has to consider the
balance of advantage...  I did most earnestly want to see Will
established in life and settled down before those dreadful
blackmailing Phentons could make another descent on us.  And it would
do Phyllida so much good to marry...

After all my excitements and alarms, I could not sleep for sheer
thankfulness.  And, when my tea was brought me and Phyllida of all
people came in with it, I felt that now at last my Will must have
dropped the handkerchief and she was coming to tell me that she had
picked it up.

"My dear, what makes you so energetic?," I asked.

As a rule she insisted on lying in bed until all hours and having her
breakfast brought to her there, _making_ work for my unhappy servants.

"I want to know if you can tell me Hilary Butler's address?," she
said.

"I've never heard it," I told her.  "How should I?"

"Apparently he came here yesterday.  When I went down to get my bag,
I found his gloves in the hall.  But they only have his initials."

I _did_ wish that Phyllida had been less collected and businesslike!
Hard, not daring to let herself go...  I ought to have _looked_, I
suppose, to see that he was leaving nothing behind, but one cannot
think of everything.  And now I knew that Phyllida would start all
over again...

Yet one must _expect_ an occasional relapse...

"I've never heard it," I told her again.

She did not trouble to ask anything more...  Just looked at me for a
moment.  I made up my mind that her visit must be cut short; if I had
met Colonel Butler, _she_ might.  And I have no doubt of any kind
that she would do what she threatens and _ask_ him to marry her.  And
he wouldn't refuse.  Moreover, I am not _made_ of money, as she and
Will seemed to think...

Brackenbury was a fool not to send her _right_ away, as I
recommended.  Nothing is decided; I sometimes wonder whether anything
ever _will_ be decided.  We are precisely where we stood before...

I had time to warn Will, I am thankful to say.  A girl who
shilly-shallies like that...  I shall make the best of it, if I have
to; but I am not sure she is the sort of wife for my boy...




VIII

LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFERS TO HER DIARY

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): It is only a
question of habit.  When I first went to Italy, at the age of
sixteen, my dear mother insisted that I should keep a diary, and I
have kept one ever since.  Goodness me, I am more likely to overlook
my letters or the morning paper than forget to write up my journal.
Sometimes it is only a few lines, for the spacious days are over, I
am a dull old woman, and the most I ask of life is that I may be
allowed to live.  Very often I let months go by without turning back
to see what I have written; but the record is there if I ever want to
consult it.  Usually at the end of the year one likes to take stock...

Not that it is very cheerful reading, alas!  But at our age we must
expect that.  Another year gone, when perhaps we cannot hope to see
so very many more; another hope dashed and yet another deferred,
making the heart sick; gaps in the circle of those one loves;
increasing frailty or ill-health; and that indefinable, inexplicable
narrowing of outlook, interest, enthusiasm--and with us, I am afraid,
of worldly circumstance.  Inevitable...  For oneself, perhaps, one
does not mind it, but it is sometimes heart-rending to see the boys
and girls setting out with those high hopes that we have been
compelled, one by one, to discard; heart-rending, too, when those who
seemed to walk with their heads on a level with the stars trip and
sprawl like the rest...

No, I assure you I was not thinking of any one in particular.  The
feeling returns with the season and is quite general.  One could find
particular applications, no doubt, very near at hand.  Begin where
you will: my brother-in-law Spenworth...  I wonder what we shall be
thinking of him in a year's time; divorced, remarried--and nobody one
penny the worse!  I am not ashamed to confess that, when the word
"divorce" is mentioned, I am translated to another sphere...  Groping
blindly among things I don't understand and don't _want_ to
understand...  Say what you will, we were _not_ so lax a generation
ago; those who fell remained where they fell ... or climbed back with
effort, difficulty _and an acknowledgement of wrong-doing_.  Not as
of right...  The new Lady Spenworth I hardly know; she who marries a
man that has been put away...  I have not refused to meet her, but
the opportunity has not come my way.  Whether she will be able to
_hold_ him...  Perhaps if she presents him with an heir ... though I
have had to change my views on _that_ subject, as you know.  Oh, I
can speak about it now; and I shall never forget, when things were at
their blackest, it was _you_ who came to me with your divine
sympathy.  I could tell you the whole story if you truly honestly
would not be bored; _your_ discretion has been proved...  I have lost
the thread...

Ah, yes!--the family...  My nephew Culroyd--and Hilda?  I am humbly
thankful to say that there has been no catastrophe so far, though
when the first, honeymoon intoxication wears off...  Long may it be
delayed, for they are the one bright spot in my poor brother
Brackenbury's life.  That pathetic child Phyllida is still breaking
her heart over the cabman-colonel whom I, if you please, am supposed
to have set against her in order to keep her for my boy.  Thank
goodness, she does not _know_ he is driving a cab!  Breaking her
heart or pretending to.  And I really think my brother encourages
her.  He wouldn't send her _right_ away as I advised; and now he pats
her hand and looks worried when she comes down _boasting_ that she
hasn't slept.  And Ruth does the same...  I don't want to _bring_ bad
luck by talking about it; but I sometimes wonder how much longer
Brackenbury will put up with that--_invertebrate woman_; I sometimes
fear that the record of the year will shew that there, too, the blow
has fallen.  We have seen to our cost that the most devoted husband
and father may sometimes go apparently quite mad...  I feel that
Phyllida, with her youth and her looks and her money, is being so
shamefully _wasted_...

But, until she shakes off her obsession, I should pity any man who
tried to marry her.  At one time my boy Will seemed attracted to her
out of compassion for her loneliness and misery.  Those were anxious
days, I can assure you, though I should have been glad to see Will
safely married to almost any one.  He is undoubtedly of an age; and
what I called "the Morecambe menace"...  We have heard nothing of the
Phentons (you know, I always called her Miss Molly "Wanton") since
the father conducted his blackmailing descent upon us, protesting
that Will had made this girl an offer of marriage, talking about
horse-whips.  I hope and pray that it is all over, but one can never
be certain.  For the last fortnight I have succeeded in _not_
thinking about them; I suppose I should be grateful to Arthur for
turning my thoughts...

You are quite right!  I have tried to avoid speaking bitterly _to_
him, I must not speak bitterly _about_ him.  But, when the news came
to me, I said: "Now indeed the bottom has fallen out of the world."
It was towards the end of the year, and I had been turning the pages
of my journal.  Catastrophe, disappointment, anxiety...  But,
whatever storms may blow, I said, I can always trust my husband.
Arthur was my rock and anchor.  He and I seemed to stand erect, with
our heads level with the stars, while these others, one after
another, tripped and sprawled.  And then Arthur too...

I tell you now, as I told you then: I had heard and suspected
_nothing_ until you put me on my guard.  I truly believe that the
person most affected is commonly the last to hear...  And Arthur's
way of life made it almost impossible for me even to guess: for years
he has spent as much time away from me as with me--his board-meetings
in London and Birmingham, his shooting ... and, with Will at home,
there was so much _unhappy_ friction that I was not sorry when one or
other went off and left me in peace for a few days.  I did not
enquire; so was it surprising that, if the board-meetings and so on
were simply a _blind_, I should be the last person to hear?  So with
money.  My father-in-law's will was so iniquitous...  Cheniston and
the house in Grosvenor Square went naturally to Spenworth; but every
penny, with the exception of a wretched thousand a year for
Arthur,--that was sheer wickedness.  _My_ dear father would have done
more for me if he could; but he had impoverished himself when he was
ambassador at Vienna, and, until Brackenbury sold himself to Ruth, we
were all very, very poor.  The result has been that throughout my
married life we have been forced to pinch and scrape.  You may say
that the house in Mount Street was an extravagance, but one had to
live somewhere.  It was for one's friends rather than oneself; I
could not ask the princess to dine with me in Bayswater...  Pinch and
scrape, scrape and pinch.  Arthur made a fair income by his
director's fees, but I had dreadful moments when I thought of the
future.  Spenworth will do no more than he has already done--that we
know--; when I lay at death's door and begged him with what might
have been my last breath to make a settlement on Will--his own
nephew...  And at Brackenbury it is canny, north-country little Ruth
who holds the purse-strings ... and dispenses her charity, offering
to pay for my operation and reminding me that, when Will was at Eton,
the bills came to them...  I have felt for more years than I like to
count that pinching and scraping are my appointed lot...

Of recent months the task became almost too much for my powers.  Not
only the cost of living...  Will had lost this Morecambe appointment
without finding another.  Arthur complained that figure-head
directors were not in so great request as formerly; he was
shame-faced about it, as though his pride were hurt; I did not then
imagine that he had to give me less money because he was giving more
in another quarter...

And you will remember that, when you told me, I refused to believe
it.  Goodness me, I am not so vain as to think that the man who once
loved me _must_ always love me, but there is such a thing as
loyalty--and gratitude.  I had trusted him ... and that was enough; I
did not need to tell him--or you--or even myself that he had enjoyed
the best years of my life, that I was an old woman while he was
still--thanks to me--a young man, that I had borne him a son and worn
myself out before my time in scheming and contriving for the comfort
and well-being of them both...

It was brave of you to tell me, to insist on my knowing... and
_believing_.  I was _dazed_.  That Arthur should be giving her
dresses and jewellery, when he could not afford to redecorate his
wife's house...  And apparently it was the common talk of the clubs;
and no doubt kind friends were secretly pitying me...  The last
infatuation of the middle-aged man--they were telling one another
that I was six years Arthur's senior--and what could you expect?  As
if I had made any secret of my age!  It is in the books.  And they
were, perhaps, wondering how soon he would outgrow it and how much I
knew and whether I minded...  _There_ was the rub--this savage,
impertinent curiosity.  What business of theirs if my husband
humiliated me?  And, strangely enough, one has so often seen it with
other women and somehow always fancied that it would never happen to
oneself.  The swan-song...  As a man feels that his youth is slipping
out of his grasp, he makes this one last despairing effort.  And love
at that age is like a blow from a sledge-hammer; Arthur was prepared
to run away with the woman.  Indeed I know what I am talking about.
Then, I felt, it _was_ time for me to intervene...

You had been clever enough to find out the address--the house, by the
way, Arthur did _not_ give her.  She told me so, but without that I
knew enough of his finances to realize that it was physically
impossible--; and all the way there I tried to understand this
strange streak which apparently runs through all men.  The old
phrase: "Sowing one's wild oats." ... When I married Arthur, he had
never had an _affaire_ of _any_ kind with _any_ one; and so for
thirty years.  Am I very cynical in thinking that perhaps it would
have been better if he _had_? ... Spenworth, on the other hand, had
been tossed from one woman's arms to another's ever since he was a
lad at Eton.  You entered his house and never knew whom you would
find at the head of his table--except that it would not be the one
you had seen there a month before; the only difference that marriage
made to him was that, while Kathleen sat at the head of his table, he
dined elsewhere.  Now that he has married again in middle life, one
has no sort of guarantee.  It seems impossible to frame _any_ rules
for a man of that age...

I had not spoken to Arthur beforehand, of course.  He would have
spoiled everything.  What I wanted was a cold, passionless talk with
this Mrs. Templedown.  Two women, even in _our_ position, could
understand each other: neither of us wanted a scandal, I was prepared
to admit even that she might be genuinely fond of Arthur and would
try--according to her lights--to do the best for him.  I need hardly
say that I did not dream of intimidating--Arthur was her
_property_--nor of bribing--goodness me, what had I to offer?  Nor
did I feel constrained to beg for mercy or to ask what manner of life
she proposed to leave for me.  I hardly think that _pride_ held me in
check, but--somehow--to go on one's knees to a young woman who
started life on the stage was hardly...  Well, as my boy would say,
"It is not done."  I knew she was clever, I hoped to find her
sensible; and then the only thing was to decide what to _do_...

Of course I did not send up my name...

"Say that a lady wishes to see her," I told the maid.

And I was shewn upstairs readily enough.  _Not_ into the
drawing-room; I think that class of person lives entirely in her
bedroom.  She was lying on the sofa in a kimono and--so far as I
could judge from the generous opportunities which she insisted on
giving me--nothing else; a lovely animal, as she was at pains that I
should see, with perfect skin, a great mane of copper hair and
golden-brown eyes.  Very red lips, very white teeth; I was reminded
of a soft, beautiful lion-cub.  She moved and stretched herself like
an animal, speaking as though she were only half-awake.  I don't
think she could have been more than twenty.  She left the stage to
marry a man in the Air Force, I understand, and he was killed at the
end of the war, leaving her very ill-provided-for...  "Seductive" was
the word I was trying to think of...

"It's easy to see why men should fall down and worship _you_," I said.

"Who's in love with me now?," she asked with the laugh of a child,
_exulting_ in her beauty, as it were, until in a flash I saw that her
whole life was natural to her...  Inevitable, I might say.

"Arthur Spenworth," I told her.

"Oh, he's a dear old thing," she answered.

"He is my husband," I said.

I might have added "and the father of our boy," but I would make no
_appeal_; I had come there to decide dispassionately what had to be
done...  The woman jumped up and faced me, but I stood my ground.
Her eyes kept changing in expression, and I saw that she was first
bewildered ... and then defiant ... then curious ... then a little
ashamed, then defiant again and once more bewildered.

"Well?," she said; and then in spite of herself, as it were, "You're
not a bit like what I expected."

"Older perhaps?," I asked.  "My dear young lady, my husband and I are
much of an age, but he carries his years better.  Why, goodness me,
you are a child!  Our boy must be ten years older than you...  Won't
you ask me to sit down?  Walking upstairs makes me out of breath, and
I want to have a little talk with you.  I have only just heard of
this; and I want to know what is to be done.  You will find me a
reasonable woman, I hope, and perhaps I know too much of the world to
judge hastily or reproach easily.  Won't you tell me everything, so
that we may understand better how we are situated?"

Do you know, _because_ I remained dispassionate, I felt in a moment
that I was holding my own and in another moment that I was gaining
ground.  I who had walked upstairs wondering whether my knees would
give way under me...  It was Mrs. Templedown who was embarrassed...
And I had not sought to make myself a ruler or a judge...

I will not weary you with the story.  Arthur had met her--in the
train from Birmingham!  Is there not dignity and distinction in that?
He had asked her to dine with him on reaching London, they had met
three or four times, Arthur had begun giving her little presents.
How much one can _ever_ believe of such a woman's story I do not
profess to judge.  She _vowed_ that their relations were innocent,
that her husband's death had left her heart-broken and that she was
simply and sincerely grateful to any man who shewed her a little
kindness; in that class I gather it is only natural for every girl to
have some benevolent elderly protector who takes her out to dinner
and gives her little presents.  If it had not been Arthur, I was to
understand, it would have been some one else.  I confess that her
ingenuousness rang a little hollow when she betrayed how intimately
and accurately she knew who he was--the connection with Spenworth on
one side and with Brackenbury on the other; like the rest of them,
she hunted with one quarry--or one type of quarry--definitely in
view...

After the little presents came the big presents--dresses, jewellery
and sums of money which she did not specify.  One thought of the
_rags_ that one had worn oneself during the war...  No shame in
telling me about _that_!  She had nothing of her own except this
house which the husband had left her, and Arthur would have been hurt
if she had refused...  So charming!  So delicate--on both sides...
By and by Arthur seems to have become more exacting, but the girl
vowed again that she kept him at arm's length--knowing her own value,
one presumes.  I did not enquire very closely into this aspect of the
campaign, as I knew only too well what was coming.  When everything
else failed, he would have to offer her marriage--by way of the
Divorce Court.

"And that is how things stand now?," I asked, as she came to the end
of her story.

"That's what he _wants_," she answered.  "Oh, but I can't discuss it
with you, Lady Ann."

"My dear young lady," I said, "that is just what we have to do--quite
dispassionately, to decide what's best.  He is my husband, I love him
in spite of everything; you love him too, I judge, and we have to put
our heads together.  You will go away with him, I take it?"

It was then that she began to cry.  I knew it would come sooner or
later.  _Convulsively_...  I have told you that she was nothing more
nor less than a child...

"Yes," she sobbed.

"To France?  Next Thursday?"

It was no second-sight on my part, I can assure you.  Arthur had
arranged to visit Paris and Lyons--on business, _I_ was told--, and
the guess was natural, though Mrs. Templedown seemed to think I was
some sort of witch.

"Yes," she answered again.  And then--really, you know, for all the
world as though we were at a play: "Oh, don't torture me!"

_Torture_ her...?

"And then," I said, "my husband will write to tell me he loves you
and has been unfaithful to me and is never coming back and I had
better divorce him and he is sorry for the unhappiness he is causing
me..."

Those terrible letters that the papers always publish.  _I_ never
read them myself.  In the school in which I was brought up, divorce
lay beyond the pale: "Whom God hath joined..."

"And then you _will_ divorce him, won't you?" she asked.

Really, you know, it was almost comic!  She was afraid, after
_plunging_ herself in dishonour, that I might refuse to divorce
Arthur so that she could never marry him.

"If he asks me," I promised.  "I am thinking solely of his happiness.
He could not live with you unless you were married--I am not now
thinking of _Right_ or _Wrong_; it would cause too great a scandal,
and he would have to resign his various public positions.  I only
hope that the divorce will not compel him to do that, for you will
both be entirely dependent on the fees that he earns.  We find it
hard enough to live on his income as it is, by ceaseless scraping and
pinching, denying ourselves little luxuries...  I hope you are a good
house-keeper? ...

Do you know, as soon as I said it, I realized what an absurd question
it was.  One look at her, one glance at the room, the least spark of
imagination, any guess at what she was and what her life had been!
An economical housekeeper indeed!  I wish I could describe her room
to you: great bowls and vases of the most expensive flowers, boxes of
sweets, cigarettes; all the magazines and illustrated papers that one
really does think twice about before buying...  Clothes, too...  I am
sure that even my niece Phyllida or Culroyd's wife, who seem to have
money to burn, would not have quite such a profusion.  _Lingerie_,
gloves, handkerchiefs, the _finest_ silk stockings--and everything
thrown about on floor and chairs like so much waste-paper.  And I in
_rags_ that truly honestly I am ashamed for my maid to see...  Her
dressing-table alone supported a small fortune--bottles and boxes and
looking-glasses and brushes that really made me feel a pauper.  The
door of her bathroom was open--in that class it is a point of honour
never to shut anything or put anything away--, and I saw the most
extravagant array of salts and soaps and powders and scents ... like
the tiring-room of some great eastern queen.  Things I simply
couldn't afford; we discontinued bath-salts when the war broke out
and one had an excuse for economizing, and we have never resumed them.

"I don't know what your plans are, Mrs. Templedown," I said.  "If you
return to the stage, everything may be different, but I know my
husband's income to a penny.  The court will no doubt insist that he
makes what provision he can for my son and myself; I should be
greatly surprised if he could allow you more than about a thousand a
year."

"Well, I suppose it's possible to manage on that," she said.

It was _pathetic_!  Money had no _meaning_ for her!  And, so long as
other people paid the bills, what else could you expect?  It must
have required twice that sum to keep that beautiful body of hers in
its present embarrassing state of semi-nudity.

"A thousand pounds--at present prices,": I said very distinctly, "for
two people--to cover everything--, it's not much, you will find.
And, if you have been used to luxury, you will miss it more than a
person who has always had to live on a small income.  That is your
affair, of course, and you mustn't think me brutal if I tell you
candidly that I'm considering my husband as much as I can and you not
at all.  You are young enough to take care of yourself, but he needs
a great deal of looking after..."

I paused to let my words sink in.  Of course she didn't believe me!
Because Arthur had squandered a few hundreds on her, she thought he
could produce thousands merely by pressing a bell; and, when she had
sucked him dry, she expected Spenworth and Brackenbury to come
forward.  I _had_ to tell her how things really were...  We should
_all_ be poorer than we are by a divorce...  Though she clearly did
not believe me, she was impressed; she was thinking. In that class
one doesn't think very much, apparently.  I gathered that she could
not go back to the stage; she had no position there and could only
hope for work in the chorus...

"Old Boy says it will be all right," she said, and I could see that
she was exhausted by the rare exertion of thinking.  Until you have
heard your husband described as "Old Boy" by a half-naked chorus-girl
who is slowly bleeding him to death, you have not realized how highly
your self-restraint may be tested...

"I don't suggest more than that it will be an effort," I said.  "My
dear young lady, I speak with some knowledge.  You were married for a
few months to a husband whom you hardly saw and who spent what money
he had like water.  I have kept house for more than thirty years on
an income which you would not think large, but which is bigger than
anything you can hope for.  I know something of men and their ways
and their extravagances and humours.  It will be a great change, and
I only hope that you will prove equal to it."  I pointed--not
unkindly--at the litter in her room.  "I trust for your sake as well
as his that you will learn habits of tidiness."

"Is Old Boy a fusser?," she asked.

I wish to be judged by results.  If you tell me that the end has
justified the means, I give you complete freedom to say that I spoke
of Arthur as one might speak of a cook when one's name had been
furnished as a reference.  I gave him a character--for his next
employer.  No, indeed, he was not what the young woman could fairly
call a "fusser", but all men of his age had contracted certain
habits.  He abominated untidiness and unpunctuality--the necessary
fruit of his business-training; though generous, he had long been
compelled to be _careful_ about money.  I offered to shew her my
books, but she said she didn't think she could understand them.  And
so on and so forth.  He was very particular about his food, and in
this respect Mrs. Templedown would have to be a veritable
martinet--not only to the servants but to him.

"My dear young lady," I said, "you know what men of that age are
like--or perhaps you still don't.  My husband is essentially
temperate, but he is also criminally injudicious.  He thinks that an
occasional glass of champagne--he cannot afford to drink it
regularly--is good for him; _I know better_.  Acidity...  Whisky and
soda--two, if he likes--, one glass of port and nothing else.  The
moment he takes liberties with himself, his digestion suffers, he
cannot sleep--and _you_ pay the penalty.  Similarly with what he
eats; he must never be given butcher's meat more than once a day,
shell-fish of every kind are poison to him, and, though he will never
admit it, any rich sweets tell their tale next day.  I could give you
a list, but you will find out for yourself...  Smoking again ... one
cigar does him no harm, after two he can hardly breathe; all the
Spenworths are liable to bronchitis.  And exercise.  My husband was
quite an athlete as a young man; he says he doesn't need exercise,
but _I know better_.  If I may speak quite openly, he suffers from
what men call 'liver.' ... I should dearly like to give you a little
list of things, if you won't think me impertinent; one does not live
with a man for more than thirty years without coming to regard him as
one's child..."

And, whether she liked it or not, then and there, I took pencil and
paper and just jotted things down.  He would never put on his winter
underclothes unless some one reminded him; result--a week in bed with
a severe chill...

"You make him out to be a complete crock," said Mrs. Templedown.
Poor soul! one hardly looked for any great _elegance_ from her...

"Not that, by any means," I told her, "but, at his age, a man has to
be careful."

We were still at work on the list when her maid came in and whispered
that she had to dress and be out to dinner in half an hour.  She was,
I understand, going to a dance.

"Not with Arthur!" I said.

Oh no!  She was going with some friend of her husband.  I told her
that, if Arthur was ever persuaded or even allowed to stay up after
midnight, one paid for it next day...  She asked if I would not wait
with her while she dressed, but I was glad to escape while the maid
was still in the room.  The parting, had we been by ourselves, must
inevitably have been difficult.  As it was, we just shook hands...

I honestly cannot tell you whether I expected to hear anything more.
I did not know what to think and was trying to keep my mind a
blank...  She came next day, when Arthur was out; it was pleasant to
feel that she knew more of his movements than I did!  We--my maid and
I--were upstairs, looking through Arthur's clothes before packing
them to go abroad with him.  I sent the maid out of the room and
asked if Mrs. Templedown would mind coming up to me.  And, when she
came, I added practice to theory.  Until you _do_ it, you're hardly
conscious of it; but you cannot be a man's wife for thirty-two years
without finding out thirty-two _thousand_ little peculiarities about
him.  I had spoken about the winter underclothing already...  I gave
her the prescription for his tonic and told her where to have it made
up and when he must be _forced_ to take it--the symptoms,
danger-signals...  My dear, I talk _frankly_ to you and I sometimes
fear that you must think me terribly sordid, but truly honestly, if
one neglects small things, one neglects everything.  You may fancy
that there is little difference between two shillings and
half-a-crown on a bottle of medicine, but, when you take the medicine
for half the year and multiply the difference by
twenty-six,--thirteen shillings!  Multiply that one item of medicine
by half a hundred things...  I am not very enthusiastically
supported; at dinner it is always "Why don't we ever have this or
that?," when this or that is out of season and _prohibitive_; even
Will rounded on me once and said that his poor old mother had reduced
_meanness_ to a fine art.  I had to bite my lip!  From _Will_...  I
told poor little Mrs. Templedown everything; and, if you say that I
failed in loyalty to Arthur, I can only answer that the end must
justify the means and that I am content to be judged by results.

"And now," I said, "I can only wish you good luck.  I am nothing to
you, but, if you ever feel kindly disposed to a dull old woman, do
your best for Arthur, keep him happy--for my sake.  You are making a
great experiment and taking a great risk; you, and you alone, can
crown it with success.  When you both ask me to divorce my husband, I
shall take the necessary steps; but I shall do nothing hastily.
Perhaps, when you have been with him for a time, you will find that
the difficulties are greater than you anticipated--or, let me say,
that success is harder of achievement than you hoped.  I ask only one
thing: do not force yourselves into an extremity from any false
pride.  Be candid with me, as I have been candid with you.  Should
you find only _failure_ and the _prospect_ of failure, recognize it
boldly.  Write to me.  Say 'It has not turned out as we expected.
Your husband is coming back to you.'  I shall receive him without
reproaches, I shall know nothing.  He will find his favourite dinner,
his chair and cigar, his book and 'night-cap', as he calls it...  I
shall be truly glad to see him back, but I look at you, with all your
youth and beauty; I know that I must not keep him if you are his hope
of happiness.  Kiss me, dear child," I said, "and do better for him
than I have been able to do."

A singular meeting!  She stayed with me for nearly two hours longer.
I won't say "not speaking a word", but I can say "not finishing a
sentence."  Bewildered...  Then she went away, and I rang for my
maid.  I never heard from her again.  On Thursday--_the_
Thursday--Arthur found his suit-case and kit-bag packed and labelled
in the hall.  "I don't want all this," he said, "for one night." ...
And he was back again in three days.  I _happen_ to know that he went
alone and returned alone--and was alone in Paris...

I was talking about the diary, was I not?  It is not cheerful
reading, and much of it is dull.  This entry in question: "_Arthur
returned from France tired and depressed, but very glad to be home
again..._"  It does not mean much...

To any one else...

I am not crying!  I am simply _worn-out_...!  Oh, my dear, I am too
old for this kind of thing, apart from the long agony of humiliation.
Arthur must send me _right_ away for a _complete_ change.  He _can_
afford it now...




IX

LADY ANN SPENWORTH NARRATES AN EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): When do I start,
indeed?  My dear, you are not very complimentary!  We have been back
nearly a week.  _That_ shews how you have deserted me! ... No, I
never intended to be away for more than about a fortnight.  You see,
so long as this wild beast is at large, prowling about Morecambe and
preparing to spring at any moment, I _dare_ not leave Will
unprotected.  I really don't think I can add anything to what I've
already told you; my boy himself is so very uncommunicative, and
Arthur becomes alternately violent and morose when I beg in the
_humblest_ way for the _least_ enlightenment.  My reading of the
position is that this "Molly Wanton" set her cap at Will and, when he
refused to have anything to do with her, _rounded_ on him until he
threw up a first-rate appointment rather than stay another hour in
Morecambe; then she _stuffed_ her foolish father with lies until the
man comes to this house like a demented creature and vows that my boy
promised to _marry_ his Molly.

Indeed I know what I am talking about.  In this very room, though
Arthur would not allow me to be present: it was not "a woman's
province."  Clergyman or no, the mad old father would have had short
shrift from _me_.  "Proof, my good man," I would have said, "proof."
... That is how the matter stands at present, and you can realize
that, while we are braced to receive the next onslaught, there can be
no question of long, careless holidays.

But I was glad I went even for a short time.  Even to Menton, which
truly honestly is only a suburb of Monte Carlo (I had a reason), even
with the railways in their present abominable condition--the French
seem to be making no _effort_ to pull themselves together after the
war except by means of wholesale robbery.  They have clearly decided
that, as we came to their rescue and paid for their war, it is now
our bounden duty to pay for them in peace as well...  I always
believe in going _right_ away after a domestic crisis of that kind;
and I was really beginning to fear a break-down if I stayed any
longer in London.  There is a curious convention that there is
something _funny_ about a man of Arthur's age and position falling
under the spell of a little chorus-girl; it is less funny when you
have to fight for your life to preserve _your_ husband and the father
of _your_ child.  Some form of madness that overtakes men...  I have
not told you, I never _shall_ tell you what Arthur was like when he
found that this girl had thrown him over at the last moment.
Dazed...  His behaviour to _me_ seemed of _no_ account; the fact that
I knew everything from the girl's own lips and had helped to pack the
clothes in which he was to run away with her...  He was like a man in
a trance...

I uttered no word of reproach.  It was unnecessary.  At first he
behaved as if the light had gone out of his life--which was pleasant
for me; then he seemed to realize that perhaps some amends were owing
to me...  Assented immediately to my proposal that we should go right
away...

I chose Menton because Sir Appleton Deepe was there.  He, I fancy,
would be the first to tell you that I really _made_ him.  Unheard-of
before the war, except in business...  I wanted his advice about
Will: where he could lay out his talents to greatest advantage, as it
were; and, though nothing has been decided definitely, I _have_ a
promise, and he is most anxious to meet Will...  So one's time was
not _wasted_...

And there, in the peace and wonderful sunshine, one had an
opportunity of recovering one's perspective.  I had tided Arthur
through his great crisis; and there was nothing, I felt, to fear in
the future.  But we could not let it rest at that.  There had been an
intolerable amount of malicious gossip--how wide-spread I could not
believe until the proof was thrust before me--; men jesting in their
clubs, women gloating...  And you may be sure that the Brackenbury
and Spenworth broods were only too delighted to think that yet
another had been dragged down to their level; if one was not to be a
by-word and an object of scorn...  Goodness me, I wasn't thinking of
my own poor dignity, but these stories had to be stopped somehow.  In
the school in which I was brought up one was supposed to set
something of an example; for what it may be worth, one _does_ occupy
a certain _niche_; it was more than time for us to shew that there
had _been_ no catastrophe, as our kind friends would have liked to
think.

"Arthur," I said, "you will never hear me allude to this again.  We
have passed through a time of trouble, but God has mercifully brought
us into safety.  For some months we have been spied on and whispered
about; it is our duty to shew a happy and united front!"

Arthur said at once that he would do whatever I wanted...

You do not often hear me talking of "position" or "dignity" or
"rights", but I did indeed feel that any poor little _niche_ we might
occupy was threatened.  Spenworth's own record is so infamous that
people would feel it was only natural for his brother to tread the
same path.  I am not ashamed to confess that I _do_ feel what people
say about me.  _Some_ people...  And it was these people, the people
who _mattered_, that I wanted to convince; if there was indeed no
rift between Arthur and me, why should we allow the gossips to
pretend there was? ...

I decided to signalize our return to England by a little party--just
a few friends to dinner, a little music, a few more friends coming in
if they had nothing better to do.  I have never found it necessary to
inform the world--as your Mrs. Tom Noddys do--that they have left
Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or Eastbourne for Gloucester Place.
Goodness me, "Who wonders--and who cares?," as they say.  But I was
not sorry to find that our little party was being discussed; and, of
course, when once the princess's name was mentioned, the papers came
at me with open arms...  I left no stone unturned to make a success
of the little gathering.  We have always been quite pitiably
restricted in our entertaining, but this was not the moment to grudge
a few extra pounds well laid-out...  And it does not require a
mathematician to prove that Arthur could have given me more money if
he had given less in other directions.  Of course, I did not _hint_
such a thing; my dear, _peace_, _forgiveness_, _forgetfulness_ was
what I wanted...  And it was not necessary; Arthur assented to
everything.

First of all I made certain of the princess.  What she can see in a
dull old woman like me you must ask _her_; but she has been a _true_
and _loving_ friend for perhaps more years than either of us now
cares to recall; and, if humble affection and gratitude matter to
her, she knows that they are hers whenever she does me the honour of
visiting my house...  She likes coming, I know; in me, she has been
gracious enough to say, she finds an attitude of mind, a point of
view which is disappearing only too fast; in a sense--I am sure she
would be the first to excuse my presumption--we were brought up in
the same school.

There was no difficulty about securing my brother.  It is a pose with
Brackenbury to pretend that he hates what he calls
"orders-and-decorations" parties, but my sister-in-law is not so
jaded.  Perhaps in the world in which she was reared...  I certainly
notice marked civility and almost affection if Ruth hears that I am
giving a party and that the princess has graciously consented to be
present.  My niece Phyllida is less punctilious in her courtesy;
there is rather too much of the "Oh-I-don't-care-_what_-I-do"
attitude about her, and, since she found that her cabman hero was
still alive and somewhere in London...  A curious recklessness and
restlessness...  I invited her because I cannot bear to see a
girl--young, well-connected, rich, good-looking--simply _moping_...
They say it takes two to make a quarrel, and I have refused to
quarrel with Phyllida, so that at last I think she has ceased to
believe that I turned the cabman hero against her in the hope of
keeping her for my boy.  I--have--not--lifted--a--_finger_!  She
evidently enjoys being with Will; and, if he wanted to marry her, I
should not stand in the way.  Ever since that Morecambe nightmare
began, I have felt that I shall never know a moment's peace until he
is safely married...

I don't _want_ him to go abroad...  When any one in his position
seeks his fortune in a foreign country, there is always a tendency
among some people to ask what he has _done_, to treat him as a
remittance-man ... which is offensive without being particularly
amusing...  I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes!  My little party.  One thing I noticed on returning to
England was the extraordinary mixture of people that one met
everywhere.  For this, though I am personally fond of her, I blame
Connie Maitland more than any dozen other women.  Not being a
_persona grata_ in certain circles to which she would dearly like to
have the _entrée_, she seems to cultivate numbers for their own sake.
When the princess...  More by a hint, you understand, than by any
direct criticism...  But she cannot help seeing that the old barriers
_have_ been broken down...  It is always on the tip of my tongue to
make my Lady Maitland wholly responsible.  During the war one was
_flung_ against these people, as it were: the strangest generals who
seemed to have been stock-brokers the moment before...  All that sort
of thing...  "Captains of Industry" (I believe they are called) with
the queerest accents and all holding high office.  There was an
_epidemic_ of cabinet rank; and, if one had business in Whitehall,
one met the oddest people--never the same two days running.  Connie
Maitland _thoroughly_ enjoyed herself, I always felt; so many new
people to know before any one else.  (I am not ashamed to confess
that it is _not_ my ambition simply to know new people.)  When I
returned from Menton, I did drop a little hint and suggest that, as
the war was now over, she ought to revise some of her war
friendships.  Quite kindly and gradually, you understand; I know that
with some of the really estimable women who sat on committees with
me...  "_Is_ it true kindness?," I asked myself.  "They lead their
lives, you lead yours; the war brought you together, but you've
_nothing_ else in common..."  After that breath of fresh air at
Menton, I was honestly truly aghast to find what London had become
without one's noticing it.  I sought an opportunity of speaking to
the princess about it: I felt some one ought to make a little stand.
_I_ don't count, because I'm not in a position to entertain; but I
did resolve to confine my little party _simply_ to the old friends...

I invited Spenworth...  You look surprised; but, if you will think
for a moment...  Arthur's brother.  It was notorious that I had for
years disapproved of his whole way of life, but the family had to
shew a united front.  His _very_ recent divorce, which--between
ourselves--I think was forgiven far too quickly; goodness me, I hope
I am not a bigot and I would assuredly persecute no one, but "whom
God hath joined together" ... I invited him chiefly on his wife's
account; her position is not so secure that she can altogether
dispense with a supporting hand, and I was tired of confessing to
people that I had not even met her...  Never can I forget, either,
Spenworth's triumph when for a moment Arthur seemed to be treading
his path...  _My_ Nemesis for trying to hold my head erect and daring
to reprove him.  No, I did not hear what he said, but I am certain
that he said it...

For several days--to my amazement, for I knew they were at
Cheniston--there was no reply.  Then I met Spenworth in the street.

"Oh, I say!," he began.  (You know that _hunting-field_ voice of
his?)  "You aren't playing the game with poor old Arthur, you know."

"I'm afraid I must beg for enlightenment," I said.

"Oh, well, you know, this is the first time the poor old boy has ever
left the rails."  (I am always lost in admiration of Spenworth's
_elegance_!)  "Dust his jacket for him at home as much as you like,
but don't make him eat humble-pie in public, don't make an exhibition
of him."

"I don't know what you _mean_," I said.

"Oh, bunkum!  Every one knows he tried to slip his collar, every one
thought he'd got away; and, now that you've recaptured him, you want
to shew him off in his muzzle.  'Tain't cricket, Ann, if you ask me;
you've won, and there's no need to crow over the old boy.  'Tain't as
if he'd given you any trouble before."

"I must give it up," I said in despair.  "Spenworth, will you tell
me--in language comprehensible to my poor wits--whether you and your
wife are coming to dine on the eighteenth?"

"Thank you very much, Ann," he answered, "we are _not_.  'Matter o'
fact, I'm taking the chair at a regimental dinner, but if I
_wasn't_...  I think it's an infernal shame and I hope it's a rotten
party."

And then he turned on his heel...

I can never see his charm, myself.  People excuse his rudeness, his
immorality, his utterly wasted, self-indulgent life...  They say he's
"such a good fellow", whatever that may mean...  But I find it very
hard to speak _coolly_ about Spenworth...

Without wanting to be inhospitable, I was secretly _relieved_ that he
could not come.  The dear princess is the soul of tolerance, but I
was not at all sure how she would receive his name; I was not at all
sure that he would even behave himself properly.  Did I ever tell you
how he set himself to drive the Archbishop out of the house by
sheer--but I prefer not to discuss it.  "Indecency" is really the
only word; under the guise of an ethical discussion...  As we
literally cannot sit down more than twenty-four in Mount Street, two
spare places _are_ a consideration.  I was fortunate enough to secure
the Duke and Duchess of Yarrow; one had not seen much of them for
some years, and the duchess is so deaf that I sometimes wonder
whether she is really quite right in her head, but the duke is a
director of the Far East Trading Company, and I thought that, if Will
ever _did_ think of going abroad to seek his fortune, the duke ought
to know of it before he was snapped up by any one else.  The
others...  But I expect you saw the list; it was in all the
papers--the Bishop of Hatwell, dear old Lady Ursula Bedmont, the
Minister of Fine Arts, the Spanish Ambassador...

Or was it the Italian?  I'm quite stupid about remembering who was
there.  It was so long since I'd given a party of any kind that I'm
not ashamed to confess I was a little nervous.  And we began badly:
Lord Fenchurch, who _really_ grows more and more absent-minded every
day, arrived with a black tie and one of those detestable little
jackets that young men affect in theatres.  Arthur was waiting in the
hall to receive the princess and in a _moment_ had him fitted out
properly, while a maid dashed to Hay Hill to fetch his St. George.
(As Arthur said, "We can lend you anything from the South African
medal to the Victorian Order, but we _don't_ fly as high as Garters.")

One or two _tiny_ hitches like that, just enough to make me
nervous...  When the princess arrived, all was transformed: she was
more than gracious, wanting to know why she never saw anything of me
nowadays...  Some people are quite wonderfully able to give you that
sense of _well-being_.  I presented Will.  She said:

"But _you're_ not old enough to have a grown-up son!"

"I am old enough to be _proud_ of it, ma'am," I said.

I don't think I am _envious_; but, when I saw the success of my
little party, when I looked at Brackenbury, who _has_ the money and
does nothing with it, _and_ at Ruth, who couldn't do anything with it
if she wanted to ...  just an over-grown school-girl...  When I
thought of Spenworth and the _opportunities_ at Cheniston, I felt it
was a little hard...  They do come to me, gladly, graciously; and I
am not in a position to entertain them...

After dinner we had music...

I don't know what your experience has been, but I find it hard to
remain patient with the whole world of people who delight in calling
themselves "artists".  (If English has any meaning, an artist is a
person who _paints_, not a fiddler or a poet or an actor.)  So much
fuss has been made of them that their heads have really been turned.
Before I had quite decided what music to have, I heard a young man
playing at Connie Maitland's.  Quite well he played--for an
Englishman, and I asked Connie to present him.

"I have a few friends dining on the eighteenth," I said, "and I was
wondering whether you would be so very kind as to come and give us an
opportunity of hearing a little more of your too delightful playing."

These people _expect_ to be flattered, as no doubt you know...

"The eighteenth?," he repeated.  "I'm not dining anywhere that night,
so far as I know; I will come with great pleasure."

The impudence of the man!

"Dinner itself..." I said.  "My dining-room is so absurdly small that
I am absolutely restricted in numbers.  But _afterwards_...  I have
asked a few friends, real music-lovers; say about half-past ten.  The
address--"

"Oh," he interrupted, "I'll ask you to get in touch with my agent.
He'll tell you my terms and make all arrangements."

"But there are no arrangements to make," I protested.  "Lady Maitland
told me that you were a new-comer to London, and I thought you might
like to meet a few people..."

And then I told him that the princess had graciously promised to come.

The young man thought it over--for all the world as though he were at
a bazaar and I were pressing him to buy something that he didn't
want!  I was _beside_ myself...

"I should like to meet her," he was good enough to say.  "She may be
useful.  All right, I'll do it this once."

And, do you know, it was on the tip of my tongue to say that never
should he set foot inside my _house_!  First of all _inviting_
himself to dinner, then trying to make me _pay_ him for coming...  An
artist I can understand; and a tradesman I can understand.  But this
hybrid...

And on the night he insisted on my presenting him to the princess.
Insisted!  There is no other word...  She, of course, was too sweet
... made no objection and even complimented him.  I kept thinking of
the old days.  When my niece Phyllida came out just before the war,
Brackenbury gave a ball for her and asked me to do what I could (Ruth
is worse than useless on such occasions, because she tries to cover
up her ignorance by saying it doesn't matter--and being obstinate
about it).  I ordered the band--from those really nice people in
Clifford Street--; and the princess was present on that occasion too.
I _wondered_ what we should have thought if the leader had strolled
up, baton in hand, and said: "Oh, won't you present me to Her Royal
Highness?" ...

I _will_ say this boy played well.  Magnetically...  The whole room
was silent and motionless.  One looked up through a mist, as it were,
and saw rows of rapt faces, a regiment of men by the walls, a mere
black and white cloud by the door.

At first I did not notice...

I mean, one cannot be expected to identify eighty or a hundred people
all at once; the princess was obviously my first concern, and, when
this young fellow ceased playing and I stood up, _naturally_ I
imagined that they would all come forward.  So they did ... some of
them.  I am not good at recognizing people, so I made allowances for
myself; but, even so, a _great_ many of the faces were unfamiliar.
Nothing in that, you may say; a little music and some light
refreshments--sandwiches and cake, you know, with perhaps claret-cup
and coffee--afford a wonderful opportunity for making a little return
to people whom one truly honestly doesn't want to have _dining_; I'm
sure you understand!  There is nothing wrong with them or I would not
invite them to have the honour of meeting the princess; but, as Will
would say, they just don't pull their weight in the boat...  I
recognized one or two ... and then, really, I did not know what to
make of it.  After anything I may have said to the princess about the
unpleasantly go-as-you-please, enjoy-yourself-and-don't-ask-questions
character of modern London, you may be sure that I had not encouraged
anybody to collect the first half-dozen waifs and strays from the
street and bring them in.  Every one had been _told_ that the
princess would be there, so that they might equip themselves
accordingly; yet, when I looked round the room, I did not know a
tenth of the people!

It was like a bad dream!  You know my drawing-room in Mount Street:
windows on the south side, and between them a sofa on which I was
sitting with the princess; to the left, at the far end, the piano; to
the right, the door.  At one moment--a perfect picture!  Dear old
Lord Fenchurch with his St. George, Brackenbury with the Bath, my boy
with his war medals--almost every one with a little _something_ to
enhance what will always be the most _dignified_ dress in the world.
Repose...  Distinction.  And then, at the door, an invading army!
Men I had never seen before, some in uniform, some in those
detestable little jackets and limp, pleated shirts; flushed,
dishevelled...  And all of them unknown to me as the man in the moon!
The princess, perhaps you know, abominates the smell of tobacco; need
I say that a positive _cloud_ of smoke was bursting in from the
stair-case? ...

If it had been the men alone, I could have borne it.  _Somehow_ one
would have carried it off...  I made my way, through this _sea_ of
strange faces, to the door--and I really believe that, if I had found
the Jacquerie in possession, I could hardly have been more astounded.
_With_ the men there were girls, scores and scores of them, surging
up to the door, lolling about on the stairs, smoking cigarettes in
the hall, powdering their horrible little noses.  One glance was
enough...  The dresses alone--skirts that hardly reached their
_knees_, bodices that hardly reached their _waists_, "the shoe and
shoulder-strap brigade", as my boy calls them.  A reek of powder and
cheap scent...

"What," I said, "what have I done to deserve this?"

You would think that my cross was sufficiently heavy, but I was
evidently to be spared nothing.  _Some of the men were not even
sober_!  As I came on to the landing, some one said--with great
elegance--:

"Here, old thing, you'd better go home and sleep it off."

Don't let me claim more pity than I deserve!  I _was_ spared a free
fight.  When the Arbiter of Taste had returned from escorting his
friend downstairs, I said to him:

"I must _beg_ for enlightenment.  There has evidently been a mistake.
I cannot remember having invited you; and I think you must have come
to the wrong house."

He looked a little surprised, but rallied at once and pulled from his
pocket a _menu_ with the address written on it.

"We were told that you were giving a dance and that we might come,"
he said.  "I am addressing Lady Ann Spenworth, am I not?"

"You are," I said, "but there's some hideous mistake.  Dance?
There's no dance.  _Who_ told you?"

"Lord Spenworth," he answered.  "At the regimental dinner.  He said
that you were giving a party; some of us were a bit shy of coming
without an invitation, but he assured us that we should be as welcome
as he was.  We'd all arranged to go on to Ledlow's; so, as soon as
we'd found our partners, on we came.  Is it the wrong night?"

"Wrong night!," I said.  "All nights are wrong nights!  My
brother-in-law must have made a mistake.  I _am_ giving a little
party and I invited him..."

And then I whispered to this boy about the princess.  I must say that
he behaved _well_.  It can never be pleasant to find yourself in a
house where you're not expected and where, only too plainly, you're
not wanted.  He saw my terrible position...

"I hope you realize it's not _our_ fault," he said.

"I acquit you of _everything_," I cried.  "But won't you explain to
your friends and--and get them away?"

He promised to do his best, though some of the men looked anything
but tractable; and I went back to the princess, hoping that the music
would _drown_ all the going and coming.  "Play like mad!," I
whispered to this boy at the piano; "_Noise_, at all costs!"  And, as
if I hadn't enough to bear, I thought he was going to take offence.
Half-way through, the door opened a crack, and I saw--who do you
think?  Colonel Butler; Phyllida's cabman hero.  Nothing could
surprise me then--the fact that he was in evening-dress...  If he'd
brought his cab in with him...

I hurried to the door, no longer caring whether he met Phyllida,
whether she threw herself at his head...  _Any_thing...

"This is a case for heroic measures, Lady Ann," he said, when I had
explained my _tragic_ position.  "Some of these fellows have been
doing themselves rather well and they swear they won't go without a
dance.  If you leave things to me, I believe I can pull you through.
Certainly I'll do my best, but you must back me up in everything.  Is
that agreed?  Then, as soon as the music stops, will you present me
to the princess?  I'll get hold of your husband and Will and tell
them what has to be done."

I asked leave to present him...  The princess knew his name, knew all
about him--far more than I had ever guessed.  It appears that he
ought to have had the V.C.; and, if it lay in my gift, he should have
had it that night!  Oh, I don't wonder that he did well in the war.
Such coolness, determination, foresight...

"I expect Lady Ann has told you, ma'am," he began, "that the Forest
Rangers have been having their regimental dinner.  Lady Ann has
_most_ kindly lent us the house for a little dance later on.  I want
to know whether I may ask an extraordinary favour.  It will give
immense gratification if you will allow Lady Ann to present the
officers to you before the dance begins.  I know it's a very big
thing to ask, because there are a great many of them; but, if you
knew the pleasure you would confer, I could almost hope that you
would forgive my presumption."

The princess is really and truly the sweetest woman I know.  Was
there a moment's hesitation?  Colonel Butler brought them in, one
after another, announced the names, herded them out again, brought in
more.  Arthur hunted them upstairs to his bedroom as they came out,
so that there should be a little room on the stairs...  And, when she
came out--this presentation was really a very clever stroke on
Colonel Butler's part to give her an excuse for leaving--, there was
a word and a smile for every one--praising the girls' dresses, saying
she hoped that all the young people would have a _very_ pleasant
time.  Graciousness like that cannot be _learned_, but perhaps a
certain dignity can.  To do these girls justice, they behaved quite
admirably; no familiarity, no nervousness--to the outward eye.  I
hope for their sakes that, when they compared their own "shoes and
shoulder-straps" with what was thought fitting to be worn by another
generation, trained in a different school, the lesson was not
altogether thrown away...

I did not suppose that Colonel Butler _seriously_ intended that I
should improvize a dance at a moment's notice, but I had misjudged my
man.  He had given his word, he said, and, if he broke it, there
might be an unpleasant scene; if, however, I would back him up, he
would "see me through" again.  Almost before the princess was out of
the house, one section was rolling back the rug in the drawing-room
and disposing of the furniture.  Arthur, with his coat off and his
shirt-sleeves rolled up, was dashing down to the cellar and up again,
bringing wine that literally cannot be replaced; and, to judge from
next day's accounts, it must have been Colonel Butler himself who won
over my rather unyielding cook.  He has a gift of _silver_ speech;
the superior young man at the piano, who always left all arrangements
of terms to his _agent_, if you please, sat with a bottle of
champagne and a plate of sandwiches playing till _four o'clock_...

The relief was so great that I really quite lost my head.  Colonel
Butler asked me for the first dance--quite charmingly.

"Your manners are better than your judgement of age," I said.  "I
have not danced for thirty years."

"But it's quite simple," he explained.  "Walk round the room in time
with the music, turn when you feel inclined and add any frills you
like when we've got into each other's step."

And I _did_...

Jean Yarrow I found later, helping him to cut sandwiches and bawling
the most unsuitable answers to questions which, poor soul, she could
not hear.  When he said something about "potted tongue", she thought
he said "clot in the lung" and gave him a history of her own
complaints which I could not help feeling was _not_ suitable for the
ears of a young man...  The duke, meanwhile, was mixing cup by some
secret process that he had learned at Cambridge; I hoped it would
save the wine a little, but from this point of view it was _not_ a
success.  They only asked for more, like that boy in the book...

To use a favourite word of Will's, Colonel Butler was a "superman."
But for him...  I mean, there was plenty of high spirits but not a
hint of rowdiness.  And he was master of the ceremonies, cook,
butler, carriage-finder.  The older generation, too, has been so much
thrust into the background that we find it refreshing when a young
man shews a little politeness and consideration.  As soon as supper
was ready--he had prepared it with his own hands--, Colonel Butler
asked if he might take me down.  Arthur was with me and he at once
intervened.

"No, no," he said.  "You're a dancing man.  Go off and find Phyllida.
You'll spoil her evening if you don't ask her to dance."

I should have thought it was hardly necessary to _throw_ the girl at
him like that, but after the way Brackenbury and Ruth had been crying
over their lost sheep...

"It's no use your thinking you can keep her for Will," Arthur said,
though I had never uttered a word.  "Look at them--meeting...  And
now look at them--dancing.  Come down to supper."

I don't think that any account of the dance was published in the
press.  I certainly supplied no particulars.  But I expect you read
about the dinner.  I have been inundated with letters of thanks--the
most touching, unquestionably, from the princess, who loved what she
called my little informal gathering.  It was not quite what I had
intended, but the _effect_ was good; when our friends saw us
together--I mean Arthur and me, of course--harmoniously, lovingly...

As regards Phyllida and Colonel Butler, you know as much as I do...
There has been no announcement; and, if people do not wish to tell me
things, I do not choose to ask...

From every point of view--almost, the evening was highly successful.

But I shall never forgive Spenworth, never...  As long as I live...




X

LADY ANN SPENWORTH IS A PRISONER IN HER OWN HOUSE

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): You must forgive me
for making you wait like this.  The servants have positive
instructions to say that I am not at home to any one until I have
been specifically asked.  Why one should be at the mercy of anybody
who chooses to burst in...  When all is said and done, the
Englishman's home is still his castle.

Partly I have been busy, partly I have been very much worried, partly
I have been driven to it in self-defence.  I only wish I had been
more unyielding before.  I told you of the mad clergyman from
Morecambe who swept like a whirl-wind into this room, demanding to
see my husband and, so far as I can make out, trying to browbeat my
boy into marrying his daughter...  It began from that day, and I find
it hard to forgive Arthur for not enlightening me.  With Will it was
altogether different; no man that I should care to meet would try to
get out of a difficulty at the expense of a woman.  The code forbids
that...

But, if Arthur--who _knew_ as soon as there was anything to know--had
told me, I should have acted at _once_; we should not be in our
present state of absolute uncertainty, simply waiting with folded
hands for the next blow to fall...  Men have a strange idea that
certain things are exclusively their _province_; their wives, even
the mothers of their children must remain outside the door until it
is too late to repair the damage.  I was not told the _facts_ until
two days ago...

When my boy was offered that position at Morecambe, I went with him
to see that he had a place fit to live in.  The Phentons seemed our
best hope, they were highly recommended, and I will say ungrudgingly
that they played their cards well.  An elderly clergyman, who had
resigned his benefice on account of ill-health, a decent motherly
woman for wife--and these two girls, young, presentable and
thoroughly _nice_...  If you tell me that I am too unready to think
ill of people, I have no defence--except to say that I am not
prepared to go through life _suspecting_...  Molly Phenton was very
much "the old country parson's pretty little daughter"; simple,
innocent, shy; a little fluttered, you would say, when she heard who
we were, and agreeably excited by the prospect of having a
good-looking young man to stay in the house...

Perhaps she _overdid_ the innocence.  Eyes are eyes, and saucers are
saucers...  But I don't wish to appear wise after the event.  I was
completely taken in...

And so was Will.  She was clever enough to guess that this was the
appeal to reach him quickest: the simple little girl with the soft
hair and the big grey eyes, living out of the world with her old
father, no brothers to protect her or _teach_ her anything.  One
would never have been surprised to find her affecting a lisp...  She
deliberately laid herself out to catch my boy.

You must not ask me what happened.  I have never been forced to study
the methods of campaign which a woman adopts for such a purpose.  No
doubt she tried first of all to attract him innocently.  Whatever
success she had, poor Will is not free to marry where his heart leads
him, unless his heart leads him where there is _some_ money (I have
always, as you know, dreaded an entanglement with some girl whom he
would _simply_ have to support all his life); and Will is too
honourable to give any encouragement to some one he has no intention
of marrying.  You will understand me, too, when I say that _no_ one
could have called it a very suitable alliance--for him or for _her_;
it is no kindness to a girl to transport her from her own world,
though--poor souls!--they all fancy that, if they can achieve a great
match, they will be happy, and the rest will come by the light of
nature.  Goodness me, have we not seen that tragically disproved with
Ruth Brackenbury and Kathleen Spenworth?  Will and this girl had
_nothing_ in common.  If she married him, it would be over my dead
body...

If she did not see this, at least she saw that she was making no
impression on my boy; and then I am sadly afraid that she
deliberately laid herself out to tempt him.  I have seen enough of
life to know that, when a woman abandons herself to this kind of
thing, very few even of the purest and best are proof against her
_wiles_.  This Molly had made up her mind to get a hold on Will; and,
once she had decided on that, she would stop at nothing.

I never knew a _thing_ at the time.  When my boy suddenly arrived in
London, when the mad clergyman followed him and _insisted_ on seeing
Arthur, I thought that she would content herself with making him
compromise her.  If they could be discovered _kissing_ ... as they
_were_...  And that was all that even her father was allowed to know
at the time, though she talked about a promise of marriage.  But she
was clever enough to know that she couldn't make a man marry her
because he had kissed her...

So far as I can see, there is no doubt at all...  I did not ask Will,
because I could not bear him to tell me an untruth; and the code
ordains that a man must never admit such a thing, always the woman
must be shielded.  One did not need to be his mother in order to see
that he was _worried_.  Remorse...  The sense that nothing could ever
again be the same...  _Hatred_ of himself...  Hatred of _her_...
And, all the while, I had to sit with my hands in my lap, seeing his
health and happiness ruined.  He could not eat, he could not _sleep_;
Sir Appleton kept writing and telephoning to ask when Will was coming
to see him, but there was no question of trying to find fresh
_work_...  And at any moment this wild man of the woods might
_descend_ upon us again.

The first time he came--I, if you please, was not allowed in the
room--, Arthur would only stamp up and down, saying that Will--_our
boy_--was a scamp and deserved horse-whipping.  I begged for
enlightenment, but at this period the wild man only claimed that Will
had compromised his Molly and that there had been a promise of
marriage...  _Exactly_ what one would have expected!  _Precisely_
what the girl was working for!  _That_ was the moment to strike and
to strike hard.  "A promise of marriage?  _Prove_ it!"  I well knew
that Will was too instinctively wise to write her letters--and they
were in the same house!--or to give her presents.  But I was informed
that this was not a woman's province.  So we dragged on, waiting for
the blow...

I quite dreaded the Morecambe post-mark.  The girl wrote every other
day, and every letter seemed to plunge poor Will into deeper gloom.
The code would not let him make a confidant of his mother, but one
day I saw one of these letters.  It bore no name and opened with a
flood of mingled passion and reproach; only when I saw "_Your
heart-broken Molly_" at the end did I realize that the letter was
intended for Will.  She was begging him to come back and talking a
great deal about his "promise"...  I should have paid no attention if
there had not been other things as well: talk about her "honour" and
so on and so forth...  Her "_soul_"...  God would never forgive
her--the egotism of the girl! ... Then I felt that, to get a _hold_
on Will, she had stopped at nothing...

I wonder what you would have done in my place? ... Constant dripping
wears away a stone, and this dazing attack would in time have broken
down my boy's resistance.  Suppose he had _let_ himself be
blackmailed into marrying her!  No money on either side--and Will's
_parents_ could do nothing to help--, not a taste in common, two
people drawn from different worlds...  And this terrible, _blasting_
knowledge that he--and _she_--and _I_ had of the girl's character.
Ruin, misery lay before them.  And _nothing_ else...

I had to save Will from any temptation to yield.  If he could have
fallen in love with some nice girl and forgotten the whole episode...
If I could have sent him _right_ away...  It was not easy, and you
know better than any one that my hands have been fairly full.  At one
time I thought that South American woman was attracted by him, at
another my niece Phyllida roused to interest.  He was so much
preoccupied that he seemed indifferent to women; one after another,
they gave him up in despair.  Then I bethought me of my second string
and cast about in my mind for means to send him far away where he
could forget this girl and her importunity...

You have met Sir Appleton Deepe in this house.  You have met him more
than once and you have always been too dear and too discreet to ask,
to hint, to raise an eyebrow in mild wonder that I should be _liée_
with such a man.  _Of his kind_ I believe he has no rival.  As a mere
boy he was sent out to one of the Chinese branches of the business;
and by sheer hard work, by studying the natives and learning their
requirements he had, before he was forty, built up the trade of his
firm to its present gigantic dimensions.  Now he is senior partner
and a millionaire many times over, with patronage beyond one's
wildest dreams.  Curious!  These "merchant princes" are all the
same--never content to stick to their business, always looking for
fresh worlds to conquer.  I met Sir Appleton--he was plain Mr. Deepe
then--in the early days of the war; and, though any _intimacy_ was
out of the question, I felt that he was a man to keep one's eye on
for the days when the war would be over and all our boys would be
wondering what to do next.  He had great ideas then of going into
politics--something that Lady Maitland let fall had started the
train, and he was convinced that the business man had the world at
his feet.  (I could not help wondering whether she hoped to exploit
him on behalf of that _worthless_ youngest boy of hers, the one who
evaded military service by _hiding_ in one of the government offices.)

"No, Mr. Deepe," I said.  "To use one of your own phrases, you have
missed your market.  The business men have got in before you."  And,
goodness me, in those days, Whitehall was like a foreign capital!
Even the ministers were unheard-of, and every one seemed to be a
mining magnate or a shipping magnate or a railway magnate or the
keeper of a shop...  If one had a favour to ask, one quite literally
did not know whom to approach.  And they were always changing...
"No, Mr. Deepe," I said, "some enter society through politics, others
enter politics through society; but no man ever rose to the top of
the political tree--_and stayed there_--without _backing_"...

And, so far as I could, I shewed him how it should be done and who
were the people he must get to know.  _Quite_ methodically I set him
to work; and I really took a great deal of trouble about him.  Connie
Maitland has the sublime assurance to pretend that _she_ got him his
knighthood, but on a point like that Sir Appleton himself is surely
the most reliable witness...  I helped him in a hundred ways; he is
quite reasonably well-known now...

When the bomb-shell first descended from Morecambe, I thought at once
of him.  In such a business there must be scores of openings for
young men of character and ability, accustomed to command; and, say
what you like, the presence of those whom for want of a better word I
will call "well-connected" _does_ help to lift commerce out of the
ruck...  Unhappily Sir Appleton was abroad at the time, and that was
really why we chose Menton, which truly honestly is only a _suburb_
of Monte Carlo.  The opportunity was too good to be thrown away; and
it was worth enduring a little discomfort if by shewing him some
slight civility I could enlist his support.  It was not so _easy_ as
I had hoped.  He wanted to make me believe that the best positions in
the business were reserved for men who had worked their way up from
the bottom, as he had done; that there was an immense deal to be
learned, that the most responsible part of his duties consisted in
choosing the right men...

"But," I said, "I _am_ in a position to speak with knowledge here; it
is my own son whom I am putting forward."

"I shall be delighted to see him," answered Sir Appleton, "and to
talk things over again on my return to London."

And really he wanted to leave it like that, but I am not _quite_ so
easily discouraged.  I hammered away until I had extracted a definite
promise that he would find _some_ position in which Will could
support himself, though I am afraid he was not very gracious about
it...

"If I accept him in the dark," he said in conclusion, "don't blame me
for discharging him after a month if I find he's no good."

"I have no fear of that," I said.

"Discharge" was hardly the word I should have chosen, but one is
foolish to expect too great nicety of language...

It was arranged that Sir Appleton should dine with us here to meet
Will.

I did _try_ to impress on my boy that this would be one of the most
momentous days of his life.  I wanted Sir Appleton to see him at his
best.  When you have no experience, no technical knowledge to offer,
it is so important that character, personality, breeding...  I am
sure you understand what I mean.  And I could never forget that, when
the Jew man--Sir Adolf Erckmann or whatever he _now_ calls
himself--pretended to have an appointment ready and waiting, Will
endangered his prospects by participating in some ridiculous game
that caused our worthy host to take offence.  One had not looked for
such sensitiveness in _that_ quarter; but, when a man is uncertain of
himself and takes refuge in his dignity, high spirits and
irresponsibility have no place.  _This_ time, I told Will, he must
run _no_ risks.  And, after that, I hoped--_and expected_--to see my
boy taking our friend by _storm_...

Do you know, it was as much as I could do to prevail on him to meet
Sir Appleton at all!  This _menace_ was preying on his nerves; this
pitiless hail of appealing letters from his "heart-broken Molly".
One day he came in looking as if he had seen a ghost.  This girl had
dared to call for him at his club!  I am thankful to say that he kept
his head and refused resolutely to see her, but we never imagined
that she was in London...  And we both knew that we should now never
be safe even in our own house.  She had not dared to face _me_;
perhaps she made a good guess what kind of reception I should feel it
my duty to give her; she was clever enough to know that a woman would
see through her in a moment...  But she would make for Will the
moment she thought my back was turned...

It was then that I gave those orders to the servants.  There had been
one or two cases in the papers, you may remember, of people who
called on chance and walked off with whatever they could lay their
hands on.  I made this the text for my little homily.  And it was not
a moment too soon!  The girl called that same afternoon and asked to
see my boy...

She called daily, refusing to take "no" for an answer.  Mr. William
Spenworth not at home?  When _would_ he be home? ... But for this
dinner to Sir Appleton, I should have insisted on sending Will
_right_ away, but I _had_ to hold my hand until the Chinese
appointment had been arranged.  The servants were instructed to say
that they did not know...  And, after that, I knew it was only a
question of time before she encamped on the pavement at sunrise and
_stayed_ there...  Can you imagine a more intolerable situation?
Always having to peep round the curtain to see whether it was safe to
_venture_ into the street?

One day she forced her way into the house.  It was the afternoon
before Sir Appleton came to dine; and Will, who had been sleeping--on
my suggestion--at his club, arrived in time to dress.  Hardly had the
door shut behind him when this girl (you would have thought she had
more pride!) rang the bell and put her unvarying question.  Mr.
William Spenworth was not at home.  Oh, but he _was_!  She had just
seen him come in!  (An altercation with a servant on some one else's
door-step!)  Norden behaved with perfect discretion, asking her to
take a seat while he made enquiries.  After a moment he returned to
say--once more--that Mr. William was not at home.  The girl, from his
account, was in two minds whether to search the house, but at last
she consented to go.

I am not a nervous woman, as you are aware, but I was _thoroughly_
upset.  A worse prelude to a _momentous_ meeting could hardly be
imagined.  Will was quite unstrung by the persecution; and, though I
never encourage him to drink between meals, I said nothing when he
helped himself to brandy.  He needed it...

"Son of mine, we must _rally_," I said.  "She _must_ see, after
this--"

"I shall go off my head if this goes on any longer," he said.

Utterly unnerved...

I had thought it better to send Arthur off to his club for dinner.
To my mind, it is inconceivable that a father should be jealous of
his own son, but I can think of no other way to explain my husband's
persistent attitude of disparagement whenever a united front is most
necessary.  "A policy of pin-pricks" was the phrase that my boy once
coined for it.  We are, I hope, a devoted family, but Arthur seems
_never_ to lose an opportunity of indulging in a sneer...  Yet I wish
we had had him with us that night.  In a crisis I am only too well
aware that I am always left to find a way out, but that night I felt
hardly adequate even to ordinary conversation; and, when this Sir
Appleton began to shew the cloven hoof, I knew that only a man could
deal with him.

We were taken utterly off our guard.  He came into the room, shook
hands with me, bowed to Will, waited until Norden was out of the room
and then said:

"There's a lady downstairs who wants to see one of you for a moment.
She was on the doorstep, when I arrived, and your servants didn't
want to admit her.  I gathered, however, that she'd been waiting for
some time, so I made them let her in."

_Made_...  In the school in which I was brought up, the bare idea of
giving orders to other people's servants...  I do not know whether
you have been forced into contact with the world of "business men ",
but I find their autocracy sometimes a little trying.

"A lady to see me?," I said.  "Really, this is _not_ a reasonable
time for calling."

"I fancy it was your son, Lady Ann, that she asked for," said Sir
Appleton.

"Oh, I can't be bothered to see people at this hour of the night,"
said Will.

When Norden came in to announce dinner, I told him to explain that
neither Will nor I could possibly desert our guest to talk to this
girl at such a time...

"Oh, don't mind me," said Sir Appleton.

"But I do!," I said.  "And I mind about dinner."

"I should be disposed to see her," said he.  "Perhaps she's in
trouble."

"It'll keep till to-morrow," said Will.

There was nothing so very heartless either in the words or in the
tone, but for some reason Sir Appleton chose to take offence.

"That's not a very sympathetic line to take with some one who may be
in great distress," he said.  "For all you know, she's some girl
friend of yours who's stranded in London without money.  If you'll
allow me to say so, Lady Ann, I think one of you should see her.  It
need not take more than a moment."

I fancied that I knew better...

"Norden can find out what the matter is while we're at dinner," I
said.  "You'll agree that it is not a very reasonable hour for
calling."

"Which is what makes me think that her business is urgent," said Sir
Appleton.  "If you don't want to be bothered, will you allow _me_ to
interview her?  If it's only a five-pound note she wants because
she's lost her purse..."

What could one say?  Obviously he should not have _made_ such a
suggestion, but, as obviously, I could not forbid him.  It seemed
fair to assume that she would not incriminate herself with a total
stranger or try to blackmail us through him...  And he had an
assurance of manner which led me to hope that he would not stand any
nonsense from her...

"Try--by all means," I said.

And it was on the tip of my tongue to beg him not to consider us; we
could await his pleasure before thinking about dinner.  But one had
to be civil to the man for this one night.

He was gone for nearly half an hour.  Will and I waited and waited...
At last he came back and said:

"I must apologize for keeping you so long.  It was a complicated
story."  Then he looked at Will.  "I should like a word with you
afterwards."

The agony of that dinner is a thing which I shall never forget.  Sir
Appleton sat in dead silence for half the meal, then roused himself
to talk about red lacquer.  That was his nearest approach to China,
business...  And, when we were alone, he turned to Will and said:

"How much does your mother know about it?"

"About what?," Will asked, naturally enough.

"Now don't try that kind of thing on me, young man!," cried Sir
Appleton in a quite unpardonable tone.

And then, _for the first time_, I heard the facts about this girl's
unhappy condition.  Will, apparently, knew, but she had not told her
father or Arthur or anybody but Sir Appleton.  And how much of it was
true...

"You are accepting this girl's tale?," I asked.

"I believe her."

"Without a shadow of evidence?  If Will _assured_ you--"

"I shouldn't believe him," he interrupted.

To Will's mother, in her own house, at her own table!  I could see
that this was going to be war to the knife...

And then I'm afraid I threw all restraint to the winds.  After urging
Will to be careful, too.  What I said...  The words poured out of me
in a torrent until my boy stared at me with round eyes.  Sir Appleton
just sat nodding like a mandarin.  I told him how this girl had set
her trap to catch Will, how she had evidently resolved to stop at
_nothing_ for the chance of marrying above her station, how she had
persecuted and blackmailed us.  Whatever she had got, I said, she
richly deserved.  Not that I believed her story!  Oh, not for a
single moment!  As soon as she had _forced_ Will to marry her, she
would laugh in his face for the trick she had played him.  And, if
all this was true--her condition and so forth and so on--, what
possible proof was there that Will was in any way responsible?

"Ask him," said Sir Appleton.

"How should _I_ know?," said Will.

"Exactly," Sir Appleton cried in triumph.  "Now, young man, what do
you propose to do?"

"I don't know," said Will.

"Then suppose you find out," said Sir Appleton.  "Are you going to
marry her?"

"No, no!," I cried.  "A thousand times, no!  She must reap what she
has sown.  My son shall not pay the price of her wickedness."

"He promised to marry her," said Sir Appleton.

"Prove it," I said.

Oh, if only I had been allowed to see the mad old father and
challenge him!  We should have heard _very_ little more of Miss Molly
Wanton.  Sir Appleton didn't seem to care whether he could prove it
or not...

"Oh," he had to admit, "there's no _proof_.  But she says so, and I
believe her.  Most of my life, Lady Ann, I've had to form quick
judgements of people and, perhaps three times out of seven, I know
when they're speaking the truth.  Your son _did_ promise."

"He did _not_!," I retorted.  "It stands to reason..."

And then I tried to _hammer_ a little sense into his head.  Two
people drawn from different worlds, without an interest in common,
without money.  All his life she would drag him down and down...  How
would he like to see a son of _his_ in such a position?  ...

"He should have thought of that before he began playing the fool,"
said Sir Appleton.

"Before _he_ began playing the fool!  A woman knows well enough...
And a _clergyman's_ daughter!  You want my boy to marry her with his
knowledge, _our_ knowledge of her character?  You must be mad!"

Will said nothing.  This quite _unseemly_ altercation, when he was
already worn out with the long persecution...  I wished, oh! I
_wished_ that Arthur had been dining at home; _he_ would never have
allowed us to be bullied like this...

"Let's take the next thing, then," proposed Sir Appleton.  And, do
you know, I felt that he was _enjoying_ our agony.  "Your son is too
fine a gentleman to marry this frail beauty, though he was not so
fastidious when there was a question of getting her into trouble."
Fine gentlemen and frail beauties!  The man was talking like a
character in some ridiculous melodrama!  "Well, he has rather spoiled
her for any other life, so I presume he will gladly pay what
compensation he can.  Even a court of law would award substantial
damages, if she could prove that there had been a promise of
marriage."

"She can't prove it," I said.

"And I'm sure you would not like her to try," he retorted with quite
an undisguised threat in his voice.  "It would cause an ugly scandal,
and you would all gladly pay ten times whatever damages a jury would
give her for the sake of hushing up the scandal.  Are you prepared to
give her enough to go abroad and, if need be, live abroad and make a
new life for herself?"

"I've no doubt we shall do what we can," I said, "_if_ the story's
true--which I don't for one moment admit at present."

I was _thankful_ that he no longer suggested that Will should marry
her...  I'd have promised anything!  Though why _he_ should make
himself a ruler and a judge...

"You will have to provide for her," he said, "at least as generously
as if she were marrying your son.  She will have no chance of
participating in his prosperity and success as he rises from triumph
to triumph in his career."

I _thought_ I detected a sneer in his voice.  If I had been sure, I
would have suggested that he ceased insulting my son until we were
both free of the obligation to treat a _guest_ with courtesy.  The
face was curiously expressionless; I couldn't be certain.

"You must not judge every one by your own standard of wealth," I
pointed out.  "We are very far from rich."

"You would settle, say, five thousand a year on her?," he proposed.
"The cost of living has reduced that to little more than three
thousand by the standard of prices before the war."

"Sir Appleton," I said as patiently as I could, "if we had five
thousand a year to throw about, we should not be inviting your
generous assistance in finding a position for Will."

It was _more_ than time to dismiss this girl and get to _business_...

"Five hundred, then," he suggested.

"A _year_?  For all her life?," I asked, hardly believing my ears.
If he could have had any conception what Arthur allows me to dress
on...

"Your son's costly regard will affect the whole of her life," said
Sir Appleton.

"I won't go into that," I said.  "I admit nothing.  But I _can_ tell
you that it would be out of the question."

"Fifty pounds then?," he went on remorselessly.  "It's less than a
pound a week--with present purchasing power of about a shilling a
day."

"I don't think we need discuss this," I said.  "If the story's true,
this girl will find that we shall not behave illiberally to her.  I
don't admit any claim; I was brought up in a stern school which
ordained that a woman should reap as she had sown.  What you regard
as her misfortune, I was taught to consider the divine, just
punishment of sin."

Sir Appleton looked at his watch and rose to his feet.

"But you'll pay her a lump sum of a hundred," he suggested, "to
prevent a scandal and help her through her troubles and keep her from
jumping into the river?"

"I hope she would not be so foolish or wicked as to contemplate such
a thing," I told him, "but I would certainly pay her that."

"Then it's right that she should know as soon as possible," said he.
"I told her to go round to my house so that my wife could look after
her.  She dare not face her father; and she was growing rather
miserable in lodgings.  If you will excuse me, I should like just to
explain how the land lies and how much she can hope from
your--generosity."

Will opened the door...  I can see now that I should have done better
to say _nothing_, but I could not let him slip away without a _word_
on the one subject which had made me ask him ... and _submit_ to his
company...

"And when," I asked, "may we hope to hear about the appointment?"

"The appointment?," he repeated.

"The opening you _promised_ to find for Will," I reminded him.

"Did I promise?," he asked stupidly; and then with deliberate malice,
"Can you _prove_ that there was ever a promise?"

I reminded him of our talks at Menton.  Goodness me, the man had
dined for the express purpose of meeting Will and deciding what kind
of work would suit him best.

"We have to make our plans," I explained.

"I don't think we need discuss this," he said.  "Your son, as you
told me, has no experience or technical knowledge, so that, if I
employed him at all, I should employ him for his qualities of
character.  I should not dream of judging any man on a single
meeting, so I think we had better postpone a decision until I have
had better opportunity of studying his honour and generosity."

And that is how we stand at present...

Will thinks that there is nothing to hope for in that quarter, but I
cannot believe that, when a man has given a solemn promise, he will
try to wriggle out of it.  Sir Appleton owes a good deal to me; but
for my advice and really _untiring_ pains he would still be plain Mr.
Deepe, unknown to any one outside his business...

Of the girl we have heard nothing for two days.  If she _must_ live
on some one else's doorstep, I should be thankful to know that she
had transferred herself to his...

But our existence is like life in a beleaguered city, never knowing
when the next attack will be delivered.




XI

LADY ANN SPENWORTH FINDS HER HEART WARMING

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): Indeed I think I may
claim that you have come to the right person.  I returned from the
Hall only this morning, so I am well primed with news.

And very, very happy.  It is only since I have been established once
more in the beleaguered city that I have had to remember this menace.
No!  Not a word or sign!  The old clergyman descended on us from
Morecambe, protesting that my boy Will had promised to marry his
daughter; the daughter came and told a cock-and-bull story which
proved her own abandonment without establishing anything against my
boy; and, since then, nothing!  But one does not choose to be a
standing target for that sort of thing.  When next Miss Molly Phenton
(or Wanton) comes to Mount Street, she may find that Will is safely
married to some one else or that I have sent him abroad.  I have lost
the thread...  Ah, yes, the great romance!  In that atmosphere of
radiance one forgot one's troubles...

My brother Brackenbury did indeed lend me the house for a few weeks
in the summer--when every one was away in Scotland--, but otherwise I
have not passed a night there on their invitation since that
deplorable week-end when all the trouble with Phyllida began.  You
have forgotten it!  I hope now that every one will forget it.
Hilary--Colonel Butler, you know--had fallen in love with my niece
while he was in her hospital.  As Phyllida was living with me at the
time, I had a duty to my brother, so I suggested that this boy should
be invited to the Hall "on approval", as Will would say.  I yield to
no one in my _real_ affection for dear Hilary, but--why disguise
it?--he had been brought up simply--on modest means--, and it was
only right that he should see Phyllida in her natural frame and
decide for himself whether he could support her and live up to it.
Most people so notoriously _cannot_: my sister-in-law Ruth, who
remains and will ever remain the purse-proud shipping magnate's
daughter...  I was more than justified.  Hilary consulted me; and,
though I will never take the responsibility of advising young people
in love, he was grateful for the detachment of an outsider.  _I_, he
could see, had no axe to grind...  Brackenbury and Ruth received him
effusively; my nephew Culroyd took him to his heart; if he had
proposed, he would have been accepted then and there.  He had done
too wonderfully in the war and, in my humble judgement, gave a
promise of success in any career he might undertake.

_Me_ he consulted to know whether the world would say that he had
married Phyllida for her money.  He was daunted, I could see, by the
_lavishness_ of the Hall: the size of the house, the number of
servants, Phyllida's four hunters--and so forth and so on.  I told
him that, _in this respect of money and--in--this--respect--alone_,
he was not in fact contributing very much.  He nodded, packed his bag
and went off to _make_ money--with an enterprise and a resolution
that was too splendid.  Did I ever tell you that I once detected him
driving a motor-cab?  He has now formed a company and is doing very
well indeed.  It was quite romantic!  I always knew that there _were_
such men in England and I was proud to meet one.

He begged me not to enlighten Phyllida, as he wished to leave her
entirely free.  Which I thought a most proper attitude, not
extravagantly common in the youth of the present day.  In my efforts
to help him I exposed myself to an unhappy misconception, for
Phyllida persuaded first herself and then the family that I had
scotched her romance with some crazy idea of securing her for my boy
Will.  It was always on the tip of my tongue to say that she seemed
very certain of him.  Goodness me, if Will had _wanted_ her...  I
have never wholly approved of cousin-marriages; and I looked with
something like dismay on their growing intimacy.  That was later, of
course; at first she was like a demented creature, saying the wildest
and wickedest things.  Do you know that she charged me with trying to
keep my brother-in-law from getting a divorce--so that there should
be no possibility of an heir, so that in time Arthur or Will should
inherit Cheniston and the title?  These are not the fancies of a
_balanced_ mind, and it was then that I urged Brackenbury to send her
_right_ away.  Failing that, I asked him to entrust her to me for a
while in the hopes that I might turn her thoughts.  Her loyalty to
Colonel Butler I _admired_, but there is a danger that love may
develop into an obsession...

That was the time when I became so nervous about Will.  _She_ was
listless and unhappy, he was sympathetic; a dangerous combination!
They had actually, I believe, reached what is called an
understanding, when Phyllida learned by chance that Colonel Butler
was alive and working in London; and this, I am thankful to say,
turned her attention from Will.  You were not present, I think, at
the great meeting?  No, I remember you were away; it was one night
when the princess honoured me by dining to meet a few old friends.  I
gave a little impromptu dance afterwards to some of the officers in
Spenworth's old regiment, not remembering that Hilary Butler was of
the number; Phyllida was dining, and they met...

After that, it was a foregone conclusion.  Every day when I opened my
letters or looked at the paper, I expected to read the announcement.
You may judge of my misgivings when my sister-in-law Ruth invited me
most urgently to come for the week-end to the Hall and to bring Will
with me.  I have told you that there was _some_ sort of
understanding: if Hilary disappeared from human ken, Phyllida would
marry Will--something of that kind; she was such a little picture of
misery that, if _some_ one had not shewn her a little kindness, I
truly honestly believe that she would have wilted away.  I was in
dread that she would come up and say: "Aunt Ann, Will and I are going
to be married"...  _That_ is why I searched the "Times" so
diligently...  It would be a suitable marriage in some ways: she
_has_ money...  But I could never regard it as satisfactory.

The moment I could get a word alone with my sister-in-law, I asked
her whether they had seen anything of Colonel Butler.

"Not since you arranged that meeting at your house," Ruth told me,
"but he is due here to-night."  She persists in speaking of people as
though they were ships!  The Hull strain coming out!  "That is why I
invited you all--Culroyd and Hilda are coming; and Spenworth and his
wife--; I wanted you all to meet him.  Or rather Phyllida did.  She
has been very mysterious, but there seems to be no doubt now..."

"They are going to be married?," I interrupted.

"Nothing has been said about it--_yet_," answered Ruth.

I know you will not misunderstand me, still less make mischief, if I
tell you that I heaved a _sigh_ of relief.  Fond as I am of Phyllida,
she would not have made a very suitable wife for Will, though it is
essential for him to marry some one with a _little_ money and I have
felt lately that, if he could marry _any one_, it would put an end to
this persecution from the girl who is trying to blackmail him...  At
the same time it seemed a little strange for Phyllida to be summoning
the entire family, when, so far as I could make out, Hilary had not
said a _word_...

"So you are expecting Colonel Butler," I said to her at tea.

"He's coming to-day," she answered rather brusquely.  "I thought he
might have been here by now...  _Well_, Aunt Ann, was I wise to wait?
You told me to go right away and forget him; you always said you
wanted to turn my thoughts."

Do you know, for a dreadful moment I fancied that she was trying to
reopen her insane vendetta...  When she circulated those truly wicked
stories about me...

"Dear Phyllida," I said, "did I ever try to shake your faith in him?
No one, not even you, has a greater admiration or regard for Colonel
Butler; he has done me more than one inestimable service, and I think
he would be the first to admit that he owes something to my
friendship and advice.  Ask him, dear child!  I have nothing to fear
from his testimony; but there is a right way and a wrong way in most
things, and he will tell you that, on my advice, he chose the right.
If I urged your father to send you away, if I tried to the best of my
poor abilities to distract your thoughts, it was because I could not
bear to see my own niece, my own brother's child, the picture of
misery that you were."

"Well, you'd look miserable," said Phyllida, "if the one person you
cared for had been set against you and if everybody said you'd tried
to capture him and he'd run away."

Who it was that Phyllida imagined she was quoting I have really no
idea.  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that, if a girl
conducts a love affair quite so ostentatiously as she had done, she
must not be surprised if people ask questions when, all of a sudden,
nothing comes of it.  It was hardly the moment to talk about
ostentation, however.  You remember the terrace at the Hall; we were
sitting there like people in the first row of the stalls, waiting for
the curtain to go up--Brackenbury, Ruth, their boy Culroyd and Hilda,
his wife, my brother-in-law Spenworth, _his_ new wife, Arthur, Will
and myself.  I really pitied any poor young man with such an audience
to face...

"But all has now turned out well?," I asked.  "Dear Phyllida, I am
very, very glad."

"Oh, don't congratulate me yet," she said.  "He hasn't _said_
anything."

I was really _amazed_...

"I thought perhaps that, when you met at my house--," I began.

After all, _if_--as I hope--everything goes well, I am entitled to a
_little_ credit...

"Oh, not a word!," said Phyllida.  "He wouldn't even dance with me at
first.  I said: 'Are you trying to avoid me?'  He said: 'Yes.' ...
And I could have died till I saw he was only joking.  Then we both
laughed.  Then he said: 'Would your mother invite me down to the Hall
one week-end soon?  It's only fair to warn her that, if she doesn't,
I shall invite myself.'  'And, if you don't invite yourself, I shall
invite you,' I told him.  'Don't let's say anything at present,' he
said; 'I've been very busy since I saw you last, but I shall be free
in a week or two.'  He wired on Wednesday to know if he might come.
I knew you would like to meet him and to see that my faith was
justified."

"Dear Phyllida," I said.  "I hope indeed that it has been."

"If he doesn't propose to me," answered Phyllida, "I shall propose to
him.  I always told you I would."

Of course, I am old-fashioned; I was brought up in a different
school.  Do you know, even in jest, between the two of us, that kind
of speech is always very distasteful to me...

Apparently the young man was motoring from London, and there was some
sort of idea that he would arrive in time for tea.  We maintained our
absurd theatrical postures until the terrace became too unbearably
cold.  When I went up to dress, he had not arrived; but Phyllida was
still sitting with her gaze fixed down the drive to the white gates
of the lodge...  It may have been love; but I could not help feeling
that she was _very_ conscious of the _effect_...

When I came down at half-past eight, there was still no sign of him.
And then you can imagine the inevitable discussion!  Was he coming or
was he not?  Should we wait or should we begin without him?  Phyllida
expressed no opinion; she sat by herself, waiting...  At nine o'clock
I took Arthur and Will on one side and told them that we must really
make a concerted attack on Ruth; I was _famished_...

"He _can't_ be coming," I said.

Unfortunately Phyllida overheard me and interpreted this as an attack
on Colonel Butler's good faith...

"He _said_ he would come," she persisted.  Over one shoulder, you
know...  With a toss of the head.

"Perhaps the car has broken down," I suggested.  "There may have been
an accident."

"He will come," said Phyllida.

At a quarter past nine Ruth was merciful enough to allow her guests
to have a little food--one of those meals where, as my boy said very
wittily, "everything was cold except the ice."  A hideous dinner!  I
am not now referring to the food, but to the atmosphere.  Phyllida
refused to come in; Brackenbury wavered and wobbled, now going out to
her, now coming back...  And the one _not_ very interesting topic of
conversation: what had happened to Colonel Butler.  By ten o'clock
_most_ of us had made up our minds that he was not coming...

By eleven I really believe some were wondering whether he had ever
_intended_ to come.  He had invited himself, it is true.  Or so we
were told.  But it really seemed as though the initiative came from
Phyllida, that she might be forcing his hand, that he had suggested
coming really as a means of ending the discussion at my dance.  _I_
did not know what letters had passed between them since.  She might
have been pressing and pressing him until he at last consented to
come; then he may have seen that, once at the Hall, he would not be
allowed to escape a second time.  He may have invited himself with
the reservation that he would stop away at the last moment and say
that he had been called abroad.  Phyllida is _attractive_, she is
rich; for people who care about these things, she is the daughter of
an earl.  Undeniably young Butler had been glamoured by it all at
first; but he may well have felt on reconsideration that it would not
be a very suitable match, and I have yet to learn that a man thinks
more highly of a girl because she throws herself at his head.  That
is a lesson which the rising generation will have to learn--at a
heavy price.

I felt that some such thoughts must be passing through Spenworth's
mind every time he said: "The fellow's not coming to-night.  Can't
some one persuade that child to have some food instead of giving
herself a chill?"  Brackenbury and Ruth, too, were beginning to doubt
and to look very much concerned.  If the young man _had_ sheered off,
they would never forgive themselves for allowing the unhappy girl to
make such an exhibition of herself...  In my heart of hearts I knew
that Colonel Butler could be trusted as I would trust my own son.  I
was only afraid that there might have been an _accident_...

And I could fancy what poor Phyllida's feelings must be after
assembling all the family to meet her soldier-hero, after telling me
at the top of her _very_ clear little voice that, if he did not
propose to her, she would propose to him...  Every one would say that
he had run away and she had dragged him back and now he had run away
again...

At half-past eleven we gave up hope.

"He can't be coming to-night," Ruth told Phyllida.  "Let's all go to
bed; we shall hear something in the morning."

"He _said_ he would come," Phyllida answered.

There was another aimless discussion when we were all so tired that
we could hardly keep our eyes open.  Brackenbury went out to see what
_he_ could do with the girl--and returned to say that she had
vanished!

Oh, my dear!  Our _feelings_ I leave you to imagine.  In some
directions Phyllida has a wild, insane pride ... and she had seen it
dragged in the mire before the eyes of us all.  When I spoke of love
degenerating into obsession, I chose my words with care: for months
the child had been so _distraught_ that I felt a _very_ little more
might upset her reason.  Rapidly reviewing all that had passed that
day, I recalled the utter desperation of her behaviour--the ruined
gambler's last throw...  We stood as though we had been carved out of
stone, _staring_ at Brackenbury while he _stared_ at us ... white as
paper.

He was thinking of the river...

We seemed unable to move...

At last Spenworth hurled himself through the door, with Brackenbury,
Culroyd, Arthur, goodness knows who at his heels.  I caught Will's
arm and went with him on to the terrace; it was time that _some one_
kept his head.  Do you know, I had a premonition: a moonless night,
that inky river, demented, shouting men jostling one another on the
bank and in the water, plunging and splashing, a cry for help, some
one caught in the reeds, two--three tragedies instead of one...

"The boat-house, Will," I urged.

We dashed along the terrace and across the lawn.  Suddenly I stopped.
Ahead of me--in the darkness I could not see how far--there was a
flash of white.  It vanished, appeared again, vanished again.

"_This_ way," I said.

And I could have sobbed aloud.  Instead of making for the river, poor
Phyllida was roaming distractedly towards the lodge.  We heard her
feet stumbling on and off the gravel, there came the moan of a
tortured animal...  The footsteps ceased abruptly, the white coat
vanished...  She had left the drive and turned away behind a clump of
laurel.  I heard her crying as though her heart would break...

"I can run no farther," I said to Will.  "And an old woman like me is
no good to her now.  Go to her and comfort her.  You have always
loved her, so you will know what to say.  If she breaks her heart,
she will break yours too; you will never forgive yourself for
abandoning her.  Let her see that, however lonely and deserted she
may feel, one staunch friend is true to her through all things.  It
is your right and privilege to share her sorrow and, if may be, to
assuage it."

At such a time my boy did not need to be told twice.  As I sank
exhausted against a tree, he stole forward; I heard him calling her
softly by name.  If I could, I would have hurried out of ear-shot,
for whatever he said was sacred to the two of them; but I expected
every moment to faint with my unaccustomed exertion...

"Phyllida...  Darling Phyllida," he began.

I do not mind telling _you_, because you are always discreet and,
when reverence is demanded, you will be reverent...  I thought I knew
my boy, but there are depths of tenderness in a man which he never
shews to his own mother...

"Phyllida, darling Phyllida, won't you let me comfort you?  If you
break your heart, you will break mine too.  You know that I have
always loved you, and that gives me the right to comfort you when you
are unhappy.  Whatever other people may do to you or say to you, I am
always here for you to turn to..."

I cannot go on...  Already I have said more than I ought.  Will you
think your old friend very foolish if she confesses that for a moment
she forgot that she was old?  Time slipped from my shoulders, and I
saw once again a young girl in that very garden, not a hundred yards
from where I was standing...  Dear Phyllida, I suppose, would think
her a very funny, old-fashioned creature, but I did not seem so
then--certainly to Arthur...  A young girl in a white dress with a
young man pleading at her feet until his voice broke and he said:
"It's no good, I can't go on."  And then he threw his arms about
me...  And I remember my dear father coming on to the terrace and
calling out to me.  And Arthur seized my hand and _strode_ forward
with his head among the _stars_...  Brackenbury--he is fourteen years
my junior--was already in bed, but we insisted on going upstairs to
tell him the news.  Life was a very glorious thing that night.  I
walked on air; and, if any one had told me that it was a thing of
greed and cruelty and ingratitude and mean passions, I should have
laughed him to scorn...

Forgive me...

I am sentimental, no doubt, but if we _have_ the opportunity of
feeling our heart warming...  Of late years...  I have lost the
thread...  Ah, yes!  I crept away, leaving them together, with the
murmur of my boy's divine sympathy still in my ears.  At first I
walked aimlessly, trying to keep my mind _blank_ until I was
competent to think of anything.  What _would_ happen now? ... In time
I found myself on the lawn once more, and the sight of the river
reminded me of duty still left undone.  I had to find Brackenbury and
tell him that his child was safe and in good hands...  I remember
wondering, trying to make up my mind what I should think if this
_crise_ shewed Phyllida that it was Will she wanted to marry...

There was no one in sight.  I walked cautiously to the river,
expecting every moment to step over the edge...  No sound of voices.
I called: "Brackenbury!", "Arthur!", "Culroyd!".  There was no
answer.  Do you know that quite unreasoning fear that sometimes
overtakes one when one is in the dark and knows that one is not
_alone_?  And the river--like a looking-glass in a twilit room...  I
have a horror of any great expanse of water at night; it is so silent
and merciless.  "Culroyd!  Brackenbury!  Spenworth!," I called
again--this time at the top of my voice.  And then I am not ashamed
to confess that I hurried back to the house as fast as my legs would
carry me.

It was no less deserted than the garden!  Lights blazing, doors and
windows open, but not a soul in sight; the very servants pressed into
the hue-and-cry.  I wandered through room after room, upstairs and
down.  When I went back to the terrace, it was with the crazy feeling
that the world had come to an end and I alone was left...  Suddenly a
step on the gravel!  And I do assure you that I did not know whether
to scream with fear or sob with relief.

"Lady Ann!"

I was _far_ beyond recognizing voices.  I _peered_ into the darkness
until the figure of a man emerged from the shadows...

"Colonel Butler!," I cried.

"Where's Phyllida?," he asked.

"Goodness me, what have you been doing to yourself?," I exclaimed.

His clothes were in _rags_, he had lost his hat, he was plastered in
mud from head to foot, and one arm was in some sort of make-shift
sling.

"Oh, that's nothing," he said.  "A fool of a girl was riding a horse
she couldn't control, and, in trying not to run her down, I had to
turn the car over an embankment.  There was no station within reach,
so I had to come here across country.  I'd have wired; but, by the
time I reached a telegraph-office, everything was closed--"

"But have you had no dinner?," I asked, remembering our own fate.

"I don't want any dinner till I know what's happened to Phyllida.
When did she disappear?  Lord Brackenbury says she was out here one
moment...  If any thing's happened to her--"

"Calm yourself, Colonel Butler," I enjoined.

Indeed I might as profitably have addressed the advice to myself.  It
was time for some one to keep his head.  I was thinking only of
Phyllida and the effect that _another_ shock might have upon her.
She was already so much overwrought, sobbing her heart out when any
of us could have told her that there was _nothing_ to cry about...

"We've been searching high and low," said Colonel Butler.  "Lord
Brackenbury told me that she suddenly bolted into the night.  We
haven't dared shout for fear of frightening her away...  What's it
all about?  In the name of God, what can have happened to her?"

"If you stay here," I said, "I will find her for you."

"But do you know where she is?," he cried in great excitement.  "I
must come too."

"Won't you trust my judgement, Colonel Butler?," I asked.

He hesitated for a moment and then said:

"Of course I will.  You've been a jolly good friend to me.  But for
pity's sake go at once; I can't stand much more."

"If you know where the others are," I suggested, "you might employ
your time in finding them."

Then I set off down the drive once more.  I walked on the grass, but,
on reaching the laurel-clump, I gave a little cough to apprise them
of my presence.  Poor Phyllida was so much overwrought that she
started to her feet like a frightened animal.  (She had been lying
with her face in her arms, while Will stroked her hair and whispered
such little words of comfort as came into his head.)

"Will, I want to speak to you a moment," I said.

And, when he came to me, I told him to go down to the lodge gates and
wait there till I fetched him.  Then I tried to make _some_
impression on poor Phyllida, who was indulging in such an abandonment
of grief that you would really say that she was enjoying it.

"Phyllida, stop crying," I said, "and listen to what I have to tell
you."

"Oh, why can't you leave me alone?," she sobbed.

"Because," I said, "there is great and glorious news for you, and
your old aunt is selfish enough to wish to be its bearer."

You may be sure that she stopped her crying soon enough at that.

I told her that Hilary Butler had arrived...  And about the accident;
she tried to bolt from my grasp, but I contrived to restrain her...
And the dreadful fright she had been wicked enough to give us...

"Oh, let me go!," she kept crying.

"A moment more, dearest child," I said.  "You are both over-excited,
overwrought.  Would you not like to meet him alone first, without
feeling that the eyes of all your family are upon you?" ...

She is an impetuous, affectionate little thing.  In a moment she was
kissing me and making my face quite wet with her tears...

"We will go into the rose-garden," I said.  "Many years before you
were born, dear Phyllida, another girl stood there with the man who
loved her more than any one in the world.  May you be at least not
less happy than she has been!" ...

Then I returned to the house.  Hilary had collected most of the
party, and I whispered to him that he would find Phyllida by the
sun-dial...  I am not so well used to praise from my occasionally
critical relations that I can afford to treat it lightly; Spenworth
was good enough to propose three cheers for me when he heard of my
_childishly_ simple little stratagem for letting the young people
meet unlistened to, unspied on...

"And now had not the rest of us better go to bed?," I suggested to
Ruth.  "If all is as we hope, you and Brackenbury would sooner not be
embarrassed by our presence."

Poor Ruth is consistent in one thing: she never shews any instinct
for _arranging_ or _managing_.  It is perhaps not to be expected that
she should take to it by the light of nature, but one would have
thought that the first ambition of any woman who had been transported
from one _milieu_ to another would have been to _learn_...  She is in
a position of authority...

When they had all separated to their rooms, I once more set out...
Will, I think, had guessed; and I have never seen any one more
delighted.

"_I_ knew the fellow would turn up," he said, "but I couldn't make
poor little Phyl see it.  I suppose she thought he _must_ have killed
himself on the road.  Just as well he didn't, because I believe she's
quite fond of him.  I should think they'd get on quite well together,
though of course she's not everybody's money."

I explained to him that every one had gone to bed, but here he was
_quite_ immovable.

"I want to be the first to congratulate them," he said.

Which I thought was _handsome_, when you remember how Phyllida threw
herself at his head.

They are to be married as soon as Hilary's company has been formed.
He is very anxious that Arthur should join the board, but I am not
sure that it is wise to undertake _too_ many enterprises.  One is
always reluctant to refuse what is really a tempting offer--on a
small scale--, but there _are_ only twenty-four hours in the day...

One quite rubs one's eyes when the younger generation knocks at the
door in this way.  How old would you say Phyllida was?  Twenty-two, I
assure you; and I know what I am talking about.  It will be my boy's
turn next, I suppose; he is nearly thirty-one.  And, though I do not
want to lose him, I shall not be sorry to see him _safely_ married.

I hope that Phyllida will make a success of her life.  I have every
reason to think she will, but I refuse to accept any responsibility
for guiding young people to their affinities.  After one irrational
period in which I was the wicked stepmother, I suddenly find myself
regarded as the good fairy...

It is really too ridiculous...

Oh, I think you can congratulate them at once.  They are to be
"Morning-Posted", as Will would say, to-morrow...




XII

LADY ANN SPENWORTH DEFENDS HER CONSISTENCY

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): Consistency?

It is very easy, of course, to _overdo_ that sort of thing, to become
so inflexible that one is the slave and victim of one's own rules.
The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath...  On the
other hand, I have no patience with the people who say one thing
to-day and another to-morrow, so that you never know where you are
with them.  Surely the wise course is to discover the great laws and
hold to them unswervingly, only stepping aside by a hair's breadth to
left or right when the great laws quite obviously apply no longer.
In the realm of principle I admit no compromise; Right is Right, and
Wrong is Wrong, and no amount of special pleading can blur _that_
distinction...

But, though I hold no _brief_ for consistency, I should be vastly
entertained to know exactly where you think I have been
inconsistent...  Not you personally, of course!  We have known each
other long enough to look out on life with very much the same eyes.
But the people who are good enough to criticize me without, perhaps,
taking the trouble to ascertain even the facts of the case.

I have always said that I would not stir a finger to interfere with
my boy Will, or any one else of that age, where the heart was
concerned.  They, for all their inexperience, must be the ultimate
judges; the wisdom of _instinct_ and so on and so forth.  The
responsibility on an outsider is too great even for advice; and the
advice of a mother to the son who adores her...  There is such a
thing as having too much power put into one's hands.  I don't say I'm
_right_; but, if Will married a girl whom I considered the most
unsuitable person in the world...  So long as _he_ loved _her_, and
_she_ loved _him_...  Have I been inconsistent there?

I have always said that for a boy of his tastes and upbringing _some_
little money is essential as light and air.  A truism!  Have I been
inconsistent here?

I don't want to blow my own trumpet, as they say; and I resent this
modern practice of proclaiming to the whole world how much one loves
one's own flesh and blood--as though it were something very new and
wonderful; but _you_ have never doubted that I would sell the clothes
from off my back and the roof from over my head if Will's happiness
depended on it.  You are good enough to talk about my "sacrifices",
but am I being anything more than normal, natural and consistent, a
mother brought up in a certain school of a certain period?

I think that, if the facts were ever known, you would find I had been
loyal to my principles.  They never will be--for obvious reasons...
With you, of course, it is different; I have told you everything and
laid my heart bare.  Should I have done that, if there was anything
to conceal?  And if the last chapter would really interest you...

A _superficial_ change undoubtedly there has been, corresponding to a
profound change in all our conditions.  A year or two ago...  It is
not too much to call it a revolution, so many unexpected things have
happened.  In those days one never dreamed that my brother-in-law
would drag what I suppose I must call his "honour" through the
Divorce Court; and, so long as poor Kathleen bore him one daughter
after another, it seemed safe to presume that Cheniston and the title
would come sooner or later to Arthur and, through him, to our boy.
The problem of that period was to "carry on", as Will would say; my
brother Brackenbury and his wife would not like to be called mean,
but they were certainly _careful_, and it was only by eternal
pinching and scraping that we made both ends meet.  Many young men in
Will's position would have put themselves up to auction, as it were,
and married the first rich woman who came their way.  Goodness me, my
boy had a big enough choice!  First of all Hilda, and he resigned his
claims there to my nephew Culroyd; then the South American widow, but
he very quickly saw how unsuitable _that_ would be; and you may
say--without any unkindness--that my niece Phyllida was waiting all
the time for him to drop the handkerchief and only consented to marry
Hilary Butler when the other thing was out of the question.
Unfortunately you can't please _everybody_, and Will was
old-fashioned enough to desire a wife with whom he could be in love
and to shut his ears to all the lures of money...  Money?  A man of
his ability can always _earn_ money, and our only difficulty was to
know where to start.  He contemplated _la haute finance_ for a while,
but was repelled by the prospect of having to work with men like Sir
Adolf Erckmann; then he explored the possibilities of Mr. Surdan's
shipyards, but this for some reason was not to his taste.  Now I
truly honestly believe that he has found his _métier_....

While he was still undecided about his career, I was reluctant to
part with the house in Mount Street, though for many years it had
really been too expensive for us.  One grows, indeed, to love one's
own vine and fig-tree, and the place was _filled_ with associations.
Did I ever tell you that the princess was good enough to say that, in
coming there, she always felt she was coming _home_? ... With Will
gone, the place is a white elephant; and I cannot flatter myself that
any little _niche_ I may occupy makes me indispensable to the life of
London.  When people talk about inconsistency, they fancy a change in
_you_, but it doesn't occur to them that the world all _round_ you
may have changed.  I had long contemplated _radical_ alterations and
was only perplexed to know where to begin.

Our thoughts had all been turned for the moment from our own affairs
by the romance of my dear niece Phyllida's engagement to Colonel
Butler.  Alas! when we came back to London, it was to find what I
then regarded as a sword _still_ suspended over our heads, _still_
hanging by a hair.  Since the night when Sir Appleton Deepe dined
with us to discuss the appointment for Will, this girl Molly Phenton
had not been near the house.  For a week before that she had been
calling, waiting, writing--always protesting that my boy had given
her a promise of marriage.  As it was impossible for them to marry
without money, I refused to believe that Will had promised; not
believing this story of a promise, I felt that she was trying to
blackmail us; feeling _that_, I declined to see her.  One thing
followed automatically from another.  It was not until she called
that evening and Sir Appleton--_rather_ officiously, if you'll
promise not to tell any one I said so--insisted on interviewing her,
that I learned the truth about her condition.  _Then_, I am sure, we
should all have agreed that Will must marry her at once, but Sir
Appleton would give us no time.  I suppose concentration on one
object is very necessary in business, but it _does_ limit a man's
outlook: Sir Appleton could see but this one thing.  "My good sir," I
wanted to tell him, "shew us _how_ it is to be done, and it _will_ be
done."  But he would not discuss the appointment, though he had given
me as solemn a promise as a man can give; he dashed home, after
sending this girl on ahead, and we heard no more of them.

I felt that it was useless to talk to my boy just then, because he
was so much worried that anything more might have brought on a
complete break-down.  My husband too...  I respect Arthur's judgement
at other times, but, where his own son is concerned, I find him
curiously unsympathetic.  I pretended to myself that I was trying to
find a new opening for Will, now that Sir Appleton had played us so
shamefully false, but I'm afraid that I was simply letting things
drift...

Then my brother-in-law Spenworth paid me the rare honour of a visit.
He had come up from Cheniston on purpose, though--to judge from his
voice--you would have thought he was still trying to make himself
heard from the fastnesses of Warwickshire...

"Well, my dear Ann," he roared, "I've come to give you a piece of my
mind."

Do you know, had the retort not been so cheaply obvious, one would
have been strongly tempted to ask whether he could really spare it...
So characteristic of Spenworth!  I am not a woman to bear malice, but
I could not forget that _very_ few days had passed since he played me
a trick which to that type of mind, no doubt, seems funny, but which
_might_ have involved me in _embarrassment_ and _humiliation_.  It
was one night when the princess was with me; Spenworth had been
presiding over some regimental dinner and he thought it would be an
amusing hoax to send all these young officers--with partners whom
they had apparently picked up one really dares not contemplate
_where_--on the pretext that I was giving a dance and would be
delighted to see them.  Dear Hilary Butler's presence of mind _alone_
saved the situation.  I detest practical joking and, when my
brother-in-law was announced, I confess that I expected less to be
lectured than to receive some little expression of regret...

_Hoped_ rather than _expected_...  You are quite right.

"I must beg for enlightenment," I said.

"Well, what's that scamp of a boy of yours been up to?," he asked.

"I will _not_ permit such language about my son!," I cried.

"Too late now.  You should have brought him up better," he said.

This from Spenworth, whose life has been one dark, unbroken record of
debauchery, unfaithfulness ... not a tenth part known owing to his
cleverness in hushing up scandals, impoverishing that glorious estate
to buy the silence of those who held awkward secrets.  Indeed I know
what I am talking about.  When he wanted poor Kathleen to divorce
him, he gave her the run of Cheniston; heirlooms apart, she might
take anything "to feather her new nest", as he elegantly put it.  And
this in a house which will come to Arthur and Will if anything
happens to that sickly baby...  There was a _marvellous_ story going
the rounds a few months ago that I had tried to entangle Kathleen
with the King's Proctor or the President of the Divorce Court or
somebody of the kind, so that she might be tied to Spenworth and
Cheniston have no heir.  Comment...  What is the phrase?  Comment is
superfluous!  But, if Arthur or Will were steward of Cheniston, they
would give a better account of their stewardship than my
brother-in-law is likely to do...  I have lost the thread...  Ah, yes!

"Satan rebuking sin, Spenworth," I suggested, "though I have no idea
what charge you are bringing against my boy."

"You can have a good time in this world without being a cad," he
said.  "At least I hope _I_ can.  Apparently your precious Will
can't."

"Have a good time"!  _There_ is a phrase to put you on your guard!

"I don't know what you mean," I said.  "I don't know what's the
matter with you.  But I _do_ know that we shan't do any good by
continuing this discussion."

"Not so fast," said Spenworth, as I walked to the bell.  "_You_ asked
me to second that little beast at the club.  I _did_.  I went there
the other day and was told that some fellow with a name like
Apple-pie-bed had told Will that, if he ever dared shew his nose
inside the door again, he'd be kicked into the street.  Well, as it's
our misfortune to share a common name, I took it on myself to have
Mr. Apple-pie-bed pointed out to me; I asked him if he didn't think
that perhaps he was being a little high-handed.  I don't allow
_every_ Chinese grocer to take liberties with me.  He said: 'I'm
sorry the feller should be a relation of yours, but for the sake of
the club I must stick to what I threatened.  You'd better report me
to the committee when it's all over, and we shall then see whether,
on a show-down, my action is approved.'  That, my dear Ann, is all I
know; but, in case you're not aware of it, any reflection on a man
I've supported at a club is a reflection on me; if the young cub had
been pilled, I should have had to resign; if he gets hoofed out,
people will want to know why the hell I ever backed him..."

As you know, I am always lost in admiration of Spenworth's _elegance_
of diction.  And all delivered as though he were cheering hounds on
to a line.  Everything in my poor little house _trembled_...

Truly honestly I had no idea that men in their clubs could be such
great babies...

"Sir Appleton Deepe--_that_ is his name, Spenworth; I am not sure
whether you were trying to be facetious--," I said, "is evidently a
queer-tempered man.  I have had evidence of it before.  Should you
engage in conversation with him again, you may tell him that he
touches a hair of Will's head _at his peril_.  I have nothing more to
say except that _in_ your club you seem to be as violent and
disorderly as out of it."

There was a certain amount more _noise_ ... and _bluster_.  But I
think that in time even Spenworth must have seen that he was hardly
the appropriate person to champion such a cause ... whatever cause he
imagined he _was_ championing...  Hardly had he left when my nephew
was announced--and came in with a great show of embarrassment.  I am
very fond of Culroyd; so far as any one, without taking the
responsibility of active interference, can help to bring two young
people together...  Both Culroyd and Hilda persist in regarding me as
their good fairy...

"My dear boy," I said, "what is the matter?"

"Oh, I'm--in the deuce of a hole, Aunt Ann," he answered.  "Where's
Will?"

"He has not come in yet," I said.  "Tell me what has happened."

"Well," said Culroyd, "I think you know a man called Deepe, Appleton
Deepe."  My heart _sank_!  "He called on me to-day--I don't know if
the fellow's mad, but he said: 'You're a cousin of Mr. William
Spenworth, aren't you?  Now, he's been doing one of the things that a
gentleman _doesn't_ do; and some one has to thrash him for it.  I'll
say that there's a girl mixed up in it, but I won't tell you any
more.  She has no brothers, and her father's too old to do justice to
the occasion.  The question is: who's to give him his thrashing?  I'm
not as vigorous as I could wish; but I'll undertake it, if I must.
If, on the other hand, you'll do it for me and do it properly, we may
save a scandal; I shouldn't like to injure his mother in any way, but
he has to have his thrashing.' ...  Well, I didn't know whether the
fellow was in his right mind...  I tried to get him to tell me
something more...  Then I said I'd think it over...  What the devil's
Will been up to now?"

"_Now?_," I repeated.

Really, I will stand a good deal from Culroyd, because he is my
nephew and I am very fond of him.  But I would not submit to being
hectored by my relations old and young, one after another.  Goodness
me, the next thing would be that I should have to give sureties to
_Phyllida_ and allow _Ruth_ to make herself a ruler and a judge...

"Well, what does it mean?," Culroyd persisted.

"You have suggested," I said, "that this Sir Appleton Deepe was mad;
I can only fear that his madness was contagious."

I was _beside_ myself with anger...  And at the same time _highly_
uneasy.  Will had not been going to his club the last few days
because of this girl's practice of camping on the doorstep there; and
it was long past the time when he usually came home.  Culroyd
shrugged his shoulders and said good-bye.  I waited--on and on.
Seven o'clock, half-past seven, eight.  I was just going up to dress
when Norden rang through to say that some one wished to speak to me
on the telephone.

Need I tell you that it was Sir Appleton Deepe?  My dear, by that
time I should have been amazed if it had been any one _else_; he
seemed to dog my steps and pervade my life.  As, he said, I was
apparently expecting Will home to dinner, I should no doubt like to
know that my boy was with him; they had met in the street, and he had
_persuaded_ him to come home...

You have met the man, of course.  Well, I wonder whether you will
agree with me here.  Ordinarily, I should say, he had the furtive,
apologetic manner of one who is not quite certain of himself; once
roused, even by something that the detached outsider might think was
_not_ quite his business, he is a changed man.  I am thinking now of
his voice; the telephone had changed its _timbre_ into something
quite terribly sinister.  The way he said he had _persuaded_ Will to
come home with him!  And then he went on to ask whether he could not
_persuade_ me, if I was not already engaged, to join them, as they
were discussing certain things in which I really ought to have a
say...

Of course I went just as soon as Norden could find me a taxi.  Will
has the courage of a lion, but I would not leave him at the mercy of
that epileptic creature when I knew that for weeks he had been so
much overwrought and worried that the least thing might bring on a
break-down...  Besides, if Sir Appleton had repented his haste in
throwing away an opportunity of securing my boy's services in his
business, a mother's guidance and judgement could never be more
needed; I do not wholly trust these "captains of commerce"; if they
did not know how to drive a very hard bargain, they would not be
where they are...

I found them in Sir Appleton's study--doing nothing in particular, so
far as I could make out, though Will was drinking whisky and soda,
which shewed me that he must be greatly overwrought.

"It is good of you to come, Lady Ann," said Sir Appleton.  "You have
not had time to forget our last meeting.  I was made aware then of
several things: as that your son had taken advantage of a young
girl's innocence and was leaving her to bear the consequences...  As
that you were opposed heart and soul to such a _mésalliance_ as would
result from his marrying her...  As that you were unhappily not in a
position to make adequate financial provision for her, but that you
would pay her a hundred pounds 'in full discharge', as we say in
business...  _I_ felt that, as there was no law to cope with such
gentry as your son, some one must take the law into his own hands.
Now, Miss Phenton had no relations of an age to protect her, and your
nephew seemed reluctant to vindicate the family honour--I sympathize
with him; his words were: 'If once one starts thrashing the little
beast, I don't see where it's going to end,'--; I therefore decided
that it was incumbent on me, as the one person whom Miss Phenton had
consulted, to administer such a lesson that your son would remember
it to the end of his days.  Having the good fortune to meet him in
the street this afternoon, I invited him to come home with me and--be
whipped!"

My attention had wandered a little in preparing a speech for my Lord
Culroyd the next time he does me the honour to call; but I saw Sir
Appleton jerk his head towards the table and, to my _horror_, I
beheld an enormous crop made, I should think, of rhinoceros-hide.

"I regret to inform you that it may not be necessary," said Sir
Appleton.  "When I told our young friend to prepare for execution, he
asked naturally enough why he was being executed and quite convinced
me that it would be absurd to carry out the sentence when his one
burning desire and ambition was to marry Miss Phenton."

Sheer, unabashed intimidation!

I looked at Will; but he was sitting with his head between his hands,
utterly worn out with the worry of the past few weeks.

"Is this true?," I asked.

"He will tell you," said Sir Appleton, taking care to give him no
chance of speaking for himself, "that he always intended to marry
her; he now clearly remembers promising to marry her, which is so
satisfactory.  It was only a question of times and seasons and ways
and means.  I admit it is not a solution which I consider ideal,
because I--like you, though from another standpoint--do not regard it
as a wholly suitable match.  A first love, however, is not an easy
thing to overcome, and Miss Phenton is unaffectedly devoted to your
son despite the period of anxiety through which he unavoidably
compelled her to pass; your son will tell you that he is no less
devoted to her."

If only the man would have stopped talking for one moment!  He sat
there, smiling to himself and pouring out this stream of pretentious,
shop-walker's English...  I'm sure you know what I mean!  One so
often finds with people who are not quite certain of themselves that
they heap up affectations and dare not venture on a colloquialism for
fear of seeming what they would call "ungenteel".  _Slang_ I abhor,
but there _is_ such a thing as the daily speech of educated men and
women...

"Tell me, dear Will," I begged, "whether this is true."

"I've always wanted to marry Molly," he answered.  And, though sheer
fatigue had taken the tone from his voice, I heard a throb of
conviction.  "I didn't see, though, how we could marry until we had
something to marry on.  That's what I told her fool of a father ...
and her ... and the guv'nor ... and Sir Appleton.  If you'd settle
that between you instead of badgering me, I'll marry her to-morrow."

His nerves were strained to breaking-point...

And I am not ashamed to confess that I felt hardly adequate to
discussing the most momentous decision in my boy's life.  After
inviting me to dinner, Sir Appleton seemed to have forgotten all
about it.  Nine o'clock had struck; and I was faint and _sick_ with
hunger.  I have reached an age when I like regular meals at regular
hours.  These business men must have iron constitutions; or else they
must eat very hearty luncheons.  And I kept saying to myself: "For
_truly_ unbusinesslike irregularity, go to your business man." ...

One thing stood out clearly.  As I have always refused to _lead_ Will
where his affections were concerned, so I could never stand in the
way when once his heart had spoken.

"We must not worry him," I told Sir Appleton.  "Cannot you and I talk
over ways and means together?  I have no idea what to suggest.  As
you know, my husband and I are paupers..."

_He_, if any one, after all that he had taken upon himself, was the
man to help us out of our difficulty.

"I have a scheme," he said, "but your son had better hear it, as he
will be a party to it."

I could have gone on my knees to him for a crust of bread...  It
could hardly have been deliberate--this policy of starvation--, but I
was _strongly_ reminded of very similar treatment from a certain
general in the War Office ...  who shall be nameless.  You remember
my difficulty about Will's commission; he was on _fire_, of course,
to go into the infantry.  "Do you," I asked him, "think you are
serving your country by spending one day in the trenches and six
months in hospital with rheumatic fever?"  And, when I had _wasted_
argument and entreaty on _him_, I carried my appeal to Cæsar.  On the
_staff_ my boy would have been worth his weight in gold; anything
else was simply a short cut to hospital.  I told this general ...
when at _last_ I contrived to see him; and his method of receiving me
was to keep me standing--not a chair to be seen in the room!--with
all the windows open, a gale blowing and no fire.  I made him see
reason at the end, but I was in bed for a week afterwards...  I
wondered whether Sir Appleton was trying to starve me into
submission...

His plan...  I wish you could have heard it in his own words!  The
impudence and brutality...

"If you've no money yourself, Lady Ann," he said, "you've rich
relations.  Lord Brackenbury, I am sure, would give a substantial sum
to start his nephew in life.  And so would your brother-in-law, Lord
Spenworth.  I have spoken to both and demonstrated that your son will
be at the other side of the world for probably a number of years with
no opportunity of coming to them, as in the past, when he needed
assistance.  They both seemed disposed to help, but felt that the
first step should be taken by you.  I have ascertained that the lease
of your house--"

"You would like," I interrupted, "to sell the roof over my head!  Why
not the clothes off my back?"

"There is a great scarcity of houses," he said, "and you would get a
good price.  Besides, with your son married and away you will not
have the same need for a big house in London...  When the fund has
been collected, it will be settled on Miss Phenton, as it is her
position that requires safeguarding; you have assured me of your
son's abilities, so he should have no difficulty in making a big
income in the position which I contemplate offering him.  If he
fails, it will be his own fault; but, as I never believe in
bolstering up failures, his wife must be made independent of his
success in business.  If you consent to this in principle and will
empower me to work out the details, your son's appointment is
secured, and he can sail for China as soon as he can get a passage.
Let us now go in to dinner, or Miss Phenton will be wondering what
has happened to us."

I felt _then_ that he had decided to break me at all costs, one shock
after another.  _Forcing_ Will into marriage, _driving_ him abroad,
calmly proposing that I should denude myself of everything--and then
throwing me face to face with this girl.  I tried to protest...  And
then I knew that, if he did not give me something to eat, I should
simply break down...

I had met the girl before, of course--just for a moment, hardly long
enough to take in more than a general view, "the old clergyman's
pretty little daughter", if you understand me...  Big grey eyes and a
quantity of soft hair; a shy, appealing girl...

"Won't you leave us alone for a moment?," I said to Sir Appleton.
Rather to my surprise he _did_ have the consideration to oblige me in
that.  "Molly, my dear, won't you kiss me?," I said.

The poor little thing shrank from me...

"I'm so _ashamed_," she cried.

"My child, my child," I said, "you are overwrought.  But we are going
to send you right away, where you will forget all your troubles.  All
will be well.  All would have been well from the beginning if you had
trusted me and taken me into your confidence."

"I felt you'd think me so wicked!," sobbed the poor little thing.

I told her that I couldn't think _her_ wicked without thinking the
same of Will.

"Right and Wrong," I said, "existed from the beginning and will
endure to the end, irrespective of conventions and institutions.  I
say to you what I should not dare say to your father: right and wrong
are older than any marriage laws.  You love my boy?"

"Oh, I do," she cried.  "I never loved any one before and I could
never love any one else."

"And he loves you," I said.  "Need we say any more at present?  I
find it hard to spare him, but sooner or later this is a thing that
comes to every mother.  If I surrender him to you, will you in your
turn take my place and devote yourself to him as I have tried to do?
There is so little time and so many things to do that I cannot talk
to you as I should like.  Very soon you will be married, very soon
you will both have slipped away to a very far country.  Nothing that
any of us can do for you both will be left undone; every penny that
we can scrape together will be yours.  As time goes on, you will
learn how much money can do--and how little.  All my life I have been
scraping and pinching, pinching and scraping to provide for the
happiness and comfort of my husband and son.  You will have to do the
same.  Very few of us have enough for all we should like, and you
will find that between husband and wife, when one has to yield, it is
the wife who yields.  That is the law of the Medes and Persians.  Too
often it is 'A suit for him _or_ a frock for me'...  Promise me that
you will never let my boy go short of anything.  He has been brought
up to a certain standard of comfort, and I know by experience that,
if you try to reduce that, it will be you who will suffer in the long
run.  That is part of the price that we pay for being women.  And
now," I said, "let me kiss my daughter."

I do not wonder that my boy fell in love with her.  _You_ will, too,
the moment you see her.  As Arthur did...  There is nothing much more
to tell you about our dinner with Sir Appleton; when he _did_ allow
us to begin, I will say that he tried to make amends for any
exhibition of what I had better call the business manner.

Of course, when I reached home, I found that I had only got rid of
one trouble to make way for another.  Arthur...  He would have been
even more furious if he had been less bewildered, but, as it is, I
try to forget and I shall certainly not remind him of certain things
that he said about my going to work behind his back, taking decisions
over his head.  When one has grown _attached_ to a house...  Is it
not my frame and setting?  Is not every corner filled, for me, with
memories of the old days when the princess almost lived with us?
There was an entirely _meaningless_ explosion at the expense of poor
Will, who very properly refused to be drawn into argument and went
straight to bed.

"My dear Arthur," I said, "sooner or later this was inevitable.  When
our boy married, we knew that we should have to go on providing for
him.  Is it so great a sacrifice that we should move into a smaller
house, that you, perhaps, should have to work longer than you had
intended?  It is to establish our son in life."

When the announcement was published, I invited just the family to a
little informal dinner.  They were _extravagant_ in their praise of
Molly--Spenworth in his hyperbolical manner going so far as to tell
her that she was "chucking herself away", as he elegantly put it, on
some one who was not good enough for her.  I should have thought it
possible to pay a compliment without trying to be rude to as many
other people as possible...

To do Spenworth justice, he behaved liberally over the money, though
he must needs be facetious and tell Will that he would pay twice the
sum to _keep_ him out of England.  Such humour is a little
_primitive_...  I acquit Brackenbury, too, of any illiberality,
though Spenworth must needs call this a "thank-offering" ... for some
reason...

The marriage, of course, takes place immediately, as they sail the
moment Sir Appleton can arrange about their passages.  I am sure that
it will be a success, though I prefer not to think about it; dearly
as I love little Molly, she _is_ robbing me of my boy.  As soon as
they leave England, I shall go right away for a time.  What with one
thing and another, the last year has been very exhausting, and Arthur
and I have to prepare for a new life and a very different life.  The
old and the new are bridged by one's friends...  Their love follows
us into what must inevitably be _retirement_ from the stage on which
we have played our little part for our few years...  We are
abandoning any little _niche_ that we may have occupied...

_You_ I hope to see constantly.  At the ceremony, of course, and
afterwards here...  The princess is coming.  Whoever appeals to _her_
graciousness and devotion will never appeal in vain...



THE END




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