It was a wet windy morning. Mollie Walter sat with her needlework in the little drawing-room of Stone Cottage, and looked disconsolately through the French window at the havoc that was being wrought among the late summer flowers in the garden. It was a bright little tight little garden, with flower borders round a square lawn, and ground for vegetables beyond a privet hedge. A great walnut tree overshadowed it, and the grass was already littered with twigs and leaves. Such a garden had to be kept 'tidy' at all costs, and Mollie was wondering how she should be able to manage it, when the autumn fall of leaves should begin in earnest. Her mother was in bed upstairs with one of her mild ailments, which never amounted to actual illness. Mollie had left her to sleep for an hour, and was hoping for a visit from Beatrix, to relieve her loneliness. She had not minded being much alone until lately, but now that she had more real friends than she had ever had in her life she wanted them constantly.
There was a ring at the bell, and Mollie went out to open the door. Yes, it was her dear Beatrix, looking more beautiful than ever, though her long raincoat was buttoned up beneath her chin, and only her flower-likeface could be seen. But it was shining with happiness and laughter, as she struggled with the wind to get her umbrella down, before entering the little hall.
"Oh, what weather!" she exclaimed, as the door was shut behind her. "But I had to come to tell you, Moll. It's all right. My darling old Daddy has come to his senses. I'm not angry with him any more."
The two girls embraced warmly. "I knew you'd be pleased," said Beatrix, laughing out of pure lightness of heart, as she took off her coat. "I had to come and tell you. Oh, I'm as happy as a queen."
Presently they were sitting together by the window, and Beatrix was telling her story. "I don't mind the six months a bit," she said when she had finished. "I should have, at first, but I don't now. It's getting out of all the horridness at home that I'm so glad of. I hated not being friends with Dad; I hated it much more than he thought I did."
"But hewasunreasonable," said Mollie, who had not seen much of this disinclination during the past weeks.
"Oh, I don't know. Well, perhaps he was, but there were excuses for him. He does love me, and hated the idea of losing me. I believe he'd have been the same about anybody. Anyhow, it's all over now, and I've forgiven him. I'm going to reward him by being very good. I shan't talk about René at all, except sometimes to you, my dear. When the six months are over and he comes again, Dad will have got used to the idea. Hemustlike him, you know, really. He is sonice, and so good. The idea ofhimbeing like a Frenchman in a horrid novel! Men are rather like babies in what they can believe about each other, aren't they? I know a lot about men now, having two such nice ones to love as René and Daddy. Oh, I'm awfully happy now, Moll."
"I'm so glad," said Mollie sympathetically. "And six months isn't such an awful time to wait. But don't you think that if you say nothing about him Mr. Grafton will think you've forgotten him, and be very disappointed when he finds you haven't?"
Beatrix laughed. "I expect that's what he wants, poor darling!" she said. "Perhaps I shall say a little word now and then. And Caroline will know that I love him just as much as ever. Daddy will find out about it from her. He always does talk over everything with her."
"Is she very glad?"
"Oh, yes. She has to take Dad's part, but she's awfully sympathetic, really, and I don't think she has ever really understood what all the fuss was about. Nobody could, of course, because there isn't anything to make a fuss about. The dear old Dragon thinks Dad must be right, but then she's old, and I suppose she has never loved anybody very much and doesn't know what it's like. Caroline doesn't either, though she thinks she does. Butweknow, don't we, Mollie?"
Mollie suddenly took up the work that had been lying on her lap, and her face went red as she looked downat it. "I ought to know, by the amount I've listened to about it from you," she said.
Beatrix laughed at her mischievously. "I don't think you'll hear very much more," she said. "I'm contented now. I feel comfortable all over me. I am going to begin to enjoy myself again. I shall go away on some visits soon, but I don't want to just yet, because I love being here, now that everything is all right at home."
Mollie's blush had died down. She left off using her needle and looked at Beatrix. "Are you sure you love him just as much as ever you did?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, I do. Of course I do," said Beatrix. "It doesn't leave off like that, you know. But I know how to wait. I'm much wiser than people think I am. I'm thinking of him all the time, and loving him, and I know he's thinking of me. He'll be so happy when his mother tells him that he may come and ask for me again. And then he'll be allowed to have me, and we shall both be as happy as happy all the rest of our lives. It's lovely to look forward to. It's what makes me not mind waiting a bit—or only a very little bit—now and then."
Mollie took up her work again. "If it were me, I think I should want to hear from him sometimes," she said, "or to see him. And you did feel like that at first."
"I know I did. Daddy not understanding, and putting everything wrong, made me sore and hurt all over, and with everybody. I was horrid even to Caroline,who is always so sweet. I think I was with you too, a little—just at first."
"No, you never were with me. But you were with him, though you tried not to show it. I never said so before, because I didn't want to trouble you."
"Did it seem to you like that?" Beatrix said thoughtfully. "I'm so happy now that I've forgotten. Well, I suppose at first I was hurt with him too. I couldn't understand his giving me up so easily. It seemed to me like that. But, of course, it wasn't. I ought to have trusted him. I think youmusttrust the people you love, even if you don't understand. You see he's been dying for me all the time. Mme. de Lassigny coming to Dad like that, and telling him—it's like having a window opened. I can see him now, wanting me, just as I want him. Perhaps I was a little doubtful about it, but I ought not to have been. I shan't be any more. Oh, I do trust him, and love him."
There had been another ring at the front door bell while she had been talking, and now Mrs. Mercer was shown into the room.
The little lady's manner was combined of effusiveness and nervousness. She had come to see Mrs. Walter, if she was well enough, but wouldn't hear of her being disturbed if she was resting. She could easily come at another time. She was so pleased to see Beatrix looking so well. But what a horrid change in the weather! It did look as if the summer had come to an end at last. She had really thought of lighting a fire this morning. No, she wouldn't sit down. She had heaps ofthings to do. If Mrs. Walter couldn't see her she would come in later.
Mollie thought her mother would be pleased to see her, and went upstairs. Mrs. Mercer did consent to sit down until she returned, but her manner was as jerky as before. Beatrix liked her and would have been ready to tell her the news that was filling her mind. But there was no opportunity before Mollie came back. Mrs. Mercer went upstairs with her, after shaking hands warmly with Beatrix, and saying that she supposed she would have gone before she came down again.
Mollie looked rather disturbed when she came back into the room and shut the door after her. Beatrix looked at her as she took her seat again, and said: "Tell me about it, Moll. You know we're friends, and I've told you everything about myself, and about René."
"Oh, well," said Mollie, with an intonation of relief. "I've told you everything so far. I'm afraid she has come to make trouble."
"And her husband has sent her, I suppose. I don't think she'd want to make trouble on her own account. She's nice."
"Sheisnice, isn't she? All of you think so, don't you?"
"Yes, we like her. If it weren't for her horrid husband we should like her very much. Unfortunately you can't divide them. She's too much under his thumb."
"I don't think I should put it quite like that," said Mollie hesitatingly.
"No, I know you wouldn't," said Beatrix quickly. "And that's why you can never get it quite straight. Heishorrid, and he's horrid in nothing more than the way he treats you."
"He has always been very kind to me—to me and mother too.Reallykind, I mean, up till a little time ago, before you came—and I don't want to forget it."
"Yes, kind, I suppose, in the way he'd have liked to be kind to us. If he had had his way we should have been bosom friends, and he'd have half-lived in the house."
"We hadn't anything to give him in return, as you would have had. It wasn't for that he was kind to us."
"My dear child, you know he's horrid—with girls. It was quite enough that you were a pretty girl."
"But he wasn't like that with me, B. I should have known it if he had been."
"No, you wouldn't, my dear. Vera Beckley never knew it till he tried to kiss her."
Mollie flinched a little at this directness. "Don't you think she may have made too much fuss about that?" she said. "He's years and years older than she is—old enough to be her father."
"Yes, of course, that's always the excuse. Moll darling, you haven't lived enough in the world. You don't know men. Besides Vera didn't make a fuss.Her people did, because they happened to catch him at it. It must have been a glorious occasion. I wish I'd been there. She only told us about it in strict confidence, and with the idea of openingyoureyes."
"I still think she needn't have thought so much of it; and Mrs. Beckley needn't have, either. Anyhow, he has never kissed me. I don't think I should have thought anything of it if he had."
"I don't suppose you would. That's what they rely on—men like that—horrid old men. And you came here just after that had happened with Vera. Naturally he'd be a bit careful."
"I think you're rather horrid about it, yourself, B. I certainly have been angry the way he has behaved since, but I can't see thatthatcomes in, and I don't believe it does."
"Well, I'm quite sure it does. But what do you think he has sent Mrs. Mercer here about?"
Mollie hesitated for a moment. "Mrs. Mercer has been talking lately," she said, "as if I had quite given them up since you came. You know—little bits stuck in every now and then, when she's talking about something else. 'Oh, of course, we can't expect to see much of you now, Mollie.' All that sort of thing. It makes me uncomfortable. And she wasn't like it at first. She was so pleased that I had made friends with you."
"He has talked her over to it. That's what I meant when I said she was under his thumb. Do you think he has sent her here then to complain to your mother?"
"I think she is talking me over with mother."
"But Mrs. Walter was angry whenheinterfered, wasn't she?"
"Oh, yes, she was. But she has made excuses for him since. He ought not to have said what he did. But he meant well."
"I think it was disgusting, what he said; perfectly outrageous. And I don't think he meant well either. It's all part of what I tell you. He hates anybody having anything to do with you but himself." She changed her tone. "Moll darling," she said coaxingly, "you might tell me about it. I've told you everything about myself."
Mollie took up her work, and kept her eyes fixed upon it. "Tell you about what," she asked. "Iamtelling you everything."
"You do like him, don't you? It's quite plain he likes you."
"What, the Vicar?"
Beatrix laughed, on a thrushlike note of enjoyment. "You know I don't mean the Vicar," she said. "What happens when you and he go off from the tennis lawn together?"
"Oh, you mean Bertie Pemberton," said Mollie, enlightened, but still keeping her eyes on her work. "They are going to give me some plants for the garden, and we have been choosing them. He knows a lot about flowers."
Beatrix laughed again. "Do you like him, Mollie?" she asked.
"Yes, of course I do," said Mollie. "But don'tbe silly about it, B. Can't a girl like a man without—without——You're just like what you complain about in the Vicar, and think so horrid in him."
"No, I'm not, my dear. The Vicar takes it for granted that he means nothing except just to amuse himself with a pretty girl. I don't think that at all. I know the signs. I've seen more of the world, and of men, than you have, Mollie. I know by the way he looks at you, and by the way he talks about you."
Mollie's face, which she never once raised, was pink. "It's very kind of him to interest himself in me," she said. "What does he say?"
Beatrix laughed again. "You're awfully sweet," she said affectionately. "He thinks you're so much nicer than all the smart young women in London. That was one for me, but I didn't show any offence. I said you were, and as good as gold. That seemed to surprise him rather, and I had to tell him why I thought so. He wanted to hear all about you. I think your ears must have burned. He thinks you're awfullykind. That was his great word for you. You know, I think he's awfully nice, Mollie. All the Pembertons are, when you get down beneath the noise they make. They love their country life, and all the nice things in it."
Mollie raised her eyes at last. "That's what I do like about him," she said, speaking steadily, but with the blush still on her cheeks. "I think I've found out that he really has simple tastes, though I shouldn'thave thought it at first. He goes about a lot in London, but he doesn't really care about it. He says he makes a good deal of money, but what is the good of money if you're not living the life you want?"
There was a twinkle in Beatrix's eyes, but she replied gravely: "That's what he told me. He's had enough of it. He'd like himself much better living here on his allowance, and only going to London occasionally. I think if you were to advise him to do that, Mollie, he would."
Mollie took up her work again hastily. "Oh, I couldn't very well advise him about a thing like that," she said. "I don't know enough about it."
"Hasn't he asked your advice?"
"No, not exactly. He has only just mentioned it, and I said——"
"What did you say?"
"I said perhaps he would be happier living quietly in the country. I thought a quiet country life was the nicest of all."
"It wouldn't be very quiet where any of the Pembertons were, but——"
"Oh, but they only talk so loud because old Mr. Pemberton is so deaf. They are quite different when you are alone with one of them. Nora has told me a lot about herself. I like Nora very much, and I'm rather sorry for her in a way. She seems so independent and satisfied with everything, but she likes having a girl friend, all the same. Of course I don'tlove her as I do you, B; but I do like her, awfully. It's she who's really my friend at Grays."
"Is it?" said Beatrix, and laughed again, gently.
At that moment Mrs. Mercer was heard coming downstairs. She took her leave on the same note of hurried aloofness as that on which she had entered, and immediately afterwards Mrs. Walter knocked on the floor of her room above in summons of her daughter.
Beatrix kissed Mollie good-bye. "Don't be frightened, darling," she said. "We can easily get the better of Lord Salisbury between us. Come to tea this afternoon and tell me all about it."
Mrs. Walter, sitting up in bed with a dressing-jacket on her thin frame, looked flustered. "I think there is something in what she says, Mollie dear," she said at once. "I want to talk to you about it."
"I knew she had come to talk about me," said Mollie. "I told Beatrix so."
"Well, that is one of the things," said her mother. "Aren't you and Beatrix rather inclined to encourage each other in setting yourself against—against——"
"What, against the Vicar, Mother?"
"I didn't mean that. But there's Beatrix certainly setting herself against her father's wishes, and——"
"Oh, but Mr. Grafton has given way. She came to tell me so. She is not to see M. de Lassigny for six months, but after that they are to be allowed to be engaged."
Mrs. Walter was rather taken aback. "Oh!" she said. "Mrs. Mercer didn't know that."
"But what has it got to do with Mrs. Mercer, Mother? Or with the Vicar?—because, of course, it is he who has sent her. You know that the Graftons don't like the way in which he tries to direct them in their affairs. I told you that they had told me that. Surely it isn't for him or Mrs. Mercer to interfere in such a thing as B's engagement—and to try to do it through me!"
"I don't think they have any idea of interfering, but they do take a great interest in you, Mollie; and, of course, they were everything to you before the Graftons came. I can't wonder that they are a little hurt that you make such a very intimate friend of Beatrix, and that they feel themselves shut out now. At least—that Mrs. Mercer does. I don't think it is so much the Vicar. And you are wrong in thinking that he sent her. She said expressly that she came of her own accord. He didn't even know that she was coming."
"Oh!" said Mollie. She had a dim idea that he had had a good deal to do with her coming, all the same, but did not express the doubt, or even examine it.
"Mollie dear," said Mrs. Walter, with a sudden change of tone. "Is there anything between you and young Pemberton? I've hoped you would have said something to me. But you know, dear, itdoesseem a little as if everything were for Beatrix Grafton now."
Mollie was stricken to the heart. Her mother's thin anxious face, and the very plainness which sits heavilyupon women who are middle-aged and tired, when they are without their poor armour of dress, seemed to her infinitely pathetic. She folded her mother with her warm fresh young body. "Oh, my darling," she said through her tears. "I love you better than anybody in the world. I shall never, never forget what you've done for me and been to me. I've only told you nothing because there's nothing to tell."
Mrs. Walter cried a little too. She had struggled for so many years to have her child with her, and it had seemed to her, with the struggle over, and peace and security settling down upon them both in this little green-shaded nest of home, that she had at last gained something that would fill the rest of her days with contentment. 'Some day' Mollie would marry; but she had never looked so far forward. It had been enough for her to take the rest and the love and companionship with gratitude and an always increasing sense of safety and contentment in it. But it had already become a little sapped. She was glad enough that her child should have found friends outside, as long as she remained unchanged at home, but the friction about it had disturbed her in her dreams of peace, and she wanted to be first with her daughter as long as she should keep her with her.
Mollie felt something of all of this on her behalf, and it brought a sense of compunction to her generous young heart. She loved her mother. It was not a case between them of satisfying the exigencies of a parent out of a sense of duty. It touched her deeply thather mother should show her she wanted her, and she responded instantly to the longing.
"If you don't want me to go to Grays any more I won't," she said, and had no feeling that she was making any renunciation as she said it.
"Well dear," said Mrs. Walter. "I do think it would be better if you didn't go quite so often. Every time you do go there is always that feeling that perhaps it would be better not—after what the Vicar said. I was annoyed about it then, but perhaps after all he saw more clearly than I did. He shouldn't have supposed, of course, thatyouwere in any way to blame, and, if he thought that I was, he ought to have said so quietly to me alone. But perhaps it is true that by being at the beck and call of people, as you must rather seem to be to outsiders, considering the difference there is between the Pembertons and ourselves—— Don't you see what I mean, dear?"
"Yes, Mother," said Mollie submissively. She had a sense of forlornness as she said it, but put it away from her, sitting by her mother's side on the bed, with her arm around her shoulders. "I won't go there so much. I'll never go unless you tell me that you'd like me to. I'm afraid I've been gadding about rather too much, and neglecting you, darling. But you know I love to be with you best of all. We're very happy living here together, aren't we?"
Her tears flowed again, and once more when she left her mother to rest a little longer. But she busied herself resolutely about the house, and when a gleam ofsun shone through the scudding clouds thought how happy she was living there with her mother. But she did not feel quite so happy as she ought to have done. It was as if she had closed for herself a window in the little cottage, which opened into a still brighter world.
It was the first day of the Christmas holidays, and a fine hunting morning, with clouds that showed no immediate threat of rain, and a soft air that contained an illusive promise of spring. Young George, looking out of his bedroom window, found life very good. Previous Christmas holidays had held as their culmination visits to country houses in which he might, if he were lucky, get two or three days' hunting; but hunting was to be the staple amusement of these holidays, with a young horse all his own upon which his thoughts were set with an ardour almost lover-like. He was to shoot too, with the men. His first gun had been ordered from his father's gun-maker, and Barbara had told him that it had already come, and was lying snugly in its baize-lined case of new leather, with his initials stamped upon it, ready for the family present-giving on Christmas morning. Furthermore there would be a large and pleasant party at the Abbey for Christmas, and other parties to follow, with a ball in the week of New Year. Young George, under the maturing influence of Jimmy Beckley, had come to think that a grown-up ball might be rather good fun, especially in one's own house, and with country neighbourscoming to it, most of whom one knew. There would be other festivities in other country houses, including a play at Feltham Hall, which Jimmy, who was a youth of infinite parts, had written himself during the foregoing term. Kate Pemberton, to whom his fancy had returned on the approach of the hunting season, was to be asked to play the heroine, with himself as the hero. There were also parts for the Grafton girls and for Young George, who had kindly been given permission to write his own up if he could think of anything he fancied himself saying. The play was frankly a melodrama, and turned upon the tracking down of a murderer through a series of strange and exciting adventures. Young George had first been cast for the professional detective—Jimmy, of course, playing the unprofessional one, who loves the heroine—but, as no writing up of the part had prevented it being apparent that the professional detective was essentially a fool, he had changed it for that of the villain. Young George rather fancied himself as the villain, who was compounded of striking attitudes, personal bravery and occasional biographical excursions revealing a career of desperate crime, to which he had added, with Jimmy's approval, a heart not altogether untouched by gentler emotions. Maggie Williams was to be his long-lost little sister, the thought of whom was to come over him when he was stirred to his blackest crimes, aided by a vision of her face through transparent gauze at the back of the stage; and she was to appear to him in person on his deathbed, and give him a chance of areally effective exit from a troubled and, on the whole, thoroughly ill-used world. It would be great fun, getting ready for it towards the end of the holidays, and would agreeably fill in the time that could not be more thrillingly employed in the open air. He was not sure that he would even want to go up to London for the few nights' play-going that had been suggested. There would be quite enough to do at Abington, which seemed to him about the jolliest place that could be found in England, which to an incipient John Bull like Young George naturally meant the world.
The meet was to be at Wilborough. The whole Grafton family turned out for it. George Grafton had hunted regularly two days a week with the South Meadshire since the opening of the season, and the three girls had been almost as regular, though they had all of them been away on visits for various periods during the autumn. Young George felt proud of his sisters, as he saw them all mounted. He had not thought that they would show up so well in circumstances not before familiar. But they all looked as if horses had been as much part of their environment as they had been of the Pemberton girls, though in their young grace and beauty, which neither hats nor habits could disguise, not so much as if it had been their only environment.
There are few scenes of English country life more familiar than a meet of hounds, but it can scarcely ever fail to arouse pleasure in contemplation. It is something so peculiarly English in its high seriousnessover a matter not of essential importance, and its gathering together of so many who have the opportunities to make what they will of their lives and choose this ordered and ancient excitement of the chase as among the best that life can offer them. If the best that can be said for it in some quarters is that it keeps the idle rich out of mischief for the time being, it is a good deal to say. The idle rich can accomplish an enormous amount of mischief, as well as the rich who are not idle, and perhaps accomplish rather less in England than elsewhere. For a nation of sportsmen is at least in training for more serious things than sport, and courage and bodily hardness, some self-discipline, and readiness to risk life and limb, are attributes that are not to be gained from every form of pleasure. There was not a boy or a young man among all those who gathered in front of Wilborough House on that mild winter morning to enjoy themselves who did not come up to the great test a few years later. The pleasures, and even the selfishness, of their lives were all cast behind them without a murmur; they were ready and more than ready to serve.
But the great war had not yet cast its shadow over the mellowed opulent English country. Changes were at work all round to affect the life mirrored in its fair chart of hall and farm, village and market-place, park and wood and meadow, even without that great catastrophe looming ahead. But the life still went on, essentially unchanged from centuries back. From the squire in his hall to the labourer in his cottage, theywere in relation to each other in much the same way as their forefathers had been, living much the same lives, doing much the same work, taking much the same pleasures. For the end of these things is not yet.
Wilborough was a great square house of stone, wrapped round by a park full of noble trees, as most of the parks in that rich corner of Meadshire were. Its hall door stood widely open, and there was constant coming and going between the hospitalities within and the activities without. On the grass of the park and the gravel of the drive stood or moved the horses which generations of care and knowledge had brought to the pitch of perfection for the purpose for which they would presently be employed, and their sleek well-tempered beauty would have gladdened the eye of one who knew least about them. The huntsman and whips came up with the hounds—a dappled mob of eager, restless or dogged, free-moving muscle and intelligence, which also filled the eye. There were motor-cars, carriages and smart-looking carts, and a little throng of people of all sorts and conditions. The scene was set, the characters all on the stage, and there was England, in one of its many enchanting time-told aspects.
Old Sir Alexander Mansergh, in a well-worn pink coat of old-fashioned cut, was in front of the house as the party from Abington Abbey rode up. He was welcoming his guests with a mixture of warmth and ferocity peculiarly English. He was an old bear, a tyrant, an ignoramus, a reactionary. But his tenants respected him, and his servants stayed with him. Therewas a gleam in his faded old eyes as he greeted the Grafton family, with the same gruffness as he used towards everybody else. He liked youth, and beauty, and these girls weren't in the least afraid of him, and by their frank treatment brought some reflection of the happy days of his youth into his crusty old mind—of the days when he had not had to wrap himself up in a mantle of grumpiness as a defence against the shoulders of the world, which turn from age. He had laughed and joked with everybody then, and nobody had been afraid of him.
"My son Richard's at home," he said. "Want to introduce him to you girls. All the nice girls love a sailor, eh?"
This was Sir Alexander's 'technique,' as the Graftons had it. Nice girls must always be running after somebody, in the world as the old bashaw saw it. But it did not offend them, though it did not exactly recommend 'my son Richard' to them.
Of the three girls only Barbara accepted Sir Alexander's pressed invitation to 'come inside.' Caroline and Beatrix, comfortably ensconced in their saddles, preferred to stay there rather than face the prospect of mounting again in a crowd. But before the move was made Lady Mansergh waddled down the house steps accompanied by a young man evidently in tow, whom she presented to them forthwith, with an air that made plain her expectation that more would come of it. "My stepson, Richard—Captain Mansergh," she said, beaming over her broad countenance. "He knows whoall ofyouare, my dears, for I've never stopped talking of you since he came home. But in case there's any mistake, this is Caroline and this is Beatrix and this is Barbara; and if there's one of them you'll like better than the other, well, upon my word, I don't know which it is. And this is Mr. Grafton, and Young George. If Young George was a girl I should say the same of him."
Captain Mansergh was not so affected to awkwardness by this address as might have been expected, but shook hands cheerfully all round and produced the necessary introductory remarks with great readiness. He was not so young on a closer inspection as his trim alert figure had seemed to indicate. His open rather ugly face was much weathered, but a pair of keen sailor's eyes looked out of its chiselled roughness, and his clean-cut mouth showed two rows of strong white teeth. He was taller than most sailors, but carried his calling about him even in his smart hunting-kit. He was likeable at first sight, and the Grafton girls liked him, as he stood and talked to them, in spite of the obvious fact that they were on exhibition, and that one or other of them was expected to show more than liking for him at very short notice.
They discussed it frankly enough between themselves later on. "It can't be me, you know, because I'm already engaged," said Beatrix, "and it can't be Barbara, because she's too young. So it must be you, Caroline, and I don't think you could do much better. He'sreally nice, and he won't be grumpy and bearish like old Sir Alexander when he gets old. That's very important. You must look ahead before you're caught. Of course when youarecaught nothing makes any difference. If I thought René was going to turn into a grump when he gets old I shouldn't mind. At least I should mind, but I shouldn't want not to marry him. But I know he won't. I don't think my son Richard will either. He's much too nice."
"If neither of you want him he might do for me," said Barbara reflectively. "But I think I'd rather wait for a bit. Dad likes him very much. But I don't think he wants him for Caroline."
"He doesn't want anybody for any of us," said Caroline. "He wants to keep us. Most fathers would only be too glad to get one of us off, but he isn't like that. If he likes him to come here, I'm sure it isn't with any idea of that sort."
"I'm not so sure," said Barbara oracularly.
Pressed to explain, she advanced the opinion that their father hoped Richard Mansergh would fall in love with Beatrix, and she with him; but the idea was scouted by Beatrix almost with violence. She should love René, she said, as long as she lived, and would never, never give him up. She even became a little cross about it. She thought that her father was not quite keeping to the bargain. He made it impossible for her to talk to him about René, for whenever she tried to do so his face altered and shut down. Shewantedto be able to talk to him about everything, buthow could he expect it if he cut himself off from the chief thing in her life? Well, she didn't care. She loved Dad, of course, and always should, but itmustmake a difference later on, if he wasn't going to accept the man she had chosen for her own, the man whom she loved and trusted.
This little outburst, which was received by Caroline with a mild expostulation, and by Barbara in silence, indicated a certain constraint that was growing up between Grafton and Beatrix. He had given way, but he could not get used to the idea of her marriage, nor take it as a thing settled and bound to happen. The six months' of parting and silence must surely work some change. Beatrix's bonds would be loosened, she would see with clearer eyes.
But more than half of the time of waiting was over, and Beatrix showed no sign of having changed. She only did not talk of her lover to him because he made himself such an unreceptive vessel for her confidence. It was as she said: if she did so, his face altered and shut down; and this was the expressive interpretation of his state of mind, which shrank from the disagreeable reminder of these two, so far apart in his estimation, considering themselves as one.
His thoughts of Lassigny had swung once more towards complete antagonism. He seemed to him far older than he really was, and far more immoral than he had any just reason to suppose him to be. He resented the assurance with which this outsider had claimed his sweet white child as his fitting mate, andeven the wealth and station that alone had given him that assurance. And he also resented the ease with which he had accepted his period of banishment. He would have been angry if Lassigny had tried to communicate with Beatrix directly, and would not have liked it if he had sought to do so indirectly. But he would not have liked anything that Lassigny did or didn't do. The image of him, coming to his mind, when perhaps he had been able to forget it for a time, jerked him down into a state of gloom. After a moment's silence his face would often be darkened by a sudden frown, which did not suit its habitual agreeable candour, and had seldom before been seen on it. It had been his habit to take his morning cup of tea into one of the children's rooms and chat with them, sitting on the bed, while they drank theirs. But his visits to Beatrix were always shorter than the others, because she had a photograph of Lassigny always propped up on the table by the side of her bed, so that she could see it when she first woke in the morning; and he couldn't stand that. He never sat down on her bed, because he could see the face of the photograph from it, but walked about the room, or sat in a chair some way off. And of course she knew the reason, but wouldn't put away the photograph before he came.
This was one of her little protests against his attitude; and there were others. She also could make her pretty face shut down obstinately, and did so whenever the conversation might have led naturally to mentionof her lover. She almost succeeded in creating the impression that it was she who refused to have his name mentioned. At times when the family contact seemed to be at its most perfect, and the happy occupied life of the Abbey was flowing along in its pleasant course, as if its inmates were all-sufficing to one another, it would be brought up with a sudden check. There was an irritating factor at work, like a tiny stone in a shoe, that settles itself where it cannot be felt except now and then, and must eventually be got rid of. But this influence could not be got rid of. That was Grafton's trouble.
If only he had known that on the night before the meet at Wilborough Beatrix had forgotten to prop Lassigny's photograph up against the emergency candlestick on her table! It had been in its usual place when he had gone into her room with the news that it was a fine hunting morning, a kiss and a word of censure for sleepy little girls who let their tea grow cold. He often began in that way, recognising her childishness, and the fact that so short a time ago she had been all his. Then the sight of that alien figure, to whom she had ceded the greater part of his rights in her, who could in no way be brought into the fabric of his life and his love, would stiffen him, dimming his sense of fatherhood and protection. Antagonism was taking its place, and a sense of injury. After all, he had given way. She had what she wanted, or would have when the period of probation was over, with no further opposition from him. Why couldn't she betowards him as she had been before? She was changing under his eyes. It was only rarely now that he could think of her as his loving devoted little daughter.
The worst of it, for him, was that he had now no confidants to whom he could express himself as to the unhappiness and dissatisfaction that was working in him. Caroline, whose love for him and dependence upon him was an assuagement, yet did not seem to be wholly on his side. She seemed to be playing, as it were, a waiting game. The affair would be settled, one way or the other, when the six months had run their course. It was better not to talk of it in the meantime. She was all sympathy with him when he showed himself hurt and troubled by Beatrix's changed attitude, and he knew that she 'spoke' to Beatrix about it. But that did no good, and he could not use one daughter as a go-between with the other. Miss Waterhouse, having sagely expressed herself at the time when the affair was still in flux, had retired again into her shell. Worthing also took it for granted that, as he had conditionally given way, there was no more that could profitably be said about it until the time came for his promise to be redeemed; and perhaps not even then. If Lassigny should come to be accepted as a son-in-law, the obvious thing for him to do was to make the best of him.
Ah, but Worthing had no daughter of his own. He didn't know how hard it was to take second place, and to depend for all the solacing signs of affection from a beloved child upon whether or no he was preparedto accept a disliked and mistrusted figure as merged into hers.
It is true that the Vicar had offered him his sympathy. At first Grafton had thought that he had misjudged him when he had come to him with a tale of how troubled he had been that Mollie Walter seemed to have been backing up Beatrix in setting herself against his will, how his wife thought the same, and—although he would never have thought of asking her to do so—had of her own accord spoken to Mrs. Walter about it. Grafton had been a little disturbed at finding that the Vicar seemed to know 'all about everything'; but the Vicar had expressed himself so rightly, commending him for the stand he had taken, and the reasons for it, that any doubts he may have come to feel as to whether he had been justified in his opposition to Lassigny's suit, had been greatly lessened. The Vicar thought as he did about it; even rather more strongly. The innocence of girlhood was a most precious thing, and a father who should insist that it should mate with nothing but a corresponding innocence was taking a stand that all men who loved righteousness must thank him for. As an accredited and official lover of righteousness the Vicar perhaps rather overdid his sympathy, which required for expression more frequent visits to the Abbey and a return to a more intimate footing there than he had lately enjoyed. Grafton did not want to be forever discussing the general question of male misdeeds and feminine innocence with a man who appeared from his conversation to have shed all traces of human infirmityexcept that of curiosity. And there was a good deal too much of Mollie Walter brought into it. What had Mollie Walter to do with it, or he with her? Or indeed the Vicar with her, if it came to that? It seemed that he feared the same sort of danger for her that Grafton had so rightly and courageously warded off for Beatrix. Grafton knew what and whom he referred to, and put aside his proferred confidence. He also began to close up to intimate references to Beatrix's innocence, and came to dislike Beatrix's name on the Vicar's lips.
The end of it had been that the Vicar had been returned to his Vicarage, politely but indubitably, with nothing gained but another topic of acrid conversation with his wife.
But there was one other person to whom Grafton was beginning to unburden himself.
The big dining-room of Wilborough Hall, with a table at one end of it as a buffet, was full of people eating and drinking and talking and laughing. As Grafton and Barbara and Young George went in, they saw few there whom they did not know, and among the crowd there were many who could already be counted as friends.
No gathering of this sort could be found in a city, nor in many countries outside England, where the land is loved, and lived on, by those who could centre themselves elsewhere if they chose. To the Graftons, as new-comers, the people gathered here from a radius of some miles were beginning to be known in the actualities of their lives as acquaintances in London never could be known, except those who could be called friends. Each of them represented something recognised and fixed, which gave them an interest and an atmosphere. They belonged here and there, and their belongings coloured them, more perhaps even than their characters or achievements.
Achievement, indeed, was scarcely represented. There were two members of the House of Lords, neitherof whom ever visited that assembly, and a member of the House of Commons, who never spoke there if he could possibly help it. There were a few undistinguished barristers, and some as yet undistinguished soldiers. To the world outside the circle to which these people mostly belonged, scarcely a name represented there would have been familiar; and yet in a similar gathering anywhere in England the names of many of them would have been known, and would have meant something.
What they would have meant, among other things, if worked back to beginnings, would have been the ownership of England. If the people in this room, most of them unimportant if tested by their capacity to achieve power among their fellows by unaided effort, had been taken as a centre, and the circle widened, and widened again by the inclusion of all those related by birth or marriage, it would eventually have covered all but a spot here and there of the map of the United Kingdom, and the great mass of the inhabitants of these islands would have been left outside.
In charging the whole of this particular assembly with a notable absence of achievement, exception must be made for the Bishop of the Diocese, who was there, however, as a visitor, not being in the habit of attending such gatherings of his flock in his pastoral capacity. Even he might not have reached his gaitered eminence if he had not belonged by birth to the sort of people represented here, for, in spite of the democratisation of the Church, the well-born clergyman, if he followsthe lines of promotion and is not noticeably lacking in ability, still has a slight 'pull.'
The lines of promotion, however, are other than they were a generation or two ago. This bishop had begun his work in a large town parish, and had kept to the crowded ways. Hard work and a capacity for organisation are the road to success in the Church to-day. Rich country rectories must be looked at askance until they can be taken as a secondary reward, the higher prizes having been missed. Even when the prizes are gained, the highest of them no longer bring dignified leisure. A bishop is a hard-working official in these latter days, and, if overtaken by the natural desires of advancing years for rest and contemplation, must occasionally cast wistful eyes upon the reward he might have gained if he had run second in the race instead of first.
The Bishop of Meadshire was an uncle by marriage of Mrs. Carruthers, of Surley Park, who had brought him over, with other guests, to enjoy this, to him unwonted, scene. Cheerful and courteous, with a spare figure, an excellent digestion and a presumably untroubled conscience, he was well qualified to gain the fullest amount of benefit from such relaxations as a country house visit, with its usual activities and pastimes, affords.
He was standing near the door with his niece when the Graftons entered the room, and Grafton and Barbara and Young George were immediately introduced to him. This was done with the air of bringing togetherparticular friends of the introducing party. Each would have heard much of the other, and would meet for the first time not as complete strangers.
The Bishop was, indeed, extremely cordial. A bright smile lit up his handsome and apostolic features, and he showered benignity upon Barbara and Young George when it came to their turn. "Then we've met at last," he said. "I've been hearing such a lot about you. Indeed, I may be said to have heard hardly anything about anybody else, since I've been at Surley."
Ella Carruthers had her hand on Barbara's shoulder. "I'm sure you're not disappointed in my new friends," she said, giving the girl an affectionate squeeze. "This one's the chief of them."
Barbara appeared a trifle awkward, which was not her usual habit. She liked Mrs. Carruthers, as did the whole family. They had all been together constantly during the past few weeks, ever since the returned wanderer had come over to the Abbey to call, and had shown herself a fit person to be taken immediately into their critical and exclusive society. She had triumphantly passed the tests. She was beautiful and gay, laughed at the same sort of jokes as they did, and made them, liked the same sort of books, and saw people in the same sort of light. She was also warm-hearted and impulsive, and her liking for them was expressed with few or no reserves. It had been amply responded to by all except Barbara, who had held off a little, she could not have told why, and would not have admitted to a less degree of acceptanceof their new friend than her sisters. Perhaps Ella Carruthers had divined the slight hesitation, for she had made more of Barbara than of Caroline or Beatrix, but had not yet dissolved it.
As for the rest of them, they were always chanting her virtues and charm. For each of them she had something special. With Caroline she extolled a country existence, and didn't know how she could have kept away from her nice house and her lovely garden for so long. She was quite sincere in this. Caroline would soon have discovered it if she had been pretending. She did love her garden, and worked in it. And she led the right sort of life in her fine house, entertaining many guests, but never boring herself if they dwindled to one or two, nor allowing herself to be crowded out of her chosen pursuits. She read and sewed and played her piano, and was never found idle. Caroline and she were close friends.
Beatrix had made a confidant of her, and had received much sympathy. But she had told her outright that she could not have expected her father to act otherwise than he had, and Beatrix had taken it from her, as she would not have taken it from any one else.
Miss Waterhouse she treated as she was treated by her own beloved charges, with affection and respect disguised as impertinence. She was young enough and witty enough to be able to do so. Miss Waterhouse thought her position somewhat pathetic—a young girl in years, but with so much on her shoulders. She hadcome to think it admirable too, the way in which she fulfilled her responsibilities, which never seemed to be a burden on her. Her guardian, who was also her lawyer, advised her constantly and was frequently at Surley, but her bailiff depended on her in minor matters, and she was always accessible to her tenants, and beloved by them.
It was in much the same way that Grafton had come to regard her. In the way she lived her life as mistress of her large house, and of a property which, though it consisted of only half a dozen farms, would have over-taxed the capacity of many women, she was a paragon. And yet she was scarcely older than his own children—might have been his child in point of years—and had all the charm and light-heartedness of her youth. She had something more besides—a wise woman's head, quick to understand and respond. He was so much the companion of his own children that a friend of theirs was usually a friend of his. Many of his daughters' girl friends treated him in much the same way as if he had been Caroline and Beatrix's brother instead of their father. Ella Carruthers did. It was difficult sometimes to imagine that she was a widow and the mistress of a large house, so much did she seem to belong to the family group. In their united intercourse he had not had many opportunities of talking to her alone, and had never so far sought them. But on two or three occasions they had found themselves tête-à-tête for a time, and he had talked to her about what was filling his mind, which was Beatrix and herlove-affair, and particularly her changing attitude towards himself.
She had taken his side warmly, and had given him a sense of pleasure and security in her sympathy. Also of comfort in what had become a considerable trouble to him. She knew how much Beatrix loved him, she said. She had told her so, and in any case she could not be mistaken. But she was going through a difficult time for a girl. He must have patience. Whichever way it turned out she would come back to him. How could she help it, he being what he had been to her all her life?
As to the possibility of its turning out in any way but one, she avowed herself too honest to give him hope, much as she would have liked to do so. Beatrix was in love with the man, and had not changed; nor would she change within the six months allowed her. Whether her lover would come for her again when the time was up was another question. She could tell no more than he. But he must not allow himself to be disappointed if he did. He had accepted him provisionally, and must be prepared to endorse his acceptance. Surely he would get used to the marriage, if it came off! And the mutual absorption of a newly-married couple did not last for ever. She could speak from experience there. She had adored her own guardian, in whose house she had been brought up from infancy. She fancied she must have loved him at least as much as most girls loved their own fathers; yet when she had been engaged to be married, and for a time afterwards,she had thought very little of him, and she knew now that he had felt it, though he had said nothing. But after a time, when she had wanted him badly, she had found him waiting for her, just the same as ever; and now she loved him more than she had done before.
Grafton was not unimpressed by this frank disclosure, though the not unimportant fact that the lady's husband had proved himself a rank failure in his matrimonial relations had been ignored in her telling of the story. And it would be a dismal business if the full return of his child to him were to depend upon a like failure on the part of the man she should marry. Certainly he didn't want that for her. If sheshouldmarry the fellow it was to be hoped that she would be happy with him, and he himself would do nothing to come between them. Nevertheless, the reminder that the fervour of love need not be expected to keep up to concert pitch, when the sedative effect of marriage had had time to cool it, did bring him some consolation, into which he did not look too closely. It would be soothing if the dear child were to discover that her old Daddy stood for something, after all, which she could not get even from her husband, and that he would regain his place apart, and be relieved of the hard necessity of taking in and digesting an alien substance in order to get any flavour out of her love for him. He never would and never could get used to the fellow; he felt that now, and told the sympathetic lady so. She replied that one could get used to anything in this life, and in some cases it was one's duty to do so. She wasno mere cushiony receptacle for his grievances. She had a mind of her own, and the slight explorations he had made into it pleased and interested him. He was not so loud in his praises of her as his daughters, but it was plain that he liked to see her at the Abbey, and it was always safe to accept an invitation for him to Surley if he was absent when it was given.
Mrs. Carruthers was not riding that morning. Out of deference to her exalted guest and various others of weight and substance, invited to meet him, she was hunting on wheels. Some of them would view such episodes of the chase as could, with luck, be seen from the seats of a luxurious motor-car, but she was driving his lordship himself in her pony-cart, quite in the old style in vogue before the scent of the fox had begun to dispute its sway in the hunting-field with that of petrol. It was years since the Bishop had come as close as this to one of the delights of his youth, and he showed himself mildly excited by it, and talked to Barbara about hounds and horses in such a way as to earn from her the soubriquet of "a genuine lamb."
He was too important, however, to be allowed more than a short conversation with one of Barbara's age, and was reft from her before she could explore very far into the unknown recesses of a prelatical mind. She was rewarded, however, for the temporary deprivation—she had other opportunities on the following day—by coming in for Ella Carruthers's sparkling description of the disturbance caused in the clerical nest of Surley by her uncle's visit.
"When they heard he was really coming," she was saying to Grafton, "they redoubled their efforts. Poor young Denis—who really looks sweet as a curate, though more deliciously solemn than ever—was sent up with a direct proposal. Couldn't I let bygones be bygones for the good of the community? I said I didn't know what the community had to do with it, and I couldn't forgive the way they had behaved. He said they were sorry. I said they had never done or said a thing to show it. We fenced a little, and he went back to them. Would you believe it, they swallowed their pride and sent me a letter. I'll show it you. You never read such a letter. They asked me to dinner at the end of it,—to-night—and perhaps I should be able to bring his lordship. I thanked them for their letter, and refused their invitation—of course politely. I asked Denis to dinner last night, and they let him come, but I think he must have had a struggle for it, because he looked very unhappy. My uncle is going to see poor old Mr. Cooper this afternoon, and, of course, they'll make a dead set at him; but it will be a bedside scene, and that's all they're going to get out of it."
"Aren't you a trifle feline about the poor ladies?" asked Grafton.
"Theyare feline, if you like. Aren't they, Barbara?"
"They're spiteful old cats, if that's what you mean," said Barbara. "Did you ask Lord Salisbury to dinner?"
"No. I have an idea that my uncle wishes to have a rest from the clergy, though it's as much as his place is worth to say so. The darling old thing! He's thoroughly enjoying himself. I believe he would have hunted to-day, if I had pressed a mount upon him."
"Is Denis going to preach at him to-morrow?" asked Grafton.
"Yes, I suppose so. Mr. Mercer offered to do it in the afternoon, but Rhoda and Ethel refused. I got that out of Denis himself, who is too deliciously innocent and simple for words. If it weren't for Rhoda and Ethel I really think I should make love to my uncle to give him the living when poor old Mr. Cooper comes to an end. Perhaps he will in any case. A lot hangs upon Denis's sermon to-morrow."
"I expect Rhoda and Ethel have written it for him," said Barbara.
"Perhaps one of them will dress up and preach," suggested Young George.
Barbara looked at him fondly. "Not very good, Bunting dear," she said. "He does much better than that sometimes, Ella. He's quite a bright lad."
Caroline and Beatrix had no lack of society, seated in their saddles outside. Richard Mansergh, after vainly trying to get them to let him fetch them something to keep out the draught, went off elsewhere, but his place was taken by others. Bertie Pemberton came up with two of his sisters, all three of them conspicuous examples of the decorative value of hard cloth, and it was as if the loud pedal had suddenly been jammeddown on a piano. Bertie himself, however, was not so vociferous as usual, and when his sisters suggested going inside said that he was quite happy where he was. This was on the further side of Beatrix, of whom he had already enquired whether anybody had brought over Mollie Walter. Nobody had, and he said it was a pity on such a day as this, but he hoped they'd have some fun after all. Nora and Kate, however, were not to go unaccompanied to their refreshment. Jimmy Beckley, perched on a tall horse, with an increased air of maturity in consequence, offered to squire them, and they went off with him, engaging him in loud chaff, to which he responded with consummate ease and assurance.
It was evident that Bertie Pemberton had something particular to say to Beatrix. His horse fidgeted and he made tentative efforts to get her to follow him in a walk. But Beatrix's mare was of the lazy sort, quite contented to stand still as long as it should be permitted her, and she refused to put her in motion, though she was not altogether incurious as to what the young man wished to disclose. She thought it probable, however, that he would make his attempt later on, if there should be any period of hanging about the covert side, and under those less conspicuous circumstances she should not refuse to listen to him.
Among the few hardy spirits who had come prepared to follow the hounds on foot was Maurice Bradby. Worthing had driven him over in his dog-cart and after a few cheery words with Caroline and Beatrix hadgone inside. Bradby had not followed him, but as the girls were just then surrounded by a little group of people he had hung about on its skirts, evidently wishing to talk to them, but being too shy to do so.
This young man's diffidence had begun to arouse comment at the Abbey. They all liked him, and had shown him that they did. There were times when he seemed thoroughly at home with them, and showed qualities which endeared him to the active laughter-loving family. Young George frankly adored him, finding in him all he wanted for companionship, and with him he was at his ease, and even took the undisputed lead. But on the other hand Grafton found him hang heavy, on the few occasions when they had to be alone together. He was deferential, not in any way that showed lack of manly spirit, but so as to throw all the burden of conversation on his host. Grafton found it rather tiresome to sit with him alone after dinner. It was only when they were occupied together, in the garden or elsewhere, that Bradby seemed to take up exactly the right attitude towards him.
The girls came between their father and their brother. Barbara had altered her first opinion of him. There was still something of the boy in her; she shared as far as she was permitted in the pursuits of Bradby and Bunting, and all three got on well together. The two other girls found his diffidence something of a brake on the frank friendship they were ready to accord to their companions among young men. Beatrix was most outspoken about it. Of coursehe was not, in his upbringing or experience, like other young men whom they had known. In London, perhaps, they would not have wanted to make a particular friend of him. But here in the country he fitted in. Why couldn't he take the place they were ready to accord him, and not be always behaving as if he feared to be in the way?
Caroline was softer. She agreed that his shyness was rather tiresome, but thought it would wear off in time. It was better, after all, to have a young man who did not think too much of himself than one who would always have to be kept in his place. She found his love for nature refreshing and interesting, and something fine and genuine in him that made it worth while to cultivate him, and have patience. Beatrix would say, in answer to this, that she hadn't got enough patience, and doubted whether the results would make it worth while to exercise it. But Beatrix was a little oversharp in these days, and what she said needed not to be taken too seriously.
She saw Maurice Bradby standing at a little distance off, casting shy glances at them as if he wanted to make one of the group around them, but lacked the boldness to introduce himself into it, and felt a spurt of irritation against him. Caroline saw him too, and presently, when the group had thinned, walked her horse to where he was standing. He received her with a grateful smile, and they talked about the day's prospects and his chances of seeing the sport on foot, and hers of a good run.
The people who had been refreshing themselves indoors came out, mounted their horses or took to their carriages, cars and carts, while the huntsman led his bunched and trotting hounds down the drive, and the gay cavalcade followed them to the scene of their sport. The soft grey winter sky breathed mild moisture, the tree twigs were purple against it, and seemed already to be giving promise of spring, though the year was only just on the turn. No one there would have exchanged this mood of England's much abused climate for the flowery deceptions of the South, or even for the frosty sparkle of Alpine winters. It was a fine hunting morning, and they were all out to enjoy themselves, in the way that their forbears had enjoyed themselves for generations.