Wednesday Evening.Dear Gill,I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I must put you off to-morrow. I’ve had so many late nights lately that one more or less has come to matter quite a lot.I’m sure you’ll understand.Yours,Kate.
Wednesday Evening.
Dear Gill,
I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I must put you off to-morrow. I’ve had so many late nights lately that one more or less has come to matter quite a lot.
I’m sure you’ll understand.
Yours,
Kate.
Though she did not say so, Mrs. Festival had spoiled three sheets of notepaper phrasing that note.
Wednesday.Dear Kate,Will you forgive me if I don’t come to-morrow? Jonah wants me to play at Roehampton against the Red Hats, and they’re sure to want me to dine and talk shop. You know.Yours,Gill.
Wednesday.
Dear Kate,
Will you forgive me if I don’t come to-morrow? Jonah wants me to play at Roehampton against the Red Hats, and they’re sure to want me to dine and talk shop. You know.
Yours,
Gill.
That was Captain Festival’s third attempt.
Their reception of their respective bow-strings was anything but cordial.
Staring at the familiar handwriting, Katharine went very white.
“So,” she said quietly. “Well, I’ve only myself to thank. I’ve whipped off the finest husband that ever a woman had—with the most natural result. . . . He’s turning elsewhere. Madrigal, of course.”
She bit her lip savagely.
Suddenly she remembered the letter she had written the night before.
“My God!” she cried, and clapped her hand to her mouth. “He’ll think I meant it, of course.I meant him to, and he will.It’ll drive him into her arms! I’ve cleared his way! He’ll have no compunctionnow. . . .”
She flung herself down on the bed and buried her face.
“Why did I write?” she wailed. “Why did I ever write? If only I’d waited . . . if only . . .”
She began to weep passionately.
Giles, fresh from his bath, stared at his letter as at a death-warrant.
He read it through twice, carefully.
Then he sat down on his bed, sweating, and read it again.
Then he lowered the document to his knee and sat staring at his wardrobe with eyes that saw nothing.
Finally, he gave a short laugh and, getting upon his feet, proceeded to brush his hair, whistling softly. . . .
Half-way through the operation, he started violently.
“My God!” he cried. “That blasted letter of mine.. . .”
Brushes in hand, he gazed at his reflection in the glass.
“Oh, you poisonous fool!” he hissed. “You blundering, blunt-nosed idiot, you’ve put the burning lid on and screwed it down. You’ve torn it—bent it irreparably. Of course, she’ll think I meant it.I meant her to.. . . And now—I’ve put myself out of Court. I’ve told her to run away and play. I’ve pushed her off!”
He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall.
“Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate! . . . What have I done, my sweet? What have I done?”
Two hours had gone labouring, the second of which Captain Festival had spent perambulating Lincoln’s Inn Fields and consulting his watch. His nervous demeanour was such that by ten o’clock he was being observed by the police. On the stroke of the hour, however, the suspect disappeared. . . .
As the door closed behind him—
“Forsyth,” gasped Giles, “she’s turned me down.”
“No?”—incredulously.
“It’s a shell-proof fact. And I’ve just tied it up, nailed it down and sunk it in the bright, blue sea. I warn you, I ought to be removed. I’m a public danger.” He began to search his pockets with nervous inefficacy. “Where’s that blinkin’ letter gone?”
“Sit down,” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “And please begin at the beginning. I’ve another appointment in——”
“Now, don’t rush me,” said Giles. “I’m all of a doohah, I am. And if you rush me, I shall burst into tears.” He mopped his brow feverishly. “About six weeks ago . . .”
The tale came pelting.
The lawyer, who had given a frenzied Katharine an appointment for half-past ten, began to see daylight.
“And there you are,” concluded Giles violently. “That letter means she’s attracted to Pat Lafone. I’ll bet it cost her a hell of a lot to write it, because—well, it’s a pretty thick thing to tell your husband, isn’t it? And now she’s hadmyletter, which tells her in so many words to count me out and go full blast ahead.”
Forsyth fingered his chin.
“What did you write it for?”
“Ask the fowls of the air,” said Giles wearily. “They might be able to tell you. I can’t. I suppose I had some rotten, weak-kneed idea of frightening her back into my arms. Of course, it was a hopeless thing to do. But when you’re desperate you do do hopeless things.”
“Why ‘desperate’?” said Forsyth.
“Because I can’t stand it,” shouted his client. “I’m not a graven image. For nearly three blinkin’ months I’ve stood and watched all London swarming about my wife: I’ve smirked and bowed and scraped and pretended I didn’t care: I’ve sat up and begged, like the rest, for a dance or a smile: and once a blistering week I’ve met her across our own table and made imitation back-chat and done the grateful guest. . . . And the last three times I went there she gave me grocer’s port.” He raised his eyes to heaven and clenched his teeth. “If ever I get a chance, I’ll break that butler’s back. I believe that’s half the reason I wrote that blasted note.”
Here the telephone bell intervened.
“Excuse me,” said Forsyth. “Yes? . . . Very well. Mr. Maple’s out, isn’t he? . . . Then show them into his room and ask them to wait.”
As he replaced the receiver—
“What the devil am I to do?” said Captain Festival.
“Nothing,” said Forsyth.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, the man’s mad,” wailed Giles. “I’ve infected him.”
“As you and your wife’s trustee, I say that you can do nothing. You’ve covenanted not to molest. Your hands are tied. And now. . . .”
He rose to his feet.
“Forsyth,” said Giles, “be human. D’you mean to say I’ve got to sit still and watch my wife push off with another man?”
“When you came here,” said the lawyer, “seeking a deed of separation, I warned you both that you were playing with fire. You thanked me handsomely—and then deliberately instructed me to sow the wind.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And now I must see this fellow. You sit here and smoke. I shan’t be long.”
He left the room swiftly.
As he passed into Maple’s room, Katharine rose at him.
“Mr. Forsyth, I’ve bought it. Giles has found somebody else. I never dreamed it was serious, but I got his letter this morning.”
She thrust the mischievous document into his hand.
Forsyth read it carefully.
Ere he could open his mouth—
“He wrote that last night,” said Katharine. “That means he’s got off with Madrigal Chicele. And——”
“He doesn’t say so,” said Forsyth, turning the letter about.
“I know. But it does. You can take it from me. Listen. Giles doesn’t love her, really. Not yet, at any rate. He still loves me. But now that he thinks I don’t care, she—she’ll just romp home.”
“Why should he think that?”
“I told him I didn’t,” cried Katharine. “In so many words.”
Forsyth put a hand to his head.
“But if you do care, why did you——”
“Because I cared so much that I couldn’t go on.”
“Sit down, won’t you?” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “I can’t give you long, for I’ve got someone waiting upstairs. But——”
“For God’s sake,” wailed Katharine, “don’t rush me. As it is, I’m beside myself. And if you——”
“Now, please go quietly,” said Forsyth. “I’m going to state the facts. Correct me if I go wrong. Little dreaming that your husband had written this letter to you, you gave him to understand that, so far as you were concerned, he was free to place his affections where he pleased.”
“Quite right.”
“That you did in the hope of bringing him to your feet.”
“Yes. It sounds insane, but women are funny like that.”
“Your immediate fear is that, in view of the attachment which you say his letter discloses, your rash communication will have the opposite effect and drive him into a certain lady’s arms.”
“Exactly,” said Katharine. “You’ve got a magician’s brain, but let that pass. What, in Heaven’s name, Mr. Forsyth, am I to do?”
“I think you must wait,” said Forsyth.
“Wait?”
The lawyer nodded.
“You must wait for him to move.”
“But he’smoving,” screamed Katharine. “He’s moving into her arms. It’s more than a million to one he’s with her now.”
“I hardly think——”
“Of course he is. And yet you tell me to wait!” Mrs. Festival threw back her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. “What d’you think I’ve been doing for the last three months? I’ll tell you. I’ve been waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Giles to come back. Waiting, with a jest on my tongue and a picture-postcard smile. Watching other women rushing after my husband, biting and scratching and lying to catch his eye, cadging seats in his car, eating out of his hand. . . . Once a week he’s come to our house as a guest. Once a week we’ve met across our own table and been polite—polite! The last two or three times I thought his manner seemed strained, as if he was upset about something. But I never dreamed. . . .” Her lips were trembling, and she stopped. The next moment she had herself in hand. “I tell you,” she cried, “I’ve stood up and grinned and borne it, till I can’t endure any more. I wrote that wretched note in desperation. I thought . . . I hoped. . . . And now you tell me to wait!”
“As you and your husband’s trustee,” said Forsyth faithfully, “I say that you can do nothing. You’ve covenanted not to molest.”
“Oh, blow what I covenanted. I’m not going to be bound by any rotten papers. Besides, I never read it.”
“You signed it,” said Forsyth mercilessly, getting upon his feet.
“Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “you told me to come to you if I was in trouble. Don’t send me empty away.”
“I must see these people,” said Forsyth. “You stay where you are. I’m sorry I had no time to get any flowers, but you were rather precipitate. I’ll tell you what,” he added, as if voicing an afterthought. “Would you like to speak to your husband while I’m upstairs? You know. Just ring up casually, by way of clearing the air?”
“He’s sure to be out,” said Katharine. “With Mad——”
“We can but try,” said Forsyth. “Of course, if you’ld rather not . . .”
“I’ld love to,” said Katharine. “I don’t know what on earth I can say, but——”
“The time will provide the words,” said Forsyth, and left the room. . . .
He found Giles pacing the floor like a caged beast.
“While I’ve been away,” he said quickly, “I’ve had an idea.”
“Go on,” said Giles, moistening his lips. “Go on.”
“Would you like to ring your wife up?”
Captain Festival reflected.
Then—
“She won’t be there,” he said. “She’s with Pat, for a monkey.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
“You can try,” he said. “Don’t, if you don’t want to, but I don’t think a telephone call is molestation, and, at least, you’ld be in touch.”
“All right,” said Giles. “I don’t know what to say, but——”
“I’ll tell them to get you on,” said Forsyth, opening the door.
“Here! Don’t leave me,” said Giles. “Don’t go away. Supposing she’s in?”
“Well, it’s not much good if she isn’t, is it?”
“D’you mind saying that again?” said Giles weakly. “I—I wasn’t ready. Besides, you can’t say ‘isn’t is it.’ It’s not euphonious. I—I say . . .”
But the lawyer was gone.
Outside his own door, Forsyth leaned against the wall and bowed before a paroxysm of laughter as a reed before the gale. Then he pulled himself together and sought the switchboard.
“Put my room through to Mr. Maple’s and ring them both up. Then plug me in. I want to overhear.”
“Very good, sir.”
After a moment’s interval—
“Er—er—hullo,” said Giles, wiping the sweat from his face. “Hullo.”
“Is—is that you, Gill?” said Katharine tremulously.
“Er—yes, dear. How—how are you?”
“Oh, all right, thanks. How—how are you?”
“Oh, full of beans, thanks . . .”
There was a dreadful silence.
Forsyth began to shake with laughter.
“Are you there, Gill?”—anxiously.
“Yes, dear.”
“That’s right. I was afraid we’d been cut off.”
“No, I’m here, all right. . . . How—how are you? Oh, I’ve said that, haven’t I? I mean——”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Gill?”
“Right as rain, dear, right as rain. Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Katharine. “I thought you sounded—er—not quite yourself.”
“Well, I’m not really. I—I had a dream last night.”
“Did you? What did you dream?”
“I—I forget now,” stammered Giles. “But—you know. It’s sort of unsettled me.”
“Well, do be careful, dear. It worries me to hear you so—so unlike yourself.”
“Does it? I mean—am I?”
Forsyth writhed.
“Gill, whatisthe matter?”
There was another silence.
Then—
“I say, Kate,” said Giles.
“Yes?”
“I—I got your letter.”
“Did you?” said Katharine. “So did I. I mean——”
“Yes?”
“What?” said Katharine disconcertingly.
“I only said ‘Yes,’ ” said Giles. “You know.Pour encourager.Go on, dear.”
His wife braced herself.
“Gill.”
“Yes, dear?”
“I rang you up to——”
“Did you?” said Giles. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now? Oh, I see. I suppose they said I was out. Never mind.”
“But why should they say you were out?”
“Well, mainly because,” said Giles, “I don’t happen to be in.”
“Gill,” cried his wife, “what on earth d’you mean?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Giles desperately. “I’m that badgered and bewildered, I can’t think straight. As I was saying, I rang you up to——”
“When?” said Katharine.
A choking noise was succeeded by another silence.
With his eyes closed and tears running down his cheeks, Forsyth clung to his receiver helplessly.
At length—
“Kate,” said Captain Festival in a hollow voice.
“Yes?”—faintly.
“Don’t think I’m blaming you, darling, but I rather gather you’re thinking of displacingBaladeuse.”
“I’mnot!” shrieked Katharine. “I’mnot! It’s—it’s all a terrible mistake. I know you’ve heard someone bleating, but don’t think——”
“I haven’t!” yelled Giles. “It’s false! No one’s bleated for yiles—I mean mears. Not since you did. An’ no one’ll ever blinkin’ well bleat again. . . . There! I’ll make you a present of that. I’ve wanted to say it for months, but I didn’t know how.” Hurriedly Forsyth replaced his receiver. “And, as forBaladeuse—well, I’m thankful she’s still on top—thankful, my darling. D’you hear? Thankful. . . . Of course, if at any time, in a mad moment, you felt like another dart at jolly old’Ard an’ Bright. . .”
For a second his wife hesitated.
Then she bent to the mouthpiece.
“Ma-a-a.”
The noise Captain Festival made, descending the stairs, brought Katharine and Forsyth pell-mell into the hall.
Husband and wife stared at each other open-mouthed. . . .
The lawyer watched them in silence, one hand to his lips, the other behind his back.
Presently their gaze shifted and fell upon Forsyth.
“But what a man!” said Giles, laying his hands upon the lawyer’s left arm.
“What a friend!” said Katharine, laying hers upon his right.
“What a trustee!” said Forsyth, raising his eyes to heaven.
“He’s going to dine with us to-night,” said Giles.
“Yes,” said Katharine. “And we’ll show him our bathroom.”
“Two’s company,” said Forsyth, shaking his head.
“Thanks to you,” said Giles, shaking his arm.
“So’s three,” said Katharine, shaking the other.
“That’s over,” said Forsyth, and sighed. “Here’s the Deed.”
“Oh, we’re tired of that,” said Katharine.
“Yes,” said Giles. “We’re going to give it to Beatrice.”
SPRING
Willoughby Gray Bagot,gentleman, sat back in his chair.
From where he was, he could look conveniently out of the broad windows, across the shadowy lawns, and on to the stately timber of the sheltered park. He did so thoughtfully, tapping his teeth with his pen. Presently he frowned and, leaning forward, set a sheet of notepaper before him and proceeded to write.
Dear Sirs,—I believe your advice to be good.I will therefore accept Mr. Harp’s offer and sell him Chancery—park, residence and furniture, as it stands, for forty-five thousand pounds, on one condition.The condition is this.The purchaser shall take into his service an individual whom I will indicate, to perform the duties of Groom of the Chambers at Chancery, at a wage of fifty pounds a year. This man shall receive no board, but shall be permitted to occupy the lodge at the West gate of the park, rent-free. So long as he behaves himself and faithfully discharges his office, Mr. Harp shall retain him in his service.I appreciate that this is an unusual request, but the man knows the house and its contents as I know them myself and is deeply attached to them. The service he will give will be worth having.Yours faithfully,Willoughby Gray Bagot.Messrs. Matthew & Scarlet,Solicitors,Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C.
Dear Sirs,—
I believe your advice to be good.
I will therefore accept Mr. Harp’s offer and sell him Chancery—park, residence and furniture, as it stands, for forty-five thousand pounds, on one condition.
The condition is this.
The purchaser shall take into his service an individual whom I will indicate, to perform the duties of Groom of the Chambers at Chancery, at a wage of fifty pounds a year. This man shall receive no board, but shall be permitted to occupy the lodge at the West gate of the park, rent-free. So long as he behaves himself and faithfully discharges his office, Mr. Harp shall retain him in his service.
I appreciate that this is an unusual request, but the man knows the house and its contents as I know them myself and is deeply attached to them. The service he will give will be worth having.
Yours faithfully,
Willoughby Gray Bagot.
Messrs. Matthew & Scarlet,
Solicitors,
Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C.
Bagot read over his letter with tightened lips. Then he copied it carefully and, slipping the original into an envelope, sealed, stamped and addressed this forthwith. As he turned it about, the crest on the back caught his eye—a rose in a mailed fist. For a moment he stared at it: then he turned and glanced at the same emblem cut in the stone of the aged mantelpiece. . . .
Presently he sighed.
“Sic transit,” he said shortly, and, clapping a hat on his head, rose and passed out of the room.
It was true.
The glory was passing. Very soon it would have passed.
There had been a Gray Bagot at Chancery since Harry Plantagenet’s day. In fact, that terrible king had given a Bagot the estate in return for valour. That it was not his to give is beside the point. Men took what they could get in those days, as they do now. And now, Mr. Albert Harp was taking Chancery.
Like the original Bagot, Mr. Harp owed his good fortune to his prowess in time of War. But, while Gray Bagot had won Chancery at the cost of an eye, an arm and a slash on the thigh, which only the bone stopped, Mr. Harp’s succession was due to a judicious administration of his business, which was that of a purveyor of pork.
Sic transit. . .
Willoughby had done what he could. But when he came back from the War, things were in evil case.
A cold rain of demands beat upon his diminished income; the stream of outgoings was like to burst its banks: over all, the cloud of a heavy mortgage, once no bigger than a man’s hand, was blotting out the heaven.
Of his passionate love for Chancery, Willoughby took his capital and gambled upon the Exchange. The franc was bound to appreciate. . . .
Mr. Harp’s offer was a bad one, as offers go. Chancery was a show place. Charles the First had stayed there, and Cromwell too. The latter had crossed the body of a Gray Bagot to gain admittance. Some of Chancery’s furniture had stood in the same corners for more than three hundred years. The library had been collected by a Bagot in the reign of Queen Anne. Mr. Harp’s offer was absurd. Still . . . Offers were hard to come by nowadays. Mr. Harp’s was the first that had been made in seven months.
When all that had to be paid had been discharged, of the forty-five thousand there would remain five thousand pounds. This, safely invested, would bring in two hundred a year. And a man could live on that—even one who had been a Captain in His Majesty’s Household Brigade.
Sic transit. . .
Willoughby posted his letter and then walked round the park, and in by the western gate. He passed about the lodge, marking its bulwarks. After a final look, he turned slowly away.
“What a thought,” he said. “Two hundred and fifty a year and rent-free. If it comes off, I shall be onpannevelvet.”
Two months had gone by, and Mr. and Mrs. Harp were beginning to grow accustomed to the thrilling reflection that Chancery was theirs. Their possession of the place was peaceful; their enjoyment of it quiet. But their unconcealed delight in their acquisition was almost childish. For days together they never went outside the gates. . . . After a week or two of private revelry in their surroundings, they pressed invitations upon a pack of friends and relatives, whose company they did not desire, because their pride of ownership simply had to be served. This was clamouring for the meat and drink of stares and ejaculations and bated breath. Their precious toy had to be admired. As for the Groom of the Chambers, not to advertise their employment of such a paragon would have been tantamount to suppressing the Kohinoor. He was the light of their eyes.
They had, of course, no idea that John Worcester, tall, quiet, respectful, constantly about the reception rooms, dusting, ordering, cleaning, polishing this old bureau, rehanging that picture, was Willoughby Gray Bagot.
There was no reason why they should have perceived the masquerade. They certainly recognized that Worcester was no ordinary servant, but the mystery stifled curiosity, as mysteries may. One never could tell. Revelation might cost them his service, and—the best was good enough for them. They had never set eyes upon the vendor before the sale, and Willoughby had spread it abroad that he was bound for New Zealand. At the lodge he lived quietly enough, his only servant being an old groom who kept his own counsel. In the village, two miles away, he had been scarcely known by sight. Such letters as he received went first to a Bank, where they were redirected to ‘Mr. Worcester.’ Captain Bagot had covered his tracks.
It must be admitted that the Harps’ estimate was just. Willoughby gave their home a care which money cannot buy, and themselves a service which they had never dreamed of. He was the last word.
So far as the other servants were concerned, Mr. Worcester and all his works were naturally regarded with a profound disgust. This was not expressed, mainly because the staff profited so handsomely by his labour. But the scorn and indignation which his faithful maintenance of the reception rooms provoked, were largely responsible for the concord which ruled the Servants’ Hall.
It was, indeed, as much the unpleasant personality of the butler as the virtues of the Groom of the Chambers that in June determined his patrons to attempt an important change. In a few days their guests would arrive. If only they could induce Worcester to take the butler’s place, they would be spared the humiliation of being treated like dirt before their visitors, while their star servitor, instead of flitting in the background, would be agreeably conspicuous.
They approached him delicately, without success. The Groom of the Chambers was respectful, but resolute. He declined the offer gently, but definitely and without hesitation. Then he excused himself and withdrew to continue his revision of the library’s catalogue.
As the door closed—
“ ’Ell,” said Mr. Harp, subjecting his nose to violence.
“Me too,” said his wife miserably. “I’d set me ’eart on that, I ’ad. ’E’ld look so lovely in a dress-soot, too. An’ now . . .”
A fat tear of disappointment made its appearance, and, after poising for an instant upon the brow of her cheek, fell heavily into the broad valley of her lap.
Mr. Harp rose to the occasion and crossed to her side.
“There, there, me dear,” he said kindly, “don’ take on. We can’t ’ave everything. Bowler’s very tryin’, in course, but——”
“I ’ate the brute,” sobbed his wife. “Anyone would. Nasty, ’ulkin’ wretch. Laughin’ and sneerin’ at us ’cos we ain’t gentry; and takin’ our money and food, ’and over fist. An’ hall the rest as bad, and that impudent, no one would never believe. An’ the honly one wot is hones’ and respec’ful as good as in ’idin’—goes out o’ the room when we comes in, comes in when we goes out, ’ides. . . . It’s too crool,’Arp, and that’s the truth. Worcester’s a walkin’ treat. ’E puts a thousan’ pound on the ’ouse—easy. An’ ’alf the blighters comin’ ’ll never know ’e’s ’ere.”
“I’ll see they know,” said Mr. Harp violently. “I’ll fix that. Besides, they’ll ’appen acrost ’im in the course of ’is dooties—boun’ to.”
“ ’Snot the same,” cried his wife. “You know it ain’t. We’re buryin’ a talent, we are. Other folk ’as fine ’ouses, but there ain’t a mansion in London wot’s got a servant like ’im. ’E tones the whole show up. We ain’t stylish, and as for Bowler and the rest of them rotten sneaks, they’d let a doss-’ouse down: but Worcester’s a peach. . . . An’ we’reburyin’ ’im.”
Her husband stamped to the window and regarded his smiling acres with a dismal stare. Mrs. Harp had a knack of reciting unpleasant facts with a pitiless clarity which paralysed consolation.
Presently, he took a cigar from his waistcoat-pocket and, after savaging the butt, thrust his quarry reflectively between his teeth. As he felt for a match, the idea flashed into his mind.
Trembling with excitement, he snatched the cigar from his lips, and swung round, mouthing.
“Jane, I’ve got it! Got it in one, I ’ave! Oh, lovely! Listen ’ere. Worcester’s Groom of the Chambers, ain’t he? Good. ’E shall ’ave a show as’ll beat the ragtime band—’e, an’ the ’ouse and us, the ’ole year round. ’Old me, someone: I’m that excited and wrought, I can’t talk straight. Listen ’ere. Chancery’s a show place, ain’t it? Figures in the ’istories and guides—used to be shown, once. Wellwe’ll show it again—throw it open to visitors daily, from two to four. The visitors won’ worry us—I’ll love to see ’em.An’ Worcester ’ll show ’em round. . . .”
With a seraphic smile, Mrs. Harp got upon her feet and began to dance. . . .
A few days later it was announced that, by the direction of the owner, Chancery, one of the most exquisite examples of a mediæval manor-house, had been thrown open to the public and could be visited until further notice any weekday between the hours of two and four o’clock.
The four Americans passed slowly round the broad, flagged walk and, turning a corner of the house, found themselves once more before the main doorway. Their tour of the apartments had lasted half an hour.
One of the men took out a note-case, but the girl touched his arm and shook her head.
“No, no,” she whispered.
The man hesitated, pointing to the back of their guide.
“Put it away,” said the girl shortly.
Her squire obeyed, staring.
Willoughby Bagot turned.
The moment he always dreaded had arrived.
He was about to be offered payment which he could not in decency refuse.
He always gave his tips to the butler, and was thought a prize fool for his pains, but his patrons could not know that.
“That is all that is shown, madam.”
The two women inclined their heads.
“Thank you very much,” said the elder pleasantly. “We’ve enjoyed it immensely.”
Willoughby bowed.
For a reason which they could never satisfactorily explain, the two male visitors raised their hats, and the party turned towards the car, which was glittering before the lodge, two furlongs away.
Willoughby felt very grateful. . . .
From a window he watched the quartette making their way along the avenue. He had liked them, and they had made his task easy. Besides, throughout the tour, he had been used as a gentleman.
The girl, especially, seemed to have understood. He was faintly surprised that she had not added her thanks to those of her—her aunt, probably.
Suddenly the former turned and came pelting back.
The men, who were walking ahead, did not observe her movement. Her elderly companion proceeded more leisurely.
Willoughby left the window and returned to the door.
As she arrived, he opened this readily.
“I think I’ve left my bag in one of the chambers. I fancy I put it down in the picture-gallery.”
Willoughby led her to the staircase and she passed up. He followed pleasedly, marking her as she went.
She was tall and slight, and moved with an easy grace. The slim, bare hand, resting upon the banisters, was small and firm and shapely. Its trim nails shone. Her straight back, the even poise of her head, her beautiful ankles, would have delighted a sculptor. Her plain tussore dress and pert little hat suited her perfectly. As for her white silk stockings . . .
At the top of the staircase my lady turned to the right.
“I know my way, you see,” she flashed over her shoulder.
Willoughby smiled.
Her face was glowing. Its fine colour and the big brown eyes, the small nose and the proud curve of the lips reminded the man of a picture he once had seen. As for her friendliness, little wonder that it entered into his soul.
The bag lay in an alcove—a little, delicate business of powder-blue and gold. Its beads were so fine, they might have been stitches of silk.
The girl picked it up and turned to the man.
“I left this here on purpose,” she said quietly. “I wanted to speak to you when the others were gone. You don’t remember me, but I met you in Philadelphia, before the War. I had my hair down then. Why are you doing this?”
“I was staying with the Stacks,” said Bagot, knitting his brows.
“That’s right. In 1914. But I tell you, my hair was down, so you wouldn’t remember. Besides . . . What are you doing here? You were in the Blues.”
“That’s over,” said Willoughby slowly. “Now, I’m in service. This was my home.”
“This?”
He nodded.
“I lost my money, you see, and the place had to go. They’re very nice people, luckily. They’ve no idea who I am, and—and it serves my turn. I live at the second lodge.”
“How can you bear it?” said the girl.
“Easily enough,” said Bagot simply. “I couldn’t let the place down.”
“You speak as if it were a friend.”
“It’s been my people’s home for nearly eight hundred years.”
The girl turned to the door.
“You’re faithful,” she said.
Willoughby shrugged his shoulders.
“Time ties up the affections,” he said. Then, “I’m so glad you came back. If I were still the owner, I should ask you to tea.”
“And, if I was not a companion, I should accept.” Willoughby stared. “As it is, my mistress’ll light into me for being so long. You see,” she continued, smiling, “we’re fellow bondsmen.” She put out a little hand. “And now good-bye. I think she likes this part, and, if I can persuade her to stay at Holy Brush, I’ll call at your lodge one evening and ask for some tea. You’re a Bagot, of course.”
“I was,” corrected Willoughby. “But that—that’s over, like the rest. I’m known as Worcester now.”
“And I,” said the girl quickly, “am known as Spring. No ‘Miss,’ or anything. Just Spring.”
Before he could answer, she was at the head of the stairs.
As he opened the great front-door—
“Good-bye, Spring,” said Willoughby.
My lady flung him a bewitching smile.
“Good-bye, Captain Bagot. D’you think you’ll know me next time?”
“Yes,” said Willoughby. “Even if you have your hair down.”
He watched her rejoin her companions, triumphantly waving her bag.
“The Stacks had a daughter,” he murmured. “But she used to wear blue glasses because of her sight. Besides, you don’t find paid companions worth seven million pounds.”
This was quite true. Moreover, his memory was at fault. Mr. and Mrs. Stack had died childless. The whole of their fortune had been left to a beloved niece.
It was natural enough that for the next ten days the Groom of the Chambers at Chancery should reconstruct Spring’s visit with a grateful heart. Her precious figure preceded him up the stairs, set a slight knee on this settle, stooped to observe those volumes: her laughter rang in the gallery, her voice fluted in the hall, her smile flashed in that doorway: her sympathy, grace, charm were lighting his memory with a glow which he found very valuable. In a word, the lady had wrought havoc. She had shown Willoughby Bagot something from which, for the last lean years, he had rigidly averted his gaze—the loneliness of his existence. With her little, firm hands she had rammed the truth down his throat. Had her mouth been less scarlet, had her throat been less white, her form less beautiful, the light in her eyes less tender, had the maid been less startlingly attractive in word and look and deed, it might have gone less hard with the Groom of the Chambers. Bagot could steel his heart with most men. His job was to cherish Chancery, at any cost. It had not been pleasant to play the servant in his own home; at the best, it had been a bitter-sweet business. Still, keeping his eyes upon the ground, he had become used to his monkhood—perceiving many things for which he had come to thank God. And now . . .
They had walked in Chancery together, he and she, walked and talked familiarly in his own home. It was no more his home, in point of fact, than it was hers. And yet—it might have been his and hers, if she pleased, too, but for ill fortune. That way lay madness, of course. Yet—the place suited her. Chancery was so immemorial that it had become natural: its furniture, tapestries, casements seemed to have grown where they hung: labelling age had stolen upon it, as lichen steals upon old tiles, till the spirit of the artifice that garnished had disappeared, and the house ranked with the oaks Gray Bagot had planted ere Richard was king. And Spring was natural. For all her badges of modernity—bead bag, silk stockings, nail polish, she was as refreshingly natural as Pomona herself. She fitted into Chancery as had no maid or man—except his father—whom Willoughby had ever seen treading those stairs.
When, therefore, some ten days later, the Groom of the Chambers approached his lodge at a quarter to five o’clock of a July afternoon, to see Spring seated upon the turf beneath his window, hatless, smoking a cigarette and talking earnestly with the old groom, he could have burst into song.
Spring picked up her hat and waved, and, when he came up, stretched out her little hands to be helped to her feet.
“I said I should come,” she said simply. “You shouldn’t have asked me.”
“If I remember,” said Willoughby, “I didn’t so far presume.”
Spring raised her brown eyes to heaven.
“Which means I’ve come uninvited?”
Willoughby bowed.
“Queens are not asked for favours,” he said. “Yet they bestow them.”
“Of course, you’re wasted,” said Spring, turning to the miniature porch. “You ought to be in some Embassy, flattering secretive dowagers. You know. Duels of polished wit and sleight of tongue. Never mind. I’ve got a great idea. I’ll tell it you over the tea I’ve let you in for.”
Bagot put his head on one side.
“Yet she looks generous,” he said. “Of course, it’s a proud mouth.”
“It’s a thirsty one,” said Spring, passing inside.
Old William served them devotedly, hissing a little with excitement from time to time. He had not waited on a lady for many a year. Besides, that his master should have company at the lodge delighted his heart. Willoughby’s monkhood went against the groom’s grain.
“And so,” said Bagot, frowning at the weather-beaten cup, which the proud mouth was using, “you managed to get to Holy Brush.”
Spring nodded.
“Tact,” she said. “I ought to be at an Embassy, too. I was most skilful. What I was really up against was that there’s only one bathroom atThe Jade: but I said that that was a custom which was rapidly dying out and that one day we should be proud to say that we’d used a common bath, just as some people boast of remembering inns where everybody sat around the same big dish, spoon in hand.”
“Do they? I mean, shall you?”
“I hope so. Any way, it did the trick, and now she’s perfectly delighted. She’s bought two ‘gate’ tables already, and I left her on the bowling-green, telling the landlord the history of his church.”
“I congratulate myself. If only a certain custom wasn’t already dead—that of living and letting live—I’ld put myself at your service.”
“Which,” said Spring thoughtfully, “brings us to my idea. If you want Chancery back, I think you may have it.”
“How?”
“Go to America,” said Spring. “You had a good time there before.”
“I should think I did,” said Bagot. “Your people are wonderfully kind.”
“Well, go. Don’t call yourself Worcester, you know. And use your—your sleight of tongue. With ordinary care you ought to marry an heiress within six months.” She paused to take another piece of toast. “It’s been done before,” she added carelessly.
There was a long silence.
At length—
“I’m afraid I’m a bad business man,” said Willoughby quietly.
“Perhaps,” said Spring. “In fact, it’s fairly obvious that, commercially, the Gray Bagots weren’t in it with the Harps. But why be foolish? You needn’t marry the first one that comes along. They’re not all Harps, you know. Some of our psalteries are quite passable.”
“Would you do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. But then, I’m a fool.”
“Exactly,” said Willoughby. “So’m I.”
Spring frowned.
“Think,” she said. “Think of sitting in your own library, with servants falling over one another to answer the bell when you rang, and hunters in the stables and four cars, and Royalty coming to stay with you, and money to burn, and ‘The Wife of Willoughby Bagot, Esquire’ the picture of the year, and Chancery smiling in its sleep because a Gray Bagot was up in the saddle again.”
“ ‘And hatred therewith,’ ” said Willoughby, producing a pipe. “Nothing doing, you witch. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m much too foolish. Quite idiotic, in fact. It’s hereditary. After all, I’ve much to be thankful for. At the moment, I’m thankful for your dimple. I suppose it always comes when you’re trying not to laugh.”
Spring covered her face and shook with merriment.
Presently she sat up soberly.
“We don’t do so badly, we servants, do we?” she said. “I guess our respective employers aren’t laughing like that. I suppose you won’t let me wash up?”
“Certainly not,” said Bagot. “That’s William’s affair.”
“Yes, but as often as not he does it with cold water. He told me so just now. And that’s all wrong, you know.”
“I can’t help that,” said Bagot, lighting her cigarette. “I like my guests to do as they feel inclined, but there’s a limit to my hospitality. And now shall we go outside and sit on the grass? I want to see you against a background of box.”
It was a brilliant afternoon, and the shadow of the lodge turned the recess between the grey and green walls into a little arbour, the mouth of which gave on to Chancery, slumbering warm in the sunshine, a quarter of a mile away. What traffic used the road, pounded or whirred about its business behind the close box-screen, alike blind and invisible, but lending the little bay an air of privileged privacy like that of a family pew.
“My summer parlour,” said Bagot, ushering his guest.
“Hereafter the Servants’ Hall,” said Spring, taking her seat upon the turf. “Well, now I’m here, how do I look against the box?”
“You kill the poor thing,” said Bagot. “Your eyes are too bright. Never mind. I’ll have it watered before you come next time.”
“I can’t come unasked again. I mean, there’s a limit to hospitality, isn’t there?”
“You wicked girl,” said Willoughby. “You——”
“Why did you want to see me against the box?”
“Because good pictures should be put into good frames. I didn’t choose the paper on my sitting-room walls, you know, but I never noticed how very distressing it was until this afternoon.”
Spring looked up, smiling.
“Keep something for the heiress,” she said.
A car slid out of the distance, crept past the gates and stopped by the side of the hedge, three paces away.
“We’re not far off,” said a man’s voice. “I know this property here, but these corkscrew lanes of yours have tied me up. I can’t remember which side the village lies. Maybe there’s a porter here. . . .”
A door was opened and someone descended into the road.
Before he could reach the gate, Bagot was out of his garden and in the drive.
“Can I help you, sir?”
As he spoke he recognized one of the two Americans who had completed Spring’s party the week before.
And Spring was sitting in the arbour, with blazing eyes and her under-lip caught in her white teeth, straining her ears. . . .
The way to Holy Brush was asked and told.
The motorist re-entered his Rolls and, when this had purred into the distance, Willoughby returned to the arbour with his eyes upon the ground.
The look upon his face told Spring two things.
The first was that Bagot knew what was taking her compatriot to Holy Brush. The second, that he found the knowledge acutely distasteful.
“I must go,” she said abruptly, getting upon her feet. “What are you thinking about?”
“I was wishing,” said Bagot slowly, “that I was back at Chancery.” He looked up suddenly. “And you?”
Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape.
“I was thinking that it’s very refreshing to discover another fool.”
For the next four days, when Willoughby returned to his lodge, Spring was seated upon the turf, hatless and at her ease, awaiting his coming. The man always assumed that she had just arrived. The assumption was wrong. On the last three days my lady had been there two hours before he came, ironing his washing and delicately mending his clothes. The care of linen was not old William’s strong point. She also instructed the groom how to wash up and, shocked by his replies to an examination upon elementary cooking, gave him a written statement of the procedure for roasting meat. Moreover, she taught him to deceive so cunningly, that, when later, he volunteered that he had bought an old iron for sixpence and had been trying his hand, his master wholly believed him and praised his discretion. William’s ears burned.
On the fifth day, Spring did not come.
When Willoughby, approaching the lodge, could see no sign of the lady, for an instant his heart stood still. Ridiculously enough, he had come to expect to find her beneath his window. Hoping against hope, he quickened his pace. . . .
Except for William, setting the table for tea, the lodge was empty.
Willoughby tried to believe that Spring was late. He washed and changed and made a dozen excuses for not taking tea. He gave her half an hour—three-quarters, while he smoked in the little garden or strolled in the road. Finally, tea was served at six o’clock. Long after that he listened to every footfall: not until half-past eleven did he retire to rest. And all the time he knew that she was not coming, that he would not see her that day.
Thinking things over in his bed, he became frightened. He would see her again, of course—he hoped, many times. But a day had to come—already it was set in Fate’s diary—when he would see her no more, when their idyll would be definitely finished, to be presently bound in Memory and go up to the shelf of Time. The thought shocked him. Till now, he had never realized how pleasant she was. Her company, her ways, had become a necessity to him. Not in four days, of course. That was absurd. Custom is not so rapidly delivered. It was not a question of custom. Spring had become a necessity in half an hour. The gap she filled had been yawning for months and years, but, until it was filled, he never had known it was there. And now he did know, and its emptiness would gape upon him. Could he have quitted the place, changed his way of living, flung himself into some pursuit, had he but gone to her and she not come to him—it would have been different. As it was, so long as he cared for Chancery, dwelt at the lodge, always between five and six he would miss her excellence, turning his lonely parlour into a gallery of dreams.
For Willoughby, there lay her magic. She was his dream-lady. She had come to him as dreams do come. Their instant understanding, their immediate intimacy, their full-grown fellowship—things which should have been impossible and yet were natural as the day—were stuff that dreams are made of. . . .
Finding his legend good, he took it further, recklessly. He made her mistress of Chancery, loaded her with presents, taught her to ride. . . . The hopelessness of such fantasy did not matter at all, because it was founded on fact—a breathing, sweet-smelling fact, that sat beside him on the turf, all apple-green frock and white silk stocking and tiny tennis-shoes. With her perfume in his nostrils, he could afford to be extravagant—with her perfume in his nostrils. . . . And now . . .
Sic transit gloria mundi.
My lady’s absence was deliberate. Spring was as wise as she was fair. She wished to discover whether Gray Bagot’s steady eyes counted with her as much as she thought they did, whether she was losing her head instead of her heart. She was not expecting for an instant to be able to read her own soul, but she was more than hopeful of extracting a valuable hint.
Her hope was realized.
By the time her aunt and she had dined she had become sodistraiteas to provoke that usually imperturbable lady’s indignation, while, retiring at ten o’clock, she remained awake for one hour, immersed in the distasteful reflections that Time can in no wise be recalled and that they who fling opportunities in Fortune’s face can hardly be surprised if their future relations with the lady are rather strained.
At last, picturing Willoughby, she fell asleep.
Let us use her heavy brown eyes, as the delicate ranks of lashes are closing up.
Tall, spare, soldierly, the descendant of the old Gray Bagot was good to see. His hair was fair and close cut; his complexion clear and fresh; his nose aquiline. His mouth was well shaped; his voice pleasant; his grey eyes, set far apart. It was, indeed, his steady, grave gaze which was so notable. He always looked you in the face and expected to be so regarded. He liked to see, and was perfectly content to be seen. If you did as he expected, you had your reward. His character, his various emotions were spread before you in such print as a child could read. If he liked you, you saw it in his eyes, and there was a friendship made in a second of time. If he disliked you, you saw it, and that was that. But he never disliked anyone without just cause. As a matter of fact, he was generous to a fault. He looked his best, I fancy, upon a horse, but so does many a man. He had a fine, upright carriage, and his shoulders were broad. Honest, unassuming, dignified, he did his blood credit. That Chancery suited him is indisputable: his looks, his bearing, his ways agreed with her: and Chancery was a show place.
Willoughby tried not to hasten upon the sixth afternoon. His working hours were from seven till four o’clock, but, since the measure he gave was always good, he seldom left the apartments till nearer five. To-day, however, there had come no visitors to interrupt his labours, and by a quarter-past four there was no more to be conveniently done.
It follows that he reached the lodge rather before he was expected—in fact, in comfortable time to witness the delivery of a pair of pyjamas, four soft shirts and six handkerchiefs to his valet by hisrepasseuse.
“Hullo,” said Spring cheerfully. “I guess you never dreamed I could iron.” She turned to the groom, who was standing upon one leg. “That’s all to-day, William. The other two need mending, so I’ll do them to-morrow.”
“Very good, m’m.”
With an apologetic look at his master, William made good his escape.
“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Willoughby. “If I’d had the faintest idea——”
“Live and let live,” said Spring. “It amuses me and it doesn’t hurt you, so why deprive a poor servant of her innocent fun?” She slid a cool arm through his. “And now take me into the garden and give me a match. By the time you’ve changed, William will have brought us some tea.”
Willoughby did as he was bid.
It was when the meal was over that Spring put her elbows on the table and knitted her brows.
“I want your advice.”
“That’s very easy,” said Bagot. “Let sleeping suits lie, and Grooms of the Chambers do their own dirty work.”
The red lips tightened.
“Thanks very much,” said Spring. “Perhaps I ought to have said that the advice I want is upon a matter upon which I value your opinion.”
Willoughby considered his finger-nails.
“I’ve got an awfully good answer to that,” he said. “A regular winner.”
“What?” suspiciously.
“Can’t think of it for the moment,” said Willoughby, “but——”
“Oh, but you will before I go. We shan’t go before next Friday. In fact I can’t. You see, I only get off in the afternoons, and William says there’s a waistcoat——”
“I capitulate,” said Willoughby quietly. “Friday? In three days’ time? Is Mrs.—er—Mrs.——“.
“Le Fevre.”
“—Le Fevre weary of Holy Brush?”
“Not that I know of,” said Spring. “I want your advice.”
“Yes?” said Willoughby.
“I have been offered another situation.”
“As companion?”
“Yes.”
Bagot took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe.
“First of all,” he said slowly, “are you happy with Mrs. Le Fevre?”
“Very. She’s awfully sweet.”
“Then I take it the new situation would be an improvement financially?”
“Yes,” said Spring shortly, “it would.”
“D’you think that you’ld have as much freedom?”
“I know that I shouldn’t.”
“You might be happier.”
“I might,” said Spring. “I’m not at all sure; but I might.”
Willoughby frowned. Then—
“Might you be less happy, Spring?”
“Easily.”
The man slid his pouch into a pocket and rose to his feet.
“My dear,” he said, “unless the increase in salary is too big to be ignored, my advice is to stay where you are.”
There was a pause.
At length—
“I think I ought to say,” said Spring slowly, “that the offer was made by a man.”
Willoughby’s heart gave one bound.
For a second he hesitated. Then—
“That alters everything,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because companions, like Grooms of the Chambers, do not figure in the table of relative precedence, whereas. . . .”
Spring stared out of the window and into the park.
“You’ve seen him,” she said. “Twice. But then you knew that.”
Willoughby nodded.
“I should say,” he said quietly, “that he was one of the best.”
“In fact, if I don’t accept, I shall be selling a bed of roses for the second ‘o’ in smoke?”
Willoughby set his teeth.
“Dear Spring,” he said, “I can’t advise your heart—only your head. But I’m bound to say that, placed as you are, you should do what your head tells you, if you possibly can. Think of the future.”
“I do,” said Spring. “That’s what worries me so.”
“Supposing Mrs. Le Fevre were to die and you to fall sick.”
“Supposing my husband treated me like a dog.”
“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,” said Bagot.
“He wouldn’t do it twice,” said Spring sweetly.
“The point is,” said Willoughby, swallowing, “that companions can be given notice, but wives can’t.”
“Wives can’t give notice, either.”
“I’ve heard of its being done.”
“Then you advise me to take my precious offer and thank my stars.”
“How can I? But I can point out that a girl in your present position is up against it. You can’t get away from that. Think. You depend for the bread you eat upon somebody else’s whim. I bet you’ve never saved. You haven’t had time. And so, you see, it’s vital that, if you can improve your position—scramble on to firmer ground—you should. Well, you’ve got a roaring chance. He’s rich, of course, and a white man—two pretty good points, you know. I don’t suggest that, if you were not a companion, you couldn’t have half London at your feet; but, as it is, my lady, you don’t get a show. So that this chance that’s come your way may never come by again. If you were rich, I should tell you to please your heart. As it is, you don’t dislike him, you’ve no reason to think he won’t do you slap up—I’m perfectly certain he will—and so I simply suggest you should please your head.”
“Which do you do?” said Spring.
“I’m a man.”
“Exactly, and you jolly well please your heart.”
“Not at all,” said Bagot, “I——”
“I imagine you could do better than serve the Harps. I mean, you weren’t born or bred to fix parlours, but, because you’re mad about Chancery, you just do.”
This was unanswerable.
After a moment’s reflection—
“A male man,” said Willoughby, “can shift for himself. If he likes to buy trouble, he can. He can always get through.”