So they stood and waited. From the keeper's cottage up the hill you could have seen the eight little groups, standing expectantly on the grass at a short distance from the wood, following the curve of its line. Behind each stood a gaitered loader with another gun ready to hand to his master. The women, in clothes not distinguishable in colour from those of the men, stood with them; the dogs squatted by the side of their masters or tugged at leashes held by the men. Blackbirds popped in and out of the wood, and thrushes, but there were few sounds of life. There was a hush of expectancy, and otherwise only the deep winter stillness of nature, and the pale sun, and the wet odour of the soil.
Nancy stood with her uncle, as she had announced her intention of doing. Sir Herbert, in a Norfolk jacket of voluminous tweed and a green Tyrolean hat, would hardly have been recognised by those who had only seen him in his Judge's robes. He asked Nancy as they were waiting whether she thought he was properly attired. "I like to do the thing thoroughly while I'm about it," he said. "I notice that nobody but myself is wearing these buttoned things—spats I think they call them. I think you might have written, Nancy, to tell me they had gone out of fashion. Do you think I could take them off and throw them away presently? I don't know what good they are. It is only a passion for being correctly dressed that induced me to put them on."
"I think they look very nice," said Nancy. "And as for your hat, Uncle Herbert, I'm sure it's the very latest thing, because Humphrey has got one just like it. But it wants a woodcock's feather in it."
"Oh, does it? Thank you for telling me. I shall direct my attention to-day to shooting a woodcock if one turns up, and robbing him of his feather. It is very unpleasant and takes away your conceit of yourself not to have everything exactly right. With your intelligence you no doubt understand that."
"Joan understands it better than I do," replied Nancy. "She likes to be well dressed. I don't care about it one way or the other."
"Ah! but that's such a mistake," said Sir Herbert, "especially for a female, if I may call you so. When your body is well dressed your mind is well dressed. You should look into that."
"I have," said Nancy. "It's all a question of buttons."
What she meant by this aphorism did not appear, for a shot from the right of the line made Sir Herbert spring to attention, and immediately after, with a sudden whir, a high pheasant shot like a bullet over his head, and flying straight into the charge from his gun, turned over in the air and fell with a thud on the grass far behind him.
"Glorious!" exclaimed the Judge. "I'm in form." But although he fired many barrels during the next few minutes, in which a hot fusillade was going on on the right and on the left, and birds were falling, clean shot, or sliding to the ground with wings outspread, or continuing their swift flight unshaken, he brought only one down, with a broken wing, which ran off into the shaugh at the top of the hill.
"Now that is most disappointing," he said, when the tap-tap of the beaters' sticks could be heard, and they began to emerge from the wood one by one. "I really did think I was going to shoot well to-day. Life is full of such delusive hopes."
"I'm glad you didn't shoot too many," said Nancy. "They're such pretty things, and I like to see them get away."
"So do I, in theory," said Sir Herbert. "In practice, no. Do you think it is the lust for killing, as some people say?"
"Oh no," said Nancy. "I have thought about that. If it were, I shouldn't want to come out. It is the skill."
"I think you're right, Nancy. That, and what remains of the primitive instinct of the chase. You had to kill your food, and you kept your health by doing so. You killed two birds with one stone."
"And now you don't even kill one bird with two barrels," said Nancy, with a side-glance at his eye.
He met her mischievous gaze. "Nancy," he said, "if you had said that on the bench they would have put it in the papers—with headlines; as it is, I've a good mind to commit you for contempt of court."
The divided groups began to congregate. The Squire came round the corner very well pleased with himself. In spite of his preoccupation he had shot quite up to his form. And his good-humour was confirmed at the discovery that Hammond-Watt could be classed as a doubtful no longer, for he had killed more birds than anybody, and killed them clean, and that Bobby Trench had also given a fair account of himself. The day had begun well, and the fact that Sir Herbert had only shot two pheasants, one of which had got away, and George Senhouse had shot none, although, as is the unaccountable way of driven birds, they had come over him more thickly than over any one else, did not avail to dash his satisfaction. He led the way to the next stand, down a woodland ride, in high good-humour, walking with great strides, which Lady Birkett, who accompanied him, found some difficulty in keeping up with. "I hope Herbert will pick up," he said, laughing good-humoredly at his brother-in-law's misfortune. "Now I'm never very much away from my form, either above or below. Funny thing—form! Even when I'm worried to death about things it don't seem to make much difference to my eye."
But when the next drive was over, and he had only shot two pheasants, neither of them clean, and a rabbit, he said, "It's all this infernal worry. No man on earth, I don't care who he is, can shoot straight if he's got something weighing on his mind."
Lady Birkett was consolatory. "My dear Edward, don't think about it," she said. "It will all come right."
"I wish I thought so," said the Squire. "I think if I had that woman here I'd put a charge of shot into her."
During the course of the morning the twins came together to compare notes. "Humphrey is shooting quite well," said Joan, "but, all the same, if he had fallen in with my suggestion we should have scooped twenty-four shillings. I reckon it up after every drive and tell him the result. I am hoping that he will be so pleased with himself that he will offer to settle up at the end of the day of his own accord."
"Don't make it too much," advised Nancy. "Ten shillings in our pockets are better than twenty in his."
"Bobby Trench offered to take over the arrangement," said Joan.
Nancy threw back her fair hair. "It's a pity to waste an opportunity," she said, "but of course you can't accept a tip from him."
"My dear, as if I would!" exclaimed Joan. "But he's very pushing. It's difficult to keep him at a distance. I think I shall go and stand with Mr. Wilkinson. He's a dear old thing, and I think he'd be flattered."
"Oh, don't forsake Humphrey, for goodness' sake, if he's in a good temper," advised Nancy.
"Well, Bobby Trench is such a nuisance. He comes over and talks to us while we're waiting."
"If you stick on till lunch-time I'll change with you after. Uncle Herbert is shooting very badly, but he's full of conversation. And I didn't tell you—he asked after the camera fund. I don't know who can have told him—Dick, I suppose. Dear old Dick; I wish he was here!"
"So do I," said Joan. "Did Uncle Herbert show any signs of contributing?"
"I expect he will. But I didn't want to appear too mercenary; I skilfully changed the subject."
"That ought to do the trick," observed Joan. "I don't mind a bit taking it from relations. They ought to be encouraged to do their duty."
"All old people ought to tip all young ones," said Nancy largely. "You might convey that truth delicately to Mr. Wilkinson."
"I might, but I'm not going to."
"Or Colonel Stacey. Why not try him? He's old enough."
"You can do your own dirty work," said Joan, preparing to leave her. "Colonel Stacey is very poor. He lives in a tiny little house. I shall sit next to him at luncheon, and see that he gets a jolly good one."
The Squire shot worse and worse as the morning went on, and through over-anxiety and confused instructions the birds were not driven properly out of High Beech Wood, which ought to have afforded the best drive of the day. They streamed away to the right of where the Squire was standing, where there was neither a gun nor a stop, or went back over the heads of the keepers. Humphrey had suggested placing a gun where those that were got out of the wood eventually came over, and because he had pooh-poohed the suggestion the Squire was furious with him. Dick would have put a gun there without asking him. But Humphrey now could do nothing right. After this fiasco he suggested sending to the keeper's cottage, where luncheon was to be served, to tell them to set the tables outside. There was a warm grove of beeches at the back of it, where they sometimes did lunch earlier in the season, and to-day it was fine and sunny enough to have made it more pleasant to sit in the open than in a crowded room in a cottage. But the Squire said, "For God's sake, don't be altering arrangements now, and throwing everything out," so Humphrey had retired and told Bobby Trench that his governor was like a bear with a sore head.
"I thought he seemed rather passionate," said Bobby Trench pleasantly. "Not pulling 'em down, I suppose. It does put you out, you know."
"He'd better manage for himself," said Humphrey sulkily. "If he likes to make a mess of it, let him."
Joan, who was with them, grew red at this discussion. "Father has had a lot of worries," she said. "I think you ought to help him all you can, Humphrey."
Humphrey stared at her, and Bobby Trench said, "Bravo, Miss Joan, you stick up for your own."
"I'm going to," said Joan, and turned back to join Beatrice Senhouse, who was just behind them. At the next stand, the last of the morning, she went up to her father and said, "I'm going to count your birds, daddy, and I'll give you a kiss for every one you let off."
The Squire's worried face brightened. "I thought you'd forsaken your poor old father," he said. "Well, I'm letting plenty of them off, but we'll see what we can do this time."
Whether encouraged or not by his prospective reward, he acquitted himself well during the ensuing drive, in the course of which he got two high birds with a right and left, and another one going away with a quick change of guns; and when the drive was over he handed his gun to his loader, and put his hand on Joan's shoulder to walk towards the cottage, with a face all smiles.
Mrs. Clinton, with Lady Aldeburgh and her daughter, met them at the garden gate. "I have told them to put the table outside," she said, as they came up, and the Squire said, "Capital idea, Nina, capital idea!" and turning to Lady Aldeburgh twitted her on her late appearance. "You've missed some good sport," he said. "But we'll see what we can show you this afternoon."
Lady Aldeburgh, in a costume of Lincoln green with a short skirt bound in brown leather, looked younger than her own daughter, and felt no older than a child. "Oh, do let me stand by you, Mr. Clinton, and see you shoot," she said, clasping her hands appealingly. "I'll promise not to chatter."
"That woman's a fool," said Joan, who had withdrawn from the group to join Nancy.
She sat next to Colonel Stacey at luncheon, as she had undertaken to do, and was assiduous in attending to his bodily wants. He was of the skeleton-like, big-moustached order of retired warrior, and looked very much as if he suffered from a lack of nutriment, although as a matter of fact he was accustomed to "do himself" remarkably well, shirking nothing in the way of food and drink that other men of his age were apt to look askance at. He made an extremely good meal, and Joan took credit to herself for his doing so, although he did not repay her attentions with much notice, being well able to forage for himself. Mr. Wilkinson, who sat on her other side, was far more communicative and friendly, in a sort of pleasant, grandfatherly way; and as the three of them were standing together when luncheon was over, he took half a sovereign out of his pocket and said, "Now if I know anything of young women of your age, and I ought to by this time, I dare say you and Nancy will find some use for that."
Joan accepted it with gratitude. Her mind was at ease; she had not worked for it in any way. It was a most acceptable windfall. "Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Wilkinson," she said. "Now we shall be able to buy our camera. We have been saving up for it for a long time."
"That's capital," said old Mr. Wilkinson, patting her on the shoulder and moving off.
Colonel Stacey, now that he had satisfied the claims of appetite, had some attention to spare for his late neighbour, who was really a very nice-mannered child, and not greedy as most children are, but well-behaved towards her elders. He in his turn pulled out a well-worn leather purse and extracted half a sovereign from it. Joan, seeing what was coming, had a moment of panic, and turned quickly away. But he stopped her and said, "There, take that; that makes one for each of you."
Joan's face was scarlet. "Oh, thanks most awfully," she said hurriedly. "But we've got quite enough now," and then she fairly ran away, leaving Colonel Stacey, surprised at the curious ways of young girls, to put his half-sovereign philosophically back into his purse.
Lady Aldeburgh accompanied the Squire during most of the afternoon, and by a judicious use of flattery and girlish charm kept him in so good a humour with himself that he shot much better than in the morning, and fussed considerably less over details of arrangement than he would otherwise have done.
He could not have told how it came to pass, although Lady Aldeburgh might have been able to enlighten him, that as they were walking together down a muddy country lane, with the rest of the party straggling after them, he poured into her sympathetic ear the story of what he was now accustomed to call Dick's entanglement.
Lady Aldeburgh bounded mentally over five-and-twenty or thirty years and became matronly, even maternal.
"I have heard something about it, dear Mr. Clinton," she said, "and have been longing to tell you how much I sympathised with you. But I hardly liked to until you had spoken first. Of course one's children do give one trouble in many ways, and an old married woman like myself who has had a long experience can often help, with sympathy if not with advice. So I am very glad you have told me."
The Squire found this attitude right, and soothing besides. "Well, of course, it's an impossible idea," he said. "I shan't give in about it. Have you seen this woman, by the by?"
"I saw her last night," said Lady Aldeburgh, "and of course I've heard of her. She is not the sort of woman that I should care for a son of mine to marry. She seemed to me an affected, underbred minx."
"You thought that, did you?" exclaimed the Squire, his eyes brightening. "Now it's the most extraordinary thing that the people round here can't see that. Even my cousin, old Humphrey Meadshire, seemed to be quite taken in by her."
"Oh, well—men!" said Lady Aldeburgh meaningly.
"Ah, but it isn't only men," said the Squire. "It's the women too. They're all ready to take her in as if she was one of themselves. Now I saw at once, the first time I set eyes on her, what sort of a woman she was. I don't profess to be more clear-sighted than other people, but—but, still, there it is. You saw it, and of course you go about more than the women do here, most of 'em, and know more of the world."
"I should hope I do, the frumps!" was Lady Aldeburgh's inward comment, but she said, "I know your Dick—not so well as I do Humphrey, but pretty well—and I say that he is much too fine a fellow to throw himself away like that. Still, if he has made up his mind about it, what can you do?"
He told her what he could do, and to some extent had done—withdraw or threaten to withdraw supplies, and she commended this course warmly. "That ought to bring him to his senses," she said. "And if it doesn't—well, you have other sons."
The Squire did not quite like this implication. He had never yet faced the question of what he would do after Dick got married, if he should get married in spite of him. But certainly, the prospect of disinheriting him had never crossed his mind.
"I have never met your second son, I think," said Lady Aldeburgh. "He's a doctor, isn't he?"
"Oh, that's Walter," said the Squire. "You'll see him this evening. He's the third. Humphrey comes next to Dick."
"Oh!" said Lady Aldeburgh, who had the same means of access to works of reference dealing with the County Families of England as other people, and used them not less frequently.
"You know we had to stop the same sort of thing with Clinton a few years ago," said Lady Aldeburgh. "He was wild to marry one of the Frivolity girls—pretty creature she was too, I must admit that, and quite respectable, and it really went to my heart to have to stop it. But of course it would never have done. And what made it so difficult for a time was that we had no hold over Clinton about money and that sort of thing. Hemustcome in for everything."
"Oh, well," said the Squire airily, "I couldn't cut Dick out of Kencote eventually, whatever he did. But he wouldn't find things very easy if Kencote were all there was to come into."
Lady Aldeburgh took this, and took it rightly, as meaning that there was a good deal of unsettled property which the Squire could leave as he liked, which may or may not have been what she had wanted to find out. "Then you have an undoubted hold over him," she said. "Of course, I know it must be very unpleasant for you to have to exercise it, but, if I may say so, it seems to me that simply to threaten to withdraw his allowance if he should marry against your wishes won't stop him if he can look forward to having everything by and by."
"He wouldn't have everything, anyhow," said the Squire.
"Well, whatever he is going to have besides the place. You don't mind my talking of all this, do you? I've not the slightest desire to poke into affairs that don't concern me."
"Very good of you to take such an interest in it all," said the Squire. "I don't mind telling you in the least—it's quite simple. Kencote has always been entailed, but there's a good deal of land and a considerable amount of other property which doesn't go with it. Dick won't be as well off as I was when I succeeded my grandfather, because there was nobody but me, except some old aunts, and I've got a large family to provide for. Still, he'll be a good deal better off than most men with a big place to keep up, and there'll be plenty left for the rest."
"That's if he does as you wish," said Lady Aldeburgh.
"Well, I hadn't thought of it in that way," admitted the Squire.
"But, my dear man," she exclaimed, "you are not using your best weapon—your only weapon. If he is infatuated with this woman do you think he will be prevented from marrying her by your stopping his allowance? Of course he won't. He can get what money he wants for the present, and she has some, I suppose. He only has to marry and sit down and wait."
"Then what ought I to do?" asked the Squire grumpily. He knew what she meant, and hated the idea of it.
"Why, tell him that if he makes this marriage you won't leave him a penny more than you're obliged to."
"If I said that I should commit myself."
"You mean if you threatened it, you'd have to do it. Well, I think you would. Yours—ours, I should say—is one of the oldest families in England, and you are the head of it. You can't see it let down like that."
This was balm to the Squire, but it did not relieve the heaviness of his heart. "I believe I shall have to do something of that sort," he said, "or threaten it anyhow," and having arrived at the place for the next drive, he turned with a sigh to the business in hand.
The short winter day came to an end, and at dusk they found themselves on the edge of the park, after having shot the birds out of the last covert. They strolled home across the frosty grass, under the darkening sky already partly illumined by a round moon, merry or quiet, pleased or vexed with themselves, according to their several natures and the way they had acquitted themselves in the day's sport, and the warm, well-lighted house swallowed them up.
Joan and Nancy went up to their room. "You haven't been near me all the afternoon," said Nancy. "Here's half a crown from Humphrey. It's disappointing. Did you do any business with Uncle Herbert?"
For answer Joan burst out crying. "I hate all this beastly cadging for money," she said through her tears, "and I won't do it any more."
"Well, don't howl," said Nancy, "or you'll look awful when we go downstairs. What has happened?"
"Mr. Wilkinson gave me ten b—bob," sobbed Joan. "I didn't ask him for it. And then poor old Colonel Stacey thought he must do the same, so he took out a sh-shabby old purse and offered me another one, and I believe it was the only one in it. And I wouldn't take it."
"Do pull yourself together, old girl," entreated Nancy. "Well, if he's so hard up, I think it was rather a delicate action."
Joan turned on her, and her tears were dried up by the heat of her indignation. "You're always talking about your brains," she said, "and you can't see anything. Of course, I should have felt a beast anyhow, but I feel much more of a beast for taking Mr. Wilkinson's tip and refusing his."
"Why?" asked Nancy.
"Because he'd know I thought he was too poor," said Joan, her tears breaking out afresh.
Nancy considered this. "I dare say he didn't think much about it," she said. "But why didn't you go and make up to him afterwards, if you felt like that? Do leave off blubbering."
Joan took no heed of this advice. A physically tiring day and the distress she had kept down during the afternoon had been too much for her, and now she was lying on her bed sobbing unrestrainedly. "I w-would have gone to stand with him," she said. "P-poor old d-darling, he looked so lonely standing there all by himself, for no one went near him, except m-mother, once. B-but I thought he'd think I wanted the t-tip after all, so I d-didn't. Here's Mr. Wilkinson's half-sovereign. You can take it. I don't want it."
"Well, if you don't, I don't," said Nancy, picking up the coin which Joan had thrown on to the floor, nevertheless, and putting it on to the dressing-table. "I don't know why you're always trying to make me out more hard-hearted than you are. Shall I fetch mother?"
"N-no. Y-yes," said Joan.
So Mrs. Clinton was fetched, and heard the story, sitting on the bed, while Joan sobbed on her shoulder. Nancy leant on the rail and helped to explain matters. She now felt like crying herself. "We have a sort of joke with the boys," she said. "They understand it all right, but, of course, we wouldn't go asking everybody for money, mother."
"I think you are getting rather too old to accept money presents from any one outside the family," Mrs. Clinton said, "although it was very kind of Mr. Wilkinson to give you one, and I don't mind your having taken it in the least. And I'm sure Colonel Stacey didn't think anything of your refusing, Joan dear. So I shouldn't worry any more about that; and I think you had better have some tea up here and lie down till dinner-time."
So Joan's tender heart was comforted, and Colonel Stacey kept his half-sovereign, which if he could not have afforded to lose he would never have thought of offering.
Walter Clinton, with his wife and two little girls, arrived at Kencote an hour or so before dinner-time, and the Squire instantly seized upon him for a confabulation. "George Senhouse is in my room," he said, "and the rest are playing pool. Come into the smoking-room. I want to speak to you."
Walter followed him through the baize door and down the stone passage. He was not so handsome as Dick nor so smart-looking as Humphrey, but he was tall and well set up, with an air of energy and good-humour that was attractive. "It's jolly to be here for a bit again," he said. "I've been working like a nigger. We've got a regular plague of influenza at Melbury Park."
The Squire grunted. He was pleased enough to see his son, but he always shied at the words Melbury Park, and rather disliked mention of Walter's profession, which had been none of his choosing.
"Well, I suppose you've heard of this wretched business of Dick's," he said, as he lighted a big cigar.
Walter filled his pipe, standing by the fire. "Yes. I've seen him," he said.
The Squire held the match in his hand as he exclaimed, "You've seen him, eh?"
"Yes, he spent Christmas with us," said Walter.
The Squire threw the match, which had begun to burn his fingers, into the grate. "Why on earth didn't you let me know?" he asked.
"He didn't want me to," replied Walter, taking his seat in one of the shabby easy-chairs.
The Squire thought this over. It affected him disagreeably, making him feel very far from his son. "Was he all right?" he asked.
"Of course, he was worried," said Walter. "He was all right otherwise."
"Well, now, don't you think he's behaving in a most monstrous way?" asked the Squire, anxious to substitute a mood of righteous anger for one of painful longing.
"Well, I can't say I do," replied Walter.
"Oh, he's talked you over. But I'll tell you this, Walter, he shallnotmarry this woman, and drag us all in the mud. You ought to be doing what you can to stop it, too, instead of encouraging him."
"I'm not encouraging him," said Walter. "It wouldn't make any difference whether I encouraged him or discouraged him, either. He has made up his mind to marry her and he's going to do it."
"I tell you he isnotgoing to do it." The Squire hitched himself forward out of the depths of his chair to give more weight to his pronouncement.
Walter remained silent, with a mental shrug, and the Squire was rather at a loss to know how to proceed. "Do you know what this woman is like?" he asked.
"I've seen her photograph and heard what Dick has to say about her," said Walter.
"Oh, Dick! Dick's infatuated, of course. I should have thought you would have had more sense than to swallow his description of her blindly. She's—oh, I can't trust myself to say what she is. But I'll tell you this. I'd rather Kencote passed out of the Clinton family altogether than that she came to be mistress of it."
"Well, that won't happen for a great many years, I hope," said Walter.
"It willneverhappen," said the Squire, with immense emphasis.
Again Walter was silent, and his father slightly embarrassed. "How is he going to get married, I should like to know," he asked presently, "if I don't help him? I've told him that the moment he does marry I shall help him no longer. I don't suppose he's got a couple of hundred pounds in the world. He can marry with that, but he can't live on it. He's not going to live on her money, I suppose."
"No, he's got a job," said Walter calmly.
Again the Squire stared. "Got a job!" he repeated. "What sort of a job?"
"Quite a good one. Agent to John Spence up in Norfolk—the chap who was in his regiment."
The Squire's surprise, and what must be called, in view of his thwarted diplomacy, discomposure, were indicated by his dropped jaw. Walter went on in even tone. "He's to get six hundred a year and a house. There's a place in Warwickshire too, which he'll have to look after. He was just going to take quite a small thing in Ireland, but Spence heard he was available and rushed up and booked him. You see, he knows his job well."
Of course he knew his job well. Hadn't the Squire taken a pride ever since he had been the smallest of small boys in initiating him into it? Hadn't he seen to it that if he learned nothing else during his long and expensive school and university education, he should learn all that could be learnt about the land and the intricacies of estate management? And hadn't he rejoiced in seeing him take kindly to it ever since? He had been quite content to spend the greater part of his leave at home, often working as hard as if he were a paid agent, even taking papers up to London, working at them there, and writing long letters. He had not been content to take a general interest in the property to which he was one day to succeed, riding or walking about the place and leaving details to the agent and the estate staff. Why, it had been possible, ten years before, when the old agent had been superannuated, to dispense with one altogether for six months, nobody suitable having come forward; and the present one, Mr. Haydon, was hardly more than a bailiff. And more convincingly still, lately, had the Squire discovered that Dick knew his job. He thought he knew it himself, but he had been lost without him, and if Dick continued to keep away from Kencote, he would have to make new arrangements altogether, and get some one in the place of Mr. Haydon to help him.
And now all Dick's knowledge and experience were to be used to thwart him. It would no longer be available for the benefit of Kencote. That was bad enough in itself, but it was far worse to know that it had made Dick independent of him and himself powerless. For the first time in this unhappy business he felt an impulse of pure anger against his son. Hitherto he had been grieved about him, and only angry against others. Now, as these thoughts passed through his mind, he broke out, "That's the most disgraceful thing I've heard of yet. Going to throw the whole place over, is he, and leave me to do the best I can, while he goes and takes service under somebody else? Very well, then. If he is going to throw Kencote over, Kencote will throw him over. I've had as much as I can stand. Now I'll act, and act in a way that will surprise him."
Walter looked up in alarmed surprise. He thought he knew his father, and exactly how far he would go. He had known in discussing matters with Dick that he would make a fuss, and go on making it, until things were accomplished which would make it useless for him to fuss any further. But he had always taken it for granted that Dick had the cards in his hand, and that in the long run he must win the game. But this looked as if they had both miscalculated Dick's hand, and that a trump they had thought to be in his possession was really in his father's.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean," said the Squire boldly, "that if Dick persists in the course he is taking, I shall make a new will, and I shan't leave him a penny or an acre of land beyond what he gets under the entail."
This was plain enough, but Walter could scarcely believe his ears as he heard it, so entirely subversive was it of all ideas in which he had been brought up. He had never bothered himself much about money. He knew that he would have something by and by, something probably more substantial than the average younger son's portion, that there was, indeed, plenty of money for all of them. But he had taken it for granted, in the same way that he took the daily rise of the sun for granted, that the bulk of it would go with the place—go, that is, to Dick. And, knowing his father as he did, and the principles that guided him, he could not, even now, believe that he really meant to act in a way so destructive of all Kencote ideals as he had indicated.
"Surely you're not going to break the place up!" he said.
"If Dick doesn't come to his senses that's what I will do," said the Squire. "And if I once do it I shan't alter it. I shall have the will prepared, and the day Dick marries this woman I shall sign it. You can tell him that. I'll have nothing more to do with him, directly. He has behaved disgracefully to me, never sending a line for over a month, and letting me know his plans through you. Now you can tell him mine, and you can tell him I'm in earnest." He marched out of the room without further words, leaving Walter with the feeling of a man who has just passed through an earthquake.
Late that night when everybody had gone up to bed Walter went into Humphrey's room. They had not had a chance of speaking together before. He told him of what had happened, of what Dick had told him at Melbury Park, and the Squire that evening downstairs.
Humphrey received the news in silence, and with mixed sensations. "I didn't know Dick had been with you," he said presently.
"He won't come here," said Walter. "He doesn't say much about the governor, but he's furious with him."
"I'm afraid he's furious with me too," said Humphrey. "And really it's rather unreasonable."
"He didn't say much about you," replied Walter perfunctorily.
"Well, I can't help it. I've done nothing I'm ashamed of, as far as he's concerned. And as for Virginia Dubec, I don't care if he marries her to-morrow."
Walter was busy with his own thoughts. "I say, do you think the governor can really mean it?" he asked.
Humphrey gave rather an unpleasant little laugh. "I hope he does, for our sakes," he said.
Walter looked at him uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, I suppose if Dick doesn't get whatever it is, we shall. I could do with it very well."
Walter eyed him askance. "I never thought of that," he said rather coldly. "I should be very sorry to have Dick cut out for my sake."
"It's all very well for you," Humphrey said. "You have your job, which you like, and plenty to get on with. And you're married."
"There's no reason why you shouldn't get married if you want to," said Walter.
"I don't know whether it would surprise you to know that I do want to," replied Humphrey.
Walter looked at him in surprise. "My dear chap," he said, "I'm awfully glad. Who is it?"
"Well, I hadn't meant to say anything until I saw how the land lay, so keep it to yourself for the present. It's Susan Clinton."
Walter looked a little blank. He had not been particularly charmed either with Lady Aldeburgh or her daughter, and he was too straightforward to feign an enthusiasm which he did not feel. "Will she have you?" he asked.
"Oh, I think so," said Humphrey. "We're very good pals. But, of course, there's Aldeburgh to settle with, or rather her ladyship, because he lets 'em go their own way and he goes his. It can't be said to be much of a match. Still, there are four other girls, two of them out and about, and if the governor sees his way to greasing the wheels, I ought to be able to pull it off."
There was something about this speech which displeased Walter. He knew Humphrey's way of talking and he knew that his dwelling on the financial side of a marriage, even before he was engaged, might possibly hide a feeling which he would not want to express. But somehow he found it difficult to believe that this speech did hide any particular feeling for Lady Susan Clinton, and equally difficult to infuse any particular warmth into his congratulations.
"Well, I'm glad you told me," he said. "If you want to pull it off I hope you will, and I shouldn't think there would be much difficulty about money. Besides, you want far less when you're married than you'd think. Muriel and I aren't spending anything like what we've got, and we're as happy as possible. I'd advise every fellow to get married, if he finds a girl who'll fit in with him."
"Susan and I will fit in together all right," replied Humphrey, "but we've both been used to crashing about a good deal, and I'm afraid we shouldn't save much on your income. Besides, Muriel brought you something, and I don't think Aldeburgh will be likely to cough up much with Susan. We shall be as poor as church mice, anyhow. But if she don't mind that I don't particularly, as long as we have enough to get along on."
Walter knew well enough that Humphrey hated above all things to feel poor, and decided that if he was not wishing to marry Susan Clinton for what she could bring him, he must really love her, in spite of his mercenary speech. "Well, old chap," he said, with more warmth, "I'm sure I hope you'll be happy. I haven't spoken to her much, but she seems a jolly good sort, and she's a sort of relation already, I suppose. So we ought all to get on with her. Well, I think I'll go and lie down for a bit before breakfast."
But Humphrey still had something to say, something which he seemed to find it rather difficult to say. "Dick and I are not particularly good friends now," he began.
"Oh, he was annoyed at your letting out something or other about his Lady George," said Walter. "But he's all right, really."
"I shouldn't like him to think," said Humphrey, "that I was working against him with the governor. But, of course, if he does marry her, and the governor does what he's threatened to do—well, it would make a lot of difference to me."
"He's not likely to think you worked that," said Walter rather coldly. "And I hope it won't happen. Good-night."
The next morning the whole party went to church, with the exception of Lady Aldeburgh, who was averse to making engagements as early as eleven o'clock. The Squire was displeased at this defection on her part, and when Bobby Trench came into the hall, as they were setting out, on his way to the smoking-room, with a pipe in his mouth and a novel under his arm, he said to him, "Haven't you got a watch? It's ten minutes to eleven. You'll be late for church."
"To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking of going," replied Bobby Trench. "Still, I may as well. I can write my bits of letters afterwards."
The Squire grunted and went out. "I'll see that that young cub behaves himself as long as he's here, at any rate," he said to Mrs. Clinton.
Bobby Trench winked at Lady Susan, who was standing alone in the hall. "Cheery sort of place to come to, isn't it?" he said. "Makes you think yourself back at school again."
She turned away from him without smiling. "I'm enjoying myself very much," she said.
"The deuce you are," said Bobby Trench to himself as he went to deposit his pipe and his book in the smoking-room. "Sits the wind in that quarter? But never again, Robert, never again!"
After church Humphrey said to Susan Clinton, "Come and see old Aunt Laura with me. She can't get out much in the winter, but she likes to see people."
So they went to the little house in the village and found Aunt Laura nursing the fire, with a Shetland shawl round her bent old shoulders and a large Church Service on the table by her side.
She was flattered by the visit of Lady Susan, but a little anxious lest she should be carrying about any false impression of the relative importance of the various families of Clinton. "It must be very nice for you to come to Kencote, my dear," she said. "I dare say you have often thought about it and wished to see the place. Your great-grandfather—oh, but I suppose he was much more than that, great-great-great, very likely—did not behave at all well, but that is all forgiven and forgotten now, and I am sure there is nobody at Kencote now who is not pleased to see you."
"What did my great-great-grandfather do, Miss Clinton?" enquired Lady Susan indulgently. "I'm sorry he didn't behave well."
"Oh, my dear, haven't you read about it? It is all in the book about the Clintons—a very interesting book indeed. He was a younger son and he fought for the Dissenters against King Charles the First, and when King Charles was beheaded Oliver Cromwell turned his eldest brother, who of course was a Royalist, out of Kencote and gave it to your ancestor. When King Charles the Second came to the throne he gave it back to its rightful owner, but your ancestor had made a good deal of money, I'm sure I don't know how, and he was ennobled in the reign of King William and Queen Mary, but I don't know what for. I dare say the Clintons of Kencote could have been ennobled many times over if they had liked, but for my part I am glad they never were. There are very few commoners' families in England who have gone on for so many years in one place."
"Oh, I know," said Lady Susan, with an arch glance at Humphrey. "I have been told that."
"Only once by me," replied Humphrey. "I thought you had better know where you stood once for all. You belong to quite the junior branch, you know, and you must be properly humbled when you come to Kencote."
"Oh, there is no necessity for humility," said Aunt Laura, who so long as she felt that matters were thoroughly understood was anxious that her visitor should not be unduly cast down. "There are other good families in England besides the Clintons, and of course you do belong to us in a way, my dear."
"We like her to feel that she belongs to us, don't we, Aunt Laura?" said Humphrey, looking at the girl and not at the old lady.
Lady Susan blushed. "Oh, of course I belong to you," she said hurriedly, not meeting his gaze. "And I think Kencote is a lovely place, much better than Thatchover, where we live."
"Ah, I have never seen that," said Aunt Laura. "I have seen Kemsale, my cousin Humphrey's place. I hear there is to be a ball there to-morrow night, and I suppose you are all going. I shall not be able to be present, although I have received an invitation. It was very thoughtful of Eleanor Kemsale to send me one. She must have known that my advanced age would make it impossible for me to accept, but she knew also that I should feel it if I were left out, for for a number of years there was no entertainment of that sort at Kemsale to which I and my dear sisters, who are now all dead, were not invited."
Lady Susan had been looking round the room. "What lovely old prints you have!" she said.
"They are old-fashioned things," replied Aunt Laura, "but I like them. They do not actually belong to me. I brought them from the dower-house, where I and my sisters lived for a number of years. But wait—if you will come into the dining-room, where there is a fire and you need not be afraid of catching cold, I will show you something that does belong to me, and very pleased I am to have it."
"Oh, I think we'd better stay here, Aunt Laura," said Humphrey.
But Aunt Laura had already risen. "No, Humphrey," she said. "I must show Lady Susan the present you gave me, which has afforded me the greatest pleasure."
So they followed her into the little square, panelled dining-room, where she led them to an old engraving of "Kencote Park, Meadshire, the Seat of John Clinton, Esq.," which showed, besides the many-windowed, rectangular house, a large sheet of water with a Grecian temple on its banks, and certain gentlemen in tall hats and ladies with parasols feeding swans and apparently refusing the invitation of one of their number, who was seated in a boat, to go for a nice row.
"That is the house," explained Aunt Laura, "as it was when my grandfather altered it, and made the lake, which is now all grown round with rhododendrons and other trees, so that you cannot see it, as it is represented there. But I think it is a fine picture."
She put her little grey head crowned by its cap of lace and ribbons on one side, bird-like, as if she were trying to judge how the house might strike a stranger. "It was not in that house your ancestor lived," she told Lady Susan. "That was burnt down, more's the pity, for I believe it was still larger and finer than the present one. I should like to possess a picture of it, but that is impossible because none exists. At any rate, it was very kind of Humphrey to find this one for me and have it well framed, as you see, and give it to me for a Christmas present. It is such little attentions as that that people value, my dear, when they come to my age."
As they walked away along the village street Lady Susan said to Humphrey, "I do think it was nice of you to give the old lady that picture. It seems to have pleased her very much."
"Oh, it was nothing," said Humphrey. "And she's worth pleasing."
"Yes, I think she's very nice," Lady Susan agreed.
"I'm glad you like her," said Humphrey, "and I think she's disposed to like you. I say, I wish you'd go and look her up with the twins some time to-morrow—without me, I mean. They go to see her every day, and she'd take it as a compliment if you went again of your own accord."
"Oh, certainly I will," said Lady Susan.
On Monday some of the party assembled at Kencote hunted, but the Squire, who had given up hunting for the season for reasons we know of, went out with Sir Herbert Birkett and George Senhouse to walk up partridges, and shoot whatever else came to their guns in an easy, pottering way. Although he would not have admitted it, he was getting quite reconciled to the loss of his favourite sport. His wide lands afforded him plenty of game, and he enjoyed these small days with a few guns, walking for miles through roots and over grass, and watching his dogs work, descendants of the famous breed of pointers which had been the pride of his sporting old grandfather. He thought they had not been given half enough to do of late years, and now that his mind was turned in another direction he had begun to feel keenly interested and to follow it up with vigour. "Driven birds are all very well," he said to his brother-in-law as they set out. "They're more difficult to hit and you get more shooting. But you don't get so much sport. Any cockney who's got the trick of it can bring 'em down."
"Well, I can't, and I'm a cockney," said Sir Herbert. "Still, I agree with you. This is the sort of day for pleasure."
So they spent the whole of the mild winter day in the open, lunched simply on the warm side of a hedge, and came back at dusk, having thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The Squire had been at his best, the country gentleman, busying himself in the open air with the pursuits his forefathers had found their pleasure in for generations, allied to his lands, simple in his enjoyment of what they provided for him, companionable, master of field-craft, perfect as a host. "I haven't had such a day for a long time," he said as they stood before the hall door being relieved of their paraphernalia. "I've forgotten all my troubles."
Sir Herbert was touched. He found the man tiresome in so many aspects of life, stupid and overbearing. But he had also something of the appealing simplicity of a child. He was in trouble, and he had been able to forget it all while he had amused himself.
"It's the best day I've had for a long time too," he said. "You've given me a great deal of pleasure, Edward."
But once in the house, the Squire's worries rolled back on him—not the big trouble, which he had no time to brood over just now, although it was always present in the background of his mind, but the little annoyances incident to his entertaining a lot of people whose ways were not his ways, and who interfered with the settled course of his life.
Lady Aldeburgh had given him great annoyance, and as for Bobby Trench, it was as much as he could do to be civil to him. On the other hand, he was more pleased with his son Humphrey than he had been for a long time, and he had also come to feel that his son Walter was a man to be relied on, in spite of his obstinate choice of a profession unsuitable for a son of his, and his management of his life since he had taken up that profession. If it had not been for this new-found satisfaction in his younger sons, perhaps he would not have been able to prevent the thoughts of his eldest son spoiling his day, and he would certainly have been far more actively annoyed with Lady Aldeburgh and Bobby Trench.
For neither of those gay butterflies of fashion had been able or cared to adjust themselves to the Sabbath calm of a house managed in the way that Kencote was. Lady Aldeburgh, having spent the morning in her room, written her letters and done her duty to privacy for the day, came down to luncheon ready and willing to be amused. And there was no amusement provided for her. After luncheon she had played a game of running round the billiard-table and knocking balls into pockets with the bare hand with Bobby Trench, and fortunately the Squire, at rest in his room, with theSpectatoron his knee, had not known what they were doing. But this mild amusement had soon palled, and the problem was to find something for two active young things to do in its place. "Have youeverstayed in a house like this before, Bobby dear?" asked Lady Aldeburgh.
Bobby dear said that he never had, and the powers above being favourable, never would again.
"It's perfectly deadly," said Lady Aldeburgh. "What on earth are the rest of them doing?"
"Slumbering on their beds," replied Bobby Trench; "and in half an hour or so they will all appear, rubbing their eyes, and we shall go for a nice long walk."
"Not me," said her ladyship, with a glance at the leaden sky outside and the bare leafless trees shaking in a cold wind. "Do let's get somewhere by a cosey fire and have a rubber of bridge."
"Who's the four?" asked Bobby Trench. "Shall we wake up old Clinton, and ask him? There are risks. It might be amusing to see somebody in an apoplectic fit, and again it might not."
"Don't be foolish," said Lady Aldeburgh, patting him on the arm. "Humphrey would play, and I'll tell Susan she's wanted."
"They are going out for a walk together. It's a case," said Bobby Trench boldly.
"Whatever put that into your head?" enquired her ladyship, with wide-open eyes. "It's quite absurd."
"Oh, I think Susan's a very nice girl," replied Bobby Trench. "Though I admit it's absurd to take much notice of her while you're about."
Lady Aldeburgh hit his sleeve again with her jewelled hand. "If you talk like that I shall go away," she said. "When I said it was absurd I meant that neither of them has a shilling."
"Humphrey ought to have a good many shillings if he plays his hand well with old Papa Beetroot just now," replied Bobby Trench. "There's a deuce of an upset. I should hold for a rise if I were you."
"You shouldn't talk so disrespectfully. You are disrespectful to me, and to Mr. Clinton, who is a relation of mine—and the head of our family, or so he says. And as for Humphrey, he's a nice boy—certainly the pick of this particular bunch—but Susan wouldn't look at him."
"Why not? He's civilised, if his people aren't."
"She could do much better, and I shouldn't allow it. Of course they are friends, and I don't mind that. You must remember that they are cousins."
"Is it fifty-sixth or fifty-seventh cousins?" asked Bobby Trench innocently. "Well, you know best, of course, but you've got other girls besides Susan to look after, and if you don't take care she'll get left. No, my dear lady, it's no use trying to deceive me. You're quite ready to let Susan marry Humphrey if Papa Mangel-Wurzel will put up the stakes. Aren't you, now? Confess."
"I shan't confess anything so ridiculous," said Lady Aldeburgh petulantly. "What I want to do is to play bridge, and relieve myself of this frightful boredom. I shouldn't have come here if I'd known what it was like.Can'twe get a four?"
"I'll see about it later on," said Bobby Trench. "Perhaps after tea. Why not picquet in the meantime?"
"It's a stupid game," said Lady Aldeburgh. "But if you make the stakes high enough it would be better than nothing."
"I'll make the stakes what you like," said Bobby Trench. "I'll pay you if I lose, and if you lose you must pay me."
Lady Aldeburgh having consented to this not unreasonable arrangement, Bobby Trench rang the bell and asked the servant who answered it to bring a card-table and some cards. Although somewhat surprised at the order he presently fulfilled it, and the game proceeded until tea-time.
All the members of the house party met over the tea-table, and afterwards Lady Aldeburgh, having whispered to her daughter, went out of the room followed by Bobby Trench. Lady Susan then whispered something to Humphrey, who looked rather disturbed, and then also went out of the room with her. Now the whispers had not been in the least obtrusive, or of the nature to arouse comment, but the Squire happened to have observed them both, and told Joan as he went back into his room to find Humphrey and send him to him, not anticipating hearing of anything wrong, but thinking that he might as well know what was going on as not.
Joan was delighted with the errand. She also had observed the whispers, and was at least as eager as her father to find out what was on foot. She went to several rooms before she opened the door of the billiard-room, which was little used, and never on a Sunday. There she found Lady Aldeburgh and Bobby Trench seated at a card-table, and Humphrey standing by them with Susan Clinton at his side. "Humphrey, father wants to speak to you for a minute," she said, and then ran away to find Nancy and tell her of the terrible thing that was happening.
"Well, if you don't mind, then," said Humphrey, preparing to obey the summons, and Lady Aldeburgh said, "Oh no, not in the least. I didn't know there would be any objection."
Joan, passing through the hall, was again stopped by the Squire, who was standing at the door of his room. "I told you to fetch Humphrey," he said irritably. "Why have you been so long? I want to speak to him."
"I couldn't find him, father," said Joan.
"Where was he?" asked the Squire.
"He's just coming," replied Joan.
"I asked youwherehe was," persisted the Squire, and when she said he had been in the billiard-room, asked her what he was doing there.
"Talking to Lady Aldeburgh," said Joan; and the Squire asked her whatshewas doing.
Then it came out. "Playing at cards with Mr. Trench," said Joan, who disliked Lady Aldeburgh and Bobby Trench equally, and didn't see why she shouldn't answer a plain question in plain terms.
Then the Squire went into his room, shutting the door decisively, and Humphrey went in after him, Joan having escaped for the second time.
Inside the Squire's room there was an outbreak. "I will not have it in this house. I simplywill nothave it," was the burden of his indignant cry.
"Well, look here, father," said Humphrey quietly. "I didn't know what was happening, and directly I did I stopped them. They gave it up at once when I said you wouldn't like it. They couldn't tell, you know. Everybody does it now."
The Squire spluttered his wrath. "I call it disgraceful," he said. "I don't know what the world's coming to. Cards on Sunday in a respectable God-fearing house! And you defend it!"
"No, I don't," said Humphrey. "I told you that I had stopped them."
The Squire looked at him. "Did they want you to play?" he asked. "You and a girl like Lady Susan! You don't mean to tell me her mother wanted her to play? Is the girl accustomed to that sort of thing, I should like to know?"
Humphrey did not want to give Lady Aldeburgh away, but rather her than Susan, and rather Bobby Trench than either of them.
"Susan doesn't care about it," he said. "Lady Aldeburgh—well, you can see what she is, can't you?—nothing like as sensible as her daughter. She'll do what anybody wants her to."
"Oh, then it's Master Trench I'm to thank for making my house a gambling saloon on a Sunday!" exclaimed the Squire. "If he wasn't my guest, I would say something to that young cub that would surprise him. Anyhow, he'll never come into this house again, and I must say, seeing what he is, that I wonder at your asking him at all."
"I'm sorry I did," said Humphrey. "But I hope you won't say anything to him about this. I'll take charge of them and see that they behave themselves."
"Then you'll have your work cut out for you," said the Squire grumpily. "You'd better set about doing it at once. I wish to goodness I'd never consented to people like that coming into the house. I may be old-fashioned—I dare say I am—but I don't understand their ways, and I don't want to."
That had been the end of it as far as he was concerned.
If he could have heard what passed between Lady Aldeburgh and Bobby Trench when deprived of their legitimate amusement—but that thought is too painful. What had happened further on that Sunday evening was that feeling vaguely the need of some sort of comfort in the anxieties that beset him he had suddenly taken it into his head to go to church to the evening service, a thing he hardly ever did, and striding with firm and audible steps into the chancel pew during the saying of the Psalms, he had found, as well as most of the ladies from the house and George Senhouse, assembled there, Humphrey and Susan Clinton sitting together, and had come to the conclusion, during the sermon, that it was creditable on Humphrey's part to have stopped the card-playing on his behalf, instead of joining in it, as might have been expected of him, and that he seemed to be turning over a new leaf, and was probably exercising a good influence over the harmless daughter of a foolish mother.
So he was pleased with Humphrey, but displeased with Lady Aldeburgh, who had shown herself perverse at the dinner-table and in the drawing-room afterwards, had refused to talk more than was necessary, and had gone up to her room on the stroke of ten; and furious with Bobby Trench, who had made no effort to disguise his yawns throughout the evening, and fallen openly asleep in the library after the ladies had retired.
As for Walter, he had talked to him very sensibly later still in the evening about Dick. "Don't do anything," he had said, "till I have seen him again. I don't know what can be done, or if anything can be done. But it's quite certain that if you threaten him you will drive him straight into doing what you don't want him to do." So he had consented to Walter acting as his ambassador, and felt that he could rely on him in that capacity, and even take some comfort in the hope that he might do something to lighten the state of gloom and depression in which most of his waking hours were now passed.
It was with a feeling of relief that he saw the whole party, with the exception of Sir Herbert Birkett, set out later in the evening on their ten-mile drive to Kemsale. It had been his intention to go with them, but the thought that Virginia, with whom he had seen Lord Meadshire colloguing, would almost certainly have received an invitation, and would no doubt eagerly have accepted it, deterred him. When his wife's carriage, containing herself, Lady Birkett, and Lady Aldeburgh, who would far rather have been with the younger members of the party, had driven off, and the omnibus, with the rest of them, had followed it, he breathed a sigh of relief. "To-morrow we shall be able to settle down again, thank God!" he said to himself as the door was shut behind him.
Kemsale Hall, towards which carriages from every country house in South Meadshire within driving distance, and motor-cars from far beyond, were converging, was a very fine place, and the ball which Lord Meadshire gave that evening was a very fine ball. Amongst the numerous guests, whose names were all chronicled in theBathgate Herald and South Meadshire Advertiser, were Lady George Dubec and Miss Dexter.
Virginia had gone home from the Hunt Ball vowing that nothing would induce her to accept the invitation which Lady Kemsale had given her so patronisingly when it should be confirmed by the promised card, and Miss Dexter had backed her up in her own dry way, while professing to combat her resolution.
"I don't know what you can be thinking of, Virginia," she said. "Refuse an invitation to a house like Kemsale—the house of a Marquis, a Lord-Lieutenant! Why, lots of women would commit hari-kari to-morrow—or at least the day after the ball—if they could get an invitation."
"Well, I'm not one of them," said Virginia. "To think that I would go anywhere on sufferance! Lord Meadshire's an old darling, but as for his daughter-in-law, I should very much like to tell her what I think of her."
The opportunity of doing so occurred no later than the following afternoon, when Lady Kemsale came to Blaythorn Rectory to call, but Virginia did not take it.
Lady Kemsale's manners were naturally stiff, but she did her best to soften them when she was shown into Virginia's drawing-room. "I thought I would come over before Monday," she said, with a smile, "so as to put everything on the most approved basis of etiquette. We don't often get new people in this part of the world, and when we do we must make haste to show that we appreciate them."
This was handsome enough, and it rather took Virginia's breath away. When Lady Kemsale had been announced she had jumped to the conclusion that Lord Meadshire had sent her, which was true; but what was also true was that she had been quite pleased to come, and to have the opportunity of making amends for her frigidity at the Hunt Ball, which had been caused by the Squire's tale and thawed again by her own observations. When she drove away half an hour later Virginia said with a rare lapse into the American tongue, "Why, she's a perfectly lovely woman, after all, Toby. Now you can't say that I was wrong to say I'd go, after the way she behaved."
"Just a little soft-sawder, and you fall at her feet," said Miss Dexter. But she was pleased, all the same, that Virginia should be going to Kemsale, and that one more of Dick's people should have acknowledged her charm and her worth. She was pleased also to be going herself, for she had a little scheme of her own, which she had not imparted to her friend.
She had, in fact, made up her mind to speak to Mrs. Clinton, if she could find an excuse to do so, unobserved by the Squire. She had watched her in the Bathgate Assembly Room, and she had seen her in her turn watching Virginia with eyes whose meaning, whatever it was, was not one of hostility. "Now there's a woman with sense," she had said to herself. "Shewouldn't be tiresome. I wonder how much she is under the influence of her old bear of a husband?"
This was what she was going to find out, if she could, and she waited her opportunity, refusing invitations to dance, and wandering about the great string of rooms at Kemsale, stalking her prey, with a whole-hearted indifference as to what might be thought of a single lady so apparently friendless and partnerless.
It was Lord Meadshire himself, who, coming across her passing through one of the smaller drawing-rooms, did what she wanted. "What! not dancing?" he asked in his friendly way; and with a searching glance at his kind old face she said, "I have something else to do. I want to speak to Mrs. Clinton, but I don't know her."
He looked at her in return with a momentary seriousness. "Want to gain a convert, eh?" he asked. He liked her plain sensible face, and the way she stood, square to him and to the world. "Tell me now, is this a serious business?"
She did not answer him directly. "She's one of the best women in the world," she said. "Perhaps I'm the only person who really knows what she's been through and how she has taken it. She has come out of her troubles pure gold. And anybody can see for themselves that she is beautiful and has a charm all her own."
"Oh yes, anybody can see that," said Lord Meadshire. "She's a sweet creature. And Dick Clinton wants to marry her.He'sserious, eh?"
"I think he has proved it," said Miss Dexter.
Lord Meadshire considered this. He had heard that Dick had retired from the army, but not about his having taken an estate agency. "I suppose he is," he said.
"They ought to know her," said Miss Dexter. "People ought not to hug prejudices that have no reason."
Lord Meadshire looked at her with his mischievous smile. "A matter of abstract right and wrong—what?" he said. "Well, come along, and I'll introduce you. But you must tell me your name, which I'm afraid I have forgotten, although I know quite well who you are, you know."
"Yes. I'm Lady George Dubec's companion, and my name is Dexter," she said.
Lord Meadshire loved a little conspiracy. His eyes twinkled at her as he said, "This dance is coming to an end, and people will be here in a minute. You would like to talk to her by yourselves. Go into the conservatory there, and leave it all to me."
So Miss Dexter went and deposited herself on one of two chairs under a palm. Couples in search of privacy wondered, sometimes audibly, why on earth the woman couldn't find some other place to sit and mope in, but she sat on undisturbed. A man whom she had danced with before, also unattached, mooned in with his hands in his pockets, and showed a disposition to take the vacant chair. "Please go away," she said. "I have got toothache, and anybody who talks to me will have his head snapped off," and he, being of a diffident nature, went. Presently the lilting sweep of strings and the sweet penetrating sound of horns came sweeping in from the distant orchestra, and she was left alone once more, except for one couple, who still sat on in a distant corner. But by and by she heard voices approaching. These were from Lord Meadshire and Mrs. Clinton, whom he had brought in to look at the flowers, which were banked up in gay, scented masses underneath the spreading branches of the great palms. They came to where she was sitting, and Lord Meadshire said again, "What! not dancing?" She rose and stood before them. "I'm having a little rest," she said, with a smile; and then he made the introduction. "Do you know Miss Dexter, Nina?" he asked. "She has come to live here for a time, Mrs. Clinton."
Mrs. Clinton acknowledged the introduction not without stiffness. She was taken by surprise, as was intended, but she was a woman whom it was not wise to take by surprise, if you wanted her to show you what was in her mind.
Lord Meadshire had intended to leave her with Miss Dexter, slipping away on some excuse with a promise to return, but when he had borne the brunt of a light conversation for a little time he perceived that he could not do so. He paused in some bewilderment, and Miss Dexter said, "May I have a few words with you, Mrs. Clinton?"
"Ah yes," he said, visibly relieved. "I'll leave you both here together, and come back."
But Mrs. Clinton said at once, "If it is about Lady George Dubec, I would rather not hear anything. I think I will go back to the ballroom, Cousin Humphrey." Then she turned resolutely, with a bow to Miss Dexter, who had plumped herself into her seat again and did not return it, and Lord Meadshire had nothing to do but to go away with her. "But you mustn't sit here all the evening," he said kindly, over his shoulder, to Miss Dexter. "I shall come back and fetch you."
But when he returned five minutes later she was not there, and he saw her dancing vigorously, and apparently anxious to avoid him.
But she could not dance the whole evening, owing to a lack of partners, and he had an opportunity of speaking to her later. "I'm afraid our little scheme miscarried," he said, with some concern.
She showed him a pink, angry face. "I wish to goodness I had left it alone," she said. "I don't like being snubbed."
"She won't go behind her husband," he said rather lamely.
"I thought, to look at her, she had a good deal more sense than he," said Miss Dexter uncompromisingly. "It seems I was mistaken."