XLIII
THE next day, about six o’clock in the evening, Lady Violet was sitting alone with some very hard and rueful thoughts when Davis, with a face of doom, portentously announced the Marchioness of Kidderminster.
She had come up post haste from Shropshire. On the top of Violet’s urgent but cryptic telegram had arrived an amazing letter from Bill. Their mother, on the spur of the moment, had made up her mind to catch the 11:15 at Millfield, which in turn would pick up the express at Shrewsbury; and as she succeeded as a rule in doing the things upon which she set her mind, why here she was.
The greetings of mother and daughter were affectionate, but they were sorry. Both felt that a catastrophe had occurred; and it was of such magnitude that they were quite stunned by its force.
“A little American, you say, without any money?”
Lady Kidderminster quite correctly had the sense of what her daughter had said. Those, indeed, were her words. “It’s terrible,” said Lady Kidderminster piteously. From her point of view it was.
Both ladies were much inclined to blame themselves; and also to blame each other. Lady Kidderminstercould not help reproaching Violet for turning loose such a dangerous creature upon a simple unprotected society. In future, perhaps, she would be more careful in her choice of friends. Violet retaliated by saying that her mother ought never to have let the summer go by without simply making Bill marry Gwendolen Childwick. Wretched boy, it was the only marriage he could make if he was to keep his head above water!
However, it was no use repining. There was no time for that. Mother and daughter were both people of resolution. And they had great common sense. Something would have to be done to stop this ruinous affair. But, they asked themselves, what? Already it had gone much too far. It would be impossible for Bill to back out now.
“Our only chance, my dear,” said Violet slowly and forcefully, “and I own it’s a very slender one, is to see what can be done with this Miss Du Rance.”
“But if she’s as horrid and as pushful as you say, she will be the last person in the world to give him up.”
“Horrid she is not.” Mame’s friend spoke judicially. “Quite a nice little thing in her way. Personally I like her very much, but as a wife for Bill she is unthinkable; particularly as she has to earn her own living.”
“All the less likely to give him up.” Lady Kidderminster was doleful indeed.
Still the only hope they had was to act as if that possibility still remained.
“It’s so slender that it seems pretty hopeless.” Thatwas Lady Violet’s candid opinion. But they must try something. The thing was so tragic they could not possibly take it lying down.
They were discussing the catastrophe in all its painful bearings when Mame blundered into the hornets’ nest. She had been walking with Bill in the park; she was still feeling very happy if just a little anxious; and when she abruptly opened the door and came into the drawing room, her thoughts being elsewhere, it did not occur to her that she would find Lady Kidderminster seated in it.
Mame knew at a glance who she was. Bill was remarkably like his mother. This dame was quite handsome, even if her face was a bit worn. She was also stately; but as Mame immediately discovered, she was accessible, kindly, human.
She got up as soon as Mame entered. Before Mame had time to display embarrassment or shyness the good lady offered her hand. And then, as Mame was in the act of taking it, Bill’s mother gave her one quick but covert glance, which had not a trace of hostility.
Somewhere amid Mame’s infinite complexity was a longing for affection. But already she had steeled herself for a display of cattishness. However, there was nothing unkind about Bill’s mother, sharp though Mame’s instinct was to detect it. There was nothing unkind in Lady Violet either. Instinctively Mame knew that both these women must be hating her like poison and it was almost miraculous how they managed to cover up their feelings.
For five minutes or so Bill’s mother and sister talked about him, pleasantly and brightly and entertainingly. He was such a dear, dear fellow, his mother said. But he was quite irresponsible. Agreeably and rather wittily, she gave anecdotes of Bill’s childhood. She had quite a fund of these; and they were told so well, with such point and humour that Mame was really amused. The prospective daughter-in-law could not help admiring Lady Kidderminster. Her talk had much of Lady Violet’s charm, with a Victorian polish and correctness in the place of the modern slang whose abundance in the daughter old-fashioned people were apt to deplore. What the mother lacked in mordancy she made up for in kindliness and those manners of the heart which at all times are sure of their appeal.
Mame was quick to respond. She was grateful for the way in which this lady, with the most beguiling voice she had ever listened to, exercised these gifts for her benefit. This meeting might have been so awkward. Nay, it might have been downright unpleasant. But Bill’s mother carried things off in a style which Mame considered to be perfection.
For one thing Lady K. did not force the note. There was no welcoming her into the nest among her chickens. Mame was shrewdly waiting for that, because that was where this nice, good, clever dame would rather have fallen over the mat. But she was too genuine. There was a certain reserve, a certain dignity behind all that she said to Mame. Even if there was nothing constrained, still less was there anythingeffusive. It was the golden mean. Miss Du Rance was frankly accepted as Bill’s affianced, even if she was very far from being the particular girl his mother had chosen for him.
“But please, you will promise, will you not, to refrain from speaking of this matter to anyone until—until I have had an opportunity of discussing it fully with my son.” The careful phrases were so urgent that Mame, who did not want to give any such promise, felt the best she could do was to make it.
Lady K. thanked her gravely. “And I wonder, my dear”—it was the first time the stately dame had addressed Mame as “my dear”—“if you feel inclined to come down to Shropshire for a few days. It might interest you to see the sort of life we lead.”
Politely Mame was sure that it would.
“When can you come?”
Mame winged a glance to her partner in the newspaper world. The acceptance of the invitation chiefly depended upon the attitude of Celimene.
“No time like the present, is there?” was that attitude promptly and concisely expressed.
“But”—Mame’s quaint honesty raised a smile in both ladies—“’tisn’t fair, honey, to leave you here alone to do all the digging.”
“I can plough a lonely furrow for a week at any rate. And if I find I can’t I’ll get Gerty Smith to give me a hand. You must go back to Shropshire with my mother. We both so want to know what you think of the Towers.”
Mame was puzzled by this cordiality. But she was very keen to see Warlington Towers, that stately English home which for the future would be hers. There was nothing in the manner of mother and daughter to suggest that she would not be an immensely welcome guest.
Reassured, almost in spite of herself, by all this seeming friendliness, Mame asked when Lady Kidderminster proposed to return to her home.
“To-morrow, my dear, by the first train. I’m such a country mouse; and even one day in London makes a hole in one’s purse.”
“Well, I don’t think I can go to-morrow.”
“But of course you can.” Lady Violet was definite. “And you must. No scrimshanking. You must go down with my mother to-morrow morning by the 9:50 from Paddington, the best train of the day.”
Mame was still inclined to resist having her mind made up for her in this way, but Celimene was resolute. “My mother will be quite hurt if you back out now. Besides”—with a laugh—“it’ll be so much better to go and get it over.”
“But—” protested Mame.
However, it was not a bit of use. Lady Violet had such a powerful habit of making people’s minds up for them.