CHAPTER IIICUPID SPEEDS HIS SHAFTS

CHAPTER IIICUPID SPEEDS HIS SHAFTS

Grimshaw went back to London to pack up his traps, and on the following Tuesday dined with his maternal uncle, Sir Dion Titherage, at the Parthenon. Sir Dion, lately raised to the dignity of knighthood, with an excellent practice in Belgravia, chiefly amongst elderly ladies, had paid—as has been said—for his nephew’s schooling, and regarded the young man with a paternal eye. Long ago Sir Dion had led to the altar of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, one of his well-to-do patients, much older than himself. There had been no children. Lady Titherage was now a confirmed hypochondriac, but likely to make old bones, thanks to the ministering care and skill of that optimist, her husband.

A small table at the farther end of the immense dining-room had been reserved for Sir Dion and his guest. Through a big window a glimpse could be obtained of lawn and trees, and, beyond, the façade of a famous terrace. Dining at such a table, a member of the learned professions could reflect pleasantly upon the fact that the privileged occupiers of that terrace must each possess, on a reasonable average, at least twenty thousand a year. But few members of the Parthenon dined at their club. Here and there, oases in the desert, were bishops, who contented themselves with simple fare. Sir Dion pointed out these pillars of the Establishment, a Royal Academician, a hanging judge, an eminent architect, and the club bore, who dined at the Parthenon nearly every night, and kept sensitive and retiring members at bay. Sir Dion said, with a chuckle:

“I don’t dare dine here without a guest, my boy; and even then he yaps at me—he yaps at me. Really, it’s a sad breach of our unwritten rules. This is recognised as a Temple of Silence and Snooze. Conversation is very properly barred.”

Grimshaw laughed. His uncle amused him. Sir Dion continued:

“We only wake up at the club elections in the drawing-room. A lot of pilling goes on. I asked one old boy to pill a particularly aggressive candidate, and he said curtly: ‘Why?’ I replied, ‘Because he’s a cantankerous, unclubbable ass.’ The old boy scowled at me and said savagely: ‘I’m a cantankerous, unclubbable ass, and I shall vote for him.’And he did!”

A carefully chosen dinner was provided, admirably cooked. Sir Dion, after the ice, took a Corona de Corona cigar from his ample case, and sent it to the chef with his compliments and thanks. And he exchanged a joke with the steward when he settled his bill before leaving the dining-room.

Not till he had finished his coffee did Sir Dion speak seriously.

“So it’s the parish pump for you, eh?”

“With the pump out of order.”

Sir Dion nodded. Then he said, portentously for him:

“You are your father’s son. He tilted against windmills all his life, poor dear fellow! As a schoolmaster he would have climbed high and ended as a bishop. I used to offer him sound advice, although, to do him justice, he never asked for it or took it. Now I am tempted to say a word or two to you.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“From what you tell me you seem to like trouble. I don’t. That, of course, is the essential difference between us. However, your partner, Pawley, seems to have a good practice amongst country people. And, when he retires, you ought to earn a decent income.”

“I hope so.”

“A good country practice is not to be sneezed at, but you will sneeze at it, I’m afraid. I see you trying to drain that snipe-bog you mention instead of keeping step on the high-road with Pawley.”

“I shall fight for more sanitary conditions.”

“Stripped already, I see. And up against a lady of quality! Now for my two words: ‘Go slow!’ Women never surrender their opinions to men they dislike. It’s a pity you can’t marry her and reach your objectives that way. What? Fifty-five! And a marriageable daughter! Another tip. Don’t make up to the daughter. Unless——” He chuckled, lighting a fresh cigar.

“Unless——?”

“I remember some transpontine story of a stout fellow like you who courted a rich widow with a pretty daughter. The rich widow accused the stout fellow of loving her money-bags more than herself. He made a very creditable bluff. Told her to deed every dollar she possessed to her daughter. And, begad! she called the bluff and did so. Then he bolted with the daughter!”

The evening ended where it began—in laughter.

On the steps of the Parthenon, when the nephew thanked the uncle for his entertainment, Sir Dion shook his hand very heartily.

“I wish you luck, my boy. If you get any of that rough shooting, send me a bird. I like the flavour of a wild pheasant. God bless you!”

Grimshaw, as he went back to his modest diggings, reflected that Sir Dion’s ways were not his, and yet the old fellow brimmed over with kindness, and assuredly attained his objectives.

By the middle of July he was installed in rooms in Upworthy under the fostering care of the Rockrams, two old servants from the Manor. Tom Rockram had been Stimson’s predecessor, before the old Squire died, and his wife had soared from scullery-maid to cook in the same establishment. Their cottage faced the village green, and stood in its own garden. Each spring and summer the Rockrams took in boarders, but, at a hint from Dr. Pawley, they were glad to get a permanent “gentleman.” Grimshaw was given a good bedroom and sitting-room, and he had the use of Pawley’s dispensary.

Upon the faces of the two old servants were inscribed, with full quarterings, the Chandos arms. Whatever a Chandos did was just right. Brian, of course, in the judgment of Mrs. Rockram, was the handsomest hussar in the kingdom; Tom Rockram spoke with even greater enthusiasm of Cicely as the sweetest young lady in the world. Too sugary, perhaps, these descriptions, from a hypercritical point of view, but indicating loyalty and gratitude, qualities rare indeed in modern servants. Grimshaw found himself valeted to perfection, and looked forward to excellently cooked meals, a quite novel experience. The cosiness of it all was in delightful contrast to domestic conditions in Poplar. He wondered whether he would grow fat, like the weed on Lethe’s wharf, and slowly rot at ease. For the first time in his life he began to spell comfort with a capital “C.” To Pawley and Lady Selina he said emphatically: “I never had such a billet.” To himself, he thought, with amused apprehension: “Will this cosseting get a strangle-hold on me?” And if it did, what of it? Good men and true toiled and moiled, struggling on against adverse winds and currents, to achieve just such snug anchorage.

Pawley introduced him to some of the local magnates, who smiled graciously upon an old Wykhamist. Each day it became more certain to the young man that a prosperous future was his if he played the cards already in his hand. Sir Dion had been right. A sound country practice was not to be sneezed at. And the premium paid to Pawley had been negligible. In fine, he was treading a broad highway, walking briskly towards fortune, if not fame. Pawley suggested that on occasion he might ride.

“Would your means justify keeping a horse?” he asked.

“Do you mean a hunter? The doctor in boots?”

“Well, yes. A cavalier, you know, challenges attention. One day a week in the season might be worth while from every point of view.”

Grimshaw laughed.

“And how about my research work?”

“As to that——! You see, my dear fellow, I hesitate to advise you. The horse is a suggestion, nothing more. Long ago I gave up hunting. I’ve regretted it. As for research work, doesn’t it exact too undivided energies? I had to scrap my microscope before I put down my hunter. Think it over.”

Grimshaw nodded. But he hardly dared to confess to himself how keen he was to take up again open-air sports and pastimes. His first appearance on the village green, as a cricketer, had been acclaimed by all Upworthy. Lady Selina said solemnly: “Perhaps we shall beat Wilverley next year.”

Playing cricket, he met John Exton, and exchanged some talk with him. In Poplar it was impossible to throw a stone without hitting young men of John’s kidney. They, however, threw the stones in Poplar quite regardless of whom they might hit. Grimshaw knew that the Extons were under notice to quit the old homestead; and he knew also that Lady Selina had persuaded Lord Wilverley to entrust a small farm to Ephraim. This had soaped the ways by which the Extons slid from one parish into another. John was very bitter about it.

“We’ve never had a dog’s chance,” he told Grimshaw. “I don’t say, sir, that Father was wise to buy thoroughbred stock when he hadn’t proper buildings to house ’em in, but the old Squire egged him on to do it. Things were a sight better in his time, because he kept the whip-hand of Gridley. Now, Gridley does pretty much as he pleases, and my lady don’t know what goes on behind her back. Gridley sees to it that she ain’t bothered.”

“You’re up against a system,” said Grimshaw. “It’s no use blaming individuals.”

“I blame my lady,” John replied doggedly.

He was not the only one in Upworthy who held that individual responsible.

Nick Farleigh, the softy, did odd jobs for Tom Rockram, pumping water, fetching and carrying like a retriever, blacking boots, and feeding poultry. In common with many children of undeveloped minds, he had strange gifts, fashioning queer objects out of unconsidered trifles. Grimshaw won his devotion by showing him how to make a Chinese junk out of a square of newspaper.

Nick said gratefully:

“I bain’t afeard of ’ee, zur.”

“Why should you be afraid of anybody, my boy?”

Nick became confidential.

“I be afeard o’ nothink ’cept they broody hens o’ Mrs. Rockram’s. You know I be soft, zur, don’t ’ee?”

“Nonsense! We shall make a man of you yet, Nick.”

Nick considered this, with his head on one side. Then he whispered:

“I be soft along o’ my lady.”

Grimshaw asked Pawley to explain. With some reluctance, Pawley repeated what he had said to Cicely, with these additions:

“Nick’s mother, just before he was born, lost her two little girls of diphtheria. The boy was born wanting. Timothy Farleigh has never got over it. Lady Selina had just buried the Squire. In your opinion, Grimshaw, could mental suffering so affect and afflict an unborn child?”

“It might,” Grimshaw replied.

“Ever since Timothy Farleigh has smouldered with resentment.”

Grimshaw nodded. He had heard about Agatha Farleigh from John Exton. Agatha was now working in London, earning good wages, but Timothy, at the ale-house, accused Lady Selina of hounding a clever girl out of her village.

“I smell foul weather,” said Grimshaw.

Within a week the Great War had broken out.

Upworthy remained perfectly calm.

Brian Chandos came home on short leave. His regiment would be one of the first to go. He smoked many pipes with Grimshaw, picking up the old friendship easily, just where he had left it, apparently the same ingenuous youth whom Grimshaw remembered at Winchester. Really a Pacific of essential differences rolled between them, differences of experience. Grimshaw listened to Brian on the coming “show.” As a soldier he seemed to know something about his “job.” As the prospective heir to a fine property his ignorance was immeasurable. He viewed it, as it were, from the wrong end of the telescope. What appeared big to him—the future of foxhunting, for instance, game-preserving, and polo—was negligible to Grimshaw in comparison with decent housing and a better wage for land-workers. Brian cut him short when, tentatively, such reforms were barely outlined:

“Cottages in the rural districts don’t pay, never did. We can’t raise wages without hostilising the farmers—and I ask you, where are we if we do that?” Again and again he silenced argument in Grimshaw by repeating filially: “Mother knows; you talk to her; she’d do anything in reason, anything.”

And at the first dinner at the Manor, rather to Grimshaw’s dismay, Brian said, in a loud voice, as if it were a good joke: “I say, Mums, Old Grimmer is a bit of a Rad. You must take him in hand. He’s an out-and-out reformer.”

Cicely didn’t improve matters by adding:

“And a jolly good thing too. Dr. Pawley says we are antediluvians.”

Pawley was not present, having departed on his holiday. Lady Selina looked down her nose.

“Are you quite sure Dr. Pawley said that, my dear?”

“Absolutely,” Cicely replied. “We are only modern in our frocks; and that doesn’t apply to you, Mums.”

Unfortunately for Grimshaw, Lord Wilverley happened to be present. He, at any rate, was recognised outside of his own county as an enlightened and experienced agriculturist. And being a kindly man, secure in a great position, he came to Grimshaw’s rescue. Lady Selina found herself listening to the opinions of a magnate, who might be a son-in-law. And the odds against such a desirable match diminished when she saw Cicely eagerly assimilating what Wilverley said. And, of course, Wilverley being Wilverley, could say what he pleased. Grimshaw realised, with humorous dismay, that he was cast for the part of scapegoat. On his head would fall the hardly-concealed resentment of the lady of the manor.

After dinner matters became worse. Brian wanted to talk to Wilverley about horse-breeding. Lady Selina took up her embroidery. Cicely made herself agreeable to Grimshaw, instead of improving the shining hour with the best parti in the neighbourhood. And Grimshaw, grateful to a charming girl, exerted himself to please and entertain. It seemed to be predestined that he would gain in favour with the daughter what he might lose with the mother. And who will blame him if he strove to distinguish himself with the former after some extinguishment at the hands of the latter? He could talk much better than Wilverley, and he knew it. Wilverley spoke didactically. Grimshaw had a more graceful seat astride his hobby-horse. He excelled in description, transporting Cicely to Essex and Poplar, into the deep clay ruts of the one and the mean streets of the other. Cicely could not help contrasting the two men, the fidgety irritability of Wilverley with the easy good-humour of Grimshaw, who laughed at his own failures. Wilverley grew red and heated in argument; Grimshaw became pale and cool.

Nevertheless, there was a curious incandescence about him. Under ordinary atmospheric pressure he might seem dull, sinking into odd silences and introspections, but when a right vacuum was obtained, such a vacuum as a charming young lady might present, an inquiring mind, let us say, empty of essential facts, he glowed, giving out heat and light, not a blazing, eye-blinking glare, but something softly and steadily illuminating.

“I’ve had some humiliating experiences, Miss Chandos. Till you live and work amongst the very poor, you can’t realise how difficult it is to understand them, and how much more difficult it is for them to understand us. Millions have never seen a woman like you. They live like animals; they are animals; and, of course, that’s our fault.”

“Our fault?” she gasped. But she was the more interested because he had made his theme personal.

“Oh, yes; we don’t give enough; and now, because of that, they, poor things, at the mercy of any glib, red-rag revolutionary, want to take too much. The privileged classes have never really exercised their greatest privilege.”

“And what is that, Mr. Grimshaw?” she asked in a low voice.

“Why, helping others to help themselves. Ordinary charity only hinders. Wage earners demand more thanpanem et circenses.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Bread and ‘movies.’ They don’t like dry bread; and the ‘movies’ serve to fill them with envy for all they haven’t got.” Then, in a different tone, with a queer astringent cynicism, he added: “I didn’t exercise my privileges.”

“I’m sure you did,” she affirmed with conviction.

“No—I bolted. I couldn’t stick it. My own impotence maddened me. Perhaps——” His voice died away. He began again: “It’s not what we do that counts, but the way we do it. Talking to them is waste of time. Words! Words! How one hates them after a time! I’ve waded through all the dreary stuff that’s written about the poor. Most of it makes one sick. I don’t believe that conditions can be bettered anywhere by talk, not even when the talk is buried in the Statute Book. Something more is needed. Some—some tremendous discipline that will change the point of view of the classes and the masses so that they can see each other in truer perspective. Do the waves wonder why they batter themselves into spray against the rocks? But there is attrition all the time. Tremendous forces win in the end.”

“Do you mean that we are the rocks?”

“We stand on the rocks, blandly looking at the waves, impressed by their fury, but not attempting to control it and use it. Perhaps the biggest rock on which we stand is class loyalty. I’m sure your mother prides herself on that.”

“Of course she does.”

“Have you ever tried to analyse class loyalty?”

“No.”

“Self-preservation is behind and beneath it. At core lies a selfish, primitive instinct—to hold on tight to what we have regardless of how we came by it. Above this is a reticulation, a spider’s web, of inherited prejudices and predilections, so tangled up that one despairs of untangling them. On the surface, like a soft moss, love of ease spreads itself. I feel that here in all my bones. I try to fight against it. The lure of comfort——! What a bait——! Satan’s tit-bit——!”

His vehemence, the more insistent because he spoke so quietly, almost in a whisper, made a profound impression. She had never heard any man talk like this. The abysmal conviction in his tone amazed her. Wilverley, as she knew, preached in and out of season a doctrine of reconstruction and reform. But he did it with the air of a man who was grinding his own axe, putting a finer edge upon a weapon which he intended to use to better his own large fortune. He never lost sight of the fact that what he did on his domainspaid, brought grist to his mill. All his excellent schemes for housing labourers comfortably, for paying them a higher wage, for nourishing them adequately, for developing in them capacities and potentialities, were really inspired by the force which had raised his father from the lower middle class to the nobility. Obviously, Grimshaw was actuated by no such essentially selfish motive. He thought of others before himself; he seemed to behold a travailing world with the detachment of a physician pledged, if need be, to sacrifice his own comfort and advancement in the practice of his hard profession. She said hesitatingly, groping her way towards his conclusions:

“Surely, Mr. Grimshaw, there is something finer than that in what you call class loyalty?”

“All loyalty is fine,” he replied, “but there can be no monopoly of it. Do you think that the unprivileged classes do not feel it in a blind sort of way? Of course they do. And that loyalty is a driving power which the more unscrupulous of their mis-leaders are harnessing to their own ambitions. Class loyalty, wherever you find it, is undiluted Prussianism.”

She laughed a little.

“Is my mother a Prussian?” she asked mischievously.

“Your mother,” he replied less tensely, with a glance at that lady as she bent over her embroidery, “is—is——”

“Covered with soft moss?” she suggested.

“We are all covered with moss, Miss Chandos. And, I suppose, the moss must be raked off before we can see with clear vision.”

“You are raking some of it off me. I told you I wanted to work with you. I do—more than ever, but you mustn’t rake at Mother. Perhaps you noticed that Lord Wilverley tried raking at dinner.” He nodded. “Oh, you did. Of course, she has to stand it from him.”

“Lord Wilverley, I noticed, made an impression on you.”

His eyes met hers. She noticed a twinkle in them. All tension had gone from his pleasant voice.

“I like what he does more than I like what he says. He tries to spur people to his ideas. You can’t spur Mother.”

“No.”

“I am glad that you are more—a—persuasive in your methods.”

“Am I?”

She smiled, nodding her head. He wondered whether there was a tincture of the coquette in her. In criticising Wilverley was she trying to hide her real feelings for him? He had not answered the question when Wilverley left Brian and approached the pair on the sofa. Grimshaw made sure he wanted to talk to Cicely, and rose at once. To his surprise, Wilverley said without any condescension:

“I’m looking forward to making your better acquaintance, Mr. Grimshaw. If you have no other engagement, will you dine and sleep at the Court some day that suits you next week?”

“With great pleasure.”

A day was named, and shortly afterwards Wilverley took his leave. Grimshaw left the Manor a few minutes later. Alone with her children, Lady Selina said with a sigh:

“Dear me! It wasn’t a very pleasant dinner, was it?”

“I enjoyed myself,” said Cicely.

“Yes, b’Jove! We saw that, didn’t we, Mums? And the little baggage sided against us. But we held our own—we held our own.”

Lady Selina smiled maternally, catching an echo of Brian’s father. Cicely replied sharply:

“If you hold on too tight to what you think is your own, you may lose it, if democracy wins this war.”

“Hark to her!” exclaimed Brian. “What a cry!”

Cicely, however, saw the expediency of running mute. She kissed her mother and brother and went to bed. Lady Selina turned troubled eyes upon her son.

“Have I made a mistake in being civil to this friend of yours, Brian?”

Brian hastened to reassure her: Old Grimmer was a thundering good sort. And a mighty clever fellow, not likely to quarrel with his bread-and-butter. Civility would tie him to his mother’s apron-strings. Nothing like it. Ask him to shoot! Introduce him to all the swells! But keep an eye peeled on Cis. Modern girls kicked over the traces. Arthur Wilverley meant business. Any fool could see that. Grimshaw was a gentleman. He wouldn’t attempt to poach in another fellow’s preserves. All the same, make him feel the weight of obligation. Be civil, be kind—keep it up!

Lady Selina was not quite comforted.

“Your Old Grimmer is very attractive. And, to-night, it seemed to me that poor dear Arthur was rather eclipsed. Sometimes, Brian, I feel discouraged, and then I want support. I can’t argue with Arthur, for instance. He overwhelms me with words—words. And then, like your father, I say nothing. But it comforts me greatly to feel that you think as I do, that the old ways suffice you.”

“Ra-ther!”

“You are my dear son.”

She held his hand, gently caressing it, gazing at him with tears in her eyes, which he pretended not to see. Thousands of mothers throughout the land were indulging in these furtive caresses, saying little because they feared to say too much. Thousands of sons respected such pathetic silences.

Before Grimshaw’s brief visit to Wilverley Court, an incident took place, trivial in itself, but fraught with far-reaching consequences. The faithful Mrs. Rockram fell ill, taking to her bed with a neglected cold likely to develop into pleurisy and pneumonia. Grimshaw, however, came to the rescue and—as Mrs. Rockram affirms to this day—saved her life. For twenty-four hours grave issues impended above a high temperature and severe pain. Cicely was in and out of the cottage half a dozen times, bringing what was required from the Manor kitchen, and ministering eagerly to an old friend. Lady Selina, wisely or otherwisely, made no protest. She must have known that two highly-strung young people would be thrown together. But, at the moment, every young woman in the kingdom had become a potential nurse. And also, as luck would have it, no professional nurse could take Cicely’s place. And Mrs. Rockram had served the Chandos family for five-and-twenty years . . .!

Man and maid, therefore, beheld each other with clear vision under the happiest conditions of a temporary and unconventional intimacy. They glided into comradeship, not recking where it might carry them. The current bore them out of a prosaic present into a land of dreams, the shadowy future where we fondly believe that we shall be more abundantly blessed. Both were unaware of the interest and curiosity that each kindled in the other, because, with all sincerity, they were engrossed in a common task which exacted unceasing vigilance. Even Grimshaw, with his habit of introspection and analysis, would have ridiculed the suggestion of sentimental attraction between himself and Cicely. He knew better than his amateur nurse how acute was the condition of his patient, a stout, lymphatic woman, with but slight powers of resistance to disease. And Cicely, for her part, could have sworn truthfully that the mere sight of Grimshaw’s tense face, the mere sound of his incisive voice, had frightened her out of her wits, constraining her to uncompromising obedience and attention. For the first time she saw a man fighting desperately to save the life of another. The only thing that seemed to matter was to help him to the best of her ability.

Had she contented herself with that, no consequences would have ensued. But she divined instantly that Grimshaw, unsparing of himself, needed her special attention. Dr. Pawley’s cook was taking a holiday like her master. The food at The Chandos Arms was primitive. And it did not occur to Lady Selina to ask Grimshaw to stay at the Manor. Brian had rejoined his regiment. Cicely rose triumphantly to a small emergency. Grimshaw found cold ham on his sideboard, some delicious sandwiches and hot soup. He gobbled these up without hazarding any conjecture as to whence they came. Tom Rockram, however, enlightened him. The honest fellow had some of the ham for his own dinner.

“You can thank my young lady,” he told him.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Grimshaw, “I haven’t.”

His thanks, perhaps, were heartier because belated.

The crisis passed swiftly; and Grimshaw had other patients. But Cicely stuck to her post till Mrs. Rockram was pronounced well able to fend for herself. By that time Cupid had sped his shafts. The victims, as yet, felt no smart, but each magnified the other, disdaining measurements. Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa, twin peaks, soaring into the blue!

The intimacy ended as suddenly as it had begun. Grimshaw took leave of his comrade with unaffected regret and slightly awkward apologies.

“I’m afraid I ordered you about, Miss Chandos.”

“Oh, you did. But I liked that.Obedience is necessary to success.That line is engraved on my heart. I used to write it out thousands of times when I first went to school.”

“Did you? There’s a touch of the rebel in you.”

“Yes; there is. I used to spell ‘necessary’ with one ‘s’ on purpose to annoy the mistress who set the pun. Such a silly pun too. Vain repetitions!”

“Exasperating everywhere.”

“Particularly in church, from the mouth of dear old Goody.”

“Youarea rebel. And so am I.”

“Of course I know that.” Her eyes met his frankly, with an odd challenge. Against his discreeter judgment he felt impelled to take up that challenge.

“Do you still want to work with a rebel?”

She eyed him with self-possession, faintly smiling. But she was thinking how difficult it would be to describe him adequately in a letter to Miss Arabella Tiddle. By now she was able to view him in perspective, ripening to full maturity. Immense possibilities were indicated, she decided. Would he expand into a splendidsomebody? Would he “furnish up”?—to use Brian’s favourite expression about a four-year-old. Dr. Pawley had said of him: “He rings true,” with an allusion to the eighteenth-century wine-glasses which he collected. And, after that happy comparison, she had never heard Grimshaw speak without noting the lingering resonance of his tones. Head and body were admirably proportioned, rich in line and contour, but not aggressively so. The careless eye would wander past him. He was, admittedly, too thin, too pale, to please the ordinary bouncing country miss; and yet he had the colour of a fine black-and-white print.

She answered his question charmingly:

“If you still want to work with me.”

“I do—I do. But how to go to work bothers me. You see, I am not—I fear I never can be—diplomatic.”

All traces of the doctor had vanished. He stood before her, clothed with an endearing humility and humanity. Cicely might, at her age, be deemed incapable of thus summing up a passing phase in a man who attracted her, but she grasped the essential fact: he loathed to inflict pain on others. His mission in life was obviously to alleviate suffering. Her first thought was: “How wisely he has chosen his profession!” She said softly:

“I think I understand and sympathise. Butmy Mother——?”

She broke off abruptly, unable, perhaps unwilling, to give words to sensibilities still inarticulate. Very eagerly he took up the broken sentence.

“But I understand too. And just because she is your mother,” he placed, unconsciously, the slightest emphasis on the personal pronoun, “I feel so much the more bothered.”

“Please don’t bother too much!”

She held out her hand and went her way.

The visit to Wilverley, postponed on account of Mrs. Rockram’s illness, duly took place. By this time Grimshaw was unable to disguise from himself that Cicely had become The Woman. Without being squeamishly modest, he could not believe that he was regarded by the maid as “The Man.” A romantic situation might be heightened, if it could be recorded that Cicely was The First Woman. She was nothing of the kind. But to a man of imaginative temperament The First Woman is reincarnated in her successors. The ideal survives. The elusive She approaches, beguiles, and vanishes. Nevertheless, somewhere, some day, she may reappear and be captured. A counterfeit presentment of Cicely had jilted Grimshaw rather cruelly just before he buried himself in Essex. Babbington-Raikes, sound psychologist, may have reflected that Champions of the Poor and Oppressed are fashioned more easily out of men whose personal ambitions have suffered eclipse. The gentlemen of the Lost Legion are the finest fighters in the world.

Memories of the jilt still rankled. Like Cicely, she had shone brightly as a young lady of quality, a brilliant of many facets. Shamelessly breaking her engagement, she had married a rubber potentate who had found a fortune and lost a liver in the Malay Peninsula. “O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!” Now, he could thank God that she was not his, and laugh derisively at his infatuation for her. But how she had bewitched him!

His host at Wilverley welcomed Grimshaw with cordiality, and showed him the model estate of the county, discussing eagerly plans for its further improvement.

“And it pays, it pays,” he repeated several times. “You can take a squint at my books if you like.”

“I’m sure it pays,” Grimshaw replied.

Wilverley’s father had been an ironmaster, who had bought an impoverished property and was frowned on at first as a carpet-bagger by the county families. They eyed him more favourably after Gladstone ennobled him, and smiled approval when he became a Liberal-Unionist. As a man of great executive ability he had applied business methods to agriculture, scrapping obsolete machinery and buildings. His son—so Grimshaw decided—seemed to have inherited his father’s business aptitudes without his disabilities. Wilverley waxed confidential after dinner.

“My father had a rotten digestion: bad grub when he was a kid. I can digest anything—anything. The main trouble in the rural districts is insufficient food, vilely cooked and poor in quality. I see to it that my people are fed as well as my horses. Food and shelter, there you have it in tabloid form. No able-bodied young men emigrate from here.”

Grimshaw listened, impressed by his host’s energy and cocksureness. Obviously, this was a man who got what he wanted, because he wanted it with a restless passion for achievement that couldn’t be denied. But the professional eye, noting a heightened colour after meals, began to doubt the assumption that Lord Wilverley could digest anything.

A luscious opulence characterised the immense house throughout, a Victorian splendour of brocade, gilt cornices, mirrors, French polish, and Axminster carpets. In effective contrast, Wilverley wore shabby tweeds, and might have been mistaken by a short-sighted stranger for one of his own less prosperous tenants. The amount of work he accomplished in twenty-four hours amazed Grimshaw, who knew what hard work was. How much time would be left to cherish a wife?

Wilverley spoke with entire frankness about the Chandos family.

“The good old sort, but reactionary; always have been. The prettiest place in the country run abominably to seed. You have your work cut out there. Pawley, I take it, will soon retire . . .and then. . .?”

He stared fixedly at Grimshaw.

“I may retire first,” said Grimshaw.

“Then I’m mistaken in my man,” declared Wilverley, almost explosively.

“I know when I’m beaten, Lord Wilverley.” He added quietly: “But I shan’t throw up the sponge yet. Miss Chandos is not reactionary.”

“Miss Chandos?” Wilverley frowned slightly. “Hardly out!”

“She counts.”

“Miss Chandos will marry. And, if I know her, she would never run counter to her mother. Don’t make trouble between them, I beg you. She sided with us the other evening merely out of a girlish desire to ginger up a rather dull dinner.”

Grimshaw remained silent, and Wilverley began to talk about the war, which, in his opinion, couldn’t last long, K. of K. to the contrary. Soldiers were rank pessimists. Business interests would be paramount. Civilisation wouldn’t tolerate the dislocation of industry . . . and so forth.

Next morning Grimshaw left early, after promising to come again. He had liked his host, reckoning him, quite rightly, to be an honest man and a capable. He recalled a platitude often on the lips of his father: “We are sent into this world to better it.” According to this gauge, Wilverley had “made good.” And a wife, with a sense of humour, would round off his corners, trim his quills, and conciliate his unfriends. But probably she would give even more than she would get.

He reflected, not without bitterness, upon what Cicely Chandos would get if she took Wilverley.

During the epoch-making weeks that followed he saw little of her, being engrossed by his work. After the battle of the Marne, Wilverley Court was turned into a Red Cross Hospital, and Cicely enrolled herself as a V.A.D. Brian, by this time, was in France, having survived the retreat from Mons. Pawley had come back, much the better for a long holiday. He congratulated his partner with almost paternal effusion:

“They all like you, my boy. Gentle and simple——!”

“The simple are not as simple as they appear,” said Grimshaw.

“Ah! You have been talking to them, eh? Any—complaints?”

“Nothing verbal. They say what they think I wish them to say. I get most of my information from the kiddies. They give the Chandos dynasty dead away.”

Pawley made a deprecating gesture.

“I know—I know. But what can one do?”

Grimshaw answered grimly:

“Waking, and sometimes in my dreams, that question worries me confoundedly. I’m at the cross-roads. For the moment, I suppose, I must mark time. Dash it!” he continued, with rare irritability, “how can I pester Lady Selina with my pet schemes when she is absorbed with anxiety about her son?” Had he been absolutely truthful, he would have added: “And how can I run the risk of hostilising the mother of the girl I love?”

“Yes, yes; God help all these poor mothers.”

For a season the nettle was dropped, to be grasped firmly later on.

To make matters more difficult for a perplexed and unhappy man in love with a young woman apparently predestined to be the bride of another, Lady Selina had followed her son’s advice, and was being consistently civil and kind, a much easier task than she had anticipated inasmuch as Cicely was absent from home. Grimshaw enjoyed some rough shooting, and found so many snipe in the bog behind the village that he reconsidered the propriety of draining it. Tired by his day’s work, snug in a big arm-chair, he was sorely tempted to let things drift. But every morning, after his cold tub, fighting instincts reasserted themselves. The gorgeous possibility of capturing mother and daughter rose with the sun and illumined his heaven. Two birds to one shot—a notable right and left! Meanwhile Mrs. Rockram had become his devoted slave. To talk to Mrs. Rockram about Cicely would be indiscreet; to listen to her chatter on the same fascinating subject was another matter. Indeed, what news he got of Cicely generally filtered through this loyal old retainer. From her he learned that Wilverley had left the Court and was living with his agent. The big house was handed over to my lord’s married sister, apparently a formidable person, bristling, like her brother, with restless activities. Cicely, it seemed, went to bed each night nearly foundered!

“I ain’t one to gossip,” remarked Mrs. Rockram as November drew to a close. “I’ve never done it, never!”

“Oh, Mrs. Rockram! What a difference between us! I love a bit of gossip. What is gossip? A kindly indication of interest in the affairs of others.”

“Well, sir, that’s as may be. And the housekeeper at the Court is a particular friend of mine, and not one to carry a foolish tale.”

“Out with it, Mrs. Rockram. What tale does she wag?”

Mrs. Rockram answered cautiously:

“It ends happily, sir, as tales should do—with the wedding bells.”

“I’m still in the dark,” said Grimshaw.

He felt, as he spoke, that he should remain so. Cimmerian blackness encompassed him, a Stygian fog. Wilverley had retreated, so to speak, before the final assault. He had trailed clouds of glory behind him. Thanks to his organising powers, the new hospital had been acclaimed as a model. And it was full of heroes and hero-worshippers. Grimshaw had hoped that his services might have been required, but red-tape vetoed this. The medical officer in charge was a “Major” in spurs. Wilverley, of course, had made the most of his opportunities. Mrs. Rockram went on:

“I ain’t. When I seen Miss Cicely in her uniform, I says to Mr. Rockram, ‘My lord’s a goner.’ ”

Grimshaw attempted to smile. The music was out of his voice as he asked:

“Is it settled?”

Mrs. Rockram was inclined to think so. Could there be a better match? One, surely, of Heaven’s own making. She concluded: “We have always known that my lord was sweet as sweet on her.”

Grimshaw could not envisage Wilverley as “sweet.” And Mrs. Rockram’s evidence was flimsy, mere hearsay from the housekeeper at the Court. Still, the very likelihood of the affair gnawed at him raveningly. A day or two later Pawley said to him:

“Thank God, Brian is now reasonably safe!”

“Why this fervour?”

“Lady Selina expects to lose Cicely.”

“Who told you so?”

An inflection in the young man’s voice made Pawley regard him more attentively. Grimshaw’s face, however, remained expressionless. Pawley replied as guardedly as Mrs. Rockram:

“She admitted to me that Wilverley had dropped the handkerchief; and it seems reasonably certain that it will be picked up. He’s a masterful man.”

“He is,” Grimshaw assented. “Would—would Lady Selina bring pressure to bear?”

Again Pawley’s eyes showed surprise.

“Um! Pressure? Why should there be pressure, except from him?”

Cornered, rather confused, with a tinge of colour in his pale cheeks, Grimshaw said hastily:

“I can’t see him as a lover. He would, as you put it, drop the handkerchief and make sure of its being picked up at once. A girl of spirit mightn’t quite like that.”

With the colder weather, Upworthy boasted a cleaner bill of health, although the more elderly villagers suffered abominably from rheumatism. Anxious to “spare” Lady Selina, but even more anxious to mitigate conditions which might be improved, Grimshaw tackled Gridley, the power behind the throne exercising a sly, persistent authority which few could measure, least of all the lady of the manor. Gridley had succeeded his father as bailiff of the Chandos domain. Thousands of just such men are to be found in our southern and western counties. And more than half the misery in the rural districts can be traced to them, directly and indirectly. Back of their abuse of power lies, of course, the indolence of the landlord. And behind this again—ignorance. All Gridleys have in common a desire to make things easy for their employers. They stand doggedly as buffers between comfort and discomfort, between peace of mind and innumerable pettifogging worries and acerbities. Villagers dare not appeal to Cæsar. How many schoolboys beard a headmaster, indicting some unjust member of his staff? Villagers are children. They never cut loose from leading-strings. They whine to each other, and make a “visiting face” in the presence of the “quality.” They live, most of them, for the passing hour, seldom dwelling upon the future because, instinctively, they dread it. Who denies them great qualities? But they will be the better understood when it is admitted frankly that their unwritten code is poles apart from the code of the privileged classes. With the poor patience is a greater virtue than truthfulness; fidelity ranks above chastity; justice counts for nothing in comparison with generosity.

Gridley lived in a comfortable house at the Home Farm, with a wife whom he regarded as a general servant, and several children. After his day’s work, he befuddled himself with beer, but he prided himself upon rising each morning perfectly sober. He was reasonably abstemious in local taverns, and attended church, making the responses in a loud voice, conscious that the approving ear of Lady Selina heard him. He was a member of the district and parish councils. He could, and did, make life hell for any beneath him in the social scale who presumed to thwart his wishes and commands.

At first he showed himself obsequious and complaisant to the new doctor. But he began to squirm under Grimshaw’s questions, wriggling out of them, evading them, trying to throw dust into eyes penetratingly clear. Grimshaw took his measure in five minutes. Nevertheless, for Lady Selina’s sake, he wished to give the fellow a chance. Possibly Gridley mistook courtesy for weakness. More than probably he took for granted that country doctors prefer to travel along lines of least resistance.

Finally, after many exasperating and unavailing interviews, Grimshaw spoke plainly:

“You are forcing me to the conclusion, Mr. Gridley, that you run Upworthy to suit yourself.”

Doctor and bailiff had met outside a cottage which held a young married woman sadly crippled by incipient arthritis. Her bed rested upon a floor eaten up by dry-rot. Putting his foot through a board, Grimshaw had discovered masses of thick, white, velvety fungus, which smelt horribly. He discovered further that the waste-pipes from the eaves were choked up; water trickled down the inside walls. When he called Gridley’s attention to this state of things, the bailiff promptly promised immediate repairs, which were not forthcoming. Grimshaw could have appealed to Lady Selina. But anything of that sort meant open war with Gridley, the precipitation of a crisis. It meant, for the lady of the manor, an instant choice between an old servant and a comparative stranger. It meant, if Grimshaw won (and the possibilities of losing obtruded itself), finding a new bailiff, breaking him in, endless worry and perplexity. To find the right man at such a time, when ability of any sort was at a tremendous premium, might be impracticable. To add to the difficulties of the case, he knew that witnesses for the prosecution of a tyrant would be hard to find. Gridley, and his father before him, had imposed silence upon Upworthy. The Extons were notable examples of what might happen to the recalcitrant. Favours, innumerable doles—coal, fire-wood, milk, clothing and small grants in aid—were distributed amongst the optimists who, when Lady Selina made her periodical rounds, presented shining faces and grateful hearts. The wise gaffers sang praises of “honest John” behind his back and to his brazen face. Nicodemus Burble, the octogenarian, piped the popular conviction: “I allers says it pays to treat bailiffs wi’ respect, for why, my sonnies? Because they can make it so danged uncomfortsome for we, if we don’t.”

Gridley, thus addressed by a young man whom he regarded hitherto as negligible, was much taken aback. Clever enough to know that procrastination would no longer avail him, he tried insolence instead:

“Do I? I’d have you to understand, Mr. Grimshaw, that I can mind my business, as my father did before me, and I’ll thank you to mind yours.”

With that he turned on his heel, glaring savagely.

“Wait!” said Grimshaw, in his quietest tone.

Gridley swung round. Grimshaw met his congested glance.

“The misery in Upworthy is my business.”

“Ho, is it?”

“Yes; I can break a hornet’s nest about your ears, and I’m in the mood to do it. I can get the medical officer of health for the county down here, and if I do, you and your father’s business, which you manage as abominably as he did, will be blown to—to your ultimate destination.”

Gridley stared at him in stupefaction. Hitherto, the local sanitary inspector, with well-greased palms, had seen to it that his chief should be spared such visitations. Altering his tone slightly, he growled out:

“Her ladyship will have something to say to that.”

“Cut her ladyship out of this. I propose to deal with you. Her ladyship has entrusted you with powers which you have abused, grossly abused, to your own advantage.”

Gridley, with unpleasant memories of John Exton, and confronted by a tense athletic figure, said sullenly:

“I suppose I can’t stop you talking.”

“You can’t. You like being top dog. And because you came from the people, you’re hard on the people. You treat them as dirt.”

Gridley laughed brutally, as a not unreasonable fear of personal violence passed from him.

“That’s what they are, most of ’em—dirt.”

Grimshaw smiled derisively, beholding in Gridley the reactionary of the Labour Party, the common type that rides rough-shod over the foot-passengers, bespattering them with mud. Some of the self-styled leaders of Labour in Poplar were just like him—arrogant, insolent and ignorant, seeking their own advancement with specious canting words on their thick lips, secretly distrusted by the very class whom they tried to rule and direct. He divined that Gridley hated, in his heart, the benefactress who trusted him, that he would be the first—given the opportunity—to bite the hand that had fed him. And such men scorn decent treatment. They can be subdued by the weapon they use—the lash. Grimshaw continued, not so quietly:

“I’m on to your little games. You and that greedy idiot, the sanitary inspector, and four-fifths of the district council, play into each other’s hands, and laugh and wink over it.”

Gridley tried sarcasm:

“Ho! Downin’ one of your own sort now?”

“You allude to our local medical officer. I wonder how you’d like me to take on that job?”

“Why don’t you?” He laughed again.

“I may,” replied Grimshaw incisively, “Lady Selina Chandos has always wanted to do her best for her people, but that never suited your book. Why? Because when light comes to her you’ll be scrapped first.”

“Have it your own way, Mr. Grimshaw, and thanks for warning me.”

“I do warn you. For the moment, I shall leave her ladyship in peace. I am dealing with you. Mend your ways here and now. Does the new flooring go in at once—or not?”

“I told you the job should be done. We’re short-handed.”

“Will it go in at once, within twenty-four hours?”

“Yes, it will.” He paused, adding cringingly:

“I didn’t mean to give offence, sir.”

Grimshaw replied tensely:

“Good. Keep what I’ve said to yourself, and I shall do the same.”

Within the time exacted the new flooring was put in. Grimshaw knew, of course, that he had made a dangerous enemy, but this heartened rather than dismayed him, salving a sensitive conscience. He believed that he could deal with Gridley, and through Gridley with others. Lady Selina must be left in peace till peace came back to a world in travail.

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