CHAPTER VIIIPEARLS OF DEW

Cicely noticed that her mother was unusually silent during dinner, and that she trifled with her food. Since Cicely’s engagement the cook, a trusty retainer, had been given a freer hand with eggs and butter. Possibly the Spartan fare at Danecourt Abbey had been too much for Lady Selina. More probably, so Cicely reflected, the bride of Arthur Wilverley must be brought to the post in proper condition. Stimson waited upon her with even greater deference and assiduity. It was almost pathetic to witness his activities, deprived of two footmen. He had asked Lady Selina, almost with tears in his voice, not to engage a parlourmaid. And when Cicely had asked promptly: “Do you object to a parlourmaid, Stimson?” he had replied mournfully: “It means, miss, a loss of dignity. I can manage very well.”

Not till he had left the dining-room did the lady of the manor speak of Grimshaw and his visit. She recited the essential facts truthfully, but they were presented with the usual Chandos gloss and with a note of petulance which Cicely could understand and with which, also, she could sympathise. The details about Isaac Burble horrified her, as, indeed, they had horrified Lady Selina. An awkward silence ensued. Then Lady Selina said slowly:

“He made a sort of threat, my dear.”

“A threat? Mr. Grimshaw? Impossible.”

“I regarded it as a threat, child—a threat which involved, as Mr. Grimshaw made quite plain, humiliation for me. He spoke of calling in the chief medical officer of the county.”

In answer to eager questions from Cicely she explained what authority might do, and the publicity which his doings would entail. Cicely looked miserable. Noting her daughter’s expression, Lady Selina said quietly:

“And then he proposed a happy alternative. For that I am very truly grateful. In fact, I can see no other way out of the wood. He suggests that I should consult dear Arthur, and through him his agent.”

“Oh—h—h!”

“I dislike intensely asking Arthur, but I admit that he is vitally concerned. I need hardly add that I shall give Gridley a chance of pleading his case before I pass judgment, but I fear he has exceeded the powers entrusted to him. Anyway, he will have to explain himself before Arthur.”

“I told you that Arthur does not see eye to eye with Gridley.”

“Yes, you did. I am prepared for the worst. Arthur, no doubt, will insist upon my discharging this old servant. And how I shall find another bailiff in these times is a problem beyond me. However, I count upon Arthur and his agent.”

Cicely felt dazed. But one lobe of her mind worked clearly. Arthur could show her mother a way out of the wood. He would do cheerfully and splendidly everything she demanded. Nobody else could do it half as well. And her mother was well aware of this, although pride would hardly allow her to admit as much. Lady Selina smiled faintly when she mentioned Arthur, and her voice indicated maternal affection. Arthur, for the first time possibly was envisaged as a son. The other lobe of Cicely’s brain refused to function at all. Out of a welter of chaotic sensibilities arose the appalling conviction that the breaking of her engagement had become a task beyond her powers. Dare she procrastinate? Could she permit her mother to ask such a service from a prospective son-in-law only to discover afterwards that the marriage so delightfully arranged would never take place? What would Tiddy say? She could hear Tiddy speaking, as it were, through a long-distance telephone:

“You are fairly up against it.”

Then she heard her mother’s voice, leisurely continuing:

“I shall speak to Arthur myself.”

“He comes to-morrow.”

“So you told me. I hope I shan’t spoil his pleasure in giving you your pearls.”

Cicely had forgotten the pearls. At mere mention of them she contemplated flight. Why not feign indisposition and remain in bed? Wild ideas surged through her head. Could she make a personal appeal to Grimshaw? The one old friend, Dr. Pawley, to whom she might have fled, for counsel, was physically debarred. Her mother said sharply:

“Don’t look so wretched, child. I am positive that Arthur can save this abominable situation. I regard it as saved, so cheer up. After dinner to-morrow night, when he is smoking his cigar, I shall come back here and talk to him.”

Having dismissed Arthur with gracious finality, she turned once more to Grimshaw. Immediately the inflections of her soft voice became querulous. In just the same tone Lord Saltaire bewailed the passing of the old order. All the Danecourts, in fact—and there were not many left of them except Cicely’s aunts—aired certain grievances in private. As a rule Cicely listened patiently enough to a tale—long as the Cromwell Road—which concerned itself mainly with the shortcomings of gardeners, grooms and tradesmen: all the many-headed who interfered directly or indirectly with that love of ease which Grimshaw long ago had described as moss. Grimshaw, during a few minutes, had raked a lot of moss from poor Lady Selina. Cicely reflected humorously, occupied though she was with her own affairs, that her mother presented the appearance of an ancient lawn cruelly lacerated by an up-to-date gardener.

“He means well,” complained Lady Selina.

Cicely replied:

“Who doesn’t? We all mean well. Mr. Grimshaw, so it seems to me, does well. Anyway, he never spares himself.”

“Or others. This afternoon, for instance, he showed little consideration for me. He might have broken this shocking news more gently. And he knew that I was the person most affected.”

“Well, I should have thought that Isaac Burble was that.”

Lady Selina looked penetratingly at her daughter, and then blinked, unable to see her quite clearly. What was the matter with the child?

“Of course, that goes without saying. It annoys me that you should say it.”

This, too, was a Danecourt attribute. A Danecourt cornered, a Danecourt at bay was likely to snarl. When Lady Selina missed a train she blamed invariably the railway company or appeared to do so. Once Lord Saltaire had summoned a man for using bad language. But, according to the testimony of others, the defendant was impeccably innocent. Indeed, it transpired that some swearing had been done by Lord Saltaire. When the case was dismissed Lord Saltaire remarked petulantly: “All I know is this—bad language was used; the fellow is a rogue and a vagabond.”

Cicely was discreet enough to apologise. Lady Selina continued in the same aggrieved tone:

“Mr. Grimshaw is a radical. I deplore that.”

“But these labels mean nothing, mother.”

“Heavens! That a child of mine should say so!”

Chandos obstinately revealed itself. Cicely remarked tartly:

“It happens that Mr. Grimshaw does not label himself as a Radical. He detests party politics. I have his own word for that. Are you angry with him because he disturbs our peace?”

“Angry? And peace! I despair of peace anywhere. Still, one expects consideration from one’s own people. And at such a time as this . . .”

She rose majestically and swept out of the dining-room. Cicely lingered to ring the bell and to pull herself together. How stupid to argue with her mother upon subjects like politics! And in a true sense Grimshaw was a Radical. He went to the root of things—an uncompromising reformer.

When she joined her mother Lady Selina smiled sweetly and silently upon her.

Alone in her bedroom Cicely attempted the impossible—an adjustment of utterly conflicting interests. If she considered herself, if she broke her engagement, Lady Selina would be confronted by the chief medical officer. It is likely that an inexperienced girl exaggerated the powers wielded by that official. But Lady Selina had made plain to her that ultimately the lady of the manor would be held responsible for any abuses discovered on that manor. Already she had a glimpse of a dreadful photograph of her mother in some daily illustrated paper. And beneath . . . a scarifying lie! Her uncle, as a many-acred magnate, had not escaped criticism.

Lady Selina Chandos at the mercy of the Radical Press!

She remembered that Tiddy had hinted at such a catastrophe. And at the time Cicely laughed. And then Tiddy, resenting ridicule, had cited cases. According to Miss Tiddy, landlord-baiting to certain journalists was more fun than drawing badgers.

She lay back in her arm-chair, closing her eyes.

If she did not break her engagement?

She tried to sense what that would mean to Upworthy, her mother and Arthur—a feat almost equivalent to looking on at a four-ring circle. It is only fair to a bewildered, unhappy girl to state emphatically that she considered Arthur first and last. If she married him would she be perpetrating what Tiddy called an outrage on him? This involved, more or less, a consideration of matrimonial obligations. What did such a man really want from his wife? Did Arthur want more than she could give. Could she not give all that her mother had given to her father? And at this moment she saw Arthur with extraordinary distinctness, thanks, possibly, to the trouble that he had taken to reveal himself to her. She guessed that he had never been swept off his feet by passion. He wanted affection, fidelity, an atmosphere of domestic peace that would enable him to concentrate energy upon his work. All that she could bestow.

She felt strangely tired.

So tired that she fell asleep.

And she dreamed vividly of Grimshaw, although purposely she had banished him from her waking thoughts. Perhaps on that account he took possession of her subconscious mind. When she awoke every detail of the dream presented itself with sharpest definition. She had been working with him as his wife in an enchanting intimacy of spirit and flesh. Interpreters of dreams, those who endeavor to explain the why and wherefore of the amazing vicissitudes which may befall us in our sleep, might affirm with reason that Cicely’s mind had dwelt persistently upon work with Grimshaw. She had wished from the first to work with him; he had wished that she should do so. Also, she had thought more than she dared to admit even to herself of what it might be like to be Grimshaw’s wife. One other point: she had never thought of Grimshaw apart from his work. Accordingly the dream in itself may be logically accepted as natural, almost inevitable. Her first impression on waking was the curious sense of reality that some dreams impose. Everything had been just right. She came out of the dream as a man may walk out of a playhouse after seeing a sincere and convincing presentment of life as it is. It is difficult, on such rare occasions, to realise that what we have seen and felt has not taken place. We believe that somewhere, somehow, the dream has been enacted. That, perhaps, is the great test of a good play.

She had dreamed that Grimshaw and she were fighting death and disease in Upworthy. Together they wandered in and out of cottages familiar to Cicely from childhood. The drudgery of the Red Cross Hospital fell to her. But in the dream this drudgery became glorified, equal to the highly-skilled labours of her husband: a partnership of mind and muscle. Her work, in its way, made what he did possible and successful. And the joy of the dream, the ineffable benediction of it, was this sense of working together for a common end. In the dream the hands of her husband, not his lips, touched hers again and again, each time with an increasing thrill. He hardly spoke to her, nor she to him; because each understood the unspoken thought of the other. It was as if spirit and flesh had been thrown into a melting-pot, to be fused eternally. He became her and she became him.

And she had slept just twenty minutes!

The dream forced upon her what she had avoided—a more rigorous examination of her own feelings. So far, although bewildered and miserable, she had glanced at three rings in the circus. She had realised what marriage with Arthur would mean to Upworthy, to her mother, and to her husband. What it would mean to herself had been left in abeyance.

Presently she saw herself as Arthur’s wife. She remembered what Tiddy had once said about loving two men at the same time. To her that was impossible, preposterous. If she resolutely banished Grimshaw from her mind for ever and ever she believed that the affection she felt for Arthur might bloom into just the same steady, work-a-day love that had sufficed her own parents. She would be reasonably happy and make him happy. She would adore her babies if they came to her. She would play gracefully the part of Lady Bountiful. It would all be so easy, so free from friction and discomfort. In her dream she had seen herself as the wife of Grimshaw. Now, wide-awake, she beheld herself as Lady Wilverley. But any image of Cicely Chandos, unmarried, regarded by her own kinswomen as a foolish jilt, always conscious of her mother’s silent disapproval, was hopelessly blurred.

She undressed and went to bed. For hours she wriggled restlessly between lavender-scented sheets. Then she dropped off into a troubled sleep.

She awoke at the usual time, jumped out of bed, went to the window, and gazed into the garden. The incomparable freshness of early morning fell like dew upon her still tired mind. The rains of two days had been absorbed by the thirsty earth; the sun shone again in cloudless skies.

And Brian lay dead in France!

It was delightful to think that all her memories of him were happy. But why had he been taken and she left? What design underlay these heart-breaking separations? They had been so jolly together. But she recalled, with an odd pang that always, always, they had sought the sunshine and shunned the shadows. Love of ease had enwrapped them from the cradle. And if Grimshaw were right, if love of ease were a parasitic growth like moss, if it strangled other growths, must it be raked out ruthlessly and cast as rubbish to the void? He had said, upon that memorable evening when Arthur and he met for the first time, when subconsciously she had compared the two men, arriving intuitively at a right understanding of each, that some great discipline might change character. What effect had Brian’s death had upon her?

She couldn’t answer the insistent question percolating through jaded tissues.

At breakfast Lady Selina glowed maternally. No mention was made of Snitterfield and Gridley. A letter from Lord Saltaire was read aloud:

“My dear Selina” (it ran).—“I am rejoiced to hear of little Cicely’s engagement. From my personal knowledge of Wilverley she has chosen well and wisely. I hope that I shall enjoy the privilege of giving the bride away. Tell her, with my love, that I shall send her a tiara. As I cannot afford to buy diamonds, I shall give her the one that I chose for my wife, which does not belong to the family jewels. If you think it old-fashioned, I can have it re-set. . . .”

Lady Selina laid down the letter and said solemnly:

“Your uncle is the most generous of men. The tiara is simply magnificent—pearls and diamonds. It won’t need re-setting. It was bought in the rue de la Paix.”

Cicely murmured what was expected of her. Lady Selina read aloud other letters of warm congratulation, with a sly jibe at some of the well-wishers:

“Should we hear from these old cats if you were marrying Tom or Dick?”

“I don’t know them, mother.”

“You will, my dear. They’ll attend to that. I see them licking their lips over your cream.”

“If they are like that, I needn’t know them.”

“But you must. In your position a lot of boring, self-seeking people will impose themselves on you. But you can do with them as I did—entertain themen gros. Make your small parties as select as possible.”

Throughout breakfast Lady Selina dealt delicately but amusingly with modern society. She had withdrawn from Mayfair after the death of her husband, selling the lease of a comfortable house in Curzon Street; but she had never lost touch with “the people who count.” And you may be sure that it was not disagreeable for her to reflect that Lord Wilverley would pass thresholds with his wife which he would never cross without her. But she would have perished at the stake rather than say this.

As she talked, Cicely was sensible that the diamond-and-pearl tiara had brought down this freshet of worldly-wise counsel and reminiscence. Lady Selina’s eyes lingered upon her daughter’s hair. She saw the tiara flashing and scintillating in sanctuaries where innumerable wax candles were still provided instead of electric light. The mother tasted again bygone triumphs. She ended in a minor key:

“Of course, society has changed for the worse. Half a dozen houses, not more, preserve inviolate the old conditions and traditions. I see no reason why you, my dear child, quite unostentatiously, should not enforce the golden rule.”

“What is the golden rule, mother?”

“Slam your doors,” said Lady Selina trenchantly, “in the face of indecency, impudence, and bad breeding. I admit sorrowfully that impudence can be amusing.”

“Would you have me slam my doors in Tiddy’s face?”

“Tiddy, as you call her, is your personal friend, and therefore the exception that proves the rule.”

There was a letter from Arthur beside Cicely’s plate, but she didn’t mean to open it till she was alone. Lady Selina marked and approved this abstention. Evidently, school had not rubbed off all the bloom. She kissed her daughter after breakfast, pinched her cheek, and whispered:

“Run into the garden, darling. Read your love-letter in the place where your lover asked you to be his. My thoughts will be with you.”

Cicely, however, out of sight of a pair of keen eyes, did not stroll into the topiary garden, but skirted it, making for the lower end of the park, where her beloved mare had been turned out. She would come trotting up at sight of her and rub her velvety nose against her hand. Sugar was becoming scarce, but Cicely had three or four lumps of it in her pocket.

The park looked invitingly secluded and spacious. Not a human being could be seen. The cattle were grazing on the higher slopes; the horses stood near the small lake, not far from some dumps of trees, into which they would wander when the sun approached the zenith. On the edge of the lake, almost hidden by tall reeds and bamboos, was a tiny boathouse which held an ancient punt. Cicely intended to read her letter in the punt.

Her grey mare, Chinchilla, neighed and then trotted up. Cicely fed and caressed her, thinking of the good hunts before the war. A couple of bunnies watched these endearments, ready to pop into their burrows if a terrier appeared. Upon the surface of the lake were some wild duck and moor-hens. Overhead a heron flapped lazily along.

Followed by the faithful and sugar-loving Chinchilla, Cicely made her way to the boat-house and entered it. Chinchilla mounted guard outside. Cicely gazed, as some girls do, at the firm writing on the envelope, indicating—to those who have skill in reading character from caligraphy—love of order, a sense of proportion, generosity, and rectitude. Cicely had no such skill, but Arthur’s handwriting pleased her because it was so unlike her own. And it never varied.

She opened the envelope.

“My darling little girl,—I shall have you in my arms within a few hours of your reading this, and I can think of nothing else. To have and to hold you fills my heart and mind. I can’t add much to that, can I? Indeed, it is difficult to realise that you are really mine, because there is something elusive about you—something, in spite of your fine physical health, which seems to me frail and easily bruised. It is my ardent wish to cherish and protect you——”

Cicely paused. The sincerity of the writer was extraordinarily impressive. That would be his unswerving purpose. He took care of all his possessions. Solicitude, henceforward, would be concentrated upon her.

Tiddy would say, shaking her curls, “Cotton-wool for you, Cis.”

She read on:

“I have been glancing at some houses and flats. I am inclined to the latter—at any rate, until this war is over and the servant question becomes less of a nuisance. My own rooms are not good enough. My poor father had a hideous house full of hideous things. After my mother’s death I sold it. I have the offer of a very fine apartment overlooking the Green Park, and have secured an option on it, pending your final decision. But you won’t be bothered with details, and we shall buy our furniture together—make a jolly lark of it. We may have to spend some time in London, if my Government work becomes, as is likely, more exacting. The apartment I speak of is charmingly furnished, and we could, if you preferred it, buy everything as it stands. That is for you to decide.”

The letter ended curtly: “Yours faithfully, A.”

The “faithfully” was exactly like him. And no word in the letter was written so firmly, with such uncompromising up-and-down strokes of a full pen. Obviously he had intended her to digest its significance.

The letter dropped into her lap; she stared through the reeds at the placid surface of the lake reflecting the cloudless blue and the trees upon the farther shore.

Could life be like that?

Would it be life?

That morning she had decided to drift on with her engagement. All vitality seemed to have left her, after uneasy vigils and travailings. She had been born to tread the old ways, like her mother, like all her people, except that one unfortunate who was never mentioned.

Probably she would lose Tiddy. And such a loss filled her with dismay and apprehension. She computed her debt to Tiddy. Tiddy had opened her eyes. Tiddy would go to France, and hurl herself into the danger zone, if she could get anywhere near it. Why was she so different from Tiddy?

Presently inaction became prickly. She decided to walk to the village and inquire after Isaac Burble. Mixed up with all her thoughts and speculations was this neglected old man who had served faithfully the House of Chandos. He had suffered abominably. Because of that it seemed a soft of judgment that Lady Selina’s daughter must suffer too. The mills of God worked that way.

By the time she reached Upworthy the sun was nearly overhead, pouring down redhot shafts upon just and unjust. Once more the smell of the unclean animal assailed Cicely’s nostrils as she passed Martha Giles’s sties. Close by, in striking apposition, stood Timothy Farleigh’s picturesque, heavily-thatched cottage. Mary Farleigh was in her garden, hanging out the Monday washing. Cicely beheld garments patched and darned incredibly. Mary’s pale, thin face seemed paler and thinner; she looked an attenuated shadow of a woman, worn to skin and bone. Nick, the softy, was helping her, with a vacuous grin upon his round, amorphous face.

“Good morning, Mary.”

“Marning, miss. A be-utiful marning, to be sure.”

“How are you?”

“I bain’t feeling very grand, miss. Tired-like. But I allers feels that way o’ Mondays. ’Tis the washing, I reckons. So you be marriage-ripe, they tells me.”

“What be that?” asked Nick.

“ ’Tis something you’ll never be, my pore lad,” replied his mother, not tartly, but with pathetic resignation. She looked penetratingly at Cicely, adding softly: “I wishes you all happiness, Miss Cicely; you be a rare good, kind maid.”

“Thank you, Mary. Can I send you anything? A little strong beef-tea?”

Mary’s eyes brightened, but her thin lips closed.

“Thank’ee kindly, miss. I ain’t much stomach for my vittles. ’Tis the heat, maybe.”

Something in her face made Cicely say hastily:

“If you feel ailing, Mary, send for Mr. Grimshaw. Don’t put it off till it’s too late. He’s very clever.”

Mary nodded doubtfully. Cicely passed slowly on.

She did not hear very encouraging news from Isaac Burble’s niece, who seemed to be more concerned—as well she might—with her own “symptings,” as she called them. Her uncle, so Cicely gathered, had long survived his usefulness. The thought that mainly engrossed the niece was obviously the difficulty and necessity of providing a respectable funeral for one whose time had come.

Cicely insisted on seeing him, and found him fairly comfortable and cheerful. At any rate, Isaac was not contemplating his own funeral. He said with a chuckle:

“I be going to disappint Maggie. Yas, we Burbles be long-lived. Take a squint at Nicodemus. He was here along this marning. I told ’un I’d wager a tankard of ale that this young doctor sets my old leg. ’Twill be a rare joke on Dr. Snitterfield.”

Cicely left him still chuckling.

Soon afterwards she ran into Grimshaw, although she wished to avoid him. He spoke of Isaac:

“I believe he’ll pull through. The amazing thing is, he won’t die—positively refuses to do so. If the bed-sores yield to treatment, I shall tackle his leg.”

Cicely said tranquilly:

“I have faith in you, and so has he. It’s too awful that he should be in this condition.”

“Lady Selina has told you?”

He spoke with his usual incisiveness. Beneath his glance she flushed, saying hurriedly:

“She will consult Lord Wilverley to-night.”

“Good!”

“If—if you have anything you care to say to me—something you may have withheld from my mother out—out of consideration for her, I want to hear it.”

He hesitated. They had met in the middle of the green, and it was now unbearably hot, swelteringly so. Close to Farleigh’s cottage stood an immense tree, with a seat encircling it. Grimshaw indicated this with a wave of his hand.

“Shall we get into the shade for a minute?”

Cicely assented, reflecting that she would remain in the shade for the rest of her life. She was torn in two by the wish to leave Grimshaw and the desire to hear what he might have to say. Must more horrors be faced?

She sat down on the rustic bench and furled her parasol. He stood near her, removed his soft felt hat, and began crumpling it between his hands. Her eyes rested upon his thin, nervous fingers.

“I dared not tell Lady Selina about the milk.”

“The milk?”

Very deliberately, in his most professional tone and manner, he dropped the bomb.

“I have examined fifteen samples of milk taken from cows in and about Upworthy. All—allthe samples held organisms derived from manure.”

“Heavens!”

“Worse than that—some of the cows are tuberculous.”

Cicely wailed out:

“How and why have things come to this pass? It isn’t as if mother didn’t care. She does. So do I—tremendously. And with good-will on our part, with—with the sincere wish to do our duty—why have we failed?”

“If I could answer all questions as easily as that!”

“Please answer me.”

“I hate preaching. I hate indicting individuals. What is wrong here, and in thousands of other parishes, is the system. Peter is robbed to pay Paul. Compromise is themot d’ordre. How can your mother or you know whether milk is pure or not? Of course, there is a man who is supposed to attend to these matters, a state-paid official. In my experience, most of these fellows—not too well paid, by the way—shirk their duties. Why? Because the foundations of the land system are rotten. Now and again a big fuss is made, and then things go on as before, simply because there is, as yet, no real awakening, no vital co-operation amongst land-owners. Many are good, some are outrageously bad—and they are ear-marked. The immense majority are indifferent, because they are ignorant. They simply don’t know what ought to be done. It’s futile to blame individuals. In a sense Gridley is responsible for the insanitary conditions in your pretty village. But I only blame him up to a point. With the best will in the world he would blunder horribly if he attempted drastic reform. Your mother would say that she can’t afford to employ an expert, but, between ourselves, she can’t afford not to do so. And really it comes to this: if land-owners can’t afford experts they must become experts themselves and teach their sons to become experts.”

“And their daughters?”

“And their daughters. This war, of course, has made things, the bad things, blatant. All the farmers are short-handed. I see an immense change in cow-sheds since I left last autumn. What drainage was done is now left undone. All I have said, Miss Chandos—and I have said it under pressure from you, and with the greatest reluctance—applies to everything here. Snitterfield, for instance, would not have neglected a patient so—so damnably, if he were not overworked. In his way, too, he is just as ignorant as Gridley. If ever he knew anything he has forgotten it. And there you are!”

She thanked him for his candour. He stared rather ruefully at his crumpled hat, smoothed it, and straightened it, put it on his head, and laughed.

“I feel these things too much,” he admitted.

“I can guess how you feel.”

“If your mother will be guided by Lord Wilverley, all will be well. He is a man of remarkable executive ability. But, if you have any influence, entreat Lady Selina to give him a free hand.”

“I promise to do that.”

“What it will mean to this village is—immeasurable. And co-operation between two large owners may lead to the one thing needful—a more general realisation of what union can achieve. A league of landlords is wanted. The farmers should be asked to adopt a more definite policy, but most of them, again, are ignorant and obstinate.” His voice softened. “All this is hard luck on you.”

“They are fighting in France,” replied Cicely.

Arthur Wilverley motored over at three, bringing with him his evening clothes and the pearls. The pearls and Lord Saltaire’s tiara had become, by this time, symbols to Cicely, symbols impossible to ignore. At a glance, she perceived that her lover had bought a perfect string, superbly gradated. It must have cost thousands! Their first greeting had been perfunctory. He came into Lady Selina’s sitting-room and kissed Cicely. He was about to shake hands with Lady Selina, when she said impulsively:

“Kiss me, my dear son.”

She spoke with such a charming spontaneity that he hugged her. And then he began to speak boyishly of what he had done in London, describing the apartment and its furniture. Apparently, it had belonged to a connoisseur, a collector, whose daughter, oddly enough, disdained Chippendale chairs, and porcelain, and mezzotints.

“I’m offered the lot, so the agent says, cheap. Really it’s a gilt-edged opportunity.”

“Not to be missed,” affirmed Lady Selina.

Cicely dissembled. She had looked forward to buying the furniture of her London house, but she distrusted her taste. Probably, left to her own devices, she would achieve the commonplace.

“What do you say, Cis?” asked Wilverley.

“If the things are really good . . .”

“They are, they are. We should save time, money, and worry. I told the agent that I’d wire him.”

“Talk it over together,” advised Lady Selina. She added gravely: “I commend any saving of time and worry to you, Arthur, because I am constrained, much to my distress, to ask you to spend time and worry on me. But we will talk of that later.”

With that she smiled graciously, and sailed out of the room.

“What does your mother mean?” asked Wilverley.

“She will tell you, Arthur, after dinner.”

He displayed a tinge, nothing more, of irritability.

“Mystery . . .!”

“You hate mystery, don’t you?” She spoke lightly, but he detected nervousness, and saw troubled eyes.

“I do,” he replied emphatically. “But if this mystery doesn’t concern you, my dearest . . .”

“But it does. Perhaps I had better prepare you. After all, mother asks your help, because I am so concerned in your giving it.”

He recovered his geniality at once.

“If that is the case, dear, the help shall be given. Be sure of that.”

She sat down upon the big couch facing her father’s portrait. It was too hot to go out. He sat beside her and captured her hand which lay, he thought, too passively in his. Within five minutes he understood exactly what was expected of him, and rose finely to the emergency.

“Why, of course. Any possibility of a public inquiry must be burked. I know what to do. I can deal with the three culprits, Snitterfield, Gridley and the Sanitary Inspector. And I’ll undertake more, provided . . .”

“Yes?”

“That your mother allows me a free hand.”

“Mr. Grimshaw said that would be necessary.”

“Grimshaw? You have talked with him?” She nodded. “What did he say?”

She repeated Grimshaw’s words almost verbatim.

“Yes, yes. Grimshaw is right. The trouble is deep-seated, and goes back to feudal times. Most of us muddle through somehow.”

“You don’t.”

“Oh, well,” he laughed, “I’m a bit of a carpet-bagger, and I’ve applied to estate management the methods which succeed in our big industries. The temper of this country won’t stand much more muddling. As Grimshaw says, we land-owners must try to mobilise. And the old machinery must be scrapped. I told you once before that money is needed, the sinews of war. Because, mind you, this means war, a fight to a finish against inefficiency and stupidity, with most of your mother’s farmers arrayed against us. I shan’t have so much time to spend with you, Cis.”

She pressed his hand, and then released her own.

“I have your pearls in my pocket,” he whispered.

A moment afterwards the lustrous string dangled before her eyes. Instantly, as has been said, she appreciated the splendour of the gift. And, as instantly, she knew that it exacted a response. Why couldn’t she fling her arms about his neck and press her lips to his? The fingers that held the pearls trembled; the colour ebbed from her cheeks.

“What can I say?” she murmured.

“Bless you! You needn’tsayanything.”

She kissed him timidly. As it was her first kiss he may be excused, poor fellow, for thinking that the shy caress was merely something on account. Being shy himself where women were concerned, he accepted it gratefully, and with a restraint which made Cicely heartily ashamed of herself. He watched her fingers softly stroking the pearls, and wondered why she remained so silent. And all the time she was thinking miserably: “This is my price, or part of it. I am selling myself to this gallant gentleman.If he knew it. . . .!” The tiara would go admirably with these pearls. And whenever she wore them, the same thought would spoil all pleasure in them. Unconsciously she sighed.

“Why do you sigh?” he asked.

It was an unfortunate question at such a moment. Swiftly she divined that he was the sort of man who put such questions and expected them to be answered truthfully. If she let this minute pass, always she must dissemble, become an actress for ever and ever. And she couldn’t do it.

Hanging, so it seemed to her, between heaven and hell, she glanced up and saw her stern father staring down at her. On his familiar face she read contempt, condemnation, derision. The Danecourt half of her withered.

Nevertheless, so persistently does moss cling to us, that she might have procrastinated, if sudden passion had not broken loose in Wilverley. The soft sigh inflamed him. He became, what he wanted to be, the lover of romance. It is invariably your shy man who, on occasion, bursts out of his fetters. He misinterpreted the sigh and the silence that followed it. He jumped to the conclusion that the awakening he had predicted was at hand. He would exercise the supreme privilege of the male, and infuse into this sweet, trembling creature the ardour that informed him so ecstatically. Without warning, his strong arms crushed her against his broad chest; he kissed her lips, her eyes, her throat . . .

In every sense of the word she awoke.

With a strangled cry she broke from him, and stood up. He rose with her, facing her, grasping the one essential fact that she had repulsed him, that she shrank from him. He said hoarsely:

“What is it?”

She answered him with the directness that had characterised her father. He had been a “yea”-or-“nay” man.

“I can’t do it, Arthur.”

He hardly understood her.

“Can’t do what?”

“I can’t marry you. It’s simply impossible. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I am ashamed and humiliated beyond words. Don’t torture me by asking questions. You are too generous for that. I wanted to love you, but it’s not in me. It never will be in me. I ought to have obeyed my instinct in the garden. I have hurt you horribly; I shall make mother miserable; I shall be wretched myself; but I can’t marry you.”

He walked to the window. She was sorely tempted to rush from the room, but strength came back to her. She perceived that the pearls were still in her hand.

“And those pearls of dew she wearsProve to be presaging tears.”

“And those pearls of dew she wears

Prove to be presaging tears.”

Milton’s lines came into her mind, as she placed the string upon her mother’s desk. But no tears came into her eyes. She waited for Wilverley to turn and speak. What would he say? Would he attempt protest, argument, reproach . . .?

He came back to her.

“I am sorry,” he said kindly. “If you feel that way, I—I admire your pluck. Of course, I was not prepared. I blame myself. I suppose I ought to have taken your first ‘no’ as final. I understand anyway that this last ‘no’ is final. Now . . . What are you going to say to Lady Selina?”

“Just what I have said to you.”

He paced up and down the room, thinking.

“Shall I speak to her? It might make it easier.”

She was very near tears as she faltered:

“How generous of you! No; I shall tell her, poor dear! The simple truth will suffice. She will say nothing. Her silence will be my punishment. Nothing, nothing will bridge that.”

“You want me to go?”

“Please!”

He marched straight to the door.

“Arthur, you have forgotten the pearls. Let me say this to you. The pearls did it—and my father’s face.”

She pointed to the portrait, but it seemed to her entirely different.

“Your father’s face?”

“Yes.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He forbade the banns. I can’t explain. It was something far beyond me. But I knew. And the pearls, those lovely pearls, were the pearls of price—my price. You understand? You pity me?”

He answered solemnly:

“Before God, I do.”

Hastily he caught up the pearls and pocketed them. Then he held out his hands.

“Good-bye, my poor little Cicely.”

“Is it to be good-bye, Arthur?”

He held her hands, gripping them. She saw that he was thinking hard.

“We remain neighbours and friends. I will help your mother.”

She shook her head sadly.

“Mother is too proud. More punishment for me.”

At this he smiled faintly, pressing her hands. He never appeared to better advantage than when he murmured tenderly:

“If you have done the right thing, Cicely, other things will adjust themselves.”

He released her hands and went out.

Meanwhile, as luck would have it, Lady Selina happened to be in Cicely’s rooms. Already she envisaged them as suitable for a day—and night—nursery. The old nursery at the Manor was not too happily situated. It looked north. Lady Selina could remember the day when she had suggested to her husband a bigger and better room, but he had expressed positively the opinion that what had been good enough for himself and his father, was good enough for his children. He was no believer in coddling. And if babies howled, which in his day was reckoned to be a natural lamentation over Original Sin, let them howl next to the servants’ quarters!

Now, with a more enlightened understanding, Lady Selina admitted that howling was no longer tolerated. And something told her that she would hasten, despite her advanced years, more swiftly to Cicely’s babies than she had ever hastened to her own. Conscious of this, and able to analyse her sensibilities with an odd detachment, she smilingly considered the right placing of cots out of draughts, and the substitution of thick curtains instead of chintz. Chintz rustled when windows were open at night; flimsy curtains bulged inwards; a nervous child might be frightened.

These thoughts were put to flight by the soft purring of Wilverley’s motor. And then, to her utter confounding, looking out of the window, she beheld Wilverley and his chauffeur, and, a moment later, the faithful Stimson crossed the stable-yard carrying a suit-case.

What, in the name of the Sphinx, could have happened? And where was Cicely? Had the dear young people quarrelled? As her prospective son-in-law, she insisted upon regarding Arthur as young; Cicely she reckoned to be a mere child.

Her heart began to beat uncomfortably, as a premonition of disaster gripped her. She sat down, trembling, realising that her hands and feet were cold. Deep down in her mind, possibly in some zone of subconsciousness, lay latent the fear that a marriage so exactly right from every point might never take place. She had been aware, from the first, of Cicely’s hesitations and doubts. But always she had impatiently dismissed her own forebodings as unduly pessimistic.

For a minute or two she sat still, unable to think articulately. She heard the motor leave the stable-yard. A long, dismal silence followed. Being a lady of quality, she realised instantly that Arthur was incapable of rushing away from her house without a word of explanation unless something quite out of the ordinary had happened. A man in his position might, of course, receive an urgent telegram. But, in that case, Cicely would have speeded him on his way.

She waited, knowing that Cicely would soon come to her own rooms.

Cicely, meanwhile, believing that her mother was quite unaware of Wilverley’s departure, had not yet considered how and when she could tell the abominable truth. The paramount necessity of the moment was to be alone. Accordingly, after Arthur had disappeared, she remained on the sofa, staring at her father’s portrait. She made sure that her mother was in the garden under the tree where tea was served on hot afternoons.

Presently, she opened the door, saw that the corridor was empty, and stole swiftly to her sitting-room. As she entered it, Lady Selina rose to meet her.

“Why has Arthur gone?” she asked calmly.

Cicely, completely taken aback, unable to temporise, faltered out:

“Because I have broken off our engagement.”

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