CHAPTER VIITIDDY AND CICELY
Upon the Sunday following, the last Sunday in June, Miss Tiddle mounted her bicycle and rode over to the Manor. Rain had fallen after a month’s heat and drought, and a delicious fragrance was exhaled by fields full of new-mown hay. As Tiddy sped along, she told herself that she had been a fool. Being really clever, this reflection failed to annoy her. Everybody made ghastly blunders when they interfered with the lives and characters of others.
“A marriage has been arranged, and will take place in the autumn, between Cicely Selina, only surviving child of the late Henry Chandos, M.F.H., of Upworthy Manor, Melshire, and Arthur George, second Lord Wilverley, of Wilverley Court in the same county.”
Arranged . . .!
The word rankled in Tiddy’s mind. But that mind she regarded as fully open, like her round eyes which “took in,” with genuine hospitality, everybody within her ken. Possibly this marriage had not been arranged. During Cicely’s absence from Wilverley Court, Tiddy had talked much with the noble owner. And noble he was! The two had become friends. Tiddy, as we know, liked men; she had flirted with Midland “nuts.” And these had not impressed her favourably, being, so she decided, concerned with themselves and the colour of their ties and socks. Even young officers, gallant fellows, “swanked” too much for Miss Tiddle’s democratic taste. And she had come to Wilverley Court slightly prejudiced against a man whom she had imagined to be quite other than he was. Arthur’s simplicity and honesty delighted her. She believed that he, at any rate, loved Cicely devotedly, although he might be incapable of tearing a passion to tatters. Believing this, it was intolerable to contemplate his marriage with a girl who did not love him as he deserved to be loved. On the other hand, it was quite possible that Cicely’s friendship for him had warmed into a sort of hard-and-fast, “stand-the-wash” attachment. As yet she had not heard of Grimshaw’s return to Upworthy. A man with dark, disconcerting eyes had flitted across a susceptible maid’s horizon, and then disappeared. From what Cicely, being a Chandos, had left unsaid, Tiddy was positive upon one point: Grimshaw had kindled in her friend the divine spark. He had become, momentarily,thedivine spark. It was likely, men being so amazingly unobservant, that Grimshaw, engrossed with his profession, had left Upworthy unconscious of this. With all her powers of intuition, Miss Tiddle lacked as yet the experience which might guide her to the right conclusion. A profounder knowledge of the conventional class to which she did not belong would have revealed that obstinate pride which she herself was incapable of entertaining, which, if she considered it, she dismissed impatiently as mid-Victorian and idiotic. If, she reflected, Grimshaw had cared, he would have written to Cicely. She could not conceive, because for her they did not exist, the differences, hydra-headed, between a G.P. and a daughter of the House of Chandos. When a man touched her fancy, however lightly, she “nestled up,” as she put it, not flirtatiously, but with the deliberate intention of analysing the effects of intimacy.
Yes; she had been a fool. Mrs. Roden exercised clearer vision. Intuition, nothing else, had constrained Miss Tiddle to make a mountain of romance out of a molehill.
The odds were that this marriage had not been “arranged” in the odious sense.
Accordingly, Tiddy braced herself for the coming encounter, derisively prepared to do and say the expected thing. Cicely’s artless prattle about frocks and bridesmaids might be hard to endure, but she would listen patiently and reply with enthusiasm—play the game, in fine. Then she would try to get a billet in France.
Just before reaching Upworthy, her back tyre punctured. Tiddy jumped off, got her repairing kit, and turned the bicycle upside down. She prided herself upon taking with equanimity what an American lady has called “the collateral slaps of Providence.” To her dismay, however, she was unable to remove the tyre. It stuck obstinately. Tiddy became uncomfortably hot. And she wished to remain cool, conscious that Lady Selina’s blue eyes would turn protestingly from any evidences of . . . perspiration. Why did open pores offend old-fashioned gentlewomen? Tiddy was turning this over in her active mind, when she saw, with relief, an approaching cyclist, identified first as a man and immediately after as a gentleman. Tiddy sent out the S.O.S. signal; the cyclist jammed on his brakes and leapt to the ground.
“You are in trouble,” he said courteously.
It was Grimshaw.
Tiddy was quite sure of it. A mere male cannot hazard a conjecture as to the reasons which bring instant conviction to the female intelligence. Perhaps she recognized the dark, disconcerting eyes burning out of a thin, pale face; perhaps she saw a doctor’s service-bag strapped behind the bicycle.
“Tyre stuck,” said Tiddy. “Can you tell me if there is anybody in Upworthy who could get it off?”
“Ican,” he answered.
She protested, but he went to work promptly, removing his coat and throwing his cap upon it. At this, any doubt as to his identity vanished. Cicely had laid emphasis upon Grimshaw’s eagerness in ministration. According to Cicely, his knightly quality was conspicuous. Cicely, so Tiddy remembered, had used the word “halo,” which had provoked a gibe from Miss Tiddle. At this moment she actually beheld the halo. A vainer girl might have flattered herself into the belief that bright eyes and curls were quickening these activities. But Grimshaw had not looked keenly at her, but at the bicycle. She knew that he would have helped the plainest maid in the village with equal alacrity.
“He’s a rare good sort,” she decided, “but he looks horribly ill, and why is he here instead of in France?”
To ask herself questions when another could answer them was not Miss Tiddle’s failing. The situation began to interest her. She said casually:
“I thought you were in France, Mr. Grimshaw.”
Grimshaw looked up. She had no reason to complain of lack of penetration in his glance. And his next words confirmed her first impression that he was quite out of the ordinary. Wilverley, for instance, would have looked puzzled, taking for granted he had met this sparkling stranger before and forgotten her. Grimshaw said sharply:
“You know me, but I have never met you; never.”
She laughed, a delightful tinkle of sound which brought a smile to his lips.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, you happen to be right. We have never met. All the same, I know you.”
“How?”
Mischievously, she continued:
“There are such things as photographs.”
“There are. It happens that I have not been photographed for about ten years. I hate photographs.”
“Then you have no idea who I am?”
“None.”
Tiddy reflected that Cicely, evidently, had not taken undue pains to describe her best friend to another friend. However . . .!
“I am Arabella Tiddle.”
Grimshaw remained perfectly calm.
“My name is—a—unfamiliar?”
“Not—unfamiliar. I have seen your surname on—on——”
“Hoardings. And in advertisements. Tiddle’s Family Pellets. I am Sir Nathaniel Tiddle’s daughter.”
Grimshaw bowed, saying politely:
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This is much better than a formal introduction.”
Was he pulling her leg?
“Miss Chandos never mentioned my name to you?”
“No.”
Tiddy experienced a tiny, triumphant thrill. She had brought out Cicely’s name plumply, and designedly so, the artful baggage! And Grimshaw had winced—winced! True, he recovered himself, swiftly, but a glimpse had been vouchsafed her, all that she wanted at the moment.
“I am her school-friend. We worked together at Wilverley Court as V.A.D.’s. I am on my way to the Manor now.”
“Not yet.”
She was delighted. Wilverley, much as she liked and esteemed that honest fellow, was incapable of subtleties of speech. The “not yet” was immensely revealing. Hecouldpull legs, she decided. That was a greater accomplishment than setting them. She began to hope that the recalcitrant tyre would not budge too easily. Grimshaw was hard at work on it.
The tyre yielded suddenly. To test him, and to test, also, her own powers of attraction, she said quickly:
“Thanks ever so much. I can repair the inner tube.”
“The tyre will not go on again too easily. Where is your repairing stuff?”
He spoke peremptorily. And his attention appeared to be focussed on the inner tube, as he searched for the puncture. Tiddy stood by with the small box, opening it and taking out patches and sandpaper.
“What a good Samaritan!” she murmured.
His fingers challenged her admiration; how deftly they moved; how swiftly. What exquisite instruments! Involuntarily, she exclaimed:
“I’m sure you operate wonderfully.”
Perhaps he hated compliments as much as photographs. He said with professional curtness:
“Ah! you have worked in the theatre at Wilverley?”
“No. But I acted as ‘special’ for three weeks—dressings, and all that. Miss Chandos told me you were in France. But I knew, of course, that just before the war you were Dr. Pawley’s partner.”
Giving the rubber solution time to dry, he explained curtly, with an air as if his concerns couldn’t possibly interest others, that he had been invalided home and was taking up his old work.
“Do you like country practice?”
He replied evasively: “I like work, Miss Tiddle, and there is plenty of it here.”
“Too much,” observed Tiddy tranquilly.
“Yes; too much. A month of drought has played the deuce. Now comes the tug.”
“You are speaking of Upworthy?”
“I am speaking of the outside tyre.”
Tiddy had the impression that she was courteously snubbed. Grimshaw wrestled with the tyre, and prevailed. Then he righted the bicycle with a vigorous swing, and held it by the bars.
“Up, and away!”
“Thanks, Mr. Grimshaw, and thanks again.”
“Not at all. Good-bye.”
“Certainly not. Au revoir.”
Tiddy had ten minutes for reflection before she reached the Manor, and she made the most of it. All that was feminine in Miss Tiddle became ebullient. She simply effervesced with excitement and the consciousness that the game was not over, hardly begun in point of fact. Romeo cared and Juliet cared. Destiny had been beastly to them. Sir Nathaniel’s daughter snapped her fingers at destiny, and then extended them, placing her thumb to her tip-tilted nose.
“She cares; she must care; and so does he.”
Again we are unable to divine how Tiddy arrived at this unshakable conviction.
“I mustbuttin,” she thought. “Pushing is no good.”
Stimson ushered her into Lady Selina’s sitting-room.
Mother and daughter received her cordially. It was simply impossible not to like Tiddy, although you might criticise her. She possessed that incomparable gift of raising the temperature of any room she entered. All Lady Selma’s rooms were cool, even in the dog days, not yet arrived.
A superb engagement ring flashed upon Tiddy’s eyes.
She congratulated Cicely with effusion, upon the sound principle of telling a good lie if you are forced to do so. Lady Selina purred.
“Everybody is so kind. Such letters . . .! And telegrams . . .!”
“You like my ring, don’t you, Tiddy? Arthur sent it down from London yesterday. He wanted me to nip up with him, but I couldn’t leave mother, could I?”
“You could,” thought Tiddy, “if you were engaged to the One and Only.” Aloud she agreed graciously, “Of course not.”
“Any news, Tiddy? How are the V.A.D.s?”
“Clean bill of health. You heard about Agatha Farleigh?”
“No.”
“John Exton has been badly wounded—left arm amputated at the elbow.”
“Oh, Tiddy——! I’m ever so sorry.”
Lady Selina said calmly:
“So am I. My memories of John Exton are not of the happiest, but I wish him well—I wish him well.”
“Agatha says that a truly united couple can worry along with three arms between them. John will get his discharge and come home to his father. Agatha means to marry him at once.”
Cicely observed pensively:
“How odd of Arthur not to have told me.”
“My dear child . . .!” Lady Selina raised a voice as soft as her hands. “You can’t complain if dear Arthur’s mind is full of one young woman.”
“We only heard the news yesterday,” said Tiddy.
In a majestic tone, Lady Selina held forth upon the war. Would Roumania come in after this disaster at Lemberg? The farther the Huns advanced into Russia, the longer and the more disastrous would be their retreat. She had refreshed her memory and fortified her faith in the ultimate triumph of Right over Might by re-reading the history of the 1812 campaign. Tiddy guessed that Cicely’s engagement had turned a pessimist into an optimist. Of late, throughout rural England, particularly amongst the landed gentry, faith in victory had diminished. A stale-mate was predicted by red-faced squires who derived all their information fromThe Times, at that moment engrossed with advertising our lamentable lack of high explosives.
“In our biggest factory,” said Tiddy, “we are making munitions instead of pills.”
Lady Selina was delighted to hear it. Presently, she said gaily:
“You two girls trot off! You want to chatter together, I am sure. I remember, as if it were yesterday, talking over my engagement with our old parson’s daughter. She was engaged to her father’s curate. That made the séance unduly long, because I had to listen to her after she had listened to me.”
Cicely led the way to Brian’s old rooms.
Alone with her friend, Cicely became voluble. Was she talking to disguise thought? The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Reluctantly she confessed that she had not slept very well since her engagement, now four days old! But Arthur was a dear . . .! The most thoughtful and considerate of lovers . . .! And generous . . . He was bringing from London a pearl necklace. Of course Tiddy would be chief bridesmaid, possibly the only one grown-up. Children were adorable on such occasions. She had some tiny cousins. To walk to the altar followed by a troop of darlings . . .
Tiddy said flippantly:
“Coming events cast their shadows before. I daresay children mean everything to you. Mrs. Roden showed me the old nurseries at Wilverley. She expects a lot in that way.”
Something in her tone challenged Cicely’s attention.
“How oddly you said that! Perhaps you aren’t really pleased? You have never been quite fair to Arthur. Once you called him fat. It’s muscle.”
“That appeals, too—muscle!”
“Heavens! If I didn’t know you so well, I should think you were sneering.”
Tiddy exclaimed rudely:
“Come off it.”
“Tiddy! Are you mad?”
Miss Tiddle, in her way, was a student of strategy. For many months she had read Mr. Hilaire Belloc’s articles inLand and Water. She had faith in a vigorous offensive, shock tactics, beginning with a surprise.
She said sharply:
“I have met Mr. Grimshaw. I’ve talked with him.”
“Oh-h-h!”
Tiddy’s statement might mean anything or nothing. Tiddy, so Cicely swiftly reflected, was capable of anything, even if she achieved nothing. What had she said to Grimshaw? What had Grimshaw said to her?
Tiddy went on, relentlessly:
“I’ve a lot to say to you, and I don’t want to be flooded out before I’ve done talking. Keep your powder dry! If there’s to be crying, I’ll do it. I could burst into heart-breaking sobs at this minute. A nice mess you’ve made of it.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
Tiddy became melodramatic, not intentionally. She detested posing and pretence. Violence served to disguise her feelings. Cicely’s miserable face, her utter collapse at the first shot, moved Tiddy profoundly. She had half hoped, half feared, that Cicely would return shot for shot, justify her engagement, swear stoutly that she loved her lord. Instead, she sat crumpled up in her chair.
“Swear to me,” said Tiddy vehemently, “that you don’t know what I mean, that this Mr. Grimshaw is nothing to you, that you love Arthur Wilverley whole-heartedly, and I will go down on my knees and beg your pardon.”
Chandos silence . . .
“I thought so.”
Tiddy walked to the window and looked out upon the stable-yard. As she did so, the big stable clock struck four solemn notes. In one hour tea would be served on the lawn.
After the heavy rain of the morning, a breeze blew chill upon Tiddy’s cheek. But it failed to cool her mind, now burning with democratic indignation against conventions and traditions which had brought her beloved friend to this sorry pass. Was it an impasse? Had she driven Cicely into a cul-de-sac? When she did speak, what would she say? And what she might say was, of course, insignificant compared to what she ought to do.
Cut loose!
Could she?
That would demand an immense effort, something cataclysmal. Tiddy had not been deceived by Lady Selina’s surface gaiety, although much impressed by it as proof positive of what good-breeding might achieve. She knew perfectly well that Brian’s death must have been a shattering blow. Lady Selina had plenty of heart. Because of that, because she loved Cicely, she had assumed a mask. Nevertheless, it was equally obvious that this engagement, evoking as it did maternal energies and solicitude, had tempered the cruel bereavement. She heard a chastened voice, slightly querulous:
“Iamfond of Arthur.”
Tiddy retorted disdainfully:
“I’m fond of chocs.”
“Have some,” said Cicely defiantly. “There’s a box over there, Charbonel and Walker’s.”
Tiddy helped herself. Silently, she offered the box to Cicely, who shook her head.
“I am fond of you,” said Tiddy, nibbling at a praline, “but I’m fonder of myself. That isthetest. I shan’t marry till I find some man who can make me forget how fond I am of myself.”
Cicely considered this. Tiddy had spoken sincerely. Cicely, not sufficiently alert to weigh the effect of words, answered with equal sincerity:
“Arthur and I agree that the sort of—of feeling you speak of may be awakened—later.”
“You sit there and tell me you have calmly discussedthat? I suppose you told him that you had a sisterly regard for him. And then he said that he’d warm you up—later! Heavens! Why did he send you chocs? What you want is ginger.”
“Say what you like.”
“I shall. What you have done is indecent. There’s a woman in your family, a first cousin, whom you never mention. But I happen to know all about her. She ran away from her husband, who was a brute, with an actor; she bolted afterwards from the actor because he made a fool of himself with his leading lady; and she didn’t bolt alone. I have infinitely more respect for her than you. What an engagement! Two babes in the topiary garden, fatly gurgling, dreaming that the Voice that breathed o’er Eden will bless ’em, devoutly praying that love will awaken ’em. Take it from me that love is too busy to waste his time upon such blighters.”
Tossing her curls, stamping her foot, the daughter of the twentieth century glared at the daughter of the eighteenth.
Then, once more, she cooled herself at the window.
Cicely moistened her lips with a feverish tongue. Anger had engendered anger. She was tempted to say, with frigid dignity: “That will do. Please go.”
One consideration restrained her. Tiddy was fond of her. She might have abused friendship, strained it to breaking-point, but no girl would have spoken with such fierce vehemence unless she had been tremendously moved. To part from such a friend would be terrible.
Having reached this conclusion, Cicely became again a dual personality. Before, when this curious experience befell her, she had been conscious of an uplifting. From altruistic heights she had surveyed her world. Complacency had fallen, like refreshing dew, upon her. It was quite otherwise now. The new Cicely beheld with Tiddy’s eyes the old Cicely. The new Cicely challenged the old Cicely to mortal combat. The new Cicely said savagely: “Tiddy is right—a marriage of convenience is indecent.”
But the old Cicely was not to be vanquished easily. Tiddy heard her friend’s voice, still querulous:
“You are horribly unkind. You—you are spoiling everything. Heaps of girls, nice girls, marry without—without f—f—feeling p—p—passionate. And their marriages turn out jolly well.”
She ended defiantly.
Tiddy, rather ashamed of her outburst, ashamed, also, to discover that her eyes were wet, said without turning:
“Those anæmic sort of girls are not in love with somebody else, as you are. That’s what makes this thing indecent. What you propose doing is an outrage on Arthur.”
Arthur. . . .
Instantly Cicely became alert. Tiddy had never spoken of Wilverley’s lord as “Arthur.” The name had slipped from her lips naturally and with a soft inflection that was unmistakable.
“Tiddy.”
“Yes?”
“Look at me, please. I want to see your face.”
Tiddy turned; Cicely rose. Melodrama is as catching as measles. Cicely approached her friend, speaking intensely, in what is called in theatre-land a stage whisper:
“You seem to be thinking more of Arthur than of me. Are you?”
“And what if I am? It’s time somebody did think for him; apparently the poor fellow can’t think straight for himself.”
“Will you swear solemnly, as you tried to make me swear, that Arthur is nothing to you? You had the cheek to tell me that you could, if you tried, take him from me. It looks as if you had tried. And that, of course, would account for your extraordinary behaviour. Now . . . swear!”
Silence.
To be “hoist with one’s own petard” is an experience that few escape. To accept such hoisting without whimpering is difficult. Hence Miss Tiddle’s silence. Cicely had put to her a question which as yet she had not put to herself. It fell, devastatingly, into the well where Truth hides herself from a mendacious world.
“If you say nothing I shall think what I please.”
Tiddy pulled herself together.
“You are forcing me to be honest, not with you, but with myself. I have not tried to take Arthur from you.”
“Could he”—Cicely’s voice was relentless—“could he, if he were free, be more to you than a friend?”
Tiddy squirmed.
“I—I don’t know,” she admitted. “Really, this is ridiculous, preposterous. If I apply to myself my own test, I can swear truthfully that I am fonder of myself than Arthur. There!”
Cicely returned to her chair, sank into it, and stared at the carpet. This was one of her tricks, an idiosyncrasy that occasionally exasperated Lady Selina. She went into the same sort of trance that afflicted Lord Saltaire when he found a hair in his soup. Cicely had found a hair in her soup.
Tiddy could not guess that the two Cicelys were locked together at strangle-grips—a fight to a finish.
She cooled herself for the third time at the window.
Minutes, hours, years glided by.
What a tiresome world it was!
Presently Cicely sighed. Tiddy exclaimed maliciously:
“The sleeping Beauty wakes after a trance of one hundred years.”
“Yes, I am awake,” replied Cicely tranquilly.
The girls eyed each other. Tiddy had to admit that Cicelywasawake—wide awake. Something sparkled in her eyes which Tiddy recognised with astonishment as determination—something, too, not absolutely unfamiliar. Ah, she had it. Cicely was looking at her with exactly the same expression that informed the portrait of her father—a portrait acclaimed by Lady Selina as a “speaking” likeness. A banal phrase now invested with new significance. Arthur Wilverley, describing the late Henry Chandos to Miss Tiddle, had said: “I never saw the old boy funk an ugly fence if his hounds were on the other side of it.”
“I shall break off this engagement,” said Cicely.
“Cis!”
“Nothing else is possible.”
“Well, I must say you are wonderful—wonderful!”
“I must be—decent. I loathe indecency. I suppose I looked—peeped—at this marriage through drawn blinds. You have pulled them up. And I’m much obliged to you.”
“You—you forgive me, Cis? I know that I rampaged like—like a factory girl.”
“You did, thank God!”
Solemnly they kissed. Once more Miss Tiddle, not Cicely, wiped away two trickling tears. Cicely, as tranquilly as before, said:
“Nothing remains but to think out, if we can, the easiest way of breaking this to mother and—and Arthur.”
Tiddy noticed that Cicely put her mother first.
“There will be appalling ructions.”
“There won’t be ructions. I could buck up against ructions. Mother never rages when she feels things deeply. She glumps, as you accuse me of doing. She will look at me in stony silence. She will become more forlorn than ever. I’ve been a wicked fool. What time is it?”
“Half-past four.”
“We must make this tea pleasant.” Tiddy nodded, too overcome for speech. “To-night—she always comes to me at night since my engagement—I shall tell her.”
“What?”
“Ah! What? If you can suggest anything?”
Tiddy sat down, placed her head between her hands, and stared in her turn at the pattern on the carpet, which happened to be pale roses upon a pale grey ground. Lady Selina had chosen it. Cicely walked to the open window, astoundingly self-possessed.
After a minute’s concentrated thought Tiddy said quickly.
“You can’t tell her about Mr. Grimshaw?”
“Heavens, no! Do you think I’m breaking from Arthur with the deliberate intention of—of engaging myself to somebody else?”
“Aren’t you? You do care for him; he must care for you. And there you are!”
Chandos silence. Tiddy continued:
“I understand that it would be tactless to mention Mr. Grimshaw to Lady Selina, althoughthat—your feeling for him, I mean—justifies you, forces you, to break this engagement. I believe I should tell my mother. However, I am I and you are you. If I wanted a man, and he chose to behave like a dumbwaiter loaded with rare and refreshing fruit, I—well, I should help myself.”
“I believe you would.”
“I’m glad I don’t wear your shoes, because I take a smaller size, but I try to stand in them. You can tell your mother the plain facts: you accepted a good fellow, not loving him. You find yourself unable to love him. As a gentlewoman—ring that bell—you retire as gracefully as possible and you invite her to help you.”
“Yes,” assented Cicely.
Further talk advanced them but little on the only way.
A war tea was not spread that afternoon. Under the walnut tree, supposed to keep flies at a distance, sat Lady Selina in front of a table not groaning but pleasantly purring beneath pre-war delicacies. The Queen Anne silver shimmered delightfully—it seemed to say to Tiddy: “We impose ourselves because of our quality; we are of finer metal, less alloy in us.” To behold Lady Selina making tea was a privilege. She disdained the coarser blends. Her white hands hovered, as if in benediction, above her equipage. The cups and saucers were early Worcester. Once a collector had said protestingly: “My dear Lady, these ought to be in a cabinet.” Lady Selina had replied blandly: “Really?” In her drawing-room priceless bits of Chelsea were at the mercy of housemaids. To lock up such objects seemed to Lady Selina equivalent to putting a price upon them. It meant advertising your own possessions, inviting envy as well as admiration. Thevieille souchetook all that for granted. Age, not rarity, sanctified porcelain and furniture—age and use. There is a story of some duke who asked the village curate if he liked the ducal claret. The curate replied thoughtlessly: “It’s very good, your Grace.” Whereupon the great man growled out: “I didn’t ask you, sir, if my claret was good; I asked you if you liked it.” In this same spirit Lady Selina surveyed all guests. She hoped graciously that they liked their entertainment. If they didn’t she remained blandly indifferent.
The girls were not called upon to dissemble much. Lady Selina talked; they listened politely. Her theme happened to be the treatment of her own order in current fiction and on the stage. She contended that justice had not been done to the upper classes. Dickens had imposed caricatures, such as Lord Frederick Verisopht and Sir Mulberry Hawk, upon an immense public, who accepted them as portraits. And ever since men with no more real knowledge of the subject than Dickens had “played to the gallery” in absurd endeavours to present lords as silly and baronets as wicked. “We have our faults,” said Lady Selina, with a bleak smile, “but we are not more foolish or wicked than others. If some of us hide our vices we don’t advertise our virtues. This setting of class against class is criminal. If it ends, as my poor brother predicts, in a débâcle for us within a few years, some other class—Labour, if you like—will establish a new tyranny far more unendurable than the old. And always there will be distinctions. They flourish, so I am told, most vigorously amongst the unprivileged. They grow rankly, as I know, in the servants’ hall.”
“And in a Red Cross hospital,” added Tiddy. “But don’t you think, Lady Selina, that the overlapping of the classes is a good thing?”
“No, I don’t my dear.”
“The House of Lords, for instance, is representative of all classes.”
“And you do away with it! I for one have never objected to the infusion of fresh blood into the Upper House. Let supreme distinction be ennobled. That is a very different thing from putting beggars on horseback.”
As she spoke Stimson was seen approaching, followed by a male visitor.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Lady Selina. “Stimson was told that we are not at home.”
“It’s Mr. Grimshaw,” said Cicely.
Lady Selina’s brow grew smooth again. She might be “not at home” to a county magnate, but her own people were never turned from her door. Mr. Grimshaw, stepping into what Cicely had called Dr. Pawley’s list slippers, had become, ex officio, one of her people. More, since Cicely’s engagement she had reinstated him honourably as “my boy’s friend.”
“He is bringing us good news of Dr. Pawley.”
She welcomed Grimshaw delightfully, so Tiddy thought. But the young man did not acquit himself quite adequately. He appeared to be slightly brusque and ill at ease. Was it possible that he kowtowed to the lady of the manor? Or, more likely hypothesis, was he embarrassed in the presence of Cicely? He accepted a cup of tea under pressure, and seated himself beside his hostess. Yes, Dr. Pawley was in his garden, convalescent. The faithful Ellen held him under a watchful eye. He would remain in his chair till Grimshaw returned.
“I am very glad to hear such a good account of my dear old friend. Will you allow me to see him to-morrow?”
“Certainly. He is looking forward to that.”
“Through him,” Lady Selina continued graciously, “we have heard of you and your work in France. . . .”
She went on suavely, but Grimshaw responded in monosyllables. It occurred to Tiddy that this visit might be professional. Grimshaw was not behaving as a visitor. Tiddy jumped up.
“I must be off,” she declared.
But in Melshire all leave-takings are protracted. Five minutes elapsed before Miss Tiddle mounted her bicycle. Cicely accompanied her to the front door.
“Are you weakening?” asked Tiddy.
“No.”
“Your mother was sweet to Mr. Grimshaw.”
“She is sweet to all her subjects. He is now a subject. To-morrow he will be regarded as an object. You heard what she said about the overlapping of class distinctions? A shot at me.”
“I took it to myself, Cis.”
“It was meant for me—or, rather, for the future Lady Wilverley.”
“One last word, Cis. I repeat—you are wonderful. Now, if it will help at all, pile up the agony on me.”
“And lose you? I can’t risk that. Besides, my trump card with mother will be that I am acting on my own, as I am. You are a brick, all the same.”
Tiddy sped down the drive.
As she pedalled away she remembered that Grimshaw had not alluded to their meeting just outside Upworthy. Cicely had murmured coolly to him: “You have met Miss Tiddle?” and he had bowed. She wondered whether a clever man was aware that he had given himself away with a wince?
Left alone with Lady Selina, Grimshaw gave the real reason for his visit.
“I am placed in an abominable situation,” he said abruptly. “You will believe, Lady Selina, that I should not bother you on Sunday afternoon without some cause.”
“Yes, yes; pray enlighten me.”
“Do you know anything about our professional etiquette?”
“Absolutely nothing, Mr. Grimshaw.”
He made a gesture which might mean that ladies of manors should know more than they usually did about matters that might concern them intimately. But he spoke temperately, avoiding medical terminology:
“Put briefly, it is this: No doctor interferes with another qualified practitioner in the exercise of his profession.”
“I understand.”
“Unhappily, opinions differ as to a man’s qualifications. Legally speaking, Dr. Snitterfield is a qualified practitioner.”
Lady Selina, unable to wean her mind from Dr. Snitterfield and decanter stoppers, said blandly:
“I barely know Dr. Snitterfield. He is not, of course, a gentleman. His practice is confined, I imagine, to—to those who are unable to employ you or Dr. Pawley.”
Grimshaw brightened. Obviously Lady Selina did not hold Dr. Snitterfield in high esteem. He continued:
“This afternoon I was visiting a patient—one of the Burbles.”
“Not my dear old Nicodemus?”
“Not Nicodemus—a niece of his. She told me that her father was in great pain, suffering horribly. I admit frankly that I ought to have asked her if some other doctor was attending him. My excuse—if it be an excuse—is that I was much rushed, also I have hardly had time to pick up the threads of Dr. Pawley’s practice. I supposed that my patient’s father, living in the same house, had been attended by Dr. Pawley.”
“Quite naturally.”
“So I went up. I found the old fellow in the most shocking condition—a mass of bedsores, and suffering from an abscess in the hip.”
“Perfectly horrible!”
“With the greatest reluctance, I must still further lacerate your feelings. It seems that two months ago the man broke his leg. Dr. Snitterfield refused to set it, partly on account of the man’s age—he is over seventy—and partly because of the hip disease. I can assure you positively that his leg could have been set two months ago. Ever since he has lain there, most shamefully neglected. Probably he will die of the bedsores.”
“I am inexpressibly shocked, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“I knew you would be.”
“But I don’t quite understand what I can do.”
“This poor old fellow requires constant attention. If I take over the case Dr. Snitterfield will be furious. I care nothing about that. I propose to take it over—I have taken it over.”
“With my cordial approval.”
“Thanks. This, however, is not the only case of disgraceful neglect on the part of Dr. Snitterfield. I could cite others, but for the moment I’ll spare you. The point is this: Action should be taken against Snitterfield.”
“How?”
“I can ask the chief medical officer at Melchester to come here and investigate these cases himself.”
For the first time Lady Selina displayed uneasiness. She had, as we know, a nose for approaching trouble. In a vague way she divined that Grimshaw himself had reasons against the summoning of authority. However, she said suavely:
“If you deem that necessary it must be done.”
Grimshaw hesitated. Would Lady Selina stand plain speech? Ought he to be—diplomatic? He could see lines of suffering upon her face. The pink glow that had suffused it at tea-time was gone. The fingers of her hands were trembling. He decided to pick his way as cautiously as possible.
“Dr. Snitterfield is, of course, our local health officer. That adds enormously to his responsibility. He would lose his job if his chief did come here.”
“I will take your word for that.”
“Perhaps, Lady Selina, you are not aware that Snitterfield was appointed by the district council?”
“If you say so it is so.”
“Your bailiff, John Gridley, was chairman of the council at the time of Snitterfield’s appointment and is still.”
Light was dawning upon Lady Selina. She blinked.
“I—I see.”
“I cannot disguise from you—it would be criminal on my part to do so—that Snitterfield has powerful friends, Gridley amongst the number, and several of your farmers. From my knowledge of the chief, his investigation, if he comes to Upworthy, will be thorough. I fear that the results of his investigation would become public property. The Radical Press might take the matter up.”
“The Radical Press!” The light was now so intolerably strong that Lady Selina closed her eyes.
“In short, you, as lady of the manor, would be exposed to much hostile criticism and inevitable humiliation.”
Lady Selina opened her eyes, saying tartly:
“Humiliation is rather a strong word Mr. Grimshaw. Can you tell me why I should be humiliated because a local health officer is proved derelict in his duty?”
Grimshaw hesitated again. Why had destiny selected him of all men as an instrument to inflict cruel pain upon a woman already bludgeoned? Always she would associate him with her humiliation, for humbled she must be, whether the chief was summoned from Melchester or not.
“I wish I could spare you the answer to that.”
She retorted shrewdly.
“You raised the question. You must answer it frankly.”
“Very good. Such an investigation as I have indicated will involve the inspector of nuisances.”
“But he is not appointed by me.”
“He also was appointed by the district council. He is a friend of Gridley.”
Lady Selina remained silent. She had just recalled Cicely’s words, repeating what Arthur Wilverley had said. Obviously Arthur knew these unpleasant facts. Grimshaw went on inexorably.
“It comes to this: without your knowledge, without any suspicion on your part, these three unscrupulous men—Snitterfield, Gridley and the inspector of nuisances—aided and abetted by small farmers, who dreaded an increase of rates, have formed a sort of ring. They have all played into each other’s hands and pockets. They have abused grossly the power entrusted to them. And, lastly, their most outrageous misdoings have been done upon your property and often under your name.”
Lady Selina gasped. Grimshaw concluded quietly:
“Now you will understand why I used the word humiliation.”
“I admit, Mr. Grimshaw, that I should be humiliated if I were convinced that outrages had been done on my property and under my name. But, in justice to an old servant, I must suspend judgment till I hear what Gridley says.”
“He will have plenty to say,” Grimshaw observed drily “Meanwhile, whatever he says, action must be taken. I ask you to condemn no man unheard, Lady Selina, but in this case the chief medical officer will be the judge if he is called in—not you.”
“Then you mean to call him in?”
Her voice quavered slightly.
“That depends.”
“Oh? Then you have an alternative in your mind?” He bowed. “What is it?”
“I have come here to suggest that alternative. There is no man in this county who has such first-hand knowledge of rural conditions, good and bad, as Lord Wilverley. Privately and publicly he has power, more than he himself is aware of. Lord Wilverley, under all the circumstances, could, if you can persuade him, deal with these men adequately. It is likely that if this matter becomes open to official investigation Lord Wilverley might be summoned as an expert. I don’t know. He is an expert, and his agent is an expert. As your prospective son-in-law, he ought to help you, and, if he does, I am content to leave the issue in his hands.”
Lady Selina smiled faintly. In a sense she was grateful to Grimshaw for this really invaluable suggestion. She never doubted that Wilverley would help her. And, by this time, she felt certain that Grimshaw was incapable of speaking ill against any man behind his back without due provocation. Nevertheless, he stood before her as a disturber of the peace. He had assailed cruelly her peace of mind. And, of course, as a reformer, he suffered, like all reformers, from excess of zeal.
She said petulantly, with a fluttering of her delicate hands:
“I will speak to Lord Wilverley as soon as I see him. Why—why has Isaac Burble suffered like this? It—it exasperates me. Had I known I should have dealt with Dr. Snitterfield myself. Tell me, if you can, why these stupid reticences exist between me and my people? I am approachable always; I want to help. Why couldn’t Isaac’s daughter come to me quietly and tell me about her father’s condition?”
“You have been away and in great trouble. Had you been at home, probably she would have come. And Dr. Pawley was ill.”
“There is Mr. Goodrich.”
Grimshaw remained silent. Lady Selina continued, still petulantly:
“You answered the particular question. I was away, and these poor people never write—never! But I repeat—there are always these reticences; one simply can’t get the truth out of them. And why?”
Grimshaw had almost exhausted his patience. He had “spared” Cicely’s mother as best he could. He reflected humorously what might have been said, what would be said, scathingly, by the Radical Press if they got hold of such good copy. And now he was pathetically invited to tear off his bandages and inflict more pain.
“Do you really expect the truth from them? They all feel as I felt just now when I approached this pleasant tea-table. You smiled on me graciously, and this is my first visit to you since my return from France. I knew that I was going to distress you horribly. But I am independent of you. Your people are not. For generations they have suppressed the truth. Their fixed idea is to ingratiate themselves with authority, not—not to imperil the doles which they receive from authority, the doles which stand between them and actual want. One of your labourers has brought up fifteen children on just fifteen shillings a week. How has he done it? Because you give him a cottage and a bit of land, because you send milk and medicine, because you allow his wife to pick up fallen timber in the park. And he is terrified of losing these privileges. When you enter his cottage his wife greets you with smiles and curtsies, the children smileunder instructions. A cheerful smile means sixpence. Do you—can you expect these strugglers to tell you disagreeable facts, knowing, as they do, that it doesn’t pay,it—doesn’t—pay, to make trouble? Their pluck, not their reticence, amazes me.”
Lady Selina nodded, too dazed by his vehemence to reply. Grimshaw glanced at his watch, muttered something about Pawley, and was striding across the lawn before the lady of the manor had recovered her powers of speech.