She was the niece of that Timothy Farleigh of whom mention has been made, the father of the two little girls who had died of diphtheria. Timothy’s brother had worked as head carpenter upon the Upworthy estate, but he had died when Agatha was fifteen. Since then the girl had been educated by Lady Selina, and regarded by her as a deserving object. Agatha had good looks and a quick intelligence, which carry a young woman far upon any road. American slang, so descriptive, might have summed her up as a “live wire.” Also, she was discreet, a creature of odd reserves. Lady Selina had come to reckon her as a machine. As a machine Agatha inspired respect. Lady Selina was not addicted to peering beneath the surface of things and people. Her easy habit of mind constrained her to move in what she devoutly called an “appointed” groove. All her servants were well paid, and they remained long in her service because she made them comfortable and disdained espionage. They kept their places in every sense of the word.
Agatha carried a small head upon slender, shapely shoulders. Out of a too pale face glowed a pair of fine grey eyes, set well apart, and indicating breadth of vision. Much to Lady Selina’s satisfaction she wore neat skirts and coats, and serviceable boots. She “did” her hair simply; she kept her nails and teeth clean. Hitherto, intercourse with her mistress had been without friction, and for this blessing Lady Selina thanked herself. There might be moments when the lady of the manor caught a glimpse of the real Agatha, disconcerting moments which aroused apprehension. And then Lady Selina wondered vaguely whether it was wise to give village girls “advantages.” Agatha had a trick of opening expressive eyes too wide when Lady Selina might be laying down her law upon some parochial matter. Did criticism lurk behind this unabashed gaze? Again, the girl read the papers when she might have been better employed with her needle. On the other hand, Agatha’s good memory might be reckoned an asset. She could, and did, put her mistress right upon small matters of fact, tactfully refraining from comment, never obtruding advice. Such qualities carried with them defects. Lady Selina listened to no village tittle-tattle, but she had learnt from Cicely that Agatha Farleigh was a suffragist. When informed of this, the great lady perpetrated a sniff and the austere remark: “I have done much for Agatha, but if she undoes my stitches I cannot hold myself responsible.”
“Take down a letter,” commanded Lady Selina.
Agatha went to her typist’s desk and picked up a stenographer’s notebook and a pencil.
“To John Gridley, The Home Farm.”
Agatha repeated the words. Lady Selina went on in a tone significantly incisive:
“This letter must be typed, copied, and posted without fail to-night.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
Lady Selina sat very upright, but quite unaware that she was frowning. Perhaps Agatha divined that she was oppressed by the weight of her responsibilities.
“John Gridley:—After what happened this afternoon my mind is made up—the Extons must go——”
Agatha dropped her notebook. Lady Selina started, much discomposed. Agatha said deprecatingly:
“I beg pardon, my lady.”
Lady Selina drew a swift inference.
“I had forgotten. The Extons are friends of yours, eh?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Ah!” She paused for an instant. The habit of years enjoined silence, but she was upset and sensible, also, that she had upset her typist. And for this she was sincerely sorry. It might be worth while to speak confidentially to Agatha, who exercised some influence in the village. Her voice became gentle again, as she leaned back in her chair.
“Do you happen to share John Exton’s political views?”
Agatha, taken aback, temporised:
“His political views, my lady?”
“You know what I mean, Agatha. John Exton, to put it mildly, is a Socialist. Not ten minutes ago, in this very room, he aired his views upon property for my benefit. It is true that I asked him to do so. Of course he is at liberty to hold such views. And I am glad that I know where he stands. Now I wish to know where you stand.”
Agatha answered respectfully enough:
“I do share some of his views.”
Lady Selina made a gesture. Agatha’s reserves might exasperate her, but she respected them. After all, if the girl did her work properly, what did her views matter? She sat up briskly.
“Where was I?”
Agatha glanced at her notebook.
“The Extons must go.”
“Yes, Ephraim will leave his farm a year from to-morrow. Be perfectly pleasant with the old man, and make him see that I am acting in the interests of a property which I regard as a sacred trust! Underlinesacred trust, Agatha. Lord Wilverley, if the Extons accept the inevitable in the proper spirit, might at a word from me give Ephraim one of his smaller farms. He is quite incapable of doing justice to a large one.”
At this point a strangled sob escaped Agatha. Lady Selina suddenly beheld, in perspective, a weeping community, bewailing the loss of the Extons. Their lamentations filled the air.
“Are you in pain, Agatha?”
“Oh, my lady, of course I am. It’s terrible. And that I—I—their friend—should—should——”
She became inarticulate with distress.
“Come, come, you silly girl. Control yourself! Type and copy that letter, and I’ll sign it.”
“No.”
The devastating monosyllable threw Lady Selina off her balance. It outraged her sense of decorum and deportment. Metaphorically, the solid rock of tradition and custom seemed to give way; she positively foundered in quicksands. Gaspingly, she exclaimed:
“What! You refuse——”
Agatha laid down her notebook and pencil.
“Yes, my lady.”
Lady Selina rose. She confronted the rebel with dignity; her voice betrayed no emotion whatever. Inwardly, her mind had become kaleidoscopic. She beheld a sort of cubist picture, a futurist nightmare compounded of bits of history, mangled fragments. Marie Antoinette on a tumbril—Charles the Martyr, without his head—Margaret of Anjou in a forest—Nero fiddling when Rome was blazing——
“You must go, too, Agatha. I am sorry to lose your services. I shall be happy to give you an excellent character. But I cannot keep you here. Those who are not with me are against me.”
CHAPTER IIHENRY GRIMSHAW
Dr. Pawley’s house was situate on the village green, opposite to the church and to the left of the inn, The Chandos Arms. It presented a Georgian exterior to the architectural eye, and the front door boasted a pediment which resurrected Queen Anne. Red brick glowed rosily, diffusing an air of hospitality. One might know that the cellarage was excellent, that the larder was well stocked, and that the parlour probably was panelled in oak. Behind the house a walled-in garden sloped upwards to a small temple crowning a mound, which might have served as a tumulus. In this temple, upon fine summer mornings, the doctor breakfasted, consuming leisurely bacon of his own curing and eggs freshly laid. Between herbaceous borders his eyes could wander to his house, where he had lived so pleasantly during thirty years. Often he wondered whether his successor would live as pleasantly. And the conjecture troubled a kindly man, introspective and analytical, distrusting thelaudator temporis acti, but fully alive to the fact that the England he knew and loved was changing profoundly. He confessed that the eighteenth century was to his taste, as a period of consummate craftsmanship. Slowly he had collected eighteenth century furniture and porcelain and silver. Pope was his favourite poet. Everything in the house was English. Old-fashioned flowers bloomed in his garden and in his heart. And yet, in odd antithesis, he dealt honestly with the present and the future. He had considered the future when the necessity of taking a partner forced itself disagreeably upon his attention. Had he consulted his own inclinations, he might have selected a colleague of middle age, more or less satisfied with existing conditions. Such a colleague would have been accepted by Lady Selina and the villagers as the real right thing in doctors. To seek out a young up-to-date man adumbrated possible disaster to peace of mind. At any rate, it salved a somewhat sensitive conscience to reflect that another might do what he had left undone. At the same time he was whimsically conscious that he had done his best according to lights which glimmered none too brightly when he perused the leading medical journals. Balm descended upon a perturbed spirit when high authorities in his profession flatly contradicted each other in and out of print. He had seen, not without satisfaction, astounding theories spin centrifugally out of sight. Tremendous assumptions had vanished in thin air. If he halted, out of breath and sometimes out of pocket, behind the leaders, he could reflect agreeably upon their divagations, conscious that he had stuck religiously to the well-worn thoroughfare.
Of late, with failing health and energies, he had asked himself whether he was doomed to attend the funeral of his own experience. Such an interment made him shiver, as if an iconoclast were dancing a jig upon his grave. At such times he wondered pathetically what might have been had he taken arms against the lady of the manor after the death of her husband. To work with her, to persuade her where persuasion was possible, to accept resignedly conditions which he could not approve, had proved difficult. Country doctors throughout that part of England were constrained to compromise, although they might detest the word. Parsons were in just the same boat. Goodrich, for example, after a good dinner, might acclaim reforms which he was quite incapable of bringing about. He, too, wandered in a vicious circle of impotent imaginings, walled in by consequence and circumstance. Each man, perhaps, criticised the other, but not too harshly. Both agreed that matters in the village might be worse. Lady Selina spread the voluminous draperies of private charity over insanitary cottages and low wages. Humanly speaking, nothing would change her methods. Wise men made the best of them.
Grimshaw arrived in Upworthy some few days after the midsummer bun-feast. Pawley asked him for a week-end, met him at the station, installed him in a comfortable room, and, after luncheon, accepted with gratitude the young man’s suggestion that he should “nose round” by himself during the afternoon. Pawley was taken with his appearance, because vitality exuded from him. He had expected to see signs of overwork, hollow cheeks, a jaded look. And at luncheon he touched lightly upon this. To his surprise, Grimshaw spoke with entire frankness.
“My trouble was mental. I found myself up against vested interests, a hopeless fight. I hostilised authority. And, at heart, I’m an open-air man. I’m fed up with the slums.”
“I quite understand.”
“Yes; my ease of mind was menaced. And without that, where are you? In a pea-soup fog.” He laughed boyishly, and added: “I say, how good your mutton is!”
Presently he took the road without any directions or warnings from Pawley.
For a minute or two he stood still, admiring the village green, in the centre of which was a cricket pitch in fairly good order. The church faced him with its low square tower of concrete. Bits of the concrete had fallen off, revealing the bricks beneath. “Not too much money here,” thought the young man. His eyes rested upon the cottages, mostly whitewashed, with heavy thatched roofs, very picturesque, and all of them more than a hundred years old. The general effect pleased. Perhaps the best house (barring the doctor’s) was The Chandos Arms, with a wide gravel sweep in front of it, and ample stable accommodation. A house of delightful rotundities—bow windows flanking a big hospitable door, dormer windows winking at you out of the thatch, and the thatch itself—a masterpiece of craftsmanship—not cut straight along the eaves but undulating in semicircles of generous diameter. Grimshaw guessed that it had been a prosperous inn during coaching-days, had suffered a decline in custom, and was now blooming in a sort of Indian summer by reason of the increased motor traffic. All the cottages stood back from the road that skirted the green, with small front gardens ablaze with old-fashioned flowers. From where he stood, looking to the left, he could see the trees in the park, and above them the chimneys of the Manor. If the lady of that Manor chose to stand upon her roof she could survey the village, and outwardly at least it must have gladdened her eye. Hard by the church, and beyond it, snuggled the Vicarage. In front of the inn spread a large horse-pond, a treasure-house of fresh-water infusoria. The face of any amateur microscopist would have brightened at the sight of it.
Grimshaw strolled on, crossing the pitch. A wide street led from the green into the grass country beyond, with cottages on both sides of it. No modern buildings offended the artistic sense. Grimshaw passed the post-office, the village store, the baker’s, and a cobbler’s. He could see no chapel. Nonconformity obviously went without a place of worship in Upworthy. Being Saturday afternoon, many children were playing in front of the cottages. Grimshaw stared at them with professional interest. They appeared to be clean, but not too robust. A few were rickety.
From a blacksmith’s forge came the cheery sound of hammer on anvil.
Grimshaw nodded to the smith and bade him “Good day.” The smith, nothing loath for a chat, paused in his work, observing critically:
“You be a stranger in these parts?”
“I am,” said Grimshaw.
“Ah-h-h! A sight o’ folks comes to our village, so pretty and peart it be.”
“Not much new building going on.”
“Well, no. My lady don’t hold wi’ improvements. New cottages be needed bad, too.”
“You’re a bit overcrowded, I take it?”
“That be God A’mighty’s truth. I ain’t one to complain, but ’tis a fact that Upworthy don’t march wi’ the times. Never did, I reckons. When the kids grows up they has to muck it like pigs in a sty. But I don’t tell all I knows.”
Grimshaw passed on. He shot a glance upwards at the windows of bedrooms that held too many children. It was a lovely sunny afternoon, but the upper windows were closed. At the back of each cottage were sties. The county was celebrated for its bacon. He could smell roses; and he could smell pigs. His steps quickened as he left the village behind him.
He was now—as Pawley had informed him—in the heart of the Chandos domain. Cattle browsed placidly in fields enclosed by hedgerows, not hedges, hedgerows beloved by pheasants in October and November. Quite close to the village lay a snipe-bog, which ought to have been drained. From a man at work on the road Grimshaw learnt that the snipe-bog harboured wild-fowl as well as snipe.
“ ’Tis as good a bit o’ rough shooting as I knows.”
“A lot of rabbits, eh?”
“Too many,” said the man. “A rare noosance they be.”
Grimshaw drew the inference. Here, at any rate, sport reigned supreme. He examined the cows. Unless his experience was at fault, some few were furnishing milk not fit for human consumption. The farmyards into which he stared confirmed this unhappy conclusion. Water lay close to the surface of a clayey soil, and in winter time must have oozed up everywhere. The ditches were not deep enough, and overgrown with rank vegetation. But he saw some handsome colts—prospective hunters—and brood mares. Of high farming there was no evidence whatever. The plough, for some occult reason, seemed to have been banished.
Grimshaw seated himself upon an ancient gate and lit his pipe.
“By their gates ye shall know them,” he murmured.
And then——
“Can I stick it?”
Sitting on the gate, his thoughts took a swallow’s flight into the past. He had been born in just such a parish, where Peter was robbed to pay Paul, where shift had degenerated into makeshift, where Compromise crowed lustily over Justice and Common Sense. And his father, the parson of the parish, had been a soured man, unable to cope with his environment. Fortunately for Grimshaw an uncle and godfather had sent him to Winchester, where he shone in the playing-fields rather than the class-rooms. After that he had been pitchforked into Medicine, simply because the uncle aforesaid happened to be a fairly prosperous physician.
And then his father had died——!
Up to the very day of the funeral—and how dismal it had been!—Henry Grimshaw had taken life very easily. Looking back, analytical of himself and the motives that had governed and misgoverned him, he could remember vividly how keen he had been to distinguish himself at cricket, partly because his father had no stomach for games or sport. Really, he had shirked Latin and Greek out of sheer contrariety, under the lash of a tongue that perhaps unduly exalted classical attainments. And because his sire had been something of an ascetic, he had decided to mortify parental ambitions rather than his own flesh.
In the same odd spirit of contrariety, he had scrapped cricket and football, concentrating all energies upon the study of his profession. The friends of his own age held out the lure of playing for the Gentlemen of England at Lord’s. Their insistence exasperated him. After his father’s death he found himself in possession of a few thousand pounds and a mother and sister on his hands. His uncle, something of a cynic, said to him:
“Harry, you have good looks and good manners. In my profession these count enormously. When I retire, which I intend to do, you can slide into a capital practice chiefly amongst aged handmaidens of the Lord.”
Having good manners, Harry said nothing, but he thought: “I’m bothered if I will.” And immediately afterwards, as luck would have it, he was captivated by Babbington-Raikes, the famous gynecologist, who had “enthused” him. Babbington-Raikes fought against diseases of women and children with the ardour and self-sacrifice of a paladin. He was amazing. Babbington-Raikes sent him to a God-forsaken parish in Essex and afterwards to Poplar.
In each place he had learnt much; in each place he had been “downed,” like his father before him, by the powers plenipotentiary of vested interests.
And now, apparently, he was “up against them” again.
He returned, after an absence of some hours, in time to dress for dinner. Pawley gave his visitor of his best, and, whilst the trim parlourmaid waited upon them, the talk lingered in the eighteenth century. Grimshaw showed appreciation of the furniture and silver, drawing out his host to describe his adventures as a collector before prices became prohibitive to a man of modest means. An agreeable hour passed swiftly. Then the maid removed the cloth, brought in coffee, and retired. The doctor placed on the well-polished mahogany an antique box well filled with excellent cigars.
“Help yourself,” said Pawley.
Grimshaw did so.
“You are amazingly comfortable,” he said abruptly. “Your house is a sort of sanctuary. To my notion it’s just right. No man could wish to spend the evening of his life in more delightful surroundings.”
Pawley nodded. Grimshaw hesitated a moment, glancing at his host. The whimsical face encouraged him to speak frankly.
“I am wondering,” he went on, “whether any design lurks behind your charming hospitality?”
Pawley laughed.
“Design? An appeal, you mean, to the flesh?”
“Well, yes. You encourage me to be candid.”
“I like that.”
“Thanks.”
“There is no design behind my hospitality, save the wish to make you heartily welcome here.”
“Thanks again. I have had a jolly letter from Brian Chandos.”
“Ah! His leave was up two days ago. Otherwise I should have asked him here to-night. To-morrow you will meet his mother and sister.”
“Another appeal——!”
Pawley eyed him more keenly. Grimshaw strayed down a by-path.
“Tell me about the mother.”
“Am I to be biographical?”
“Please.”
“She was the daughter of Lord Saltaire, a West Country magnate. He belonged to thevieille souche. He owned large estates heavily mortgaged. His daughters were educated at home by a governess who, I imagine, was not too highly paid. Probably she knew enough to cut the girls to the Saltaire pattern. All of them married well. The conclusion has been forced upon me that men like the late Henry Chandos fight shy of cleverness in a wife.”
“Am I to infer that Lady Selina is stupid?”
“Heavens—no. What do you call cleverness in a woman?”
Grimshaw considered this. He felt himself to be challenged, and wished to acquit himself adequately. But he had no answer pat to his lip. Indeed, he had never considered the cleverness of women as something to be differentiated from the cleverness of man. But he was quite sure that his own sister might be reckoned clever. And he thought of her as he replied:
“I should expect perception, sympathy, humour, adaptability, and a sound business instinct.”
Pawley chuckled.
“I hope you will find all that in your wife, Grimshaw. If you do, you won’t focus your affections on Chippendale furniture. To return to my lady—she has perception and sympathy up to a point, and unsound business instincts. I have her word for it that she never drew a cheque till she found herself a widow.”
Grimshaw meditated a moment or two before he said tentatively:
“I am rather sorry you mentioned our possible partnership to Lady Selina. From Brian’s letter he seems to take it for granted that the thing is cut and dried.”
“And it isn’t?”
“The pitch—I spent four hours on it—looks bumpy. By the way, who is your Sanitary Inspector?”
Pawley made a grimace.
“Um! An insanitary person, who doesn’t inspect.”
“Eats out of the hand of Authority.”
“An occasional luncheon.”
“Dines with the big farmers?”
“You seem to know our little ways.”
“I worked in Essex before I went to Poplar.”
“I’ll admit that you wouldn’t be idle here.”
“Idle? No. How much time should I have for research work?”
Pawley sighed, too well bred to express his disappointment. He had been a fool to suppose that a young man of Grimshaw’s distinction would care to kick against the pricks in an obscure village. Obviously Grimshaw had “nosed about” to some purpose. He had read the writing on the whitewashed walls. He might have wandered into the pretty churchyard and noticed an undue proportion of tiny graves! But to a fighter that might be an incentive, a provocation.
Possibly Grimshaw’s sharp ears caught the attenuated sigh. Pawley looked up to find keenly penetrative eyes on his.
“If, Dr. Pawley,ifI tackle this job, what backing shall I have? Is Lady Selina likely to stand by?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“That means she won’t. Brian Chandos used to be a good sort. Will he help or hinder?”
Pawley answered evasively:
“Brian is devoted to his mother. And he’s dependent upon her.”
“All is said. What about the daughter?”
“You must form your own opinion. She and you together might influence Lady Selina. She loves being loved. Of course she thinks Upworthy a paradise.”
At this Grimshaw spoke for the first time with vehemence. It is likely that some instinct warned him that he was being driven, against his judgment, into a false position. Pawley’s honesty appealed to him. And he liked him at sight, feeling sorry for him as the victim of autocracy.
“Your Lady Selina is swathed in cotton wool. I behold your Sanitary Inspector bowing down in the house of Chandos. I behold doles instead of decent habitations, thatch and phthisis, whitewash and eyewash.”
Pawley took this outburst humorously.
“How gently you young fellows hit.”
“I beg your pardon. You know, doctor, I have an objection to those who swagger above me socially, but I hate still more the poor devils cringing below me. The fact that lots of my fellow-countrymen aren’t fit to associate with me makes me sick. There! that’s off my chest. Let me ask a last question. Who does the dirty work in Upworthy? Who is the son of a gun? I can see your Lady Selina handing out the smiles and ha’pence. Who gives the kicks?”
“Her bailiff. Honest John Gridley—bother him!”
Then they both laughed. Grimshaw promised to talk with the lady of the manor on the morrow. Beyond that he refused to pledge himself. Naturally the talk soon wandered into the professional channel. The elder man listened for the most part, interjecting a few questions, more and more sensible that youth might succeed where he had failed, sensible, also, that having, by the luck of things, found the right man, he was likely to lose him. They parted for the night excellent friends.
Next day, at half-past four, Stimson—looking apostolic after Morning Church—ushered them into the drawing-room at the Manor, an immense room seldom used, filled with furniture collected by different generations, some of it good, some of it bad. The ladies of the house didn’t appear immediately, and Grimshaw was much amused by the expression on Pawley’s face as he glanced sadly at mid-Victorian atrocities, shaking his head dolefully, apparently too overcome for speech. Characteristically, Grimshaw devoted his attention to the full-length portraits, staring at Chandos chins and foreheads. He decided that they must be an obstinate, obdurate race, pleasant to deal with when things ran smoothly, honourable, kindly, and—unquestionably—quality.
Cicely entered first, in evident distress, holding her handkerchief to her eye.
“Oh, Dr. Pawley! How clever of you to come in the very nick of time!”
“What is it, my dear?”
“Some enormous beast—it feels as big as a bluebottle—is committing suicide in my eye. Please save its life and mine—quick!”
“Dear, dear! Where are my glasses?”
As he fumbled for his pince-nez, Grimshaw said promptly:
“Allow me, Miss Chandos. Your handkerchief, please.”
She smiled, gave him her handkerchief and held up her face. Very deftly Grimshaw extracted a midge, and exhibited it.
“There!”
“Where? Oh, yes. What a tiny thing.”
As he flicked it away, returning the handkerchief, with a slight bow, he murmured:
“May all your troubles be as small.”
She held out her hand.
“Thanks. You are Dr. Grimshaw?”
“Mr. Grimshaw,” he corrected her. She nodded, exclaiming gaily:
“I’m ever so glad to meet Brian’s old friend. Now, perhaps, I shall find out what really happened at Winchester.”
“Never. We were in the same house.”
“And you were a tremendous swell.”
“And now a poor G.P.”
“G.P.?”
“General Practitioner,” Pawley explained. “With a few letters after his name that some Harley Street men haven’t got. Now, my dear, I tried to help you the other day. Will you help me?”
“Why, of course.” She gazed at him affectionately. “Mother will be down in two jiffs. You caught her napping. Sunday luncheon. How can I help you?”
“I have asked Mr. Grimshaw to become my partner.”
“I know. And I think it’s perfectly splendid.”
“But alas! he’s not very keen about it.”
Cicely raised her brows. Grimshaw wondered whether she was obstinate, catching a glimpse of the Chandos chin, salient but with a dimple mitigating its contour. He could see that she was surveying him from tip to toe with the well-bred self-possession of her class, evidently mildly astonished that he did not jump eagerly into such a picturesque village as Upworthy. She said simply:
“There’s plenty of work for two, isn’t there, Dr. Pawley?”
Grimshaw laughed, although he answered seriously.
“That’s it. You see, there oughtn’t to be.”
At this her expression became interrogative. Pawley interposed hastily:
“Mr. Grimshaw thinks that the chronic sickness in Upworthy might be wiped out, if—if he could count upon the active backing of authority.”
Cicely assimilated this.
“You mean Mother?”
Grimshaw added quickly:
“And you. Would you work with me on modern lines?”
“Modern lines? Are we modern, Dr. Pawley?”
Pawley glanced at her pretty frock.
“In our frocks, yes.”
Cicely accepted the compliment demurely, conscious of the fact that her dressmaker was in the first flight, conscious, too, that Brian’s wonderful friend, Old Grimmer, was indifferent, perhaps, to the envelope but not to what it held. His penetrating glances had not escaped notice. She wondered how much her powers of persuasion would count.
“You must talk to Mother, Mr. Grimshaw. She has the welfare of our people next her heart. I hope you will stay here. As for me——”
“Yes?”
“I should like to work with you.”
He exclaimed gaily:
“Almost am I tempted. Well, I will talk with Lady Selina, the sooner the better.”
“I wish you all luck.” She hesitated; a warmer tint suffused her cheeks, as she added warningly: “Be—diplomatic.”
As the word left her lips, Stimson entered.
“Her ladyship’s compliments, Dr. Pawley, and she will join you in a minute.” He turned to Cicely: “My lady wishes to see you, Miss Chandos.”
Cicely vanished with Stimson. Grimshaw said emphatically:
“What a jolly girl.”
Pawley chuckled.
“You’ve made an impression, my boy. Yes, yes; you’ll get on with Cicely like one o’clock.”
“And be sacked by Lady Selina at half-past. By Jove! She’s a bit of a witch, a fascinator. Where does the charm come from?”
“From her mother.”
Grimshaw looked incredulous. He had envisaged the lady of the manor as formidable. He heard Pawley’s voice, slightly quavering with apprehension.
“What are you going to say to Authority?”
“Something you have not said. It’s quite likely that her belated entrance has been stage-managed. Lady Selina may wish to tackle me alone. And, if so, take my tip—skedaddle before Authority uses you as a Court of Appeal.”
Pawley owned up reluctantly:
“You read me. I want to bolt. I’m ashamed to admit that I have funked plain speech all my life. But I’m hanged if I’ll funk it any longer.”
“Your heart’s in the right place,” said Grimshaw, almost with affection. He had spent the morning with Pawley, pottering about the pretty, insanitary cottages. And every minute had tightened the bond between them, the bond that links strength with weakness, and age with youth. That bond became tauter as Pawley murmured deprecatingly:
“My heart, I fancy, is not quite in the right place. Anyway, it doesn’t do its work too well.”
Grimshaw became professional.
“Doesn’t it? You must let me go over you to-night. And, if you’ll back me and Miss Chandos, I’m hanged if I’ll funk being your partner.”
“Thank you, my boy, thank you.” He added slyly: “I must thank little Cicely, too.”
Lady Selina swept in.
At once Grimshaw amended mistaken conceptions of her. He understood swiftly that such a woman might inspire devotion in such a man as Pawley. Graciousness, that priceless asset, shone luminously about her. Conviction that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a lady of quality, must—so Grimshaw decided—impose itself subtly upon everybody coming in contact with her. At a distance one might criticise; in her presence the homage she exacted with such sublime unconsciousness had to be paid—tribute to Cæsar, whether copper or gold. The young man noted the elegance of her gown, the delightful lines of draperies that disdained fashion. He had expected formality, a cold courtesy, the more chilling because good breeding imposed it. But Lady Selina advanced, holding out two small hands.
“I am delighted to meet Old Grimmer.”
He said confusedly:
“Who is at your service.”
Presently they were seated. Grimshaw found himself close to Lady Selina, so close that he could detect the faint fragrance of orris-root, the only perfume she used.
“So you’re thinking of a partnership with my dear old friend here?”
Her soft voice, softer than her daughter’s, seemed to insinuate itself into his mind, percolating here and there. Pawley answered her:
“Really, we have only just settled it.”
“Capital. And how do you like my dear village? Perhaps a foolish question. If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t choose to live here.”
Grimshaw recovered his self-possession. He spoke as tranquilly as his hostess, but with renewed alertness.
“I spent yesterday afternoon and this morning wandering about Upworthy.”
“We are very proud of Upworthy. Our roses——! I have always encouraged my people to grow sweet-smelling flowers.”
The young man recalled Cicely’s injunction. At the same time he told himself that this first interview was all important. As an honest man, he must make plain his position. To do so without giving offence became a highly stimulating mental exercise.
“Botanically,” he replied, “Upworthy is remarkable. From a doctor’s point of view, Lady Selina——”
“Yes? I am anxious to hear your verdict. I value nothing so much as candour.”
“Thanks. There seems to be a lot of sickness.”
Lady Selina sighed. Her comely face assumed a resigned expression, as she murmured devoutly:
“Alas! Poverty and disease are with us always.”
“Always, but not everywhere,” Grimshaw replied lightly. “Your neighbour, Lord Wilverley, is proud of his exceptionally low death-rate, so I am told.”
“Ah. Wilverley lies higher.”
“And enjoys a system of drainage.”
Lady Selina’s eyes sparkled. Lord Wilverley happened to be a personal friend, and a magnate, comfortably independent because of London ground rents, able to afford expensive improvements. Also he was a bachelor, on the sunny side of forty. Nobody had guessed that Lady Selina cherished the hope that Wilverley’s lord might come to Upworthy for a wife. Already his friendship with Cicely had showed signs (to her eye alone) of a warmer complexion. And yet, behind this rankled a certain jealousy, because Wilverley had been acclaimed a model estate. She turned to Pawley.
“We contend, don’t we, Dr. Pawley, that open drainage is best?”
“I have heard you say so, Lady Selina.”
“It is best for us doctors,” said Grimshaw. “I noticed that most of your cottages are thatched.”
“We are very proud of our thatched cottages, aren’t we, Dr. Pawley?”
Pawley, with a touch of nervousness, squirming mentally, replied:
“Thatch upon thatch, Lady Selina, is hygienically unsound.”
She blinked at him, quite astounded. Grimshaw caught a sub-acid inflection as she riposted swiftly:
“Is it? Why didn’t you say so before?” She looked at Grimshaw. “I’m always approachable where the interests of my people are concerned. I have never refused a favour to a tenant without giving him convincing reasons. Have I, Dr. Pawley?”
“Never,” affirmed Pawley.
Grimshaw, sorry for Pawley but much amused, and not forgetting honest John Gridley, said smoothly:
“Your land agent ought to have told you, Lady Selina. It was his business.”
“But I am my own land agent. My bailiff is a capable fellow of the farmer class. I can’t afford such an expert as Lord Wilverley employs.” She continued gently: “Between ourselves, Mr. Grimshaw, lack of means prevents my doing many desirable things. I ought to rebuild my garage, which is perilously near my house. I ought to put in a local water system. As for my bailiff, he obeys my orders. I don’t ask you to work with him. I hope that you will work with me.”
She was getting the best of it, and knew it. Grimshaw acknowledged that he was “touched,” as fencers put it.
“That is as it should be, Lady Selina. I think I can promise you a cleaner bill of health if—if we work together.”
Unconsciously, he assumed a graver tone. Lady Selina eyed him pensively. She told herself that she liked him. He was certainly a gentleman, and as certainly a man of intelligence and capacity. A devastating thought flooded her mind. Was he too attractive? Compared with Lord Wilverley, for instance. Cicely had spoken of Old Grimmer with enthusiasm. And, as Brian’s friend, as the partner of Pawley, her house must be open to him. Young girls were susceptible, and it was impossible to play watch-dog in this go-as-you-please twentieth century. Then, confident in her own powers, she swept what she held to be an absurd possibility out of her mind. Cicely was a Chandos. Meanwhile, she must “place” this up-to-date young fellow more accurately. She continued sweetly:
“Have you any definite plan in your mind which might bring about this clean bill of health?” He bowed. “What is it?”
“My plan would involve the expenditure of time——”
“I have never grudged that.”
“And—money.”
Slightly taken aback, she repeated the word:
“Money? Much money?”
“Probably some thousands of pounds.”
Lady Selina was horrified, throwing up her shapely hands in protest. Habitually, she thought in pence, not in pounds. Her voice became sharp.
“Somethousandsof pounds——! What do you say to this amazing statement, Dr. Pawley?”
Pawley, alive to a derisive gleam in Grimshaw’s eyes, replied hastily:
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Lady Selina became more and more perturbed. Grimshaw saw that he had made an impression. It might be discreet to retire, leaving his suggestions to soak in.
“My plan may be unworkable, Lady Selina.”
“But it is. I can tell you, in confidence, that my dear husband left this estate to me clear of all debt. I can’t borrow money. He would turn in his grave if I did.Thousands of pounds——!”
Stimson saved an unendurable situation by appearing with the tea-things. Pawley rose. Lady Selina recovered her graciousness.
“You must stay to tea. I insist.”
Cicely came back, carrying a bunch of roses, fresh from the garden.
“Is it settled?” she asked gaily. “Do you join us?”
Grimshaw smiled back at her.
“Yes; it is settled, Miss Chandos.”
“I’m ever so glad.”
The partners walked home together across the park, which was not of large extent and held no deer. Henry Chandos had put down the deer. Sheep browsed placidly upon the rich grasses. Bordering the park was a shrubbery of rhododendrons, and through this meandered a path which ended at a fine wrought-iron gate opening upon the village green. As they passed through the rhododendrons, Grimshaw noticed that they had reverted to type—the familiarPonticum.
“Lady Selina has let things rip,” he remarked.
“There isn’t too much money, as perhaps you have guessed.”
“But she told us that the estate was clear of debt.”
“To keep it so is her mission in life. Well, what did you think of her?”
“Wonderful! There is no other adjective. I can understand that there has been a conspiracy of silence to ‘spare’ her. Forgive me for saying that I am sure you are the chief conspirator.”
“I admit it. Goodrich has a second place. To disturb her admirable peace of mind seemed to us—sacrilege. You upset her, but she cottoned to you.”
“I rattled her,” said Grimshaw. “What the effect will be I can’t predict. Obviously, I’m in for a fight. And the odds are against me, because her son is devoted to her. I am sure that in his place I should feel as he does. But Miss Chandos——!”
“All women are unknown quantities.”
“To old bachelors.”
Pawley rubbed his bony fingers together.
“To all of us and to themselves. I make no prognosis about Cicely. The mother can be diagnosed with greater confidence. Henry Chandos ran this place prehistorically. Lady Selina strolls placidly in his ruts. If I can read the barometer, now apparently at ‘Set Stormy,’ we are likely to witness confounding changes.”
“Here?”
“Everywhere. A universal upheaval.”
“But—good heavens!—you don’t think war is coming?”
“I am quite sure of it. A fight between Democracy and Autocracy.”
“England will keep out of it.”
“She can’t.”
They argued without acerbity, as thousands argued during those early days of July, 1914. But it never occurred to either that war, if it did come, would affect them personally. Soldiers and sailors would do their duty; civilians would carry on much as usual. No modern war could last very long. Finally, as they neared home, Grimshaw said with a laugh:
“Whatever happens, I can’t see your Autocrat ‘downed.’ ”
“It would be a pathetic spectacle,” observed Pawley. “I have the kindliest feelings toward her, but I detest her system.”
“You blame Gridley.”
“Ah! He’s the source of most of the mischief. And she doesn’t know it. I hope with all my heart that you will ‘down’ him.”
“He may ‘down’ me,” said Grimshaw, thinking of Essex experiences, where his poorer patients had been grievously maltreated by just such another.
“I back you, my boy.” Pawley pressed a strong arm reassuringly.
Alone with her daughter, Lady Selina, so to speak, uncorked herself. Suppressed feeling bubbled forth in sparkling ebullition. Cicely secretly felt rather flattered. As a rule, her mother withheld confidence concerned with money. Cicely, for example, had no idea of what the family income might be. It seemed to be adequate without pinching. She had been promised a season in London; she was given plenty of frocks; her hunter had cost a hundred and fifty pounds; Brian never complained of his allowance. But, unlike her mother, Cicely had learnt at school elementary business principles. She knew girls of her own age who paid cash for their clothes, and passed anxious hours over the problems of adjusting means and ends. She had discovered that it was bad business to buy cheap shoes and underclothing. And debt was a synonym for misery and humiliation.
Accordingly, she agreed with her mother that Mr. Grimshaw’s price for a clean bill of health was preposterous.
“I like the young man, my dear; I am glad to entertain him but not his ideas. It’s so easy to be lavish with other people’s money. Thousands of pounds——!”
She repeated this intermittently, as if repetition might exorcise an unholy suggestion.
“What does Mr. Grimshaw want to do?” asked the girl.
“Heaven knows! A system of drainage, waterworks, the rebuilding of cottages.”
“What Lord Wilverley has done.”
“A very rich man, child. And the best of good fellows—a very sincere friend of yours, by the way.”
“Is he?”
Then meeting the maternal eye, the girl blushed a little, much to Lady Selina’s satisfaction. Wisely she abandoned further soundings. Arthur Wilverley could be trusted to do his own courting. So her thought sped back to Grimshaw. Already she had adopted a policy. Grimshaw had to be reckoned with. To treat him coldly, to keep him at a distance, simply meant a disturbance of the peace. If she were really “nice” to him, he would be disarmed. In small things he should have a free hand. Ultimately he would work with her, along her lines, without friction. So she said lightly:
“I must ask Mr. Grimshaw to dinner. I wonder whether he belongs to the Grimthorpe Grimshaws.”
“Does it matter?”
Lady Selina smiled tolerantly. This was one of the less happy consequences of sending a girl to school. She said superbly:
“A Chandos ought to be able to answer that question.”
Cicely remained silent. Her great friend at school had been Arabella Tiddle, the daughter of the millionaire pill-manufacturer. Lady Tiddle—so Lady Selina had been credibly informed—once worked in a shoe factory. Sometimes Lady Selina wondered what it felt like to be a Tiddle. She shied at the name, as Cicely was well aware. Nevertheless, Arabella had been invited to the Manor, where she comported herself triumphantly. A small string of beautiful pearls was graciously approved by Arabella’s hostess; whereupon the girl said ingenuously: “So very appropriate, aren’t they?” Lady Selina, not sure of this, asked pleasantly: “Why, my dear?” Arabella replied with a laugh: “They are just like Daddy’s pills. Of course you know that he advertises them as ‘Tiddle’s Pearls.’ ” Lady Selina didn’t know this, but she smiled amiably, and Arabella continued: “Mummy has ropes of them.Tiddle’s Priceless Pearls!Funny, isn’t it?” Lady Selina smiled again; a different adjective occurred to her.
Cicely’s silence slightly exasperated her. Confidence ought to beget confidence. Now that she was beginning to treat her daughter as “grown up,” surely she might expect more response. Had Cicely learnt to hold her tongue at school? The right selection of a school had worried Lady Selina not a little. Dr. Pawley shared her anxieties. At thirteen Cicely became rather anæmic, almost scraggy! Bracing air was prescribed; reinvigorating games; the stimulus of competition in work and play. After studying innumerable prospectuses, Lady Selina chose a big school on the South Coast, a sort of Eton in petticoats. And there the child had grown into a strong young woman. But, undoubtedly, she had lost something vaguely described by Lady Selina as “bloom.” Attrition with girls without grandfathers had rubbed it off. Miss Tiddle had no “bloom” except upon her cheeks. The political tendencies of the school were lamentably democratic.
She continued blandly, ignoring Cicely’s silence, taking for granted that it meant nothing:
“I daresay Mr. Grimshaw plays tennis.”
“Fancy your not knowing——!”
“What?”
“He’s top hole at games. After leaving Winchester he played cricket for his county. I’d bet sixpence that he plays tennis better than anyone about here. He’s an athlete all over. He won’t play pat-ball with me. No such luck!”
Lady Selina, after a penetrating glance at her daughter’s face, thought to herself: “I shall see that he doesn’t.” Then she kissed Cicely and laughed.
“We must be decently civil, my dear. That’s all.”
With that she went her way, not without misgivings. Why was it easier for her to understand her son rather than her daughter? Brian, she felt sure, would see eye to eye with his mother—a Chandos every inch of him. But Cicely baffled her. Had she made a hero of this young surgeon? Did she reckon breeding of no account? Still, her blush at mention of Wilverley’s name was reassuring. Later, at Evensong, during a dull sermon, she beguiled herself happily with a vision of Cicely and Wilverley kneeling on the chancel steps, with the lawn sleeves of a bishop raised above them in solemn benediction. She prayed fervently that it might be so. And Cicely, at the same moment, sitting demurely by her august mother, was wondering what sort of a woman Henry Grimshaw would marry. Did his fancy prefer blondes to brunettes? Was he engaged already? What deft fingers he had. Hardly had she felt the touch of them on her lower eyelid. But she had thrilled. The fact provoked her. She decided finally that he was the nicest young man she had ever met.
Perhaps it was as well for Lady Selina’s admirable peace of mind, not to mention her robust Anglican piety and faith in what was established, that she could not read Cicely as she read her son.