Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

“How can you bear it?” said the girl.

“Easily enough,” said Bagot simply. “I couldn’t let the place down.”

“You speak as if it were a friend.”

“It’s been my people’s home for nearly eight hundred years.”

The girl turned to the door.

“You’re faithful,” she said.

Willoughby shrugged his shoulders.

“Time ties up the affections,” he said. Then, “I’m so glad you came back. If I were still the owner, I should ask you to tea.”

“And, if I was not a companion, I should accept.” Willoughby stared. “As it is, my mistress’ll light into me for being so long. You see,” she continued, smiling, “we’re fellow bondsmen.” She put out a little hand. “And now good-bye. I think she likes this part, and, if I can persuade her to stay at Holy Brush, I’ll call at your lodge one evening and ask for some tea. You’re a Bagot, of course.”

“I was,” corrected Willoughby. “But that—that’s over, like the rest. I’m known as Worcester now.”

“And I,” said the girl quickly, “am known as Spring. No ‘Miss,’ or anything. Just Spring.”

Before he could answer, she was at the head of the stairs.

As he opened the great front-door—

“Good-bye, Spring,” said Willoughby.

My lady flung him a bewitching smile.

“Good-bye, Captain Bagot. D’you think you’ll know me next time?”

“Yes,” said Willoughby. “Even if you have your hair down.”

He watched her rejoin her companions, triumphantly waving her bag.

“The Stacks had a daughter,” he murmured. “But she used to wear blue glasses because of her sight. Besides, you don’t find paid companions worth seven million pounds.”

This was quite true. Moreover, his memory was at fault. Mr. and Mrs. Stack had died childless. The whole of their fortune had been left to a beloved niece.

It was natural enough that for the next ten days the Groom of the Chambers at Chancery should reconstruct Spring’s visit with a grateful heart. Her precious figure preceded him up the stairs, set a slight knee on this settle, stooped to observe those volumes: her laughter rang in the gallery, her voice fluted in the hall, her smile flashed in that doorway: her sympathy, grace, charm were lighting his memory with a glow which he found very valuable. In a word, the lady had wrought havoc. She had shown Willoughby Bagot something from which, for the last lean years, he had rigidly averted his gaze—the loneliness of his existence. With her little, firm hands she had rammed the truth down his throat. Had her mouth been less scarlet, had her throat been less white, her form less beautiful, the light in her eyes less tender, had the maid been less startlingly attractive in word and look and deed, it might have gone less hard with the Groom of the Chambers. Bagot could steel his heart with most men. His job was to cherish Chancery, at any cost. It had not been pleasant to play the servant in his own home; at the best, it had been a bitter-sweet business. Still, keeping his eyes upon the ground, he had become used to his monkhood—perceiving many things for which he had come to thank God. And now . . .

They had walked in Chancery together, he and she, walked and talked familiarly in his own home. It was no more his home, in point of fact, than it was hers. And yet—it might have been his and hers, if she pleased, too, but for ill fortune. That way lay madness, of course. Yet—the place suited her. Chancery was so immemorial that it had become natural: its furniture, tapestries, casements seemed to have grown where they hung: labelling age had stolen upon it, as lichen steals upon old tiles, till the spirit of the artifice that garnished had disappeared, and the house ranked with the oaks Gray Bagot had planted ere Richard was king. And Spring was natural. For all her badges of modernity—bead bag, silk stockings, nail polish, she was as refreshingly natural as Pomona herself. She fitted into Chancery as had no maid or man—except his father—whom Willoughby had ever seen treading those stairs.

When, therefore, some ten days later, the Groom of the Chambers approached his lodge at a quarter to five o’clock of a July afternoon, to see Spring seated upon the turf beneath his window, hatless, smoking a cigarette and talking earnestly with the old groom, he could have burst into song.

Spring picked up her hat and waved, and, when he came up, stretched out her little hands to be helped to her feet.

“I said I should come,” she said simply. “You shouldn’t have asked me.”

“If I remember,” said Willoughby, “I didn’t so far presume.”

Spring raised her brown eyes to heaven.

“Which means I’ve come uninvited?”

Willoughby bowed.

“Queens are not asked for favours,” he said. “Yet they bestow them.”

“Of course, you’re wasted,” said Spring, turning to the miniature porch. “You ought to be in some Embassy, flattering secretive dowagers. You know. Duels of polished wit and sleight of tongue. Never mind. I’ve got a great idea. I’ll tell it you over the tea I’ve let you in for.”

Bagot put his head on one side.

“Yet she looks generous,” he said. “Of course, it’s a proud mouth.”

“It’s a thirsty one,” said Spring, passing inside.

Old William served them devotedly, hissing a little with excitement from time to time. He had not waited on a lady for many a year. Besides, that his master should have company at the lodge delighted his heart. Willoughby’s monkhood went against the groom’s grain.

“And so,” said Bagot, frowning at the weather-beaten cup, which the proud mouth was using, “you managed to get to Holy Brush.”

Spring nodded.

“Tact,” she said. “I ought to be at an Embassy, too. I was most skilful. What I was really up against was that there’s only one bathroom at _The Jade_: but I said that that was a custom which was rapidly dying out and that one day we should be proud to say that we’d used a common bath, just as some people boast of remembering inns where everybody sat around the same big dish, spoon in hand.”

“Do they? I mean, shall you?”

“I hope so. Any way, it did the trick, and now she’s perfectly delighted. She’s bought two ‘gate’ tables already, and I left her on the bowling-green, telling the landlord the history of his church.”

“I congratulate myself. If only a certain custom wasn’t already dead—that of living and letting live—I’ld put myself at your service.”

“Which,” said Spring thoughtfully, “brings us to my idea. If you want Chancery back, I think you may have it.”

“How?”

“Go to America,” said Spring. “You had a good time there before.”

“I should think I did,” said Bagot. “Your people are wonderfully kind.”

“Well, go. Don’t call yourself Worcester, you know. And use your—your sleight of tongue. With ordinary care you ought to marry an heiress within six months.” She paused to take another piece of toast. “It’s been done before,” she added carelessly.

There was a long silence.

At length—

“I’m afraid I’m a bad business man,” said Willoughby quietly.

“Perhaps,” said Spring. “In fact, it’s fairly obvious that, commercially, the Gray Bagots weren’t in it with the Harps. But why be foolish? You needn’t marry the first one that comes along. They’re not all Harps, you know. Some of our psalteries are quite passable.”

“Would you do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. But then, I’m a fool.”

“Exactly,” said Willoughby. “So’m I.”

Spring frowned.

“Think,” she said. “Think of sitting in your own library, with servants falling over one another to answer the bell when you rang, and hunters in the stables and four cars, and Royalty coming to stay with you, and money to burn, and ‘The Wife of Willoughby Bagot, Esquire’ the picture of the year, and Chancery smiling in its sleep because a Gray Bagot was up in the saddle again.”

“‘And hatred therewith,’” said Willoughby, producing a pipe. “Nothing doing, you witch. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m much too foolish. Quite idiotic, in fact. It’s hereditary. After all, I’ve much to be thankful for. At the moment, I’m thankful for your dimple. I suppose it always comes when you’re trying not to laugh.”

Spring covered her face and shook with merriment.

Presently she sat up soberly.

“We don’t do so badly, we servants, do we?” she said. “I guess our respective employers aren’t laughing like that. I suppose you won’t let me wash up?”

“Certainly not,” said Bagot. “That’s William’s affair.”

“Yes, but as often as not he does it with cold water. He told me so just now. And that’s all wrong, you know.”

“I can’t help that,” said Bagot, lighting her cigarette. “I like my guests to do as they feel inclined, but there’s a limit to my hospitality. And now shall we go outside and sit on the grass? I want to see you against a background of box.”

It was a brilliant afternoon, and the shadow of the lodge turned the recess between the grey and green walls into a little arbour, the mouth of which gave on to Chancery, slumbering warm in the sunshine, a quarter of a mile away. What traffic used the road, pounded or whirred about its business behind the close box-screen, alike blind and invisible, but lending the little bay an air of privileged privacy like that of a family pew.

“My summer parlour,” said Bagot, ushering his guest.

“Hereafter the Servants’ Hall,” said Spring, taking her seat upon the turf. “Well, now I’m here, how do I look against the box?”

“You kill the poor thing,” said Bagot. “Your eyes are too bright. Never mind. I’ll have it watered before you come next time.”

“I can’t come unasked again. I mean, there’s a limit to hospitality, isn’t there?”

“You wicked girl,” said Willoughby. “You——”

“Why did you want to see me against the box?”

“Because good pictures should be put into good frames. I didn’t choose the paper on my sitting-room walls, you know, but I never noticed how very distressing it was until this afternoon.”

Spring looked up, smiling.

“Keep something for the heiress,” she said.

A car slid out of the distance, crept past the gates and stopped by the side of the hedge, three paces away.

“We’re not far off,” said a man’s voice. “I know this property here, but these corkscrew lanes of yours have tied me up. I can’t remember which side the village lies. Maybe there’s a porter here. . . .”

A door was opened and someone descended into the road.

Before he could reach the gate, Bagot was out of his garden and in the drive.

“Can I help you, sir?”

As he spoke he recognized one of the two Americans who had completed Spring’s party the week before.

And Spring was sitting in the arbour, with blazing eyes and her under-lip caught in her white teeth, straining her ears. . . .

The way to Holy Brush was asked and told.

The motorist re-entered his Rolls and, when this had purred into the distance, Willoughby returned to the arbour with his eyes upon the ground.

The look upon his face told Spring two things.

The first was that Bagot knew what was taking her compatriot to Holy Brush. The second, that he found the knowledge acutely distasteful.

“I must go,” she said abruptly, getting upon her feet. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was wishing,” said Bagot slowly, “that I was back at Chancery.” He looked up suddenly. “And you?”

Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape.

“I was thinking that it’s very refreshing to discover another fool.”

* * * * *

For the next four days, when Willoughby returned to his lodge, Spring was seated upon the turf, hatless and at her ease, awaiting his coming. The man always assumed that she had just arrived. The assumption was wrong. On the last three days my lady had been there two hours before he came, ironing his washing and delicately mending his clothes. The care of linen was not old William’s strong point. She also instructed the groom how to wash up and, shocked by his replies to an examination upon elementary cooking, gave him a written statement of the procedure for roasting meat. Moreover, she taught him to deceive so cunningly, that, when later, he volunteered that he had bought an old iron for sixpence and had been trying his hand, his master wholly believed him and praised his discretion. William’s ears burned.

On the fifth day, Spring did not come.

When Willoughby, approaching the lodge, could see no sign of the lady, for an instant his heart stood still. Ridiculously enough, he had come to expect to find her beneath his window. Hoping against hope, he quickened his pace. . . .

Except for William, setting the table for tea, the lodge was empty.

Willoughby tried to believe that Spring was late. He washed and changed and made a dozen excuses for not taking tea. He gave her half an hour—three-quarters, while he smoked in the little garden or strolled in the road. Finally, tea was served at six o’clock. Long after that he listened to every footfall: not until half-past eleven did he retire to rest. And all the time he knew that she was not coming, that he would not see her that day.

Thinking things over in his bed, he became frightened. He would see her again, of course—he hoped, many times. But a day had to come—already it was set in Fate’s diary—when he would see her no more, when their idyll would be definitely finished, to be presently bound in Memory and go up to the shelf of Time. The thought shocked him. Till now, he had never realized how pleasant she was. Her company, her ways, had become a necessity to him. Not in four days, of course. That was absurd. Custom is not so rapidly delivered. It was not a question of custom. Spring had become a necessity in half an hour. The gap she filled had been yawning for months and years, but, until it was filled, he never had known it was there. And now he did know, and its emptiness would gape upon him. Could he have quitted the place, changed his way of living, flung himself into some pursuit, had he but gone to her and she not come to him—it would have been different. As it was, so long as he cared for Chancery, dwelt at the lodge, always between five and six he would miss her excellence, turning his lonely parlour into a gallery of dreams.

For Willoughby, there lay her magic. She was his dream-lady. She had come to him as dreams do come. Their instant understanding, their immediate intimacy, their full-grown fellowship—things which should have been impossible and yet were natural as the day—were stuff that dreams are made of. . . .

Finding his legend good, he took it further, recklessly. He made her mistress of Chancery, loaded her with presents, taught her to ride. . . . The hopelessness of such fantasy did not matter at all, because it was founded on fact—a breathing, sweet-smelling fact, that sat beside him on the turf, all apple-green frock and white silk stocking and tiny tennis-shoes. With her perfume in his nostrils, he could afford to be extravagant—with her perfume in his nostrils. . . . And now . . .

_Sic transit gloria mundi._

My lady’s absence was deliberate. Spring was as wise as she was fair. She wished to discover whether Gray Bagot’s steady eyes counted with her as much as she thought they did, whether she was losing her head instead of her heart. She was not expecting for an instant to be able to read her own soul, but she was more than hopeful of extracting a valuable hint.

Her hope was realized.

By the time her aunt and she had dined she had become so _distraite_ as to provoke that usually imperturbable lady’s indignation, while, retiring at ten o’clock, she remained awake for one hour, immersed in the distasteful reflections that Time can in no wise be recalled and that they who fling opportunities in Fortune’s face can hardly be surprised if their future relations with the lady are rather strained.

At last, picturing Willoughby, she fell asleep.

Let us use her heavy brown eyes, as the delicate ranks of lashes are closing up.

Tall, spare, soldierly, the descendant of the old Gray Bagot was good to see. His hair was fair and close cut; his complexion clear and fresh; his nose aquiline. His mouth was well shaped; his voice pleasant; his grey eyes, set far apart. It was, indeed, his steady, grave gaze which was so notable. He always looked you in the face and expected to be so regarded. He liked to see, and was perfectly content to be seen. If you did as he expected, you had your reward. His character, his various emotions were spread before you in such print as a child could read. If he liked you, you saw it in his eyes, and there was a friendship made in a second of time. If he disliked you, you saw it, and that was that. But he never disliked anyone without just cause. As a matter of fact, he was generous to a fault. He looked his best, I fancy, upon a horse, but so does many a man. He had a fine, upright carriage, and his shoulders were broad. Honest, unassuming, dignified, he did his blood credit. That Chancery suited him is indisputable: his looks, his bearing, his ways agreed with her: and Chancery was a show place.

Willoughby tried not to hasten upon the sixth afternoon. His working hours were from seven till four o’clock, but, since the measure he gave was always good, he seldom left the apartments till nearer five. To-day, however, there had come no visitors to interrupt his labours, and by a quarter-past four there was no more to be conveniently done.

It follows that he reached the lodge rather before he was expected—in fact, in comfortable time to witness the delivery of a pair of pyjamas, four soft shirts and six handkerchiefs to his valet by his _repasseuse_.

“Hullo,” said Spring cheerfully. “I guess you never dreamed I could iron.” She turned to the groom, who was standing upon one leg. “That’s all to-day, William. The other two need mending, so I’ll do them to-morrow.”

“Very good, m’m.”

With an apologetic look at his master, William made good his escape.

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Willoughby. “If I’d had the faintest idea——”

“Live and let live,” said Spring. “It amuses me and it doesn’t hurt you, so why deprive a poor servant of her innocent fun?” She slid a cool arm through his. “And now take me into the garden and give me a match. By the time you’ve changed, William will have brought us some tea.”

Willoughby did as he was bid.

It was when the meal was over that Spring put her elbows on the table and knitted her brows.

“I want your advice.”

“That’s very easy,” said Bagot. “Let sleeping suits lie, and Grooms of the Chambers do their own dirty work.”

The red lips tightened.

“Thanks very much,” said Spring. “Perhaps I ought to have said that the advice I want is upon a matter upon which I value your opinion.”

Willoughby considered his finger-nails.

“I’ve got an awfully good answer to that,” he said. “A regular winner.”

“What?” suspiciously.

“Can’t think of it for the moment,” said Willoughby, “but——”

“Oh, but you will before I go. We shan’t go before next Friday. In fact I can’t. You see, I only get off in the afternoons, and William says there’s a waistcoat——”

“I capitulate,” said Willoughby quietly. “Friday? In three days’ time? Is Mrs.—er—Mrs.——“.

“Le Fevre.”

“—Le Fevre weary of Holy Brush?”

“Not that I know of,” said Spring. “I want your advice.”

“Yes?” said Willoughby.

“I have been offered another situation.”

“As companion?”

“Yes.”

Bagot took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe.

“First of all,” he said slowly, “are you happy with Mrs. Le Fevre?”

“Very. She’s awfully sweet.”

“Then I take it the new situation would be an improvement financially?”

“Yes,” said Spring shortly, “it would.”

“D’you think that you’ld have as much freedom?”

“I know that I shouldn’t.”

“You might be happier.”

“I might,” said Spring. “I’m not at all sure; but I might.”

Willoughby frowned. Then—

“Might you be less happy, Spring?”

“Easily.”

The man slid his pouch into a pocket and rose to his feet.

“My dear,” he said, “unless the increase in salary is too big to be ignored, my advice is to stay where you are.”

There was a pause.

At length—

“I think I ought to say,” said Spring slowly, “that the offer was made by a man.”

Willoughby’s heart gave one bound.

For a second he hesitated. Then—

“That alters everything,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because companions, like Grooms of the Chambers, do not figure in the table of relative precedence, whereas. . . .”

Spring stared out of the window and into the park.

“You’ve seen him,” she said. “Twice. But then you knew that.”

Willoughby nodded.

“I should say,” he said quietly, “that he was one of the best.”

“In fact, if I don’t accept, I shall be selling a bed of roses for the second ‘o’ in smoke?”

Willoughby set his teeth.

“Dear Spring,” he said, “I can’t advise your heart—only your head. But I’m bound to say that, placed as you are, you should do what your head tells you, if you possibly can. Think of the future.”

“I do,” said Spring. “That’s what worries me so.”

“Supposing Mrs. Le Fevre were to die and you to fall sick.”

“Supposing my husband treated me like a dog.”

“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,” said Bagot.

“He wouldn’t do it twice,” said Spring sweetly.

“The point is,” said Willoughby, swallowing, “that companions can be given notice, but wives can’t.”

“Wives can’t give notice, either.”

“I’ve heard of its being done.”

“Then you advise me to take my precious offer and thank my stars.”

“How can I? But I can point out that a girl in your present position is up against it. You can’t get away from that. Think. You depend for the bread you eat upon somebody else’s whim. I bet you’ve never saved. You haven’t had time. And so, you see, it’s vital that, if you can improve your position—scramble on to firmer ground—you should. Well, you’ve got a roaring chance. He’s rich, of course, and a white man—two pretty good points, you know. I don’t suggest that, if you were not a companion, you couldn’t have half London at your feet; but, as it is, my lady, you don’t get a show. So that this chance that’s come your way may never come by again. If you were rich, I should tell you to please your heart. As it is, you don’t dislike him, you’ve no reason to think he won’t do you slap up—I’m perfectly certain he will—and so I simply suggest you should please your head.”

“Which do you do?” said Spring.

“I’m a man.”

“Exactly, and you jolly well please your heart.”

“Not at all,” said Bagot, “I——”

“I imagine you could do better than serve the Harps. I mean, you weren’t born or bred to fix parlours, but, because you’re mad about Chancery, you just do.”

This was unanswerable.

After a moment’s reflection—

“A male man,” said Willoughby, “can shift for himself. If he likes to buy trouble, he can. He can always get through.”

“And what,” said Spring, ignoring his careful evasion, “what about my suggestion that you should marry a wife? You wiped the floor with it. But the instant the position is reversed, I must swallow my feelings and follow my head. What if you are a man? Men aren’t immune from sickness. Don’t say that you’ve got William, or I shall scream. If William’s as good a nurse as he is a seamstress, you wouldn’t live twenty-four hours. And look at the women there are who are up against it. They don’t go under because they’re not on concrete.”

“I don’t suggest that you would. But some of the roads of Life are pretty bad. If one can avoid the roughest, it’s—it’s just as well. Spares the frame, you know.”

“Don’t I look strong?”

“You do. I’m sure you’re as hard as nails, but nobody’s any the better for being hammered.”

“And so, although the sun’s shining, I’m to dive into the subway of marriage, in case one day it may rain.”

“At least there’s a station here,” said Bagot doggedly.

“In other words, I mayn’t get another chance. Go on. Say it right out. You’ve been hanging around, trying to hand me the statement for a quarter of an hour.”

Willoughby gasped.

“You wicked, ungrateful child.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “For sheer, bare-faced perversion, that breaks the tape. Never mind. I’m through, I am. I’ve done my best and I’m through. As some poetaster has said, ‘You can lead a girl to the altar, but you can’t make her think.’ Or is that out of _Paradise Lost_?”

With that, he seated himself upon the table and felt for a match. He was really ridiculously relieved.

Spring gave a little laugh.

“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.”

The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how to lose.

As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to burst into tears.

Before she had time, Willoughby had laid down his pipe and picked up her hand.

“That’s right,” he said, smiling. “For your sake I’m awfully glad and I believe you’ll be very happy.” He kissed the cool fingers, and turned away. “And, now that’s settled, let’s go into the Servants’ Hall.”

He had, to my mind, done well, had this Groom of the Chambers. He was, of course, desperately in love with Spring. More. By taking the office he held, he had made himself outcaste. He never could marry, because he could never allow any woman to forfeit her own degree by becoming his wife. The possibility of finding a woman whom he could love, who also was outcaste, had been too ridiculously remote to be considered. And now, this very thing had come about. Exquisite, dazzling Spring was within his reach. Whether she would have married him is beside the point, which is that he could have wooed her with a clear conscience. Yet, because of her chance of marrying one who was not outcaste, his wonderful, shining occasion must be renounced. . . . Willoughby renounced as he loved—with all his might. The man was resolute. No passing flash of pity must be permitted to affect the case, no tear of sympathy for him fall into the trembling scale. For Spring to suspect that he loved her would have been unearthly sweet. That it would actually embarrass her was most unlikely. What was a broken-down Bagot, haunting the home of his fathers like a seedy ghost—what was such a man to her? Still, the slight risk must not be taken. If she could possibly do it, she must marry her wealthy swain. To Bagot, Spring’s happiness was everything. His own did not count.

To my mind, such love was worth having.

And Spring thought likewise.

“I must be going,” she said.

Willoughby bowed.

In silence they passed through the garden and out into the drive.

As he opened the wicket-gate—

“Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why did you say you were sure he was one of the best?”

“Because I knew that, if he was not, you wouldn’t have considered his proposal.”

“But I didn’t,” said Spring, with a positively blinding smile. “I turned him down last night.”

“You turned him down?” shouted Bagot.

Spring smiled very sweetly.

“I thought I told you,” she said, “that I was a fool.”

She left him staring, and pelted down the road.

* * * * *

Spring came the next afternoon, but was gone before four o’clock.

Then came Thursday.

Willoughby found her framed in the little porch.

“Change quickly,” she said. “I mustn’t stay long to-day.”

“Packing?” said Willoughby quietly.

“Yes.”

They ate their tea without laughter. The spirit of parting was hovering over the meal.

Afterwards they sat by the window, for, though the sun was shining, it had rained a lot that morning, and the world was wet.

Spring sat like a child, perched on the deep sill, smoking a cigarette and peering at Chancery out of the leaded panes.

“You will remember it all?” said the Groom of the Chambers.

“Yes—all.”

“It’s like a tale, don’t you think? A slice of a fairy tale. In the distance, the shining castle, and here, on the fringe of its domain, the little cot.”

“Where the poor boy dwelt who was really the rightful heir, with one old retainer to whom he was still the lord.”

“And one day a Princess came, with hair as dark as night, and eyes that were unfair, they were so big, and—and silk stockings, and all. And she recognized the poor boy (_sic_) and, because she had a nice, soft heart, she came and had tea with him, instead of visiting the castle.”

“And the silly part of it was,” said Spring, “that she wasn’t a Princess at all, but an ordinary, poor girl, who was——”

“She was a Princess,” said Bagot. “She hadn’t got the riches or the Court she should have had, but—oh, anyone could see she was a Princess.”

“Any way, the boy treated her like one, which was very nice for her, and, when the time came for her to go——”

“The boy lost his wits,” said Bagot steadily, “and made a fool of himself.” Spring turned and looked at him. “You’ll never guess what he did. He forgot that he was no longer lord of the castle. It wasn’t altogether his fault, because the presence of the Princess had made his cottage all glorious. Be that as it may, he thought how wonderful it would be if only—the—Princess—didn’t—go. . . . And when he came to his senses and saw what a madman he’d been, the idea was so precious, that he couldn’t get it out of his head. You see, she’d seen what his life was, and she seemed to understand, and she did like Chancery, and he had two hundred a year, as well as his wages, and he could be home by half-past four every day, and there was a bathroom upstairs, and——” He stopped short there, and clapped his hands to his temples. Then he burst out tempestuously. “Oh, Spring, darling, why did you ever come to dazzle my wretched eyes? You couldn’t stick it, I know. It’s absurd, grotesque, comic. The clothes you’re wearing are worth more than I earn in a year. I’m mad—raving.” He sank his head upon his chest and put out his hand. “Give me your blessed fingers to kiss before you go, and then—go as you came, my sweet, like a breath of air, like a perfume out of the night. I’ll try and think it’s been a dream—a wonderful, golden dream, which the good gods sent me, to make my memory rich. You know. When first you wake, you could weep to think it isn’t true; but, after a while, you’re grateful for just the dream.”

Spring put down her face and kissed his hand.

Then she slid off the sill and put her arms round his neck.

“Why d’you think I came back that day? Why d’you think I left my bag in the gallery? Why d’you think I’ve come here? Because I love you, Willoughby—loved you before you loved me. I don’t care what you’ve got, or what you haven’t. I only want to share your life.”

“My wonderful darling,” said Bagot, and kissed her mouth.

* * * * *

Miss Consuelo Spring Lindley became Mrs. Willoughby Bagot ere August was old. The wedding took place one morning at Holy Brush and was extremely quiet.

Mr. Worcester obtained one day’s leave without arousing suspicion, and the quick congregation consisted of a tearful Mrs. Le Fevre, that lady’s solicitor, who gave the bride away, and William, the groom. For the dead I cannot answer, but if polished brass and marble may be believed, eleven Gray Bagots slept through the simple service beneath the cold, white flags.

The following morning, Benedict was back at his work.

This, however, was destined to be disturbed.

Shortly before ten o’clock, his employer summoned him to the library, and bade him close the door.

“Worcester,” said Mr. Harp, “I ’ave some very queer noos. In fac’, I’m all of a shake—never ’ad such a night in me life, wakin’ up all of a sweat and tossin’ and tryin’ to think, till me brain rebelled against me.” He sighed heavily, holding a hand to his head. “As for Mrs. ’Arp, she’s that struck and bewildered, she’s stayin’ in bed.”

Willoughby regarded his employer and then fixed his eyes upon the floor.

“Yes, sir?” he said steadily.

“Yesterday afternoon I ’ad an offer for the ’ouse.” The Groom of the Chambers started and then went very pale. “Lock, stock and barrel—just as I bought it meself.” Mr. Harp paused as if seeking for appropriate words. Suddenly he smote upon the table and let out a cry. “They might’ve offered me twice—free times what I gave and I’d ’ave ’ad ’em shown out wiv a flea in their ear. Forty-five thousan’ I paid, as p’r’aps you know. Well—I can’t ’ardly believe it, _but they offered me ten times that_.”

“Four hundred and fifty thousand!”

“Four ’undred and fifty thousan’,” said Mr. Harp. He slapped his breast. “I’ve a bankers’ draft in ’ere for a quarter of that—’undred an’ twelve thou—five. I ’ave to keep takin’ it out to believe it’s true.”

“You took the offer, sir?” ventured Bagot.

“Why man alive,” screamed his master, “wot else could I do? You can’t turn away money like that. You ’aven’t the right. I tell you straight, I’m dotty about this place, but ‘Business First’ ’s my motter, an’—an’ it’s pretty nigh ’arf a million,” he concluded absently.

For a moment, blinking, he scribbled figures upon the blotting-pad, his lips moving, his eyes fixed. Then he sat back in his seat and covered his face.

“Two o’clock they come, and give me till four to decide. Immediate possession, in course. I ’ad to take it or leave it by four o’clock. I never ’ad two such hours in all me life. One thing I said. I asked if the buyer was British, for I couldn’t ’ave sold to a foreigner, come wot might. ‘Yes,’ they says, ‘British.’ So I signed her away at this table wiv tears in me eyes. I s’pose we’ll ’ave free seats now an’ do the grand, but shan’t be never so ’appy as we’ve bin ’ere.”

There was a long silence.

“When am I to go, sir?” said Bagot.

“I mentioned you,” said his master. “I didn’t forget. I said as I ’oped you’d stay with me and Mrs. ’Arp, but if you didn’t do that, maybe you’ld like to stay ’ere. I said you was a Groom in a million an’ did the work o’ five, an’ that wot you didn’t know about the place could be counted out. The fellow listened and took a note o’ your name, but ’e said that he ’ad no authority to promise to take you on. ’Owever, the purchaser’s comin’ this afternoon at free. You’ll show ’im round, in course, and it’s Lombard Street to a norange ’e’ll jump at the chance. Mrs. ’Arp and me’ll be out. There ain’t no call for us to stay, an’—an’ we’ld rather not. The deal’s to go through nex’ Monday at twelve o’clock.”

There was nothing more to be said.

Chancery had passed.

* * * * *

Five hours and a half had gone dragging by and Bagot was in the gallery, oiling an aged hinge, and wondering how to word his _communiqué_ to Spring.

Suddenly the throb of a bell came to his vigilant ears.

The can went into a locker, and the Groom of the Chambers descended into the hall.

He tried his best to be calm, but his nerves were taut. A good deal depended upon this interview—their tiny home, their living, their . . .

With his hand on the mighty latch, Willoughby moistened his lips. . . .

Spring was standing alone on the broad flags, very smartly dressed, looking ridiculously girlish, and inspecting her thin gold ring with her head on one side.

Behind her, in the hot sunshine, was gleaming the grey and silver of a magnificent _coupé_.

Husband and wife regarded each other with beating hearts.

Then—

“Please may I see over the house?” said Spring. “It—it belongs to my husband.”

Willoughby put a hand to his head.

“F-four hundred and fifty thousand,” he stammered. “Then——”

“Yes, dear,” said Spring, entering and closing the door. “We might’ve got it for less, but I didn’t want to take any risks. You see,” she added, setting her back against the oak, “in spite of all your protests, you took my advice. In fact, you married the first one that came along.”

Willoughby tried to speak, but no words would come.

Suddenly he began to tremble.

In an instant, Spring’s arms were about him and her cheek against his.

“Willoughby, my darling, my darling!”

So she comforted him.

Presently he picked her up as one picks up a baby child.

“I never dreamed,” he said slowly. “I never dreamed. . . . I didn’t know how to tell you, and I was going to ask the people if they could see their way to keep the Groom of the Chambers on.” A shy smile came playing into his face. “Do you think you could—madam?”

Gravely, his sweet regarded him.

Then—

“You must ask my husband,” she said.

ELIZABETH

ELIZABETH

Those who dine at the Richelieu sit over their cups. It is the custom. A dinner at the quiet Duke Street restaurant is never a prelude to an entertainment. It is the entertainment itself. People go there to dine and talk leisurely. The kitchen and the cellar are probably the best in London; the service and the atmosphere are certainly the best in the world. There is an unseen orchestra, which plays so softly that you are just aware of melody while you converse. There is no light but that shed by table-lamps, so that it is more easy to identify the dish your neighbour is tasting than your neighbour herself. You may be sitting by Royalty; often enough you are. And if you ring up to take a table you will be told that they are all booked—unless the clerk at the bureau knows and respects your name. It is the custom.

Upon the ninth evening of December the elements seemed to have conspired to enhance the Richelieu’s charm. Without, a gale was raging. Squall after tearing squall flung down the dripping streets, fuming at every obstacle, blustering at every corner, lashing the pitiless rain into a very fury. The latter fell steadily and, with the wind behind it, drove and beat passionately upon a miserable world, harrying, chilling and stinging till such as might gave in and pelted for shelter, while such as might not fought their way through the _mêlée_ with tightened lips.

Behind the curtained double-windows of the restaurant only the wilder squalls obtained an audience, but those who sat there had proved the night while they came, and the muffled stutter of the rain and the dull growl of the wind about the casements vividly remembered the malice of the streets.

Little wonder that the comfort of the room entered into the soul.

Lady Elizabeth Crecy set down her glass.

“Degeneration,” she announced. “That’s my trouble. I’m degenerate. I worship luxury—silks, furs, perfume, shaded lights, deep carpets, shining bathrooms, electric broughams and the rest.”

Her host pulled his moustache.

“I’ve seen you stick it,” he said. “I remember a day with the Cottesmore when——”

“Perhaps. But all hunts lead up to a bath. If there was no hot water, I should never get up on a horse.”

“Neither would stacks of people: but that doesn’t mean they’re degenerate. Cleanliness may be next to Insanity, but it’s well meant.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“You can get clean with cold water.”

“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me off water for weeks.”

“Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while I——”

“So would you,” said Dick stoutly. “I mean, other things being equal, of course. One or two screens, for instance. You’re no more degenerate than I am. The best’s good enough for you, of course. And quite right too. We’re all of us out for the very best we can get.”

“I’ve got it to-night, any way.”

Thoughtfully the man regarded her beautiful fingers. He may be forgiven. The fierce light of the little table-lamp could find no fault in them.

“Thank you, Dot,” he said quietly. Then he gave a light laugh. “But that’s because you oughtn’t to be here.”

“But I ought,” said my lady. “It’s most appropriate. _Après vous_—the deluge. To-morrow I take the plunge. I’m dining with you for support—ginger. You’re my Best Man. If the truth were known, my future husband is probably seeking inspiration at the hands of his best girl.”

“I’ll bet you’ve told no one.”

“I didn’t inform the Press, if that’s what you mean. All’s fish that comes to Scandal’s net. Though why I mayn’t dine with you to-night and announce my engagement to Hilton to-morrow morning I fail to see.”

“Degeneration,” said Pembury. “That’s the answer. Not ours—the world’s. The blinkin’ age is degenerate. People would immediately assume there was something wrong. ‘Engaged to one cove,’ they’ld wheeze, ‘an’ dinin’ out with another? Hul-_lo_!’ And they’ld wink an’ wag their heads an’ lick their thick lips . . . Oh, it makes me tired, Dot. It’s made me tired for years. We’re not hot stuff, you and I. Then why should we be branded? But we should. If we were charged with stealing, people’ld shriek with laughter. They know we’re honest and they’ld know there’d been a mistake. But just hint that we’ve been forgathering, and our respective reputations’ld be blown inside out.”

My lady regarded the end of her cigarette.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “they would. It’s bitterly unfair, but they would. But was there an age when they wouldn’t?”

“There must have been,” said her host. “Besides, things usedn’t to be so bad. Everyone’s got a muck-rake nowadays. They almost sell ’em at the Stores.”

“You haven’t,” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Neither have you,” said the man.

“Perhaps that’s why we get on.”

Pembury raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a tie, certainly,” he said. “Still, you and I hit it off before we thought about muck-rakes. I imagine it’s bigger than that—a question of taste. We’ve always had the same tastes. We’ve always loathed golf——”

“Don’t mention the game,” wailed Elizabeth. “Hilton’s determined to teach me—says the great thing is to learn while you’re young.”

“—an’ loved hunting. We both hate claret and love beer.”

“A vulgar taste,” said my lady. “Hilton would have a fit. When I can’t bear it any more, you must send me a bottle of Bass by parcel post.”

“We’re both of us fools about dogs, if we must see a show we like music with a small ‘m,’ we’re both left-handed, we don’t know what it is to be seasick——”

“I trust Hilton doesn’t. Otherwise, the yacht . . .”

Pembury frowned.

“You called me your Best Man just now. Did you mean that, Dot?”

“I did. Why?”

“It gives me a right to say what I’m going to say.” Lady Elizabeth stared. “You’re not to gird at Hilton before me again. I know you’ld never do it before anyone else: and we’re such very old friends—we’ve always discussed everyone—that it’s easy enough to forget. But you——”

“Forget what?”

“That we’re on a new footing now. Hilton’s up on the daīs, and I’ve stepped down.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed.

“Upon my soul,” she said, “I think that beats it. First, you set out to teach me manners: then, you calmly announce that Hilton has usurped your place.”

“Hang it, Dot, I never——”

“When you said I oughtn’t to have come, you were perfectly right. I oughtn’t. I ought never to have come here with you. I thought you could stand corn, and I find you can’t. I thought you understood, and I find I was wrong. I tell you now you were never ‘up on the daïs’—never within miles of it. Because I gave you my friendship, I suppose you thought I cared.”

“I did,” said Pembury quietly. “It was very presumptuous, but I did. And if I’d had enough to keep you, I’ld ’ve made certain. . . . And now that you know, old lady, have a heart. Forgive me for being clumsy and call it ‘Nerves.’ I’m like a spoilt child this evening. You’ve spoiled me by being so nice. And now I know that it’s over, I’m kicking against the pricks.”

There was a long silence.

At length—

“What’s over?” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Act One,” said her host shortly. “The spoiling process. My—er—tastes being what they are, I must retire. If you want another reason, Hilton hasn’t much use for me. I don’t know that I blame him, but that’s neither here nor there. He hasn’t. And since he hasn’t, neither must you. Incidentally, you haven’t, any way. I said it first.”

“You know I have, Dick. You know I have. I’m sorry I burst out just now. You’re perfectly right, of course. You always are. To laugh about Hilton to you was shocking form. To turn and rend you because you told me so was painfully cheap. I was wild, because I was guilty. I was guilty, because I was wild.”

“Dot, don’t——”

“Listen. You say I’ve spoiled you. What rot! What blazing rot! Why, all my life you’ve spoiled me. You’re spoiling me now. And I’m wild because I know that it ends to-night. ‘Nerves’? Yes, if you like. Call it ‘Nerves.’” With a queer, dry laugh, she glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I’ll have to be going, my dear. Have you got the car?”

“She’s in St. James’s Square.”

“Good.” They rose to their feet. “See how I bank on your goodwill. If I were a man, I wouldn’t drive a girl home when she’d just told me off across my own table.”

“I think you would,” said Dick.

John Richard Shere, Viscount Pembury, was thirty-two. He had looked thirty-two for years and was likely to look thirty-two when he was forty. And there you have the man—steady, conservative, faithful. With it all, he was never dull. He was gay, eager, brilliant—could have taken his place anywhere: and his place was high. The tragedy of it was that access to his place was denied him. If his ways were charming, his means were unhappily of no account. What was worse, they would never be anything else. The collapse of Russia had finished the House of Shere. His father had sunk to an annuity and dwelled at a Club. His mother was dead—mercifully. He had sought employment, of course, but his style was against him. Besides, he had been bred to be an earl. He was certainly offered six hundred a year to show motor-cars, but had declined the honour. He was ready to sell his labour, but not his name. His greatest regret was that he would never hunt hounds. Tall, slight, dark, gentle-eyed, he was a man to look twice at. If you did so, you saw the strength of his pleasant mouth and the firm set of his chin. At Oxford, where he had been President of Vincent’s, he was known as ‘The Velvet Glove.’

Lady Elizabeth Crecy was twenty-nine, dark and grey-eyed. She could, I suppose, have married anyone. Her beauty, her wisdom, her excellence in all she did made three distinct, forcible appeals. I do not think the man lives who, had she pleased, could have resisted successfully so dazzling a combination. That she did not please made little enough difference. The result was the same. Men fell in love at first sight—and Sir Hilton Shutter among them. People said he had proposed six times.

Shutter believed in living and indulged his belief. He did himself very well—on thirty-five thousand a year. His ocean-going yacht was the last word. He was forty-six years old and had been handsome. He was also the second baronet and had been High Sheriff of Berkshire, in which county his name was respected almost as highly as he respected it himself. He was well known in London and believed in writing to _The Times_. A letter above his signature appeared about once a month.

Lady Elizabeth Crecy had, in her own right, three hundred and fifty a year.

The wind had died and a fine rain was falling when Pembury turned into King Street in quest of his car. The wet did not stop him from looking the old Rolls over to see that she had taken no hurt. Besides, he feared that rain might have forced an entrance. . . . But the coupé had been built by men who knew their business. Cushions and floor were bone dry. He started the engine and left for the Richelieu at once.

Elizabeth was waiting in the hall—all great fur coat and soft, dark hair and little shining feet—as she had waited before, so many times. As he came into the hall, their eyes met and she smiled—as she had smiled before, so many times. As she stepped into the coupé, an exquisite stocking flashed—as it had flashed before, so many times. . . .

A moment later they were heading west.

“Slippery night,” said Pembury. “Oughtn’t to be, but it is.”

“That’s the way of the world,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an irrational age. And Nature’s catching the disease.”

Neither spoke again, till the last turn had been taken and Pembury had berthed the coupé under the shelter of some trees. My lady’s home lay farther, by twenty paces.

The girl stared.

“Why have you stopped, Dick?”

The other smiled.

“Would you like a drink, Dot?”

Elizabeth caught his arm.

“Not my favourite beverage? I can’t bear it.”

“The same,” laughed Pembury. “In the pocket by your side is an imperial pint of beer——”

“Dick, you darling!”

“—and here”—he produced a silk handkerchief—“is a perfectly good glass. I brought it as a sort of stirrup-cup, just—just to show there’s no ill feeling. You know. Wash out the good old times an’ wash in the new. Come on, old lady. Forward with the bay rum.”

In silence the bottle passed. . . .

“Here’s your best, Dick,” said the girl uncertainly.

She emptied the glass, and Pembury filled it again.

Elizabeth put it aside.

“You drink that, Dick.”

“I brought it for you.”

“I know. I accept it and give it back. Drink it and wish me luck.”

Pembury raised the glass.

“Your best—now and for ever,” he said quietly.

He drank, laughed, slid bottle and glass into a pocket and set his foot upon the clutch. . . .

An instant later they were before the broad steps.

At the top of the flight Elizabeth lifted her head.

“You see I’m crying, Dick.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never seen that before.”

“Nerves, dear, nerves.”

My lady shook her head.

“And it’s not the beer, either,” she said shakily.

Pembury took off his hat and picked up her hand.

“Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers.

These were very cold.

Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . .

Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically, gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare.

As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across his path. . . .

Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory.

Two buses were coming. He could see them.

By a violent effort he straightened the great car up.

Then she skidded again—the opposite way.

He accelerated—tried to get through. . . .

Then a taxi pulled out from behind the second bus. . . . A woman screamed. . . .

With a soft crash, the Rolls came to rest against the taxi’s off side.

As collisions go, it was a slight one—a matter of running-boards and wings.