Chapter V: Part 5

Among places of amusement it was always _her_ choice that prevailed; Will has a weakness for these _revues_--"you can at least smoke there," he says--; Phyllida seemed to have developed into a remorseless blue-stocking. By day she wore him out at exhibitions... When he was not cooling his heels in a shop... At night he was expected to stay up till all hours to bring her home from dances. And so forth and so on...

Perhaps she tried us all rather hard. Money seemed to _melt_ in her hands; and, though I did not grudge her my last penny if it was going to turn her thoughts, I am not ashamed to confess that I have reached an age where I set great store by my personal comfort. When you have lived for thirty years under the same vine and fig-tree, you begin to regard your home as a frame and setting which you are not too anxious to share with any one; hitherto my guests, when any have done me the honour to make my house their own, have recognized that the hostess _has_ the first claim on their consideration. Not so Phyllida, who seems to have been brought up in a very different school. She was _ruthless_ in her unpunctuality at meals and in her general disregard of every one else's convenience; plans were chopped and changed up to the last moment, and there were times when I felt that she was deliberately making everything as difficult as possible--almost as though the absurd old feud had not been forgotten and I had put myself at her mercy. More than anything else I felt the loss of the car. They used it so unmercifully that I hourly expected the man to give notice; and in the meantime poor Aunt Ann was left to go by taxi--when she could find one.

I ought never to have lent it? My dear, you are preaching to the converted, but I have a reason different from yours. I was standing helplessly outside Covent Garden one night, when a taxi providentially drove up and I got into it. Only when I was half-way home did I remember that I had not told the man where to take me. Laugh, if you will; but I have never been so frightened! The wildest stories of kidnapping and robbery surged into my head. I was wearing my tiara, and the man had made a bee-line for me... Yet we were driving the shortest way to Mount Street, and the mystery was not explained until the man--with delightful and most unexpected civility--jumped down from the box, opened the door and stood cap in hand, waiting to help me out. Almost as though one had been Royalty...

"You have forgotten me, Lady Ann?," he asked.

And then I'm not sure that the second shock wasn't worse than the first. Colonel Butler! Phyllida's soldier-hero, driving a cab! He had won a Military Cross and a D.S.O.--with a bar, I believe; he had always seemed a manly, straightforward young fellow--and here he was driving a cab! "This--_this_--" I felt myself apostrophizing Phyllida, Brackenbury, that poor fool Ruth--"this is what I've saved you from." ... And then one had a certain revulsion of feeling: the pity of it! ... And then stark horror! If Phyllida met him! Not _then_; I knew she was at a dance with Will and would not be back for hours, but at any moment when I was not there to protect her from herself. I recalled her dreadful threat that, if she saw or heard of Hilary Butler, she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to marry her...

"But--of course I remember you," I said.

He smiled--without embarrassment of any kind--and walked up the steps with me.

"Have you a key?," he asked, "or shall I ring?"

He _spoke_ so nicely... If you like, just a touch of what I think must be West Country; but, when things were at their worst and I felt that we had to be prepared for anything, it was a slight consolation to know that he could easily have it drilled out of him... I could have done the same for Ruth twenty-three years ago, but she seemed to pride herself on her provincialism.

Now I wonder what you would have done... When Phyllida was nursing him at the hospital--or just afterwards--, he was _always_ in Mount Street, lunching, dining; before they took to going about by themselves _quite_ so much, we had all been to the play, he had seen us home--just like this--and asked me--just like this--whether I had my key or whether he should ring... There was no one at home; even Arthur was in the country. I felt I _couldn't_ suddenly freeze...

"I have my key, thanks," I said. "Won't you come in for a moment?"

He stopped his engine and came in... Now, I wonder what you would have done, if you'd been in _his_ place? ... He took off coat and gloves (he was wearing quite a presentable blue suit underneath), and I led the way into the morning-room, where I offered him cigarettes and something to drink ... wondering the whole time, don't you know, why one had _done_ it and how long he would stay... _With_ the coat and cap he seemed to divest himself of what I can only call the professional manner; asked me if I wouldn't have a little of my own brandy, commented on some new curtains I'd bought when we did up the house after Hilda Culroyd's illness. _Absolutely_ at home...

"How is Phyllida?," he asked.

"My niece is very well, thank you," I answered, hardly caring--at that moment--to notice the familiarity. "And what have _you_ been doing with yourself since last we met?," I made haste to ask.

"Oh, as you see," he said, "I've turned taxi-man. Owner-driver. One in action, four in support and nine training."

I had to beg for enlightenment. And I am not ashamed to confess that his explanation, when it came, greatly increased my respect for him. The father, one gathered, was an estate-agent and surveyor in Devonshire, _highly_ esteemed, but neither a millionaire himself nor in a position to make his son a millionaire simply by wishing it. The boy had realized everything--war-bonus, wound-gratuity and the rest--and had invested in a car which he learned to drive himself. One always _suspected_ that here was a fortune for any young man who was not too proud to take off his coat, and so it proved: the one car became two, the two four and five--hence his expression "one in action and four in support." Now, I was given to understand, he was launching out more widely and negotiating for the purchase of _nine_ more. A few of his friends--young fellows like himself discharged from the army--were coming into partnership with him; and in six months he hoped to give up driving himself and to turn his business into a limited company, partly taxis and partly those really magnificent private cars that one sees at the opera and everywhere, filled by people who one _knows_ could not afford to buy such things at the present prices...

I complimented him _most warmly_ on his enterprise and determination.

"It was so obvious," he answered. "Stand outside any theatre or restaurant on a wet night, and you'll agree with me. There are thousands of people _living_ in London, _hundreds_ of thousands coming to London for a few nights, who need a car and can't afford to keep one. By the time you've ordered dinner at fifteen shillings a head and champagne at two guineas a bottle and brandy at five shillings a glass and cigars at four shillings a-piece and stalls at twelve and six and anything else that occurs to you at any price that occurs to any one else, you don't grudge an extra guinea for a car that takes you from your house to the restaurant, from the restaurant to the theatre and from the theatre home again. You'd spend the best part of a guinea in fares and tips--without any certainty. For two guineas I give you certainty and a private car. In two years no one who can afford to dine at Claridge's or go to the stalls will _dream_ of going any other way. Whether it pays you can judge from the progress I've made in less than a year."

Like all enthusiasts on their own hobby, he _deluged_ me with figures until my poor head reeled. I did not complain, however, because I felt that so long as he was doing sensible hard work he would be unlikely to return and disturb our peace of mind. Apart from the one formal question he had not mentioned Phyllida; and I was strengthened in the belief which I had always held that it was a momentary infatuation and that he proved he had overcome it when he declined to communicate with her.

I _hope_ I did nothing to suggest that one can have too much even of percentages and running expenses and allowances for depreciation and the like, but he jumped up suddenly and said:

"Well, I mustn't keep you and I mustn't be late for my next job. I hope your brother and Lady Brackenbury are all right? I see Culroyd is married."

"They are all very well," I said, as I walked with him to the door.

"If I may ask a favour, Lady Ann, don't tell any of them what I'm doing," he begged.

Do you know, that was the only jarring note... The first recognition, of course, was a _shock_. "D.S.O. Taxi-driver," don't you know? In some strange way it _grates_... Having _taken_ the plunge, our young friend, I felt, was entitled to the highest credit, and anything like false shame would have been discordant.

"They would be the first," I said, "to join me in applauding your resolution and hoping for your success."

"But I want it to be a surprise," he said.

At that, my heart _sank_.

"But why?," I asked.

"For Phyllida's sake," he answered. "I've not seen her since that week-end at the Hall, I've not written to her; and she can't write to me, because she doesn't know where I am. I presume she's not engaged, because I've seen no announcement of it, but I don't want to do anything that may stand in her light. If my present scheme fails, I shall have to start on something else; if it succeeds--and when it succeeds--, it will be time enough for me to see what's happened to her. I've never forgotten our talk. If I didn't love a girl, I might cheerfully marry her for her money; but, when I _do_ love her, I couldn't bear to have people even hinting such a thing. You told me that she had four thousand of her own; when I can go to her father and say that I'm making more than that--clear profit to my own pocket--, I shan't be afraid to look any one in the face. But I've not asked her to wait for me; and, if in the meantime she meets any one that she wants to marry more, no one will ever hear me complain."

And then he buttoned himself into his coat--even now I couldn't _quite_ get over the disc with the number on it, hanging from a button-hole--, picked up his cap and held out his hand.

I walked to the door,--and then my heart seemed to stop. You may remember that the horn of our car has a note which I at least find unmistakable. I heard it in the distance, I heard it coming nearer. Phyllida and Will! It was only twelve, and I had not expected them for hours. Evidently the dance had not been to their liking. I _prayed_ that I might prove equal to the crisis...

"Colonel Butler!," I cried. (One never troubled to think whether he should _rightly_ be given his military rank). "Shut that door! Run upstairs to the drawing-room! Hide there till I fetch you, but on no account turn on the light! My niece is coming now; if you want to avoid her..."

He acted with great decision and literally _dashed_ upstairs. I heard the door gently closing as Will fitted his key into the lock... My dear, I am too old for excitements of this kind; my heart was _beating_; I had no idea what to say if they asked me why a taxi was standing there unattended. Oh, and I felt _sure_ Phyllida would say she had left her work or her book in the drawing-room...

It was agony! I _could_ not persuade them to go to bed. First of all they wanted to know why _I_ was still up, then they must needs tell me about their party, then Phyllida wanted a cigarette, then Will wanted to give her some soda-water. One false start after another... When at _last_ I thought I had set them moving, Phyllida sat down again and said:

"Will dear, see if there are any letters for me, there's an angel."

Do you know, I was so much _obsessed_ by the thought of that man in the drawing-room that I was _blind_ to everything else. As my boy went into the hall, I felt that I had _seen_ a change without noticing it, if you understand me. Will was transformed, elated ... and there was a new gentleness about Phyllida. When he brought the letters to her, I could see that he pressed her hand; and she sighed wistfully and then smiled. _Now_ I could understand why they complained that the dance was so crowded, no room to sit, impossible even to talk...

"Read those upstairs, dear Phyllida," I begged.

And I took her arm and led her up, past that terrifying drawing-room, into safety. Will ... When I returned, he wanted to talk; but I implored him to go up and let me come to him in a moment. He was curious, mystified ... but at least he could not doubt my earnestness. Then at last I released my prisoner and hurried him through the hall and into the street. When I had shut the door I leaned against it, panting. I couldn't walk, I could hardly stand...

"And now, Will?," I said, when I was able to drag myself upstairs.

"There's nothing much to tell--as yet," he answered. "You've probably seen that she's been getting steadily more miserable the last few days. I asked her to-night what it was all about, though I knew that she was eating her heart out for this Butler fellow. She would only say that she was unhappy and lonely; and I told her that was all rot, because any number of men would be in love with her if she gave them half a chance. Then she said it was no good, because she couldn't give them any love in return, her heart was dead... The usual rot a girl talks. I told her that, so far as I was concerned, I'd gladly risk all that; and she said she didn't care who she married or what became of her and she wished she'd never been born... That," said Will, "was nearer by a long chalk than I've ever been before; and you may take it as absolutely certain that, if she doesn't hear anything of Butler pretty soon... She dried up and began to talk of something else when I tried to pin her to a day, but she was quite decent to me as we drove home."

I could say nothing until I had been given time to digest his news. Whoever Will marries must have _some_ money; he has earned nothing since he resigned his post at Morecambe... Perhaps dear Phyllida thinks a little too much about herself to be the perfect wife for Will, but it is not cynical to say that, if you look for perfection in woman or man, you will never marry. One has to consider the balance of advantage... I did most earnestly want to see Will established in life and settled down before those dreadful blackmailing Phentons could make another descent on us. And it would do Phyllida so much good to marry...

After all my excitements and alarms, I could not sleep for sheer thankfulness. And, when my tea was brought me and Phyllida of all people came in with it, I felt that now at last my Will must have dropped the handkerchief and she was coming to tell me that she had picked it up.

"My dear, what makes you so energetic?," I asked.

As a rule she insisted on lying in bed until all hours and having her breakfast brought to her there, _making_ work for my unhappy servants.

"I want to know if you can tell me Hilary Butler's address?," she said.

"I've never heard it," I told her. "How should I?"

"Apparently he came here yesterday. When I went down to get my bag, I found his gloves in the hall. But they only have his initials."

I _did_ wish that Phyllida had been less collected and businesslike! Hard, not daring to let herself go... I ought to have _looked_, I suppose, to see that he was leaving nothing behind, but one cannot think of everything. And now I knew that Phyllida would start all over again...

Yet one must _expect_ an occasional relapse...

"I've never heard it," I told her again.

She did not trouble to ask anything more... Just looked at me for a moment. I made up my mind that her visit must be cut short; if I had met Colonel Butler, _she_ might. And I have no doubt of any kind that she would do what she threatens and _ask_ him to marry her. And he wouldn't refuse. Moreover, I am not _made_ of money, as she and Will seemed to think...

Brackenbury was a fool not to send her _right_ away, as I recommended. Nothing is decided; I sometimes wonder whether anything ever _will_ be decided. We are precisely where we stood before...

I had time to warn Will, I am thankful to say. A girl who shilly-shallies like that... I shall make the best of it, if I have to; but I am not sure she is the sort of wife for my boy...

VIII

LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFERS TO HER DIARY

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): It is only a question of habit. When I first went to Italy, at the age of sixteen, my dear mother insisted that I should keep a diary, and I have kept one ever since. Goodness me, I am more likely to overlook my letters or the morning paper than forget to write up my journal. Sometimes it is only a few lines, for the spacious days are over, I am a dull old woman, and the most I ask of life is that I may be allowed to live. Very often I let months go by without turning back to see what I have written; but the record is there if I ever want to consult it. Usually at the end of the year one likes to take stock...

Not that it is very cheerful reading, alas! But at our age we must expect that. Another year gone, when perhaps we cannot hope to see so very many more; another hope dashed and yet another deferred, making the heart sick; gaps in the circle of those one loves; increasing frailty or ill-health; and that indefinable, inexplicable narrowing of outlook, interest, enthusiasm--and with us, I am afraid, of worldly circumstance. Inevitable... For oneself, perhaps, one does not mind it, but it is sometimes heart-rending to see the boys and girls setting out with those high hopes that we have been compelled, one by one, to discard; heart-rending, too, when those who seemed to walk with their heads on a level with the stars trip and sprawl like the rest...

No, I assure you I was not thinking of any one in particular. The feeling returns with the season and is quite general. One could find particular applications, no doubt, very near at hand. Begin where you will: my brother-in-law Spenworth... I wonder what we shall be thinking of him in a year's time; divorced, remarried--and nobody one penny the worse! I am not ashamed to confess that, when the word "divorce" is mentioned, I am translated to another sphere... Groping blindly among things I don't understand and don't _want_ to understand... Say what you will, we were _not_ so lax a generation ago; those who fell remained where they fell ... or climbed back with effort, difficulty _and an acknowledgement of wrong-doing_. Not as of right... The new Lady Spenworth I hardly know; she who marries a man that has been put away... I have not refused to meet her, but the opportunity has not come my way. Whether she will be able to _hold_ him... Perhaps if she presents him with an heir ... though I have had to change my views on _that_ subject, as you know. Oh, I can speak about it now; and I shall never forget, when things were at their blackest, it was _you_ who came to me with your divine sympathy. I could tell you the whole story if you truly honestly would not be bored; _your_ discretion has been proved... I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes!--the family... My nephew Culroyd--and Hilda? I am humbly thankful to say that there has been no catastrophe so far, though when the first, honeymoon intoxication wears off... Long may it be delayed, for they are the one bright spot in my poor brother Brackenbury's life. That pathetic child Phyllida is still breaking her heart over the cabman-colonel whom I, if you please, am supposed to have set against her in order to keep her for my boy. Thank goodness, she does not _know_ he is driving a cab! Breaking her heart or pretending to. And I really think my brother encourages her. He wouldn't send her _right_ away as I advised; and now he pats her hand and looks worried when she comes down _boasting_ that she hasn't slept. And Ruth does the same... I don't want to _bring_ bad luck by talking about it; but I sometimes wonder how much longer Brackenbury will put up with that--_invertebrate woman_; I sometimes fear that the record of the year will shew that there, too, the blow has fallen. We have seen to our cost that the most devoted husband and father may sometimes go apparently quite mad... I feel that Phyllida, with her youth and her looks and her money, is being so shamefully _wasted_...

But, until she shakes off her obsession, I should pity any man who tried to marry her. At one time my boy Will seemed attracted to her out of compassion for her loneliness and misery. Those were anxious days, I can assure you, though I should have been glad to see Will safely married to almost any one. He is undoubtedly of an age; and what I called "the Morecambe menace"... We have heard nothing of the Phentons (you know, I always called her Miss Molly "Wanton") since the father conducted his blackmailing descent upon us, protesting that Will had made this girl an offer of marriage, talking about horse-whips. I hope and pray that it is all over, but one can never be certain. For the last fortnight I have succeeded in _not_ thinking about them; I suppose I should be grateful to Arthur for turning my thoughts...

You are quite right! I have tried to avoid speaking bitterly _to_ him, I must not speak bitterly _about_ him. But, when the news came to me, I said: "Now indeed the bottom has fallen out of the world." It was towards the end of the year, and I had been turning the pages of my journal. Catastrophe, disappointment, anxiety... But, whatever storms may blow, I said, I can always trust my husband. Arthur was my rock and anchor. He and I seemed to stand erect, with our heads level with the stars, while these others, one after another, tripped and sprawled. And then Arthur too...

I tell you now, as I told you then: I had heard and suspected _nothing_ until you put me on my guard. I truly believe that the person most affected is commonly the last to hear... And Arthur's way of life made it almost impossible for me even to guess: for years he has spent as much time away from me as with me--his board-meetings in London and Birmingham, his shooting ... and, with Will at home, there was so much _unhappy_ friction that I was not sorry when one or other went off and left me in peace for a few days. I did not enquire; so was it surprising that, if the board-meetings and so on were simply a _blind_, I should be the last person to hear? So with money. My father-in-law's will was so iniquitous... Cheniston and the house in Grosvenor Square went naturally to Spenworth; but every penny, with the exception of a wretched thousand a year for Arthur,--that was sheer wickedness. _My_ dear father would have done more for me if he could; but he had impoverished himself when he was ambassador at Vienna, and, until Brackenbury sold himself to Ruth, we were all very, very poor. The result has been that throughout my married life we have been forced to pinch and scrape. You may say that the house in Mount Street was an extravagance, but one had to live somewhere. It was for one's friends rather than oneself; I could not ask the princess to dine with me in Bayswater... Pinch and scrape, scrape and pinch. Arthur made a fair income by his director's fees, but I had dreadful moments when I thought of the future. Spenworth will do no more than he has already done--that we know--; when I lay at death's door and begged him with what might have been my last breath to make a settlement on Will--his own nephew... And at Brackenbury it is canny, north-country little Ruth who holds the purse-strings ... and dispenses her charity, offering to pay for my operation and reminding me that, when Will was at Eton, the bills came to them... I have felt for more years than I like to count that pinching and scraping are my appointed lot...

Of recent months the task became almost too much for my powers. Not only the cost of living... Will had lost this Morecambe appointment without finding another. Arthur complained that figure-head directors were not in so great request as formerly; he was shame-faced about it, as though his pride were hurt; I did not then imagine that he had to give me less money because he was giving more in another quarter...

And you will remember that, when you told me, I refused to believe it. Goodness me, I am not so vain as to think that the man who once loved me _must_ always love me, but there is such a thing as loyalty--and gratitude. I had trusted him ... and that was enough; I did not need to tell him--or you--or even myself that he had enjoyed the best years of my life, that I was an old woman while he was still--thanks to me--a young man, that I had borne him a son and worn myself out before my time in scheming and contriving for the comfort and well-being of them both...

It was brave of you to tell me, to insist on my knowing... and _believing_. I was _dazed_. That Arthur should be giving her dresses and jewellery, when he could not afford to redecorate his wife's house... And apparently it was the common talk of the clubs; and no doubt kind friends were secretly pitying me... The last infatuation of the middle-aged man--they were telling one another that I was six years Arthur's senior--and what could you expect? As if I had made any secret of my age! It is in the books. And they were, perhaps, wondering how soon he would outgrow it and how much I knew and whether I minded... _There_ was the rub--this savage, impertinent curiosity. What business of theirs if my husband humiliated me? And, strangely enough, one has so often seen it with other women and somehow always fancied that it would never happen to oneself. The swan-song... As a man feels that his youth is slipping out of his grasp, he makes this one last despairing effort. And love at that age is like a blow from a sledge-hammer; Arthur was prepared to run away with the woman. Indeed I know what I am talking about. Then, I felt, it _was_ time for me to intervene...

You had been clever enough to find out the address--the house, by the way, Arthur did _not_ give her. She told me so, but without that I knew enough of his finances to realize that it was physically impossible--; and all the way there I tried to understand this strange streak which apparently runs through all men. The old phrase: "Sowing one's wild oats." ... When I married Arthur, he had never had an _affaire_ of _any_ kind with _any_ one; and so for thirty years. Am I very cynical in thinking that perhaps it would have been better if he _had_? ... Spenworth, on the other hand, had been tossed from one woman's arms to another's ever since he was a lad at Eton. You entered his house and never knew whom you would find at the head of his table--except that it would not be the one you had seen there a month before; the only difference that marriage made to him was that, while Kathleen sat at the head of his table, he dined elsewhere. Now that he has married again in middle life, one has no sort of guarantee. It seems impossible to frame _any_ rules for a man of that age...

I had not spoken to Arthur beforehand, of course. He would have spoiled everything. What I wanted was a cold, passionless talk with this Mrs. Templedown. Two women, even in _our_ position, could understand each other: neither of us wanted a scandal, I was prepared to admit even that she might be genuinely fond of Arthur and would try--according to her lights--to do the best for him. I need hardly say that I did not dream of intimidating--Arthur was her _property_--nor of bribing--goodness me, what had I to offer? Nor did I feel constrained to beg for mercy or to ask what manner of life she proposed to leave for me. I hardly think that _pride_ held me in check, but--somehow--to go on one's knees to a young woman who started life on the stage was hardly... Well, as my boy would say, "It is not done." I knew she was clever, I hoped to find her sensible; and then the only thing was to decide what to _do_...

Of course I did not send up my name...

"Say that a lady wishes to see her," I told the maid.

And I was shewn upstairs readily enough. _Not_ into the drawing-room; I think that class of person lives entirely in her bedroom. She was lying on the sofa in a kimono and--so far as I could judge from the generous opportunities which she insisted on giving me--nothing else; a lovely animal, as she was at pains that I should see, with perfect skin, a great mane of copper hair and golden-brown eyes. Very red lips, very white teeth; I was reminded of a soft, beautiful lion-cub. She moved and stretched herself like an animal, speaking as though she were only half-awake. I don't think she could have been more than twenty. She left the stage to marry a man in the Air Force, I understand, and he was killed at the end of the war, leaving her very ill-provided-for... "Seductive" was the word I was trying to think of...

"It's easy to see why men should fall down and worship _you_," I said.

"Who's in love with me now?," she asked with the laugh of a child, _exulting_ in her beauty, as it were, until in a flash I saw that her whole life was natural to her... Inevitable, I might say.

"Arthur Spenworth," I told her.

"Oh, he's a dear old thing," she answered.

"He is my husband," I said.

I might have added "and the father of our boy," but I would make no _appeal_; I had come there to decide dispassionately what had to be done... The woman jumped up and faced me, but I stood my ground. Her eyes kept changing in expression, and I saw that she was first bewildered ... and then defiant ... then curious ... then a little ashamed, then defiant again and once more bewildered.

"Well?," she said; and then in spite of herself, as it were, "You're not a bit like what I expected."

"Older perhaps?," I asked. "My dear young lady, my husband and I are much of an age, but he carries his years better. Why, goodness me, you are a child! Our boy must be ten years older than you... Won't you ask me to sit down? Walking upstairs makes me out of breath, and I want to have a little talk with you. I have only just heard of this; and I want to know what is to be done. You will find me a reasonable woman, I hope, and perhaps I know too much of the world to judge hastily or reproach easily. Won't you tell me everything, so that we may understand better how we are situated?"

Do you know, _because_ I remained dispassionate, I felt in a moment that I was holding my own and in another moment that I was gaining ground. I who had walked upstairs wondering whether my knees would give way under me... It was Mrs. Templedown who was embarrassed... And I had not sought to make myself a ruler or a judge...

I will not weary you with the story. Arthur had met her--in the train from Birmingham! Is there not dignity and distinction in that? He had asked her to dine with him on reaching London, they had met three or four times, Arthur had begun giving her little presents. How much one can _ever_ believe of such a woman's story I do not profess to judge. She _vowed_ that their relations were innocent, that her husband's death had left her heart-broken and that she was simply and sincerely grateful to any man who shewed her a little kindness; in that class I gather it is only natural for every girl to have some benevolent elderly protector who takes her out to dinner and gives her little presents. If it had not been Arthur, I was to understand, it would have been some one else. I confess that her ingenuousness rang a little hollow when she betrayed how intimately and accurately she knew who he was--the connection with Spenworth on one side and with Brackenbury on the other; like the rest of them, she hunted with one quarry--or one type of quarry--definitely in view...

After the little presents came the big presents--dresses, jewellery and sums of money which she did not specify. One thought of the _rags_ that one had worn oneself during the war... No shame in telling me about _that_! She had nothing of her own except this house which the husband had left her, and Arthur would have been hurt if she had refused... So charming! So delicate--on both sides... By and by Arthur seems to have become more exacting, but the girl vowed again that she kept him at arm's length--knowing her own value, one presumes. I did not enquire very closely into this aspect of the campaign, as I knew only too well what was coming. When everything else failed, he would have to offer her marriage--by way of the Divorce Court.

"And that is how things stand now?," I asked, as she came to the end of her story.

"That's what he _wants_," she answered. "Oh, but I can't discuss it with you, Lady Ann."

"My dear young lady," I said, "that is just what we have to do--quite dispassionately, to decide what's best. He is my husband, I love him in spite of everything; you love him too, I judge, and we have to put our heads together. You will go away with him, I take it?"

It was then that she began to cry. I knew it would come sooner or later. _Convulsively_... I have told you that she was nothing more nor less than a child...

"Yes," she sobbed.

"To France? Next Thursday?"

It was no second-sight on my part, I can assure you. Arthur had arranged to visit Paris and Lyons--on business, _I_ was told--, and the guess was natural, though Mrs. Templedown seemed to think I was some sort of witch.

"Yes," she answered again. And then--really, you know, for all the world as though we were at a play: "Oh, don't torture me!"

_Torture_ her...?

"And then," I said, "my husband will write to tell me he loves you and has been unfaithful to me and is never coming back and I had better divorce him and he is sorry for the unhappiness he is causing me..."

Those terrible letters that the papers always publish. _I_ never read them myself. In the school in which I was brought up, divorce lay beyond the pale: "Whom God hath joined..."

"And then you _will_ divorce him, won't you?" she asked.

Really, you know, it was almost comic! She was afraid, after _plunging_ herself in dishonour, that I might refuse to divorce Arthur so that she could never marry him.

"If he asks me," I promised. "I am thinking solely of his happiness. He could not live with you unless you were married--I am not now thinking of _Right_ or _Wrong_; it would cause too great a scandal, and he would have to resign his various public positions. I only hope that the divorce will not compel him to do that, for you will both be entirely dependent on the fees that he earns. We find it hard enough to live on his income as it is, by ceaseless scraping and pinching, denying ourselves little luxuries... I hope you are a good house-keeper? ...

Do you know, as soon as I said it, I realized what an absurd question it was. One look at her, one glance at the room, the least spark of imagination, any guess at what she was and what her life had been! An economical housekeeper indeed! I wish I could describe her room to you: great bowls and vases of the most expensive flowers, boxes of sweets, cigarettes; all the magazines and illustrated papers that one really does think twice about before buying... Clothes, too... I am sure that even my niece Phyllida or Culroyd's wife, who seem to have money to burn, would not have quite such a profusion. _Lingerie_, gloves, handkerchiefs, the _finest_ silk stockings--and everything thrown about on floor and chairs like so much waste-paper. And I in _rags_ that truly honestly I am ashamed for my maid to see... Her dressing-table alone supported a small fortune--bottles and boxes and looking-glasses and brushes that really made me feel a pauper. The door of her bathroom was open--in that class it is a point of honour never to shut anything or put anything away--, and I saw the most extravagant array of salts and soaps and powders and scents ... like the tiring-room of some great eastern queen. Things I simply couldn't afford; we discontinued bath-salts when the war broke out and one had an excuse for economizing, and we have never resumed them.

"I don't know what your plans are, Mrs. Templedown," I said. "If you return to the stage, everything may be different, but I know my husband's income to a penny. The court will no doubt insist that he makes what provision he can for my son and myself; I should be greatly surprised if he could allow you more than about a thousand a year."

"Well, I suppose it's possible to manage on that," she said.

It was _pathetic_! Money had no _meaning_ for her! And, so long as other people paid the bills, what else could you expect? It must have required twice that sum to keep that beautiful body of hers in its present embarrassing state of semi-nudity.

"A thousand pounds--at present prices,": I said very distinctly, "for two people--to cover everything--, it's not much, you will find. And, if you have been used to luxury, you will miss it more than a person who has always had to live on a small income. That is your affair, of course, and you mustn't think me brutal if I tell you candidly that I'm considering my husband as much as I can and you not at all. You are young enough to take care of yourself, but he needs a great deal of looking after..."

I paused to let my words sink in. Of course she didn't believe me! Because Arthur had squandered a few hundreds on her, she thought he could produce thousands merely by pressing a bell; and, when she had sucked him dry, she expected Spenworth and Brackenbury to come forward. I _had_ to tell her how things really were... We should _all_ be poorer than we are by a divorce... Though she clearly did not believe me, she was impressed; she was thinking. In that class one doesn't think very much, apparently. I gathered that she could not go back to the stage; she had no position there and could only hope for work in the chorus...

"Old Boy says it will be all right," she said, and I could see that she was exhausted by the rare exertion of thinking. Until you have heard your husband described as "Old Boy" by a half-naked chorus-girl who is slowly bleeding him to death, you have not realized how highly your self-restraint may be tested...

"I don't suggest more than that it will be an effort," I said. "My dear young lady, I speak with some knowledge. You were married for a few months to a husband whom you hardly saw and who spent what money he had like water. I have kept house for more than thirty years on an income which you would not think large, but which is bigger than anything you can hope for. I know something of men and their ways and their extravagances and humours. It will be a great change, and I only hope that you will prove equal to it." I pointed--not unkindly--at the litter in her room. "I trust for your sake as well as his that you will learn habits of tidiness."

"Is Old Boy a fusser?," she asked.

I wish to be judged by results. If you tell me that the end has justified the means, I give you complete freedom to say that I spoke of Arthur as one might speak of a cook when one's name had been furnished as a reference. I gave him a character--for his next employer. No, indeed, he was not what the young woman could fairly call a "fusser", but all men of his age had contracted certain habits. He abominated untidiness and unpunctuality--the necessary fruit of his business-training; though generous, he had long been compelled to be _careful_ about money. I offered to shew her my books, but she said she didn't think she could understand them. And so on and so forth. He was very particular about his food, and in this respect Mrs. Templedown would have to be a veritable martinet--not only to the servants but to him.

"My dear young lady," I said, "you know what men of that age are like--or perhaps you still don't. My husband is essentially temperate, but he is also criminally injudicious. He thinks that an occasional glass of champagne--he cannot afford to drink it regularly--is good for him; _I know better_. Acidity... Whisky and soda--two, if he likes--, one glass of port and nothing else. The moment he takes liberties with himself, his digestion suffers, he cannot sleep--and _you_ pay the penalty. Similarly with what he eats; he must never be given butcher's meat more than once a day, shell-fish of every kind are poison to him, and, though he will never admit it, any rich sweets tell their tale next day. I could give you a list, but you will find out for yourself... Smoking again ... one cigar does him no harm, after two he can hardly breathe; all the Spenworths are liable to bronchitis. And exercise. My husband was quite an athlete as a young man; he says he doesn't need exercise, but _I know better_. If I may speak quite openly, he suffers from what men call 'liver.' ... I should dearly like to give you a little list of things, if you won't think me impertinent; one does not live with a man for more than thirty years without coming to regard him as one's child..."

And, whether she liked it or not, then and there, I took pencil and paper and just jotted things down. He would never put on his winter underclothes unless some one reminded him; result--a week in bed with a severe chill...

"You make him out to be a complete crock," said Mrs. Templedown. Poor soul! one hardly looked for any great _elegance_ from her...

"Not that, by any means," I told her, "but, at his age, a man has to be careful."

We were still at work on the list when her maid came in and whispered that she had to dress and be out to dinner in half an hour. She was, I understand, going to a dance.

"Not with Arthur!" I said.

Oh no! She was going with some friend of her husband. I told her that, if Arthur was ever persuaded or even allowed to stay up after midnight, one paid for it next day... She asked if I would not wait with her while she dressed, but I was glad to escape while the maid was still in the room. The parting, had we been by ourselves, must inevitably have been difficult. As it was, we just shook hands...

I honestly cannot tell you whether I expected to hear anything more. I did not know what to think and was trying to keep my mind a blank... She came next day, when Arthur was out; it was pleasant to feel that she knew more of his movements than I did! We--my maid and I--were upstairs, looking through Arthur's clothes before packing them to go abroad with him. I sent the maid out of the room and asked if Mrs. Templedown would mind coming up to me. And, when she came, I added practice to theory. Until you _do_ it, you're hardly conscious of it; but you cannot be a man's wife for thirty-two years without finding out thirty-two _thousand_ little peculiarities about him. I had spoken about the winter underclothing already... I gave her the prescription for his tonic and told her where to have it made up and when he must be _forced_ to take it--the symptoms, danger-signals... My dear, I talk _frankly_ to you and I sometimes fear that you must think me terribly sordid, but truly honestly, if one neglects small things, one neglects everything. You may fancy that there is little difference between two shillings and half-a-crown on a bottle of medicine, but, when you take the medicine for half the year and multiply the difference by twenty-six,--thirteen shillings! Multiply that one item of medicine by half a hundred things... I am not very enthusiastically supported; at dinner it is always "Why don't we ever have this or that?," when this or that is out of season and _prohibitive_; even Will rounded on me once and said that his poor old mother had reduced _meanness_ to a fine art. I had to bite my lip! From _Will_... I told poor little Mrs. Templedown everything; and, if you say that I failed in loyalty to Arthur, I can only answer that the end must justify the means and that I am content to be judged by results.

"And now," I said, "I can only wish you good luck. I am nothing to you, but, if you ever feel kindly disposed to a dull old woman, do your best for Arthur, keep him happy--for my sake. You are making a great experiment and taking a great risk; you, and you alone, can crown it with success. When you both ask me to divorce my husband, I shall take the necessary steps; but I shall do nothing hastily. Perhaps, when you have been with him for a time, you will find that the difficulties are greater than you anticipated--or, let me say, that success is harder of achievement than you hoped. I ask only one thing: do not force yourselves into an extremity from any false pride. Be candid with me, as I have been candid with you. Should you find only _failure_ and the _prospect_ of failure, recognize it boldly. Write to me. Say 'It has not turned out as we expected. Your husband is coming back to you.' I shall receive him without reproaches, I shall know nothing. He will find his favourite dinner, his chair and cigar, his book and 'night-cap', as he calls it... I shall be truly glad to see him back, but I look at you, with all your youth and beauty; I know that I must not keep him if you are his hope of happiness. Kiss me, dear child," I said, "and do better for him than I have been able to do."

A singular meeting! She stayed with me for nearly two hours longer. I won't say "not speaking a word", but I can say "not finishing a sentence." Bewildered... Then she went away, and I rang for my maid. I never heard from her again. On Thursday--_the_ Thursday--Arthur found his suit-case and kit-bag packed and labelled in the hall. "I don't want all this," he said, "for one night." ... And he was back again in three days. I _happen_ to know that he went alone and returned alone--and was alone in Paris...

I was talking about the diary, was I not? It is not cheerful reading, and much of it is dull. This entry in question: "_Arthur returned from France tired and depressed, but very glad to be home again..._" It does not mean much...

To any one else...

I am not crying! I am simply _worn-out_...! Oh, my dear, I am too old for this kind of thing, apart from the long agony of humiliation. Arthur must send me _right_ away for a _complete_ change. He _can_ afford it now...

IX

LADY ANN SPENWORTH NARRATES AN EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): When do I start, indeed? My dear, you are not very complimentary! We have been back nearly a week. _That_ shews how you have deserted me! ... No, I never intended to be away for more than about a fortnight. You see, so long as this wild beast is at large, prowling about Morecambe and preparing to spring at any moment, I _dare_ not leave Will unprotected. I really don't think I can add anything to what I've already told you; my boy himself is so very uncommunicative, and Arthur becomes alternately violent and morose when I beg in the _humblest_ way for the _least_ enlightenment. My reading of the position is that this "Molly Wanton" set her cap at Will and, when he refused to have anything to do with her, _rounded_ on him until he threw up a first-rate appointment rather than stay another hour in Morecambe; then she _stuffed_ her foolish father with lies until the man comes to this house like a demented creature and vows that my boy promised to _marry_ his Molly.

Indeed I know what I am talking about. In this very room, though Arthur would not allow me to be present: it was not "a woman's province." Clergyman or no, the mad old father would have had short shrift from _me_. "Proof, my good man," I would have said, "proof." ... That is how the matter stands at present, and you can realize that, while we are braced to receive the next onslaught, there can be no question of long, careless holidays.