Chapter VII: Part 7

"I must apologize for keeping you so long. It was a complicated story." Then he looked at Will. "I should like a word with you afterwards."

The agony of that dinner is a thing which I shall never forget. Sir Appleton sat in dead silence for half the meal, then roused himself to talk about red lacquer. That was his nearest approach to China, business... And, when we were alone, he turned to Will and said:

"How much does your mother know about it?"

"About what?," Will asked, naturally enough.

"Now don't try that kind of thing on me, young man!," cried Sir Appleton in a quite unpardonable tone.

And then, _for the first time_, I heard the facts about this girl's unhappy condition. Will, apparently, knew, but she had not told her father or Arthur or anybody but Sir Appleton. And how much of it was true...

"You are accepting this girl's tale?," I asked.

"I believe her."

"Without a shadow of evidence? If Will _assured_ you--"

"I shouldn't believe him," he interrupted.

To Will's mother, in her own house, at her own table! I could see that this was going to be war to the knife...

And then I'm afraid I threw all restraint to the winds. After urging Will to be careful, too. What I said... The words poured out of me in a torrent until my boy stared at me with round eyes. Sir Appleton just sat nodding like a mandarin. I told him how this girl had set her trap to catch Will, how she had evidently resolved to stop at _nothing_ for the chance of marrying above her station, how she had persecuted and blackmailed us. Whatever she had got, I said, she richly deserved. Not that I believed her story! Oh, not for a single moment! As soon as she had _forced_ Will to marry her, she would laugh in his face for the trick she had played him. And, if all this was true--her condition and so forth and so on--, what possible proof was there that Will was in any way responsible?

"Ask him," said Sir Appleton.

"How should _I_ know?," said Will.

"Exactly," Sir Appleton cried in triumph. "Now, young man, what do you propose to do?"

"I don't know," said Will.

"Then suppose you find out," said Sir Appleton. "Are you going to marry her?"

"No, no!," I cried. "A thousand times, no! She must reap what she has sown. My son shall not pay the price of her wickedness."

"He promised to marry her," said Sir Appleton.

"Prove it," I said.

Oh, if only I had been allowed to see the mad old father and challenge him! We should have heard _very_ little more of Miss Molly Wanton. Sir Appleton didn't seem to care whether he could prove it or not...

"Oh," he had to admit, "there's no _proof_. But she says so, and I believe her. Most of my life, Lady Ann, I've had to form quick judgements of people and, perhaps three times out of seven, I know when they're speaking the truth. Your son _did_ promise."

"He did _not_!," I retorted. "It stands to reason..."

And then I tried to _hammer_ a little sense into his head. Two people drawn from different worlds, without an interest in common, without money. All his life she would drag him down and down... How would he like to see a son of _his_ in such a position? ...

"He should have thought of that before he began playing the fool," said Sir Appleton.

"Before _he_ began playing the fool! A woman knows well enough... And a _clergyman's_ daughter! You want my boy to marry her with his knowledge, _our_ knowledge of her character? You must be mad!"

Will said nothing. This quite _unseemly_ altercation, when he was already worn out with the long persecution... I wished, oh! I _wished_ that Arthur had been dining at home; _he_ would never have allowed us to be bullied like this...

"Let's take the next thing, then," proposed Sir Appleton. And, do you know, I felt that he was _enjoying_ our agony. "Your son is too fine a gentleman to marry this frail beauty, though he was not so fastidious when there was a question of getting her into trouble." Fine gentlemen and frail beauties! The man was talking like a character in some ridiculous melodrama! "Well, he has rather spoiled her for any other life, so I presume he will gladly pay what compensation he can. Even a court of law would award substantial damages, if she could prove that there had been a promise of marriage."

"She can't prove it," I said.

"And I'm sure you would not like her to try," he retorted with quite an undisguised threat in his voice. "It would cause an ugly scandal, and you would all gladly pay ten times whatever damages a jury would give her for the sake of hushing up the scandal. Are you prepared to give her enough to go abroad and, if need be, live abroad and make a new life for herself?"

"I've no doubt we shall do what we can," I said, "_if_ the story's true--which I don't for one moment admit at present."

I was _thankful_ that he no longer suggested that Will should marry her... I'd have promised anything! Though why _he_ should make himself a ruler and a judge...

"You will have to provide for her," he said, "at least as generously as if she were marrying your son. She will have no chance of participating in his prosperity and success as he rises from triumph to triumph in his career."

I _thought_ I detected a sneer in his voice. If I had been sure, I would have suggested that he ceased insulting my son until we were both free of the obligation to treat a _guest_ with courtesy. The face was curiously expressionless; I couldn't be certain.

"You must not judge every one by your own standard of wealth," I pointed out. "We are very far from rich."

"You would settle, say, five thousand a year on her?," he proposed. "The cost of living has reduced that to little more than three thousand by the standard of prices before the war."

"Sir Appleton," I said as patiently as I could, "if we had five thousand a year to throw about, we should not be inviting your generous assistance in finding a position for Will."

It was _more_ than time to dismiss this girl and get to _business_...

"Five hundred, then," he suggested.

"A _year_? For all her life?," I asked, hardly believing my ears. If he could have had any conception what Arthur allows me to dress on...

"Your son's costly regard will affect the whole of her life," said Sir Appleton.

"I won't go into that," I said. "I admit nothing. But I _can_ tell you that it would be out of the question."

"Fifty pounds then?," he went on remorselessly. "It's less than a pound a week--with present purchasing power of about a shilling a day."

"I don't think we need discuss this," I said. "If the story's true, this girl will find that we shall not behave illiberally to her. I don't admit any claim; I was brought up in a stern school which ordained that a woman should reap as she had sown. What you regard as her misfortune, I was taught to consider the divine, just punishment of sin."

Sir Appleton looked at his watch and rose to his feet.

"But you'll pay her a lump sum of a hundred," he suggested, "to prevent a scandal and help her through her troubles and keep her from jumping into the river?"

"I hope she would not be so foolish or wicked as to contemplate such a thing," I told him, "but I would certainly pay her that."

"Then it's right that she should know as soon as possible," said he. "I told her to go round to my house so that my wife could look after her. She dare not face her father; and she was growing rather miserable in lodgings. If you will excuse me, I should like just to explain how the land lies and how much she can hope from your--generosity."

Will opened the door... I can see now that I should have done better to say _nothing_, but I could not let him slip away without a _word_ on the one subject which had made me ask him ... and _submit_ to his company...

"And when," I asked, "may we hope to hear about the appointment?"

"The appointment?," he repeated.

"The opening you _promised_ to find for Will," I reminded him.

"Did I promise?," he asked stupidly; and then with deliberate malice, "Can you _prove_ that there was ever a promise?"

I reminded him of our talks at Menton. Goodness me, the man had dined for the express purpose of meeting Will and deciding what kind of work would suit him best.

"We have to make our plans," I explained.

"I don't think we need discuss this," he said. "Your son, as you told me, has no experience or technical knowledge, so that, if I employed him at all, I should employ him for his qualities of character. I should not dream of judging any man on a single meeting, so I think we had better postpone a decision until I have had better opportunity of studying his honour and generosity."

And that is how we stand at present...

Will thinks that there is nothing to hope for in that quarter, but I cannot believe that, when a man has given a solemn promise, he will try to wriggle out of it. Sir Appleton owes a good deal to me; but for my advice and really _untiring_ pains he would still be plain Mr. Deepe, unknown to any one outside his business...

Of the girl we have heard nothing for two days. If she _must_ live on some one else's doorstep, I should be thankful to know that she had transferred herself to his...

But our existence is like life in a beleaguered city, never knowing when the next attack will be delivered.

XI

LADY ANN SPENWORTH FINDS HER HEART WARMING

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): Indeed I think I may claim that you have come to the right person. I returned from the Hall only this morning, so I am well primed with news.

And very, very happy. It is only since I have been established once more in the beleaguered city that I have had to remember this menace. No! Not a word or sign! The old clergyman descended on us from Morecambe, protesting that my boy Will had promised to marry his daughter; the daughter came and told a cock-and-bull story which proved her own abandonment without establishing anything against my boy; and, since then, nothing! But one does not choose to be a standing target for that sort of thing. When next Miss Molly Phenton (or Wanton) comes to Mount Street, she may find that Will is safely married to some one else or that I have sent him abroad. I have lost the thread... Ah, yes, the great romance! In that atmosphere of radiance one forgot one's troubles...

My brother Brackenbury did indeed lend me the house for a few weeks in the summer--when every one was away in Scotland--, but otherwise I have not passed a night there on their invitation since that deplorable week-end when all the trouble with Phyllida began. You have forgotten it! I hope now that every one will forget it. Hilary--Colonel Butler, you know--had fallen in love with my niece while he was in her hospital. As Phyllida was living with me at the time, I had a duty to my brother, so I suggested that this boy should be invited to the Hall "on approval", as Will would say. I yield to no one in my _real_ affection for dear Hilary, but--why disguise it?--he had been brought up simply--on modest means--, and it was only right that he should see Phyllida in her natural frame and decide for himself whether he could support her and live up to it. Most people so notoriously _cannot_: my sister-in-law Ruth, who remains and will ever remain the purse-proud shipping magnate's daughter... I was more than justified. Hilary consulted me; and, though I will never take the responsibility of advising young people in love, he was grateful for the detachment of an outsider. _I_, he could see, had no axe to grind... Brackenbury and Ruth received him effusively; my nephew Culroyd took him to his heart; if he had proposed, he would have been accepted then and there. He had done too wonderfully in the war and, in my humble judgement, gave a promise of success in any career he might undertake.

_Me_ he consulted to know whether the world would say that he had married Phyllida for her money. He was daunted, I could see, by the _lavishness_ of the Hall: the size of the house, the number of servants, Phyllida's four hunters--and so forth and so on. I told him that, _in this respect of money and--in--this--respect--alone_, he was not in fact contributing very much. He nodded, packed his bag and went off to _make_ money--with an enterprise and a resolution that was too splendid. Did I ever tell you that I once detected him driving a motor-cab? He has now formed a company and is doing very well indeed. It was quite romantic! I always knew that there _were_ such men in England and I was proud to meet one.

He begged me not to enlighten Phyllida, as he wished to leave her entirely free. Which I thought a most proper attitude, not extravagantly common in the youth of the present day. In my efforts to help him I exposed myself to an unhappy misconception, for Phyllida persuaded first herself and then the family that I had scotched her romance with some crazy idea of securing her for my boy Will. It was always on the tip of my tongue to say that she seemed very certain of him. Goodness me, if Will had _wanted_ her... I have never wholly approved of cousin-marriages; and I looked with something like dismay on their growing intimacy. That was later, of course; at first she was like a demented creature, saying the wildest and wickedest things. Do you know that she charged me with trying to keep my brother-in-law from getting a divorce--so that there should be no possibility of an heir, so that in time Arthur or Will should inherit Cheniston and the title? These are not the fancies of a _balanced_ mind, and it was then that I urged Brackenbury to send her _right_ away. Failing that, I asked him to entrust her to me for a while in the hopes that I might turn her thoughts. Her loyalty to Colonel Butler I _admired_, but there is a danger that love may develop into an obsession...

That was the time when I became so nervous about Will. _She_ was listless and unhappy, he was sympathetic; a dangerous combination! They had actually, I believe, reached what is called an understanding, when Phyllida learned by chance that Colonel Butler was alive and working in London; and this, I am thankful to say, turned her attention from Will. You were not present, I think, at the great meeting? No, I remember you were away; it was one night when the princess honoured me by dining to meet a few old friends. I gave a little impromptu dance afterwards to some of the officers in Spenworth's old regiment, not remembering that Hilary Butler was of the number; Phyllida was dining, and they met...

After that, it was a foregone conclusion. Every day when I opened my letters or looked at the paper, I expected to read the announcement. You may judge of my misgivings when my sister-in-law Ruth invited me most urgently to come for the week-end to the Hall and to bring Will with me. I have told you that there was _some_ sort of understanding: if Hilary disappeared from human ken, Phyllida would marry Will--something of that kind; she was such a little picture of misery that, if _some_ one had not shewn her a little kindness, I truly honestly believe that she would have wilted away. I was in dread that she would come up and say: "Aunt Ann, Will and I are going to be married"... _That_ is why I searched the "Times" so diligently... It would be a suitable marriage in some ways: she _has_ money... But I could never regard it as satisfactory.

The moment I could get a word alone with my sister-in-law, I asked her whether they had seen anything of Colonel Butler.

"Not since you arranged that meeting at your house," Ruth told me, "but he is due here to-night." She persists in speaking of people as though they were ships! The Hull strain coming out! "That is why I invited you all--Culroyd and Hilda are coming; and Spenworth and his wife--; I wanted you all to meet him. Or rather Phyllida did. She has been very mysterious, but there seems to be no doubt now..."

"They are going to be married?," I interrupted.

"Nothing has been said about it--_yet_," answered Ruth.

I know you will not misunderstand me, still less make mischief, if I tell you that I heaved a _sigh_ of relief. Fond as I am of Phyllida, she would not have made a very suitable wife for Will, though it is essential for him to marry some one with a _little_ money and I have felt lately that, if he could marry _any one_, it would put an end to this persecution from the girl who is trying to blackmail him... At the same time it seemed a little strange for Phyllida to be summoning the entire family, when, so far as I could make out, Hilary had not said a _word_...

"So you are expecting Colonel Butler," I said to her at tea.

"He's coming to-day," she answered rather brusquely. "I thought he might have been here by now... _Well_, Aunt Ann, was I wise to wait? You told me to go right away and forget him; you always said you wanted to turn my thoughts."

Do you know, for a dreadful moment I fancied that she was trying to reopen her insane vendetta... When she circulated those truly wicked stories about me...

"Dear Phyllida," I said, "did I ever try to shake your faith in him? No one, not even you, has a greater admiration or regard for Colonel Butler; he has done me more than one inestimable service, and I think he would be the first to admit that he owes something to my friendship and advice. Ask him, dear child! I have nothing to fear from his testimony; but there is a right way and a wrong way in most things, and he will tell you that, on my advice, he chose the right. If I urged your father to send you away, if I tried to the best of my poor abilities to distract your thoughts, it was because I could not bear to see my own niece, my own brother's child, the picture of misery that you were."

"Well, you'd look miserable," said Phyllida, "if the one person you cared for had been set against you and if everybody said you'd tried to capture him and he'd run away."

Who it was that Phyllida imagined she was quoting I have really no idea. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that, if a girl conducts a love affair quite so ostentatiously as she had done, she must not be surprised if people ask questions when, all of a sudden, nothing comes of it. It was hardly the moment to talk about ostentation, however. You remember the terrace at the Hall; we were sitting there like people in the first row of the stalls, waiting for the curtain to go up--Brackenbury, Ruth, their boy Culroyd and Hilda, his wife, my brother-in-law Spenworth, _his_ new wife, Arthur, Will and myself. I really pitied any poor young man with such an audience to face...

"But all has now turned out well?," I asked. "Dear Phyllida, I am very, very glad."

"Oh, don't congratulate me yet," she said. "He hasn't _said_ anything."

I was really _amazed_...

"I thought perhaps that, when you met at my house--," I began.

After all, _if_--as I hope--everything goes well, I am entitled to a _little_ credit...

"Oh, not a word!," said Phyllida. "He wouldn't even dance with me at first. I said: 'Are you trying to avoid me?' He said: 'Yes.' ... And I could have died till I saw he was only joking. Then we both laughed. Then he said: 'Would your mother invite me down to the Hall one week-end soon? It's only fair to warn her that, if she doesn't, I shall invite myself.' 'And, if you don't invite yourself, I shall invite you,' I told him. 'Don't let's say anything at present,' he said; 'I've been very busy since I saw you last, but I shall be free in a week or two.' He wired on Wednesday to know if he might come. I knew you would like to meet him and to see that my faith was justified."

"Dear Phyllida," I said. "I hope indeed that it has been."

"If he doesn't propose to me," answered Phyllida, "I shall propose to him. I always told you I would."

Of course, I am old-fashioned; I was brought up in a different school. Do you know, even in jest, between the two of us, that kind of speech is always very distasteful to me...

Apparently the young man was motoring from London, and there was some sort of idea that he would arrive in time for tea. We maintained our absurd theatrical postures until the terrace became too unbearably cold. When I went up to dress, he had not arrived; but Phyllida was still sitting with her gaze fixed down the drive to the white gates of the lodge... It may have been love; but I could not help feeling that she was _very_ conscious of the _effect_...

When I came down at half-past eight, there was still no sign of him. And then you can imagine the inevitable discussion! Was he coming or was he not? Should we wait or should we begin without him? Phyllida expressed no opinion; she sat by herself, waiting... At nine o'clock I took Arthur and Will on one side and told them that we must really make a concerted attack on Ruth; I was _famished_...

"He _can't_ be coming," I said.

Unfortunately Phyllida overheard me and interpreted this as an attack on Colonel Butler's good faith...

"He _said_ he would come," she persisted. Over one shoulder, you know... With a toss of the head.

"Perhaps the car has broken down," I suggested. "There may have been an accident."

"He will come," said Phyllida.

At a quarter past nine Ruth was merciful enough to allow her guests to have a little food--one of those meals where, as my boy said very wittily, "everything was cold except the ice." A hideous dinner! I am not now referring to the food, but to the atmosphere. Phyllida refused to come in; Brackenbury wavered and wobbled, now going out to her, now coming back... And the one _not_ very interesting topic of conversation: what had happened to Colonel Butler. By ten o'clock _most_ of us had made up our minds that he was not coming...

By eleven I really believe some were wondering whether he had ever _intended_ to come. He had invited himself, it is true. Or so we were told. But it really seemed as though the initiative came from Phyllida, that she might be forcing his hand, that he had suggested coming really as a means of ending the discussion at my dance. _I_ did not know what letters had passed between them since. She might have been pressing and pressing him until he at last consented to come; then he may have seen that, once at the Hall, he would not be allowed to escape a second time. He may have invited himself with the reservation that he would stop away at the last moment and say that he had been called abroad. Phyllida is _attractive_, she is rich; for people who care about these things, she is the daughter of an earl. Undeniably young Butler had been glamoured by it all at first; but he may well have felt on reconsideration that it would not be a very suitable match, and I have yet to learn that a man thinks more highly of a girl because she throws herself at his head. That is a lesson which the rising generation will have to learn--at a heavy price.

I felt that some such thoughts must be passing through Spenworth's mind every time he said: "The fellow's not coming to-night. Can't some one persuade that child to have some food instead of giving herself a chill?" Brackenbury and Ruth, too, were beginning to doubt and to look very much concerned. If the young man _had_ sheered off, they would never forgive themselves for allowing the unhappy girl to make such an exhibition of herself... In my heart of hearts I knew that Colonel Butler could be trusted as I would trust my own son. I was only afraid that there might have been an _accident_...

And I could fancy what poor Phyllida's feelings must be after assembling all the family to meet her soldier-hero, after telling me at the top of her _very_ clear little voice that, if he did not propose to her, she would propose to him... Every one would say that he had run away and she had dragged him back and now he had run away again...

At half-past eleven we gave up hope.

"He can't be coming to-night," Ruth told Phyllida. "Let's all go to bed; we shall hear something in the morning."

"He _said_ he would come," Phyllida answered.

There was another aimless discussion when we were all so tired that we could hardly keep our eyes open. Brackenbury went out to see what _he_ could do with the girl--and returned to say that she had vanished!

Oh, my dear! Our _feelings_ I leave you to imagine. In some directions Phyllida has a wild, insane pride ... and she had seen it dragged in the mire before the eyes of us all. When I spoke of love degenerating into obsession, I chose my words with care: for months the child had been so _distraught_ that I felt a _very_ little more might upset her reason. Rapidly reviewing all that had passed that day, I recalled the utter desperation of her behaviour--the ruined gambler's last throw... We stood as though we had been carved out of stone, _staring_ at Brackenbury while he _stared_ at us ... white as paper.

He was thinking of the river...

We seemed unable to move...

At last Spenworth hurled himself through the door, with Brackenbury, Culroyd, Arthur, goodness knows who at his heels. I caught Will's arm and went with him on to the terrace; it was time that _some one_ kept his head. Do you know, I had a premonition: a moonless night, that inky river, demented, shouting men jostling one another on the bank and in the water, plunging and splashing, a cry for help, some one caught in the reeds, two--three tragedies instead of one...

"The boat-house, Will," I urged.

We dashed along the terrace and across the lawn. Suddenly I stopped. Ahead of me--in the darkness I could not see how far--there was a flash of white. It vanished, appeared again, vanished again.

"_This_ way," I said.

And I could have sobbed aloud. Instead of making for the river, poor Phyllida was roaming distractedly towards the lodge. We heard her feet stumbling on and off the gravel, there came the moan of a tortured animal... The footsteps ceased abruptly, the white coat vanished... She had left the drive and turned away behind a clump of laurel. I heard her crying as though her heart would break...

"I can run no farther," I said to Will. "And an old woman like me is no good to her now. Go to her and comfort her. You have always loved her, so you will know what to say. If she breaks her heart, she will break yours too; you will never forgive yourself for abandoning her. Let her see that, however lonely and deserted she may feel, one staunch friend is true to her through all things. It is your right and privilege to share her sorrow and, if may be, to assuage it."

At such a time my boy did not need to be told twice. As I sank exhausted against a tree, he stole forward; I heard him calling her softly by name. If I could, I would have hurried out of ear-shot, for whatever he said was sacred to the two of them; but I expected every moment to faint with my unaccustomed exertion...

"Phyllida... Darling Phyllida," he began.

I do not mind telling _you_, because you are always discreet and, when reverence is demanded, you will be reverent... I thought I knew my boy, but there are depths of tenderness in a man which he never shews to his own mother...

"Phyllida, darling Phyllida, won't you let me comfort you? If you break your heart, you will break mine too. You know that I have always loved you, and that gives me the right to comfort you when you are unhappy. Whatever other people may do to you or say to you, I am always here for you to turn to..."

I cannot go on... Already I have said more than I ought. Will you think your old friend very foolish if she confesses that for a moment she forgot that she was old? Time slipped from my shoulders, and I saw once again a young girl in that very garden, not a hundred yards from where I was standing... Dear Phyllida, I suppose, would think her a very funny, old-fashioned creature, but I did not seem so then--certainly to Arthur... A young girl in a white dress with a young man pleading at her feet until his voice broke and he said: "It's no good, I can't go on." And then he threw his arms about me... And I remember my dear father coming on to the terrace and calling out to me. And Arthur seized my hand and _strode_ forward with his head among the _stars_... Brackenbury--he is fourteen years my junior--was already in bed, but we insisted on going upstairs to tell him the news. Life was a very glorious thing that night. I walked on air; and, if any one had told me that it was a thing of greed and cruelty and ingratitude and mean passions, I should have laughed him to scorn...

Forgive me...

I am sentimental, no doubt, but if we _have_ the opportunity of feeling our heart warming... Of late years... I have lost the thread... Ah, yes! I crept away, leaving them together, with the murmur of my boy's divine sympathy still in my ears. At first I walked aimlessly, trying to keep my mind _blank_ until I was competent to think of anything. What _would_ happen now? ... In time I found myself on the lawn once more, and the sight of the river reminded me of duty still left undone. I had to find Brackenbury and tell him that his child was safe and in good hands... I remember wondering, trying to make up my mind what I should think if this _crise_ shewed Phyllida that it was Will she wanted to marry...

There was no one in sight. I walked cautiously to the river, expecting every moment to step over the edge... No sound of voices. I called: "Brackenbury!", "Arthur!", "Culroyd!". There was no answer. Do you know that quite unreasoning fear that sometimes overtakes one when one is in the dark and knows that one is not _alone_? And the river--like a looking-glass in a twilit room... I have a horror of any great expanse of water at night; it is so silent and merciless. "Culroyd! Brackenbury! Spenworth!," I called again--this time at the top of my voice. And then I am not ashamed to confess that I hurried back to the house as fast as my legs would carry me.

It was no less deserted than the garden! Lights blazing, doors and windows open, but not a soul in sight; the very servants pressed into the hue-and-cry. I wandered through room after room, upstairs and down. When I went back to the terrace, it was with the crazy feeling that the world had come to an end and I alone was left... Suddenly a step on the gravel! And I do assure you that I did not know whether to scream with fear or sob with relief.

"Lady Ann!"

I was _far_ beyond recognizing voices. I _peered_ into the darkness until the figure of a man emerged from the shadows...

"Colonel Butler!," I cried.

"Where's Phyllida?," he asked.

"Goodness me, what have you been doing to yourself?," I exclaimed.

His clothes were in _rags_, he had lost his hat, he was plastered in mud from head to foot, and one arm was in some sort of make-shift sling.

"Oh, that's nothing," he said. "A fool of a girl was riding a horse she couldn't control, and, in trying not to run her down, I had to turn the car over an embankment. There was no station within reach, so I had to come here across country. I'd have wired; but, by the time I reached a telegraph-office, everything was closed--"

"But have you had no dinner?," I asked, remembering our own fate.

"I don't want any dinner till I know what's happened to Phyllida. When did she disappear? Lord Brackenbury says she was out here one moment... If any thing's happened to her--"

"Calm yourself, Colonel Butler," I enjoined.

Indeed I might as profitably have addressed the advice to myself. It was time for some one to keep his head. I was thinking only of Phyllida and the effect that _another_ shock might have upon her. She was already so much overwrought, sobbing her heart out when any of us could have told her that there was _nothing_ to cry about...

"We've been searching high and low," said Colonel Butler. "Lord Brackenbury told me that she suddenly bolted into the night. We haven't dared shout for fear of frightening her away... What's it all about? In the name of God, what can have happened to her?"

"If you stay here," I said, "I will find her for you."

"But do you know where she is?," he cried in great excitement. "I must come too."

"Won't you trust my judgement, Colonel Butler?," I asked.

He hesitated for a moment and then said:

"Of course I will. You've been a jolly good friend to me. But for pity's sake go at once; I can't stand much more."

"If you know where the others are," I suggested, "you might employ your time in finding them."

Then I set off down the drive once more. I walked on the grass, but, on reaching the laurel-clump, I gave a little cough to apprise them of my presence. Poor Phyllida was so much overwrought that she started to her feet like a frightened animal. (She had been lying with her face in her arms, while Will stroked her hair and whispered such little words of comfort as came into his head.)

"Will, I want to speak to you a moment," I said.

And, when he came to me, I told him to go down to the lodge gates and wait there till I fetched him. Then I tried to make _some_ impression on poor Phyllida, who was indulging in such an abandonment of grief that you would really say that she was enjoying it.

"Phyllida, stop crying," I said, "and listen to what I have to tell you."

"Oh, why can't you leave me alone?," she sobbed.

"Because," I said, "there is great and glorious news for you, and your old aunt is selfish enough to wish to be its bearer."

You may be sure that she stopped her crying soon enough at that.

I told her that Hilary Butler had arrived... And about the accident; she tried to bolt from my grasp, but I contrived to restrain her... And the dreadful fright she had been wicked enough to give us...

"Oh, let me go!," she kept crying.

"A moment more, dearest child," I said. "You are both over-excited, overwrought. Would you not like to meet him alone first, without feeling that the eyes of all your family are upon you?" ...

She is an impetuous, affectionate little thing. In a moment she was kissing me and making my face quite wet with her tears...

"We will go into the rose-garden," I said. "Many years before you were born, dear Phyllida, another girl stood there with the man who loved her more than any one in the world. May you be at least not less happy than she has been!" ...

Then I returned to the house. Hilary had collected most of the party, and I whispered to him that he would find Phyllida by the sun-dial... I am not so well used to praise from my occasionally critical relations that I can afford to treat it lightly; Spenworth was good enough to propose three cheers for me when he heard of my _childishly_ simple little stratagem for letting the young people meet unlistened to, unspied on...

"And now had not the rest of us better go to bed?," I suggested to Ruth. "If all is as we hope, you and Brackenbury would sooner not be embarrassed by our presence."

Poor Ruth is consistent in one thing: she never shews any instinct for _arranging_ or _managing_. It is perhaps not to be expected that she should take to it by the light of nature, but one would have thought that the first ambition of any woman who had been transported from one _milieu_ to another would have been to _learn_... She is in a position of authority...

When they had all separated to their rooms, I once more set out... Will, I think, had guessed; and I have never seen any one more delighted.

"_I_ knew the fellow would turn up," he said, "but I couldn't make poor little Phyl see it. I suppose she thought he _must_ have killed himself on the road. Just as well he didn't, because I believe she's quite fond of him. I should think they'd get on quite well together, though of course she's not everybody's money."

I explained to him that every one had gone to bed, but here he was _quite_ immovable.

"I want to be the first to congratulate them," he said.

Which I thought was _handsome_, when you remember how Phyllida threw herself at his head.

They are to be married as soon as Hilary's company has been formed. He is very anxious that Arthur should join the board, but I am not sure that it is wise to undertake _too_ many enterprises. One is always reluctant to refuse what is really a tempting offer--on a small scale--, but there _are_ only twenty-four hours in the day...

One quite rubs one's eyes when the younger generation knocks at the door in this way. How old would you say Phyllida was? Twenty-two, I assure you; and I know what I am talking about. It will be my boy's turn next, I suppose; he is nearly thirty-one. And, though I do not want to lose him, I shall not be sorry to see him _safely_ married.

I hope that Phyllida will make a success of her life. I have every reason to think she will, but I refuse to accept any responsibility for guiding young people to their affinities. After one irrational period in which I was the wicked stepmother, I suddenly find myself regarded as the good fairy...

It is really too ridiculous...

Oh, I think you can congratulate them at once. They are to be "Morning-Posted", as Will would say, to-morrow...

XII

LADY ANN SPENWORTH DEFENDS HER CONSISTENCY

_Lady Ann_ (_to a friend of proved discretion_): Consistency?

It is very easy, of course, to _overdo_ that sort of thing, to become so inflexible that one is the slave and victim of one's own rules. The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath... On the other hand, I have no patience with the people who say one thing to-day and another to-morrow, so that you never know where you are with them. Surely the wise course is to discover the great laws and hold to them unswervingly, only stepping aside by a hair's breadth to left or right when the great laws quite obviously apply no longer. In the realm of principle I admit no compromise; Right is Right, and Wrong is Wrong, and no amount of special pleading can blur _that_ distinction...

But, though I hold no _brief_ for consistency, I should be vastly entertained to know exactly where you think I have been inconsistent... Not you personally, of course! We have known each other long enough to look out on life with very much the same eyes. But the people who are good enough to criticize me without, perhaps, taking the trouble to ascertain even the facts of the case.

I have always said that I would not stir a finger to interfere with my boy Will, or any one else of that age, where the heart was concerned. They, for all their inexperience, must be the ultimate judges; the wisdom of _instinct_ and so on and so forth. The responsibility on an outsider is too great even for advice; and the advice of a mother to the son who adores her... There is such a thing as having too much power put into one's hands. I don't say I'm _right_; but, if Will married a girl whom I considered the most unsuitable person in the world... So long as _he_ loved _her_, and _she_ loved _him_... Have I been inconsistent there?

I have always said that for a boy of his tastes and upbringing _some_ little money is essential as light and air. A truism! Have I been inconsistent here?

I don't want to blow my own trumpet, as they say; and I resent this modern practice of proclaiming to the whole world how much one loves one's own flesh and blood--as though it were something very new and wonderful; but _you_ have never doubted that I would sell the clothes from off my back and the roof from over my head if Will's happiness depended on it. You are good enough to talk about my "sacrifices", but am I being anything more than normal, natural and consistent, a mother brought up in a certain school of a certain period?

I think that, if the facts were ever known, you would find I had been loyal to my principles. They never will be--for obvious reasons... With you, of course, it is different; I have told you everything and laid my heart bare. Should I have done that, if there was anything to conceal? And if the last chapter would really interest you...

A _superficial_ change undoubtedly there has been, corresponding to a profound change in all our conditions. A year or two ago... It is not too much to call it a revolution, so many unexpected things have happened. In those days one never dreamed that my brother-in-law would drag what I suppose I must call his "honour" through the Divorce Court; and, so long as poor Kathleen bore him one daughter after another, it seemed safe to presume that Cheniston and the title would come sooner or later to Arthur and, through him, to our boy. The problem of that period was to "carry on", as Will would say; my brother Brackenbury and his wife would not like to be called mean, but they were certainly _careful_, and it was only by eternal pinching and scraping that we made both ends meet. Many young men in Will's position would have put themselves up to auction, as it were, and married the first rich woman who came their way. Goodness me, my boy had a big enough choice! First of all Hilda, and he resigned his claims there to my nephew Culroyd; then the South American widow, but he very quickly saw how unsuitable _that_ would be; and you may say--without any unkindness--that my niece Phyllida was waiting all the time for him to drop the handkerchief and only consented to marry Hilary Butler when the other thing was out of the question. Unfortunately you can't please _everybody_, and Will was old-fashioned enough to desire a wife with whom he could be in love and to shut his ears to all the lures of money... Money? A man of his ability can always _earn_ money, and our only difficulty was to know where to start. He contemplated _la haute finance_ for a while, but was repelled by the prospect of having to work with men like Sir Adolf Erckmann; then he explored the possibilities of Mr. Surdan's shipyards, but this for some reason was not to his taste. Now I truly honestly believe that he has found his _métier_....

While he was still undecided about his career, I was reluctant to part with the house in Mount Street, though for many years it had really been too expensive for us. One grows, indeed, to love one's own vine and fig-tree, and the place was _filled_ with associations. Did I ever tell you that the princess was good enough to say that, in coming there, she always felt she was coming _home_? ... With Will gone, the place is a white elephant; and I cannot flatter myself that any little _niche_ I may occupy makes me indispensable to the life of London. When people talk about inconsistency, they fancy a change in _you_, but it doesn't occur to them that the world all _round_ you may have changed. I had long contemplated _radical_ alterations and was only perplexed to know where to begin.

Our thoughts had all been turned for the moment from our own affairs by the romance of my dear niece Phyllida's engagement to Colonel Butler. Alas! when we came back to London, it was to find what I then regarded as a sword _still_ suspended over our heads, _still_ hanging by a hair. Since the night when Sir Appleton Deepe dined with us to discuss the appointment for Will, this girl Molly Phenton had not been near the house. For a week before that she had been calling, waiting, writing--always protesting that my boy had given her a promise of marriage. As it was impossible for them to marry without money, I refused to believe that Will had promised; not believing this story of a promise, I felt that she was trying to blackmail us; feeling _that_, I declined to see her. One thing followed automatically from another. It was not until she called that evening and Sir Appleton--_rather_ officiously, if you'll promise not to tell any one I said so--insisted on interviewing her, that I learned the truth about her condition. _Then_, I am sure, we should all have agreed that Will must marry her at once, but Sir Appleton would give us no time. I suppose concentration on one object is very necessary in business, but it _does_ limit a man's outlook: Sir Appleton could see but this one thing. "My good sir," I wanted to tell him, "shew us _how_ it is to be done, and it _will_ be done." But he would not discuss the appointment, though he had given me as solemn a promise as a man can give; he dashed home, after sending this girl on ahead, and we heard no more of them.

I felt that it was useless to talk to my boy just then, because he was so much worried that anything more might have brought on a complete break-down. My husband too... I respect Arthur's judgement at other times, but, where his own son is concerned, I find him curiously unsympathetic. I pretended to myself that I was trying to find a new opening for Will, now that Sir Appleton had played us so shamefully false, but I'm afraid that I was simply letting things drift...

Then my brother-in-law Spenworth paid me the rare honour of a visit. He had come up from Cheniston on purpose, though--to judge from his voice--you would have thought he was still trying to make himself heard from the fastnesses of Warwickshire...

"Well, my dear Ann," he roared, "I've come to give you a piece of my mind."

Do you know, had the retort not been so cheaply obvious, one would have been strongly tempted to ask whether he could really spare it... So characteristic of Spenworth! I am not a woman to bear malice, but I could not forget that _very_ few days had passed since he played me a trick which to that type of mind, no doubt, seems funny, but which _might_ have involved me in _embarrassment_ and _humiliation_. It was one night when the princess was with me; Spenworth had been presiding over some regimental dinner and he thought it would be an amusing hoax to send all these young officers--with partners whom they had apparently picked up one really dares not contemplate _where_--on the pretext that I was giving a dance and would be delighted to see them. Dear Hilary Butler's presence of mind _alone_ saved the situation. I detest practical joking and, when my brother-in-law was announced, I confess that I expected less to be lectured than to receive some little expression of regret...

_Hoped_ rather than _expected_... You are quite right.

"I must beg for enlightenment," I said.

"Well, what's that scamp of a boy of yours been up to?," he asked.

"I will _not_ permit such language about my son!," I cried.

"Too late now. You should have brought him up better," he said.

This from Spenworth, whose life has been one dark, unbroken record of debauchery, unfaithfulness ... not a tenth part known owing to his cleverness in hushing up scandals, impoverishing that glorious estate to buy the silence of those who held awkward secrets. Indeed I know what I am talking about. When he wanted poor Kathleen to divorce him, he gave her the run of Cheniston; heirlooms apart, she might take anything "to feather her new nest", as he elegantly put it. And this in a house which will come to Arthur and Will if anything happens to that sickly baby... There was a _marvellous_ story going the rounds a few months ago that I had tried to entangle Kathleen with the King's Proctor or the President of the Divorce Court or somebody of the kind, so that she might be tied to Spenworth and Cheniston have no heir. Comment... What is the phrase? Comment is superfluous! But, if Arthur or Will were steward of Cheniston, they would give a better account of their stewardship than my brother-in-law is likely to do... I have lost the thread... Ah, yes!

"Satan rebuking sin, Spenworth," I suggested, "though I have no idea what charge you are bringing against my boy."

"You can have a good time in this world without being a cad," he said. "At least I hope _I_ can. Apparently your precious Will can't."

"Have a good time"! _There_ is a phrase to put you on your guard!

"I don't know what you mean," I said. "I don't know what's the matter with you. But I _do_ know that we shan't do any good by continuing this discussion."

"Not so fast," said Spenworth, as I walked to the bell. "_You_ asked me to second that little beast at the club. I _did_. I went there the other day and was told that some fellow with a name like Apple-pie-bed had told Will that, if he ever dared shew his nose inside the door again, he'd be kicked into the street. Well, as it's our misfortune to share a common name, I took it on myself to have Mr. Apple-pie-bed pointed out to me; I asked him if he didn't think that perhaps he was being a little high-handed. I don't allow _every_ Chinese grocer to take liberties with me. He said: 'I'm sorry the feller should be a relation of yours, but for the sake of the club I must stick to what I threatened. You'd better report me to the committee when it's all over, and we shall then see whether, on a show-down, my action is approved.' That, my dear Ann, is all I know; but, in case you're not aware of it, any reflection on a man I've supported at a club is a reflection on me; if the young cub had been pilled, I should have had to resign; if he gets hoofed out, people will want to know why the hell I ever backed him..."