The confessions of a well-meaning woman

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.

But I was glad I went even for a short time. Even to Menton, which truly honestly is only a suburb of Monte Carlo (I had a reason), even with the railways in their present abominable condition—the French seem to be making no effort to pull themselves together after the war except by means of wholesale robbery. They have clearly decided that, as we came to their rescue and paid for their war, it is now our bounden duty to pay for them in peace as well... I always believe in going right away after a domestic crisis of that kind; and I was really beginning to fear a break-down if I stayed any longer in London. There is a curious convention that there is something funny about a man of Arthur's age and position falling under the spell of a little chorus-girl; it is less funny when you have to fight for your life to preserve your husband and the father of your child. Some form of madness that overtakes men... I have not told you, I never shall tell you what Arthur was like when he found that this girl had thrown him over at the last moment. Dazed... His behaviour to me seemed of no account; the fact that I knew everything from the girl's own lips and had helped to pack the clothes in which he was to run away with her... He was like a man in a trance...

I uttered no word of reproach. It was unnecessary. At first he behaved as if the light had gone out of his life—which was pleasant for me; then he seemed to realize that perhaps some amends were owing to me... Assented immediately to my proposal that we should go right away...

I chose Menton because Sir Appleton Deepe was there. He, I fancy, would be the first to tell you that I really made him. Unheard-of before the war, except in business... I wanted his advice about Will: where he could lay out his talents to greatest advantage, as it were; and, though nothing has been decided definitely, I have a promise, and he is most anxious to meet Will... So one's time was not wasted...

And there, in the peace and wonderful sunshine, one had an opportunity of recovering one's perspective. I had tided Arthur through his great crisis; and there was nothing, I felt, to fear in the future. But we could not let it rest at that. There had been an intolerable amount of malicious gossip—how wide-spread I could not believe until the proof was thrust before me—; men jesting in their clubs, women gloating... And you may be sure that the Brackenbury and Spenworth broods were only too delighted to think that yet another had been dragged down to their level; if one was not to be a by-word and an object of scorn... Goodness me, I wasn't thinking of my own poor dignity, but these stories had to be stopped somehow. In the school in which I was brought up one was supposed to set something of an example; for what it may be worth, one does occupy a certain niche; it was more than time for us to shew that there had been no catastrophe, as our kind friends would have liked to think.

"Arthur," I said, "you will never hear me allude to this again. We have passed through a time of trouble, but God has mercifully brought us into safety. For some months we have been spied on and whispered about; it is our duty to shew a happy and united front!"

Arthur said at once that he would do whatever I wanted...

You do not often hear me talking of "position" or "dignity" or "rights", but I did indeed feel that any poor little niche we might occupy was threatened. Spenworth's own record is so infamous that people would feel it was only natural for his brother to tread the same path. I am not ashamed to confess that I do feel what people say about me. Some people... And it was these people, the people who mattered, that I wanted to convince; if there was indeed no rift between Arthur and me, why should we allow the gossips to pretend there was? ...

I decided to signalize our return to England by a little party—just a few friends to dinner, a little music, a few more friends coming in if they had nothing better to do. I have never found it necessary to inform the world—as your Mrs. Tom Noddys do—that they have left Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or Eastbourne for Gloucester Place. Goodness me, "Who wonders—and who cares?," as they say. But I was not sorry to find that our little party was being discussed; and, of course, when once the princess's name was mentioned, the papers came at me with open arms... I left no stone unturned to make a success of the little gathering. We have always been quite pitiably restricted in our entertaining, but this was not the moment to grudge a few extra pounds well laid-out... And it does not require a mathematician to prove that Arthur could have given me more money if he had given less in other directions. Of course, I did not hint such a thing; my dear, peace, forgiveness, forgetfulness was what I wanted... And it was not necessary; Arthur assented to everything.

First of all I made certain of the princess. What she can see in a dull old woman like me you must ask her; but she has been a true and loving friend for perhaps more years than either of us now cares to recall; and, if humble affection and gratitude matter to her, she knows that they are hers whenever she does me the honour of visiting my house... She likes coming, I know; in me, she has been gracious enough to say, she finds an attitude of mind, a point of view which is disappearing only too fast; in a sense—I am sure she would be the first to excuse my presumption—we were brought up in the same school.

There was no difficulty about securing my brother. It is a pose with Brackenbury to pretend that he hates what he calls "orders-and-decorations" parties, but my sister-in-law is not so jaded. Perhaps in the world in which she was reared... I certainly notice marked civility and almost affection if Ruth hears that I am giving a party and that the princess has graciously consented to be present. My niece Phyllida is less punctilious in her courtesy; there is rather too much of the "Oh-I-don't-care-what-I-do" attitude about her, and, since she found that her cabman hero was still alive and somewhere in London... A curious recklessness and restlessness... I invited her because I cannot bear to see a girl—young, well-connected, rich, good-looking—simply moping... They say it takes two to make a quarrel, and I have refused to quarrel with Phyllida, so that at last I think she has ceased to believe that I turned the cabman hero against her in the hope of keeping her for my boy. I—have—not—lifted—a—finger! She evidently enjoys being with Will; and, if he wanted to marry her, I should not stand in the way. Ever since that Morecambe nightmare began, I have felt that I shall never know a moment's peace until he is safely married...

I don't want him to go abroad... When any one in his position seeks his fortune in a foreign country, there is always a tendency among some people to ask what he has done, to treat him as a remittance-man ... which is offensive without being particularly amusing... I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes! My little party. One thing I noticed on returning to England was the extraordinary mixture of people that one met everywhere. For this, though I am personally fond of her, I blame Connie Maitland more than any dozen other women. Not being a persona grata in certain circles to which she would dearly like to have the entrée, she seems to cultivate numbers for their own sake. When the princess... More by a hint, you understand, than by any direct criticism... But she cannot help seeing that the old barriers have been broken down... It is always on the tip of my tongue to make my Lady Maitland wholly responsible. During the war one was flung against these people, as it were: the strangest generals who seemed to have been stock-brokers the moment before... All that sort of thing... "Captains of Industry" (I believe they are called) with the queerest accents and all holding high office. There was an epidemic of cabinet rank; and, if one had business in Whitehall, one met the oddest people—never the same two days running. Connie Maitland thoroughly enjoyed herself, I always felt; so many new people to know before any one else. (I am not ashamed to confess that it is not my ambition simply to know new people.) When I returned from Menton, I did drop a little hint and suggest that, as the war was now over, she ought to revise some of her war friendships. Quite kindly and gradually, you understand; I know that with some of the really estimable women who sat on committees with me... "Is it true kindness?," I asked myself. "They lead their lives, you lead yours; the war brought you together, but you've nothing else in common..." After that breath of fresh air at Menton, I was honestly truly aghast to find what London had become without one's noticing it. I sought an opportunity of speaking to the princess about it: I felt some one ought to make a little stand. I don't count, because I'm not in a position to entertain; but I did resolve to confine my little party simply to the old friends...

I invited Spenworth... You look surprised; but, if you will think for a moment... Arthur's brother. It was notorious that I had for years disapproved of his whole way of life, but the family had to shew a united front. His very recent divorce, which—between ourselves—I think was forgiven far too quickly; goodness me, I hope I am not a bigot and I would assuredly persecute no one, but "whom God hath joined together" ... I invited him chiefly on his wife's account; her position is not so secure that she can altogether dispense with a supporting hand, and I was tired of confessing to people that I had not even met her... Never can I forget, either, Spenworth's triumph when for a moment Arthur seemed to be treading his path... My Nemesis for trying to hold my head erect and daring to reprove him. No, I did not hear what he said, but I am certain that he said it...

For several days—to my amazement, for I knew they were at Cheniston—there was no reply. Then I met Spenworth in the street.

"Oh, I say!," he began. (You know that hunting-field voice of his?) "You aren't playing the game with poor old Arthur, you know."

"I'm afraid I must beg for enlightenment," I said.

"Oh, well, you know, this is the first time the poor old boy has ever left the rails." (I am always lost in admiration of Spenworth's elegance!) "Dust his jacket for him at home as much as you like, but don't make him eat humble-pie in public, don't make an exhibition of him."

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

"Oh, bunkum! Every one knows he tried to slip his collar, every one thought he'd got away; and, now that you've recaptured him, you want to shew him off in his muzzle. 'Tain't cricket, Ann, if you ask me; you've won, and there's no need to crow over the old boy. 'Tain't as if he'd given you any trouble before."

"I must give it up," I said in despair. "Spenworth, will you tell me—in language comprehensible to my poor wits—whether you and your wife are coming to dine on the eighteenth?"

"Thank you very much, Ann," he answered, "we are not. 'Matter o' fact, I'm taking the chair at a regimental dinner, but if I wasn't... I think it's an infernal shame and I hope it's a rotten party."

And then he turned on his heel...

I can never see his charm, myself. People excuse his rudeness, his immorality, his utterly wasted, self-indulgent life... They say he's "such a good fellow", whatever that may mean... But I find it very hard to speak coolly about Spenworth...

Without wanting to be inhospitable, I was secretly relieved that he could not come. The dear princess is the soul of tolerance, but I was not at all sure how she would receive his name; I was not at all sure that he would even behave himself properly. Did I ever tell you how he set himself to drive the Archbishop out of the house by sheer—but I prefer not to discuss it. "Indecency" is really the only word; under the guise of an ethical discussion... As we literally cannot sit down more than twenty-four in Mount Street, two spare places are a consideration. I was fortunate enough to secure the Duke and Duchess of Yarrow; one had not seen much of them for some years, and the duchess is so deaf that I sometimes wonder whether she is really quite right in her head, but the duke is a director of the Far East Trading Company, and I thought that, if Will ever did think of going abroad to seek his fortune, the duke ought to know of it before he was snapped up by any one else. The others... But I expect you saw the list; it was in all the papers—the Bishop of Hatwell, dear old Lady Ursula Bedmont, the Minister of Fine Arts, the Spanish Ambassador...

Or was it the Italian? I'm quite stupid about remembering who was there. It was so long since I'd given a party of any kind that I'm not ashamed to confess I was a little nervous. And we began badly: Lord Fenchurch, who really grows more and more absent-minded every day, arrived with a black tie and one of those detestable little jackets that young men affect in theatres. Arthur was waiting in the hall to receive the princess and in a moment had him fitted out properly, while a maid dashed to Hay Hill to fetch his St. George. (As Arthur said, "We can lend you anything from the South African medal to the Victorian Order, but we don't fly as high as Garters.")

One or two tiny hitches like that, just enough to make me nervous... When the princess arrived, all was transformed: she was more than gracious, wanting to know why she never saw anything of me nowadays... Some people are quite wonderfully able to give you that sense of well-being. I presented Will. She said:

"But you're not old enough to have a grown-up son!"

"I am old enough to be proud of it, ma'am," I said.

I don't think I am envious; but, when I saw the success of my little party, when I looked at Brackenbury, who has the money and does nothing with it, and at Ruth, who couldn't do anything with it if she wanted to ... just an over-grown school-girl... When I thought of Spenworth and the opportunities at Cheniston, I felt it was a little hard... They do come to me, gladly, graciously; and I am not in a position to entertain them...

After dinner we had music...

I don't know what your experience has been, but I find it hard to remain patient with the whole world of people who delight in calling themselves "artists". (If English has any meaning, an artist is a person who paints, not a fiddler or a poet or an actor.) So much fuss has been made of them that their heads have really been turned. Before I had quite decided what music to have, I heard a young man playing at Connie Maitland's. Quite well he played—for an Englishman, and I asked Connie to present him.

"I have a few friends dining on the eighteenth," I said, "and I was wondering whether you would be so very kind as to come and give us an opportunity of hearing a little more of your too delightful playing."

These people expect to be flattered, as no doubt you know...

"The eighteenth?," he repeated. "I'm not dining anywhere that night, so far as I know; I will come with great pleasure."

The impudence of the man!

"Dinner itself..." I said. "My dining-room is so absurdly small that I am absolutely restricted in numbers. But afterwards... I have asked a few friends, real music-lovers; say about half-past ten. The address—"

"Oh," he interrupted, "I'll ask you to get in touch with my agent. He'll tell you my terms and make all arrangements."

"But there are no arrangements to make," I protested. "Lady Maitland told me that you were a new-comer to London, and I thought you might like to meet a few people..."

And then I told him that the princess had graciously promised to come.

The young man thought it over—for all the world as though he were at a bazaar and I were pressing him to buy something that he didn't want! I was beside myself...

"I should like to meet her," he was good enough to say. "She may be useful. All right, I'll do it this once."

And, do you know, it was on the tip of my tongue to say that never should he set foot inside my house! First of all inviting himself to dinner, then trying to make me pay him for coming... An artist I can understand; and a tradesman I can understand. But this hybrid...

And on the night he insisted on my presenting him to the princess. Insisted! There is no other word... She, of course, was too sweet ... made no objection and even complimented him. I kept thinking of the old days. When my niece Phyllida came out just before the war, Brackenbury gave a ball for her and asked me to do what I could (Ruth is worse than useless on such occasions, because she tries to cover up her ignorance by saying it doesn't matter—and being obstinate about it). I ordered the band—from those really nice people in Clifford Street—; and the princess was present on that occasion too. I wondered what we should have thought if the leader had strolled up, baton in hand, and said: "Oh, won't you present me to Her Royal Highness?" ...

I will say this boy played well. Magnetically... The whole room was silent and motionless. One looked up through a mist, as it were, and saw rows of rapt faces, a regiment of men by the walls, a mere black and white cloud by the door.

At first I did not notice...

I mean, one cannot be expected to identify eighty or a hundred people all at once; the princess was obviously my first concern, and, when this young fellow ceased playing and I stood up, naturally I imagined that they would all come forward. So they did ... some of them. I am not good at recognizing people, so I made allowances for myself; but, even so, a great many of the faces were unfamiliar. Nothing in that, you may say; a little music and some light refreshments—sandwiches and cake, you know, with perhaps claret-cup and coffee—afford a wonderful opportunity for making a little return to people whom one truly honestly doesn't want to have dining; I'm sure you understand! There is nothing wrong with them or I would not invite them to have the honour of meeting the princess; but, as Will would say, they just don't pull their weight in the boat... I recognized one or two ... and then, really, I did not know what to make of it. After anything I may have said to the princess about the unpleasantly go-as-you-please, enjoy-yourself-and-don't-ask-questions character of modern London, you may be sure that I had not encouraged anybody to collect the first half-dozen waifs and strays from the street and bring them in. Every one had been told that the princess would be there, so that they might equip themselves accordingly; yet, when I looked round the room, I did not know a tenth of the people!

It was like a bad dream! You know my drawing-room in Mount Street: windows on the south side, and between them a sofa on which I was sitting with the princess; to the left, at the far end, the piano; to the right, the door. At one moment—a perfect picture! Dear old Lord Fenchurch with his St. George, Brackenbury with the Bath, my boy with his war medals—almost every one with a little something to enhance what will always be the most dignified dress in the world. Repose... Distinction. And then, at the door, an invading army! Men I had never seen before, some in uniform, some in those detestable little jackets and limp, pleated shirts; flushed, dishevelled... And all of them unknown to me as the man in the moon! The princess, perhaps you know, abominates the smell of tobacco; need I say that a positive cloud of smoke was bursting in from the stair-case? ...

If it had been the men alone, I could have borne it. Somehow one would have carried it off... I made my way, through this sea of strange faces, to the door—and I really believe that, if I had found the Jacquerie in possession, I could hardly have been more astounded. With the men there were girls, scores and scores of them, surging up to the door, lolling about on the stairs, smoking cigarettes in the hall, powdering their horrible little noses. One glance was enough... The dresses alone—skirts that hardly reached their knees, bodices that hardly reached their waists, "the shoe and shoulder-strap brigade", as my boy calls them. A reek of powder and cheap scent...

"What," I said, "what have I done to deserve this?"

You would think that my cross was sufficiently heavy, but I was evidently to be spared nothing. Some of the men were not even sober! As I came on to the landing, some one said—with great elegance—:

"Here, old thing, you'd better go home and sleep it off."

Don't let me claim more pity than I deserve! I was spared a free fight. When the Arbiter of Taste had returned from escorting his friend downstairs, I said to him:

"I must beg for enlightenment. There has evidently been a mistake. I cannot remember having invited you; and I think you must have come to the wrong house."

He looked a little surprised, but rallied at once and pulled from his pocket a menu with the address written on it.

"We were told that you were giving a dance and that we might come," he said. "I am addressing Lady Ann Spenworth, am I not?"

"You are," I said, "but there's some hideous mistake. Dance? There's no dance. Who told you?"

"Lord Spenworth," he answered. "At the regimental dinner. He said that you were giving a party; some of us were a bit shy of coming without an invitation, but he assured us that we should be as welcome as he was. We'd all arranged to go on to Ledlow's; so, as soon as we'd found our partners, on we came. Is it the wrong night?"

"Wrong night!," I said. "All nights are wrong nights! My brother-in-law must have made a mistake. I am giving a little party and I invited him..."

And then I whispered to this boy about the princess. I must say that he behaved well. It can never be pleasant to find yourself in a house where you're not expected and where, only too plainly, you're not wanted. He saw my terrible position...

"I hope you realize it's not our fault," he said.

"I acquit you of everything," I cried. "But won't you explain to your friends and—and get them away?"

He promised to do his best, though some of the men looked anything but tractable; and I went back to the princess, hoping that the music would drown all the going and coming. "Play like mad!," I whispered to this boy at the piano; "Noise, at all costs!" And, as if I hadn't enough to bear, I thought he was going to take offence. Half-way through, the door opened a crack, and I saw—who do you think? Colonel Butler; Phyllida's cabman hero. Nothing could surprise me then—the fact that he was in evening-dress... If he'd brought his cab in with him...

I hurried to the door, no longer caring whether he met Phyllida, whether she threw herself at his head... Anything...

"This is a case for heroic measures, Lady Ann," he said, when I had explained my tragic position. "Some of these fellows have been doing themselves rather well and they swear they won't go without a dance. If you leave things to me, I believe I can pull you through. Certainly I'll do my best, but you must back me up in everything. Is that agreed? Then, as soon as the music stops, will you present me to the princess? I'll get hold of your husband and Will and tell them what has to be done."

I asked leave to present him... The princess knew his name, knew all about him—far more than I had ever guessed. It appears that he ought to have had the V.C.; and, if it lay in my gift, he should have had it that night! Oh, I don't wonder that he did well in the war. Such coolness, determination, foresight...

"I expect Lady Ann has told you, ma'am," he began, "that the Forest Rangers have been having their regimental dinner. Lady Ann has most kindly lent us the house for a little dance later on. I want to know whether I may ask an extraordinary favour. It will give immense gratification if you will allow Lady Ann to present the officers to you before the dance begins. I know it's a very big thing to ask, because there are a great many of them; but, if you knew the pleasure you would confer, I could almost hope that you would forgive my presumption."

The princess is really and truly the sweetest woman I know. Was there a moment's hesitation? Colonel Butler brought them in, one after another, announced the names, herded them out again, brought in more. Arthur hunted them upstairs to his bedroom as they came out, so that there should be a little room on the stairs... And, when she came out—this presentation was really a very clever stroke on Colonel Butler's part to give her an excuse for leaving—, there was a word and a smile for every one—praising the girls' dresses, saying she hoped that all the young people would have a very pleasant time. Graciousness like that cannot be learned, but perhaps a certain dignity can. To do these girls justice, they behaved quite admirably; no familiarity, no nervousness—to the outward eye. I hope for their sakes that, when they compared their own "shoes and shoulder-straps" with what was thought fitting to be worn by another generation, trained in a different school, the lesson was not altogether thrown away...

I did not suppose that Colonel Butler seriously intended that I should improvize a dance at a moment's notice, but I had misjudged my man. He had given his word, he said, and, if he broke it, there might be an unpleasant scene; if, however, I would back him up, he would "see me through" again. Almost before the princess was out of the house, one section was rolling back the rug in the drawing-room and disposing of the furniture. Arthur, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was dashing down to the cellar and up again, bringing wine that literally cannot be replaced; and, to judge from next day's accounts, it must have been Colonel Butler himself who won over my rather unyielding cook. He has a gift of silver speech; the superior young man at the piano, who always left all arrangements of terms to his agent, if you please, sat with a bottle of champagne and a plate of sandwiches playing till four o'clock...

The relief was so great that I really quite lost my head. Colonel Butler asked me for the first dance—quite charmingly.

"Your manners are better than your judgement of age," I said. "I have not danced for thirty years."

"But it's quite simple," he explained. "Walk round the room in time with the music, turn when you feel inclined and add any frills you like when we've got into each other's step."

And I did...

Jean Yarrow I found later, helping him to cut sandwiches and bawling the most unsuitable answers to questions which, poor soul, she could not hear. When he said something about "potted tongue", she thought he said "clot in the lung" and gave him a history of her own complaints which I could not help feeling was not suitable for the ears of a young man... The duke, meanwhile, was mixing cup by some secret process that he had learned at Cambridge; I hoped it would save the wine a little, but from this point of view it was not a success. They only asked for more, like that boy in the book...

To use a favourite word of Will's, Colonel Butler was a "superman." But for him... I mean, there was plenty of high spirits but not a hint of rowdiness. And he was master of the ceremonies, cook, butler, carriage-finder. The older generation, too, has been so much thrust into the background that we find it refreshing when a young man shews a little politeness and consideration. As soon as supper was ready—he had prepared it with his own hands—, Colonel Butler asked if he might take me down. Arthur was with me and he at once intervened.

"No, no," he said. "You're a dancing man. Go off and find Phyllida. You'll spoil her evening if you don't ask her to dance."

I should have thought it was hardly necessary to throw the girl at him like that, but after the way Brackenbury and Ruth had been crying over their lost sheep...

"It's no use your thinking you can keep her for Will," Arthur said, though I had never uttered a word. "Look at them—meeting... And now look at them—dancing. Come down to supper."

I don't think that any account of the dance was published in the press. I certainly supplied no particulars. But I expect you read about the dinner. I have been inundated with letters of thanks—the most touching, unquestionably, from the princess, who loved what she called my little informal gathering. It was not quite what I had intended, but the effect was good; when our friends saw us together—I mean Arthur and me, of course—harmoniously, lovingly...

As regards Phyllida and Colonel Butler, you know as much as I do... There has been no announcement; and, if people do not wish to tell me things, I do not choose to ask...

From every point of view—almost, the evening was highly successful.

But I shall never forgive Spenworth, never... As long as I live...

X

LADY ANN SPENWORTH IS A PRISONER IN HER OWN HOUSE

Lady Ann (to a friend of proved discretion): You must forgive me for making you wait like this. The servants have positive instructions to say that I am not at home to any one until I have been specifically asked. Why one should be at the mercy of anybody who chooses to burst in... When all is said and done, the Englishman's home is still his castle.

Partly I have been busy, partly I have been very much worried, partly I have been driven to it in self-defence. I only wish I had been more unyielding before. I told you of the mad clergyman from Morecambe who swept like a whirl-wind into this room, demanding to see my husband and, so far as I can make out, trying to browbeat my boy into marrying his daughter... It began from that day, and I find it hard to forgive Arthur for not enlightening me. With Will it was altogether different; no man that I should care to meet would try to get out of a difficulty at the expense of a woman. The code forbids that...

But, if Arthur—who knew as soon as there was anything to know—had told me, I should have acted at once; we should not be in our present state of absolute uncertainty, simply waiting with folded hands for the next blow to fall... Men have a strange idea that certain things are exclusively their province; their wives, even the mothers of their children must remain outside the door until it is too late to repair the damage. I was not told the facts until two days ago...

When my boy was offered that position at Morecambe, I went with him to see that he had a place fit to live in. The Phentons seemed our best hope, they were highly recommended, and I will say ungrudgingly that they played their cards well. An elderly clergyman, who had resigned his benefice on account of ill-health, a decent motherly woman for wife—and these two girls, young, presentable and thoroughly nice... If you tell me that I am too unready to think ill of people, I have no defence—except to say that I am not prepared to go through life suspecting... Molly Phenton was very much "the old country parson's pretty little daughter"; simple, innocent, shy; a little fluttered, you would say, when she heard who we were, and agreeably excited by the prospect of having a good-looking young man to stay in the house...

Perhaps she overdid the innocence. Eyes are eyes, and saucers are saucers... But I don't wish to appear wise after the event. I was completely taken in...

And so was Will. She was clever enough to guess that this was the appeal to reach him quickest: the simple little girl with the soft hair and the big grey eyes, living out of the world with her old father, no brothers to protect her or teach her anything. One would never have been surprised to find her affecting a lisp... She deliberately laid herself out to catch my boy.

You must not ask me what happened. I have never been forced to study the methods of campaign which a woman adopts for such a purpose. No doubt she tried first of all to attract him innocently. Whatever success she had, poor Will is not free to marry where his heart leads him, unless his heart leads him where there is some money (I have always, as you know, dreaded an entanglement with some girl whom he would simply have to support all his life); and Will is too honourable to give any encouragement to some one he has no intention of marrying. You will understand me, too, when I say that no one could have called it a very suitable alliance—for him or for her; it is no kindness to a girl to transport her from her own world, though—poor souls!—they all fancy that, if they can achieve a great match, they will be happy, and the rest will come by the light of nature. Goodness me, have we not seen that tragically disproved with Ruth Brackenbury and Kathleen Spenworth? Will and this girl had nothing in common. If she married him, it would be over my dead body...

If she did not see this, at least she saw that she was making no impression on my boy; and then I am sadly afraid that she deliberately laid herself out to tempt him. I have seen enough of life to know that, when a woman abandons herself to this kind of thing, very few even of the purest and best are proof against her wiles. This Molly had made up her mind to get a hold on Will; and, once she had decided on that, she would stop at nothing.

I never knew a thing at the time. When my boy suddenly arrived in London, when the mad clergyman followed him and insisted on seeing Arthur, I thought that she would content herself with making him compromise her. If they could be discovered kissing ... as they were... And that was all that even her father was allowed to know at the time, though she talked about a promise of marriage. But she was clever enough to know that she couldn't make a man marry her because he had kissed her...

So far as I can see, there is no doubt at all... I did not ask Will, because I could not bear him to tell me an untruth; and the code ordains that a man must never admit such a thing, always the woman must be shielded. One did not need to be his mother in order to see that he was worried. Remorse... The sense that nothing could ever again be the same... Hatred of himself... Hatred of her... And, all the while, I had to sit with my hands in my lap, seeing his health and happiness ruined. He could not eat, he could not sleep; Sir Appleton kept writing and telephoning to ask when Will was coming to see him, but there was no question of trying to find fresh work... And at any moment this wild man of the woods might descend upon us again.

The first time he came—I, if you please, was not allowed in the room—, Arthur would only stamp up and down, saying that Will—our boy—was a scamp and deserved horse-whipping. I begged for enlightenment, but at this period the wild man only claimed that Will had compromised his Molly and that there had been a promise of marriage... Exactly what one would have expected! Precisely what the girl was working for! That was the moment to strike and to strike hard. "A promise of marriage? Prove it!" I well knew that Will was too instinctively wise to write her letters—and they were in the same house!—or to give her presents. But I was informed that this was not a woman's province. So we dragged on, waiting for the blow...

I quite dreaded the Morecambe post-mark. The girl wrote every other day, and every letter seemed to plunge poor Will into deeper gloom. The code would not let him make a confidant of his mother, but one day I saw one of these letters. It bore no name and opened with a flood of mingled passion and reproach; only when I saw "Your heart-broken Molly" at the end did I realize that the letter was intended for Will. She was begging him to come back and talking a great deal about his "promise"... I should have paid no attention if there had not been other things as well: talk about her "honour" and so on and so forth... Her "soul"... God would never forgive her—the egotism of the girl! ... Then I felt that, to get a hold on Will, she had stopped at nothing...

I wonder what you would have done in my place? ... Constant dripping wears away a stone, and this dazing attack would in time have broken down my boy's resistance. Suppose he had let himself be blackmailed into marrying her! No money on either side—and Will's parents could do nothing to help—, not a taste in common, two people drawn from different worlds... And this terrible, blasting knowledge that he—and she—and I had of the girl's character. Ruin, misery lay before them. And nothing else...