CHAPTER XXI

A FINE HUNTING MORNING

The big dining-room of Wilborough Hall, with a table at one end of it as a buffet, was full of people eating and drinking and talking and laughing. As Grafton and Barbara and Young George went in, they saw few there whom they did not know, and among the crowd there were many who could already be counted as friends.

No gathering of this sort could be found in a city, nor in many countries outside England, where the land is loved, and lived on, by those who could centre themselves elsewhere if they chose. To the Graftons, as new-comers, the people gathered here from a radius of some miles were beginning to be known in the actualities of their lives as acquaintances in London never could be known, except those who could be called friends. Each of them represented something recognised and fixed, which gave them an interest and an atmosphere. They belonged here and there, and their belongings coloured them, more perhaps even than their characters or achievements.

Achievement, indeed, was scarcely represented. There were two members of the House of Lords, neither of whom ever visited that assembly, and a member of the House of Commons, who never spoke there if he could possibly help it. There were a few undistinguished barristers, and some as yet undistinguished soldiers. To the world outside the circle to which these people mostly belonged, scarcely a name represented there would have been familiar; and yet in a similar gathering anywhere in England the names of many of them would have been known, and would have meant something.

What they would have meant, among other things, if worked back to beginnings, would have been the ownership of England. If the people in this room, most of them unimportant if tested by their capacity to achieve power among their fellows by unaided effort, had been taken as a centre, and the circle widened, and widened again by the inclusion of all those related by birth or marriage, it would eventually have covered all but a spot here and there of the map of the United Kingdom, and the great mass of the inhabitants of these islands would have been left outside.

In charging the whole of this particular assembly with a notable absence of achievement, exception must be made for the Bishop of the Diocese, who was there, however, as a visitor, not being in the habit of attending such gatherings of his flock in his pastoral capacity. Even he might not have reached his gaitered eminence if he had not belonged by birth to the sort of people represented here, for, in spite of the democratisation of the Church, the well-born clergyman, if he follows the lines of promotion and is not noticeably lacking in ability, still has a slight 'pull.'

The lines of promotion, however, are other than they were a generation or two ago. This bishop had begun his work in a large town parish, and had kept to the crowded ways. Hard work and a capacity for organisation are the road to success in the Church to-day. Rich country rectories must be looked at askance until they can be taken as a secondary reward, the higher prizes having been missed. Even when the prizes are gained, the highest of them no longer bring dignified leisure. A bishop is a hard-working official in these latter days, and, if overtaken by the natural desires of advancing years for rest and contemplation, must occasionally cast wistful eyes upon the reward he might have gained if he had run second in the race instead of first.

The Bishop of Meadshire was an uncle by marriage of Mrs. Carruthers, of Surley Park, who had brought him over, with other guests, to enjoy this, to him unwonted, scene. Cheerful and courteous, with a spare figure, an excellent digestion and a presumably untroubled conscience, he was well qualified to gain the fullest amount of benefit from such relaxations as a country house visit, with its usual activities and pastimes, affords.

He was standing near the door with his niece when the Graftons entered the room, and Grafton and Barbara and Young George were immediately introduced to him. This was done with the air of bringing together particular friends of the introducing party. Each would have heard much of the other, and would meet for the first time not as complete strangers.

The Bishop was, indeed, extremely cordial. A bright smile lit up his handsome and apostolic features, and he showered benignity upon Barbara and Young George when it came to their turn. "Then we've met at last," he said. "I've been hearing such a lot about you. Indeed, I may be said to have heard hardly anything about anybody else, since I've been at Surley."

Ella Carruthers had her hand on Barbara's shoulder. "I'm sure you're not disappointed in my new friends," she said, giving the girl an affectionate squeeze. "This one's the chief of them."

Barbara appeared a trifle awkward, which was not her usual habit. She liked Mrs. Carruthers, as did the whole family. They had all been together constantly during the past few weeks, ever since the returned wanderer had come over to the Abbey to call, and had shown herself a fit person to be taken immediately into their critical and exclusive society. She had triumphantly passed the tests. She was beautiful and gay, laughed at the same sort of jokes as they did, and made them, liked the same sort of books, and saw people in the same sort of light. She was also warm-hearted and impulsive, and her liking for them was expressed with few or no reserves. It had been amply responded to by all except Barbara, who had held off a little, she could not have told why, and would not have admitted to a less degree of acceptance of their new friend than her sisters. Perhaps Ella Carruthers had divined the slight hesitation, for she had made more of Barbara than of Caroline or Beatrix, but had not yet dissolved it.

As for the rest of them, they were always chanting her virtues and charm. For each of them she had something special. With Caroline she extolled a country existence, and didn't know how she could have kept away from her nice house and her lovely garden for so long. She was quite sincere in this. Caroline would soon have discovered it if she had been pretending. She did love her garden, and worked in it. And she led the right sort of life in her fine house, entertaining many guests, but never boring herself if they dwindled to one or two, nor allowing herself to be crowded out of her chosen pursuits. She read and sewed and played her piano, and was never found idle. Caroline and she were close friends.

Beatrix had made a confidant of her, and had received much sympathy. But she had told her outright that she could not have expected her father to act otherwise than he had, and Beatrix had taken it from her, as she would not have taken it from any one else.

Miss Waterhouse she treated as she was treated by her own beloved charges, with affection and respect disguised as impertinence. She was young enough and witty enough to be able to do so. Miss Waterhouse thought her position somewhat pathetic--a young girl in years, but with so much on her shoulders. She had come to think it admirable too, the way in which she fulfilled her responsibilities, which never seemed to be a burden on her. Her guardian, who was also her lawyer, advised her constantly and was frequently at Surley, but her bailiff depended on her in minor matters, and she was always accessible to her tenants, and beloved by them.

It was in much the same way that Grafton had come to regard her. In the way she lived her life as mistress of her large house, and of a property which, though it consisted of only half a dozen farms, would have over-taxed the capacity of many women, she was a paragon. And yet she was scarcely older than his own children--might have been his child in point of years--and had all the charm and light-heartedness of her youth. She had something more besides--a wise woman's head, quick to understand and respond. He was so much the companion of his own children that a friend of theirs was usually a friend of his. Many of his daughters' girl friends treated him in much the same way as if he had been Caroline and Beatrix's brother instead of their father. Ella Carruthers did. It was difficult sometimes to imagine that she was a widow and the mistress of a large house, so much did she seem to belong to the family group. In their united intercourse he had not had many opportunities of talking to her alone, and had never so far sought them. But on two or three occasions they had found themselves tete-a-tete for a time, and he had talked to her about what was filling his mind, which was Beatrix and her love-affair, and particularly her changing attitude towards himself.

She had taken his side warmly, and had given him a sense of pleasure and security in her sympathy. Also of comfort in what had become a considerable trouble to him. She knew how much Beatrix loved him, she said. She had told her so, and in any case she could not be mistaken. But she was going through a difficult time for a girl. He must have patience. Whichever way it turned out she would come back to him. How could she help it, he being what he had been to her all her life?

As to the possibility of its turning out in any way but one, she avowed herself too honest to give him hope, much as she would have liked to do so. Beatrix was in love with the man, and had not changed; nor would she change within the six months allowed her. Whether her lover would come for her again when the time was up was another question. She could tell no more than he. But he must not allow himself to be disappointed if he