Part 7

Mr. Harp’s offer was a bad one, as offers go. Chancery was a show place. Charles the First had stayed there, and Cromwell too. The latter had crossed the body of a Gray Bagot to gain admittance. Some of Chancery’s furniture had stood in the same corners for more than three hundred years. The library had been collected by a Bagot in the reign of Queen Anne. Mr. Harp’s offer was absurd. Still . . . Offers were hard to come by nowadays. Mr. Harp’s was the first that had been made in seven months.

When all that had to be paid had been discharged, of the forty-five thousand there would remain five thousand pounds. This, safely invested, would bring in two hundred a year. And a man could live on that—even one who had been a Captain in His Majesty’s Household Brigade.

_Sic transit_ . . .

Willoughby posted his letter and then walked round the park, and in by the western gate. He passed about the lodge, marking its bulwarks. After a final look, he turned slowly away.

“What a thought,” he said. “Two hundred and fifty a year and rent-free. If it comes off, I shall be on _panne_ velvet.”

* * * * *

Two months had gone by, and Mr. and Mrs. Harp were beginning to grow accustomed to the thrilling reflection that Chancery was theirs. Their possession of the place was peaceful; their enjoyment of it quiet. But their unconcealed delight in their acquisition was almost childish. For days together they never went outside the gates. . . . After a week or two of private revelry in their surroundings, they pressed invitations upon a pack of friends and relatives, whose company they did not desire, because their pride of ownership simply had to be served. This was clamouring for the meat and drink of stares and ejaculations and bated breath. Their precious toy had to be admired. As for the Groom of the Chambers, not to advertise their employment of such a paragon would have been tantamount to suppressing the Kohinoor. He was the light of their eyes.

They had, of course, no idea that John Worcester, tall, quiet, respectful, constantly about the reception rooms, dusting, ordering, cleaning, polishing this old bureau, rehanging that picture, was Willoughby Gray Bagot.

There was no reason why they should have perceived the masquerade. They certainly recognized that Worcester was no ordinary servant, but the mystery stifled curiosity, as mysteries may. One never could tell. Revelation might cost them his service, and—the best was good enough for them. They had never set eyes upon the vendor before the sale, and Willoughby had spread it abroad that he was bound for New Zealand. At the lodge he lived quietly enough, his only servant being an old groom who kept his own counsel. In the village, two miles away, he had been scarcely known by sight. Such letters as he received went first to a Bank, where they were redirected to ‘Mr. Worcester.’ Captain Bagot had covered his tracks.

It must be admitted that the Harps’ estimate was just. Willoughby gave their home a care which money cannot buy, and themselves a service which they had never dreamed of. He was the last word.

So far as the other servants were concerned, Mr. Worcester and all his works were naturally regarded with a profound disgust. This was not expressed, mainly because the staff profited so handsomely by his labour. But the scorn and indignation which his faithful maintenance of the reception rooms provoked, were largely responsible for the concord which ruled the Servants’ Hall.

It was, indeed, as much the unpleasant personality of the butler as the virtues of the Groom of the Chambers that in June determined his patrons to attempt an important change. In a few days their guests would arrive. If only they could induce Worcester to take the butler’s place, they would be spared the humiliation of being treated like dirt before their visitors, while their star servitor, instead of flitting in the background, would be agreeably conspicuous.

They approached him delicately, without success. The Groom of the Chambers was respectful, but resolute. He declined the offer gently, but definitely and without hesitation. Then he excused himself and withdrew to continue his revision of the library’s catalogue.

As the door closed—

“’Ell,” said Mr. Harp, subjecting his nose to violence.

“Me too,” said his wife miserably. “I’d set me ’eart on that, I ’ad. ’E’ld look so lovely in a dress-soot, too. An’ now . . .”

A fat tear of disappointment made its appearance, and, after poising for an instant upon the brow of her cheek, fell heavily into the broad valley of her lap.

Mr. Harp rose to the occasion and crossed to her side.

“There, there, me dear,” he said kindly, “don’ take on. We can’t ’ave everything. Bowler’s very tryin’, in course, but——”

“I ’ate the brute,” sobbed his wife. “Anyone would. Nasty, ’ulkin’ wretch. Laughin’ and sneerin’ at us ’cos we ain’t gentry; and takin’ our money and food, ’and over fist. An’ hall the rest as bad, and that impudent, no one would never believe. An’ the honly one wot is hones’ and respec’ful as good as in ’idin’—goes out o’ the room when we comes in, comes in when we goes out, ’ides. . . . It’s too crool,’Arp, and that’s the truth. Worcester’s a walkin’ treat. ’E puts a thousan’ pound on the ’ouse—easy. An’ ’alf the blighters comin’ ’ll never know ’e’s ’ere.”

“I’ll see they know,” said Mr. Harp violently. “I’ll fix that. Besides, they’ll ’appen acrost ’im in the course of ’is dooties—boun’ to.”

“’Snot the same,” cried his wife. “You know it ain’t. We’re buryin’ a talent, we are. Other folk ’as fine ’ouses, but there ain’t a mansion in London wot’s got a servant like ’im. ’E tones the whole show up. We ain’t stylish, and as for Bowler and the rest of them rotten sneaks, they’d let a doss-’ouse down: but Worcester’s a peach. . . . An’ we’re _buryin’ ’im_.”

Her husband stamped to the window and regarded his smiling acres with a dismal stare. Mrs. Harp had a knack of reciting unpleasant facts with a pitiless clarity which paralysed consolation.

Presently, he took a cigar from his waistcoat-pocket and, after savaging the butt, thrust his quarry reflectively between his teeth. As he felt for a match, the idea flashed into his mind.

Trembling with excitement, he snatched the cigar from his lips, and swung round, mouthing.

“Jane, I’ve got it! Got it in one, I ’ave! Oh, lovely! Listen ’ere. Worcester’s Groom of the Chambers, ain’t he? Good. ’E shall ’ave a show as’ll beat the ragtime band—’e, an’ the ’ouse and us, the ’ole year round. ’Old me, someone: I’m that excited and wrought, I can’t talk straight. Listen ’ere. Chancery’s a show place, ain’t it? Figures in the ’istories and guides—used to be shown, once. Well _we’ll show it again—throw it open to visitors daily, from two to four_. The visitors won’ worry us—I’ll love to see ’em. _An’ Worcester ’ll show ’em round. . . ._”

With a seraphic smile, Mrs. Harp got upon her feet and began to dance. . . .

A few days later it was announced that, by the direction of the owner, Chancery, one of the most exquisite examples of a mediæval manor-house, had been thrown open to the public and could be visited until further notice any weekday between the hours of two and four o’clock.

* * * * *

The four Americans passed slowly round the broad, flagged walk and, turning a corner of the house, found themselves once more before the main doorway. Their tour of the apartments had lasted half an hour.

One of the men took out a note-case, but the girl touched his arm and shook her head.

“No, no,” she whispered.

The man hesitated, pointing to the back of their guide.

“Put it away,” said the girl shortly.

Her squire obeyed, staring.

Willoughby Bagot turned.

The moment he always dreaded had arrived.

He was about to be offered payment which he could not in decency refuse.

He always gave his tips to the butler, and was thought a prize fool for his pains, but his patrons could not know that.

“That is all that is shown, madam.”

The two women inclined their heads.

“Thank you very much,” said the elder pleasantly. “We’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

Willoughby bowed.

For a reason which they could never satisfactorily explain, the two male visitors raised their hats, and the party turned towards the car, which was glittering before the lodge, two furlongs away.

Willoughby felt very grateful. . . .

From a window he watched the quartette making their way along the avenue. He had liked them, and they had made his task easy. Besides, throughout the tour, he had been used as a gentleman.

The girl, especially, seemed to have understood. He was faintly surprised that she had not added her thanks to those of her—her aunt, probably.

Suddenly the former turned and came pelting back.

The men, who were walking ahead, did not observe her movement. Her elderly companion proceeded more leisurely.

Willoughby left the window and returned to the door.

As she arrived, he opened this readily.

“I think I’ve left my bag in one of the chambers. I fancy I put it down in the picture-gallery.”

Willoughby led her to the staircase and she passed up. He followed pleasedly, marking her as she went.

She was tall and slight, and moved with an easy grace. The slim, bare hand, resting upon the banisters, was small and firm and shapely. Its trim nails shone. Her straight back, the even poise of her head, her beautiful ankles, would have delighted a sculptor. Her plain tussore dress and pert little hat suited her perfectly. As for her white silk stockings . . .

At the top of the staircase my lady turned to the right.

“I know my way, you see,” she flashed over her shoulder.

Willoughby smiled.

Her face was glowing. Its fine colour and the big brown eyes, the small nose and the proud curve of the lips reminded the man of a picture he once had seen. As for her friendliness, little wonder that it entered into his soul.

The bag lay in an alcove—a little, delicate business of powder-blue and gold. Its beads were so fine, they might have been stitches of silk.

The girl picked it up and turned to the man.

“I left this here on purpose,” she said quietly. “I wanted to speak to you when the others were gone. You don’t remember me, but I met you in Philadelphia, before the War. I had my hair down then. Why are you doing this?”

“I was staying with the Stacks,” said Bagot, knitting his brows.

“That’s right. In 1914. But I tell you, my hair was down, so you wouldn’t remember. Besides . . . What are you doing here? You were in the Blues.”

“That’s over,” said Willoughby slowly. “Now, I’m in service. This was my home.”

“This?”

He nodded.

“I lost my money, you see, and the place had to go. They’re very nice people, luckily. They’ve no idea who I am, and—and it serves my turn. I live at the second lodge.”

“How can you bear it?” said the girl.

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

“You speak as if it were a friend.”

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

The girl turned to the door.

“You’re faithful,” she said.

Willoughby shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

As he opened the great front-door—

“Good-bye, Spring,” said Willoughby.

My lady flung him a bewitching smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring raised her brown eyes to heaven.

“Which means I’ve come uninvited?”

Willoughby bowed.

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

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

Bagot put his head on one side.

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

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

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

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

Spring nodded.

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

“Do they? I mean, shall you?”

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

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

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

“How?”

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

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

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

There was a long silence.

At length—

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

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

“Would you do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. But then, I’m a fool.”

“Exactly,” said Willoughby. “So’m I.”

Spring frowned.

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

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

Spring covered her face and shook with merriment.

Presently she sat up soberly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring looked up, smiling.

“Keep something for the heiress,” she said.

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

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

A door was opened and someone descended into the road.

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

“Can I help you, sir?”

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

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

The way to Holy Brush was asked and told.

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

The look upon his face told Spring two things.

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

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

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

Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape.

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

* * * * *

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

On the fifth day, Spring did not come.

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

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

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