Part 8

Thinking things over in his bed, he became frightened. He would see her again, of course—he hoped, many times. But a day had to come—already it was set in Fate’s diary—when he would see her no more, when their idyll would be definitely finished, to be presently bound in Memory and go up to the shelf of Time. The thought shocked him. Till now, he had never realized how pleasant she was. Her company, her ways, had become a necessity to him. Not in four days, of course. That was absurd. Custom is not so rapidly delivered. It was not a question of custom. Spring had become a necessity in half an hour. The gap she filled had been yawning for months and years, but, until it was filled, he never had known it was there. And now he did know, and its emptiness would gape upon him. Could he have quitted the place, changed his way of living, flung himself into some pursuit, had he but gone to her and she not come to him—it would have been different. As it was, so long as he cared for Chancery, dwelt at the lodge, always between five and six he would miss her excellence, turning his lonely parlour into a gallery of dreams.

For Willoughby, there lay her magic. She was his dream-lady. She had come to him as dreams do come. Their instant understanding, their immediate intimacy, their full-grown fellowship—things which should have been impossible and yet were natural as the day—were stuff that dreams are made of. . . .

Finding his legend good, he took it further, recklessly. He made her mistress of Chancery, loaded her with presents, taught her to ride. . . . The hopelessness of such fantasy did not matter at all, because it was founded on fact—a breathing, sweet-smelling fact, that sat beside him on the turf, all apple-green frock and white silk stocking and tiny tennis-shoes. With her perfume in his nostrils, he could afford to be extravagant—with her perfume in his nostrils. . . . And now . . .

_Sic transit gloria mundi._

My lady’s absence was deliberate. Spring was as wise as she was fair. She wished to discover whether Gray Bagot’s steady eyes counted with her as much as she thought they did, whether she was losing her head instead of her heart. She was not expecting for an instant to be able to read her own soul, but she was more than hopeful of extracting a valuable hint.

Her hope was realized.

By the time her aunt and she had dined she had become so _distraite_ as to provoke that usually imperturbable lady’s indignation, while, retiring at ten o’clock, she remained awake for one hour, immersed in the distasteful reflections that Time can in no wise be recalled and that they who fling opportunities in Fortune’s face can hardly be surprised if their future relations with the lady are rather strained.

At last, picturing Willoughby, she fell asleep.

Let us use her heavy brown eyes, as the delicate ranks of lashes are closing up.

Tall, spare, soldierly, the descendant of the old Gray Bagot was good to see. His hair was fair and close cut; his complexion clear and fresh; his nose aquiline. His mouth was well shaped; his voice pleasant; his grey eyes, set far apart. It was, indeed, his steady, grave gaze which was so notable. He always looked you in the face and expected to be so regarded. He liked to see, and was perfectly content to be seen. If you did as he expected, you had your reward. His character, his various emotions were spread before you in such print as a child could read. If he liked you, you saw it in his eyes, and there was a friendship made in a second of time. If he disliked you, you saw it, and that was that. But he never disliked anyone without just cause. As a matter of fact, he was generous to a fault. He looked his best, I fancy, upon a horse, but so does many a man. He had a fine, upright carriage, and his shoulders were broad. Honest, unassuming, dignified, he did his blood credit. That Chancery suited him is indisputable: his looks, his bearing, his ways agreed with her: and Chancery was a show place.

Willoughby tried not to hasten upon the sixth afternoon. His working hours were from seven till four o’clock, but, since the measure he gave was always good, he seldom left the apartments till nearer five. To-day, however, there had come no visitors to interrupt his labours, and by a quarter-past four there was no more to be conveniently done.

It follows that he reached the lodge rather before he was expected—in fact, in comfortable time to witness the delivery of a pair of pyjamas, four soft shirts and six handkerchiefs to his valet by his _repasseuse_.

“Hullo,” said Spring cheerfully. “I guess you never dreamed I could iron.” She turned to the groom, who was standing upon one leg. “That’s all to-day, William. The other two need mending, so I’ll do them to-morrow.”

“Very good, m’m.”

With an apologetic look at his master, William made good his escape.

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Willoughby. “If I’d had the faintest idea——”

“Live and let live,” said Spring. “It amuses me and it doesn’t hurt you, so why deprive a poor servant of her innocent fun?” She slid a cool arm through his. “And now take me into the garden and give me a match. By the time you’ve changed, William will have brought us some tea.”

Willoughby did as he was bid.

It was when the meal was over that Spring put her elbows on the table and knitted her brows.

“I want your advice.”

“That’s very easy,” said Bagot. “Let sleeping suits lie, and Grooms of the Chambers do their own dirty work.”

The red lips tightened.

“Thanks very much,” said Spring. “Perhaps I ought to have said that the advice I want is upon a matter upon which I value your opinion.”

Willoughby considered his finger-nails.

“I’ve got an awfully good answer to that,” he said. “A regular winner.”

“What?” suspiciously.

“Can’t think of it for the moment,” said Willoughby, “but——”

“Oh, but you will before I go. We shan’t go before next Friday. In fact I can’t. You see, I only get off in the afternoons, and William says there’s a waistcoat——”

“I capitulate,” said Willoughby quietly. “Friday? In three days’ time? Is Mrs.—er—Mrs.——“.

“Le Fevre.”

“—Le Fevre weary of Holy Brush?”

“Not that I know of,” said Spring. “I want your advice.”

“Yes?” said Willoughby.

“I have been offered another situation.”

“As companion?”

“Yes.”

Bagot took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe.

“First of all,” he said slowly, “are you happy with Mrs. Le Fevre?”

“Very. She’s awfully sweet.”

“Then I take it the new situation would be an improvement financially?”

“Yes,” said Spring shortly, “it would.”

“D’you think that you’ld have as much freedom?”

“I know that I shouldn’t.”

“You might be happier.”

“I might,” said Spring. “I’m not at all sure; but I might.”

Willoughby frowned. Then—

“Might you be less happy, Spring?”

“Easily.”

The man slid his pouch into a pocket and rose to his feet.

“My dear,” he said, “unless the increase in salary is too big to be ignored, my advice is to stay where you are.”

There was a pause.

At length—

“I think I ought to say,” said Spring slowly, “that the offer was made by a man.”

Willoughby’s heart gave one bound.

For a second he hesitated. Then—

“That alters everything,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because companions, like Grooms of the Chambers, do not figure in the table of relative precedence, whereas. . . .”

Spring stared out of the window and into the park.

“You’ve seen him,” she said. “Twice. But then you knew that.”

Willoughby nodded.

“I should say,” he said quietly, “that he was one of the best.”

“In fact, if I don’t accept, I shall be selling a bed of roses for the second ‘o’ in smoke?”

Willoughby set his teeth.

“Dear Spring,” he said, “I can’t advise your heart—only your head. But I’m bound to say that, placed as you are, you should do what your head tells you, if you possibly can. Think of the future.”

“I do,” said Spring. “That’s what worries me so.”

“Supposing Mrs. Le Fevre were to die and you to fall sick.”

“Supposing my husband treated me like a dog.”

“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,” said Bagot.

“He wouldn’t do it twice,” said Spring sweetly.

“The point is,” said Willoughby, swallowing, “that companions can be given notice, but wives can’t.”

“Wives can’t give notice, either.”

“I’ve heard of its being done.”

“Then you advise me to take my precious offer and thank my stars.”

“How can I? But I can point out that a girl in your present position is up against it. You can’t get away from that. Think. You depend for the bread you eat upon somebody else’s whim. I bet you’ve never saved. You haven’t had time. And so, you see, it’s vital that, if you can improve your position—scramble on to firmer ground—you should. Well, you’ve got a roaring chance. He’s rich, of course, and a white man—two pretty good points, you know. I don’t suggest that, if you were not a companion, you couldn’t have half London at your feet; but, as it is, my lady, you don’t get a show. So that this chance that’s come your way may never come by again. If you were rich, I should tell you to please your heart. As it is, you don’t dislike him, you’ve no reason to think he won’t do you slap up—I’m perfectly certain he will—and so I simply suggest you should please your head.”

“Which do you do?” said Spring.

“I’m a man.”

“Exactly, and you jolly well please your heart.”

“Not at all,” said Bagot, “I——”

“I imagine you could do better than serve the Harps. I mean, you weren’t born or bred to fix parlours, but, because you’re mad about Chancery, you just do.”

This was unanswerable.

After a moment’s reflection—

“A male man,” said Willoughby, “can shift for himself. If he likes to buy trouble, he can. He can always get through.”

“And what,” said Spring, ignoring his careful evasion, “what about my suggestion that you should marry a wife? You wiped the floor with it. But the instant the position is reversed, I must swallow my feelings and follow my head. What if you are a man? Men aren’t immune from sickness. Don’t say that you’ve got William, or I shall scream. If William’s as good a nurse as he is a seamstress, you wouldn’t live twenty-four hours. And look at the women there are who are up against it. They don’t go under because they’re not on concrete.”

“I don’t suggest that you would. But some of the roads of Life are pretty bad. If one can avoid the roughest, it’s—it’s just as well. Spares the frame, you know.”

“Don’t I look strong?”

“You do. I’m sure you’re as hard as nails, but nobody’s any the better for being hammered.”

“And so, although the sun’s shining, I’m to dive into the subway of marriage, in case one day it may rain.”

“At least there’s a station here,” said Bagot doggedly.

“In other words, I mayn’t get another chance. Go on. Say it right out. You’ve been hanging around, trying to hand me the statement for a quarter of an hour.”

Willoughby gasped.

“You wicked, ungrateful child.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “For sheer, bare-faced perversion, that breaks the tape. Never mind. I’m through, I am. I’ve done my best and I’m through. As some poetaster has said, ‘You can lead a girl to the altar, but you can’t make her think.’ Or is that out of _Paradise Lost_?”

With that, he seated himself upon the table and felt for a match. He was really ridiculously relieved.

Spring gave a little laugh.

“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.”

The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how to lose.

As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to burst into tears.

Before she had time, Willoughby had laid down his pipe and picked up her hand.

“That’s right,” he said, smiling. “For your sake I’m awfully glad and I believe you’ll be very happy.” He kissed the cool fingers, and turned away. “And, now that’s settled, let’s go into the Servants’ Hall.”

He had, to my mind, done well, had this Groom of the Chambers. He was, of course, desperately in love with Spring. More. By taking the office he held, he had made himself outcaste. He never could marry, because he could never allow any woman to forfeit her own degree by becoming his wife. The possibility of finding a woman whom he could love, who also was outcaste, had been too ridiculously remote to be considered. And now, this very thing had come about. Exquisite, dazzling Spring was within his reach. Whether she would have married him is beside the point, which is that he could have wooed her with a clear conscience. Yet, because of her chance of marrying one who was not outcaste, his wonderful, shining occasion must be renounced. . . . Willoughby renounced as he loved—with all his might. The man was resolute. No passing flash of pity must be permitted to affect the case, no tear of sympathy for him fall into the trembling scale. For Spring to suspect that he loved her would have been unearthly sweet. That it would actually embarrass her was most unlikely. What was a broken-down Bagot, haunting the home of his fathers like a seedy ghost—what was such a man to her? Still, the slight risk must not be taken. If she could possibly do it, she must marry her wealthy swain. To Bagot, Spring’s happiness was everything. His own did not count.

To my mind, such love was worth having.

And Spring thought likewise.

“I must be going,” she said.

Willoughby bowed.

In silence they passed through the garden and out into the drive.

As he opened the wicket-gate—

“Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why did you say you were sure he was one of the best?”

“Because I knew that, if he was not, you wouldn’t have considered his proposal.”

“But I didn’t,” said Spring, with a positively blinding smile. “I turned him down last night.”

“You turned him down?” shouted Bagot.

Spring smiled very sweetly.

“I thought I told you,” she said, “that I was a fool.”

She left him staring, and pelted down the road.

* * * * *

Spring came the next afternoon, but was gone before four o’clock.

Then came Thursday.

Willoughby found her framed in the little porch.

“Change quickly,” she said. “I mustn’t stay long to-day.”

“Packing?” said Willoughby quietly.

“Yes.”

They ate their tea without laughter. The spirit of parting was hovering over the meal.

Afterwards they sat by the window, for, though the sun was shining, it had rained a lot that morning, and the world was wet.

Spring sat like a child, perched on the deep sill, smoking a cigarette and peering at Chancery out of the leaded panes.

“You will remember it all?” said the Groom of the Chambers.

“Yes—all.”

“It’s like a tale, don’t you think? A slice of a fairy tale. In the distance, the shining castle, and here, on the fringe of its domain, the little cot.”

“Where the poor boy dwelt who was really the rightful heir, with one old retainer to whom he was still the lord.”

“And one day a Princess came, with hair as dark as night, and eyes that were unfair, they were so big, and—and silk stockings, and all. And she recognized the poor boy (_sic_) and, because she had a nice, soft heart, she came and had tea with him, instead of visiting the castle.”

“And the silly part of it was,” said Spring, “that she wasn’t a Princess at all, but an ordinary, poor girl, who was——”

“She was a Princess,” said Bagot. “She hadn’t got the riches or the Court she should have had, but—oh, anyone could see she was a Princess.”

“Any way, the boy treated her like one, which was very nice for her, and, when the time came for her to go——”

“The boy lost his wits,” said Bagot steadily, “and made a fool of himself.” Spring turned and looked at him. “You’ll never guess what he did. He forgot that he was no longer lord of the castle. It wasn’t altogether his fault, because the presence of the Princess had made his cottage all glorious. Be that as it may, he thought how wonderful it would be if only—the—Princess—didn’t—go. . . . And when he came to his senses and saw what a madman he’d been, the idea was so precious, that he couldn’t get it out of his head. You see, she’d seen what his life was, and she seemed to understand, and she did like Chancery, and he had two hundred a year, as well as his wages, and he could be home by half-past four every day, and there was a bathroom upstairs, and——” He stopped short there, and clapped his hands to his temples. Then he burst out tempestuously. “Oh, Spring, darling, why did you ever come to dazzle my wretched eyes? You couldn’t stick it, I know. It’s absurd, grotesque, comic. The clothes you’re wearing are worth more than I earn in a year. I’m mad—raving.” He sank his head upon his chest and put out his hand. “Give me your blessed fingers to kiss before you go, and then—go as you came, my sweet, like a breath of air, like a perfume out of the night. I’ll try and think it’s been a dream—a wonderful, golden dream, which the good gods sent me, to make my memory rich. You know. When first you wake, you could weep to think it isn’t true; but, after a while, you’re grateful for just the dream.”

Spring put down her face and kissed his hand.

Then she slid off the sill and put her arms round his neck.

“Why d’you think I came back that day? Why d’you think I left my bag in the gallery? Why d’you think I’ve come here? Because I love you, Willoughby—loved you before you loved me. I don’t care what you’ve got, or what you haven’t. I only want to share your life.”

“My wonderful darling,” said Bagot, and kissed her mouth.

* * * * *

Miss Consuelo Spring Lindley became Mrs. Willoughby Bagot ere August was old. The wedding took place one morning at Holy Brush and was extremely quiet.

Mr. Worcester obtained one day’s leave without arousing suspicion, and the quick congregation consisted of a tearful Mrs. Le Fevre, that lady’s solicitor, who gave the bride away, and William, the groom. For the dead I cannot answer, but if polished brass and marble may be believed, eleven Gray Bagots slept through the simple service beneath the cold, white flags.

The following morning, Benedict was back at his work.

This, however, was destined to be disturbed.

Shortly before ten o’clock, his employer summoned him to the library, and bade him close the door.

“Worcester,” said Mr. Harp, “I ’ave some very queer noos. In fac’, I’m all of a shake—never ’ad such a night in me life, wakin’ up all of a sweat and tossin’ and tryin’ to think, till me brain rebelled against me.” He sighed heavily, holding a hand to his head. “As for Mrs. ’Arp, she’s that struck and bewildered, she’s stayin’ in bed.”

Willoughby regarded his employer and then fixed his eyes upon the floor.

“Yes, sir?” he said steadily.

“Yesterday afternoon I ’ad an offer for the ’ouse.” The Groom of the Chambers started and then went very pale. “Lock, stock and barrel—just as I bought it meself.” Mr. Harp paused as if seeking for appropriate words. Suddenly he smote upon the table and let out a cry. “They might’ve offered me twice—free times what I gave and I’d ’ave ’ad ’em shown out wiv a flea in their ear. Forty-five thousan’ I paid, as p’r’aps you know. Well—I can’t ’ardly believe it, _but they offered me ten times that_.”

“Four hundred and fifty thousand!”

“Four ’undred and fifty thousan’,” said Mr. Harp. He slapped his breast. “I’ve a bankers’ draft in ’ere for a quarter of that—’undred an’ twelve thou—five. I ’ave to keep takin’ it out to believe it’s true.”

“You took the offer, sir?” ventured Bagot.

“Why man alive,” screamed his master, “wot else could I do? You can’t turn away money like that. You ’aven’t the right. I tell you straight, I’m dotty about this place, but ‘Business First’ ’s my motter, an’—an’ it’s pretty nigh ’arf a million,” he concluded absently.

For a moment, blinking, he scribbled figures upon the blotting-pad, his lips moving, his eyes fixed. Then he sat back in his seat and covered his face.

“Two o’clock they come, and give me till four to decide. Immediate possession, in course. I ’ad to take it or leave it by four o’clock. I never ’ad two such hours in all me life. One thing I said. I asked if the buyer was British, for I couldn’t ’ave sold to a foreigner, come wot might. ‘Yes,’ they says, ‘British.’ So I signed her away at this table wiv tears in me eyes. I s’pose we’ll ’ave free seats now an’ do the grand, but shan’t be never so ’appy as we’ve bin ’ere.”

There was a long silence.

“When am I to go, sir?” said Bagot.

“I mentioned you,” said his master. “I didn’t forget. I said as I ’oped you’d stay with me and Mrs. ’Arp, but if you didn’t do that, maybe you’ld like to stay ’ere. I said you was a Groom in a million an’ did the work o’ five, an’ that wot you didn’t know about the place could be counted out. The fellow listened and took a note o’ your name, but ’e said that he ’ad no authority to promise to take you on. ’Owever, the purchaser’s comin’ this afternoon at free. You’ll show ’im round, in course, and it’s Lombard Street to a norange ’e’ll jump at the chance. Mrs. ’Arp and me’ll be out. There ain’t no call for us to stay, an’—an’ we’ld rather not. The deal’s to go through nex’ Monday at twelve o’clock.”

There was nothing more to be said.

Chancery had passed.

* * * * *

Five hours and a half had gone dragging by and Bagot was in the gallery, oiling an aged hinge, and wondering how to word his _communiqué_ to Spring.

Suddenly the throb of a bell came to his vigilant ears.

The can went into a locker, and the Groom of the Chambers descended into the hall.

He tried his best to be calm, but his nerves were taut. A good deal depended upon this interview—their tiny home, their living, their . . .

With his hand on the mighty latch, Willoughby moistened his lips. . . .

Spring was standing alone on the broad flags, very smartly dressed, looking ridiculously girlish, and inspecting her thin gold ring with her head on one side.

Behind her, in the hot sunshine, was gleaming the grey and silver of a magnificent _coupé_.

Husband and wife regarded each other with beating hearts.

Then—

“Please may I see over the house?” said Spring. “It—it belongs to my husband.”

Willoughby put a hand to his head.

“F-four hundred and fifty thousand,” he stammered. “Then——”

“Yes, dear,” said Spring, entering and closing the door. “We might’ve got it for less, but I didn’t want to take any risks. You see,” she added, setting her back against the oak, “in spite of all your protests, you took my advice. In fact, you married the first one that came along.”

Willoughby tried to speak, but no words would come.

Suddenly he began to tremble.

In an instant, Spring’s arms were about him and her cheek against his.

“Willoughby, my darling, my darling!”

So she comforted him.

Presently he picked her up as one picks up a baby child.

“I never dreamed,” he said slowly. “I never dreamed. . . . I didn’t know how to tell you, and I was going to ask the people if they could see their way to keep the Groom of the Chambers on.” A shy smile came playing into his face. “Do you think you could—madam?”

Gravely, his sweet regarded him.

Then—

“You must ask my husband,” she said.

ELIZABETH

ELIZABETH