Part 20

Lydia, like many another girl of her age and standing, seldom read a newspaper. She had been taught that “divorce” was a shocking word, not mentioned among decent people. The occasional gossip at the boarding-house, arising from paragraphs in so-called “society papers,” constituted the nearest view that she had ever had of the ugly phenomenon.

Shaking all over, she burst into tears that were an actual physical relief.

“Do you mean to tell me that you had no idea at all of her ladyship’s little games?” said Sir Rupert, almost threateningly. “I thought you were as thick as thieves.”

“No!” cried Lydia, wildly repudiating she knew not what.

“You’ve seen that dam’ fellow Cassela hanging about?”

Lydia nodded her head, barely understanding the implication.

“I told you so, Sir Rupert,” Mr. Codd said. “I was certain that Miss Raymond could know nothing. But we shall have plenty of witnesses without her.”

The word “witnesses,” associated in a vague, muddled way in Lydia’s mind with the barely-apprehended horrors of the police court, filled her with panic.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she gasped, and rose to her feet. “Let me go.”

“Not so fast,” said Sir Rupert with sudden, renewed suspicion. “How am I to know that you aren’t concealing valuable evidence? I tell you, I’m going to see this thing through if I have to drag the lot of you through the Courts to do it.”

Mr. Codd shook his head, and put a fearless hand on the Jew’s trembling shoulder.

“Now, now, Sir Rupert. This is most natural, but you’re frightening the young lady. When the proper time comes, she will conceal nothing that is necessary for the pursuit of justice--but I assure you that last night’s testimony will--will do the trick, in vulgar parlance. We have more than enough evidence to institute proceedings at once, as I have told you already.”

Lydia wrenched at the door handle and found herself, she scarcely knew how, out of the room, with its echo of horrible words.

Shaking from head to foot, she went downstairs.

What had happened was no longer incomprehensible to her, but her ignorance inspired her with terrible fears as to the results to herself of the cataclysm.

Could they put her into a witness-box--perhaps try her for having falsified Lady Honoret’s accounts?

The innate provincialism in Lydia rose up and turned her almost sick with the thought of a publicity that must shame her so unutterably in the eyes of her relations--Aunt Beryl, the Senthovens, Uncle George, Mr. Monteagle Almond--all of them. Their names rushed to her mind in a chaotic bewilderment of horror.

With a new, sudden pang in the midst of so much that stabbed, Lydia remembered old Mr. Palmer, and his kindly, hesitating inquiries as to the “tone” of the household where Lydia had chosen to work.

After all, then, he had known best!

It seemed to her shaken perceptions almost a natural continuation of the thought that she should hear a voice speaking to her in the hall, connected with all the infinitely distant and regretted peace of her Devonshire visit.

“Something has happened--can I do anything?”

She saw Clement Damerel, and realized with distraught, passionate gratitude that the solicitude in his kind, anxious face was for herself.

Crying and sobbing in an abandonment such as she had never known, even in the days of her already self-controlled childhood, Lydia pushed him into the empty drawing-room, out of the way of the prying servants.

“It’s frightful--frightful!” she sobbed. “There’s been a detective and I never knew, and Sir Rupert is going to divorce Lady Honoret, and he thinks I know about it and can be a witness. Don’t let me--take me away--help me, _somehow_!”

“Oh, you poor child!” said Clement Damerel, and he put Lydia into an arm-chair, and knelt down on one knee beside her.

XX

Never could Lydia forget the nightmare horror of the hours that followed. The only comfort to be found--but it was a very substantial one--was in Mr. Damerel’s kindness--almost tenderness.

It was he who took her away from Lexham Gardens in a cab, and drove with her to the boarding-house, where he saw Miss Nettleship himself, and explained that Miss Raymond had had a great shock, and ought to stay quietly in her own room for a day or two, if it could be managed without too much trouble, and not be worried to talk to anyone.

“That’ll be quite all right, I quite understand how it is,” Miss Nettleship repeated, certainly without any grounds for the last assertion, but evidently with the kindest intentions, and her hand clasping Lydia’s, while her round brown eyes were fixed anxiously upon Mr. Damerel’s face.

She was very kind to Lydia, and came and sat with her that evening, and Lydia, completely unnerved, told her the whole story.

Miss Nettleship confined all her comments to pitying ejaculations on Lydia’s behalf. Poor dear! how dreadful for her to be mixed up in such a thing--and how _abominable_ of that Sir Rupert Honoret to pretend that he thought she knew anything about it! She had been most dignified and brave, Miss Nettleship was sure, while that horrible man was insulting her--and how right to trust that kind, gentleman-like young clergyman and tell him all about it!

Miss Nettleship’s championship and her praise of Lydia’s discretion made Lydia feel much more composed, if only by presenting to her a new aspect of the case. At first she had only been conscious that she might yet find herself held partly responsible for wicked Lady Honoret’s minor peccadilloes at least, and inclined to reproach herself bitterly for not having listened to old Mr. Palmer’s advice.

Now she saw that it was possible for her adventure to be viewed as that of an innocent victim, placed in a most difficult and dramatic position through no fault of her own.

In the eyes of Mr. Clement Damerel and Miss Nettleship, she was the heroine of the situation.

Lydia had adjusted herself to this rôle without difficulty when, two days later, Aunt Beryl made an unexpected appearance.

“Maria Nettleship wrote to me, dearie. You mustn’t be vexed with her, but she really felt the responsibility too much for her, and that Mr. Damerel the clergyman advised it. You’ll come home and have a good rest, now, won’t you?”

Lydia could really see no alternative.

Without a salary, it would be Aunt Beryl and Uncle George who would be paying her expenses at the boarding-house, and she realized for the first time that neither from the Honoret establishment, nor from Madame Elena--infuriated at the manner of Lydia’s departure from the shop--was she likely to receive a reference that would enable her easily to obtain another post. Moreover, she still felt that it would be almost intolerable to hear the affair at Lexham Gardens discussed, as it must be, by all the boarders.

Lydia agreed to go back with Aunt Beryl to Regency Terrace.

It was understood that Miss Nettleship would convey to the boarders that recent events had caused Lydia to leave the service of Sir Rupert Honoret with every credit to herself, and that her aunt had taken her home for a much-needed rest.

Clement Damerel came to say good-bye to her at a time when Aunt Beryl, to Lydia’s secret relief, was out.

Lydia, much less self-confident than usual, asked nervously whether any further developments had taken place at Lexham Gardens.

“I have seen Mr. Codd again, and he assures me that there is nothing for you to be afraid of. I practically got a definite assurance from him that there would be no question of your name appearing in the case. Of course, he was cautious, as those people must be, I suppose, but I think you can set your mind at rest. In any case, if there _is_ any idea of calling you as a witness, he has promised to let me know in good time. And I will do everything--anything--to shield you from anything so painful,” said Mr. Damerel with agitation. “I think influence could be brought to bear----”

“Thank you very, very much,” said Lydia.

She felt shaken and tired, and almost childishly grateful for his championship.

“Will you let me know how you are, and--and--your plans later on?” asked the young man gently.

“When I know myself, I will write to you,” said Lydia rather mournfully. “I feel as though I’d failed--and I did want to do some work, and do credit to my aunt and uncle and perhaps be of a little help to them.”

Clement Damerel would not let her despond.

She had been splendidly brave, and proved herself to be a most efficient worker, and other opportunities would come to her hand. The sense of failure was only a natural reaction after the shock she had undergone. There might--Clement Damerel hesitated--he felt sure there _would_ be--opportunities undreamed-of for the exercise of her splendid gifts. Might he write to her from time to time? Perhaps he could put work in her way----

Lydia thanked him again, and gave him the Regency Terrace address.

“Good-bye, and let me know if there is anything--_anything_----” said Clement Damerel, and went away after wringing her hand.

As Lydia recovered her poise of mind, she was not unaware of a private wish that he had told her rather more as to what had happened at Lexham Gardens after her summary departure, and taken it less for granted that her only preoccupation was that she should be spared the possibility of an appearance in Court.

After all, it was an exciting affair, and likely to prove notorious to a high degree.

If one _had_ to be so closely connected with the scene of action, it seemed foolish not to know more than other people of the steps that had led to the cataclysm.

Lydia came to this point of view by degrees, partly ashamed of herself for so coming, and yet urged on to it by Aunt Evelyn’s perfectly shameless absorption in every detail that she could extract from her niece bearing upon the forthcoming scandal.

“The case won’t come on for another six months, I daresay,” exclaimed Aunt Evelyn, suddenly become an authority by virtue of her protracted perusal of all that “A Little Bird” had to say in the Society columns of her favourite journals.

“Of course, I quite understand about your not wanting to talk of it, dear--but I’m afraid it’ll be one of those regular Society _caws celeb._ that the illustrated papers and all will take hold of....”

Aunt Evelyn proved a perfectly true prophet.

In rather less than six months the Honoret divorce case was figuring in flaunting headlines throughout the Press.

Aunt Evelyn and Olive were again staying at “The Osborne,” and the former, at any rate, seemed never to be without a printed sheet fluttering in her hand.

“Fancy, they’ve got a photograph of the house! I suppose they think it’ll interest people, but it seems morbid, too, in a way--doesn’t it? Which is the window of the room you worked in, Lydia?”

“It was at the back of the house,” said Lydia briefly.

Nevertheless, a sort of fascination brought her to Aunt Evelyn’s side, to gaze at the smudged outline of the steps and area railings, which was really all that could be distinguished on the page.

“Just fancy if they got at _you_, Lyd, and wanted your photograph, or something. They might, you know,” said Olive. “Wouldn’t it be frightful? What would you do?”

“She’d enjoy it very much, my dear--nearly as much as you and your mother,” said an unexpected voice in acid falsetto.

They had forgotten that Grandpapa was in the room.

Lydia would have liked to protest indignantly, but for one thing it would have been without any effect upon Grandpapa, and for another, she had a lurking and most unpleasing conviction that he was speaking the truth.

Quite insensibly, during the monotony of the last five months at Regency Terrace, she had come to depend for her only excitement upon the local importance attaching to her as a first-hand authority upon the prevalent topic of gossip--the big divorce case of the moment.

There were even times when she could have wished for that very contingency that at first had struck such terror to her mind--her own summons as a witness in the case--she hardly cared on which side. In any event, she would make a good witness, she knew--clear-headed, with an excellent memory, and untroubled by nervousness.

But Mr. Damerel had written a great many times to assure her that she need not be afraid of being called, and in his last letter had said how very thankful he was to be able to reassure her once and for all on the point. As things were going, he had been told on good authority that Miss Raymond’s testimony would not be required.

Mr. Damerel’s congratulations--which he applied to himself almost as freely as to Lydia, so much did he seem to have taken the question to heart--were very pleasant. Lydia liked receiving his letters, written in a small, rather meticulous handwriting, and she even liked the careful inditing of her own replies.

But life seemed to have come to a standstill, and the return to the monotonous Regency Terrace routine, hardly varying from that which had prevailed there in her twelfth year, was depressing to Lydia.

Grandpapa took hardly any notice of her, and had grown much older. He now sat in silence for hours at a time, only brightening into momentary gleams of his old, elfish humour when Aunt Beryl or Uncle George reported some fresh eccentricity of the irrepressible Shamrock.

He seemed to have forgotten his old predilection for Lydia’s society, and though she tried to talk to him and amuse him, it had become much more difficult.

When she gave him an ironical account of Miss Forster’s perpetual boasting of her friendship with Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret, Grandpapa remarked crudely:

“She may thank her stars at any rate that she didn’t foist herself into the house as their paid dependent.”

And when she tried to interest him with an account of all the new activities in which she had taken part during her visit to Devonshire, he replied coldly:

“I can quite believe that you helped your friends in their parish, my dear, until they hadn’t a leg to stand upon between them.”

Lydia was so much annoyed that she most unwisely inquired, with great indignation in her voice, what Grandpapa meant.

“You’re a _situation-snatcher_, Lyddie,” said her grandparent solemnly. “That’s what you are. You always were, even as a little child. Whatever the situation may be, or whom it may belong to, you’ll always manage to snatch the best of it for yourself.”

After that, Lydia gave up attempting to revive her old alliance with Grandpapa altogether.

She spent that spring and early summer rather drearily, missing the regular work to which she had become accustomed, and, above all, the many new people she had been meeting.

Her second book proved more difficult to write than had her first, and she worked at it indifferently and without much satisfaction.

Most of her days passed in making clothes that she saw no opportunity of wearing, and in listening to Olive Senthoven’s grumbling talk and her short, incessant cough.

Towards the middle of the summer Aunt Evelyn went home, and Olive came to live altogether at Regency Terrace, because the sea air was supposed to be good for her chest.

Otherwise the monotony of the days remained unbroken.

* * * * *

The greatest surprise of Lydia’s whole life was the proposal of marriage that she received at the end of that uneventful summer from Clement Damerel.

She had not seen him since the _débâcle_ at Lexham Gardens, and although his letters were frequent, she had come to look upon them as mere impersonal expressions of the interest taken by a clergyman in someone whom he had befriended at a trying crisis. Otherwise, Lydia had argued, he would have suggested coming to see her, or even that she should go up to London for the day and meet him for lunch or tea.

But when the Honoret case was over, and Sir Rupert had been granted his decree, Mr. Clement Damerel really had nothing further to write about, and Lydia was not surprised to receive from him a very brief note saying that he was going to Devonshire for a week to see his mother.

Lydia wished languidly that Nathalie Palmer would invite her to the Rectory, and felt a momentary gleam of hope when she received a letter with the Ashlew postmark.

Her eyes widened as she read:

“Mr. Damerel is at Quintmere, and the other day I went up for tennis. We talked a lot about you, and he seemed so frightfully sorry for you about that dreadful Lady Honoret, and said you had behaved splendidly. I think he likes you awfully, Lydia, and I’m sure he’s been talking about you to Lady Lucy, because she asked me a whole lot about you afterwards, and seemed so interested. Of course I told her heaps of nice things, and she said Mrs. Damerel had read your book, and liked it, but she never reads novels herself.

“Father went up to Quintmere yesterday and was there ages, but he didn’t tell me what it was about, only he was frightfully absent-minded all the evening, and after supper (though we hadn’t _mentioned_ your name) he suddenly said: ‘How old did you say little Lydia was, my dear?’ So I can’t help guessing that he and Lady Lucy had been talking about you too! I hope father wouldn’t call this letter ‘school-girls’ gossip’--but I expect he would! so I’ll stop.”

Lydia had hardly had time to attach all the various implications possible to Nathalie’s surprising statements when she received another note from Mr. Damerel. He was coming back to London the next day, and hoped that he might be allowed to see Miss Raymond. Could he run down for the afternoon from town and call upon her? Finally, and significantly, instead of being hers very sincerely, as hitherto, he asked Lydia to believe him, hers ever, Clement Damerel.

Lydia’s spirit woke from the lethargy that had crept upon it during that long, dull spell of months at Regency Terrace.

She felt excited, but also perfectly calm and alert.

She decided instantly that she did not want Mr. Damerel at Regency Terrace. Aunt Beryl might be all very well, and Uncle George--but who knew what Grandpapa might elect to say or to do? And Olive was impossible. _No._

She had no desire to exploit her home-life before Mr. Damerel, who had only seen her as the Palmers’ guest at Ashlew Rectory, or else as the quiet, reliable, and self-reliant young secretary at Lexham Gardens. She preferred that their next meeting should take place upon neutral territory.

“Aunt Beryl,” said Lydia that evening, “shall you go up to London for the day before the sales are over?”

“Not this time, dear. There’s nothing I really want, and Aunt Evelyn is kindly going to see about matching that sewing-silk for me. It was the only thing I had on my mind--such a difficult shade.”

Aunt Beryl continued to darn her second-best tablecloth, and Lydia, who was never impetuous, waited quietly.

“If you thought of going up yourself, dear, it would be quite an idea. It would be a little outing for you and Olive, if she’s not afraid of the bad air. The Tubes are very stuffy, and the trains are always so crowded nowadays. I’m sure Bob would be too delighted to meet you somewhere for lunch.”

Lydia was quite sure of it too, and equally certain that she should not avail herself of Bob’s escort.

“Mr. Damerel wants to see me, I think. I don’t know what it’s about--he may have another post in view for me, perhaps. Anyway, I think perhaps, if it isn’t unkind, I’d rather go up without Olive. You know what she’s like about things, auntie.”

“Certainly, she’s one for getting ideas into her head is Olive,” Aunt Beryl admitted thoughtfully, sucking a piece of thread. “But is it all right, dear, you going up alone like this? He’s quite a young man, isn’t he?--though I suppose it’s all right as he’s a clergyman.”

“Of course,” said Lydia energetically. “I shall simply go up by the ten o’clock train, and do a little shopping--better take advantage of the sales as they _are_ on, after all--and then probably see him after lunch, and find out what he wants to say, and come back quite early. It’s just business.”

“Well, that seems all right,” Aunt Beryl doubtfully agreed. “I suppose as he’s a parson he wouldn’t have asked you to come without it was necessary.”

Lydia forbore to explain that this was not what Mr. Damerel had asked her to do, because it was exactly what she had hoped that Aunt Beryl would think.

She wrote a business-like note to Mr. Damerel, explaining that she should be in London on the following Monday, and offering to make an appointment with him at any time and place convenient to himself.

In answer, Damerel telegraphed that he would meet her train.

Lydia considered it fortunate that she encountered the telegraph boy on the very threshold, and received her missive direct. Otherwise she would certainly have had to explain the contents to the household, for telegrams were not common at Regency Terrace.

She told herself that it would be very foolish and a great pity to let her relatives attach significance to small events which, after all, did not in any way concern themselves, but she was all the time aware of a certain excitement growing within her.

When Monday morning came, and she stepped into the train, Lydia felt that infinite possibilities might lie ahead of her.

When Clement Damerel, after greeting her eagerly at the station, asked whether he might take her to lunch at the house of an uncle and aunt--“my mother’s unmarried brother and sister”--who would be delighted to make her acquaintance, she felt a shock of astonishment. He could not have much to say to her if he thus deliberately avoided a _tête-à-tête_, when he could so easily have suggested a Lyons’ restaurant or a quiet tea-shop!

Lydia accepted the invitation, but said that she had shopping to do, and would find her own way to Eaton Place later on.

She was never afterwards able to recapitulate her impressions of that visit. She knew that the aunt seemed old and kind, and very like Lady Lucy, and that a still older uncle sat at the head of the table, and had to be shouted at before he could hear anything at all, and that the courses were much plainer and less numerous than those that had figured at Lady Honoret’s luncheon-parties. She also felt, rather than knew, that Clement Damerel was nervous, and this perception, together with a subconscious preoccupation as to the reason for his nervousness, made her feel more shy than was usual with her.

When the uncle and aunt drifted away after lunch was over, the old lady saying kindly that she knew Clement would like to show Miss Raymond the pictures in the library, her head was almost swimming, and she felt absolutely frightened lest she should be about to faint.

The revulsion of feeling when she actually heard his gentle voice speaking to her, and knew that she had been right and that he was asking her to be his wife, came to her as a positive relief from an almost unendurable physical tension.

Much as she would afterwards have liked to recall every word of their conversation in the library, where they spent almost the whole of that afternoon uninterrupted, Lydia could never do so.

The utmost that she was able to recapture was her own sense of bewilderment, that was not yet merged in triumphant realization, and the sense of Clement Damerel’s extreme gentleness and consideration for her. He would not even ask her for an immediate answer.

“I know it can’t be with you as it is with me, dearest--the first moment I saw you, I knew I’d found my ideal.”

That at least Lydia could remember.

And again:

“You must think it over--not only whether you can care for me a little bit, but whether you can face the life of a dull country parson’s wife--that’s what it’ll end in, Lydia. When dear old Palmer retires, my mother wants me to come home, and there’s work enough even there--besides, I must think of her--she’s growing old, and my brother’s death was a fearful blow....