Part 19

Mame was quick to respond. She was grateful for the way in which this lady, with the most beguiling voice she had ever listened to, exercised these gifts for her benefit. This meeting might have been so awkward. Nay, it might have been downright unpleasant. But Bill’s mother carried things off in a style which Mame considered to be perfection.

For one thing Lady K. did not force the note. There was no welcoming her into the nest among her chickens. Mame was shrewdly waiting for that, because that was where this nice, good, clever dame would rather have fallen over the mat. But she was too genuine. There was a certain reserve, a certain dignity behind all that she said to Mame. Even if there was nothing constrained, still less was there anything effusive. It was the golden mean. Miss Du Rance was frankly accepted as Bill’s affianced, even if she was very far from being the particular girl his mother had chosen for him.

“But please, you will promise, will you not, to refrain from speaking of this matter to anyone until--until I have had an opportunity of discussing it fully with my son.” The careful phrases were so urgent that Mame, who did not want to give any such promise, felt the best she could do was to make it.

Lady K. thanked her gravely. “And I wonder, my dear”--it was the first time the stately dame had addressed Mame as “my dear”--“if you feel inclined to come down to Shropshire for a few days. It might interest you to see the sort of life we lead.”

Politely Mame was sure that it would.

“When can you come?”

Mame winged a glance to her partner in the newspaper world. The acceptance of the invitation chiefly depended upon the attitude of Celimene.

“No time like the present, is there?” was that attitude promptly and concisely expressed.

“But”--Mame’s quaint honesty raised a smile in both ladies--“’tisn’t fair, honey, to leave you here alone to do all the digging.”

“I can plough a lonely furrow for a week at any rate. And if I find I can’t I’ll get Gerty Smith to give me a hand. You must go back to Shropshire with my mother. We both so want to know what you think of the Towers.”

Mame was puzzled by this cordiality. But she was very keen to see Warlington Towers, that stately English home which for the future would be hers. There was nothing in the manner of mother and daughter to suggest that she would not be an immensely welcome guest.

Reassured, almost in spite of herself, by all this seeming friendliness, Mame asked when Lady Kidderminster proposed to return to her home.

“To-morrow, my dear, by the first train. I’m such a country mouse; and even one day in London makes a hole in one’s purse.”

“Well, I don’t think I can go to-morrow.”

“But of course you can.” Lady Violet was definite. “And you must. No scrimshanking. You must go down with my mother to-morrow morning by the 9:50 from Paddington, the best train of the day.”

Mame was still inclined to resist having her mind made up for her in this way, but Celimene was resolute. “My mother will be quite hurt if you back out now. Besides”--with a laugh--“it’ll be so much better to go and get it over.”

“But--” protested Mame.

However, it was not a bit of use. Lady Violet had such a powerful habit of making people’s minds up for them.

XLIV

It happened, therefore, that the very next morning Mame found herself travelling down to Shropshire in the company of Lady Kidderminster. Odd and unexpected as the journey was, she was a little inclined to be annoyed with herself for having allowed Mommer and Lady Violet to hustle her so peremptorily into undertaking it. There was weakness in such yielding. And to a practical go-getter who knew the value of the will, this was not a good sign. The first thing she would have to study as the wife of Bill must be the art of standing up to her in-laws.

These were clever women, not a doubt about it. Evidently they were versed in the most important of all problems, how to get your own way. They had force and they had skill had Mommer and Lady Violet; they didn’t let you see their hands, but just set quietly to work and made you do the things they wanted. She was a little simp to let them put one over on her like that.

Still, why worry? There was no reason why she should not be seated opposite Mommer in the darned old Great Western Pullman. She was real nice was Mommer. As easy as pie. All the same her daughter-in-law-to-be shrewdly guessed that she was not just the simple old shoe that she looked. Even before they had reached the first stop, which was Reading, Mame had made a private vow that as far as Mommer was concerned she would keep her eyes skinned and watch out.

The journey was quite pleasant. All the way from Paddington to Shrewsbury, where they left the express and took a local train to Millfield, the nearest station to Warlington Towers, the lady in whose charge Mame found herself persisted steadily in being charming. Mame could not help liking her. Seen as it were from a distance, Mommer’s stateliness was a little alarming; but at close range, in friendly and intimate talk all fear of it seemed to go.

There were no surprises. Everything went agreeably and well. It was when they got off the train finally at Millfield that the surprises began. There was a five-mile drive to the Towers, as Mame had been told; and she had rather confidently expected it to be performed in an elegant motor, with two servants. But nothing of the kind. In the Millfield station yard a one-horse brougham awaited them. It was decidedly well kept, but it looked out of date; and although the coachman wore a smart cockade and had the face of an ancestral portrait, no brisk footman shared the seat by his side.

An obsequious porter and a rural station master, who was even more obsequious, ushered them into the brougham’s rather stuffy interior. It was plain from the manner of these officials that even if Mommer did cling to the old modes of travel she was a power in this corner of the land. Still Mame continued to be a bit surprised by the one-horse brougham. Yet this was no more than a prelude to the far bigger surprise that was in store.

After the elderly horse had clip-clopped along the dusty by-roads for some little time, Mame caught a sudden glimpse of a noble set of towers “bosomed high in tufted trees” as a poetic john had expressed it in the office calendar. There was also a fine park full of deer with high stone walls around it.

“Warlington Towers, I guess.” There was a thrill in Mame’s voice as she pointed enthusiastically through the carriage window.

Lady Kidderminster said “yes.” The note in her voice sounded the reverse of enthusiastic.

At that moment they came upon some beautiful wrought iron gates with an ancient coat of arms in the middle, flanked by a pair of stone pillars, each with a fabulous winged monster upon the top. Beyond the gates was a porter’s lodge and then a vista of glorious trees in the form of a long avenue which led straight to the doors of the famous mansion.

“It’s just too lovely.” Mame clapped her hands.

She quite expected the one-horse brougham to stop at those magnificent gates, all picked out in black and gold, and turn into that wonderful avenue. But it did nothing of the kind. It went on and on by the side of the high stone walls which shut out the view of the Towers completely.

“Don’t you live there?” Mame was a little puzzled and perhaps a shade anxious.

Lady Kidderminster sighed gently. “We don’t live there now, my dear.”

“Oh,” breathed Mame. Somehow she felt rather let down.

The old horse clip-clopped along by the grassy marge of the interminable and forbidding stone walls until they reached a tiny village. In the middle was a neat public house, with a roof of straw thatch, and its ancient sign the Treherne Arms much stained by the weather. Past this the brougham went, a couple of hundred yards or so, and then turned in on the left, through a swing gate and along a carriage drive.

At the end of the drive was a house built of stone. It was a good, honest-looking place and by its style was old. But compared with the pomp and glory of the Towers it was quite small. Nay, as Mame was forced to view it, this house was a trifle poor. Here the brougham stopped. It was the end of their journey.

The place which Lady Kidderminster had occupied for the last five years was called the Dower House. It was comfortable enough and everything in it was in such perfect taste that it was only Mame’s lively anticipation of the Towers and their magnificence which lent it an aura of inferiority. Really the Dower House was charming. It had the loveliest things. There was a view of distant hills from its bedroom windows; and at the back of the house was an old-world garden, a rare pleasaunce of plants and shrubs and very ancient trees. If the Towers had not caught Mame’s imagination she would have considered the Dower House just elegant.

At dinner, which was at eight o’clock, and to Mame’s robust appetite was a meal at once meagre and inadequate, there was only one other besides the hostess. This was a Miss Carruthers, a young-old body, tall and faded and thin, who spoke in a slow, rather peeved voice which sounded frightfully aristocratic. She seemed kindly and well meaning, but she was dull, terribly dull. Even Lady Kidderminster seemed inclined to yield to the atmosphere of Miss Carruthers. Anyhow, by dinner time, a good deal of her metropolitan sparkle had fled.

Mame hoped, as she swallowed the thin soup and the minute portions of fish and chicken the regular old john of a butler, with wonderful manners and side whiskers, handed to her at carefully regulated intervals, that the absence of sparkle was only going to be temporary. But there was nothing on the table stronger than lemonade to excite it. And zip of some kind was certainly needed. However, it was not forthcoming at the table or in the drawing room afterwards, where no fire was in the rather cavernous grate, although mid-September evenings in Shropshire are apt to be chill.

There was neither electricity nor gas throughout the house, and when Mame, following the example of the other ladies, chose a candle from among a number laid out on a table in the hall, and ascended solemnly to her bed, she felt desolate. Somehow things were not as she had expected to find them. Just what those expectations had been she was unable to say. But they had certainly included the Towers.

All the same she slept. She was young and healthy and the pulse of life beat high. And she had a forward-looking mind. But in the present case the habitual hope of a morrow more alluring came to nought. The Dower House did not seem to improve on acquaintance. It was dull. No use mincing it--it was dull. Lady Kidderminster continued to be kindness itself; Miss Carruthers was also kind; but they seemed only to converse on formal subjects and in a rather perfunctory way. Then the food! It was beautifully cooked and served, and what there was of it was of the best quality, yet in Miss Du Rance it left a void.

A factor in their dulness, no doubt, was the absence of Lady Kidderminster’s family. Violet, of course, was in London; and of the two young ones, Doris was in her first year at Cambridge and Marjorie at school at Worthing. “When those two pickles come here for the holidays we are much more lively, aren’t we, Mildred?”

Mildred, Miss Carruthers, who agreed with Lady Kidderminster in most things, agreed in this.

After a rather dispiriting breakfast in which Mame had to be content with a boiled egg, some poor coffee, some thin toast and an elegant spoonful of jam, she took the air of the domain with Miss Carruthers. Like everything else about the place, the air of the domain was good in quality, yet it did not seem to be exhilarating. Mame felt inclined to fix some of the responsibility upon Miss Carruthers. She was as good as gold, but she wanted pep.

In the course of this ordeal in the garden, Mame’s great disappointment once more recurred. She could not forget the Towers; their absence filled her with a sense of grievance.

“Why don’t Lady K. live at the big house?” She put the question frankly. “Some place that. I guess I’d want to live there if I owned it.”

Miss Carruthers hesitated a moment and then said in that plaintive voice which already was beginning to get on Mame’s nerves. “Cousin Lucy can’t afford to do that. She’s been so hit by the War. The Towers eats money. One has to be rich to keep up a place of that kind.”

“She isn’t rich, then?”

“Dear, no.”

“What’ll she do with that old place?” There was keen disappointment in Mame’s tone.

“Cousin Lucy, I believe, has not decided yet. At present the Towers is let to some rich Americans.”

“Any I know?” asked Mame. From her manner it might have been a hobby of hers to specialise in rich Americans. It would do this dame no harm to think so anyway.

The slow, plaintive answer of Miss Carruthers was unexpected and it was startling. “You may know them. I believe they go about in London a good deal. Some people called Childwick.”

“Childwick.” Mame gave a slight gasp. “Have they a girl named Gwendolen?” Yet there was no need to ask. She knew.

So plaintive grew the voice of Miss Carruthers that Mame longed to shake her. “Gwendolen is their only child. A great heiress.”

Mame felt something turn inside her heart. She bit her lip; and then she gave a little snort of defiance. Miss Carruthers sighed long and grievously.

XLV

The knowledge which came in its fulness to Mame in an after-luncheon talk with Lady Kidderminster, that the Towers was let to the Childwicks on a lease of seven years with an option of purchase, did nothing to stem the growing tide of her gloom. She might have guessed. But the recognised fact hit her hard. The Childwicks of all people! That supercilious queen to get away with the whole bag of tricks.

Lady K. was quite candid. She had the same openness in discussing high finance as in less intimate affairs of life. Since the War they had simply been hanging on by their eyelids as it were. The Scotch property had gone; so had the property in Lancashire; the town house was let, also to the Childwicks, those providential folk, who had lately decided to make England their home. Everybody thought it _so_ fortunate to have such _good_ tenants for the Towers; people who could not only afford to keep up the place in the old way, but who were likely to take a permanent interest in it.

Miss Du Rance was constrained to think so too. As she peered into the eyes of Bill’s mother she could not help admiring her fortitude. How this dame must loathe her, little interloper! What plans she had wrecked! Yet there was nothing about this woman, and there never had been, to give the least inkling of what her real feelings were towards her.

Not once, it was true, since Mame’s arrival at the Dower House, had Lady Kidderminster mentioned Bill. The other queer old pet, that Miss Carruthers, had also refrained from mentioning him. Otherwise all was ease and charm and friendliness, although it sure had a trick of fizzling into the dead alive.

This quality of not being quite on the earth, so to speak, was not confined to the inmates of the Dower House. It was shared by the friends and neighbours. Screams of all kinds seemed to make a point of turning up about teatime. Almost invariably they were of Mame’s own sex. And such clothes as they wore! And such comic one-horse shays as for the most part they came in! Frightfully well-bred they were with real Court manners, full of ceremonial. Had good Lady K. been England’s queen these dear old buzzards could not have treated her with more deference.

It was the air these callers had of being half alive that most impressed Mame. Her mind went back to the tabbies of Fotheringay House, at whose hands she had endured long weeks of boredom. These friends of the family were a different breed of tabby; they were politer, gentler, less inclined to scratch, but their faces were just as pinched and bloodless and their style of dressing quite as odd. Such drolls as they were with their long tailor-mades and stiff boned net collars, and their queer hats and trinkets and stout boots with very flat heels.

They looked depressing. And they were depressing. Their talk in the main was of bulbs. Mame was not in the least interested in bulbs. She could raise no enthusiasm over what these funniments were going to put in in the spring. These gardeners, inoffensive and well meaning though they were, bored Mame to tears. If this was the social life of an English county, she opined she was the sort of mouse that would stay in the town.

Three days of the Dower House began to tell on Miss Du Rance. It may have been the food, the people, a peculiarity of the air, but she began to feel as lacking in zip as the friends and neighbours. At the mere sight of them she had an inclination to weep; and strange to say at the sight of her one or two of these old things, who evidently were pretty deep in the family confidence, seemed inclined to do the same. One old pet, indeed, with just a shade more kick than the rest--Miss Carruthers said she had been a Bedchamber-woman to Queen Victoria--managed to convey a hint to Miss Du Rance that the friends and neighbours could only regard her in the light of a national calamity.

All this was discouraging. Even had there been no thoughts of Gwendolen Childwick to disturb Mame o’nights, this visit to Bill’s mother would hardly have been a bed of roses. She missed sadly the brisk life, the gay companionship of London. Here was nothing doing. From early morn till dewy eve there was nothing doing. She dipped into a few old-fashioned novels; she read the _Morning Post_, which was not delivered until the afternoon; she was initiated into various games of patience by the kindly but mournful Miss Carruthers; she strolled about the garden with Lady Kidderminster and learned to give an opinion on the few remaining asters, chrysanthemums and dahlias, but somehow you could not call it being alive.

By now, moreover, there was beginning to arise in Mame a feeling of remorse. It was not an emotion she would ever have suspected herself of harbouring. Practical go-getters have not, as a rule, much time for remorse. They are usually too busy. Besides, where was the use? Remorse never cut ice since the world began.

To make matters worse, on the morning of the fifth day came a letter from Bill. He wrote with far less than his usual optimism. In fact he was just a bit troubled. He had been talking things over with his mother, whom he had seen when she came up to town; and she had said the family finances were in such a tangle that if he married Mame there would be absolutely no money for a separate establishment. She took rather a gloomy view of the whole matter, but personally, he was quite willing “to chance it” if Mame was. He sent her heaps of love and he was counting the hours for her return and he thought that in the circumstances the sooner they were “spliced” the better.

The letter was full of affection and humour, yet Mame could not rid her mind of the feeling that breakers were ahead. She was perturbed. And something which happened in the course of that very afternoon deepened a sense of unrest.

“Do you care to come and see the Towers, my dear?” asked Lady Kidderminster, as they lingered over their afternoon luncheon coffee. “The Childwicks are away, but I’m sure the housekeeper, Mrs. Norris, will not mind your looking over the house if it will interest you.”

Nothing would interest Mame more.

“So glad. We will go along presently. It is such a good day for a walk.”

The day was really good, one of those soft, mildly sunny days of late September that lure one so genially into the open. From the Dower House to the Towers, door to door, was just a mile; and Mame, sauntering with Lady Kidderminster, found the pilgrimage rather enjoyable. Her hostess was still very kind and friendly even if an inward weight seemed to be bearing her down. Mame longed to speak of Bill. She would like to have drawn Mommer on the subject of when they would be able to marry; yet to butt in upon that vexed question might entirely spoil the pleasure of their stroll.

Mame was impressed by the Towers. She felt justified in calling it a palace. It certainly was a wonderful house; one of the oldest and finest in England and very well kept. A lovely park of many rich woodland acres gave it just the setting that it needed. In spite of Mame’s determination to remain a democrat at heart, she could not overcome a slight feeling of awe as they passed through the lodge gates, so impressively emblazoned, and walked slowly along the glorious avenue that led to the Treherne home. The place had such an air. Fancy having it for one’s very own to live in.

She was entitled, in a sense, to a feeling of proprietorship, yet only too well did she know that she did not in the least match up with Warlington Towers. After all, she could not help thinking ruefully as they came up to the main entrance, with doors of solid black oak, she was the merest nobody, a little newspaper girl, a sharp-witted adventuress who had not even put herself through college. Who was Mame Durrance, the rejected of New York and London, that she should fix herself into such a frame. It was wrong for a go-getter to have these ideas, but there was something in the grandeur, the style, the solidity of this mansion which had stood just like that since the time of the Tudors, which kind of put one over on you. If you had any feelings at all, if you had a streak of imagination, however slight, a vein of idealism, however weak, a tendency to uplift or inconveniences of that kind, this house was bound to get you thinking.

They learned from the housekeeper that the Childwicks were expected next week, when a large party would assemble for the shooting. But Mame was not much impressed by the news. That girl Gwendolen, for all her dollars and her airs, was almost as much an interloper. What was Three Ply Flannelette anyway? Not so much better, was it, than writing for the press?