by J. C. Snaith
CHAPTER XXX
REACTION
The week which followed the royal departure was a season of reaction atDympsfield House. The tension of our recent life had been well-nighunendurable. But now the die was cast, the problem solved; we couldlive and move and enjoy our being according to our wont.
To be sure the unhappy Fitz was still our anxiety. He and his smalldaughter were still under our roof, and would so remain until the houseof his fathers had been rebuilt or until such time as he should choosesome other asylum for his shattered life.
It is not too much to say that Fitz, with all his quiddity, had becomedear to us. The tragic wreck of his life had called forth all thatlatent nobility which I at any rate, as his oldest friend, had alwaysknown to be there. His submission to the fate which he had himselfinvoked had seemed to soften the grosser elements that were in hisclay. He had now only his small elf of four to live for. In thatvivid atom of mortality were reproduced many of the characteristics ofthe ill-starred "circus rider from Vienna."
During the first few days a kind of stupor lay upon Fitz. He hardlyseemed able to realise what had happened. He went out hunting andactively superintended the rebuilding of the Grange, almost as ifnothing had occurred to him. But, all too soon, this merciful veil waswithdrawn from his mind. He became consumed by restlessness. He couldnot sleep nor eat his food; he could not settle to any sort ofoccupation; nothing seemed able to engage his interest; his mind lostits stability, and slowly but surely his will began to lose thatreawakened power that it had seemed to be the special function of hismarriage to sustain and promote.
By the time the first week had passed we began to have forebodings.Already signs were not wanting that the demons of a sinisterinheritance were silently marshalling themselves in order that theymight swoop down upon him. One afternoon I found him asleep on a sofadrunk.
As Coverdale was well acquainted with his temperament and all the mostsalient facts in its history, and as, moreover, he was a man for whosenatural soundness of judgment I had the greatest respect, I was movedto take him into my confidence.
"He must get away from England," said Coverdale, "for a time at anyrate. And he must go soon."
This was an opinion with which I agreed. It happened that Coverdaleknew a man who was about to start on a journey across Equatorial Africaand who proposed to form a hunting camp and indulge in some big gameshooting by the way. Such a scheme appeared so eminently suited toFitz's immediate needs that I hailed it gladly.
Alas! when I discussed this project with him he declined wholly toentertain it; moreover he declined with all that odd decision which wasone of his chief characteristics.
"No," he said. "I must stay here and see to the building of the house,and I must look after Marie."
It was in vain that I launched my arguments. The scheme did not appealto him and there, as far as he was concerned, was the end to the matter.
"I must look after Marie," he said. "We are getting her to do sums.Her mother could never do a sum to save her life."
Argument was vain. Such a nature was incapable of accepting asuggestion from an outside source; the mainspring of all its actionslay within.
The total failure of the attempt to get him to respond to so hopeful analternative vexed me sorely. At the time it seemed to promise the onlymeans of saving him from the danger which already had him in its toils.He grew more and more restless; his distaste for food grew morepronounced, and in an appallingly short time it became clear to us thatwhatever there remained to be done for him must be done at once.
We were helpless nevertheless. To anything in the nature of persuasionhe remained impervious. He could not be brought to see the nearness ofthe danger. It was like him never to heed the question of cost. Hecould never have ordered his life as he had done, had he not had thequality of projecting the whole of himself into the actual hour.
Those who had his welfare at heart were still taking counsel one ofanother in respect of what could be done to help him through this newcrisis, when a mandate was received from Mrs. Catesby to dine at theHermitage. Fitz was included in it, but it did not surprise us that hedeclined an invitation which less uncompromising persons were inclinedto regard in the light of a command.
It was not that he bore malice. He was altogether beyond the pettinessof the minor emotions; it was as though his entire being, for good orfor evil, had been raised to another dimension or a higher power. Butas he said with his haggard face, "I don't feel up to it."
Lowlier mortals, more specifically Mrs. Arbuthnot and myself, acceptedhumbly and contritely. We felt that a certain piquancy would investthe gathering. Not that we knew exactly who had been bidden to attendit, but Mrs. Arbuthnot's feminine instinct--and what is so impeccablein such matters as these?--proclaimed this dinner party to be neithermore nor less than the public signature of the articles of peace.
Accordingly we set out for the Hermitage, not however without a certaintravail of the spirit, for poor Fitz would be left to a lonely cutletwhich he would not eat. As a matter of fact, when we went forth he hadnot returned from London, where he had spent most of the day inconsultation with his solicitors.
There assembled at the Hermitage, at which we arrived in very goodtime, nearly every identical member of the company we expected to meet.Coverdale, Brasset, Jodey, who still enjoyed the hospitality of ourneighbour, the Vicar and his Lavinia, Laura Glendinning, Mrs. Josiah P.Perkins. Also, as became one whose house provided a kind of _viamedia_ to that greater world of which the Castle was the embodiment,Mrs. Catesby's dinner table was graced by a younger son and adaughter-in-law of the ducal house.
Good humour reigned. It might even be said to amount in the course ofthe pleasant process of deglutition to a sort of friendly _badinage_.An atmosphere of tolerance pervaded all things. If bygones were notactually bygones, they were in a fair way of so becoming. At leastthis particular section of the Crackanthorpe Hunt was on the high roadto being once again a happy and united family.
The revelation of the "Stormy Petrel's" identity had had a magicinfluence upon an immense aggregation of wounded feelings. It was nowfelt pretty generally that all might be forgiven without any gravesacrifice of personal dignity. It was conceded that great spirit hadbeen shown on both sides, but in the special and peculiar circumstancesa display of Christian magnanimity was called for.
Irene was morally and wickedly wrong--the phrase is Mrs. Catesby'sown--in keeping the secret so well. Of course "the circus proprietor"had deceived nobody: it was merely childish for Irene to suppose forone single moment that he would; and for her to attempt "a score" ofthat puerile character was positively infantile. But in the opinion ofthe assembled jury of matrons, plus Miss Laura Glendinning speciallyco-opted, it was felt very strongly that Irene had not quite played thegame.
"Child," said the Great Lady, speaking _ex cathedra_, with a piece ofbread in one hand and a piece of turbot on a fork in the other, "when Iconsider that I chose your husband's first governess, quite a refinedperson, of the sound, rather old-fashioned evangelical school, I feelthat it was morally and wickedly wrong of you to withhold from me of_all_ people the identity of the dear Princess."
"But Mary," said the light of my existence, toying demurely with hersherry, "I didn't know who she was myself until nearly a week after thefire."
The Great Lady bolted her bread and laid down her fork with anapproximation to that which can only be described as majesty.
"Would you have me believe," she demanded, "that when you took her toyour house on the night of the fire you really and sincerely believedthat she was merely the wife of Nevil?"
"Yes, Mary," said the joy of my days, "I really and sincerely believedthat she was the circus--I mean, that is, that she was just Mrs. Fitz."
General incredulity, in the course of which George Catesby inquiredvery politely of the Younger Son if he had enjoyed his day.
"Never enjoyed a day so much," said the Younger Son, with immenseconviction, "
since we turned up that old customer without a brush inDipwell Gorse five years ago to-morrow come eleven-fifteen g.m."
"Eleven-twenty, my lad," chirruped the noble Master. "Your memory isfailin'."
"Irene," said the uncompromising voice from the end of the table, "Icannot and will not allow myself to believe that you were not in thesecret before the fire."
"Tell it to the Marines, Irene," said Mrs. Josiah P. Perkins.
"Wonder what she will ask us to believe next," said Miss LauraGlendinning.
"What indeed!" said the Vicar's wife.
"It isn't human nature," affirmed Lady Frederick.
"Very well, then," said the star of my destiny, with an ominous sparkleof a china-blue eye, "you can ask Odo."
"Odo!" I give up the attempt to reproduce the cataclysm of scorn whichoverwhelmed the table. "Odo is quite as bad as you are, if not worse.He knew from the first. He knew when the Illryian Ambassador came inperson to the Coach and Horses and fetched her in his car; he knew whenshe chaffed dear Evelyn so delightfully that night at the Savoy."
"What if he did?" said the undefeated Mrs. Arbuthnot. "He didn't tellme. Did you now, Odo?"
With statesmanlike mien I assured the company that Mrs. Fitz's identitywas not disclosed to our household despot until some days after herarrival at Dympsfield House.
"I am obliged to believe you, Odo," said Mrs. Catesby. "But mind Ionly do so on principle."
Somehow this cryptic statement seemed to minister to the mirth of thetable. It was increased when the Younger Son, who evidently had beenwaiting his opportunity, came into the conversation.
"Odo Arbuthnot, M.P.," said he, "I expect when Dick sees what you havedone to his wall he'll sue you. Anyhow I should."
The approval which greeted this sally made it clear that the incidenthad become historical.
"By royal command," said I; "and what chance do you suppose has a mereprivate member against the despotic will of the father of his people?"
"A gross outrage. An act of vandalism. Postlewaite says----"
"Postlewaite's an ass."
"Whatever Postlewaite is, it don't excuse you. He says you were alltalking the rankest Socialism, and he was quite within his rights notto give you the book."
"I repeat, Frederick, that Postlewaite is an ass. If the Postlewaitesof the earth think for one moment that the Victors of Rodova will turnthe other cheek to the retort discourteous, the sooner they learnotherwise the better it will be for them and those whom they serve."
"Hear, hear, and cheers," said my gallant little friend, Mrs. Josiah P.Perkins, in spite of the fact that the Great Lady had fixed her withher invincible north eye.
"Ferdinand Rex one doesn't mind so much," proceeded Frederick, "and thePrincess is all right of course, and von Schalk is a bit of a Bismarck,they say; but when you come to foot the bill with Odo Arbuthnot,M.P.--well, as Postlewaite says, it is nothing less than an act ofvandalism. The M.P. fairly cooked my goose, I must say."
The M.P. was very bad form, everybody agreed, with the honourable andgallant exception of _la belle Americaine_.
"Might be a labour member! I don't know what Dick'll say when he seesit."
"Two alternatives present themselves to my mind," said I, impenitently."Postlewaite can either clear off the whole thing before he returns, orelse append a magic 'C' in brackets after the offending symbols."
"You ain't entitled to a 'C' in brackets. You grow a worse Radicalevery day of your life and everybody is agreed that it is time you cameout in your true colours."
"Hear, hear," from the table.
"I've half a mind to oppose you myself at the next election as aconvinced Tariff Reformer, Anti-Socialist, Fair Play for Everybody, andofficial representative of a poor but deserving class."
"We shall all be glad to sign your nomination paper," affirmed GeorgeCatesby.
"Well, Lord Frederick," said my intrepid Mrs. Josiah, "I will just betyou a box of gloves anyway that you don't get in."
"And I'll bet you another," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"He's not such a fool as to try," said the noble Master.
"Frederick," said the Great Lady, "stick to your muttons. You haveplenty to do to raise breed and quality. Why not try a cross betweenthe Welsh and the Southdown? At least I am convinced that in thesedays the House of Commons offers no career for a gentleman."
"I've a great mind to cut in and have a shot anyway," said the scion ofthe ducal house, with a mild confusion of metaphor. "I don't see whythese Radical fellers----"
Whatever the speech was in its integrity, it was destined never to becompleted. For at this precise moment the door was flung open in adramatic manner, and a haggard man, wearing an overcoat and carryinghis hat in his hand, broke in upon Mrs. Catesby's dinner party.