Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

  This onslaught upon Joan Whitworth took place on the Wednesday evening. Sir Chichester came into the room as it ended, with a telegram in his hand.

  “Mario Escobar wires, Millie, that he is held up in London by press of work and will only be able to run down here on Friday for the night.”

  Hillyard looked up.

  “Mario Escobar?”

  “Do you know him?” asked Millie Splay.

  “Slightly,” answered Hillyard. “Press of work! What does he do?”

  “Runs about with the girls,” said Dennis Brown.

  Sir Chichester Splay would not have the explanation.

  “Nonsense, my dear Dennis, nonsense, nonsense! He has a great many social engagements of the most desirable kind. He is, I believe, interested in some shipping firms.”

  “I like him,” said Millie Splay.

  “And so do I,” added Joan, “very much indeed.” The statement was defiantly thrown at Harold Jupp.

  “I think he is charming,” said Miranda.

  Harold Jupp looked from one to the other.

  “That seems to settle it, doesn’t it? But — —”

  “But what?” asked Sir Chichester.

  “Need we listen to the ridiculous exhibitions of male jealousy?” Miranda asked plaintively.

  “But,” Harold Jupp repeated firmly, “I do like a man to have another address besides his club. Now, I will lay a nice five to one that no one in this room knows where Mario Escobar goes when he goes home.”

  A moment’s silence followed upon Harold Jupp’s challenge. To the men, the point had its importance. The women did not appreciate the importance, but they recognised that their own menfolk did, and they did not interrupt.

  “It’s true,” said Sir Chichester, “I always hear from him with his club as his address. But it simply means that he lives at an hotel and is not sure that he will remain on.”

  Thus the little things of every day occupied the foreground of Rackham Park. Millicent Splay had her worries of which Joan Whitworth was the cause. She loved Joan; she was annoyed with Joan; she admired Joan; she was amused at Joan; and she herself could never have told you which of these four emotions had the upper hand. So inextricably were they intermingled.

  She poured them out to Martin Hillyard, as they drove through the Park at Midhurst on the Thursday morning.

  “What do you think of Joan?” she asked. “She is beautiful, isn’t she, with that mass of golden hair and her eyes?”

  “Yes, she is,” answered Hillyard.

  “And what a fright she is making of herself! She isn’t dressed at all, is she? She is just — protected by her clothes.”

  Hillyard laughed and Millicent Splay sighed. “And I did hope she would have got over it all by Goodwood. But no! Really I could slap her. But I might have known! Joan never does things by halves.”

  “She seems thorough,” said Hillyard, although he remembered, with some doubts as to the truth of his comment, moments now and again when more primitive impulses had bubbled up in Joan Whitworth.

  “Thorough! Yes, that’s the word. Oh, Mr. Hillyard, there was a time when she really dressed — dressed, you understand. My word, she was thorough then, too. I remember coming out of the Albert Hall on a Melba afternoon, when we could get nothing but a hansom cab, and a policeman actually had to lift her up into it like a big baby because her skirt was so tight. And look at her now!”

  Millicent Splay thumped the side of the car in her vexation.

  “But you mustn’t think she’s a fool.” Lady Splay turned menacingly on the silent Hillyard.

  “But I don’t,” he protested.

  “That’s the last thing to say about her.”

  “I never said it,” declared Martin Hillyard.

  “I should have lost my faith in you, if you had,” rejoined Millicent Splay, even now hardly mollified.

  But she could not avoid the subject. Here was a new-comer to Rackham Park. She could not bear that he should carry away a wrong impression of her darling.

  “I’ll tell you the truth about Joan. She has lived her sheltered life with us, and no real things have yet come near her. No real troubles, no deep joys. Her parents even died when she was too young to know them. But she is eighteen and alive to her finger-tips. Therefore she’s — expectant.”

  “Yes,” Hillyard agreed.

  “She is searching for the meaning, for the secrets of life, sure that there is a meaning, sure that there are secrets, if only she could get hold of them. But she hasn’t got hold of them. She runs here. She runs there. She explores, she experiments. That’s why she’s dressed like a tramp and thinking out a book where the heroine gets married to the Funeral March of a Marionette. Oh, my dear person, it just means, as it always means with us poor creatures, that the right man hasn’t come along.”

  Millie Splay leaned back in her seat.

  “When he does!” she cried. “When he does! Did you see the magnolia this morning? It burst into flower during the night. Joan! I thought once that it might be Harold Jupp. But it isn’t.”

  Lady Splay spoke with discouragement. She had the matchmaking fever in her blood. Martin Hillyard remembered her glance when he had casually spoken of Harry Luttrell. Then she startled him with words which he was never to forget, and in which he chose to find a real profundity.

  “The right man has not come along. So Joan mistakes anything odd for something great, and thinks that to be unusual is to be strong. It’s a mood of young people who have not yet waked up.”

  They drove to the private stand and walked through into the paddock. Millie Splay looked round at the gay and brilliant throng. She sighed.

  “There she is, moping in the drawing-room over Prince Hohenstiel — whatever his name is. She won’t come to Goodwood. No, she just won’t.”

  Yet Joan Whitworth did come to Goodwood that year, though not upon this day.

  No one in that household had read the newspapers so carefully each day as Martin Hillyard. As the prospect darkened each morning, he was in a distress lest a letter should not have been forwarded from his flat in London, or should have been lost in the post. Each evening when the party returned from the races his first question asked whether there was no telegram awaiting him. So regular and urgent were his inquiries that the house-party could not be ignorant of his preoccupation. And on the afternoon of the Thursday a telegram in its orange envelope was lying upon the hall-table.

  “It’s for you, Mr. Hillyard,” said Lady Splay.

  Hillyard held it in his hands. So the summons had come, the summons hoped for, despaired of, made so often into a whip wherewith he lashed his arrogance, the summons to serve.

  “I shall have to go up to town this evening,” he said.

  Anxious faces gathered about him.

  “Oh, don’t do that!” said Harold Jupp. “We have just got to like you.”

  “Yes, wait until to-morrow, my dear boy,” Sir Chichester suggested. Even Joan Whitworth descended to earth and requested that he should stay.

  “It’s awfully kind of you,” stammered Martin. “But I am afraid that this is very important.”

  Lady Splay was practical.

  “Hadn’t you better see first?” she asked.

  Hillyard, with his thoughts playing swiftly in the future like a rapier, was still standing stock-still with the unopened telegram in his hand.

  “Of course,” he said. “But I know already what it is.”

  The anxious little circle closed nearer as he tore open the envelope. He read:

  “I have refused the Duke. Money is cash — I mean trash. Little one I am yours. Linda Spavinsky.”

  The telegram had been sent that afternoon from Chichester.

  Hillyard gazed around at the serious faces which hemmed him in. It became a contest as to whose face should hold firm longest. Joan herself was the first to flee, and she was found rocking to and fro in silent laughter in a corner of the library. Then Hillyard himself burst into a roar.

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bsp; “I bought that fairly,” he admitted, and he went up several points in the estimation of them all.

  The last day of the races came — all sunshine and hot summer; lights and shadows chasing across the downs, the black slopes of Charlton forest on the one side, parks and green fields and old brown houses, sloping to the silver Solent, upon the other; and in the centre of the plain, by Bosham water, the spire of Chichester Cathedral piercing the golden air. Paddock and lawn and the stands were filled until about two in the afternoon. Then the gaps began to show to those who were concerned to watch. Especially about the oval railings in the paddock, within which, dainty as cats and with sleek shining skins, the racehorses stepped, the crowd grew thin. And in a few moments, the word had run round like fire, “The officers had gone.”

  Hillyard stood reflecting upon the stupendous fact. Never had he so bitterly regretted that physical disqualification which banned him from their company. Never had he so envied Luttrell. He was in the uttermost depression when a small, brown-gloved hand touched his arm. He turned and saw Joan Whitworth at his side, her lovely face alive with excitement, her eyes most friendly. It was hardly at all the Joan he knew. Joan had courage, but to face Goodwood in the clothes she affected at Rackham Park was beyond it. From her grey silk stockings and suède shoes to the little smart blue hat which sat so prettily on her hair, she was, as Millicent Splay would have admitted, really dressed.

  “There is a real telegram for you,” she said. She held it out to him enclosed in an envelope which had been already opened.

  “Please come to see me — Graham,” he read, and the actual receipt of the message stirred within him such a whirl of emotion that, for a moment or two, Joan Whitworth spoke and he was not aware of it. Suddenly, however, he understood that she was speaking words of importance.

  “I hope I did right to open it,” she said. “Colonel Brockley rode over this morning to tell us that his son had been recalled to his battalion by a telegram. I knew you were expecting one. When this one came, I thought that it might be important and that you ought to have it at once. On the other hand it might be another telegram,” and her face dimpled into smiles, “from Linda Spavinsky. I didn’t know what to do about it. But Mario Escobar was quite certain that I ought to open it.”

  “Mario Escobar?” cried Hillyard.

  “Yes. He had just arrived. He was quite certain that we ought to open it, so we did.”

  “We?” A note of regret in his voice made her ask anxiously:

  “Was I wrong?”

  Hillyard hastened to reassure her.

  “Not a bit. Of course you were quite right, and I am very grateful.”

  Joan’s face cleared again.

  “You see, I thought that if it was important I could bring it over and drive you back again.”

  “Will you?” Hillyard asked eagerly. “But now you are here you ought to stay.”

  Joan would not hear of the proposal, and Hillyard himself was in a fever to be off. They found Sir Chichester and his wife in the paddock, and Hillyard wished his hosts good-bye. Mario Escobar, who had driven over with Joan Whitworth, was talking to them. Escobar turned to Martin Hillyard.

  “We met at Sir Charles Hardiman’s supper party. You have not forgotten? You are off? A new play, I hope, to go into rehearsal.”

  He smiled and bowed, and waved his hands. Hillyard went away with Joan Whitworth and mounted beside her into a little two-seated car which she had been accustomed to drive in her unregenerate days. She had not forgotten her skill, and she sent the little car spinning up and down the road into the hills. It was an afternoon of blue and gold, with the larks singing out of sight in the sky. The road wound up and down, dark hedges on one side, fields yellow with young wheat upon the other, and the scent of the briar-rose in the air. Joan said very little, and Hillyard was content to watch her as she drove, the curls blowing about her ears and her hands steady and sure upon the wheel as she swung the car round the corners and folds of the hills. Once she asked of him:

  “Are you glad to go?”

  He made no pretence of misunderstanding her.

  “Very,” he answered. “If the great trial is coming, I want to fall back into the rank and file. Pushing and splashing is for peace times.”

  “Oh, I understand that!” she cried.

  These were the young days. The jealousies of Departments, the intrigues to pull this man down and put that man up, not because of his capacity or failure, but because he fitted or did not fit the inner politics of the Office, the capture of honours by the stay-at-homes — all the little miseries and horrors that from time immemorial have disfigured the management of wars — they lay in the future. With millions of people, as with this couple speeding among the uplands, the one thought was — the great test is at hand.

  “You go up to London to-night, and it may be a long while before we see you,” said Joan. She brought the car to a halt on the edge of Duncton Hill. “Look for luck and for memory at the Weald of Sussex,” she cried with a little catch in her throat.

  Fields and great trees, and here and there the white smoke of a passing train and beyond the Blackdown and the misty slopes of Leith Hill — Hillyard was never to forget it, neither that scene nor the eager face and shining eyes of Joan Whitworth against the blue and gold of the summer afternoon.

  “You will remember that you have friends here, who will be glad to hear news of you,” she said, and she threw in the clutch and started the car down the hill.

  CHAPTER XI

  Stella Runs To Earth

  “YOU HAVE BEEN back in England long?” asked Stella Croyle.

  “A little while,” said Hillyard evasively.

  It was the first week of September. But since his return from Rackham Park to London his days had been passed in the examination of files of documents; and what little time he had enjoyed free from that labour had been given to quiet preparations for his departure.

  “You might have come to see me,” Stella Croyle suggested. “You knew that I wished to see you.”

  “Yes, but I have been very busy,” he answered. “I am going away.”

  Stella Croyle looked at him curiously.

  “You too! You have joined up?”

  Hillyard shook his head.

  “No good,” he answered. “I told you my lungs were my weak point. I am turned down — and I am going abroad. It’s not very pleasant to find oneself staying on in London, going to a little dinner party here and there where all the men are oldish, when all of one’s friends have gone.”

  Stella Croyle’s face and voice softened.

  “Yes. I can understand that,” she said.

  Hillyard watched her narrowly, but there was no doubt that she was sincere. She had received him with an air of grievance, and a hard accent in her voice. But she was entering now into a comprehension of the regrets which must be troubling him.

  “I am sorry,” she continued. “I never cared very much for women. I have very few friends amongst them. And so I am losing — every one.” She held out her hand to him in sympathy. “But if I were a man and had been turned down by the doctors, I don’t think that I could stay. I should go like you and hide.”

  She smiled and poured out two cups of tea.

  “That is a habit of yours, even though you are not a man,” Hillyard replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You run away and hide.”

  Stella looked at her visitor in surprise.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sir Charles Hardiman.”

  Stella Croyle was silent for a few moments.

  “Yes, that’s true,” and she laughed suddenly. “When things go wrong, I become rather impossible. I have often made up my mind to live entirely in the country, but I never carry the plan out.”

  She let Hillyard drink his tea and light a cigarette before she approached the question which was torturing her.

  “You had a good time in the Sudan!” she began. “Lots of heads?”


  “Yes. I had a perfect time.”

  “And your friend? Captain Luttrell. Did you meet him?”

  Hillyard had pondered on the answer which he would give to her when she asked that question. If he answered, “Yes,” — why, then he must go on, he must tell her something of what passed between Luttrell and himself, how he delivered his message and what answer he received. Let him wrap that answer up in words, however delicate and vague, she would see straight to the answer. Her heart would lead her there. To plead forgetfulness would be merely to acknowledge that he slighted her; and she would not believe him. So he lied.

  “No. I never met Luttrell. He was away down in Khordofan when I was on the White Nile.”

  Stella Croyle had turned a little away from Hillyard when she put the question; and she sat now with her face averted for a long while. Nothing broke the silence but the ticking of the clock.

  “I am sorry,” said Hillyard.

  No doubt her disappointment was bitter. She had counted very much, no doubt, on this chance of the two men meeting; on her message reaching her lover, and a “little word” now and again from him coming to her hands. Some morning she would wake up and find an envelope in the familiar writing waiting upon the tray beside her tea — that, no doubt, had been the hope which she had lived on this many a day. Hillyard was not fool enough to hold that he understood either the conclusions at which women arrived, or the emotions by which they jumped to them. But he attributed these hopes and thoughts with some confidence to Stella Croyle — until she turned and showed him her face. The sympathy and gentleness had gone from it. She was white with passion and her eyes blazed.

  “Why do you lie to me?” she cried. “I met Harry this morning.”

  Hillyard was more startled by the news of Luttrell’s presence in London than confused by the detection of his lie.

  “Harry Luttrell!” he exclaimed. “You are sure? He is in England?”

  “Yes. I met him in Piccadilly outside Jerningham’s” — she mentioned the great outfitters and provision merchants— “he told me that he had run across you in the Sudan. What made you say that you hadn’t?”