“What are you all so excited about at your end of the table?” enquired Lady Lippington from the other; and when it was explained to her she said: “By all means. We’ll drink, too. To the King of Canada—all in good time.”
After dinner the Duchess, making room for me on the same sofa, asked me some pointed, personal questions, based upon the fact that among all the colonies she had the highest opinion of the one I humbly represented. The Duchess observed you might say what you liked, there was nothing like family ties.
I don’t know whether we owed it to Mr. Mackenzie Short and his ardour for monarchical institutions, but the country seemed suddenly raised, in the point of view of the Duchess, from the geographical to the practical; she seemed literally, as she sat on the sofa and considered me, to come, like the early discoverers, within sight of land. Even in that momentary embodiment I felt honoured, and when she enquired whether we had any Indian blood in our family I was sorry to be unable to gratify her intelligent curiosity in the affirmative.
“But are you sure?” she said. “There is something so very dark and distinguished about your brother—quite the young brave.”
“Our father came from Yorkshire,” I interrupted, “and our mother’s people emigrated from Massachusetts.”
“Ah, well, perhaps it came in there,” said the Duchess. “Not that I have personally any particular objection to it—rather a noble strain I should consider it. And I shouldn’t at all wonder, Miss Canada, if there was more of it in your part of the world than you think.”
At that point the men came in, and I saw Graham walk straight to where Barbara was turning over the Academy pictures of the year. I saw, too, that he had made up his mind. Without seeing any more I was aware that they had contrived a disappearance together somewhere; and with a queer, only half-sincere feeling that there was at least nothing to suffer for him yet, I gave my attention to the curate, who had rewarded my politeness during dinner by coming to seek me out again after it was over, as curates will.
The Duchess and Barbara were spending the night; and Barbara’s knock came, just when I thought it would, about ten minutes after we had all gone to our rooms. She shut the door with perfect composure, and took a serious and collected seat near the fire.
“I thought you would like to know, dearest Mary ” she began.
“I do know. I’m sure I know!” I said.
“That ”
“Graham ”
“Has asked me to marry him,” said Barbara.
“Of course he has,” I told her. “And—are you going to, Barbara?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Barbara equably.
Neither of us said anything for a moment, and then it struck me to put a question.
“Tell me, Barbara, are you happy?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m pleased.”
“Oh!” said I.
“Aren’t you pleased?” she suddenly demanded, and at that of course I kissed her.
“Darling Barbara,” I told her, “I would rather have you for a sister than anybody in the whole world.”
As a form of congratulation this was perhaps a little egotistical; but I saw that it perfectly satisfied Barbara.
CHAPTER XXII
“A MARRIAGE has been arranged, and will take place early in July, between Graham Trent, Esq., D.S.O., late lieutenant of the Connaught Yeomanry Regt., son of the Hon. Mr. John Trent, of the Senate of the Dominion House of Commons, and Lady Barbara Pavisay, only daughter of the late Earl of Doleford, of Pavis Court, Crosshire, and Long Water, County Antrim, Ireland.”
There was only one thing I didn’t like about it; and that was that the Morning Post should know it would take place in July before I did. That seemed to lift the matter into a cold, far, official sphere, to suggest that the warm, human, domestic interest had very little to do with it at all. I could almost have wondered, if he had not been at Pavis Court at the time, whether it had been thought necessary to consult Graham.
I was not at Pavis Court; I was in town with Mrs. Jerome Jarvis, who was staying with me at the flat while her house was being painted. There was this to be said about Mrs. Jerry, and I had often heard it from others—she never let anything make any difference. You might break any number of the commandments and as long as it suited Mrs. Jerry to continue your acquaintance she would not for a moment give you up; and I had only been foolish, and not sinful, about Billy. So when the little awkwardness arose as to what was to become of me while Graham took his privilege of falling more deeply in love than ever with Pavis Court, Mrs. Jerome most magnanimously said she would come and stay. As we had Billy too almost always for dinner, nothing seemed really to have been affected by anything, which was very much Mrs. Jerry’s view, I believe, of ideal relations; I wished I could make it mine. To be lifted above sentimental vicissitudes of any sort, as Billy was, would simply, I thought, be too happy and delightful a fate.
The awkwardness at Pavis Court took the obvious form of there not being another habitable bedroom. Evelyn was still there, and Lord Scansby, and with Graham every corner that was decently comfortable was occupied.
“If you had been a King or a Queen,” said Barbara regretfully, “we could have done you quite well.”
She meant, I suppose, that I could have had a State apartment with silver sconces, and slept under a canopy powdered with centuries and heavy with bullion. I wasn’t qualified for these honours, that was very clear, but it was no reason why I should feel, as I nearly always did with Lady Doleford at Pavis Court, like some stray cat that she didn’t want to encourage about the place. No doubt there is exaggeration in that way of putting it; but the hostility, or antipathy, or whatever it was that chilled the air between Lady Doleford and myself, was so slight that I am obliged to use a strong term to bring it out, as it were, at all. I very much doubt whether anybody was aware of it except me; but it was one of those things that are not an atom the less clear to oneself for being imperceptible to other people. After the departure of Peter, and especially, oddly enough, after the engagement of Barbara and Graham, it seemed unaccountably to intensify. She fully accepted Graham, more fully, I thought sometimes, than Barbara did, and made a great deal of him; but her attitude to me plainly indicated that though Graham might be, under the circumstances, a very good thing, he was in himself enough of it.
Evelyn stayed on through everything at Pavis Court. It might have been thought that Barbara’s engagement cut the ground, so to speak, from under her feet; but nobody who knew Evelyn could suppose that she could be made uncomfortable by the loss of a mere trifle like her raison d’être. Besides, she had not altogether lost it, she remained to comfort and support Lady Doleford through the bereavement, if one might say so, of the daughter of her choice. I don’t know whether she counselled resignation, or shared Lady Doleford’s ardent faith in those wise over-rulings which in the end were bound to bring about such announcements under the Court Circular as were to her taste, or whether it was just out of bravado that she went on holding a position that might be considered to have fallen twice; but there she remained. When Mrs. Jerome read Graham’s engagement out of the Morning Post at breakfast—Mrs. Jerome always had the Morning Post, it followed her about like a sheep, and naturally she brought it to the flat—I said it must be getting nearly time for Evelyn to sail.
“I must say I sympathise with Evelyn,” said Mrs. Jerome. “Very deeply.”
“Do you think she has been badly treated?” I asked.
“I think Cecilia Doleford has made a goose of her.”
I reflected for a moment, and then I said: “Do you know, I don’t think anybody could quite make a goose of Evelyn.”
“It’s all right being sent upon approval,” remarked Mrs. Jerome, “if you are approved, isn’t it? And it’s pretty clear—however, she is a clever little person, as you say. She and Cecilia may have their way yet.”
“Lady Doleford,” I said, “must be a delightful person to have for a real friend.”
“Too clinging,” said Mrs. Jerry, “for modern life. No time for all those stores of affection.”
“I haven’t seen that side of her,” I remarked.
“Well, of course,” said Mrs. Jerome enigmatically, “she considers herself pledged to Evelyn, you know. She’s tremendously what you might call a woman of honour, Cecilia Doleford. And very patient, very persevering. Rather stupid, too—she can only see one thing at a time. Never has more than one string to her bow, you know—there are people like that. Although, in view of dear Barbara’s having saved the situation the way she has, I am inclined to agree with you that she might as well give it up.”
“I never said so!” I cried. “I only meant that if Lady Doleford seemed to like me better it would be pleasanter meeting her in society.”
“Never allow your personal feelings to interfere with your social relations,” said Mrs. Jerome Jarvis. “That’s a cardinal principle, for London, at all events. You find me useful, don’t you, putting you up to dodges of sorts? Dear me, what a romance it is, this engagement of your brother and Barbara Pavisay! I was one of those who indicated it, you know, from the beginning. I saw he adored her from the first. Aren’t you very pleased about it?”
“I love Barbara,” I said.
“Yes, isn’t she a dear? And a lot of principle Barbara has, too—she gets that from her mother. So much better than taking after her in looks, when you could choose to be a Pavisay. Thinks out things for herself, Barbara does—surprises you sometimes. And she has not only behaved very well over this affair, but your brother Graham will get a good wife into the bargain, which might have been by no means to be taken for granted.”
“I think he will,” I said furiously, “and I know Barbara will get a good husband.”
“And that’s not to be disregarded, either,” said Mrs. Jerome Jarvis.
Barbara was in town for a week just then, staying with her Aunt Agnes, who had accomplished Broad’s cure at Brighton and had now returned to London, for whose sake in her establishment I am not certain, possibly for her own. Graham did not take the opportunity of coming too—as Barbara explained he had so little time left now to be at Pavis Court, planning repairs with her mother, and being introduced to all the silly old things there, that it would have been inhuman to drag him away.
“Aren’t you ever,” I asked her desperately, “the least bit jealous of Pavis Court, Barbara?”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “I see what you mean,” she said. “But, no—I don’t think I am.” “Perhaps,” she added presently, “I ought to be.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” I said. “If he’s satisfied, why should anybody worry?”
“That’s your point of view,” said she calmly, indicating that there might be another. It was so surprising to find Barbara specialising in this way upon her situation, that for a moment I had nothing to say. Hitherto she had seemed to take it as she took most things, as an essential part of a general scheme, prescribed by circumstances and sanctioned by authority, to which it would be tiresome of her not to conform. Barbara’s wasn’t, whatever Mrs. Jerome might say, an analytic mind, and wouldn’t be at all likely to decipher a problem for itself without some suggestion from outside. When I saw that she was really pondering her engagement, I wondered greatly what influence had been working upon her. Could it be Evelyn, I speculated, who had taken toward such unions a high moral tone? No; Evelyn, however otherwise she was equipped, had a sense of humour, and besides, Evelyn approved. Could Peter have written anything? That wasn’t likely either—Peter was only human, and it must have been a weight off his mind. Probably he approved.
Barbara broke in upon my thoughts. She had come to tea.
“Mary,” she said suddenly, “I like Graham.”
“Well,” I said, “I know he likes you.”
She gave me a dissatisfied glance. I don’t know what else she expected me to profess.
“It’s a very good foundation, isn’t it?” she said. “Mutual liking.”
“Oh, yes!” I said, but in my heart I was thinking, “What a forlorn pair of people!”
“You know, of course, that he has secured Pavis Court.”
“I hope so,” I said. Without that, it will be admitted that the prospect would have been a little bleak.
“Mother looks ten years younger. But what I was going to tell you was, he has promised—has offered—to hand it over to Peter, if Peter should ever be in a position to buy it, on very easy terms. And Peter easily might, you know.”
“Yes, but do you think he would?” I asked. “Unless it just happened so?”
“Well, it might just happen so,” said Barbara.
“Yes, I suppose it might,” I agreed.
“Or he might get a post—Peter might—out in India or somewhere, and save up on his own account. He has ideas,” said Barbara. “But anyway I think it’s splendid of Graham to be willing to give it all up like that; and so does mother.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t suppose Graham would feel very comfortable in King Charles’s bed, with the Earl of Doleford walking up and down outside.”
“He won’t want to sleep there,” said Barbara. “It’s too stuffy. Though, of course, he could if he liked. Especially as we shall only be in England for the summers and not every summer;” and she sighed.
“Mother will be longing to see you,” I said. “And you will try to like Minnebiac, Barbara.”
“I’ve had the sweetest letter from her,” said Barbara, and sighed again. “And I do mean to try to like Minnebiac. That will be something for me to do. Evelyn says ”
“Oh, how is Evelyn?”
“She’s very flourishing indeed, and very well occupied. She is saving Uncle Christopher’s life—at least he says so. She is teaching him to Fletcherise—chew, you know.”
“Why, what a good thing!” I exclaimed. “If he doesn’t happen to know.”
“Isn’t it? They sit opposite one another, and cheer one another on. Mother and I stick it out at dinner, but at other meals, when there are things to do, we often have to abandon them—just leave them at it. It’s noble of Evelyn, for she does love talking, and her digestion is all right.”
“Evelyn is a person of great resources,” I said. “If she had to chew, she would just chew, but she wouldn’t be wasting her time.”
“Especially when it’s supposed to be so good for one,” said Barbara. “What has Towse got there—oh, a telegram!”
“It must be from Graham,” I said. “I wonder what he wants.”
“He’s hunting again to-day,” remarked Barbara; “I hope he hasn’t had a spill.”
At that I opened the telegram quickly. It was from Graham.
“What a relief!” I cried. “And what good news. ‘Watchett wires Lippington appointed Canada.’ How very, very nice, Barbara.”
“I was perfectly certain Margot would bring it off,” said Barbara. “Margot brings everything off.”
“Now when you go to Ottawa with Graham you’ll have to be presented to her,” I said.
“Presented to Margot?” said Barbara. “How ridiculous that seems!” and she sighed again.
CHAPTER XXIII
IT was then the first week in February, and winter was over, at all events for the lilacs in the Park. There had been two postponements in the arrangements of people interested in this account. Graham and I were not to sail until the twenty-first, and Mr. James P. Dicey would not arrive in England until March 1st. Evelyn had wrested a fortnight’s extension of leave from her parent. On the other hand Lord and Lady Lippington were to sail for Canada rather earlier than had been anticipated. Vice-regal honours had begun to press—rather inconveniently, Lady Lippington was explaining, the day I went to see her. I had meant to express something like congratulations, with a suitable mingling of happy reflections on the good fortune of Canada; but the general tone of what was being said made me pause abashed.
“There is hardly time to get Lippington’s uniform made,” she was
telling Miss Pedlington, “though luckily I had a hint some weeks ago that this might come upon us; and I knew upon what short notice one can be whisked off to the ends of the earth, so I made him go to be measured. If they had found somebody else to appoint no harm would have been done—he acknowledges the wisdom of it now. But isn’t it too inconsiderate of them to give us only till the tenth?”
“I suppose we never know what we are equal to until the trial comes,” said Miss Pedlington; “but I must say I think you are very brave about it all, dear Margot.”
Margot smiled pathetically. “We are to have the boys out for their summer holidays,” she said, referring to members of her family whom I have not mentioned before because, being at school, I never saw them. “Amherst thinks it will be good for them. That is my great consolation. But it is rather soon to uproot us again, isn’t it? I should have been glad of just one little peaceful year.”
“It will be simply exile, of course, for you both,” said Mrs. Jack Yilke, who was also there. “Couldn’t you take out a bobbery pack, or start harriers or something?”
“Oh, we try not to look upon it in that way at all,” said Lady Lippington brightly, “and of course one’s own pleasure is the last thing one must consider! But I am sure we shall find a great deal,” and she smiled graciously—already—at me, “in the simple amusements of the country.”
“You have one thing to be thankful for,” remarked the Duchess of Dulwich, who had dropped in unexpectedly as usual—it was, I believe, Her Grace’s substitute for the satisfaction of travelling incognito. “You can depend on the loyalty of the people. Once you get hold of their affections. No sedition there, eh, Miss Canada?”
“I hope not,” I said.
“You must attach them—you must attach them,” continued the Duchess. “That is what we are sending you out for, remember. Take a bobbery pack by all means, but no puppies on your Staff, please, like the one that Mr. What-you-may-call-him was telling us about the other night at Knowes. You and Amherst laid that to heart, I hope,” and the Duchess helped herself to more tea-cake.
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