CHAPTER I

LADY LOUISA BARKING TRACES THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE

The spirit of unrest, which had entered Brockhurst in the dim October

weather, along with certain guests, did not--Lady Calmady had foreseen

as much--leave with their leaving. It remained a constant quantity.

Further, it engendered events very far away from and, at first sight,

wholly at variance with those which had accompanied its advent.

For example, Lady Louisa Barking, passing through Lowndes Square one

bleak, March morning on her way from Albert Gate to do a little quiet

shopping in Sloane Street, observed that the Calmadys' house--situated

at the corner of the square and of ---- Street--was given over to a

small army of work-people. During Richard's minority it had been let

for a term of years to Sir Reginald Aldham, of Aldham Revel in

Midlandshire. Since Dickie's coming of age it had stood empty, pending

a migration of the Brockhurst establishment, which migration had, in

point of fact, never yet taken place. But now, as Lady Louisa, walking

with a firm and distinguished tread along the gray, wind-swept

pavements, remarked, the house was in process of redecoration, of

painting within and without. And, looking on these things, Lady

Louisa's soul received very sensible comfort. She was extremely

tenacious of purpose. And, in respect of one purpose at least, heaven

had not seen fit, during the last four or five months, to smile upon

her. Superstitious persons might have regarded this fact as a warning.

Lady Louisa, however, merely regarded it as an oversight. Now at last,

so it appeared to her, heaven had awakened to a consciousness of its

delinquencies, with the satisfactory result that her own commendable

patience touched on reasonable hope of reward. And this was the more

agreeable and comforting to her because the Quayle family affairs were

not, it must be owned, at their brightest and best just at present.

Clouds lowered on the family horizon. For some weeks she had felt the

situation called for effective action on her part. But then, how to act

most effectively she knew not. Now the needed opportunity stared her in

the face, along with those high ladders and scaffolding poles

surrounding the Calmady mansion. She decided, there and then, to take

the field; but to take it discreetly, to effect a turning movement, not

attempt a front attack.

So, on her return to Albert Gate, after the completion of her morning

shopping, she employed the half hour before luncheon in writing an

affectionate, sisterly letter to Ludovic Quayle. That accomplished,

young gentleman happened, as she was aware, to be staying at

Brockhurst. She asked his opinion--in confidence--on the present very

uncomfortable condition of the family fortunes, declaring how

implicitly she trusted his good sense and respected his judgment. Then,

passing adroitly to less burning questions, she ended thus--

"Pray let Lady Calmady know how really _delighted everybody_ is to hear

she and Sir Richard will be up this season. I do trust, as I am such a

near neighbour, that if there is _anything_ I can do for her, either

now, or later when they are settling, she will not hesitate to let me

know. It would be such a _sincere_ pleasure to me. Mr. Barking is too

busy with tiresome, parliamentary committees to be able to allow

himself more than a week at Easter. I should be _thankful_ for a longer

rest, for I am feeling dreadfully fagged. But you know how

conscientious he always is; and of course one _must_ pay a certain

price for the confidence the leaders of one's party repose in one. So

do tell Lady Calmady we are _quite sure_ to be back immediately after

Easter."

Reading which sentences Mr. Quayle permitted himself a fine smile on

more than one count.

"Louisa reminds me of the sweet little poem of 'Bruce and the Spider,'"

he said to himself. "She displays heroic persistence. Her methods are a

trifle crude though. To provoke statements by making them is but a

primitive form of diplomacy. Yet why be hard upon Louisa? Like my poor,

dear father, she, more often than not, means well."

It followed that some few days later, on his return to Whitney, Ludovic

indited a voluminous letter to his sister, in his very best style. "It

is rather a waste," he reflected regretfully. "She will miss the

neatest points. The happiest turns of phrase will be lost upon Louisa!"

To recoup himself for which subjective loss the young man amused

himself by giving a very alarmist account of certain matters, though he

was constrained to admit the pleasing fact that Sir Richard and Lady

Calmady really had it in contemplation to go up to town somewhere about

Easter.

And, truth to tell, the main subject of Mr. Quayle's letter could

hardly be otherwise than disquieting, for it was undeniable that Lord

Shotover's debts were causing both himself and others serious

embarrassment at this period. There was nothing new in this, that young

nobleman's indebtedness being a permanent factor in his family's

financial situation. This spring his indebtedness had passed from the

chronic to the acute stage, that was all. With the consequence that it

became evident Lord Shotover's debts must be paid, or his relations

must submit to the annoyance of seeing him pass through the Bankruptcy

Court. Which of these objectionable alternatives was least

objectionable Lord Fallowfeild still stood in doubt, when, in obedience

to the parental summons, the young man reached Whitney. Lord

Fallowfeild had whipped himself up into a laudable heat of righteous

indignation before the arrival of the prodigal. Yet he contrived to be

out when the dog-cart conveying the said prodigal, and Mr. Decies of

the 101st Lancers--a friend of Guy Quayle, home on leave from India,

whence he brought news of his fellow-subaltern--actually drove up to

the door. When, pushed thereto by an accusing conscience, he did at

last come in, Lord Fallowfeild easily persuaded himself that there

really was not time before dinner for the momentous conversation.

Moreover, being very full of the milk of human kindness, he found it

infinitely more agreeable to hear the praises of the absent son, Guy,

than to fall foul of the present son, Shotover. So that it was not till

quite late that night, by which time he was slightly sleepy, while his

anger had sensibly evaporated, that the interview did, actually, take

place.

"Now then, Shotover, march off to the place of execution," Ludovic

Quayle said sweetly, as he picked up his bedroom candlestick. "It was a

deep and subtle thought that of bringing down Decies. Only, query, did

you think of it, or was it just a bit of your usual luck?"

Lord Shotover smiled rather ruefully upon his prosperous, and, it may

be added, slightly parsimonious, younger brother.

"Well, I don't deny it did occur to me it might work," he admitted.

"And after all, you know, one mercy is there's no real vice about his

dear old lordship."

Lord Fallowfeild fidgeted about the library, his expression that of a

well-nourished and healthy, but rather fretful infant.

"Oh! ah!--well--so here you are, Shotover," he said. "Unpleasant

business this of yours--uncommonly disagreeable business for both of

us."

"Deuced unpleasant business," the younger man echoed heartily. He

closely resembled his father in looks, save that he was clean shaven

and of a lighter build. Both father and son had the same slight lisp in

speaking. "Deuced unpleasant," he repeated. "Nobody can feel that more

than I do."

"Can't they though," said Lord Fallowfeild, with a charmingly innocent

air of surprise. "There, sit down, Shotover, won't you? It's a painful

thing to do, but we've got to talk it over, I suppose."

"Well, of course, if you're kind enough to give me the time, you

know,--that's rather what I came down here for."

"So you did though," the elder man returned, brightening as though

making an illuminating discovery. Then, fearing he was forgetting his

part and becoming amiable too rapidly, he made a gallant effort to whip

up his somnolent indignation. "It's very distressing to me to put it so

plainly, but in my opinion it's a disgraceful business."

"Oh! I give you my word I know it," Lord Shotover replied, with most

disarming candour. His father affected, with difficulty, not to hear

the remark.

"It doesn't do for a man in your position to be owing money all over

the country. It brings the aristocracy into contempt with the

shop-keeping class. They're always on the lookout for the shortcomings

of their superiors, those people. And they do pay their debts, you

see."

"They've always got such a thundering lot of money," Lord Shotover put

in. "Don't know how they'd contrive to spend it unless they did pay

their debts."

"Oh! ah!--yes----" His father hesitated. It struck him Shotover was a

reasonable fellow, very reasonable, and he took the whole matter in a

very proper spirit. In short, it was not easy to blow up Shotover. Lord

Fallowfeild thrust his hands far down into his trouser pockets and

turned sideways in the great, leather-covered chair.

"I'm not narrow-minded or prejudiced," he began. "I always have kept on

civil terms with those sort of people and always will. Courtesy is an

obligation on the part of a gentleman and a Christian. I'd as soon be

rude to my tailor as eat with my knife. But a man must respect his own

rank or others won't respect it, especially in these nasty, radical,

leveling times. You must stand by your class. There's a vulgar proverb

about the bird that fouls its own nest, you know. Well, I never did

that. I've always stood by my own class. Helped my poor brother

Archibald--you can't remember him--weren't born at the time--to run

away with Lady Jane Bateman. Low, common fellow Bateman. I never liked

Bateman. She left Ludovic all that money, you know----"

"Wish to goodness she'd left it to me," murmured Lord Shotover.

"Eh?" inquired his father. Then he fell into a moralising vein. "Nasty,

disreputable things elopements. I never did approve of elopements.

Leave other men's wives alone, Shotover."

The younger man's mouth worked a little.

"The nuisance is sometimes they won't leave you alone."

Lord Fallowfeild gazed at him a moment, very genially.

"Oh! ah!--well--I suppose they won't," he said, and he chuckled.

"Anyhow I stood by your poor Uncle Archibald. He was my brother of

course, and she was a second cousin of your mother's, so I felt bound

to. And I saw them across the Channel and into the Paris train.

Dreadfully bad crossing that night I remember, no private cabins to be

had, and Lady Jane was dreadfully ill. Never take your wife to sea on

your honeymoon, Shotover. It's too great a risk. That business cost me

a lot of money one way and another, and let me in for a most painful

scene with Bateman afterwards. But, as I say, you're bound to stand by

your own class. That'll be my only reason for helping you, you

understand, Shotover, if I do help you."

"And I am sure I hope you will."--The young man rose and stood with his

back to the fire and his hands under his coat-tails. He stooped a

little, looking down pensively at the hearth-rug between his feet. His

clothes--not yet paid for, or likely to be--claimed admiration, so did

the length of his legs and the neatness of his narrow hips.

"I can only assure you I shall be most awfully grateful if you do help

me," he said quietly. "I don't pretend to deserve it--but that doesn't

lessen gratitude--rather the other way, don't you know. I shall never

forget it."

"Won't you though?"

And for the life of him Lord Fallowfeild could not help beaming upon

this handsome prodigal. "Uncommonly highbred looking fellow, Shotover,"

he said to himself. "Don't wonder women run after him. Uncommonly high

bred, and shows very nice feeling too."

And then the kindly and simple gentleman drew himself up with a mental

jerk, remembering that he was there to curse rather than to bless. He

fidgeted violently.

"Not that I have actually made up my mind to help you yet," he went on.

"I am very much inclined to cast you adrift. It distresses me to put it

to you so plainly, but you are disgracefully extravagant, you know,

Shotover."

"Oh! I know," the young man admitted.

"You're a selfish fellow."--Lord Fallowfeild became relentless. "Yes,

it's extremely painful to me to say it to you, but you are downright

selfish. And that, in the long run, comes uncommonly hard on your

sisters. Good girls, your sisters. Never given your mother or me any

trouble, your sisters. But money has to come from somewhere, and each

time I pay your debts I have to cut down your sisters' portions."

"Yes, I know, and that's what's made me so infernally unwilling to come

to you about my affairs," Lord Shotover said, in tones of perfectly

genuine regret.

"Is it though?" his father commented. "Good fellow at heart," he added

to himself. "Displays very proper feeling. Always was a good-hearted

fellow."

"I can only tell you I've been awfully wretched about it for the last

three months."

"Have you though?" said Lord Fallowfeild, with sympathy.

"I got just about as low as I well could. I felt I was nothing but a

nuisance and encumbrance. It was beastly to think of fleecing the

girls, don't you know. I came precious near cutting my throat--only

that seemed rather a dirty way of getting out of it all."

"So it is--poor boy--quite right. Nasty mean way of shirking your

responsibilities. Quite agree with you. I have never had any opinion of

a man who cut his throat. Never mention such a thing, Shotover." He

blew his nose resonantly.--"Never talk of such a thing," he repeated.

"And--poor boy--I--I'll pay your debts. Only I tell you this really is

the last time. There must be no misunderstanding about that. You must

reform, Shotover, if it's only on account of your sisters. I don't want

to take an unfair advantage of you in alluding to your sisters. Only

you must understand clearly this is the last time. You see it's

becoming too frequent. I don't want to press the case unduly against

you, but you recollect--I'm sure you do--I paid your debts in

fifty-eight, and again in sixty-two, or sixty-three, was it? Yes, it

must have been sixty-three, because that was the year my poor friend

Tom Henniker died. Good fellow Henniker--I missed Henniker. And they

wanted me to take over the hounds. Nice fellow in the hunting-field,

Henniker. Never saw him lose his temper but once, and that was when

Image rode over the hounds on the edge of Talepenny Wood."

"Rather coarse sort of brute, Image," put in Lord Shotover.

"And Henniker had such an excellent manner with the farmers, genial and

cheery, very cheery at times and yet without any loss of dignity. Great

test of a man's breeding that, being cheery without loss of dignity.

Now my poor friend, Henniker--oh! ah! yes, where was I though? Your

debts now, Shotover. Yes, it must have been sixty-three, because they

all wanted me to succeed him as master, and I had to tell them I could

not afford it, so it must have been just after I cleared you."

He looked at his erring son with the most engaging air of appeal and

remonstrance.

"Really it won't do, Shotover," he repeated. "You must reform. It's

becoming too frequent. You'd better travel for a time. That's the

proper thing for a man in your position to do when he's in low water.

Not scuttle, of course. I wouldn't on any account have you scuttle.

But, three weeks or a month hence when things are getting into shape,

just travel for a time. I'll arrange it all for you. Only never talk of

cutting your throat again. And you quite understand this is positively

the last time. I am very much in earnest, my dear boy, nothing will

move me. This settlement is final. And we'll just run up quietly to

town to-morrow and have a talk with my lawyers, Fox and Goteway. Very

civil and accommodating fellow, Goteway--he may be able to make some

suggestions. Very nice, confidential-mannered person, Goteway. Knows

how to hold his tongue and doesn't ask unnecessary questions--useful

man, Goteway----"

Which things coming to the knowledge of Lady Louisa Barking moved her

at once to wrath, and to deepened conviction that the moment for

decisive action had arrived. It appeared to her that her father had put

himself out of court. His weakness regarding his eldest son had

practically delivered him into her hand. She congratulated herself upon

the good which is thus beneficently permitted to spring out of evil.

Yet while recognising that a just Providence sometimes, at all events,

overrules human folly to the production of happy results, she was by no

means disposed to spare the mortal whose individual foolishness had

given the divine wisdom its opportunity. Therefore when, some few days

later, Lord Fallowfeild called on her, after a third or fourth

interview with Messrs. Fox and Goteway--beaming, expansive, from the

sense of a merciful action accomplished--she received him in a

distinctly repressive manner. The great, white and gold drawing-rooms

in Albert Gate were not more frigid or unbending than the bearing of

their mistress as she suffered her father's embrace. And that amiable

nobleman, notwithstanding his large frame and exalted social position,

felt himself shiver inwardly in the presence of his daughter, even as

he could remember shivering when, as a small schoolboy, he had been

summoned to the dread presence of the headmaster.

"Very good rooms these of yours, Louisa," he began hastily. "Always

have admired these rooms. Capital space for entertaining. Barking was

quite right to secure the house as soon as it was in the market. I told

him at the time he would never regret it."

Lady Louisa did not answer, but called after the retreating footman,

who had just brought in a stately and limited tea-tray, much silver and

little food:--"I am not at home, William."

Then, as she put small and accurate measures of tea into a massive

teapot, she added severely:--"What is all this I hear about Shotover,

papa?"

"Oh! ah! yes--poor Shotover. Came up to town together again to-day.

Good-hearted fellow, your brother Shotover, but thoughtless. However I

have had a most satisfactory talk with my men of business, Fox and

Goteway. I know Barking does not think much of Fox and Goteway. Wanted

me to go to his own lawyers, Hodges and Banquet. But if any one serves

you conscientiously you should not leave them. It's against my

principles to turn off those who serve me conscientiously. I told

Barking so at the time, I remember. It came out of the business about

your settlements, wasn't it--or the last time I paid Shotover's----" He

cleared his throat hurriedly. "I see the Calmadys' house is being done

up," he continued. "Nice young fellow, Calmady. But I never can help

feeling a certain awkwardness with him. Takes you up rather short in

conversation too sometimes. Terribly distressing thing his deformity

and all that, both for himself and Lady Calmady. Hope, perhaps, she

doesn't feel it as some women would though--tactful woman, Lady

Calmady, and very good woman of business. Still, never feel quite at my

ease with Lady Calmady. Can't help wondering how they'll do in London,

you know. Rather difficult thing his going about much with that----"

Lady Louisa held out a small teacup. Her high penetrating voice

asserted itself resolutely against her father's kindly, stumbling

chatter, as she asked:--

"Is it true you are not coming up from Whitney this season?"

"Oh!--tea--yes, thank you very much, my dear. No--well, I think

possibly we may not come up this year. Goteway believes he has heard of

a very eligible tenant for the Belgrave Square house, very eligible.

And so, nothing actually decided yet, but I think very possibly we may

not come up."

He spoke apologetically, regarding his daughter, over the small teacup,

with an expression of entreaty. Every feature of his handsome, innocent

countenance begged her not to deal harshly with him. But Lady Louisa

remained obdurate.

"Shotover's conduct is becoming a positive scandal," she said.

"Not conduct, my dear--no, not conduct, only money," protested Lord

Fallowfeild.

"If money is not conduct I really don't know what is," retorted his

daughter. "I do not pretend to go in for such fine distinctions. In any

case Mr. Barking heard the most shocking rumours at his club the other

day."

"Did he though?" ejaculated Lord Fallowfeild.

"He was too considerate to tell me anything very definite, but he felt

that, going out and seeing everybody as of course I have to, it was

only right I should have some hint of what was being said. Every one is

talking about Shotover. You can imagine how perfectly intolerable it is

for me to feel that my brother's debts are being canvassed in this sort

of way."

"I am very sorry there should be any gossip," Lord Fallowfeild said

humbly. "Nasty thing gossip--lies, too, mostly, all of it. Nasty, low,

unprofitable thing gossip."

"And, of course, your all not coming up will give colour to it."

"Will it though? I never thought of that. You always see straight

through things, Louisa. You have by far the best head in the family,

except Ludovic--uncommonly clever fellow Ludovic. Wonder if I had

better talk it all over with Ludovic. If you and he agree in thinking

our not coming up will make more talk, why, if only on Shotover's

account, I----"

But this was not in the least the turn which his daughter desired the

conversation to take.

"Pray remember you have other children besides Shotover, papa!" she

said hastily. "And for every one's sake run no further risk of

impoverishing yourself. It is obvious that you must save where you can.

If there is the chance of a good let for the Belgrave Square house, it

would be madness to refuse it. And, after all, you do not really care

about London. If there are any important debates in the Lords, you can

always come up for a night or so. It does not matter about you."

"Oh! doesn't it though?" Lord Fallowfeild put in quite humbly and

gently.

"And mama would always rather stay on at Whitney. Only it must not

appear as if we were the least uncomfortable at meeting people. I shall

make it a point to go everywhere. I shall be dreadfully fagged, of

course, but I feel it a duty to all of you to do so. And I should like

the girls to go out too. People must not suppose they have no gowns to

their backs. Maggie and Emily have had several seasons. I am less

worried about them. But Connie must be seen. She is looking extremely

pretty."

"Isn't she though?" Lord Fallowfeild chimed in, brightening. The

picture of those reportedly gownless backs had depressed him

abominably.

"Yes, and she must have every advantage. I have quite decided that. She

must come up to me at once. I shall write to mama and point out to her

how necessary it is that one of the girls, at least, should be very

much _en evidence_ this year. And I am most anxious it should be

Connie. As I undertake all the fatigue and responsibility I feel I have

a right of choice. I will see that she is properly dressed. I undertake

everything. Now, papa, if you are going down by the 6:10 train you

ought to start. Will you have a hansom?"

Then, as she shook hands with him, and presented an unresponsive cheek

to the paternal lips, Lady Louisa clinched the matter.

"I may consider it quite settled, then, about Constance?" she said. "I

mentioned it to Mr. Barking yesterday, and we agreed it ought to be

done even if it entailed a little inconvenience and expense. It is not

right to be indifferent to appearances. The other two girls can come up

for a little while later. Alicia must help. Of course there is not much

room in that wretched, little Chelsea house of hers, but George

Winterbotham can turn out of his dressing-room. Alicia must exert

herself for once. And, papa, Connie need not bring a maid. Those

country girls from Whitney don't always fit in quite well with the

upper servants, and yet there is a difficulty about keeping them out of

the housekeeper's room. I will provide a maid for her. I'll write to

mama about everything to-morrow. And, papa, I do beg you will

discourage Shotover from coming here, for really I would much rather

not see him at present. Good-bye. Pray start at once. You have barely

time to get to Waterloo."

And so Lord Fallowfeild started, a little flustered, a little

crestfallen, on his homeward journey.

"Able woman, Louisa," he said to himself. "Uncommonly clear-sighted

woman, Louisa. But a trifle hard. Wonder if Barking ever feels that,

now? Not very sensitive man, Barking, though. Suppose that hardness in

Louisa comes of her having no children. Always plenty of children in

our family--except my poor brother Archibald and Lady Jane, they had no

children. Yet somebody told me she'd had one by Bateman, which died.

Never understood about that. Capital thing for Ludovic she never did

have any by Archibald. But it's always curious to me Louisa should have

no children. Shouldn't have expected that somehow of Barking and

Louisa. Sets her more free, of course, in regard to her sisters. Very

thoughtful for her sisters, Louisa. I suppose she must have Connie.

Nuisance all this gossip about Shotover. Pretty child, Connie--best

looking of the lot. People say she's like me. Wonderfully pretty child,

Connie. That young fellow Decies thinks so too, or I'm very much

mistaken. Very much attracted by Connie. Fine young fellow,

Decies--comfort to hear of Guy from him. Suppose she must go up to

Louisa. Gentlemanlike fellow, Decies. I shouldn't care to part with

Connie----"

And then, his reflections becoming increasingly interjectional as the

train trundled away southwestward, Lord Fallowfeild leaned back in the

corner of the railway carriage and fell very fast asleep.