The Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman/Chapter 7

by Stephen McKenna

VII

LADY ANN SPENWORTH DEPLORES PROPOSALS BY WOMEN

LADY ANN (to a friend of proved discretion): Oh, but I fully believe they do it! There were rumours even before the war. To my mind, the idea that any girl should ask a man to marry her is so repugnant that I can hardly think of it calmly. All so-called “Leap-Year jokes” seem to me to be in execrable taste. . . Since the war, with these millions of superfluous women, I am told that it has become quite common. You have always had the cranks who claimed that a woman had as much right to choose a husband as a husband to choose a wife; and now girls like my niece Phyllida say that, with the general upset of war, a little money frightens a man away and, if you want him to see that a difference of means is not a real obstacle, you have to take the first step. I’m inclined to say: “Rubbish, child, rubbish”—and again “Rubbish”. Since when have young men developed these fantastic scruples? And does any girl think that the only way of securing a man is to propose to him ? I should have imagined. . . But I was brought up in a different school. . .

Phyllida, of course, was struggling with her obsession. I do feel Brackenbury incurred a responsibility in not sending her right away. Ever since Colonel Butler disappeared, she has alternately fumed and fretted. Now she is becoming hard and cynical; if she were ten years older, you would call her “soured”. Ridiculous at one-and-twenty, or whatever she is. . . And she became no more normal after giving up hope of him. Oh, yes, I’m thankful to say that I think all that is quite over, though we must expect to see an occasional relapse; hence the discussion. She said that, if she met her Hilary or ever found out where he was, she would throw herself into his arms and ask him to marry her. And sotto voce the customary hateful suggestion that I had taunted him with wanting to marry her for her money and so driven him away in order to clear the ground for my Will. It is always on the tip of my tongue to say that she seems very certain of my boy. But it is the modern fashion for a girl to think she has only to drop the handkerchief. . . Brackenbury patted her hand (if he had slapped her it would have been more to the point), I went on with my work. She wanted the stimulus of a little opposition, and that was just what I refused to give her. Then she began talking in general terms about the difficulty that a girl has in finding a husband nowadays: fewer men than ever, all of them uprooted by the war and uncertain of their future, widows marrying again, the older women remaining young so much longer. I felt that, to some extent, it was all true, but I was surprised to hear such truths on Phyllida’s lips if she still wanted me to think she was faithful to Colonel Butler’s memory. . .

Culroyd’s marriage made a difference, of course. He was a devoted brother, according to his lights; and I think she is missing him greatly. And one wedding, like one funeral, leads to another. You have seen it again and again! The trousseau, the presents, the letters, the general excitement, the very contagion of two young lovers. . . All this coming at a time when she seemed deliberately to be making herself as unhappy as possible. . . I knew there would be a strong reaction, I was only afraid that she might throw herself at my Will’s head and that he might be unable to say “no”. I kept him away from the Hall as much as I could. If he really wanted her, he could drop the handkerchief—I felt—in his own good time. . .

“Your turn will come,” I told her.

“Oh, I don’t care who I marry,” she answered. “I suppose I shall need a home when I’m turned out of here; and, if so, I’d better get to work while I’m still young enough to attract men. I’m open to any offer; the man mustn’t be too hopeless a cad, that’s all.”

This mock-desperation would have been very cynical if it had not been so unconvincing. I said nothing at the time; but, when I had a moment alone with her poor mother, I did feel it my duty to say candidly that it was time somebody did something to change the girl’s thoughts. Ruth agreed, but in a helpless, hopeless way that always makes me wonder how Brackenbury has put up with her for so many years. In her opinion, Phyllida was pining for her young soldier and would continue to pine, so far as I could gather, until she found him.

“Is it not better,” I asked, “to face facts? Colonel Butler was certainly attracted, but he realized in time that he had hardly the means or the position to qualify him as husband to Phyllida and son-in-law to Brackenbury. Very properly he made himself scarce; and nothing in life became him so well as his leaving of it. You say he has not written? He won’t write;—and I respect him for it. But, goodness me, I hope you’re not going to encourage Phyllida to think that she’s broken her heart in a hopeless passion. If you won’t send her right away (as, you will have the justice to remember, I felt it my duty to suggest at the outset), let her come to me for a few weeks and let me see if London can’t provide something to turn her thoughts.”

The trouble was, if you will promise not to tell any one I said so, that Phyllida’s vanity was hurt. When she was running after this young man, there was so much publicity that people began to wonder; they became spied on and whispered about; when he was summoned to Brackenbury, every one felt that now they were going to make certain of him; when he left before his time, without saying a word to her, it was naturally assumed that he had run away. Rather than believe that any man could weary of her charms, Phyllida will convince herself that I turned young Butler against her. . . Hence this terrible bitterness. . .

If you ask me whether I expected to have my offer accepted, I will frankly say “no”. I think Phyllida must enjoy surprises, for she accepted the invitation at once, though perhaps a little ungraciously and with a suggestion that, within limits, any one was welcome to her. . . Will was at home; and, though I have never been able to decide what I should think if he told me that he was going to marry his cousin, I was certainly beginning to feel that it was time for him to find a suitable wife and settle down. Will is nearly thirty, and I have always considered that a popular and good-looking bachelor is unfairly exposed to temptation in England. They will let well alone if only others would leave them alone. . .

As witness that girl at Morecambe. I shall not tell you about that, because I hope—nay more; I pray—that it is all satisfactorily settled; and, also, I was never told the full story. It was enough for me that he had lost a splendid appointment and now, once more, has nothing to live on; he must marry or find a job. . . When the girl’s father came to the house—one of these rugged, north-of-England clergymen who always have the air of intimidating you into a state of grace—, it was my husband whom he insisted on seeing. I had never known Arthur in a state of such ungovernable fury. Bursting into my room, he stamped up and down, incoherent, beside himself. . . To this day I do not know what Will is supposed to have done. The girl kissed him good-night or something. I suppose I am the last person to condone any freedom, but she was a mere child ten years younger than my boy—what more natural or innocent? The old father spied on them. . . Hence the storm. Reading between the lines, I should conjecture that the girl deliberately laid herself out to catch Will. The one time I saw this Molly Phenton, she seemed an attractive child, with deep-set, rather appealing eyes; a good deal of soft brown hair, too, and pretty hands. Quiet, simply dressed; a perfect specimen of “the old country clergyman’s pretty little daughter.” And that, I have no doubt, was the effect she wanted to achieve with Will, the appeal of innocence and youth to a palate grown weary of more sophisticated charms; I wonder more men are not caught in that way. . . Will, I am thankful to say, pulled back before the trap could close on him; I was really astounded that the father had the effrontery to come all the way from Morecambe on what was nothing less or more than a blackmailing expedition. Futile, if nothing else; Will is not one of those men who find it necessary to buy popularity by giving presents to all and sundry; and I am sure he is too prudent to write a girl foolish letters. . .

“Arthur, do stop walking about,” I said, “and tell me what has happened.”

Too often, only too often, when Will has been in trouble of any kind, I have been excluded on the pretext that this was not a woman’s province. His own mother!

“What has happened?,” he shouted. “Why, we have brought into this world as choice a young blackguard as any one is ever likely to meet. Phenton told me so to my face; and I had to agree with him. He said he wished he were young enough to horse-whip the fellow; I said I agreed. He wished the girl had a brother to do it; I said again that I agreed.”

I really thought it best to let him wear himself out. . . When a man speaks in that tone about his own son, when a Christian minister talks about horse-whipping people. . . All these wild words made rather less than no impression on me, as I was quite sure that my boy hadn’t written anything that could be used against him.

“And what is the outcome of it all?,” I ventured to ask, when the storm had abated.

“The outcome?” When Arthur is moved, he has a most irritating trick of repeating one’s words. For thirty years I have tried to break him of it, but he is obdurate. “You’d better find some woman who’ll marry the young scamp and keep him in order. The sooner the better. And I wish her joy of him.”

When Will returned to Mount Street—he lived at his club until the wild clergyman returned to Morecambe—, I begged for enlightenment, but he would say nothing. For that, I am not ashamed to confess, I respected him; however badly this Molly Phenton (or “Molly Wanton,” as I prefer to call her) had behaved, Will was too chivalrous to clear himself at the expense of a woman—and this though I could see that he was worried out of his mind. To a man, that is a law of the Medes and Persians. . .

“Son of mine, you must try to forget the whole thing,” I said. “When you are older, I am afraid that some of your ideals will be modified; in future, no doubt, you will be more on your guard; but you will never be secure until you are yourself married.”

“Oh, I’m open to any offer,” said Will, exactly as poor Phyllida had done.

I was disquieted, for I could see clearly that he would indeed never feel secure from this girl until he was plighted to another woman. When once a man is “Morning-Posted”, as he would say, all other fancied claims dissolve into thin air. . . The mere sight of the Morecambe post-mark in those days sent my heart into my mouth, and I could see that the strain of this persecution was telling on his nerves. “Ann Spenworth,” I said to myself, “you must make up your mind; if he wants to marry Phyllida, you must not stand in the way.” . . .

All my life I have shrunk from the responsibility of interfering with the destiny of a boy and girl in love. The relationship is too delicate, the consequences are too grave. Before Phyllida came, I reviewed the position and decided to make no change.

“Your cousin,” I told Will, “is coming to us for a few weeks, and I wish her to carry back pleasant memories of her visit. It is no secret to you that she has been disappointed through fancying herself in love with a man who could never have been a suitable husband for the Earl of Brackenbury’s daughter. We have to be kind to her; and, if I know anything of girls, you will find that one who for the moment feels forlorn and uncared-for will repay the affection of him who can overcome her sense of loneliness and convince her that the whole world is not indifferent to her happiness. The labour and heat of the day,” I said, “must inevitably fall on you. I cannot hope that your cousin will be amused by the society of a dull old woman like me; and I am unequal to the physical strain of accompanying her to dances and plays. If you will relieve me of this burden, you will be doing us both a kindness; and, though I cannot hope to repay you, I should like you to feel that you may draw on me for any expenses to which you may be put in the course of keeping her amused.”

Some people—especially the really good-natured—feel that they owe themselves a grumble before ever consenting to do a kind act. Will is like that; unless you knew him well, you might think that he made difficulties before putting himself out in the slightest degree, but on this occasion he promised without demur. Perhaps he hoped that in playing cavalier to Phyllida he would turn his own thoughts from that unhappy episode at Morecambe; I prefer to think that, having now suffered himself, he was more sensitive to others’ suffering. . . I did not enquire how they spent their time; they were cousins and could go about together without being spied on and whispered about; I made over the car to them, kept Will supplied with little sums to cover their amusements and asked no questions.

From start to finish, he behaved splendidly. I am not being unkind if I say that Phyllida was sometimes a little difficile. . . You have noticed, I expect, that, when people of a certain class become possessed of a motor-car for the first time, their ambition is to see how fast they can drive it. Phyllida, I am afraid—and I was sorry to see it, though I could hardly hope for any other fruit of poor Ruth’s upbringing ; you may copy the mannerisms of others, but you can only give forth the breeding that is in you. . . I have lost the thread. . . Ah, yes! Phyllida, I am afraid, seeing a loyal and attentive cavalier always by her side. . . She tried my Will very hard; I sometimes felt that she was deliberately experimenting to see how much he would bear. Among places of amusement it was always her choice that prevailed; Will has a weakness for these revues—“you can at least smoke there,” he says—; Phyllida seemed to have developed into a remorseless blue-stocking. By day she wore him out at exhibitions. . . When he was not cooling his heels in a shop. . . At night he was expected to stay up till all hours to bring her home from dances. And so forth and so on. . .

Perhaps she tried us all rather hard. Money seemed to melt in her hands; and, though I did not grudge her my last penny if it was going to turn her thoughts, I am not ashamed to confess that I have reached an age where I set great store by my personal comfort. When you have lived for thirty years under the same vine and fig-tree, you begin to regard your home as a frame and setting which you are not too anxious to share with any one; hitherto my guests, when any have done me the honour to make my house their own, have recognized that the hostess has the first claim on their consideration. Not so Phyllida, who seems to have been brought up in a very different school. She was ruthless in her unpunctuality at meals and in her general disregard of every one else’s convenience; plans were chopped and changed up to the last moment, and there were times when I felt that she was deliberately making thing as difficult as possible—almost as though the absurd old feud had not been forgotten and I had put myself at her mercy. More than anything else I felt the loss of the car. They used it so unmercifully that I hourly expected the man to give notice; and in the meantime poor Aunt Ann was left to go by taxi—when she could find one.

I ought never to have lent it? My dear, you are preaching to the converted, but I have a reason different from yours. I was standing helplessly outside Covent Garden one night, when a taxi providentially drove up and I got into it. Only when I was half-way home did I remember that I had not told the man where to take me. Laugh, if you will; but I have never been so frightened! The wildest stories of kidnapping and robbery surged into my head. I was wearing my tiara, and the man had made a bee-line for me. . . Yet we were driving the shortest way to Mount Street, and the mystery was not explained until the man—with delightful and most unexpected civility—jumped down from the box, opened the door and stood cap in hand, waiting to help me out. Almost as though one had been Royalty. . .

“You have forgotten me, Lady Ann?,” he asked.

And then I’m not sure that the second shock wasn’t worse than the first. Colonel Butler! Phyllida’s soldier-hero, driving a cab! He had won a Military Cross and a D.S.O.—with a bar, I believe; he had always seemed a manly, straightforward young fellow—and here he was driving a cab! “This—this—” I felt myself apostrophizing Phyllida, Brackenbury, that poor fool Ruth—“this is what I’ve saved you from.” . . And then one had a certain revulsion of feeling: the pity of it! . . . And then stark horror! If Phyllida met him! Not then; I knew she was at a dance with Will and would not be back for hours, but at any moment when I was not there to protect her from herself. I recalled her dreadful threat that, if she saw or heard of Hilary Butler, she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to marry her. . .

“But—of course I remember you,” I said.

He smiled—without embarrassment of any kind—and walked up the steps with me.

“Have you a key?,” he asked, “or shall I ring?”

He spoke so nicely. . . If you like, just a touch of what I think must be West Country; but, when things were at their worst and I felt that we had to be prepared for anything, it was a slight consolation to know that he could easily have it drilled out of him. . . I could have done the same for Ruth twenty-three years ago, but she seemed to pride herself on her provincialism.

Now I wonder what you would have done. . . When Phyllida was nursing him at the hospital—or just afterwards—, he was always in Mount Street, lunching, dining; before they took to going about by themselves quite so much, we had all been to the play, he had seen us home—just like this—and asked me—just like this—whether I had my key or whether he should ring. . . There was no one at home; even Arthur was in the country. I felt I couldn’t suddenly freeze. . .

“I have my key, thanks,” I said. “Won’t you come in for a moment?”

He stopped his engine and came in. . . Now, I wonder what you would have done, if you’d been in his place? . . . He took off coat and gloves (he was wearing quite a presentable blue suit underneath), and I led the way into the morning-room, where I offered him cigarettes and something to drink . . . wondering the whole time, don’t you know, why one had done it and how long he would stay. . . With the coat and cap he seemed to divest himself of what I can only call the professional manner; asked me if I wouldn’t have a little of my own brandy, commented on some new curtains I’d bought when we did up the house after Hilda Culroyd’s illness. Absolutely at home. . .

“How is Phyllida?,” he asked.

“My niece is very well, thank you,” I answered, hardly caring—at that moment—to notice the familiarity. “And what have you been doing with yourself since last we met?,” I made haste to ask.

“Oh, as you see,” he said, “I’ve turned taxi-man. Owner-driver. One in action, four in support and nine training.”

I had to beg for enlightenment. And I am not ashamed to confess that his explanation, when it came, greatly increased my respect for him. The father, one gathered, was an estate-agent and surveyor in Devonshire, highly esteemed, but neither a millionaire himself nor in a position to make his son a millionaire simply by wishing it. The boy had realized everything—war-bonus, wound-gratuity and the rest—and had invested in a car which he learned to drive himself. One always suspected that here was a fortune for any young man who was not too proud to take off his coat, and so it proved: the one car became two, the two four and five—hence his expression “one in action and four in support.” Now, I was given to understand, he was launching out more widely and negotating for the purchase of nine more. A few of his friends — young fellows like himself discharged from the army—were coming into partnership with him; and in six months he hoped to give up driving himself and to turn his business into a limited company, partly taxis and partly those really magnificent private cars that one sees at the opera and everywhere, filled by people who one knows could not afford to buy such things at the present prices. . .

I complimented him most warmly on his enterprise and determination.

“It was so obvious,” he answered. “Stand outside any theatre or restaurant on a wet night, and you’ll agree with me. There are thousands of people living in London, hundreds of thousands coming to London for a few nights, who need a car and can’t afford to keep one. By the time you’ve ordered dinner at fifteen shillings a head and champagne at two guineas a bottle and brandy at five shillings a glass and cigars at four shillings a-piece and stalls at twelve and six and anything else that occurs to you at any price that occurs to any one else, you don’t grudge an extra guinea for a car that takes you from your house to the restaurant, from the restaurant to the theatre and from the theatre home again. You’d spend the best part of a guinea in fares and tips—without any certainty. For two guineas I give you certainty and a private car. In two years no one who can afford to dine at Claridge’s or go to the stalls will dream of going any other way. Whether it pays you can judge from the progress I’ve made in less than a year.”

Like all enthusiasts on their own hobby, he deluged me with figures until my poor head reeled. I did not complain, however, because I felt that so long as he was doing sensible hard work he would be unlikely to return and disturb our peace of mind. Apart from the one formal question he had not mentioned Phyllida; and I was strengthened in the belief which I had always held that it was a momentary infatuation and that he proved he had overcome it when he declined to communicate with her.

I hope I did nothing to suggest that one can have too much even of percentages and running expenses and allowances for depreciation and the like, but he jumped up suddenly and said:

“Well, I mustn’t keep you and I mustn’t be late for my next job. I hope your brother and Lady Brackenbury are all right? I see Culroyd is married.”

“They are all very well,” I said, as I walked with him to the door.

“If I may ask a favour, Lady Ann, don’t tell any of them what I’m doing,” he begged.

Do you know, that was the only jarring note. . . The first recognition, of course, was a shock. “D.S.O. Taxi-driver,” don’t you know? In some strange way it grates. . . Having taken the plunge, our young friend, I felt, was entitled to the highest credit, and anything like false shame would have been discordant.

“They would be the first,” I said, “to join me in applauding your resolution and hoping for your success.”

“But I want it to be a surprise,” he said.

At that, my heart sank.

“But why?,” I asked.

“For Phyllida’s sake,” he answered. “I’ve not seen her since that week-end at the Hall, I’ve not written to her; and she can’t write to me, because she doesn’t know where I am. I presume she’s not engaged, because I’ve seen no announcement of it, but I don’t want to do anything that may stand in her light. If my present scheme fails, I shall have to start on something else; if it succeeds—and when it succeeds—, it will be time enough for me to see what’s happened to her. I’ve never forgotten our talk. If I didn’t love a girl, I might cheerfully marry her for her money; but, when I do love her, I couldn’t bear to have people even hinting such a thing. You told me that she had four thousand of her own; when I can go to her father and say that I’m making more than that—clear profit to my own pocket—, I shan’t be afraid to look any one in the face. But I’ve not asked her to wait for me; and, if in the meantime she meets any one that she wants to marry more, no one will ever hear me complain.”

And then he buttoned himself into his coat—even now I couldn’t quite get over the disc with the number on it, hanging from a button-hole—, picked up his cap and held out his hand.

I walked to the door,—and then my heart seemed to stop. You may remember that the horn of our car has a note which I at least find unmistakable. I heard it in the distance, I heard it coming nearer. Phyllida and Will! It was only twelve, and I had not expected them for hours. Evidently the dance had not been to their liking. I prayed that I might prove equal to the crisis. . .

“Colonel Butler!,” I cried. (One never troubled to think whether he should rightly be given his military rank). “Shut that door! Run upstairs to the drawing-room! Hide there till I fetch you, but on no account turn on the light! My niece is coming now; if you want to avoid her. . .”

He acted with great decision and literally dashed upstairs. I heard the door gently closing as Will fitted his key into the lock. . . My dear, I am too old for excitements of this kind; my heart was beating; I had no idea what to say if they asked me why a taxi was standing there unattended. Oh, and I felt sure Phyllida would say she had left her work or her book in the drawing-room. . .

It was agony! I could not persuade them to go to bed. First of all they wanted to know why I was still up, then they must needs tell me about their party, then Phyllida wanted a cigarette, then Will wanted to give her some soda-water. One false start after another. . . When at last I thought I had set them moving, Phyllida sat down again and said:

“Will dear, see if there are any letters for me, there’s an angel.”

Do you know, I was so much obsessed by the thought of that man in the drawing-room that I was blind to everything else. As my boy went into the hall, I felt that I had seen a change without noticing it, if you understand me. Will was transformed, elated . . . and there was a new gentleness about Phyllida. When he brought the letters to her, I could see that he pressed her hand; and she sighed wistfully and then smiled. Now I could understand why they complained that the dance was so crowded, no room to sit, impossible even to talk. . .

“Read those upstairs, dear Phyllida,” I begged.

And I took her arm and led her up, past that terrifying drawing-room, into safety. Will . . . When I returned, he wanted to talk; but I implored him to go up and let me come to him in a moment. He was curious, mystified . . . but at least he could not doubt my earnestness. Then at last I released my prisoner and hurried him through the hall and into the street. When I had shut the door I leaned against it, panting. I couldn’t walk, I could hardly stand. . .

“And now, Will?,” I said, when I was able to drag myself upstairs.

“There’s nothing much to tell—as yet,” he answered. “You’ve probably seen that she’s been getting steadily more miserable the last few days. I asked her to-night what it was all about, though I knew that she was eating her heart out for this Butler fellow. She would only say that she was unhappy and lonely; and I told her that was all rot, because any number of men would be in love with her if she gave them half a chance. Then she said it was no good, because she couldn’t give them any love in return, her heart was dead. . . The usual rot a girl talks. I told her that, so far as I was concerned, I’d gladly risk all that; and she said she didn’t care who she married or what became of her and she wished she’d never been born. . . That,” said Will, “was nearer by a long chalk than I’ve ever been before; and you may take it as absolutely certain that, if she doesn’t hear anything of Butler pretty soon. . . She dried up and began to talk of something else when I tried to pin her to a day, but she was quite decent to me as we drove home.”

I could say nothing until I had been given time to digest his news. Whoever Will marries must have some money; he has earned nothing since he resigned his post at Morecambe. . . Perhaps dear Phyllida thinks a little too much about herself to be the perfect wife for Will, but it is not cynical to say that, if you look for perfection in woman or man, you will never marry. One has to consider the balance of advantage. . . I did most earnestly want to see Will established in life and settled down before those dreadful blackmailing Phentons could make another descent on us. And it would do Phyllida so much good to marry. . .

After all my excitements and alarms, I could not sleep for sheer thankfulness. And, when my tea was brought me and Phyllida of all people came in with it, I felt that now at last my Will must have dropped the handkerchief and she was coming to tell me that she had picked it up.

“My dear, what makes you so energetic?,” I asked.

As a rule she insisted on lying in bed until all hours and having her breakfast brought to her there, making work for my unhappy servants.

“I want to know if you can tell me Hilary Butler’s address?,” she said.

“I’ve never heard it,” I told her. “How should I?”

“Apparently he came here yesterday. When I went down to get my bag, I found his gloves in the hall. But they only have his initials.”

I did wish that Phyllida had been less collected and businesslike! Hard, not daring to let herself go. . . I ought to have looked, I suppose, to see that he was leaving nothing behind, but one cannot think of everything. And now I knew that Phyllida would start all over again. . .

Yet one must expect an occasional relapse. . .

“I’ve never heard it,” I told her again.

She did not trouble to ask anything more. . . Just looked at me for a moment. I made up my mind that her visit must be cut short; if I had met Colonel Butler, she might. And I have no doubt of any kind that she would do what she threatens and ask him to marry her. And he wouldn’t refuse. Moreover, I am not made of money, as she and Will seemed to think. . .

Brackenbury was a fool not to send her right away, as I recommended. Nothing is decided; I sometimes wonder whether anything ever will be decided. We are precisely where we stood before. . .

I had time to warn Will, I am thankful to say. A girl who shilly-shallies like that. . . I shall make the best of it, if I have to; but I am not sure she is the sort of wife for my boy. . .