The Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman/Chapter 5

by Stephen McKenna

V

LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFUSES TO BECOME A MATCH-MAKER

LADY ANN (to a friend of proved discretion): If you will give me a moment to set my thoughts in order, I think I can furnish the whole story. Indeed, if you are to skate in safety this week-end at Brackenbury, it is well to know where the ice will bear. . . Goodness me, I don’t suggest for a moment that there is anything to conceal—I can assure you I should have had something to say before ever receiving the girl or allowing my nephew Culroyd to meet her—my boy Will can take care of himself—; I meant that there is so little to tell. Surdan the name is; Hilda Surdan—and no relation to our dear old admiral, nor to the Lacey-Surdans, nor to that wild, eccentric tribe of Surdans who have spread over so much of Mayo. . . If I may give you a hint, that is just the sort of question that you have so particularly to avoid. I’ve no doubt that in a few years they will have concocted a most convincing pedigree, linking themselves to all and sundry, but the idea has not occurred to them yet. . .

Homely, unspoiled people I thought them. . . The mother very capable, but endearing. . . Immensely rich—I believe it is shipping, but the history books are silent. . . Have you observed a significant change in the biographies of the present day? We are always plunged into the heart of things, as it were: “called to the bar in seventy-something, undersecretary for this or that, entered the cabinet as secretary for the other and, on retiring, was raised to the peerage with the title of”—something rather far-fetched and pretentious, as a rule. After that it’s plain sailing. But, if one suggests that even a successful barrister must have had some kind of father and mother, one is considered to have been tactless. . . I believe it was shipping. . . They talked a great deal about “yards”, which one always associates with that sort of thing.

I met Mrs. Surdan on one of my committees during the war. When my niece Phyllida was working at that hospital, she befriended the girl—Hilda—; and Mrs. Surdan made this an excuse for introducing herself. I recognized her at once as one of the nameless, efficient women who impose their wills on a committee; earnest and hard-working, but occasionally rather difficult, with their assurance and massed information. One feels that there is no subject on which they will not put one right if one has the temerity to open one’s mouth. Judge of my surprise when Mrs. Surdan wrote that she would like to come and ask my advice. My advice!

“This is your lucky day,” said Will, when I shewed him the letter. “Perhaps they want a house in London for the season.”

Until that moment I had thought of telling this Mrs. Surdan I was so busy that we must really postpone our meeting. Will’s quick brain warned me to do nothing hasty. I don’t know whether you remember the condition of Mount Street; we had not touched the house, inside or out, since the beginning of the war; and, whenever I spoke to my husband, he put his hands in his pockets and said: “Will you please tell me where the money’s coming from?” I’m not going to burden you with my own sordid cares; but we are not well-off, and, what with taxation and the rise in prices, Mount Street is rather a responsibility. I retain it because it is my frame and setting; any little niche that I may occupy is in Mount Street; and, when I part with the house, you may feel that I have indeed abdicated. This morning my tea was brought me on the tray that the princess gave me as a wedding-present. But you know: the house is a museum of memories. . . But it is a responsibility. Arthur’s directorships are good so far as they go, but he says there is a reaction against what he calls “figurehead directors”. Will is not yet earning anything; and I was cruelly disappointed by Sir Adolphus Erskine when I approached him for an appointment. . . So our income is not increasing, and the cost of living is. . .

I told Mrs. Surdan that I should be delighted to see her at any time. Arthur saw at once the desirability of considering a good offer. . .

“She can have this place for the season,” he said, “or for eternity. With the plate and linen. And the servants. And Will, if she’ll take him.”

When Arthur speaks like that, I never argue with him. It is curious—one has seen the same thing a thousand times between mothers and daughters, but men always pride themselves on being unpetty—; Arthur is really jealous of his own son. If Will and he are left together for any time, Arthur becomes a different man, querulous, impossible to please. With his directorships and his clubs and his journeys to and fro, my husband—as you must have seen—does not give me very much of his society; I am left to support the burden of domestic empire single-handed, but, when Will is at home, I am glad for Arthur to be away. When our boy applied for a commission, all that Arthur would say was, why hadn’t he applied for it before? When he joined the staff, why hadn’t he refused to join the staff? When he left it, why hadn’t he stayed there? Picking a quarrel. . . If only I could find him some suitable employment! But when a man like Erskine or Erckmann or whatever his name is. . . A broken reed, a mere “climber” who hoped to use me for securing an invitation to Cheniston and the delectable friendship of my brother-in-law Spenworth. . . I have lost the thread. . .

Ah, yes! For all its shabbiness, the dear old house looked more than attractive when Mrs. Surdan arrived for dinner. Just the two of us. . . I always think tea is such an inhospitable meal, and luncheon is hardly practicable when every gleam of sunlight shews you something more to be patched and painted. . . As a matter of fact I might have spared my pains, for she was not interested in the house.

“Now, Lady Ann,” she said, with the brisk, efficient manner which always rather puts me on my guard. “Let’s come to business. I want your advice. My husband has closed down his department and is going north immediately. I shall go with him, of course, and I want to know what you would advise me to do with Hilda. After all the work she’s done in hospital I should like her to have a few months’ complete holiday and to enjoy herself, but obviously I want to entrust her to some one who will look after her. Hilda is a thoroughly sensible girl, but London is a big place, and I suppose there is no harm in saying that she is very attractive and will have a good deal of money later on. You know far better than I do the importance of her meeting the right people. What do you suggest?”

Now, do you know, I felt so certain what she wanted me to suggest that it was on the tip of my tongue to read her one of those abominable advertisements in the morning papers: “A Lady of Title is willing to chaperon a young girl; introductions. . .” and so forth and so on. People putting any position they may have up to auction! Are you surprised that London is what it is? I have always wondered, when I see the really and truly inexplicable young women with whom Connie Maitland is liée from time to time, whether she augments her income in this way. Otherwise I fail to understand how she keeps on that great house in Eaton Place and entertains as she does. But that is her business. . . If Mrs. Surdan had dared to propose such a thing, I really think I should have asked her to leave the house. . .

“Surely,” I said, “you are the best person to look after Hilda. I go out very little; but, so far as I can judge, there is never any difficulty about getting to know people in London. If you were to take a house in some good neighbourhood and entertain a certain amount—”

“I should only be a handicap to Hilda,” she interrupted.

Do you know, I thought that dear of her. . . It is the Lancashire “burr”, is it not? She had that—not disagreeably, but it was there. And her directness, never rounding the edge of anything she said. . . The girl, you will find, has been polished without being made genteel. If you catch them young, a good school . . . or a governess whose ear has been trained to detect and suppress those tell-tale oddities of speech. . . But you don’t often find a mother with the wisdom to recognize that and keep herself out of sight. . .

“I don’t know what to recommend,” I said. “It would be no kindness to ask her to stay here. I am a dull old woman; there are no girls to keep her company; and my husband and I have long found that, in entertaining, it is useless to compete with those who think in pounds when we are forced to think in pennies.”

“I should like Hilda to enjoy herself,” said Mrs. Surdan. “If some one entertained on her behalf. . . I should like her to be given a ball, for instance. . . But, of course, it wouldn’t be fair to ask you.”

“It wouldn’t be fair on Hilda,” I said.

“May Hilda’s parents not judge of that?,” she asked.

A woman with a quite conquering smile. . . I wish you had met her.

It was really like a struggle not to be first through the door. . .

“If Hilda would care to come,” I said at length, “as my guest. . .”

“I can never thank you enough,” said Mrs. Surdan. “She is very tractable. Young, of course. . . And inexperienced about money. . .”

The best method of control, she thought, would be for me to suggest a sum which would cover all her expenses of every kind and for her husband to pay that into my account. . . “Hilda’s pocket-money,” we agreed to call it. . .

It seemed an admirable arrangement, but then Mrs. Surdan has the practical brain of a man in some ways. . .

I took Arthur completely into my confidence. . .

Will. . .

I had great difficulty in deciding on the right method of approach with Will. State the bald fact that the girl was coming—irrevocably and without appeal; Will might have taken a dislike to her and made my already difficult task harder. Make any mystery about it, and she might have become the fruit of the one forbidden tree, as it were, a sort of morbid craving. And that was the last thing I wanted. . . In the end I told him frankly: she was young, pretty and the only child of very rich parents who wanted to launch her on “the great world”, as the literary people call it. . .

“And I expect you to help me,” I told Will. “I don’t know the young men of the present day.”

“I must have a look at her before I wish her on to any of my friends,” said Will, not very encouragingly.

You know, there are some people who feel they owe themselves a grumble. . . As soon as Hilda arrived. Will behaved charmingly. You have seen her about in London, I expect? Oh, well, she is really pretty: small, exquisitely finished, with that “look-you-straight-in-the-eyes” air which so many girls seem to have acquired during the war. I felt—pace her mother—that she was thoroughly well able to take care of herself. Except, perhaps, in dress. The first night she came down in a frock which hardly reached her knees and seemed to stop short at the waist—bare arms, bare shoulders, bare back; I was quite shocked for a moment when Will came into the drawing-room without knocking. . . However, so long as it did not set him against her. . . You see, I was simply not equal to taking her out to daily luncheons, dinners, plays, dances; inevitably a good deal devolved on Will, but he was truly sweet about it. . . Seeing how répandu he is. . .

At the same time, I was in a difficult position, for, while I never dreamed he would look at her as a wife, I should have liked him to establish some sort of claim on the girl’s father; and, if Will did not marry her, I was not doing much to help the Surdan fortunes. You know what men are! So long as Will was considered her natural protector, the others kept away for fear of “poaching”, as it were. I felt it was a pity for them to be about together so much. I’m not ashamed to call myself old-fashioned. . . And these garish new restaurants and poor Hilda’s “uniform undress”, as Will rather wittily expressed it, made them very conspicuous. . .

The girl felt it, too. One day, when he’d devoted half the night to looking after her at a ball, she came to me—in real trouble, I thought—, and we had a serious talk. I told her that, if she had not spoken, I should have; Will was devoting himself to her so good-naturedly that he was neglecting his own prospects and doing nothing to secure an appointment.

“As his mother,” I said, “I cannot bear to see his abilities wasting. . . He needs a good appointment; and I don’t even know where to begin looking for one. But you are not to bother your head about my affairs. Tell me, dear child, what is troubling you.”

So far as I could make out—she spoke very simply and nicely—, she was afraid of getting into a false position with Will if she went about with him so much. Affichée. . . At this ball—I had handed on her mother’s request that we should be most careful whom we introduced—Will had very unselfishly played cavalier the whole evening; and, as she put on her cloak, some girl had asked one of those silly, impertinent questions which do such incalculable harm. . .

“My dear, you must not distress yourself,” I said. “You know the old saying—‘There is safety in numbers’—; for the future. . .”

It was quite evident to me now that Will did not intend to marry her. He was furious when I even hinted at such a thing. . . And I will tell you that I was glad. She would not have made a suitable wife, and no amount of money will overcome those little hardly perceptible angularities of breeding which make the difference between a happy and an unhappy marriage. While there was any possibility of such a thing, I had to hold my peace. . .

That night I improvized quite a big party for her. Will was not able to be present, as he had a long-standing engagement to dine with a man at his club. We had encroached on his time so much that for the first week of the new régime I hardly saw him; he was simply making up arrears with his other friends. I was lucky enough to get hold of Culroyd, however; and, though he was hardly a substitute for Will—I hate to say this about my own nephew, but I always feel that my poor sister-in-law Ruth imported a bucolic strain into the blood—, he did his best and made quite an impression on Hilda. . .

Indeed, I think you may say that it all started from that night. . . I never imagined that Culroyd would fall a victim. Hilda is undeniably pretty and, of course, she is an heiress; but, beyond that, she brings nothing. Culroyd is heir to an earldom, and one would have thought he might have done rather better. . . It’s not as if he needed money. When my brother Brackenbury sacrificed himself for the good of the family, he did it on such a scale that there was no need for any one to follow in his footsteps for several generations. Culroyd and Phyllida, for their age, are very well provided for; and, of course, there is a great deal more to come. No! I could not help feeling that he must have inherited a taste for money with his mother’s blood. It is extraordinary how rich people seem to attract rich people. The Jews, for example. . . And vice versa. I am sometimes so much afraid that Will may throw himself away on some one whom he’ll simply have to support all his life. And, short of selling the roof from over my head and the clothes from off my back, I have done all that I can do. . . I have lost the thread. . . .

Ah, yes! Culroyd! I fancy I told you that for a few months my niece Phyllida chose to fancy that she had a grievance against me. A young war-soldier tried to trap her into marriage, glamoured no doubt by the title and a fair presumption of money. If I could feel that I had done anything to check a most imprudent alliance, I should be proud of the achievement; I know, however, that I have no right to throw myself bouquets. The young man did not acquit himself well under cross-examination, and you may judge of this “life’s passion”, as poor Phyllida would like to consider it, by the fact that from that day to this she has never heard from him. The entire family held me responsible! Hitherto, I had been on the best possible terms with my relations—except, of course, my brother-in-law Spenworth, and that is an honour which I would sooner be spared—; now I was the universal scapegoat. Without yielding in any way to cynicism, let me say that I was amused, after my Lord Culroyd’s first meeting with Hilda Surdan, to find that he did me the honour to make my house his own.

“Let me know some night when he and Hilda are not dining here,” said Will, when I reproached him for always now deserting us for his club.

For some reason there has never been any great cordiality between the cousins. Perhaps Culroyd is a little bit consequential in the way that he insists on his own dignity—a sort of instinctive attitude of self-preservation, as though he realized that he owes everything to an accident of sex and that, if Brackenbury and I changed places, he would have to change places with Will. . . And Will may very well have been galled by the light-hearted way in which Hilda could not get on without him one day and got on quite comfortably without him the next. No one likes ingratitude, though it was on the tip of my tongue to say that he need not grudge his leavings to poor Culroyd.

It was not so easy to find a free night, as the young people seemed to have made arrangements for days ahead, and in the end I told Will to leave them to their whispering and silliness and talk to me.

“Why you ever invited her I don’t know,” he grumbled; and I could see that the strain of playing cavalier for so long was telling on him.

“It was an opportunity for doing her a little kindness,” I said.

“And is she going to marry Culroyd?,” he asked, “or is she simply playing with him until she finds something better worth her while?”

“Isn’t it rather a question whether Culroyd will marry her?,” I suggested. “After all, she doesn’t bring very much. . . They seem to get on quite well together.”

“I haven’t seen them,” said Will. “It would be amusing to watch. . .”

When they all met, I can’t say that it was very amusing for me. Will can be rather a tease when he likes, but I think it a pity to go on with that sort of thing if other people haven’t enough humour to take it in good part. Culroyd and Hilda were so tremendously in earnest that they couldn’t bear to be chaffed; and, the stiffer they became, the more irresistible they were to Will. I intervened once or twice, when I thought Culroyd was losing his temper, but the situation seemed to get suddenly out of hand; there was something very like a scene.

“If you don’t know how to behave,” said Culroyd—very rudely, I thought, “do hire some one to teach you. Your manners would disgrace a privates’ canteen.”

“Would they? I’m afraid I’m not a good judge,” said Will.

It was neat; but, though I’m his mother, I feel he ought not to have said it. I expect you know that Culroyd was still at Eton when the war broke out. Brackenbury positively forbade him to take a commission before he was eighteen, so Culroyd ran away and enlisted. It was in the regular army, you understand, and they had every kind of difficulty in getting him out. He joined the Coldstream afterwards, but for a time he was a private. . .

“A better judge of draft-dodgers, perhaps,” said Culroyd.

The word was new to me, and I had to ask for enlightenment. When it came, I was beside myself with anger. The term is American and applies to a man who “dodges” the “draft”, which is their word for conscription. A wickeder or more reckless charge could not be made. Will applied for a commission .within the first year and a half of the war. “You can try,” I said, “but I don’t think the doctor will pass you.” He did, however, and Will served for three years with great distinction and was quite invaluable to his general. It was the fashion at one time to sneer at the staff, but I have yet to learn that war can be carried on without one; and I sometimes wonder whether the sneers were not mingled with a little envy on the part of men who were not efficient enough to be selected.

“Culroyd, you have no business to say that,” I told him.

“Will doesn’t deny it,” he said.

And then I thought my boy shewed both wit and dignity.

“If any one thought it worth while to call me a homicidal maniac,” he said, “I doubt if I should bother to deny it.”

“They’ll never accuse you of even a tendency to homicide—even in war,” muttered Culroyd, but he shewed that he had got the worst of it.

I did not like to take Hilda upstairs and leave them a chance of reopening the wrangle; but, when I suggested that we should all go up together, Will remembered that he had promised to meet a man at his club.

“I’m sorry,” said Hilda very nicely, though I felt that I really ought to apologize to her for the little scene. “I wanted to talk to you and him privately. . . There’s no harm in speaking before you, Lord Culroyd, because you’re one of the family. My father wrote to ask if I knew of any one suitable for a position which is being created in one of his yards—rather a good appointment. He would like to give it to a man who has been in the army, he says. I have the letter upstairs and I remember that the starting salary would be a thousand a year. I think it is the Morecambe yards.” . . .

My dear! . . . I said to myself, “Ann Spenworth, you must keep your head.” For a dozen reasons I wanted to get Will out of London. If Culroyd continued to haunt my house, I was thankful to get Will out of the way, though I cannot imagine that this ever entered Hilda’s little love-lorn head. And an appointment, when we had waited so long! Besides, London is not good for Will’s health. He wakes up with a head-ache and without an appetite—as a matter of course. . . .

I telegraphed as soon as the office opened. Mr. Surdan is a man of business, and the appointment was settled before night. Next day I went up to help find the boy a comfortable home. Don’t be shocked now! I am simply echoing Will when I say: “Morecambe is a God-forsaken place.” Rooms were out of the question, because he must have some one to look after him. I was recommended to a worthy old clergyman, when everything else failed; and, though Will protested beforehand, he resigned himself when we reached the house. Just the father, the mother and two daughters, who seemed quite fluttered on meeting Will and hearing who he was. Quite pretty girls in a “left-to-run-wild” way. . . Which I, personally, did not mind. After a month of dear Hilda’s nakedness it was a comfort to drop into a world where you saw more clothes than jeune fille. . . Oh, I don’t think Will runs any risk from them; he does realize that love—in the homely old phrase—doesn’t pay the butcher’s book; and, after that, one has only to school oneself not to fall in love carelessly. But they will give him pleasant, bright companionship in the long evenings. . .

When I returned to London, Hilda was in bed. An internal chill. . . She wouldn’t see a doctor, she said, as a few days’ rest and warmth were all that she needed. I was not sorry to have a few days’ rest too. First Will and then Culroyd. . . I found my little visitor a greater strain than I had anticipated. . . My “rest” was “nothing to write home about”, as Will used to say, for I found myself required to cope with a lioness which had been robbed of its cub—Culroyd, I mean. He came as usual expecting to see Hilda—and pretending he only wanted to see his poor old aunt! And left the moment he had swallowed his coffee! It’s a good thing I’m not vain, isn’t it? Next day he came again. . . At first it was habit, I think; he had got into the way of meeting this child every day. Then it became more serious. If we are going to bless this union, I think we must also bless Hilda’s influenza. (It developed into that. And a nice time I had! Responsible to her mother—and day after day the girl refused to see a doctor.) These boys and girls go about together so freely that there is little inducement to bring things to a head, as it were. Goodness me, when I first met Arthur, he would have liked to go about with me everywhere, but my dear mother put her foot down very firmly on that. And, when he found that it was almost impossible for us to meet, Arthur suddenly discovered that I meant more to him than he had suspected. . . So with Culroyd; history repeating itself, so to say. . . Hilda was a habit; and, when the habit was broken by influenza, she developed into a need. Culroyd had never taken much trouble before, but now he called every afternoon with flowers and wrote to her morning and evening. She was quite bewildered. A very simple child. . .

When she was well enough to sit up on a sofa, Culroyd fumed with impatience to see her. He insisted on coming upstairs with me, though I told him I wasn’t at all sure. . . And so it proved: Hilda said she really wasn’t equal to meeting any one. The next day she was rather stronger, and I prevailed on her just to let him bring the flowers into her room.

“Aunt Ann, will you leave us alone for one moment?,” he asked.

“Really, Culroyd,” I said. . . .

Oh, I know it’s done, but I was brought up in a different school. All this popping in and out of young people’s bedrooms. . .

“Please! I beg you!,” he said.

And then, before I knew where I was, he had kissed me on both cheeks, tapped at the door and disappeared. . . I went to see about some vases for the flowers; and, when I came back, he was on his knees by the bed and Hilda was stroking his head. My old heart warmed. . . I am not ashamed to confess it. A radiance that you see before young people have time to become hard, worldly. . .

They announced it next day to Brackenbury, though I am sure Hilda was imprudent to travel. Though I could not fairly be saddled with any responsibility, I was a little nervous to see how he would take it; every family has its scapegoat, and at the Hall they have so long found it convenient to dignify me with that position. . .

“Were you surprised?,” I asked.

“Well, yes,” Brackenbury admitted. “It was commonly reported that you were keeping Hilda up your sleeve for Will. People told me that it was impossible to walk into a restaurant or theatre without meeting them. You won’t deny that you did rather throw them at each other’s heads?”

“Brackenbury,” I said. “If any one thought it worth while to call me a homicidal maniac, I doubt if I should bother to deny it. . . But are you pleased?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “They seem quite happy; and that’s all that matters.”

And I preferred to leave it at that. It is not a great match. Ruth, of course, is delighted, because it supports her own conduct in marrying Brackenbury. . . .

Even Phyllida had a good word for me—which was so gratifying!

I hope you’re all as pleased as we are,” she said, with a funny, unsmiling expression. Almost antagonistic. . .

I noticed that she had Hilda’s trick of looking you straight in the eyes—a sort of challenge . . . quite fearless . . . and ready to change in a moment to impudence.

“I am,” I said. “Your uncle Arthur is away and has not been told yet. Will is away too.”

“What’s Will doing?,” she asked.

“He was offered a post at Morecambe,” I told her. “Hilda’s father wanted some one of experience and position, who was used to handling men—”

She seemed to find something to smile at in that.

“What does he get?,” she interrupted.

This absorption in pounds, shillings and pence comes to them entirely from their poor mother. . .

“A thousand a year—to start on,” I told her.

“And cheap at the price,” said Phyllida.

I had to beg her to enlighten me.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t call a thousand a year excessive to secure Will—in Morecambe. . .”

Mrs. Surdan was naturally pleased. For them, at least, it is a great match.

“I little thought that it would end like this, when you asked me to take charge of Hilda for three months,” I said.

And that reminded me that what they called “Hilda’s pocket-money” was lying almost untouched at the bank in Arthur’s name. There had been no ball, hardly anything. . . But I could not get Mrs. Surdan to say what should be done with it. . .

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she answered.

“So, if it’s a failure, don’t blame me,” I said. “And, if it’s a success, don’t thank me.”

“I shall always thank you for your kindness to Hilda,” she said, “especially when she was ill.”

“That was nothing,” I said.

“Hilda’s parents don’t think so.”

And then she did a difficult thing very gracefully. We must have the girl’s room properly disinfected, she told me; I assured her that Arthur had already received an estimate for redecorating the whole house. Thanks to them, we were now in a position. . . Hilda’s room, she insisted, must be her province. I have told you that in the old committee days she positively imposed her will on the rest of us; so now. She would not leave the house until she had dragged the estimate out of me by main force.

The work has recently been completed. There was the usual letter to ask if we were satisfied, and Arthur wrote out a cheque. It was returned. Mr. Surdan had asked to have the account sent to him. . . I was beside myself with anger at such a liberty. . .

I tell this against myself, because, having gone to curse, I stayed to pray, as it were. Mrs. Surdan wouldn’t let me speak.

“Hilda is our only child, as Mr. Will is yours,” she said. “If anything had happened to her, you can imagine what we should have thought. Is it altogether kind to say that we must not thank you for your devotion to our little girl?”

There you have the woman—clever, direct, going straight to my weak place. . .

What could one say? . . .