The Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman/Chapter 9

by Stephen McKenna

IX

LADY ANN SPENWORTH NARRATES AN EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED

LADY ANN (to a friend of proved discretion): When do I start, indeed? My dear, you are not very complimentary! We have been back nearly a week. That shews how you have deserted me! . . . No, I never intended to be away for more than about a fortnight. You see, so long as this wild beast is at large, prowling about Morecambe and preparing to spring at any moment, I dare not leave Will unprotected. I really don’t think I can add anything to what I’ve already told you; my boy himself is so very uncommunicative, and Arthur becomes alternately violent and morose when I beg in the humblest way for the least enlightenment. My reading of the position is that this “Molly Wanton” set her cap at Will and, when he refused to have anything to do with her, rounded on him until he threw up a first-rate appointment rather than stay another hour in Morecambe; then she stuffed her foolish father with lies until the man comes to this house like a demented creature and vows that my boy promised to marry his Molly.

Indeed I know what I am talking about. In this very room, though Arthur would not allow me to be present: it was not “a woman’s province.” Clergyman or no, the mad old father would have had short shrift from me. “Proof, my good man,” I would have said, “proof.” . . . That is how the matter stands at present, and you can realize that, while we are braced to receive the next onslaught, there can be no question of long, careless holidays.

But I was glad I went even for a short time. Even to Menton, which truly honestly is only a suburb of Monte Carlo (I had a reason), even with the railways in their present abominable condition—the French seem to be making no effort to pull themselves together after the war except by means of wholesale robbery. They have clearly decided that, as we came to their rescue and paid for their war, it is now our bounden duty to pay for them in peace as well. . . I always believe in going right away after a domestic crisis of that kind; and I was really beginning to fear a break-down if I stayed any longer in London. There is a curious convention that there is something funny about a man of Arthur’s age and position falling under the spell of a little chorus-girl; it is less funny when you have to fight for your life to preserve your husband and the father of your child. Some form of madness that overtakes men. . . I have not told you, I never shall tell you what Arthur was like when he found that this girl had thrown him over at the last moment. Dazed. . . His behaviour to me seemed of no account; the fact that I knew everything from the girl’s own lips and had helped to pack the clothes in which he was to run away with her. . . He was like a man in a trance. . .

I uttered no word of reproach. It was imnecessary. At first he behaved as if the light had gone out of his life—which was pleasant for me; then he seemed to realize that perhaps some amends were owing to me. . . Assented immediately to my proposal that we should go right away. . .

I chose Menton because Sir Appleton Deepe was there. He, I fancy, would be the first to tell you that I really made him. Unheard-of before the war, except in business. . . I wanted his advice about Will: where he could lay out his talents to greatest advantage, as it were; and, though nothing has been decided definitely, I have a promise, and he is most anxious to meet Will. . . So one’s time was not wasted. . . And there, in the peace and wonderful sunshine, one had an opportunity of recovering one’s perspective. I had tided Arthur through his great crisis; and there was nothing, I felt, to fear in the future. But we could not let it rest at that. There had been an intolerable amount of malicious gossip—how wide-spread I could not believe until the proof was thrust before me—; men jesting in their clubs, women gloating. . . And you may be sure that the Brackenbury and Spenworth broods were only too delighted to think that yet another had been dragged down to their level; if one was not to be a by-word and an object of scorn. . . Goodness me, I wasn’t thinking of my own poor dignity, but these stories had to be stopped somehow. In the school in which I was brought up one was supposed to set something of an example; for what it may be worth, one does occupy a certain niche; it was more than time for us to shew that there had been no catastrophe, as our kind friends would have liked to think.

“Arthur,” I said, “you will never hear me allude to this again. We have passed through a time of trouble, but God has mercifully brought us into safety. For some months we have been spied on and whispered about; it is our duty to shew a happy and united front!”

Arthur said at once that he would do what- ever I wanted. . .

You do not often hear me talking of “position” or “dignity” or “rights”, but I did indeed feel that any poor little niche we might occupy was threatened. Spenworth’s own record is so infamous that people would feel it was only natural for his brother to tread the same path. I am not ashamed to confess that I do feel what people say about me. Some people. . . And it was these people, the people who mattered, that I wanted to convince; if there was indeed no rift between Arthur and me, why should we allow the gossips to pretend there was? . . .

I decided to signalize our return to England by a little party—just a few friends to dinner, a little music, a few more friends coming in if they had nothing better to do. I have never found it necessary to inform the world—as your Mrs. Tom Noddys do—that they have left Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or Eastbourne for Gloucester Place. Goodness me, “Who wonders—and who cares?,” as they say. But I was not sorry to find that our little party was being discussed; and, of course, when once the princess’s name was mentioned, the papers came at me with open arms. . . I left no stone unturned to make a success of the little gathering. We have always been quite pitiably restricted in our entertaining, but this was not the moment to grudge a few extra pounds well laid-out. . . And it does not require a mathematician to prove that Arthur could have given me more money if he had given less in other directions. Of course, I did not hint such a thing; my dear, peace, forgiveness, forgetfulness was what I wanted. . . And it was not necessary; Arthur assented to everything.

First of all I made certain of the princess. What she can see in a dull old woman like me you must ask her; but she has been a true and loving friend for perhaps more years than either of us now cares to recall; and, if humble affection and gratitude matter to her, she knows that they are hers whenever she does me the honour of visiting my house. . . She likes coming, I know; in me, she has been gracious enough to say, she finds an attitude of mind, a point of view which is disappearing only too fast; in a sense—I am sure she would be the first to excuse my presumption—we were brought up in the same school.

There was no difficulty about securing my brother. It is a pose with Brackenbury to pretend that he hates what he calls “orders-and-decorations” parties, but my sister-in-law is not so jaded. Perhaps in the world in which she was reared. . . I certainly notice marked civility and almost affection if Ruth hears that I am giving a party and that the princess has graciously consented to be present. My niece Phyllida is less punctilious in her courtesy; there is rather too much of the “Oh-I-don’t-care-what-I-do” attitude about her, and, since she found that her cabman hero was still alive and somewhere in London. . . A curious recklessness and restlessness. . . I invited her because I cannot bear to see a girl—young, well-connected, rich, good-looking—simply moping. . . They say it takes two to make a quarrel, and I have refused to quarrel with Phyllida, so that at last I think she has ceased to believe that I turned the cabman hero against her in the hope of keeping her for my boy. I—have—not—lifted—a—finger! She evidently enjoys being with Will; and, if he wanted to marry her, I should not stand in the way. Ever since that Morecambe nightmare began, I have felt that I shall never know a moment’s peace until he is safely married. . .

I don’t want him to go abroad. . . When any one in his position seeks his fortune in a foreign country, there is always a tendency among some people to ask what he has done, to treat him as a remittance-man . . . which is offensive without being particularly amusing. . . I have lost the thread. . .

Ah, yes! My little party. One thing I noticed on returning to England was the extraordinary mixture of people that one met everywhere. For this, though I am personally fond of her, I blame Connie Maitland more than any dozen other women. Not being a persona grata in certain circles to which she would dearly like to have the entrée, she seems to cultivate numbers for their own sake. When the princess . . . More by a hint, you understand, than by any direct criticism. . . But she cannot help seeing that the old barriers have been broken down. . . It is always on the tip of my tongue to make my Lady Maitland wholly responsible. During the war one was flung against these people, as it were: the strangest generals who seemed to have been stock-brokers the moment before. . . All that sort of thing. . . “Captains of Industry” (I believe they are called) with the queerest accents and all holding high office. There was an epidemic of cabinet rank; and, if one had business in Whitehall, one met the oddest people—never the same two days running. Connie Maitland thoroughly enjoyed herself, I always felt; so many new people to know before any one else. (I am not ashamed to confess that it is not my ambition simply to know new people.) When I returned from Menton, I did drop a little hint and suggest that, as the war was now over, she ought to revise some of her war friendships. Quite kindly and gradually, you understand; I know that with some of the really estimable women who sat on committees with me. . . “Is it true kindness?,” I asked myself. “They lead their lives, you lead yours; the war brought you together, but you’ve nothing else in common. . .” After that breath of fresh air at Menton, I was honestly truly aghast to find what London had become without one’s noticing it. I sought an opportunity of speaking to the princess about it: I felt some one ought to make a little stand. I don’t count, because I’m not in a position to entertain; but I did resolve to confine my little party simply to the old friends. . .

I invited Spenworth. . . You look surprised; but, if you will think for a moment. . . Arthur’s brother. It was notorious that I had for years disapproved of his whole way of life, but the family had to shew a united front. His very recent divorce, which—between ourselves—I think was forgiven far too quickly; goodness me, I hope I am not a bigot and I would assuredly persecute no one, but “whom God hath joined together”. . . I invited him chiefly on his wife’s account; her position is not so secure that she can altogether dispense with a supporting hand, and I was tired of confessing to people that I had not even met her. . . Never can I forget, either, Spenworth’s triumph when for a moment Arthur seemed to be treading his path. . . My Nemesis for trying to hold my head erect and daring to reprove him. No, I did not hear what he said, but I am certain that he said it. . .

For several days—to my amazement, for I knew they were at Cheniston—there was no reply. Then I met Spenworth in the street.

“Oh, I say!,” he began. (You know that hunting-field voice of his?) “You aren’t playing the game with poor old Arthur, you know.”

“I’m afraid I must beg for enlightenment,” I said.

“Oh, well, you know, this is the first time the poor old boy has ever left the rails.” (I am always lost in admiration of Spenworth’s elegance!) “Dust his jacket for him at home as much as you like, but don’t make him eat humble-pie in public, don’t make an exhibition of him.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Oh, bunkum! Every one knows he tried to slip his collar, every one thought he’d got away; and, now that you’ve recaptured him, you want to shew him off in his muzzle. ’Tain’t cricket, Ann, if you ask me; you’ve won, and there’s no need to crow over the old boy. ’Tain’t as if he’d given you any trouble before.”

“I must give it up,” I said in despair. “Spenworth, will you tell me—in language comprehensible to my poor wits—whether you and your wife are coming to dine on the eighteenth?”

“Thank you very much, Ann,” he answered, “we are not. ’Matter o’ fact, I’m taking the chair at a regimental dinner, but if I wasn’t. . . I think it’s an infernal shame and I hope it’s a rotten party.”

And then he turned on his heel. . .

I can never see his charm, myself. People excuse his rudeness, his immorality, his utterly wasted, self-indulgent life. . . They say he’s “such a good fellow”, whatever that may mean. . . But I find it very hard to speak coolly about Spenworth. . .

Without wanting to be inhospitable, I was secretly relieved that he could not come. The dear princess is the soul of tolerance, but I was not at all sure how she would receive his name; I was not at all sure that he would even behave himself properly. Did I ever tell you how he set himself to drive the Archbishop out of the house by sheer—but I prefer not to discuss it. “Indecency” is really the only word; under the guise of an ethical discussion.  . As we literally cannot sit down more than twenty-four in Mount Street, two spare places are a consideration. I was fortunate enough to secure the Duke and Duchess of Yarrow; one had not seen much of them for some years, and the duchess is so deaf that I sometimes wonder whether she is really quite right in her head, but the duke is a director of the Far East Trading Company, and I thought that, if Will ever did think of going abroad to seek his fortune, the duke ought to know of it before he was snapped up by any one else. The others. . . But I expect you saw the list; it was in all the papers—the Bishop of Hatwell, dear old Lady Ursula Bedmont, the Minister of Fine Arts, the Spanish Ambassador. . .

Or was it the Italian? I’m quite stupid about remembering who was there. It was so long since I’d given a party of any kind that I’m not ashamed to confess I was a little nervous. And we began badly: Lord Fenchurch, who really grows more and more absent-minded every day, arrived with a black tie and one of those detestable little jackets that young men affect in theatres. Arthur was waiting in the hall to receive the princess and in a moment had him fitted out properly, while a maid dashed to Hay Hill to fetch his St. George. (As Arthur said, “We can lend you anything from the South African medal to the Victorian Order, but we don’t fly as high as Garters.”)

One or two tiny hitches like that, just enough to make me nervous. . . When the princess arrived, all was transformed: she was more than gracious, wanting to know why she never saw anything of me nowadays. . . Some people are quite wonderfully able to give you that sense of well-being. I presented Will. She said:

“But you’re not old enough to have a grown-up son!”

“I am old enough to be proud of it, ma’am,” I said.

I don’t think I am envious; but, when I saw the success of my little party, when I looked at Brackenbury, who has the money and does nothing with it, and at Ruth, who couldn’t do anything with it if she wanted to . . . just an over-grown school-girl. . . When I thought of Spenworth and the opportunities at Cheniston, I felt it was a little hard. . . They do come to me, gladly, graciously; and I am not in a position to entertain them. . .

After dinner we had music. . .

I don’t know what your experience has been, but I find it hard to remain patient with the whole world of people who delight in calling themselves “artists”. (If English has any meaning, an artist is a person who paints, not a fiddler or a poet or an actor.) So much fuss has been made of them that their heads have really been turned. Before I had quite decided what music to have, I heard a young man playing at Connie Maitland’s. Quite well he played—for an Englishman, and I asked Connie to present him.

“I have a few friends dining on the eighteenth,” I said, “and I was wondering whether you would be so very kind as to come and give us an opportunity of hearing a little more of your too delightful playing.”

These people expect to be flattered, as no doubt you know. . .

“The eighteenth?,” he repeated. “I’m not dining anywhere that night, so far as I know; I will come with great pleasure.”

The impudence of the man!

“Dinner itself. . .” I said. “My dining-room is so absurdly small that I am absolutely restricted in numbers. But afterwards. . . I have asked a few friends, real music-lovers; say about half-past ten. The address—”

“Oh,” he interrupted, “I’ll ask you to get in touch with my agent. He’ll tell you my terms and make all arrangements.”

“But there are no arrangements to make,” I protested. “Lady Maitland told me that you were a new-comer to London, and I thought you might like to meet a few people. . .”

And then I told him that the princess had graciously promised to come.

The young man thought it over—for all the world as though he were at a bazaar and I were pressing him to buy something that he didn’t want! I was beside myself. . .

“I should like to meet her,” he was good enough to say. “She may be useful. All right, I’ll do it this once.”

And, do you know, it was on the tip of my tongue to say that never should he set foot inside my house! First of all inviting himself to dinner, then trying to make me pay him for coming. . . An artist I can understand; and a tradesman I can understand. But this hybrid. . .

And on the night he insisted on my presenting him to the princess. Insisted! There is no other word. . . She, of course, was too sweet . . . made no objection and even complimented him. I kept thinking of the old days. When my niece Phyllida came out just before the war, Brackenbury gave a ball for her and asked me to do what I could (Ruth is worse than useless on such occasions, because she tries to cover up her ignorance by saying it doesn’t matter—and being obstinate about it). I ordered the band—from those really nice people in Clifford Street—; and the princess was present on that occasion too. I wondered what we should have thought if the leader had strolled up, baton in hand, and said: “Oh, won’t you present me to Her Royal Highness?” . . .

I will say this boy played well. Magnetically. . . The whole room was silent and motionless. One looked up through a mist, as it were, and saw rows of rapt faces, a regiment of men by the walls, a mere black and white cloud by the door.

At first I did not notice. . .

I mean, one cannot be expected to identify eighty or a hundred people all at once; the princess was obviously my first concern, and, when this young fellow ceased playing and I stood up, naturally I imagined that they would all come forward. So they did . . . some of them. I am not good at recognizing people, so I made allowances for myself; but, even so, a great many of the faces were unfamiliar. Nothing in that, you may say; a little music and some light refreshments — sandwiches and cake, you know, with perhaps claret-cup and coffee—afford a wonderful opportunity for making a little return to people whom one truly honestly doesn’t want to have dining; I’m sure you understand! There is nothing wrong with them or I would not invite them to have the honour of meeting the princess; but, as Will would say, they just don’t pull their weight in the boat. . . I recognized one or two . . . and then, really, I did not know what to make of it. After anything I may have said to the princess about the unpleasantly go-as-you-please, enjoy-yourself-and-don’t-ask-questions character of modern London, you may be sure that I had not encouraged anybody to collect the first half-dozen waifs and strays from the street and bring them in. Every one had been told that the princess would be there, so that they might equip themselves accordingly; yet, when I looked round the room, I did not know a tenth of the people!

It was like a bad dream! You know my drawing-room in Mount Street: windows on the south side, and between them a sofa on which I was sitting with the princess; to the left, at the far end, the piano; to the right, the door. At one moment—a perfect picture! Dear old Lord Fenchurch with his St. George, Brackenbury with the Bath, my boy with his war medals—almost every one with a little something to enhance what will always be the most dignified dress in the world. Repose. . . Distinction. And then, at the door, an invading army! Men I had never seen before, some in uniform, some in those detestable little jackets and limp, pleated shirts ; flushed, dishevelled. . . And all of them unknown to me as the man in the moon! The princess, perhaps you know, abominates the smell of tobacco; need I say that a positive cloud of smoke was bursting in from the stair-case? . . .

If it had been the men alone, I could have borne it. Somehow one would have carried it off. . . I made my way, through this sea of strange faces, to the door—and I really believe that, if I had found the Jacquerie in possession, I could hardly have been more astounded. With the men there were girls, scores and scores of them, surging up to the door, lolling about on the stairs, smoking cigarettes in the hall, powdering their horrible little noses. One glance was enough. . . The dresses alone—skirts that hardly reached their knees, bodices that hardly reached their waists, “the shoe and shoulder-strap brigade”, as my boy calls them. A reek of powder and cheap scent. . .

“What,” I said, “what have I done to deserve this?”

You would think that my cross was sufficiently heavy, but I was evidently to be spared nothing. Some of the men were not even sober! As I came on to the landing, some one said—with great elegance—:

“Here, old thing, you’d better go home and sleep it off.”

Don’t let me claim more pity than I deserve! I was spared a free fight. When the Arbiter of Taste had returned from escorting his friend downstairs, I said to him:

“I must beg for enlightenment. There has evidently been a mistake. I cannot remember having invited you; and I think you must have come to the wrong house.”

He looked a little surprised, but rallied at once and pulled from his pocket a menu with the address written on it.

“We were told that you were giving a dance and that we might come,” he said. “I am addressing Lady Ann Spenworth, am I not?”

“You are,” I said, “but there’s some hideous mistake. Dance? There’s no dance. Who told you?’

“Lord Spenworth,” he answered. “At the regimental dinner. He said that you were giving a party; some of us were a bit shy of coming without an invitation, but he assured us that we should be as welcome as he was. We’d all arranged to go on to Ledlow’s; so, as soon as we’d found our partners, on we came. Is it the wrong night?”

“Wrong night!,” I said. “All nights are wrong nights! My brother-in-law must have made a mistake. I am giving a little party and I invited him. . .”

And then I whispered to this boy about the princess. I must say that he behaved well. It can never be pleasant to find yourself in a house where you’re not expected and where, only too plainly, you’re not wanted. He saw my terrible position. . .

“I hope you realize it’s not our fault,” he said.

“I acquit you of everything,” I cried. “But won’t you explain to your friends and—and get them away?”

He promised to do his best, though some of the men looked anything but tractable; and I went back to the princess, hoping that the music would drown all the going and coming. “Play like mad!,” I whispered to this boy at the piano; “Noise, at all costs!” And, as if I hadn’t enough to bear, I thought he was going to take offence. Half-way through, the door opened a crack, and I saw—who do you think? Colonel Butler; Phyllida’s cabman hero. Nothing could surprise me then—the fact that he was in evening-dress. . . If he’d brought his cab in with him. . .

I hurried to the door, no longer caring whether he met Phyllida, whether she threw herself at his head. . . Anything. . .

“This is a case for heroic measures, Lady Ann,” he said, when I had explained my tragic position. “Some of these fellows have been doing themselves rather well and they swear they won’t go without a dance. If you leave things to me, I believe I can pull you through. Certainly I’ll do my best, but you must back me up in everything. Is that agreed? Then, as soon as the music stops, will you present me to the princess? I’ll get hold of your husband and Will and tell them what has to be done.”

I asked leave to present him. . . The princess knew his name, knew all about him—far more than I had ever guessed. It appears that he ought to have had the V.C.; and, if it lay in my gift, he should have had it that night! Oh, I don’t wonder that he did well in the war. Such coolness, determination, foresight. . .

“I expect Lady Ann has told you, ma’am,” he began, “that the Forest Rangers have been having their regimental dinner. Lady Ann has most kindly lent us the house for a little dance later on. I want to know whether I may ask an extraordinary favour. It will give immense gratification if you will allow Lady Ann to present the officers to you before the dance begins. I know it’s a very big thing to ask, because there are a great many of them; but, if you knew the pleasure you would confer, I could almost hope that you would forgive my presumption.”

The princess is really and truly the sweetest woman I know. Was there a moment’s hesitation? Colonel Butler brought them in, one after another, announced the names, herded them out again, brought in more. Arthur hunted them upstairs to his bedroom as they came out, so that there should be a little room on the stairs. . . And, when she came out—this presentation was really a very clever stroke on Colonel Butler’s part to give her an excuse for leaving—, there was a word and a smile for every one—praising the girls’ dresses, saying she hoped that all the young people would have a very pleasant time. Graciousness like that cannot be learned, but perhaps a certain dignity can. To do these girls justice, they behaved quite admirably; no familiarity, no nervousness—to the outward eye. I hope for their sakes that, when they compared their own “shoes and shoulder-straps” with what was thought fitting to be worn by another generation, trained in a different school, the lesson was not altogether thrown away. . .

I did not suppose that Colonel Butler seriously intended that I should improvize a dance at a moment’s notice, but I had misjudged my man. He had given his word, he said, and, if he broke it, there might be an unpleasant scene; if, however, I would back him up, he would “see me through” again. Almost before the princess was out of the house, one section was rolling back the rug in the drawing-room and disposing of the furniture. Arthur, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was dashing down to the cellar and up again, bringing wine that literally cannot be replaced; and, to judge from next day’s accounts, it must have been Colonel Butler himself who won over my rather unyielding cook. He has a gift of silver speech; the superior young man at the piano, who always left all arrangements of terms to his agent, if you please, sat with a bottle of champagne and a plate of sandwiches playing till four o’clock. . .

The relief was so great that I really quite lost my head. Colonel Butler asked me for the first dance—quite charmingly.

“Your manners are better than your judgement of age,” I said. “I have not danced for thirty years.”

“But it’s quite simple,” he explained. “Walk round the room in time with the music, turn when you feel inclined and add any frills you like when we’ve got into each other’s step.”

And I did. . .

Jean Yarrow I found later, helping him to cut sandwiches and bawling the most unsuitable answers to questions which, poor soul, she could not hear. When he said something about “potted tongue”, she thought he said “clot in the lung” and gave him a history of her own complaints which I could not help feeling was not suitable for the ears of a young man. . . The duke, meanwhile, was mixing cup by some secret process that he had learned at Cambridge; I hoped it would save the wine a little, but from this point of view it was not a success. They only asked for more, like that boy in the book. . .

To use a favourite word of Will’s, Colonel Butler was a “superman.” But for him. . . I mean, there was plenty of high spirits but not a hint of rowdiness. And he was master of the ceremonies, cook, butler, carriage-finder. The older generation, too, has been so much thrust into the background that we find it refreshing when a young man shews a little politeness and consideration. As soon as supper was ready—he had prepared it with his own hands—, Colonel Butler asked if he might take me down. Arthur was with me and he at once intervened.

“No, no,” he said. “You’re a dancing man. Go off and find Phyllida. You’ll spoil her evening if you don’t ask her to dance.”

I should have thought it was hardly necessary to throw the girl at him like that, but after the way Brackenbury and Ruth had been crying over their lost sheep. . .

“It’s no use your thinking you can keep her for Will,” Arthur said, though I had never uttered a word. “Look at them—meeting. . . And now look at them—dancing. Come down to supper.”

I don’t think that any account of the dance was published in the press. I certainly supplied no particulars. But I expect you read about the dinner. I have been inundated with letters of thanks—the most touching, unquestionably, from the princess, who loved what she called my little informal gathering. It was not quite what I had intended, but the effect was good; when our friends saw us together—I mean Arthur and me, of course—harmoniously, lovingly. . .

As regards Phyllida and Colonel Butler, you know as much as I do. . . There has been no announcement; and, if people do not wish to tell me things, I do not choose to ask. . .

From every point of view—almost, the evening was highly successful.

But I shall never forgive Spenworth, never. . . As long as I live. . .