Whirlwind

Front matter

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II

Down in the west of Sussex, in the land between the hills, there you will find Fordcombe.

It is but a little hamlet, very easily overlooked. But if you keep by the slow-flowing river you may by chance light upon it where it sleeps tucked away in the woods and downs.

The few cottages and farms are set here and there just where they will look their best. Old cottages with tiled or thatched roofs, lattice windows, gay gardens, bee-hives and flagged paths, and they gather together in twos or threes, some down by the river, others up on the hill by the church, while one or two stay in between as though uncertain which group to join.

Up by the church is the Manor House, where for seven hundred years the Dalisons have lived. Not a large place, but unique in its way, full of tradition, of fine old por¬ traits, furnishings, carvings in wood and stone, of the smell of lavender, pot-pourri, ashes of wood fires.

The station is about two miles away, and they who know their Fordcombe are ever in expectation of the last turn in the road, for here is the great stone bridge, long, narrow, irregular, with many sharp-angled refuges, built in leisurely days by unhurried monks, and as sound to¬ day as in the hour of its completion.

From here we catch the shrill call of the peacocks in the high old manor gardens, or hear the cry of rooks in the elms, and in winter, when the leaves are off the trees, get a glimpse of the old red chimney-stacks.

Cross the bridge, climb the hill slowly, leaving the road to Timbleworth, but going up under the sheltering trees to the right, and very soon—in fact directly you leave the green tunnel of the branches—the little church and the gate to the house stand before you.

The road continues, dips a hill to lose its way in the woods, first, however, passing once more by the river as though in final farewell. Out this way is another bridge, an old wooden affair, unsafe and unused now, and close by stands Aylmer Forsyth’s cottage.

It was ever a delight to Antrobus to wander through Fordcombe woods or paddle up the reaches of the river and if the Dalisons were not at home he would run down to the cottage or put up with Fell, an old college chum with whom he had ever been in touch, and who now lived at Timbleworth and doctored that healthy spot as well as ministering to Fordcombe.

It had not been his original intention to enter on a career of finance. In early youth he had hoped to make a career in literature. He had a fine taste and still delighted in the company of men of letters. So he had laughed at a good banking account, under-rated the talents he really possessed, sneered at family influence, and set out to win his way along the road he chose to go.

But faith is not talent, and talent is far removed from genius. Yet Desmond had genius in abundance; but the kind of genius he possessed he had no desire to acknow¬ ledge. Accordingly that lady raised not a finger to stay him, but let him blunder along as best he could, while she sat with folded hands as patient as any Penelope, waiting the day and the hour when her prodigal should return.

Of course, he had failed. The quick, cheap successes he regarded as stepping-stones to greater things were but the delusive sprites that often lead mediocrity on to aban¬ don him at last in a slough of stagnation. Better a colos¬ sal failure and a fresh start than a good start with noth¬ ing at the end.

And Desmond might have lived to know gradual dis¬ illusionment had no certain “things” happened that speedily disrupted his dream but brought forth a strength he had been but dimly aware of, and an ambition that gripped him till he fell trembling and bleeding at the feet of that deity who had waited with folded hands till her well-beloved son should return.

Then did Genius arise and comfort him, take him to her heart, show him the way to go, nor did she think to quit when possessing friends, position, undreamed suc¬ cess, all the world could give, he lay in his young secre¬ tary’s garden, glad and happy to be once more in the quiet countryside.

And the “things” that had happened? The whys and the wherefores of all this change? They shall be narrated in due course, but this is neither the time nor the place. Sufficient that destiny will out, and be man as obstinate as any Antrobus “things” will always happen, some day and somehow, to force him back to where that destiny is waiting.

But now that most perfect time of special peace, when they who toiled all day relish the virtue of work well done, while they who neither toiled nor spun feel just as com¬ fortably tired as though they had.

And just at that moment, when the sun shining, the garden smiling, and the world shouting with happiness, a pleasant-looking young fellow came out of the little wood in time to see the housekeeper arranging the teathings on the lawn.

If he had a pleasant appearance, he had also a sing¬ ularly charming voice, the sort of voice that made people smile when they heard it and—as you have probably guessed—he was that same youth who so perturbed Augusta and against whom she had so strenuously warned Margaret.

Possibly, from a chaperon’s point of view, she had reason. Young Forsyth’s hair and eyes were dangerous. I’m not sure his skin was quite safe. But there could be no doubt whatever about his charm. You couldn’t get away from it and Augusta considered charm in a person like Aylmer was a snare.

“Lots of letters for you, as usual,” said this interest¬ ing young man, “and by good luck two for me.”

“Thanks, Aylmer, and how’s our lady of the Post Of¬ fice?”

“Oh, well, I had to knock and knock before anything happened. Then at last she put her head out of the upper window and explained she had ‘an ’eadache and was ly¬ ing down.’ Then I bought some stamps. One never asks Mrs. Corner for two things at once. Of course, she put her customary query, ‘How many do you require, sir ?’ as though they were so many yards of ribbon. When I told her two dozen twopenny ones, and one dozen penny ones, she wrote it down on a scrap of paper and disappeared upstairs.”

Mrs. Corner and the village shop were one!

Perhaps “shop” is somewhat of a misnomer. It would be more correct to say she lived in a cottage and sold things over a little counter. Her abode stood well back from the road, and at right angles thereto, giving it the cold shoulder, as it were, in the way of a blank wall. Now, as the ivy that threatened in time to cover her win¬ dow had already submerged the lower part of the cot¬ tage, it took a Columbus’s turn of mind to discover the little slit through which letters (nominally posted) really fell on Mrs. Corner’s parlour floor.

But none of these things troubled the good lady. Did not all the world know of her and her cottage, that she sold stamps and the cheaper kind of money orders, midst her lollipops and fly-papers? So if any stranger failed to discover this Selfridge’s of Fordcombe he really had only himself to blame.

Antrobus soon skimmed through his letters.

“You’ll have to answer them for me,” he said to Ayl¬ mer.

Then the two men sat awhile in that companionable silence that is so pleasant between friends. The relations between these two were at once cordial and understand¬ ing. And combined with this most pleasant familiarity was the pride a young fellow of Aylmer’s age must feel in the friendship given so generously by an elder in the position of his employer.

And, indeed, it was in the light of a parent that Antro¬ bus frequently found himself regarding his young secre¬ tary. It pleased him to do those things for Aylmer that he would have done for his own boy; often and often he would think it would be worth while giving up a good deal of his hard-won gains could he (in exchange) claim such a clean-minded, unspoilt young fellow for his son. But what could there be—at first sight—between them? Antrobus, big with business, Member of Parliament; and Aylmer, merely a bright, ambitious youngster.

Desmond knew that Aylmer was fatherless. From

H

time to time the lad had given Antrobus some insight regarding his early life.

The father had evidently been one of those fascinating scoundrels who are only delightful outside their homes. A bad and cruel husband, his death after a short married life, had been a merciful release to Mrs. Forsyth. That mother—a delicate invalid who lived abroad in Southern Europe, and whom her son simply idolised—seemed to be Aylmer’s only living relative.

The wonderful love that bound the rather lonely mother and the clever son, seemed very beautiful to Desmond. He often speculated as to what manner of woman she might be. That she was something quite unusual he was certain. He thought he understood her and pictured her still beautiful, very charming, intelligent; not one readily to make friends, but once she had accepted your friend¬ ship a trustful, interesting, delightful companion. Some day he must make her acquaintance.

And Margaret Dalison was drawn in just the same way. She, the woman whose girlhood was left behind; and he, the middle-aged man of the world—both recog¬ nised the oneness of this mother and son as something exquisite and pure, and what neither of them could ever know.

I think, perhaps, Antrobus held this knowledge some¬ what more keenly than Margaret. If every woman is a potential mother of children, every man is a potential creator of them. The creative instinct is born in all men. The conservator is born in all women.

However, Margaret had known something of parent¬ age in her relations with her niece. She had tended the child with all the love, all the pent up, smothered mother¬ hood within her; and often had Desmond envied her.

But Margaret could have told him that great as had been her devotion, admirably as she had fulfilled her duty, magnificently as she had loved and lived, down in the depths of her heart was a voice crying no earthly voice had answered; and a hunger no earthly food had satisfied.

But she was an exceedingly happy woman, grateful for all the good that was hers. She showed her gratitude too, and in the most practical way, by using freely, and well, all these same good things; and only now and again the voice in her heart made itself heard and the hunger cried out to be appeased.

But we are getting far too sentimental and this is not going to be a sentimental story at all.

It all seems to have come at once. But when you have to take a dose of nasty medicine it is no good putting off the operation; and of all unpleasant things, love is the most exasperating. Every man in love feels something of a fool. Maybe, woman does also, but she has the com¬ pensation of feeling slightly improper as well; whereas a man feels so good as to be miserably uncomfortable. Let us therefore get over our love affairs quickly and proceed to more exciting adventures. Only first I will ask you to realise very fully there is nothing sloppy or sentimental in either Margaret or Desmond, and most emphatically not in that excellent young sportsman, Ayl¬ mer Forsyth. All three are ordinary, healthy, normal people whose lives happen to have fallen in pleasant places.

While Aylmer, still very young, stood at the threshold of his life and sniffed the pleasant fragrance of this jolly-looking and amusing world, Antrobus had wan¬ dered up and down its valleys a good many years after the “things that happened” had forced him to show the real stuff within him, and whatever the experience he had gone through might be, he certainly emerged a far finer character, more sympathetic, more patient of infirmity, and of infinitely greater understanding.

But his own youth had gone down in the battle, nor was it till he and young Forsyth foregathered together that something of that lost inheritance came back to him.

There was an odd kind of resemblance between them, a trick of manner of speech which one or two intimates had noticed. This pleased the elder while it flattered the younger, so their connection became less and less the rela¬ tionship of employer and secretary, and more and more that of an elder brother to one considerably younger.

Desmond, sitting in the garden with his young host, felt more of real “home” than he remembered to have felt for years, and looking at Aylmer (absorbed in a long letter from the darling mother in Italy) he said to him¬ self that just such a son would he have chosen could he have had his way.

“Your mother well, I hope?” he asked, more for the sake of hearing the boy speak than anything.

“Quite well, thank you, sir. She’s staying at Parazzi with some friends. They seem to have a topping place there!”

“Your mother must have many friends. I wonder if we have any in common.”

“She’s so quaint with her friends. She makes them rather easily in one way—that’s her good nature—but no one seems to enter her life or be necessary to her.”

Desmond had rather supposed this. He pictured her one of those sympathetic people who win the confidence of others readily because they never make real confi¬ dences themselves.

“You must meet her some day,” Aylmer concluded. “I want you to so much.”

“Nothing I should like better. Perhaps when you go home again you will ask me to run out and visit you. She must be a very beautiful woman from what you say. But you haven’t any photograph?”

Aylmer laughed a little before answering. It was a pleasant laugh, just the infectious, boyish laugh you would expect of him. He blushed a little, too, when he began apologising for what must look very like vanity on his mother’s part.

“That’s her one conceit. She loves pretty clothes, and no woman ever looks better turned out. But she main¬ tains the moment a woman’s photographed she becomes a frump. And not even for me will she look dated. She’s often told me that she was never photographed in her life.”

Antrobus smiled. Mrs. Forsyth was evidently a woman with vision. He thought of certain old photo¬ graphs in his own possession. There was a portrait of the lovely Mrs. Palliser. He had forgotten he possessed it, and at first could not recall whose likeness it was. Then he remembered, and the recollection had come as a shock! In what year of grace did people wear such clothes or possess a figure so quaintly shaped? He had begun to count the years and, counting, wondered how the lady did it! She was still a carefully young and perseveringly attractive woman! But how unmercifully the picture dated her, and, if she knew it was yet extant, what would she not give to destroy it utterly.

Yes, Mrs. Forsyth was undoubtedly a wise, if perhaps a slightly vain woman, but if as lovely and charming as her son described, some little vanity might surely be for¬ given her.

“I lunched in Lennox Gardens before leaving town/’ Antrobus said later on, “Katie was there and looking re¬ markably pretty.”

“Oh, was she?” Aylmer replied. The tone of his voice might have sounded a little dangerous to a woman’s ear —it was far too ostentatiously careless to be quite free from fraud. “I suppose she’ll be coming home when the Dalisons return,” he added.

“After a while,” said Desmond. “But she’ll see the season out with her aunt, and after the summer she and the Duchess are going to Scotland, I believe.”

“Oh! are they?” answered Aylmer, looking away into the distance, “and I suppose as she’s pretty and some¬ thing of an heiress, her people expect her to marry some¬ one who can give her all she’s got already?”

“Her father will certainly look to her to marry in her own set, and, I imagine, in her own religion also. The Dalisons have seldom married out of it.”

“There doesn’t seem such a terrible difference in the two creeds to me.”

Antrobus took a quick look at the boy. For a moment he wondered lest there might be a deeper meaning under Aylmer’s questionings. But there was nothing in the lad’s face to give any ground for suspecting he felt more than that good comradeship towards Katie usually existing between the modern boy and girl.

Desmond was glad. For though he knew his old friend would only desire his child’s happiness, still, when the time should come for Katie to marry, he would certainly look for the lucky man to be one of his own faith, to bear some similar good name, and hold some¬ thing of his own tradition.

But Aylmer was throwing crumbs at the pigeons crowding and strutting and posturing round the tea table, pretending to ignore the existence of such a vulgar thing, yet, all the while, missing none of those rich buttery mor¬ sels that fell from the tea tables in gardens at that season of the year.

Ill

Before we proceed any further with this veracious history, we must go back to No. o and see what happened there after Augusta had taken herself off on her little round of card-leaving.

Margaret had many visitors. Old friends came to say good-bye, or to arrange for re-unions later at Fordcombe or elsewhere, thus it was a busy time for Margaret, and it was late before she found herself alone.

Then Lady Alaburton’s warning regarding Katie’s in¬ timacy with young Forsyth returned to her. She would have dismissed the matter as one of “dear Augusta’s scares,” had not certain remarks of Monsignor given some colour to the possibility that—this time—Augusta had not been altogether mare’s nesting.

The priest had called that afternoon with the special intention of dropping a hint, and—with the most exqui¬ site tact—had dropped it. Just a word of congratulation on the girl’s success, and the happy eventualities to be expected at some future date. Ample to set Margaret somewhat fearful lest the girl’s name should be too closely connected with someone whom their world would not consider quite a suitable match for the heiress of the Dalisons.

When the girl herself looked in later on, Margaret’s first thought was how absurdly young the child looked to be an object of so much interest. But Katie’s was not the position of an ordinary girl. It was only natural the Roman world should be already speculating as to the ultimate fate of this child of nineteen.

Margaret greeted her niece very tenderly, but found it quite impossible to say any of the things that she had thought it might be her duty to say lest she clouded “the child’s happiness.”

The kind-hearted lady might have spared herself any anxiety on that head. It takes a good deal more than a gentle elder’s remonstrance to disturb the equanimity of a young lady aged nineteen, and Miss Kate possessed some singularly well-formed ideas on life, and very definite ones concerning her own in particular.

But she was no objectionable, self-willed, and spoilt young thing. She adored her “Authorities” and she loved her home, too, and was full of directions regarding certain pets of hers which Margaret promised should be attended to.

And so Margaret decided to say nothing.

Even suppose the girl remained plain Miss Dalison all her life, her eventual position as “Miss Dalison of Fordcombe” would be one that many a married woman might envy. “It would have to be a very exceptional offer,” thought Margaret to herself, and then pulled herself up for being the worldly-minded old maid she most certainly was not.

Maybe there came to her mind the remembrance of one who was not a good Catholic, but a very noble gentleman. Now if someone like Desmond—but younger and a Catholic—with the promise of a fine career and fully en¬ dowed, in short, with all the usual attributes of a fairy prince should happen along one day—say in two or three years, not before, well, wouldn’t that be a dainty dish to set before Queen Kate?

It is to be feared she was somewhat old-fashioned in her views. Permit me to remind you she was no longer very young, and that you will be a very clever woman if, at Margaret’s age, you are not getting a trifle old-fashioned yourself.

Perhaps her very quiet, her amused observations of life, and her steady, fixed existence, lent her the charm that drew people so freely to her. For is it not a pleasant and a good thing to know a friend openly pleased at any chance that brings you together? Someone who is in no hurry to make off and greet a more interesting person¬ age than yourself who at that moment has just entered the room ?

“And you’re having a really good time, dear?”

“Splendid. Aunt Isobel’s awfully good. We’re going to heaps of parties.”

“And have you any particular partners ? Anybody who dances better than the rest?”

Margaret thought herself quite Machiavellian in her method of approaching a dangerous subject tactfully. Whether Katie saw through the “tact” or not, she made no sign, and, if any favourite partner was in her mind, it would have taken a much cleverer woman than this simple-minded aunt to have discovered him.

“Jim Aldershot dances fairly decently, and he’s always pleasant. Then there’s Tony Chichester. But they’re all alike.”

“I’m afraid, my dear, none of us is very original that I’m aware.”

Margaret felt a great relief, and, in her innocence, coneluded there was no occasion to fear any unwelcome lover as yet.

“Dear child! But I suppose, like all girls, you’ve some ideal? Now, haven’t you?”

But Katie didn’t rise to the bait. She sat a little thoughtful and just a little puzzled to “catch on” as to what Aunt Margaret was driving at.

“An ideal?” she murmured. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think about that sort of thing. How funny you are, auntie.”

Yes! Very funny indeed, thought Katie; and won¬ dered whether the quiet Aunt Margaret had possessed— in the long-vanished past—some ideal of her own! Katie believed the girls of those dark ages were really romantic in their ideas about men. Yet surely her aunt must know that girls didn’t go about nowadays peripate¬ tic shrines of the ideal man?

And that’s just where the elder lady failed in under¬ standing. Such an outlook as her niece’s was beyond her comprehension and would have seemed unnatural had it been explained to her. How should the world get on without romance ? People might say what they liked, but she knew better.

Still, she did wonder a little at the callous outlook of modern youth, and could only guess how it had come about that things were so contrary to what she remem¬ bered in her own day.

Then she recollected her brother could never at any time have been considered a romantic figure. He was just a pleasant, average country gentleman, and probably Katie took after him.

Something of this she passed on to Ralph himself as they sat together after dinner that same evening.

“But, my dear/’ said Dalison. “Why should Katie be the sentimental young person you think she ought to be ? Boys and girls have no business to be anything except the healthy young animals they always remind me of. Like the lilies of the field they should just grow.”

The Squire of Fordcombe was what flippant young things described as “a jolly old sport.” Pleasant-voiced, pleasant-mannered and pleasant-faced, his company, be it said in all kindness, was also pleasant without being in¬ toxicating. In fact an even pleasantness was his chief characteristic. He had others, such as humour, and a kindly disposition. But even these were only of the pleasant order. His kindness was of the easy-going, somewhat negative brand; while his humour was certainly never in the least unpleasant.

He was fond of his comfort and that, alas, was mo¬ mentarily somewhat under eclipse. His pipe had gone out, as it always did after three puffs, and as usual on these occasions the matches were not at hand. He patted all his pockets, felt all over the chair, and looked vaguely down on the floor about him. Then his sister saw what was the matter and quietly handed them from the mantel¬ piece. Whereupon a great to-do of puffs and gasps, which exhibition always accompanied the lighting up of the squire’s pipe.

“That’s their business,” said he between his struggles, “just to grow”—puff—“and”—gasp—“when they arrive at mature age”—puff—“they’ll have to begin to grow young again, like you and me and some other dowagers we know.”

“My dear Ralph, what do you mean?”

“I mean to refer you to people like Louisa Shoring and Mrs. St. Ubbs. They must be both nearly seventy, yet every year they grow more miraculously young.

“Poor things! I certainly hope I shall never be like them,” said Margaret, with the slightest suspicion of con¬ tempt in her voice. “But they are rather marvellous,” she added, not wishing to be harsh in her judgment. “No one would guess how old they really are.

“Indeed no. In spite of all temptation to be what they are, they yet remain what they originally were, but only,

I think, with a great expenditure of brute force. But about Katie. Why do you expect her to have any sentiment at all ?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Margaret mused, somewhat hazy how to express herself. “She’ll marry some day, I suppose.”

“Good heavens! Marry!”

Ralph sat suddenly upright. That is, he became as erect as an elderly gentleman may who is taken by com¬ plete surprise while reclining at his ease in an extremely roomy easy chair.

The spectacles that had hitherto maintained a precari¬ ous balance at the end of his nose, now lost their equi¬ librium and fell, secretively, somewhere between the chair and the cushions; while his pipe, irritated to distraction at the fresh interruption, gave up the ghost sullenly. Like many fathers of one child, especially if that only one be a daughter, Dalison had never realised the fact that his child was growing up. As to such things as weddings and young men anxious to be given in marriage, the possi¬ bility of their happening in his household seemed per¬ fectly imbecile.

In a way the good, easy gentleman regarded marriage as a kind of disease. You might catch it or you might not. There was no real danger in it—many people took it and recovered—but on the whole it was just as well to take proper precautions against it.

“Marry! Marry!” cried Ralph, as he retrieved his spectacles and picked up the review that he had been read¬ ing and that had seized with avidity at such a favourable moment to slide gracefully to the floor and crumple its pages. “Marry! Tut, tut! What next?”

The Squire hated the thought of any change. Life had, perhaps, been too kind to him. He could honestly say that he knew of nothing, possessing which, he would be happier.

He was perfectly content pottering about his old house and garden. He always found plenty to do—there were farms to inspect; the needs and comforts of the villagers to look after; all the many and various responsibilities of a country squire. He had, too, his shooting, and a little hunting. Not that he did much of either nowadays, and at no time had he been a very keen sportsman, but it had been expected of him and made an excuse to meet his friends and neighbours in a pleasant, leisurely way.

Fordcombe was a clannish place. Many of the farmers had lived on their farms from generation to generation, some of them almost as long a time as the Dalisons up at the house. But though the common pursuit of all was a strong and uniting tie, the one that clinched them to¬ gether was the unity of creed. And this latter is a tie, the strength of which it is difficult to realise till we re¬ member the Roman Catholic in England always regards the Protestant as an usurper and is therefore always a little on the defensive.

In Catholic eyes Fordcombe was a beacon that shone brightly and ever had shone; a light no persecution, no oppression had ever quite extinguished. Read the chronicles, the country histories, and you will find that dimmed though the light may have been, utterly quenched it never was. Always it burned—maybe secretly—very privily and hidden, often in holes and corners as humble as must have been a distant manger of Bethlehem, but it burned. And now once again the old light shone forth upon the world. And, however you and I may disagree with the dwellers of Fordcombe as to the righteousness of their belief, we are forced to own there is a glamour about such places that goes far to justify the Catholic pride in them. Examples are they to be held up, memorials yet living to be honoured, shrines rescued from burning, snatched from destruction to be evermore revered and honourably tended.