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‘It’s all that Harold White,’ insisted Ermyntrude. ‘He’s been worse ever since he got under his influence.’
‘I don’t think he has, really,’ said Mary, always fair-minded. ‘I’m afraid it’s just natural deterioration.’
‘Well, all I can say is that I wish the Whites would go and live somewhere else. They’ve spoiled the place for me.’
‘One does seem to feel White’s influence,’ said Vicky, with an artistic shiver.
Mary got up, ‘Don’t mix your roles!’ she advised. ‘That one doesn’t go with the Sports-Girl outfit.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten I was wearing slacks!’ said Vicky, quite unoffended. ‘I think I’ve had enough of the Sports Girl. I’ll change.’
Mary felt disinclined to enter into Vicky’s vagaries at such an early hour of the morning, and, with a rather perfunctory smile, she gathered up her letters, and left the room.
It was part of her self-imposed duty to interview the very competent cook-housekeeper each morning, but before penetrating beyond the baize door to the servants’ quarters, she collected a basket and some scissors, and went out into the gardens to cut fresh flowers for the house.
It was an extremely fine morning, and although Palings, as Ermyntrude had said, was best seen in springtime, when its rhododendrons and azaleas were in bloom, neither the sombre foliage of these shrubs, covering the long fall of ground to the stream at its foot, nor the glimpse of Harold White’s house upon the opposite slope, detracted, in Mary’s eyes, from its beauty. Ermyntrude employed a large staff of gardeners, and besides lawns where few weeds dared show their heads, and acres of kitchen-gardens and glass-houses, there was a sunk Italian garden, a rose-garden, a rock-garden, with a lily-pond in the centre, and broad herbaceous borders in which Ermyntrude’s own taste for set-effects had never been allowed to run riot.
Mary reflected, with a wry smile, that Ermyntrude was the best-natured woman imaginable. Even in her own house she allowed herself to be overruled on all matters of taste, and not only did she acquiesce in the decisions made for her, but she quite seriously endeavoured to school her eye to appreciate what she believed to be good taste. But although she felt a certain pride in her slopes of rhododendrons (which were, indeed, one of the sights of the county), Mary knew quite well that in her heart of hearts she thought this wild part of her garden rather untidy, and very much preferred the view of formal beds, and clipped yews, and impeccably raked carriage-drive, which was to be obtained from the front windows of the house. From these windows, moreover, no disturbing glimpse of the Dower House could be caught.
There was nothing intrinsically objectionable about the Dower House, but its temporary inmate, Harold White, had, during the course of two years, invested it, in Ermyntrude’s eyes, with such disagreeable attributes, that she had not only been known to shudder at the sight of its grey roof, visible through the trees, but had lately carried her dislike of it to such a pitch that she would sometimes refuse even to stroll down the winding path that led through the rhododendron thickets to the rustic bridge that crossed the stream at the foot of the garden. It was a charming walk, but it was spoiled for Ermyntrude by the fact that from the little bridge an uninterrupted view of the Dower House, situated half-way up the farther slope, smote the eye. The bridge had been thrown across the stream to provide an easy way of communication between the two houses, a circumstance which, however convenient it migh
t have been to the original owner of Palings, filled Ermyntrude with annoyance. She had more than once contemplated having the bridge removed, and had compromised, a few months previously, by erecting a wicket-gate on the Palings side of the stream. But although this might, as she confided to Mary, have seemed pointed enough, it had no apparent effect on Harold White, who continued to stroll across the bridge to call on Wally whenever he chose, or had opportunity to do so.
Fortunately, this was not often. Unlike Wally, White was not a gentleman of leisure, but the manager of a small group of collieries in the district. His daughter, Janet, kept house for him; and he had one son, a few years younger than Janet, who lived at home, and was articled to a solicitor in the neighbouring town of Fritton. Before Wally’s marriage to the rich Mrs Fanshawe, White, whose salary never seemed to cover his expenses, had lived rather uncomfortably in a small villa in the town itself; but when Wally came to live at Palings, it had not taken Harold White long to discover that he was remotely related to him. The rest had been easy. Wally had found a kindred spirit in his connection, and had had very little difficulty in persuading Ermyntrude to lease the Dower House, which happened, providentially, to be unoccupied, to White, at a reduced rental. From this time, insisted Ermyntrude, Wally’s increasing predilection for strong drink, and, his flights into the realms of even less respectable pursuits, might fairly be said to date. Harold White encouraged him to drink more than was good for him, prompted him to back horses, and introduced him to undesirable acquaintances.
Mary, who disliked White, yet could not agree with Ermyntrude that he was Wally’s âme damné. Having lived with Wally for many more years than had Ermyntrude, she suffered from fewer illusions, and had long since realised that his character lacked moral fibre. He gravitated naturally into low society, and could be trusted upon all occasions to take the line of least resistance. While giving him due credit for having behaved to her with great kindness during the years of his guardianship, Mary knew him too well to allow herself to be blinded to the fact that the small income, advanced quarterly by her trustees to pay for her upkeep and education, had been extremely useful to Wally. Nor could she help regretting sometimes that her father, Wally’s uncle, had not chosen to leave her a ward in Chancery rather than the ward of his one surviving relative.
This slightly shamefaced thought was in Mary’s mind as she carried her basket of roses into the house. Wally had been a handicap to her during her schooldays; now that she was grown up, and marriageable, he was proving a still greater handicap.
She had denied that any understanding existed between herself and Mr Hugh Dering, but, although this was strictly true, she could not help feeling that Hugh’s interest in her sprang from something more than long-standing acquaintance. There was a bond of very real sympathy between them, and although Dering’s residence was in London, where he might be presumed to encounter girls prettier, more attractive, and certainly more eligible than Mary Cliffe, none of these unknown damsels seemed to have captivated his fancy, and whenever he came to stay with his parents, one of his first actions was to seek Mary out. What his mother, who was notoriously easy-going, thought about his predilection for her society, Mary did not know, but that Sir William Dering regarded Wally Carter with disfavour she was well aware. She had been surprised to hear of the Derings’ acceptance of Ermyntrude’s invitation, for although they were, like everyone else in the neighbourhood, on calling-terms with the Carters, they had never until now accepted nor extended invitations to dinner-parties. Mary wondered whether Hugh was indeed at the bottom of it, for she could not suppose that the presence of a Georgian prince would prove as tempting a bait as Ermyntrude so firmly believed. In this, she slightly misjudged Lady Dering.
Two
Sir William Dering, whom no one had ever called Bill, was quite as astonished as Mary Cliffe when he discovered that he was to dine at Palings in the immediate future. He bent a stare upon his wife, which was rendered all the more alarming by his bushy eyebrows, and desired to know whether she had taken leave of her senses.
‘Not only sane, but sober,’ replied Lady Dering, quite unimpressed by the martial note in Sir William’s voice. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for worlds! The amazing Ermyntrude has dug up a Russian prince!’
‘Good God!’ ejaculated Sir William. ‘You’re not going to tell me, I trust, that you accepted that invitation for the sake of meeting some wretched foreign prince?’
His wife considered this, a humorous gleam in her pleasant grey eyes. ‘Well, not quite entirely. I mean, not for the Prince alone. But a Russian prince in that setting! You couldn’t expect me to miss anything as rich as that!’
This response, so far from mollifying Sir William, made him look even more shocked than before. ‘My dear Ruth, aren’t you letting your sense of humour carry you too far? Dash it, you can’t accept people’s hospitality just to make fun of them!’
‘Dear old silly!’ said Lady Dering affectionately, ‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘You said—’
‘No, darling, far from it. I never make fun of anyone except you. I am just going to be gloriously entertained.’
‘Well, I don’t like it at all. I haven’t anything against Mrs Carter, beyond the fact of her being a damned common woman, made up to the eyes, and reeking of scent, but that fellow, Carter, I bar. We’ve always kept them at arm’s-length, and now Heaven knows what you’ve let us in for!’
‘An occasional invitation to them to dine.’
‘But why?’ demanded Sir William. ‘Don’t tell me it’s because of a Russian prince! I never heard such nonsense!’
‘Dear William, I like you so much when you’re stupid! The amazing Ermyntrude is going to build the hospital for us.’
‘What?’
