Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (431 page)

It was characteristic of him, however, that he had not made a good match, but had fallen head over heels in love at last with a Miss Mary Savylle, whom he met during a three weeks’ stay at the Duke of Cumberland’s at Thorbury. Miss Savylle had been a dare-devil young lady, without a penny to her name, though her granduncle, Lord Savylle of Higham, allowed her four hundred pounds a year, and she spent her life travelling with a maid from country-house to country-house.”

Miss Savylle had appealed to him, because she was simply the only girl he had ever met who didn’t care what she did. She didn’t care a rap. She contradicted the Bishop of Liverpool at table when he said that her bulldog had not got a soul, and she put on the old duke’s favourite old boots over her slippers when she wanted to run over the wet lawn one early morning, because she had thrown her hair-brush out of the window at a terrier that was chasing a cat. The duke had had his favourite boots for fourteen years — Wellingtons they were — and he put them on every hunting morning. So that the valet turned green when Miss Savylle rushed from her bedroom in her wrapper and slippers, and, tearing the boots from his hands, pulled them suddenly on and streamed out of the front door. The terrier was still worrying the cat, and Miss Savylle got slightly scratched and badly bitten in separating them. There was even blood upon the sacrosanct boots. But the duke hardly even grumbled, which was a thing unheard of in Thorbury.

That afternoon the captain declared his love to Miss Savylle, and that night he had had a telegram to say that his mother was dead. Three weeks later his father had died of having nobody to quarrel with. Captain Edward had found himself worse than penniless, and they had just had to part. For Lord Savylle of Higham threatened to cut off his great-niece’s allowance of four hundred a year if she thought of marrying a man who hadn’t at least that much above his captain’s pay. Captain Edward had indeed gone up to The Pines, Hornsey, definitely intending to ask his aunt to settle four hundred pounds a year on Mary Savylle. His aunt had neither chick nor child; she had always told him to regard himself as her heir, and he would not have had any compunction in asking her. Unfortunately, his aunt had been out, and he had come upon his uncle in a cock-a-hoop mood, and angry because Mrs. Foster had paid the father’s debts. Thus, the frightful row had arisen; the captain had felt forced to pay his aunt back; the Common Councilman had a very black eye, which kept him away from business for the best part of a fortnight, and Captain Foster found himself, not four hundred pounds a year richer, but fifty pounds a year poorer.

“Oh, Miss Jenkins,” Mrs. Foster said, “he went away without a word from me, and although I made Mr. Foster write letter after letter of apology — which does not say that Mr. Foster had much spirit, though it shows he had a kind heart and a conscience — Captain Edward always sent the letters back unopened. And I’ve heard that he has had a very bad time, working terribly hard. And now he’s come back, and his eyes have failed, and he can’t go on active service any more. And he had to change his name — which was a good honourable name, and it seems a shame. But I was quite firm about it, for I said — though Mr. Foster wasn’t himself so set upon it — but I said, ‘justice is justice,’ and if the boy is to inherit his uncle’s money, it is only just that he should spend it in the name of the man that made it, and he’s going to marry a terrible woman.”

Miss Jenkins asked: “Don’t you like Miss Peabody, ma’am?”

“No, I don’t,” Mrs. Foster exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence. “I don’t believe I ever disliked anybody else in my life except a man cook we once had.”

“I don’t believe you ever did dislike anybody, ma’am,” Miss Jenkins said.

“But I dislike Miss Peabody,” Mrs. Foster said. “Before she got the major she was quite different, you would have said that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And I did my very best to bring the match off, because I thought she would save the major from the road to ruin. But now she’s got him she’s perfectly different. Why, she might be that odious man cook, with her impertinence and her offish ways. I know I’m a stupid woman, but it’s no one’s business to tell me so all day long. And the eyes she makes at Mr. Foster, and the compliments he pays her on her ability. And to tell the truth, she’s a great deal more fitted for Mr. Foster than the major — they’re more of an age, anyhow. I tell you what it is, Miss Nancy” — and Mrs. Foster’s eyes became almost shining with rage—”I’d give almost any woman four hundred a year — I’d give it to Miss Delamare or Mrs. Kerr Howe, or I’d give it to you for the matter of that — if you would get the major away from that woman. You couldn’t do it, of course, because the major is so set on his duty. And he considers it is his duty to marry that odious old maid. Why, her teeth aren’t even her own. But you couldn’t get him away.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Miss Jenkins, and she smoothed down her apron. “But upon my word, ma’am, it’s rather a wicked suggestion.”

“I don’t see it’s a wicked suggestion,” Mrs. Foster said. “I’ve got to think of my poor nephew’s happiness. Now, Miss Delamare is a dear little thing, and I’ve often felt I should like to adopt her as a daughter. And Mrs. Kerr Howe isn’t so nice, but she’d make the major an intellectual companion. And as for you, Miss Nancy, I like you the best of them all, for, though I’ve only known you for the three days we’ve been down here getting ready, I feel that you are quite one of the family — though of course your family is not as good as his. But his father married below him, marrying my sister; and though they did quarrel like cat and dog, it was one of the happiest marriages I have ever known, and they died within three weeks of each other.”

Miss Jenkins pushed her hands into the pockets of her alpaca apron.

“You can’t be quite in earnest, ma’am,” she said.

Mrs. Foster answered quaintly: “I don’t know that I should be so in earnest if it was possible to happen, but as it is, I’m in deadly earnest. I’d rather see the major married to you than to that odious woman, with her odious lap-dog. Even the lap-dog himself hates her. But you couldn’t get him away from her. Nobody could. He’s a gentleman, and he’s passed his word to marry the lady.”

“But don’t you think,” Miss Jenkins said, “that the lady might be got to throw the gentleman over?”

“Never!” Mrs. Foster exclaimed, “never, while there is a sun in the sky, or a railway from Hornsey to the City, which is almost the same thing.”

And then she added with singular vivacity: “Do you say that’s wicked, Miss Nancy? Well, then it’s just got to be wicked. I’ve never done anything wicked in my life, and I’d often wanted to know what it would feel like. And if I’m doing something wicked now, it feels very good — that’s what it feels. And I don’t wonder at people going on being wicked.”

They heard at that time distinctly a voice saying, “Hallo, aunt!” from the stairs.

Mrs. Foster exclaimed, “That’s the major!” and positively she turned pale. She ran out in the passage and, coming back with the major following her, she burst out: “I do hope you find everything you want, Edward. Miss Jenkins, here...”

But Miss Jenkins was not in the room, although, as far as Mrs. Foster could remember, she had not passed them on the staircase The major, who, being an Irishman, knew exactly how to please all women, took a long look round the bedroom.

“Well, it’s a jolly old room,” he said, “and large enough for the officers of a whole regiment to sleep in. And that’s what I like.” And he added cheerfully, “Any ghosts about?” Mrs. Foster said: “You know your uncle and I don’t hold with ghosts. It’s not a modern belief at all.”

“Well, well!” the major said cheerfully. “I guess you can’t hold with them when they come whether you ask them or not.” Mrs. Foster’s old butler was bringing in the major’s things one by one. Mrs. Foster shivered a little.

“Oh, dear Brent!” she said—”I’m going to call you Brent, instead of Edward, so as to keep you in remembrance of the name you changed. But oh, my dear Brent, don’t talk to me about ghosts and things. It makes me nervous in this queer old house. Your uncle doesn’t hold with ghosts, but I know he’s nervous, walking about the dark corridor. It’s only Olympia who keeps us all in our places.” The major said: “Oh, poor Olympia! How’s her dog?”

Mrs. Foster stiffened in the very slightest. “I am bound to say,” she exclaimed, “that her dog is a very troublesome little animal. It snaps at everybody in the house, even your uncle.”

“And the funny thing is,” the major said, “that the little beast has taken such a fancy to me. Of course, I bought it for her, but that isn’t a reason why it should love me, and not her. When I saw it in the shop in Seven Dials, it seemed to me exactly the sort of animal to be the proper protector for a maiden lady — I mean, of course, before I had any idea of marrying Olympia.”

“So you gave it to her,” the aunt asked, “before you were engaged?”

“Oh, yes,” the major said innocently. “That was what gave her the idea, when she saw that the little beast was always running after me. She said that she knew I couldn’t be wholly bad.” He seemed to be on the point of sighing, and then he said briskly:

“Anyhow, it’s a jolly old place, and you’re a jolly old woman, and we’re going to have a jolly old time, and if some jolly old ghosts turn up, that will make it all the jollier.”

Mrs. Foster said: “I don’t know about that, my dear; there
are
said to be ghosts to this family. But their records are most disreputable — women as well as men—”

The major let out lightly: “Oh, well, they won’t disturb
me.”

But Mrs. Foster exclaimed: “My dear, I don’t like to hear you talk like that. Disreputableness is always a painful thing to hear of, even though it may have taken place hundreds of years ago.”

The major exclaimed:

“Yes, I always used to wonder that they let us read the Book of Kings at school. But, anyhow, if there aren’t any ghosts, I hope you’ve got some sliding doors and secret panels on top.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Foster said, and she gazed rather apprehensively at the fierce man on the large panel. “I shouldn’t wonder if there were dozens. From the way Miss Jenkins vanished just now, it wouldn’t in the least surprise me if there were a secret door into this very room.” She looked again at the picture. “But some of the doings of those gentries,” she said, “were such, that no modern person would care to contemplate.”

“I don’t know about that,” the major said; and then he asked: “Who have you got stopping here, old woman? I know there’s Olympia; and Flossie Delamare and Mrs. Kerr Howe came down with me in the train. But who are the rest of your rum old menagerie?”

“I’d have had Lady Savylle,” Mrs. Foster said, “but she’s not coming down for a fortnight or so. And then she’s going to the Dower House. She wouldn’t stop with us, though we told her that it was her own house if we did pay her rent for it.”

The major exclaimed: “Lady Savylle? Lady Savylle of Higham? This is
her
house? My God, why didn’t I remember?”

“Of course you know,” Mrs. Foster said, with a little note of triumph in her voice, “Higham itself passed to the Duke of Rothbury in 1842. Lady Savylle has only inherited this house and about two thousand acres.”

Mrs. Foster was a little triumphant because she had remembered at least this detail.

The old butler had opened up the major’s portmanteau and unpacked most of the articles from his kit-bag, and just at that moment he noiselessly withdrew.

“My dear,” Mrs. Foster said, “I think it’s about time that we had a little explanation.”

“I think it’s just about it, old woman,” the major said.

“Of course, I’m only a stupid old person,” Mrs. Foster began.

“Of course, of course,” the major said affectionately.

“I never took any prizes at school,” she continued, “and I don’t suppose I ever shall now. But when you went away like that, and disappeared, your uncle said that you had probably gone to lead the idle and dissolute life of an army officer.”

“Well, so I had, so I had,” the major said amiably. “Three shillings a day, and be your own dustman.”

“But I knew better,” his aunt continued, “and when you didn’t answer our letters I just asked and asked. I don’t mean to say that I put detectives on you, my dear, but I just asked and asked everywhere. Whenever I heard of people coming home from India, I either got introduced to them somehow or I just simply invited them to dinner, without knowing them, which was easy, as your uncle was a Common Councilman. I asked and asked. If there wasn’t any other way of doing it, I just told them that I was anxious for news about you, and nobody was rude to me, even though I didn’t know them. Why, I even went to the old Duke of Cumberland and asked him what there was between you and that Mary Savylle, who’s now the Lady Savylle of Higham.”