"Why, Robert," he said delightedly, "you still here? Jove! but I'm glad to see you. I thought Sir John had made a clean sweep of all the staff."

The butler nodded his head sadly. "All except me, sir--me and Mrs.

Hickson. She was the housekeeper, if you remember. And she couldn't stand it--that is, she had to leave after a year."

"Ah!" Vane's tone was non-committal. "And what's become of old John--at the Lodge?"

"He went, sir. Sir John found him too slow." Robert poured out a gla.s.s of beer. "He's in the village, sir. One of his sons was killed at Noove Chappel."

"I'm sorry about that. I must go and see him."

"He'd be proud, sir, if you'd be so kind. I often goes down there myself for a bit of a chat about the old days." With a sigh the old butler pa.s.sed on, and Vane returned to his lunch. . . .

"You seem to know our archaic friend," remarked the officer sitting next him. "He's a dear old thing. . . ."

"He's one of a dying breed," said Vane shortly. "I would trust old Robert with everything in the world that I possessed. . . ."

"That so?" returned the other. "Has he been here long?"

"To my certain knowledge for twenty-five years, and I believe longer.

It almost broke his heart when he heard that Lord Forres was going to sell the place." Vane continued his lunch in silence, and suddenly a remark from the other side of the table struck his ears.

"I say, old Side-whiskers hasn't given me my fair whack of beer." It was a youngster speaking, and the remark was plainly audible to the old butler two places away. For a moment his face quivered, and then he returned to the speaker.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he remarked quietly. "Let me fill your gla.s.s."

"Thanks, old sport. That's a bit better looking." Vane turned to his neighbour with an amused smile.

"Truly the old order changeth," remarked the other thoughtfully. "And one's inclined to wonder if it's changing for the better."

"Unfortunately in any consideration of that sort one is so hopelessly bia.s.sed by one's own personal point of view," returned Vane.

"Do you think so?" He crumbled the bread beside him. "Don't you think one can view a little episode like that in an unbia.s.sed way? Isn't it merely in miniature what is going on all over the country? . . . The clash of the new spirit with the one that is centuries old."

"And you really regard that youth as being representative of the new spirit?"

"No one man can be. But I regard him as typical of a certain phase of that spirit. In all probability a magnificent platoon commander--there are thousands like him who have come into being with this war. The future of the country lies very largely in their hands. What are they going to make of it?"

The same question--the same ceaseless refrain. Sometimes expressed, more often not. ENGLAND in the melting pot--what was going to happen?

Unconsciously Vane's eyes rested on the figure of the old butler standing at the end of the room. There was something n.o.ble about the simplicity of the old man, confronted by the crashing of the system in which he and his father, and his father's father had been born. A puzzled look seemed ever in his eyes: the look of a dog parted from a beloved master, in new surroundings amongst strange faces. And officially, at any rate, the crash was entirely for the benefit of him and his kind . . . . wherein lay the humour.

Vane laughed shortly as he pushed back his chair. "Does anything matter save one's own comfort? Personally I think slavery would be an admirable innovation."

Sir John Patterdale was everything that his wife was not. The unprecedented success of his Patent Plate had enabled him to pay the necessary money to obtain his knighthood and blossom into a county magnate. At one time he had even thought of standing for Parliament as an old and crusted Tory; but up to date the War had prevented the realisation of such a charming idyll. Instead he sat on the bench and dispensed justice.

In appearance he was an exact counterpart of his wife--short and fat; and his favourite att.i.tude was standing with his legs wide apart and his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. Strong men had been known to burst into tears on seeing him for the first time arrayed as the sporting squire; but the role was one which he persistently tried to fill, with the help of a yellow hunting waistcoat and check stockings. And when it is said that he invariably bullied the servants, if possible in front of a third person, the picture of Sir John is tolerably complete. He was, in short, a supreme cad, with not a single redeeming feature. Stay--that is wrong. He still retained the love of his wife, which may perhaps--nay, surely shall--be accounted to him for righteousness. . . .

To her he was never the vain, strutting little bounder, making himself ridiculous and offensive by turn. She never got beyond the picture of him when, as plain John Patterdale, having put up the shutters and locked the door of the shop, he would come through into their little living-room behind for his supper. First he would kiss her, and then taking off his best coat, he would put on the old frayed one that always hung in readiness behind the door. And after supper, they would draw up very close together, and dream wonderful dreams about the future. All sorts of beautiful things danced in the flames; but the most beautiful thing of all was the reality of her John, with his arm round her waist, and his cheek touching hers.

Sometimes now, when the real truth struck her more clearly than usual--for she was a shrewd old woman for all her kindness of heart--sometimes when she saw the sneers of the people who ate his salt and drank his champagne her mind went back with a bitter stab of memory to those early days in Birmingham. What had they got in exchange for their love and dreams over the kitchen fire--what Dead Sea Fruit had they plucked? If only something could happen; if only he could lose all his money, how willingly, how joyfully would she go back with him to the niche where they both fitted. They might even be happy once again. . . .

He had needed her in those days: turned to her for comfort when business was bad, taken her out on the burst--just they two alone--when things looked up and there had been a good day's takings. The excitement over choosing her best hat--the one with the bunches of fruit in it. . . . As long as she lived she would never forget the morning she tried it on, when he deserted the shop and cheered from the bedroom door, thereby losing a prospective customer.

But now, all he cared about was that she should go to the best people and spare no expense.

"We can afford it, my dear," he was wont to remark, "and I want you to keep your end up with the best of 'em. You must remember my position in the county."

Even alone with her he kept up the pretence, and she backed him loyally. Was he not still her man; and if he was happy, what else mattered? And she would call herself a silly old woman. . . .

But there was just once when he came back to her, and she locked away the remembrance of that night in her secret drawer--the drawer that contained amongst other things a little bunch of artificial grapes which had once adorned the hat. . . .

There had been a big dinner of the no-expense-spared type; and to it had been invited most of the County. Quite a percentage had accepted, and it was after dinner, just before the guests were going, that the owner of a neighbouring house had inadvertently put his thoughts into words, not knowing that his host was within hearing.

"It makes me positively sick to see that impossible little bounder strutting about round Rumfold."

"Impossible little bounder." It hit the little man like a blow between the eyes, and that night, in bed, a woman with love welling over in her heart comforted her man.

"It wasn't him that had been meant. . . . Of course not . . . . Why the dinner had been a tremendous success. . . . Lady Sarah Wellerby had told her so herself. . . . Had asked them over in return. . . .

And had suggested that they should give a dance, to which she and her six unmarried daughters would be delighted to come."

But she didn't tell him that she had overheard Lady Sarah remark to the wife of Admiral Blake that "the atrocious little cook person had better be cultivated, she supposed. One never knows, my dear. The ballroom is wonderful and men will come anywhere for a good supper. . . ." No, she didn't tell him that: nor mention the misery she had suffered during dinner. She didn't say how terrified she was of the servants--all except old Robert, who looked at her sometimes with his kindly, tired eyes as if he understood. She didn't even take the opportunity of voicing the wish that was dearest to her heart; to give it all up and go right away. She just coaxed him back to self-confidence, and, in the morning, Sir John was Sir John once more--as insufferable as ever. And only a tired old woman knew quite how tired she felt. . ..

One of Sir John's pet weaknesses was having his wife and the staff photographed. Sometimes he appeared in the group himself, but on the whole he preferred impromptu snap-shots of himself chatting with wounded officers in the grounds. For these posed photographs Lady Patterdale arrayed herself in a light grey costume, with large red crosses scattered over it: and as Vane was strolling out into the gardens after lunch, he ran into her in this disguise in the hall.

"We're 'aving a little group taken, Captain Vane," she said as she pa.s.sed him. "You must come and be in it."

"Why, certainly, Lady Patterdale; I shall be only too delighted. Is that the reason of the war paint?"

She laughed--a jolly, unaffected laugh. "My 'usband always likes me to wear this when we're took. Thinks it looks better in a 'ospital."

As Vane stepped through the door with her he caught a fleeting glimpse of officers disappearing rapidly in all directions. Confronting them was a large camera, and some servants were arranging chairs under the direction of the photographer. Evidently the symptoms were well known, and Vane realised that he had been had.

This proved to be one of the occasions on which Sir John did not appear, and so the deed did not take quite as long as usual. To the staff it was just a matter of drill, and they arranged themselves at once. And since they were what really mattered, and the half-dozen patients merely appeared in the nature of a make weight, in a very short time, to everyone's profound relief, the group had been taken. . . . Vane, who had been sitting on the ground, with his legs tucked under him to keep them in focus, silently suffering an acute attack of cramp, rose and stretched himself. On the lawn, tennis had started again; and she could see various officers dotted about the ground in basket chairs. He was turning away, with the idea of a stroll--possibly even of seeking out old John in the village, when from just behind his shoulder came a musical laugh.

"Delightful," said a low, silvery voice; "quite delightful."

Vane swung round in time to catch the glint of a mocking smile--a pair of lazy grey eyes--and then, before he could answer, or even make up his mind if it had been he who was addressed, the girl who had spoken moved past him and greeted Lady Patterdale. . . .

He waited just long enough to hear that worthy woman's, "My dear Joan, 'ow are you?" and then with a faintly amused smile on his lips turned towards the cool, shady drive. Margaret's remark in the sand dunes at Etaples anent leopards and their spots came back to him; and the seasoned war horse scents the battle from afar. . . .

CHAPTER V

It was under the shade of a great rhododendron bush that Vane was first privileged to meet Sir John. The bush was a blaze of scarlet and purple, which showed up vividly against the green of the gra.s.s and the darker green of the shrubs around. Through the trees could be seen glimpses of the distant hills, and Vane, as he stumbled unexpectedly into this sudden bit of fairyland, caught his breath with the glory of it. Then with drastic suddenness he recalled that half-forgotten hymn of childhood, of which the last line runs somewhat to the effect that "only man is vile."

Sir John was in full possession, with an unwilling audience of one bored cavalryman. It was one of his most cherished sentiments that nothing aided convalescence so much as a little bright, breezy conversation on subjects of general interest--just to cheer 'em up, and make 'em feel at home. . . .