St. Jeames

OHN RODNEY SHERE was old for his age.

His parents had died whilst he was yet at school, and at fifteen he had become the ward of an old attorney who proceeded to care for the boy according to his lights. These were dry as dust. From that time on, John Rodney Shere was administered, as an estate. He was visited six times a year: he was inspected: he was reported upon: he was maintained: he was improved. At the end of each term he stayed with his guardian for one week—dismal periods, during which old Matthew Fennel suffered more than his ward. The former was desperately anxious to do the right thing by the boy—and perfectly certain that he was doing the wrong. As a matter of hard fact, he did very well: but he knew no more of children than he knew of lug-worms, and he was too old to learn.

No man knew better than the lawyer how to treat his superiors, his equals and those below him in estate: but everyone he met went into one of those compartments, and his ward was no exception to the rule. At the little old house in Curzon Street Rodney was treated as his guardian's compeer. The two dined in state every evening and retired at half-past ten. In the mornings, under escort, Rodney walked in the Park and rode in the Row: in the afternoons he was taken to the tailor, the boot-maker, the Zoological Gardens or the Stores. At the end of the week he was dispatched to a Devonshire farm.

It was at the long, low homestead that the boy passed his happiest days. The farmer had been the bailiff of a great landowner and knew how to keep 'the young gentleman' happy and well. His dame was the kindest of women and the best of farmers' wives. But there were no children at the farm.

All things considered, it is not surprising that at twenty-three John Rodney Shere was old for his age.

It was the tenth of July, and Rodney had just left Oxford for the last time.

His guardian was dead: he was absolute master of six hundred pounds a year: he was staying at his Club in St. James's, and he had no plans at all.

This night there was a dance in Arlington Street, to which Rodney had been bidden by the hostess, whose son he knew. He went reluctantly. He could not dance and was not at his ease with women he did not know. But he had been asked of civility, and of civility he must go. And within the week he must call. Rodney was nothing at all, if not correct.

Behind this precise outlook a keen sense of humour stood him in excellent stead. It was, indeed, the very salt of his life. Few people suspected this. All saw a young man of more than average height, very well built and looking remarkably fit, a young man with thick black hair, grey eyes and an aquiline nose, a young man, curiously solemn, wearing the gravity of a Justice upon his Bench. Only a very few saw the laughter which inhabited his eyes: this was seldom rampant, but it was always there.

Rodney had been at the dance for half an hour, had spoken with no one but his hostess and was wondering how soon he could in decency withdraw, when the son of the house appeared, dragging a girl by the wrist.

"Let me introduce Mr. Shere—Miss Bearskin, commonly called 'Owdareyou'. He'll swear he can't dance, but I've seen him: but, if you don't fit, you can always muck in with the thirsties and tell one another your sins."

The next moment he was gone.

"How d'ye do," said Rodney.

"D'you really mean you can't dance?" said Miss Bearskin.

"I'll convince you—if you like," said Rodney.

They pushed off into the stream....

After the longest minute that Rodney had ever known—

"No, you can't dance," said Miss Bearskin. "What can you do?"

"I can drink," said Rodney.

Miss Bearskin regarded him.

"You don't look as if you could," she said. "Anything else?"

"I can answer questions," said Rodney.

"I shall call you 'Truthful Joseph'," said Miss Bearskin. "And now let's go and coal."

She led the way to a room in which supper was being eaten and drinks were being drunk.

"What may I get you?" said Rodney.

"Some foie gras, a roll, some butter and some champagne."

The champagne was easy, but it was fully two minutes before the requisite viands came Rodney's way.

With a plate in each hand, he struggled back to the corner in which he had left Miss Bearskin sipping champagne.

The lady's glass was empty, and the lady was gone.

Rodney was rather relieved, and, when he was sure that she was not to be seen, rid himself of the plates and returned to the ball-room.

He was, indeed, upon the edge of approaching his hostess, when he observed Miss de Swete. And when a man observed Miss de Swete for the first time, he was apt, as the saying is, to lose his place.

Estelle de Swete was probably one of the most beautiful women alive. She was certainly one of the proudest. As an only child, she had been spoiled to death: and at seventeen she had been soured. Till then she had had everything that money can buy: then her father had broken his neck in the hunting-field, and the Jews, of whom no one had dreamed, had asked to be paid. The double shock killed her mother within the month, and, instead of emerging to rule a London Season, Estelle had seen her home sold, her wardrobe fought for by dressmakers who believed that two birds in the hand are worth more than one in the bush, and the footman she had always detested, smoking in her boudoir and pointing out, with all the irrelevance of a drunken revolutionary, that he was her creditor to the extent of eighteen pounds.

Estelle had been sent to her grandfather to share with him an aged, Somersetshire mansion and, when her father's debts had been paid, almost exactly one thousand pounds a year.

Her visits to Town were rare. But, when she came, it was not to hide her light. She could have gone everywhere and always went where she could. People should see for themselves that she did not care. That her hackles were always up is not surprising. She was deadly proud, and Fate had hit this proud girl between the eyes. Very well. People should see....

So it happened that, wearing a simple frock, without a jewel upon her body, Estelle danced that hot night at Arlington Street with such as offered themselves and when she had no partner, stood, looking scornfully about her, with her back to the wall.

She was standing so, when Rodney saw her for the first time.

As a Lawrence might stand out of a bevy of Impressionists, so Estelle de Swete, grand-daughter of the tenth baronet, stood for Rodney out of that glittering throng. Her beautiful, imperious countenance, the infinite dignity of her carriage, the scorn of her magnificent eyes engraved themselves upon his brain. People pushed past him, bumped into him, trod upon him, but he took no notice at all. He had no eyes or mind for anything but the girl. He was obsessed, rapt....

Suddenly her eyes met his across the breadth of the floor. For an instant they looked each other full in the face: then a man addressed her, and she turned away. The man, a complacent satyr, with an unpleasant neck, was proposing himself for a dance. Estelle looked him up and down. Then she set a hand on his shoulder, and they began to move.

Rodney sought his young host, but the latter was not to be found. When he returned from the search, the lady had disappeared. He began to seek her exhaustively....

At last he came to a balcony, overlooking the park. There were no lights here, and at first the place seemed empty: then his diligent eyes caught the white of a frock. Quietly he moved towards it and presently slid into a chair.

Suddenly a girl's voice flashed.

"Do you mind letting me pass?"

The reply was inaudible.

"You intolerable outsider," said Estelle. "Because, thanks to the War, you are admitted to this house, can you see no difference between yourself and me? At a dance like this the food and the band are hired, but not the women. Be good enough to let me pass."

"Not after that," said the man.

Rodney took him by the seat of his trousers and his unpleasant neck, swung him over the low balustrade and let him fall ten feet into a flower-bed which was wet.

He stood up to find Estelle staring.

A flurry of oaths from the garden was succeeded by the crunch of gravel and a further explosion of wrath. As the steps died away—

"I could have dealt with him," said the girl.

"I'm sure of that," said Rodney politely enough.

"Then, why did you interfere?"

"To spare you, I suppose."

"I see. A damsel in distress. Do I know you?"

"No," said Rodney.

"If I did, you'd know that I'm not the clinging sort. And in any event these aren't the Middle Ages. However, I suppose you meant well."

"I'd do it again," said Rodney cheerfully.

For a moment Miss de Swete was bereft of speech. Such a reception of her patronage was very nearly unique.

At length—

"What on earth do you mean?" she said.

"That next time anyone pesters you I only hope I shall be there."

"Why?"

The man hesitated. He could see her form, but not the expression of her face. Of him she could see no more, for his back was towards the window from which a faint glow came.

"Why, please?" repeated Estelle, tapping the stone with her foot.

"Because I love you," said Rodney.

There was a moment's silence.

Then the girl drew a deep breath.

"Insolence," she said, and struck him full on the ear.

Rodney swore under his breath: then he began to laugh. An opponent's loss of temper always steadied his own.

"I wish you were in trousers," he said.

"Why?"

"Because then I should drop you into the flower-bed."

"I see. Do you still—love me?"

She made the sneer very broad.

"Yes," said Rodney. "But, if you strike me again, I shall drop you into the flower-bed, trousers or no."

Estelle struck him again.

In a flash he had her by the arms and had swung her up and over the balustrade. For a moment he held her so. Then he kissed her lightly, lowered her as far as he could and let her go.

As she met the wet earth, Estelle employed a most appropriate word...

After assuring himself that the shaft of light illumining the garden came from an open door, Rodney returned to the ball-room and bade his hostess 'good-bye'.

"I've enjoyed myself immensely," he said.

This was perfectly true.

Then he found the son of the house and asked him the name of the girl who looked so proud.

"Oh, you mean Estelle," said the latter. "Estelle de Swete. The tenth baronette. She's a corker. She's up on one of her raids. Periodically erupts from Somerset, does more damage and makes more enemies in a week than a rogue elephant does in a lifetime and then disappears. Whatever you do, don't touch her. She's lovely to look at, but she's a man-eater."

"Is she though?" said Rodney.

Ten minutes later he was back at his Club.

He had, I think, done quite but he had made one mistake. He left the balcony too soon. If he had waited, after hearing Estelle's healthy exclamation, he would have heard something which would have done his heart still more good.

He would have heard the lady fall into silvery laughter.

Man but proposes....

Rodney awoke the next morning, determined to marry Estelle within the year: and, being old for his age, he did not rush at the business, but decided to arm himself before he made the assault.

He had no idea at all that Estelle de Swete was poor. He assumed, perhaps naturally, that she was reasonably rich. That being so, his income must be increased. Must.... The parable of the talents pointed an obvious path.

A man he had known at Oxford was now 'in the City', a stockbroker—or something. Rodney visited his office, to find that his friend had taken some post in the Argentine. The head of the firm, however, received him charmingly.

Except that Rodney's resolve to treble his fortune enabled the head of the firm to avoid bankruptcy for nearly six months, of their business and other relations there is little of interest to be said. It had been done before.

Suffice it that one dull December day John Rodney Shere, gentleman, found himself with not very many clothes, twenty thousand shares which were entirely valueless and thirty-two pounds in the world.

Then at last he did what he should have done five months before. He set out for Somerset.

Now whether he did so in the hope of marrying Estelle or merely of seeing her again, or just of looking upon her home, I cannot tell: and I very much doubt if Rodney knew himself. The lady attracted him: and, after resisting his instinct for five disastrous months, he let it have its way.

The village of Cockcrow is distant from London one hundred and thirty-five miles.

Rodney walked there, sleeping at farms by the way and earning his lodging and board. He was soon satisfied that, if work was scarce in the country, that was the labourer's fault. Before he had come to Yeovil, he had had five several offers of a permanent job. This encouraged him greatly, and when, at eight o'clock of a brilliant morning, the potman of The Maiden at Cockcrow told him the way to Feathers and added, that unless he was mistaken, the farm two miles farther on was short of a cowman, he could have thrown up his hat.

A job two miles from Estelle....

A de Swete had inhabited Feathers for more than four hundred years. Rodney knew this. Yet the idea of the new cowman at Bluecoat Farm raising his eyes to the grand-daughter [sic] of the tenth baronet did not seem to him in the least preposterous.

Which shows that the last five months had had one healthy effect. He was no longer quite so old for his age.

The three miles to Feathers were lovely, for they were three English country miles and there was a hoar frost.

The white magic of the hedgerows, the bewildering tracery of the woods, the exquisite filigree of wayside trees made up a glowing canticle: the road rang under the feet—a jolly sound: free of his swaddling mists, the sun, a merry monarch, rejoiced a gay, blue sky: a sober flight of rooks cawed and swung in the air: in the distance, a hazy Mendip lifted a sleepy head: and, presently, in the immediate foreground, a grey, old gate-house was framing two wrought-iron gates with the peculiar dignity of Henry Tudor.

The gates were shut, but their bars could not hide the venerable quire of elms, at the end of which Rodney could see a gable of mellow stone.

The gate-house was untenanted: one of its panes was broken and the casement had been boarded up: the gates had need of attention—urgent need: in the avenue weeds were sprouting. To go farther afield, an oak had fallen in the park; this had been struck down in leaf and still lay as it had fallen, with its broken roots in the air: and ten feet of the park's wall had bulged, and the coping had slipped.

Rodney's stare slid slowly into a frown.

He walked on slowly in the hope of seeing the house, but after a quarter of a mile he began to retrace his steps.

As he approached the gate-house, voices came to his ears—a woman's shrill voice, raised in anger, and the rumbling agreement of a man.

Wondering what was afoot, Rodney came abreast of the gates.

A procession was descending the avenue.

First came the man and woman whose voices Rodney had heard. They were of middle age and were laden with all manner of traps—brown-paper parcels and bundles, an umbrella and cheap leather bags. Behind, astride of an iron-grey horse, came Miss de Swete. She was hatless, but gloved, and was wearing a soft leather jumper above her breeches and boots. Her lovely dark brown hair rendered the sunshine. Her beautiful face was like a mask.

"Nigger slaves," shrilled the woman. "That's wot you want. Decen' respectable bodies is no good to you."

"That's right," affirmed the man.

"Our souls is our own," said the woman, "an' nobody don't grind us. You talk about 'bad service'. Why, you can't afford service at all. You ought to be in a noffice an' boardin' at Golder's Green. Airs an' graces don' go with a ruing like this. Silver-gilt on the table, an' the cheese straws you 'ad for supper warmed up for lunch."

"Dressin' for dinner," said the man, "an' nothin' to drink."

He set down the bags he was bearing and started to open the gates. These resisted his bungling, so Rodney stepped forward and quietly swung one of them back.

The three stared at him.

Rodney took no notice, but stood with his back to the gate, plainly expecting the servants to go their way.

The woman forced out a laugh.

"We're goin' all right," she said. "You needn't look like that. Anybody'd think we was rioters. Follerin' us on 'orseback, an' another one 'oldin' the gate. Come on, Badger."

They passed out into the road, and Rodney closed the gate.

Then he turned to Estelle and spoke humbly enough.

"I'm looking for a place as a servant. If I am right, you need one. I haven't had much experience, but I can very soon learn."

Coldly Miss de Swete regarded him.

"You heard what they said—about the place?"

Rodney nodded.

"I don't value their opinion very much,"

"What can you do?" said Estelle.

"Most things," said Rodney boldly. "What was that man?"

"He called himself a 'working butler'."

"I can beat him at that."

"You won't stay if you can't," said Estelle. "What wages do you ask?"

Rodney hesitated. Then—

"Thirty-six pounds a year," he said.

"I'll pay you forty," said Estelle.

"Thank you," said Rodney. And then, "Shall I come at once? I mean I can send for my clothes."

The girl raised her eyebrows.

"If you like," she said. "What do you call yourself?"

"My name is Rodney—madam."

"Do you mean you want to start now?"

"At this moment, madam."

"Very well," said Estelle slowly. She turned her horse. "Follow me."

She rode back up the avenue, as she had come.

Her new 'working butler' followed obediently.

Two months had gone by, and life at Feathers was more easy than it had been for years. The new 'working butler' had become the pillar of the house.

Sir Richard, aged eighty-four and, though he refused to admit it, now totally blind, had come to cling to Rodney with the faith of a child. He had not known such attention, since his body-servant, Filmer, had died twenty years before. And Rodney was better than Filmer had ever been. But that was nothing. Rodney had taken control of the establishment. I suppose he had the gift of organisation. Be that as it may, he set the house in order and so maintained it. He was butler, footman, valet, but he was steward, too. He found enough silver in use for a party of thirty guests. At his respectful suggestion five-sixths of it was listed and presently lodged at the Bank. He found twenty-five rooms open when ten would have been enough. He suggested respectfully that fifteen of these should be closed and, with the required permission, saw to the matter himself. He sought and procured a housemaid who was willing to work. He sold the fallen timber, and the gardener and he, together, rebuilt the tumbling wall.

The old groom and cook—man and wife—revered him: the housemaid thought he was a god: Sir Richard said loudly and often that he was worth his weight in gold, and Estelle felt curiously ill at ease.

This stray, this broken gentleman was shouldering her burdens, her world. More. He was carrying her and her grandfather, the very fortunes of her house. But for his coming, life at Feathers must have come to a sordid end. Instead, it had been revived—given a fine, new lease. She was able to live and move as a lady should. Her shoes were beautifully cleaned, the rooms were in perfect order, the silver was always brilliant, the meals were admirably served. The inevitable 'trivial round' had been effaced. The common and unclean spectre had slunk away. More—much more. Visitors saw how things ought to be done. Her pride had been served—at a cost of forty pounds a year.

She never gave Rodney an order, seldom made him a request. Of respect and self-respect she spared him as much as she could.

One wet February day she went further.

The shelves of the stately library were to be unloaded and cleaned. At least, Rodney had advised it, and Rodney was always right.

"I will help you," said Estelle.

Rodney hesitated. Then—

"I'm afraid it will be rather dirty work, madam."

"I will help you," said Estelle. "When do you want to begin."

"After luncheon, madam."

"Very well."

Three o'clock found them at work.

For an hour they laboured in silence. Then came the pulse of an engine, and the front-door bell was rung.

Rodney plunged his hands into a pail. Then he whipped off his apron and slid into his coat.

"You are not at home, madam?"

"No."

The next moment he was gone.

He returned with three cards upon a salver.

When his mistress had inspected them, he took them away.

A moment later he was again in his apron, piling the books.

Estelle looked down from the ladder on which she was perched.

"Tell me," she said quietly. "Why are you doing this?"

"For my living, madam."

"There are plenty of people who would give you two hundred a year."

"I'm very happy here, madam."

"Don't call me 'madam'. It's indecent. You know it is."

"I"

"Call me 'Estelle'."

Rodney set a hand on a pillar and stared on the floor.

"How can I?" he said.

"You're my equal."

"I'm your butler."

"Then get me a cigarette."

Rodney did so without a word.

"Now take one yourself."

Rodney threw in his hand and began to laugh.

For a moment they smoked in silence.

"Now call me 'Estelle'."

"All right—Estelle."

"That's better," said Miss de Swete.

"Why?" said Rodney.

"I must give something," said the girl. "On March the first I shall pay you three pounds odd. If it was three thousand, it wouldn't discharge our debt. That won't go into money, as you very well know."

"There is no debt," said Rodney.

"Of course there is. And each time you call me 'madam' up goes the score."

"You've got it all wrong," said Rodney. "You"

"I haven't. You must understand. Try to put yourself in my place. Supposing you had been beaten—had your back to the wall, and the wall had been giving way. No system, no servants, no money, and Feathers on its very last legs. And then I'd blown in and pulled the whole show round. And licked your boots and 'sirred' you from morning to night."

"I've never licked your boots," said Rodney.

"And supposing you couldn't sack me"—Rodney looked up sharply—"and—and end it all."

"I can't suppose that," said Rodney.

Coldly Estelle regarded him.

"In view of my grandfather's state, how can I send you away?"

Rodney looked her full in the eyes.

"In view of your grandfather's state, how can I go?"

Under his steady gaze the blood came into her face.

Abruptly she rose to her feet.

"We'd better get on," she said shortly.

They laboured till five in silence and stopped for the day.

Three days later the last books were going back.

Estelle was up on the ladder and Rodney was giving the volumes into her little hands. Not since that first afternoon had they spoken at all.

Estelle sat down on the ladder and folded her hands in her lap.

"I'm a rotten bad debtor," she said. "I set out to pay and then I climb deeper in. I wouldn't send you away for a thousand a year. You're indispensable."

"To your grandfather."

"To Feathers—to us."

"That's much too handsome," said Rodney.

"It's true. If you were to say you were going, I'd go on my knees to you to stay."

"That'll do," said Rodney. "You've paid your debt."

Estelle shook her lovely head.

"That's so much nonsense," she said. "And now, please, listen. I'm going to help you every day. We'll clean the silver, or dust, or do something that has to be done. And while we're at work, I shall be plain Estelle."

"But"

The girl held up a small hand.

"That is an order," she said. "If you don't like it you can go. My grandfather's never seen you, or we shouldn't have come to this. He would have interfered ages ago. You wait upon us hand and foot, when you should be at table yourself. Well, that's all right in a way, so long as it's perfectly clear that we're playing a game. If not, it becomes indecent. You remember the Saturnalia? When once a year, at Christmas, the Romans served their slaves? Well, that would have been indecent, if it hadn't been perfectly clear that it was only a game."

John Rodney Shere swallowed.

"This is different," he said. "We made a contract, you and I. I made it with my eyes open and I am perfectly content."

"But my eyes weren't open," said Estelle, "and I am not content."

Steadily Rodney regarded the lady he loved.

Sitting on the top of the ladder, her delicate fingers laced about a slim knee, her exquisite chin lowered, her big, brown eyes upon his, she had the unconscious glory of a beautiful child. The proud look was out of her face, which was very grave. Only the parted lips argued an eagerness as takes a man by the throat.

If Rodney had found her lovely as My Lady Disdain, he found this eager child peerless indeed....

With a pounding heart, Rodney lowered his eyes.

A hand came to rest upon his shoulder.

"Please do as I say. You've taken away every bit of my self-respect. Won't you give me a chance to win some of it back?"

Rodney looked up quickly.

"All right—Estelle," he said gently.

The hand left his shoulder and was stretched down for his.

Rodney put it to his lips....

"I meant you to shake it," said Estelle severely. "Did you think"

"I didn't think at all," said Rodney.

For a moment his lady regarded him, chin in air.

Then she began to laugh.

"At least," she said, "no butler would have done that."

Spring was in, but the winter had done its work.

Sir Richard de Swete was failing. Take to his bed he would not, but his natural strength was constantly giving way. He would walk for awhile upon the terrace, to totter into the library and sleep like the dead. He would fall asleep at dinner, before the cloth had been drawn. His ascent and descent of the stairs became hazardous things. Estelle and Rodney had their hands very full. The latter, of course, was a very tower of strength: no servant could ever have taken the place he filled. The former's artless devotion quickened more hearts than one. The two became brother and sister, succouring the lord of their house.

The baronet's frailty bore heavily upon Shere. The sick man would dress twice a day, and Rodney dared not leave him to dress alone. After awhile he shaved him morning and night. His other work must have suffered but for Estelle. Together they cleaned the silver and kept the rooms. Together they pointed masonry and painted window-frames. They drifted into sharing the maintenance of their world.

Then one day came a letter which made Estelle knit her brows.

As she laid it down, she exclaimed.

Her grandfather, more sprightly than usual, put his white head on one side.

"What is it, little lady?"

"Cousin Frederick proposes himself for lunch."

The baronet frowned.

"I never liked Frederick," he said. "He was an untruthful child. The last time I saw him his manners left much to be desired."

"I hate him," said Estelle. "Shall I say we're going away?"

"No, no," said the baronet. "He is my sister's son. If he asks for lunch he must have it. What is he doing down here?"

"Except that he's going to Cornwall he doesn't say."

This was hardly surprising. The intelligence would have been ill received. Cousin Frederick had been summoned to appear at a Cornish Petty Sessional Court for 'driving dangerously' and 'failing to stop' after an accident. As the result of the accident, a donkey had had two legs broken and its owner, aged seventy-seven, lay between life and death.

What worried Estelle most of all was that Rodney would have to wait upon this detestable man.

She broke the news the next morning, whilst she was arranging the flowers.

"There's a rotten brute coming to lunch on Wednesday."

Rodney, cleaning the fire-dogs, sat back on his heels.

"Sorry," he said. "Perhaps he won't stay very long."

"He's certain to bring a chauffeur. George will look after him."

"I don't mind in the least, Estelle. It's"

"I do. Like master, like man. George will look after the chauffeur and put him where he belongs."

"Right you are," said Rodney. "What will the other one drink?"

"Gin, whiskey and brandy—in that order. Vermuth with the first, soda with the second, and brandy with the third."

"The old school," said Rodney. "I see."

Estelle peered into a mirror and patted her hair.

"I may as well tell you," she said, "that he doesn't know how to behave."

"Are you afraid," said Rodney, "that I shall laugh?"

"Of course not." She returned to her flowers. "But he—he doesn't know how to treat servants, and—and—well, he's my cousin and I've seen him forget that other people's servants weren't his."

"Let him forget," said Rodney. "I shan't."

Estelle bent over her basket.

"Hark at St. Jeames," she said, addressing some daffodils.

Rodney swallowed.

"It was very sweet of you to warn me, Estelle."

"Don't be a fool," said the lady. "And, by the way, it's late in the day to discuss it, but don't you ever want some time off? I know you said you'd tell me when you did, and, after that, I forgot. But you've been here nearly five months and you've never had one afternoon."

Rodney shook his head.

"I don't want one," he said. "I'm—very happy."

With that, he went on with his work.

"Why are you happy?" said Estelle.

"I don't know. I just am. You're very good to me."

Estelle sat down in a chair and crossed her legs.

"Tell me, St. Jeames, where have I seen you before?"

Rodney straightened his back.

"At a dance," he said.

"At the Jermyns'? Last July?"

"That's right. I was looking at you, and you looked up."

"But we weren't introduced, St. Jeames?"

"Oh no," said Rodney. "Our eyes just happened to meet."

"Then how," said Estelle, "how is it I know your voice?"

Rodney felt rather faint.

"I—I can't imagine," he said, resuming his work.

There was a short silence.

"Nobody loved me that night," said Miss de Swete.

"What makes you think that?" said Rodney.

"I had a bad time. I wasn't popular."

"Rot," said Rodney.

"Well, you never even asked to be introduced."

"You disappeared," said Rodney. "I looked for you everywhere."

"Oh, St. Jeames!"

"I wanted to know you," said Rodney desperately.

"If you'd really wanted to know me, I think you'd have found me, St. Jeames."

Rodney rose to his feet.

"I tell you, you'd disappeared. I went all over the place."

"Who did you ask?" said Estelle.

"I didn't know your name."

"You could have described me."

Rodney passed to the door.

"I don't think anyone could do that—madam."

The next moment he was gone.

Wednesday came, and Cousin Frederick with it.

Rodney had taken his measure before he had taken his coat.

The man was bad. The best was good enough for him, but too good for anyone else: his instinct was to give offence: poverty was a cock-shy. These things were written in his face.

Rodney decided to go very carefully indeed.

Except that he did not go backward, he led the man to a bedroom, as though he were preceding a king. Thence he brought him to the drawing-room.

As he opened the door—

"See to my chauffeur," said Cousin Frederick.

"Very good, sir."

Luncheon passed off pretty well.

The guest did most of the talking, made two clumsy allusions to his uncle's infirmity and, conscious that his host could not see him, grimaced at Estelle after each. He also advised them to 'sell those chairs at Christie's and buy a cheap car'. Estelle's eyes had narrowed, but the baronet turned it off. Only when the fellow declared that Estelle was 'wasting her life in this one-horsed rut', did his uncle pull him up. "Be that as it may," he said firmly, "she is not wasting mine." Never at a loss, Cousin Frederick put his thumb to his nose and extended his fingers towards the blind man's face. Subduing the desire to kill, Rodney replenished his glass.

It was after luncheon, when Sir Richard had been led to the library and Estelle and her cousin were sitting upon the terrace, that the latter began to look Rodney up and down.

I suppose there was a natural antipathy between the two. Maybe he suspected that Rodney admired Estelle. Probably the perfectly obvious fact that the butler was as well-bred as he and about twice as presentable stuck in his ugly throat.

When Rodney came for the coffee-cups, the other stopped talking and followed him with his eyes. Rodney gave no manner of sign that he was aware of this attention. Estelle looked straight in front of her, white and cold.

"Get my cigars," said Cousin Frederick.

"Very good, sir," said Rodney.

When he returned with a cigar-case, a bright red spot was adorning each of his lady's cheeks.

Cousin Frederick took the cigar-case and threw it down upon the ground.

"Take that back," he said, "and do as you're told."

The case sprang open with the fall and disgorged a sheaf of cigarettes. The mistake, if Rodney had made one, was not his fault.

"Rodney," said Estelle, "leave that case where it is." She turned to her cousin. "Kindly beg my butler's pardon for behaving like a first-class cad."

Cousin Frederick appeared to have lost the power of speech.

"We are waiting," said Estelle grimly.

"Are you out of your mind?" said her cousin. "I gave the fellow an order"

"Who are you to give orders here?"

"I requested the man," said Frederick, "to"

"You did nothing of the sort. You ordered him to fetch your cigars. He brought your rotten cigar-case. Do you suggest it was his duty to look inside?"

"If you think"

"I don't," said Estelle. "I know. Are you going to beg his pardon?"

"Certainly not. The man's behaviour"

"Has been superb," said Estelle. "I admit I warned him. I told him what to expect. I told him that he would have to wait upon the most insufferable swine that ever stepped into this house. I told him what you would say and. how you would act. I didn't tell him what you were fit for—I left him to see that for himself. And now I should fade away. Don't bother to wake my grandfather. I hate to deprive you of a chance of exploiting his lack of sight, but he always rests after lunch and he's not at all well." She turned to Rodney. "Rodney, send round the chauffeur and stay in the stable-yard."

"Very good, madam."

Rodney withdrew, but, fearing trouble, returned as soon as he could to the terrace-hall.

He was, however, some twenty seconds too late.

"I tell you he's ill," cried Estelle. "A shock"

"You should have thought of that before. Uncle Richard!"

The baronet started violently, got to his feet somehow and stood shaking from head to foot.

"What—what is it?" he stammered. "You were just saying..."

Estelle and Rodney, coming from opposite doors, reached him at the same time.

"You'd better dismiss your butler. If you weren't blind, you'd never have taken him on. He doesn't know his place. And, if I were you, I should get a companion for Estelle. Otherwise, one of these days, you'll find yourself with a grandson who's not in the book."

The baronet had stopped shaking. Now he drew himself up.

"Better be blind," he said, "than have an unclean sight. When I permitted you to come here, I assumed that you would remember that this was your mother's home and would control the instincts you seem to possess. It seems I was mistaken. I shall not repeat my mistake. And now take your things and go. People call earlier than they did, and I am not prepared to introduce you to my friends."

Cousin Frederick went.

As the door closed behind him. Sir Richard collapsed.

Called upon for an effort, the dying man had responded as only a thoroughbred can. But the strain was fatal. His old, tired system had broken down.

Rodney bore him upstairs and got him to bed....

The doctor was downright.

"A stroke. It's a matter of hours or days—probably days. I don't think he'll speak again. He mustn't be left for an instant."

"I shall nurse him, of course," said Estelle.

"You can't do the twenty-four hours. By your leave, Miss de Swete, I'll get you a night-nurse from Wells. Would you like another opinion?"

"If you advise it."

"I don't. I'm dreadfully sorry, but I know that this is the end. His pulse alone..."

As much friend as doctor, he fetched the night-nurse himself, and at half-past eight that evening Rodney was standing as usual behind his mistress's chair.

Not until he had brought her coffee, did the latter open her mouth.

"It's a matter of days," she said.

"I'm most awfully sorry, Estelle."

"Sit down and smoke, please. I want to talk."

Rodney Bet down his salver and lighted a cigarette.

"Why do I rush in?" said the girl. "If I hadn't"

"That's absurd, Estelle. Besides, if it comes to that, I was the cause of the row."

"I made it."

"He forced your hand. If I'd been in your position, I should have done the same."

"No, you wouldn't, St, Jeames."

"Please don't blame yourself," said Rodney. "I can't bear it."

"Why did you give me champagne?"

"As a medicine," said Rodney. "You've had a trying day."

"Will you do me a favour?"

"Perhaps."

"Open another bottle and drink it yourself."

"That's very sweet of you," said Rodney. "But I'm a butler all right. I drank what you left."

Estelle shook her head.

"A butler would have opened a bottle: you only opened a half-bottle."

She sipped her coffee thoughtfully, with her eyes on the fire.

At length—

"Wasn't he magnificent?" she said. "With Frederick, I mean."

"He was always magnificent," said Rodney, taking her cup. He hesitated. "And I shall always be proud to remember that I was his—man."

"Thank you, St. Jeames," said Estelle shakily. "I wish he could have seen you. He used to say he wished he could. He liked you so very much. He was always saying 'What should we do without him?'. And—and Oh, St. Jeames, I don't know what we should."

She flung herself down on the sofa and burst into tears.

Rodney knelt by her side and said what he could.

After awhile she sat up with her hands to her eyes.

"I think," he said gravely, "that you should go to bed."

She nodded, and they got to their feet.

"Good night," she whispered and put out a little hand.

"Sleep well, great heart," said Rodney.

Then he bowed his head and put the hand to his lips.

The other hand touched his hair.

"I wish he could have seen you," she whispered.

The next moment she was gone.

Five days later, Sir Richard, last baronet, went to his long home.

After the quiet funeral, the whole of which Rodney arranged, old Scarlet of Cockcrow had some speech with Estelle. Amongst other things, they agreed that she should become his guest upon the following day.

"For as long as you like, my dear. Amy will love to have you, and I'll see you through the Will."

"Thank you very much," said Estelle.

When he had gone, she went at once to her bedroom and there remained. Her dinner was sent upstairs.

The next was a summer's day.

Walking back from the gate-house, whither he had carried the suit-case of the protesting nurse, Rodney found Feathers the most beautiful seat in the world.

Not a breath of wind ruffled the delicate armour of that King's Company of elms: the song of a lark fell out of a cloudless sky: wood-pigeons called from the beechwoods, and, somewhere at hand, a cuckoo was insisting upon the pride of the year: the park was all wet silver, and the house a warm, grey mystery, filched from some comfortable dream.

The man passed through the mansion and entered the library. This was cool and full of the scent of flowers: it had been swept and garnished two hours before. Old oak, steel and silver flashed in the light of the sun: the leather walls were glowing: above the door that led to the terrace the purple of wistaria swayed and trembled under the robbery of bees.

Rodney's quick eye could find no fault with the chamber: it was as fit for his lady as his hand could make a room.

He turned to see Estelle in the doorway, a slight figure, clad in black.

"I beg your pardon, madam. I did not know you were there."

Estelle inclined her head.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning, madam."

She passed to a window-seat, and Rodney stepped to the door.

"Wait a minute," she said. And then, "I'm going away."

"Very good, madam."

"Lord Scarlet has asked me to Cockcrow. It's better so. And he'll help me out with the Will. You'll take it easy, won't you, while I'm away? You must be worn out."

"Thank you, madam."

"I shan't stay more than ten days, and, when I come back, we'll—we'll pick up the reins again. I shan't go to London this year."

Rodney moistened his lips. Then he took a deep breath.

"I can't stay, Estelle," he said.

The girl sat still as death.

Presently her eyes sought his.

"What do you mean?"

"I've—I've served my turn," said Rodney, "and so I must go. While Sir Richard lived, it was different."

"Your consideration for him is not extended to me?"

"You know that's untrue," said Rodney.

"Then, why, the moment he's dead, do you let me down?"

"I'm not letting you down, Estelle."

"Why play with words?" said the girl. "If you go, I must give up Feathers. You know that as well as I."

Rodney put a hand to his head.

"I can't help it," he said miserably.

"Oh, can't you see what I mean?"

Estelle rose to her feet.

"Do you mean to insult me by suggesting that, now that Sir Richard is dead, I can't have a manservant here?"

"I'm not a servant," said Rodney. "And there's the rub."

"I should have agreed with you—a moment ago. But I see that, like all servants, you can't stand corn."

Rodney went very pale.

"You will please take that back, madam."

Estelle shrugged her shoulders.

"And if I refuse?" she said.

"Then I must leave to-day."

"Very well."

Rodney inclined his head and passed to the door.

With his hand on the latch, he turned.

"Estelle," he said, "don't let us part like this. I put it all wrong, I know: but I'm only thinking of you. If I had my way, my dear, I'd wait upon you, hand and foot, for the rest of my life."

"Yet you pretend to care what people like Frederick might say."

Rodney stepped to a window and stood looking out.

The sunlit park seemed blurred as he strove to marshal his words. He put his hands on the sill and bowed his head. After a little he spoke.

"I don't suppose I should care, if I didn't love you. But I do love you, you see: and that's what tears everything up."

Estelle neither spoke nor moved, and presently Rodney went on.

"That night, at the Jermyns', I fell in love with you.... I found out who you were, and I set out to make our fortune as quick as I could. I was so wild to make it that within six months I'd lost every penny I had. Well, that was the end of my dream.... But I thought that, at least, I could be near you, so I worked my passage from London down to your gate. At Cockcrow they told me that Redfern was wanting a cowman at Bluecoat Farm. I was going to ask for the job, when you rode down to the gate. I saw my chance and took it. The rest you know.... I came because I loved you. And now, because I love you, I'm going away."

A warm arm stole round his neck.

Rodney clung to the sill with all his might.

Estelle laid her cheek against his.

"Can't we find a way out, St. Jeames? I mean, I've loved you for ages. In fact, to tell you the truth, that's why I took you on."

The man started at that: but he held to the sill.

"I've not a penny, Estelle. I can't live upon you."

"You're to be Lord Scarlet's land-agent. His own will retire next Easter and, till then, he'll teach you his job."

The man braced himself.

"There's something I've never told you," he said at length. "Something you don't suspect. It was I ... that night ... at the Jermyns' ... that dropped you into the bed."

The arm round his neck drew tighter.

"I know," breathed Estelle.

She was close in his arms and her face two inches from his.

"You know?" he gasped. "You knew?"

Estelle nodded gravely. Then she raised her eyebrows and lowered her glorious eyes.

"And if I may say so, St. Jeames, your manners were better then."

Rodney released her, staring.

"What do you mean?"

"You certainly dropped me into the flower-bed, but at least you had the good taste to kiss me first."

For two minutes the world stood still....

At length—

"What's your full name, my darling?"

"John Rodney Shere."

Estelle nodded approvingly.

"But I think," she said, "I shall always call you 'St. Jeames'."