Wilmay and Other Stories of Women/The History of Clare Tollison

made up her mind that she would go. Her clear, precise mind reviewed the points of the situation at once. She would never have taken advantage of their relationship to have approached the old man in any way, but he had chosen to recognise the relationship, had sought her out, had invited her, and there was no sacrifice of independence. The question of expense, of necessity a first consideration to Clare, settled itself satisfactorily. She would require two new dresses, and she would spend ten pounds on them; the railway fare, third class, would be fifty shillings, and as much more would be required for gratuities to servants. Against this serious expenditure of fifteen pounds she set off a month's free maintenance, a few possibilities of advantage to herself, and a visit to a man who, from what she had heard, would interest her very much. For the last six months Glare had made three pounds a week, and lived on rather less than half that. Yes, she decided that she was justified in the expenditure.

The invitation came on a large square sheet of hand-made paper, folded and sealed with care; a few adhering grams showed that the writing had been dried with sand. The stamp was impressed, not adhesive. Clare answered it on the note-paper that is called Silurian, licked the flap of the envelope, and licked the stamp. This she did with a kind of savage exultation, remembering that her mother had told her that his Lordship considered this a beastly practice. "That will show him what's coming to him," she said to herself grimly.

She did not mean to be idle during her stay at Gayes, so she took with her her typewriter. She also took one hundred Turkish cigarettes and a bicycle. Work sometimes made her excitable and nervous. Generally a cigarette would quiet her. When it failed she would take to the bicycle and play physical exhaustion against mental. She had great energy.

Eva Sands called at Clare's little flat while she was packing.

"Where are you going to?"

"I don't think I can tell you, because it would sound so snobbish."

"That's nonsense!"

"My father was a tailor, and he went bankrupt. It wasn't the poor dear's fault. He was cheated, and his health failed. Still, I am the daughter of a bankrupt tailor."

"You've told me that before, and if you tell it me again that will be really snobbish."

"Good—and true. I only said it to counterbalance, but I shouldn't have said it. Tell the truth, but don't shout. Well, then, I am going to stop at Gayes—Lord Murrage's country place."

"I've heard about him."

"Who hasn't?"

"He's very old, but not decayed."

"He's rather mad, but in a way that interests me. I'm some sort of a relation, and he found me out and asked me to come. Oh, I shall illuminate him! I shall be there for a month if we like each other."

"He's certain to like you, Clare, and it's splendid. Any new dresses?"

"Oh, my dear! one peach-coloured silk for the evening, lovely enough to comfort the dying. You must see—of a cheapness perfectly inconceivable. And you remember that old white ingénue sort of thing? Well, I've

Half an hour of chiffons. Then Eva Sands went to rehearsal, and Clare Tollison finished packing. And then Clare had dinner, and her little maid tidied everything up, and departed to the house of her mother's brother-in-law. "And, of course, if aunt had lived 'e 'd 'ave been my uncle, but aunt being dead you can't press it." Finally, the night-porter came up to take the luggage down, and Clare gave the porter her final instructions, and drove to the station and took the North mail.

She arrived at seven in the morning. She was on the instant, it seemed to her, in a swirl of servants. It was difficult for her to divest herself of long-standing luggage responsibilities; and they were snatched from her. Her head danced. She was on green morocco, and the yellow-painted panels bore armorial wonders. She stamped her foot and said aloud, though in a whisper, "I will not be frightened by servants." Poor girl! Her hair was not at its best, there was grit in her eyes, and she had only slept for half an hour. Such was her absence of mind, or her unconscious memory of past four-wheelers, that as the carriage stopped she opened the door. Then she knew she should not have done it. Heavens, what steps! So wide! Nothing to which to hold! Clare Tollison—what an unspeakable name!

There was an old man standing now at the top of the steps. He had thick white hair, shaggy eyebrows, dark blazing eyes, a clean-shaven face, and well-cut riding-breeches. His heels came together with a click, and he bent low over her hand. "My dear lady—my dear Clare-how kind and sweet of you to come! Welcome to your uncle's house."

the present, Clare was the only visitor at Gayes. A suite of three rooms on the first floor was assigned to her. The housekeeper, Mrs. Bender, informed, tended, and comforted her, and yet appeared to respect her. With Mrs. Bender, Clare talked freely. When your host is a man who will not use gummed envelopes and says blandly, "I do not recognise these ," one may be excused for wanting a little preparation. And yet Clare found out from Mrs. Bender but little that was of much assistance. Some shock was saved, perhaps. But Lord Murrage was not to be known indirectly and through a third person. You had to wade through him yourself.

On her arrival, Clare breakfasted alone in her own sitting-room. Then she rested until luncheon. "I shall give you until luncheon to recover from the fatigue of your journey," Lord Murrage had said. "Then I hope to have the pleasure of some long conversation with you."

In spite of the suavity of his words, Lord Murrage frightened her a little. The multitude of servants frightened her. The many rooms perplexed her. What she had seen so far made her shirk that contest between the new and the old to which she had gladly accepted the invitation. She was as a warrior who, armed with sword and dagger, the weapons to which he is used, finds his foe; but between them runs the broad river, deep and icy cold, and the foe has engines and catapults. She had the London interests known to their latest phase, and could echo the last catchword of the smarter Bohemia, and she felt that it availed nothing. London is but a province to the magnificently provincial. She was clever, too, but she felt that cleverness, especially conversational cleverness, would be suspected rather than revered.

Rest and a cigarette helped her to regain a little of her self-confidence. She put on a dress so well made that it was an armour to her self-respect. Her hair was exquisitely done by a pleasant maid. As she entered the room, Lord Murrage looked at her with respect and with approval. He smiled; he had a singularly charming smile. At that Clare felt better. He inquired punctiliously after her health. She was sure that she was well? She had quite recovered from her fatiguing journey?

"Yes, I am quite well." Then, playing simplicity boldly, "And only a little frightened."

"I am sorry, believe me, very sorry, that you should be frightened, my dear Clare. Why is it?"

"I come from a little flat in London; this house is so large. And I am rather afraid of you, too."

"Pray consider me as your uncle—for we are indeed kin—and your very humble servant." He raised her hand to his lips. "And do not be afraid of me." Clare spoke quickly; Lord Murrage spoke slowly, even to the verge of pomposity.

Luncheon was a very simple affair, served in quite a little panelled room.

During most of the time there was no servant in the room, and Lord Murrage seemed inclined to talk intimately. He told with feeling how he had lost his beloved wife, and some time afterwards his two sons—fine fellows, both of whom died for their country. "I have had some friends, of course, but none of my own family until I found you. Though in reality but distinctly related, you are my nearest kin."

"Am I? In what way?"

"My father's youngest sister went off with a fiddler, married him, and nearly broke my father's heart. I am sorry I can give you no better origin, but it is from her you are descended—from her and that fiddling fellow Torrone."

"Torrone? The great composer?"

"He may have called himself that, for all I know. He was a fiddler—mountebank—adventurer."

"You do not care for music, then?"

"On the contrary, I love music. I conceive that every man of a proper sentiment must love music. I always have at Gayes a small band of musicians in my pay; you will hear them to-night at dinner. But, of course, I should not dream of playing upon any instrument myself. Musicians are necessary and so are cooks, and I rank them together. I distinguish between music and musicians. I like good cooking, but I should not therefore kiss the kitchen-maid."

Then Clare took courage. "In London nowadays great musicians take a very high position. Some of them seem to be almost worshipped."

"So I have heard," he said. "Some of the people about here imitate London nowadays in that and other respects. I do not. I suppose it to be a question of taste. But stay, I must not offend with my poor opinions. Possibly you yourself"

"I delight in music, but I neither play nor sing."

"Charming, charming! It is as it should be. You can go into Society as yourself—for your delightful company, not for your acquired accomplishments."

During the remainder of luncheon he showed not one eccentricity. He made Clare tell him a good deal about herself. He received the bankrupt tailor without a shudder, and the bold chaperonless journalist without a sigh. Possibly he had known these things before.

After luncheon, Clare, again courageous, said that she should like to "go for a spin on her bike." He heard her—of course he heard her—but he replied: "Of course, my dear Clare, I should be delighted to walk with you in the park. It is a good idea. Some of the views there, they tell me, are beautiful—especially the stretch of country southward. It is a pity that you have missed seeing the chestnuts at their best."

Presently Clare found herself, without one more word about her bicycle, walking in the park with her host. The sun shone; the air was soft and warm; it was a beautiful afternoon.

As they returned a young man met them and raised his hat. Lord Murrage returned the salute.

"That is a very handsome man," said Clare. "Who is he?"

"I really don't know; but I will ask, if he interests you." He called a gardener who was at work near. "Who is that?" he asked.

"That is Mr. Smith, my Lord."

"Oh yes; what Smith? I mean, does he belong to the house?"

"He is Mr. Whitworth Smith, the leader of your Lordship's musicians."

"Thanks. Of course. I had forgotten."

Later in the afternoon Clare went to her own sitting-room to smoke a cigarette and write a letter before dressing for dinner. The cigarettes were gone, and neither her maid nor Mrs. Bender could tell her what had become of them.

illuminate him." Yes, those were the vulgar words I used to you about my dear uncle. I who speak—made in dirty London—too young to know anything—daughter of a bankrupt tailor—living in a poky flat, furnished with a lot of flimsy, twopenny-half-penny so-called art things, I was going to illuminate Lord Murrage. I have not been at Gayes twenty-four hours, but I have been here long enough to repent those words. He has illuminated me.

He is a handsome old man, old enough to be my grandfather, but he has a fine presence, carries himself well, and looks full of life and energy. He has treated me with the utmost kindness and delicacy and respect, and I was going to illuminate him—a man of that age, position, and knowledge!

My notion was that I should shock him with my truthful, anti-snobbish attitude, my independence, my bicycle, my cigarettes. I thought that he would begin to argue, that I should deluge him with common sense, and that I should get the best of it. I do not know whether he was shocked. His manner is so good that he did not show it, at any rate. He never imagined that I could intentionally give offence, and to spare me pain would not let me see that I had given offence at all. I do not say that his views are right and mine wrong. Of course, I am just as much right as I was when I was in London. But I am sure it would be wrong for me to press those views here; it would be discourteous, impertinent. I shall not ride my bicycle while I am here, and I shall not smoke. Such things seemed all right in London; here they seem blasphemous.

Oh, my dear Eva, I know what you'll tell me. You will say that I have given up my independence and my common sense—that I have dropped out of the movement. That is not so really. It is only that for the time I have fallen madly in love with antiquity.

I expect that the stories you have heard about him are quite ill-founded. It was you, was it not, who thought him rather mad? After meeting him, I doubt if one even has a right to consider him eccentric. He chooses to think it dirty to lick envelopes and stamps; well, it is dirty. Only we are always in a hurry (which he never is), and so have got used to it. There is something to be said for most of his old-fashioned ideas, and he never carries them out where it would be evidence of vanity or false taste to do so; for instance, his dress is scrupulously modern, just like any other man's clothes. He is reputed to have said that he did not recognise the Hanoverians. I asked him about that, and he was most ready to explain. "I own," he said, "that as a private person and as a student of history, I hold the same opinions as my grandfather and great-grandfather; but I am a patriot first and a private person afterwards, and for that reason I would never give a moment of my time nor a halfpenny of my money to any attempt to dispute the present succession. Had I lived during the reign of the first two Georges I might have spoken differently." He is by no means a visionary. I find that he is considered here to be a capital landlord—as the born aristocrat almost always is and few others ever are. You remember Mr. Stead on this.

He would not be called intellectual—hideous word!—in our circle. He cares nothing for conversational cleverness; I should say, would never try to gain an end by talking that could be attained by action. He has not the remotest touch of the artistic temperament, and values but little that we should value. But he has higher principle, more conscientiousness, finer feeling, more solidity. But what I notice most is the complete absence of struggle. My dear, it is balm to this Londoner—positive balm and rest and a fortnight-at-the-seaside—to come across a man who is not trying to do something he cannot do, nor to be anything that he cannot be.

He has his prejudices. He dislikes performers. I am afraid both of us come under that category. He ranks all musicians with cooks, and calls them fiddlers. It is strange, because he has a decent, gentlemanly taste for music, and a correct ear. In fact, he has his own string band always here, and they play all through dinner when he is alone. To-night they played a minuet as we came into the dining-hall, but after that nothing more. We lunched in a friendly way and in a little room, but we dine in great state—we two in a dining-hall that would seat a hundred with the musicians in their gallery above us. The hall is panelled with black oak, gilded in places; there are some fine portraits; the whole was lit with candles. The band is quite good. The leader is a Mr. Whitworth Smith. Do you know anything of him by any chance? He has a wonderfully poetical appearance, though he is slightly under-sized. But, my dear, how he did stare down at me to-night! It is possible that my uncle's prejudice against musicians dates from his father's time, when there was mésalliance with Luigi Torrone, the composer. I am descended from that mésalliance, by the way, viâ a few other mésalliances. Moreover, I am his Lordship's nearest living relation, he tells me. Does that suggest anything to you? I wish it did not to me.

I could spend a long time in describing the house, the gardens, and the park, if I were not too tired. I was travelling all last night. Dear Eva, do write me a nice letter, and tell me all the news.

A letter from you at last! I was glad to get it, Eva, though you do say some rather bitter and unkind things. You write, "If you're not going to use your bike, you might lend it to some one a shade less baronial than yourself." I would lend you my bicycle with pleasure—I hate that word "bike"—but the plain fact is that I do not know where it is. I saw it put on the luggage-cart at the station on my arrival. Since then I have asked several times, but nobody seems to know anything about it, and I do not like to keep on bothering. However, it must turn up sooner or later, and then I will gladly forward it to you. You tell me next to nothing about yourself. It is silly to say that I seem to care only for antiquities, and you won't bother me with news of a person who really does want to do something and be something. And I must have described my uncle very badly, if you think of him as "the average provincial plus some nice furniture, a few affectations, and a rather mean kind of disloyalty." However, you tell me to write again and not to mind chaff. So perhaps I have taken this too seriously.

Well, I can give you my news in a very few words. I am in trouble. It's mostly my own fault. I mentioned, I think, a Mr. Whitworth Smith, the musician, who stared at me. The musicians do not live in the house, but in a cottage in the park. Now, whenever I walked in the park, I found that Mr. Smith always met me, and I began to doubt whether he did not meet me on purpose. So to test this, the other day, when I saw him coming, I dropped, as if by accident, a white rose that I was wearing. That same night at dinner I looked up at the musicians' gallery. He was staring at me as usual, and he was wearing that white rose in his buttonhole. Did you ever hear such impertinence? I was so angry with him for having misunderstood me that I blushed crimson, and he saw it, and must have misunderstood the blush. On the next day I met him in the park again. I at once went up to him and spoke, asking him if he would be good enough to put one of Luigi Torrone's quartets on his programme. He said, most respectfully, that he knew the music to which I referred, and would be delighted to carry out my wishes. That is absolutely all that was said. I was delighted, for if what I feared had happened, he would have certainly taken advantage of the occasion. That is why I spoke to him—I wanted to make sure. Also, I love Torrone's music, and wanted to hear that quartet again. But though it has gone all right so far, I'm troubled. Perhaps, as my uncle's guest, I should not have spoken to Mr. Smith. And it was a mistake to drop that rose. And I cannot help thinking what Mr. Smith must think of me.

There have been people stopping in the house, but they leave to-morrow—a bishop and his belongings—all dull. There have been a couple of dinners of tremendous formality, where dozens of local magnates bored each other. I am learning to ride a real live horse, and getting on well at it. My uncle is too perfectly charming to me. Do write.

It's all over. I am coming home. I send just this scrap to give you the bare facts.

To-night Lord Murrage and I dined together alone. As we entered the dining-hall, they were playing the Torrone quartet. Before I knew what had happened the music was stopped in the middle of a phrase and the musicians left the gallery.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked.

Lord Murrage laughed. "Nothing serious. They appear to have forgotten that I do not allow certain things to be played."

"I am fond of Torrone's music myself, and it was I who asked Mr. Smith to play it The fault is mine."

"The queen can do no wrong. We will dismiss the ministers—they are of no importance—and talk of other things."

"Ah! I cannot leave it like that. It is not their fault, but mine I did not know. You had told me that your dislike of the musician did not extend to the music."

"But Torrone—have you forgotten?"

"I am descended from him."

He seemed a little taken back. Then he said, "You are quite right, my dear Clare, and I am sorry. To-morrow you shall hear the Torrone quartet" But to-morrow the London express will provide my music.

I had no sooner got into the drawing-room than a note was brought me from Mr. Whitworth Smith. He wrote that he knew his adoration of me was hopeless, but he adored me and desired to face the world with me. He gravely feared that his valuable appointment as leader of the band here was lost to him in consequence of that adoration. I scribbled in pencil at the foot of the letter, "Mr. Smith's valuable appointment is perfectly safe. Lord Murrage did not understand that Miss Tollison had ordered the music, but this has been explained. The rest of Mr. Smith's letter is a mistake that must not be repeated." I put that in an envelope, sent it to him, and felt glorious. A most unpleasant little man!

I had no sooner sent the letter than Lord Murrage came in. He began: "Clare, I have asked you to call me your uncle. As a matter of fact, you know, I am not your uncle, but a cousin—a distant cousin."

"Yes," I said.

And then, my dear, without one further word of warning he proposed to me. He praised me—raised everything about me; most bitterly regretted that he had not known me long before.

I refused him, of course. I do not love him, and I am rather a&aid of him. But I do like him very much, and I was as kind as I could be. I said that I should leave to-morrow.

He took the refusal beautifully and sadly. "At least," he said, "let me keep, then, the old relationship and its privileges." I thought he would kiss me, but he didn't; he gave me a present—such diamonds!

Reason and prejudice, old and new, art and aristocracy, may be strong enough, but they do not seem to make things happier. There is one laughs equally at all, one thing indomitable. Oh, Eva, I wish I were in love! It seems so beautiful.

By the time you receive this I shall be in London. Come to see me.