“But—the downtrodden poor! I thought Horringford was a model landlord and his estates an example to the kingdom.”
“Precisely. That’s the humour of it. But a little detail like that wouldn’t deter Alex. It will be an interest for the summer, she’s always rather at a loose end when there’s no hunting. She had taken up this socialistic business very thoroughly, organizing meetings and lectures. A completely new scheme for the upbringing of children seems to be a special sideline of the campaign. I’m rather vague there—I know I made Alex very angry by telling her that it reminded me of intensive market gardening. That Alex has no children of her own presents no difficulty to her—she is full of the most beautiful theories. But theories don’t seem to go down very well with the village women. She was routed the other day by the mother of a family who told her bluntly to her face she didn’t know what she was talking about—which was doubtless perfectly true. But the manner of telling seems to have been disagreeable and Alex was very annoyed and complained to Thomson, the new agent. He, poor chap, was between the devil and the deep sea, for the tenants had also been complaining that they were being interfered with. So he had to go to Horringford and there was a royal row. The upshot of it was that Alex rang me up on the ‘phone this morning to tell me that Horringford was behaving like a bear, that he was so wrapped up in his musty mummies that he hadn’t a spark of philanthropy in him, and that she was coming over to lunch tomorrow to tell me all about it—she’s delighted to hear that the house is open again, and will come on to you for tea, when you will doubtless get a second edition of her woes. Half-an-hour later Horringford rang me up to say that Alex had been particularly tiresome over some new crank which had set everybody by the ears, that Thomson was sending in a resignation daily, altogether there was the deuce to pay, and would I use my influence and talk sense to her. It appears he is working at high pressure to finish a monograph on one of the Pharaohs and was considerably ruffled at being interrupted.”
“If he cared a little less for the Pharaohs and a little more for Alex—” suggested Miss Craven, blowing smoke rings thoughtfully. Peters shook his head.
“He did care—that’s the pity of it,” he said slowly, “but what can you expect?—you know how it was. Alex was a child married when she should have been in the schoolroom, without a voice in the matter. Horringford was nearly twenty years her senior, always reserved and absorbed in his Egyptian researches. Alex hadn’t an idea in the world outside the stables. Horringford bored her infinitely, and with Alex-like honesty she did not hesitate to tell him so. They hadn’t a thought in common. She couldn’t see the sterling worth of the man, so they drifted apart and Horringford retired more than ever into his shell.”
“And what do you propose to do, Peter?” Craven’s sudden question was startling, for he had not appeared to be listening to the conversation.
Peters lit a cigarette and smoked for a few moments before answering. “I shall listen to all Alex has to say,” he said at last, “then I shall tell her a few things I think she ought to know, and I shall persuade her to ask Horringford to take her with him to Egypt next winter.”
“Why?”
“Because Horringford in Egypt and Horringford in England are two very different people. I know—because I have seen. It’s an idea, it may work. Anyhow it’s worth trying.”
“But suppose her ladyship does not succumb to your persuasive tongue?”
“She will—before I’ve done with her,” replied Peters grimly, and then he laughed. “I guessed from what she said this morning that she was a little frightened at the hornet’s nest she had raised. I imagine she won’t be sorry to run away for a while and let things settle down. She can ease off gently in the meantime and give Egypt as an excuse for finally withdrawing.”
“You think Alex is more to blame than Horringford?” said Miss Craven, with a note of challenge in her voice.
Peters shrugged. “I blame them both. But above all I blame the system that has been responsible for the trouble.”
“You mean that Alex should have been allowed to choose her own husband? She was such a child—”
“And Horringford was such a devil of a good match,” interposed Craven cynically, moving from his chair to the padded fireguard. Gillian was sitting on the arm of Miss Craven’s chair, sorting the patience cards into a leather case. She looked up quickly. “I thought that in England all girls choose their own husbands, that they marry to please themselves, I mean,” she said in a puzzled voice.
“Theoretically they do, my dear,” replied Miss Craven, “in practice numbers do not. The generality of girls settle their own futures and choose their own husbands. But there are still many old-fashioned people who arrogate to themselves the right of settling their daughters’ lives, who have so trained them that resistance to family wishes becomes almost an impossibility. A good suitor presents himself, parental pressure is brought to bear—and the deed is done. Witness the case of Alex. In a few years she probably would have chosen for herself, wisely. As it was, marriage had never entered her head.”
“She couldn’t have chosen a better man,” said Peters warmly, “if he had only been content to wait a year or two—”
“Alex would probably have eloped with a groom or a circus rider before she reached years of discretion!” laughed Miss Craven. “But it’s a difficult question, the problem of husband choosing,” she went on thoughtfully. “Being a bachelor I can discuss it with perfect equanimity. But if in a moment of madness I had married and acquired a houseful of daughters, I should have nervous prostration every time a strange man showed his nose inside the door.”
“You don’t set us on a very high plane, dear lady,” said Peters reproachfully.
“My good soul, I set you on no plane at all—know too much about you!” she smiled. Peters laughed. “What’s your opinion, Barry?”
Since his one interruption Craven had been silent, as if the discussion had ceased to interest him. He did not answer Peters’ question for some time and when at last he spoke his voice was curiously strained. “I don’t think my opinion counts for very much, but it seems to me that the woman takes a big risk either way. A man never knows what kind of a blackguard he may prove in circumstances that may arise.”
An awkward pause followed. Miss Craven kept her eyes fixed on the card table with a feeling of nervous apprehension that was new to her. Her nephew’s words and the bitterness of his tone seemed fraught with hidden meaning, and she racked her brains to find a topic that would lessen the tension that seemed to have fallen on the room. But Peters broke the silence before it became noticeable. “The one person present whom it most nearly concerns has not given us her view. What do you say, Miss Locke?”
Gillian flushed faintly. It was still difficult to join in a general conversation, to remember that she might at any moment be called upon to put forward ideas of her own.
“I am afraid I am prejudiced. I was brought up in a convent—in France,” she said hesitatingly. “Then you hold with the French custom of arranged marriages?” suggested Peters. Her dark eyes looked seriously into his. “I think it is—safer,” she said slowly.
“And consequently, happier?” The colour deepened in her face. “Oh, I don’t know. I do not understand English ways. I can speak only of France. We talked of it in the convent—naturally, since it was forbidden, que voulez vous?” she smiled. “Some of my friends were married. Their parents arranged the marriages. It seems that—” she stammered and went on hurriedly—“that there is much to be considered in choosing a husband, much that—girls do not understand, that only older people know. So it is perhaps better that they should arrange a matter which is so serious and so—so lasting. They must know more than we do,” she added quietly.