Bertie Caradoc, leaving the smoking-room at Monkland Court that same
evening,--on his way to bed, went to the Georgian corridor, where his
pet barometer was hanging. To look at the glass had become the
nightly habit of one who gave all the time he could spare from his
profession to hunting in the winter and to racing in the summer.'
The Hon. Hubert Caradoc, an apprentice to the calling of diplomacy,
more completely than any living Caradoc embodied the characteristic
strength and weaknesses of that family. He was of fair height, and
wiry build. His weathered face, under sleek, dark hair, had regular,
rather small features, and wore an expression of alert resolution,
masked by impassivity. Over his inquiring, hazel-grey eyes the lids
were almost religiously kept half drawn. He had been born reticent,
and great, indeed, was the emotion under which he suffered when the
whole of his eyes were visible. His nose was finely chiselled, and
had little flesh. His lips, covered by a small, dark moustache,
scarcely opened to emit his speeches, which were uttered in a voice
singularly muffled, yet unexpectedly quick. The whole personality
was that of a man practical, spirited, guarded, resourceful, with
great power of self-control, who looked at life as if she were a
horse under him, to whom he must give way just so far as was
necessary to keep mastery of her. A man to whom ideas were of no
value, except when wedded to immediate action; essentially neat;
demanding to be 'done well,' but capable of stoicism if necessary;
urbane, yet always in readiness to thrust; able only to condone the
failings and to compassionate the kinds of distress which his own
experience had taught him to understand. Such was Miltoun's younger
brother at the age of twenty-six.
Having noted that the glass was steady, he was about to seek the
stairway, when he saw at the farther end of the entrance-hall three
figures advancing arm-in-arm. Habitually both curious and wary, he
waited till they came within the radius of a lamp; then, seeing them
to be those of Miltoun and a footman, supporting between them a lame
man, he at once hastened forward.
"Have you put your knee out, sir? Hold on a minute! Get a chair,
Seating the stranger in this chair, Bertie rolled up the trouser, and
passed his fingers round the knee. There was a sort, of loving-
kindness in that movement, as of a hand which had in its time felt
the joints and sinews of innumerable horses.
"H'm!"he said; "can you stand a bit of a jerk? Catch hold of him
behind, Eustace. Sit down on the floor, Charles, and hold the legs
of the chair. Now then!" And taking up the foot, he pulled. There
was a click, a little noise of teeth ground together; and Bertie
said: "Good man--shan't have to have the vet. to you, this time."
Having conducted their lame guest to a room in the Georgian corridor
hastily converted to a bedroom, the two brothers presently left him
to the attentions of the footman.
"Well, old man," said Bertie, as they sought their rooms; "that's put
paid to his name--won't do you any more harm this journey. Good
plucked one, though!"
The report that Courtier was harboured beneath their roof went the
round of the family before breakfast, through the agency of one whose
practice it was to know all things, and to see that others partook of
that knowledge, Little Ann, paying her customary morning visit to her
mother's room, took her stand with face turned up and hands clasping
her belt, and began at once.
"Uncle Eustace brought a man last night with a wounded leg, and Uncle
Bertie pulled it out straight. William says that Charles says he
only made a noise like this"--there was a faint sound of small
chumping teeth: "And he's the man that's staying at the Inn, and the
stairs were too narrow to carry him up, William says; and if his knee
was put out he won't be able to walk without a stick for a long time.
Can I go to Father?"
Agatha, who was having her hair brushed, thought:
"I'm not sure whether belts so low as that are wholesome," murmured:
"Wait a minute!"
But little Ann was gone; and her voice could be heard in the
dressing-room climbing up towards Sir William, who from the sound of
his replies, was manifestly shaving. When Agatha, who never could
resist a legitimate opportunity of approaching her husband, looked
in, he was alone, and rather thoughtful--a tall man with a solid,
steady face and cautious eyes, not in truth remarkable except to his
"That fellow Courtier's caught by the leg," he said. "Don't know
what your Mother will say to an enemy in the camp."
"Isn't he a freethinker, and rather----"
Sir William, following his own thoughts, interrupted:
"Just as well, of course, so far as Miltoun's concerned, to have got
Agatha sighed: "Well, I suppose we shall have to be nice to him.
I'll tell Mother."
Sir William smiled.
"Ann will see to that," he said.
Ann was seeing to that.
Seated in the embrasure of the window behind the looking-glass, where
Lady Valleys was still occupied, she was saying:
"He fell out of the window because of the red pepper. Miss Wallace
says he is a hostage--what does hostage mean, Granny?"
When six years ago that word had first fallen on Lady Valleys' ears,
she had thought: "Oh! dear! Am I really Granny? "It had been a
shock, had seemed the end of so much; but the matter-of-fact heroism
of women, so much quicker to accept the inevitable than men, had soon
come to her aid, and now, unlike her husband, she did not care a bit.
For all that she answered nothing, partly because it was not
necessary to speak in order to sustain a conversation with little
Ann, and partly because she was deep in thought.
The man was injured! Hospitality, of course--especially since their
own tenants had committed the outrage! Still, to welcome a man who
had gone out of his way to come down here and stump the country
against her own son, was rather a tall order. It might have been
worse, no doubt. If; for instance, he had been some 'impossible'
Nonconformist Radical! This Mr. Courtier was a free lance--rather a
well-known man, an interesting creature. She must see that he felt
'at home' and comfortable. If he were pumped judiciously, no doubt
one could find out about this woman. Moreover, the acceptance of
their 'salt' would silence him politically if she knew anything of
that type of man, who always had something in him of the Arab's
creed. Her mind, that of a capable administrator, took in all the
practical significance of this incident, which, although untoward,
was not without its comic side to one disposed to find zest and
humour in everything that did not absolutely run counter to her
interests and philosophy.
The voice of little Ann broke in on her reflections.
"I'm going to Auntie Babs now."
"Very well; give me a kiss first."
Little Ann thrust up her face, so that its sudden little nose
penetrated Lady Valleys' soft curving lips....
When early that same afternoon Courtier, leaning on a stick, passed
from his room out on to the terrace, he was confronted by three
sunlit peacocks marching slowly across a lawn towards a statue of
Diana. With incredible dignity those birds moved, as if never in
their lives had they been hurried. They seemed indeed to know that
when they got there, there would be nothing for them to do but to
come back again. Beyond them, through the tall trees, over some
wooded foot-hills of the moorland and a promised land of pinkish
fields, pasture, and orchards, the prospect stretched to the far sea.
Heat clothed this view with a kind of opalescence, a fairy garment,
transmuting all values, so that the four square walls and tall
chimneys of the pottery-works a few miles down the valley seemed to
Courtier like a vision of some old fortified Italian town. His
sensations, finding himself in this galley, were peculiar. For his
feeling towards Miltoun, whom he had twice met at Mrs. Noel's, was,
in spite of disagreements, by no means unfriendly; while his feeling
towards Miltoun's family was not yet in existence. Having lived from
hand to mouth, and in many countries, since he left Westminster
School, he had now practically no class feelings. An attitude of
hostility to aristocracy because it was aristocracy, was as
incomprehensible to him as an attitude of deference.
His sensations habitually shaped themselves in accordance with those
two permanent requirements of his nature, liking for adventure, and
hatred of tyranny. The labourer who beat his wife, the shopman who
sweated his 'hands,' the parson who consigned his parishioners to
hell, the peer who rode roughshod--all were equally odious to him.
He thought of people as individuals, and it was, as it were, by
accident that he had conceived the class generalization which he had
fired back at Miltoun from Mrs. Noel's window. Sanguine, accustomed
to queer environments, and always catching at the moment as it flew,
he had not to fight with the timidities and irritations of a nervous
temperament. His cheery courtesy was only disturbed when he became
conscious of some sentiment which appeared to him mean or cowardly.
On such occasions, not perhaps infrequent, his face looked as if his
heart were physically fuming, and since his shell of stoicism was
never quite melted by this heat, a very peculiar expression was the
result, a sort of calm, sardonic, desperate, jolly look.
His chief feeling, then, at the outrage which had laid him captive in
the enemy's camp, was one of vague amusement, and curiosity. People
round about spoke fairly well of this Caradoc family. There did not
seem to be any lack of kindly feeling between them and their tenants;
there was said to be no griping destitution, nor any particular ill-
housing on their estate. And if the inhabitants were not encouraged
to improve themselves, they were at all events maintained at a
certain level, by steady and not ungenerous supervision. When a roof
required thatching it was thatched; when a man became too old to
work, he was not suffered to lapse into the Workhouse. In bad years
for wool, or beasts, or crops, the farmers received a graduated
remission of rent. The pottery-works were run on a liberal if
autocratic basis. It was true that though Lord Valleys was said to
be a staunch supporter of a 'back to the land' policy, no disposition
was shown to encourage people to settle on these particular lands, no
doubt from a feeling that such settlers would not do them so much
justice as their present owner. Indeed so firmly did this conviction
seemingly obtain, that Lord Valleys' agent was not unfrequently
observed to be buying a little bit more.
But, since in this life one notices only what interests him, all this
gossip, half complimentary, half not, had fallen but lightly on the
ears of the champion of Peace during his campaign, for he was, as
has, been said, but a poor politician, and rode his own horse very
much his own way.
While he stood there enjoying the view, he heard a small high voice,
and became conscious of a little girl in a very shady hat so far back
on her brown hair that it did not shade her; and of a small hand put
out in front. He took the hand, and answered:
"Thank you, I am well--and you?" perceiving the while that a pair of
wide frank eyes were examining his leg.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not to speak of."
"My pony's leg was blistered. Granny is coming to look at it."
"I have to go now. I hope you'll soon be better. Good-bye!"
Then, instead of the little girl, Courtier saw a tall and rather
florid woman regarding him with a sort of quizzical dignity. She
wore a stiffish fawn-coloured dress that seemed to be cut a little
too tight round her substantial hips, for it quite neglected to
embrace her knees. She had on no hat, no gloves, no ornaments,
except the rings on her fingers, and a little jewelled watch in a
leather bracelet on her wrist. There was, indeed, about her whole
figure an air of almost professional escape from finery.
Stretching out a well-shaped but not small hand, she said:
"I most heartily apologize to you, Mr. Courtier."
"Not at all."
"I do hope you're comfortable. Have they given you everything you
"More than everything."
"It really was disgraceful! However it's brought us the pleasure of
making your acquaintance. I've read your book, of course."
To Courtier it seemed that on this lady's face had come a look which
seemed to say: Yes, very clever and amusing, quite enjoyable! But
the ideas---- What? You know very well they won't do--in fact they
"That's very nice of you."
But into Lady Valleys' answer, "I don't agree with it a bit, you
know!" there had crept a touch of asperity, as though she knew that
he had smiled inside. "What we want preached in these days are the
warlike virtues--especially by a warrior."
"Believe me, Lady Valleys, the warlike virtues are best left to men
of more virgin imagination."
He received a quick look, and the words: "Anyway, I'm sure you don't
care a rap for politics. You know Mrs. Lees Noel, don't you? What a
pretty woman she is!"
But as she spoke Courtier saw a young girl coming along the terrace.
She had evidently been riding, for she wore high boots and a skirt
which had enabled her to sit astride. Her eyes were blue, and her
hair--the colour of beech-leaves in autumn with the sun shining
through--was coiled up tight under a small soft hat. She was tall,
and moved towards them like one endowed with great length from the
hip joint to the knee. Joy of life, serene, unconscious vigour,
seemed to radiate from her whole face and figure.
At Lady Valleys' words:
"Ah, Babs! My daughter Barbara--Mr. Courtier," he put out his hand,
received within it some gauntleted fingers held out with a smile, and
heard her say:
"Miltoun's gone up to Town, Mother; I was going to motor in to
Bucklandbury with a message he gave me; so I can fetch Granny out
from the station:"
"You had better take Ann, or she'll make our lives a burden; and
perhaps Mr. Courtier would like an airing. Is your knee fit, do you
Glancing at the apparition, Courtier replied:
Never since the age of seven had he been able to look on feminine
beauty without a sense of warmth and faint excitement; and seeing now
perhaps the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld, he desired to be
with her wherever she might be going. There was too something very
fascinating in the way she smiled, as if she had a little seen
through his sentiments.
"Well then," she said, "we'd better look for Ann."
After short but vigorous search little Ann was found--in the car,
instinct having told her of a forward movement in which it was her
duty to take part. And soon they had started, Ann between them in
that peculiar state of silence to which she became liable when really
>From the Monkland estate, flowered, lawned, and timbered, to the open
moor, was like passing to another world; for no sooner was the last
lodge of the Western drive left behind, than there came into sudden
view the most pagan bit of landscape in all England. In this wild
parliament-house, clouds, rocks, sun, and winds met and consulted.
The 'old' men, too, had left their spirits among the great stones,
which lay couched like lions on the hill-tops, under the white
clouds, and their brethren, the hunting buzzard hawks. Here the very
rocks were restless, changing form, and sense, and colour from day to
day, as though worshipping the unexpected, and refusing themselves to
law. The winds too in their passage revolted against their courses,
and came tearing down wherever there were combes or crannies, so that
men in their shelters might still learn the power of the wild gods.
The wonders of this prospect were entirely lost on little Ann, and
somewhat so on Courtier, deeply engaged in reconciling those two
alien principles, courtesy, and the love of looking at a pretty face.
He was wondering too what this girl of twenty, who had the self-
possession of a woman of forty, might be thinking. It was little Ann
who broke the silence.
"Auntie Babs, it wasn't a very strong house, was it?"
Courtier looked in the direction of her small finger. There was the
wreck of a little house, which stood close to a stone man who had
obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh. Over
one corner of the sorry ruin, a single patch of roof still clung, but
the rest was open.
"He was a silly man to build it, wasn't he, Ann? That's why they
call it Ashman's Folly."
"Is he alive?"
"Not quite--it's just a hundred years ago."
"What made him build it here?"
"He hated women, and--the roof fell in on him."
"Why did he hate women?"
"He was a crank."
"What is a crank?"
"Ask Mr. Courtier."
Under this girl's calm quizzical glance, Courtier endeavoured to find
an answer to that question.
"A crank," he said slowly, "is a man like me."
He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann's
dispassionate examining eyes.
"Is Uncle Eustace a crank?"
"You know now, Mr. Courtier, what Ann thinks of you. You think a
good deal of Uncle Eustace, don't you, Ann?"
"Yes," said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her. But Courtier gazed
sideways--over her hatless head.
His exhilaration was increasing every moment. This girl reminded him
of a two-year-old filly he had once seen, stepping out of Ascot
paddock for her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin
chestnut skin, her neck held high, her eyes all fire--as sure to win,
as that grass was green. It was difficult to believe her Miltoun's
sister. It was difficult to believe any of those four young Caradocs
related. The grave ascetic Miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his
spirit; mild, domestic, strait-laced Agatha; Bertie, muffled, shrewd,
and steely; and this frank, joyful conquering Barbara--the range was
But the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing
the small villas and little grey workmen's houses outside the town of
"Ann and I have to go on to Miltoun's headquarters. Shall I drop you
at the enemy's, Mr. Courtier? Stop, please, Frith."
And before Courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on
which was inscribed with extraordinary vigour: "Chilcox for
Hobbling into the Committee-room of Mr. Humphrey Chilcox, which
smelled of paint, Courtier took with him the scented memory of youth,
and ambergris, and Harris tweed.
In that room three men were assembled round a table; the eldest of
whom, endowed with little grey eyes, a stubbly beard, and that
mysterious something only found in those who have been mayors, rose
at once and came towards him.
"Mr. Courtier, I believe," he said bluffly. "Glad to see you, sir.
Most distressed to hear of this outrage. Though in a way, it's done
us good. Yes, really. Grossly against fair play. Shouldn't be
surprised if it turned a couple of hundred votes. You carry the
effects of it about with you, I see."
A thin, refined man, with wiry hair, also came up, holding a
newspaper in his hand.
"It has had one rather embarrassing effect," he said. "Read this
'OUTRAGE ON A DISTINGUISHED VISITOR.
'LORD MILTOUN'S EVENING ADVENTURE.'"
Courtier read a paragraph.
The man with the little eyes broke the ominous silence which ensued.
"One of our side must have seen the whole thing, jumped on his
bicycle and brought in the account before they went to press. They
make no imputation on the lady--simply state the facts. Quite
enough," he added with impersonal grimness; "I think he's done for
The man with the refined face added nervously:
"We couldn't help it, Mr. Courtier; I really don't know what we can
do. I don't like it a bit."
"Has your candidate seen this?" Courtier asked.
"Can't have," struck in the third Committee-man; "we hadn't seen it
ourselves until an hour ago."
"I should never have permitted it," said the man with the refined
face; "I blame the editor greatly."
"Come to that----" said the little-eyed man, "it's a plain piece of
news. If it makes a stir, that's not our fault. The paper imputes
nothing, it states. Position of the lady happens to do the rest.
Can't help it, and moreover, sir, speaking for self, don't want to.
We'll have no loose morals in public life down here, please God!"
There was real feeling in his words; then, catching sight of
Courtier's face, he added: "Do you know this lady?"
"Ever since she was a child. Anyone who speaks evil of her, has to
reckon with me."
The man with the refined face said earnestly:
"Believe me, Mr. Courtier, I entirely sympathize. We had nothing to
do with the paragraph. It's one of those incidents where one
benefits against one's will. Most unfortunate that she came out on
to the green with Lord Miltoun; you know what people are."
"It's the head-line that does it; " said the third
Committee-man; "they've put what will attract the public."
"I don't know, I don't know," said the little-eyed man stubbornly;
"if Lord Miltoun will spend his evenings with lonely ladies, he can't
blame anybody but himself."
Courtier looked from face to face.
"This closes my connection with the campaign," he said: "What's the
address of this paper?" And without waiting for an answer, he took
up the journal and hobbled from the room. He stood a minute outside
finding the address, then made his way down the street.