The Kingdom Round the Corner Part 34

III

He had been shown into the turret room and supplied with the daily papers, while the same grave image who had admitted him the night before, had departed in search of her Ladyship. More to calm himself than to satisfy his curiosity, he commenced to glance through the news.

It was a disjointed world that the pages reflected--not at all the kingdom round the corner for which the war had been fought. Honor, patriotism, heroism seemed forgotten words. The old ruthless scramble of commercialism had restarted. The honesty of everybody, whether individuals, governments or nations, was being doubted. Cla.s.s and race hatreds had broken loose. Strikes were pending. The Allies were allied only in name; they gnashed their teeth at one another across the council-table in Paris. The lying game of diplomacy had been revived.

Poison-notes were being exchanged. The tabby-cat statesmen who had been too old to fight, were busy sowing the seeds of future wars. The politicians who had nailed mankind to the cross, were casting lots for the raiment which had survived the sacrifice. No one asked, "Is this righteousness?" The only question was, "How much of it belongs to me?"

Meanwhile, the children of honester men who had died, starved by their hundreds of thousands. Mothers pressed sick babies to their milkless b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The mutilated, stoical with neglect, shuffled along the pavements. Fanatics of despair turned hopeful eyes to Russia where a devilment was brewing which, should it overboil, would pour destruction across five continents. No one cared.

He glanced through the window at the quiet landscape, lying green and sun-dappled against the wet, gray streak of summer sky. Was his own experience so universal? Were kingdoms perpetually round the corner, always and always out of sight?

As he again took up the paper, his eye was caught by a head-line: STEELY JACK RUNS FOR PARLIAMENT. Immediately he forgot his pessimism and became absorbed. Braithwaite had come out with the true story of his life. He was calling on the seven million men who had seen service to fight on in peace for the ideals for which they had fought in war. He insisted that if they cast their votes together as one man, they could control any election. If they combined with the patriot ex-soldiers of other nations, they could control the world. He was out to smash politics and the disastrous iniquity of political compromise. His aim was to restore the comradeship and sharing which had enabled the old front-line to stand fast. He was establishing a paper. He was speechifying. He was to hold an immense ma.s.s meeting in the Albert Hall----

Tabs laughed in sheer excitement. Here was one man at any rate who wasn't content to miss his kingdom. He might have known it. He could see Braithwaite's bleak look as clearly as if he stood before him. His instinct was to join him and say to him, in the words of the coster, "You and me was pals out there." He'd never lost an inch of trench.

"Bravo, Braithwaite!"

IV

"I beg your pardon, your Lordship."

Tabs looked up. The dignified image had returned and was standing in the doorway, with his chin thrust out and his nose at a high angle with his collar.

The man coughed deferentially. "If your Lordship will follow me----"

But at that moment he heard her calling from beneath the turret wall, "Lord Taborley!"

Jumping to his feet, he hurried to the window and leant out. She was in her riding habit, standing on the terrace above the rose-garden. "I've just got back from my morning ride. I have to visit the kennels. I was wondering whether you would accompany me."

He turned to the footman. "If you'll show me the way out to the terrace, I can find Lady Dawn myself."

She had moved farther away to where the steps led down between the rose-bushes. As he came towards her through the sunlight, she pretended not to notice him, but stood meditatively flicking the dust from the toe of her boot with her crop. Even when he joined her, she did not look up.

They descended the steps in silence. When they had turned along a path, where no one could observe them, she raised her eyes. "I was afraid you had left."

He smiled, unconsciously imitating her quietness. "And I, too, was afraid. I was afraid you would not want me."

"Why not?" She stopped to pluck a bud in pa.s.sing. "I should think any woman would want you."

He looked to see if she were chaffing. "Last night," he explained, "you were present when at least one woman didn't want me. That was why----"

She shot a glance at him with her honest, stone-gray eyes. Her hands started out to touch him, but she recalled them. "You must feel sorry for her," she said softly. "She's so young. I think you'll live to thank her. She'll learn that men like you don't come every day--only once in a lifetime."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_I was afraid you had left._"]

Uneasily he harked back to her first statement. "Why did you fear that I had left?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You had nothing for which to stay."

"There was you."

"Me!" She laughed wisely. "You had to say that out of politeness. In a man's world I'm of no consequence. I know how I appear in your eyes.

I've been married, so I'm no longer a novelty. I'm not so young as I was; I shall be older. And then I'm a mother--you forget that, Lord Taborley. Oh no, I have no attractions to offer."

"You have friendship."

"Friendship!" She repeated the word with a shake of her head. "Men never want merely friendship; they want less or more. They want vivacity--some one who will halve their years, with whom they can sport and romp. Some one who can have babies to them--little pink babies, with squirmy toes and baldy heads. They want to begin everything afresh. They're not looking for another man's left-overs. Even in the matter of disillusionizing a woman, they want to do that for themselves. Men who've not been married, demand that a woman shall be doing everything, as they are doing it, for the first time. It's their right."

"But there's another side," he protested. "A woman who's been married has gained experience--the most dearly purchased form of knowledge, as you yourself have told me. She can be trusted not to expect the impossible. She's been over the course and knows the pitfalls. She's learnt the value of compromise. She ought to have learnt how to be kind.

I think kindness is the thing that matters most. Few people are born with it. You have to have been wretched to acquire the knack of it."

"And yet you have it," she glanced sideways at him humorously, "and you haven't been married."

Realizing the drift of their conversation, he pulled himself up. He feared lest she suspected him of flirting. "You're very generous, Lady Dawn."

They had arrived at a lookout point, where a lichen-covered summerhouse stood, protected on the steeper side by a low stone wall. Below them lay the moat, green-sc.u.mmed and starred with water-lilies; throbbing in the midday haze, the emerald sward of the parkland seemed to float. Against the wall she halted. "What makes you say that I'm generous?"

For all his thirty-six years, he blushed like a boy. "Because you take me seriously. After last night you might have been either amused or annoyed. The position in which I placed you was false. You thought that I'd come from London to urge Terry to marry me. When I told you that there was no one else in the world, you believed that I knew she was staying with you--that I was trying to persuade you to plead my cause.

The anti-climax, after she'd surprised us, was the height of tragical absurdity. It reduced all my high-flown sentiments to farce. I wonder you were able to prevent yourself from laughing. Terry could afford such a scene; she's little more than a child. I can't. With four more years to my age I could pa.s.s for her father. No, please. I want to be hard on myself. Let me finish what I'm saying. I've only met you twice; on each occasion I've suffered a loss of dignity. The other time was when I tried to turn you away from Maisie's door. You're probably aware that since then, until Pollock's return, I've seen far more of your sister than was wise. In fact I've offered myself like a job lot. And yet there was a time when I was content to wait. I believed that one had only to be faithful and he'd find what he hoped for round some future corner.

You're a proud woman, Lady Dawn. You admire strength almost cruelly.

You're inhumanly infallible----"

Her eyes filled. She slipped her hand through his arm and patted it comfortingly. By the contact she was comforting herself as well. "I'm not. I wasn't infallible when I married. My pride came later to cover up my fault. I don't say it to flatter you--any woman would want you."

He gazed down at her. "How gentle you are!"

"I understand."

They strolled along in contented silence. They had trespa.s.sed far beyond the bounds of discretion. A diversion was caused when they reached the kennels. He watched her among the leaping hounds. She employed the same tactics to quiet them that she had used with himself. With a coaxing word and a caress she had them crouching at her feet. He listened to the precision of her orders and the definiteness of her enquiries.

"You'd have made a business woman," he remarked.

She laughed. "I could if I'd been forced." And then, "By the way, you're lunching with me, aren't you?"

"I'll be delighted. But, since confessions are the fashion, I may as well make a clean breast. If I had found that you were upset with what happened last night, I'd planned to tell you I was off to London."

"But you're not?"

"One doesn't run away from happiness."

He was afraid he had offended. Her expression clouded. She withdrew and walked a few paces apart. He had come almost to the point of apologizing, when she turned to him eyes that were misty--suspiciously misty for a woman who never cried. "I'm glad you had the courage to tell me, because I haven't felt so happy for---- I daren't own how long."

On entering the Castle, she left him while she went to change for lunch.

As he waited, he reminded himself that in a handful of seconds he would be meeting Terry. The antic.i.p.ation provided him with none of the old elation. With what ecstasy he used to watch for her in days gone by, as though the world was reborn when she stood before him! Far from feeling ecstasy, he was filled with uneasiness. Her presence would recall to him his failure and would mock something beautiful that had commenced in his life. What that something was he hadn't estimated. All he knew was that, with the coming of Lady Dawn, every one of his problems had mysteriously found settlement. He was no longer humiliated. He was once more sure of his direction. He felt unreasonably strong and triumphant, as though the goal of his striving was in sight. His old dread of growing middle-aged impressed him as puerile. Whatever his age, she would always keep pace with him. She was the same age as he was. Had he been younger or older, he might have missed her or gone by her with unseeing eyes.

When he entered the room in which lunch was served, he found that Lady Dawn was alone. Glancing at the table, he perceived with surprise that only two covers had been laid. She read the question in his eyes and answered it.

"Terry's away. I forgot to tell you. She had an early breakfast and motored into Gloucester before I was up. The car's come back without her. She's sent no word as to when or how she proposes to return."

"Something urgent?" he asked casually.