There is a tide

by J. C. Snaith

The day was really good, one of those soft, mildly sunny days of late September that lure one so genially into the open. From the Dower House to the Towers, door to door, was just a mile; and Mame, sauntering with Lady Kidderminster, found the pilgrimage rather enjoyable. Her hostess was still very kind and friendly even if an inward weight seemed to be bearing her down. Mame longed to speak of Bill. She would like to have drawn Mommer on the subject of when they would be able to marry; yet to butt in upon that vexed question might entirely spoil the pleasure of their stroll.

Mame was impressed by the Towers. She felt justified in calling it a palace. It certainly was a wonderful house; one of the oldest and finest in England and very well kept. A lovely park of many rich woodland acres gave it just the setting that it needed. In spite of Mame’s determination to remain a democrat at heart, she could not overcome a slight feeling of awe as they passed through the lodge gates, so impressively emblazoned, and walked slowly along the glorious avenue that led to the Treherne home. The place had such an air. Fancy having it for one’s very own to live in.

She was entitled, in a sense, to a feeling of proprietorship, yet only too well did she know that she did not in the least match up with Warlington Towers. After all, she could not help thinking ruefully as they came up to the main entrance, with doors of solid black oak, she was the merest nobody, a little newspaper girl, a sharp-witted adventuress who had not even put herself through college. Who was Mame Durrance, the rejected of New York and London, that she should fix herself into such a frame. It was wrong for a go-getter to have these ideas, but there was something in the grandeur, the style, the solidity of this mansion which had stood just like that since the time of the Tudors, which kind of put one over on you. If you had any feelings at all, if you had a streak of imagination, however slight, a vein of idealism, however weak, a tendency to uplift or inconveniences of that kind, this house was bound to get you thinking.

They learned from the housekeeper that the Childwicks were expected next week, when a large party would assemble for the shooting. But Mame was not much impressed by the news. That girl Gwendolen, for all her dollars and her airs, was almost as much an interloper. What was Three Ply Flannelette anyway? Not so much better, was it, than writing for the press?

Bitter thoughts accompanied Mame through the nobly proportioned rooms, up the majestic staircase and then down again to the noblest room of all. It seemed vast, that particular room; the sense of its magnitude came out and hit you as you entered. The view from its great windows was unforgettable, but it was the room itself and the things it contained that made it so memorable. Tapestries, sofas, cabinets, chairs, tables, lovely bric-a-brac and candelabra, all were perfect in their kind and united in ministry to the higher perfection of which they formed a part.

It was the pictures on the walls that gave perhaps the biggest thrill. Portraits mostly: Lelys, Knellers and those old johns of the eighteenth century who knew how to put historical folks upon canvas. Among the famous guys in steel breastplates and periwigs and contemporary janes in ruffs and powder and what not, was a picture of a young man in knee-breeches and silk stockings and a stiff flounced coat with a sword, who might have been Bill. The resemblance was astonishing. Had Bill exchanged his modern tailor for that funny yet superbly picturesque rig that is just how he would have looked.

Mame was so struck by this likeness that she stopped to gaze at the words at the foot of the gilt frame:

“William, third marquis of Kidderminster. By Sir Peter Lely.”

Yes, it was the real thing, this picture. But what, after all, was it compared to the room it was in and the harmony of which it was a symbol? History, romance, power seemed all around. Again the spirit of place got Mame thinking.

It was the gentle, low voice of Lady Kidderminster that brought her slowly back to the present and to her own self. “Shall we rest a moment, my dear? Here in the sun. This is always my favourite spot; how one loves a room facing south! There is more real warmth here than anywhere else in the house.”