The confessions of a well-meaning woman

by Stephen McKenna

I have always said that for a boy of his tastes and upbringing some little money is essential as light and air. A truism! Have I been inconsistent here?

I don't want to blow my own trumpet, as they say; and I resent this modern practice of proclaiming to the whole world how much one loves one's own flesh and blood—as though it were something very new and wonderful; but you have never doubted that I would sell the clothes from off my back and the roof from over my head if Will's happiness depended on it. You are good enough to talk about my "sacrifices", but am I being anything more than normal, natural and consistent, a mother brought up in a certain school of a certain period?

I think that, if the facts were ever known, you would find I had been loyal to my principles. They never will be—for obvious reasons... With you, of course, it is different; I have told you everything and laid my heart bare. Should I have done that, if there was anything to conceal? And if the last chapter would really interest you...

A superficial change undoubtedly there has been, corresponding to a profound change in all our conditions. A year or two ago... It is not too much to call it a revolution, so many unexpected things have happened. In those days one never dreamed that my brother-in-law would drag what I suppose I must call his "honour" through the Divorce Court; and, so long as poor Kathleen bore him one daughter after another, it seemed safe to presume that Cheniston and the title would come sooner or later to Arthur and, through him, to our boy. The problem of that period was to "carry on", as Will would say; my brother Brackenbury and his wife would not like to be called mean, but they were certainly careful, and it was only by eternal pinching and scraping that we made both ends meet. Many young men in Will's position would have put themselves up to auction, as it were, and married the first rich woman who came their way. Goodness me, my boy had a big enough choice! First of all Hilda, and he resigned his claims there to my nephew Culroyd; then the South American widow, but he very quickly saw how unsuitable that would be; and you may say—without any unkindness—that my niece Phyllida was waiting all the time for him to drop the handkerchief and only consented to marry Hilary Butler when the other thing was out of the question. Unfortunately you can't please everybody, and Will was old-fashioned enough to desire a wife with whom he could be in love and to shut his ears to all the lures of money... Money? A man of his ability can always earn money, and our only difficulty was to know where to start. He contemplated la haute finance for a while, but was repelled by the prospect of having to work with men like Sir Adolf Erckmann; then he explored the possibilities of Mr. Surdan's shipyards, but this for some reason was not to his taste. Now I truly honestly believe that he has found his métier....

While he was still undecided about his career, I was reluctant to part with the house in Mount Street, though for many years it had really been too expensive for us. One grows, indeed, to love one's own vine and fig-tree, and the place was filled with associations. Did I ever tell you that the princess was good enough to say that, in coming there, she always felt she was coming home? ... With Will gone, the place is a white elephant; and I cannot flatter myself that any little niche I may occupy makes me indispensable to the life of London. When people talk about inconsistency, they fancy a change in you, but it doesn't occur to them that the world all round you may have changed. I had long contemplated radical alterations and was only perplexed to know where to begin.

Our thoughts had all been turned for the moment from our own affairs by the romance of my dear niece Phyllida's engagement to Colonel Butler. Alas! when we came back to London, it was to find what I then regarded as a sword still suspended over our heads, still hanging by a hair. Since the night when Sir Appleton Deepe dined with us to discuss the appointment for Will, this girl Molly Phenton had not been near the house. For a week before that she had been calling, waiting, writing—always protesting that my boy had given her a promise of marriage. As it was impossible for them to marry without money, I refused to believe that Will had promised; not believing this story of a promise, I felt that she was trying to blackmail us; feeling that, I declined to see her. One thing followed automatically from another. It was not until she called that evening and Sir Appleton—rather officiously, if you'll promise not to tell any one I said so—insisted on interviewing her, that I learned the truth about her condition. Then, I am sure, we should all have agreed that Will must marry her at once, but Sir Appleton would give us no time. I suppose concentration on one object is very necessary in business, but it does limit a man's outlook: Sir Appleton could see but this one thing. "My good sir," I wanted to tell him, "shew us how it is to be done, and it will be done." But he would not discuss the appointment, though he had given me as solemn a promise as a man can give; he dashed home, after sending this girl on ahead, and we heard no more of them.

I felt that it was useless to talk to my boy just then, because he was so much worried that anything more might have brought on a complete break-down. My husband too... I respect Arthur's judgement at other times, but, where his own son is concerned, I find him curiously unsympathetic. I pretended to myself that I was trying to find a new opening for Will, now that Sir Appleton had played us so shamefully false, but I'm afraid that I was simply letting things drift...

Then my brother-in-law Spenworth paid me the rare honour of a visit. He had come up from Cheniston on purpose, though—to judge from his voice—you would have thought he was still trying to make himself heard from the fastnesses of Warwickshire...

"Well, my dear Ann," he roared, "I've come to give you a piece of my mind."

Do you know, had the retort not been so cheaply obvious, one would have been strongly tempted to ask whether he could really spare it... So characteristic of Spenworth! I am not a woman to bear malice, but I could not forget that very few days had passed since he played me a trick which to that type of mind, no doubt, seems funny, but which might have involved me in embarrassment and humiliation. It was one night when the princess was with me; Spenworth had been presiding over some regimental dinner and he thought it would be an amusing hoax to send all these young officers—with partners whom they had apparently picked up one really dares not contemplate where—on the pretext that I was giving a dance and would be delighted to see them. Dear Hilary Butler's presence of mind alone saved the situation. I detest practical joking and, when my brother-in-law was announced, I confess that I expected less to be lectured than to receive some little expression of regret...