Lord Manners, or "Hoppy," as we called him, was one of the few men I ever met whom the word "single-minded" described. His sense of honour was only equalled by his sense of humour; and a more original, tender, truthful, uncynical, real being never existed.
He was a fine sportsman and had won the Grand Military when he was in the Grenadiers, riding one of his own hunters; he was also the second gentleman in England to win the Grand National in 1882, on a thoroughbred called Seaman, who was by no means every one"s horse. For other people he cared nothing. "Decidement je n"aime pas les autres," he would have said, to quote my son-in-law, Antoine Bibesco.
His wife often said that, but for her, he would not have asked a creature inside the house; be this as it may, no host and hostess could have been more socially susceptible or given their guests a warmer welcome than Con and Hoppy Manners.
What I loved and admired in him was his keenness and his impeccable unworldliness. He was perfectly independent of public opinion and as free from rancour as he was from fear, malice or acerbity. He never said a stupid thing. Some people would say that this is not a compliment, but the amount of silly things that I have heard clever people say makes me often wonder what is left for the stupid.
His wife was very different, though quite as free from rhetoric.
Under a becalmed exterior Con Manners was a little brittle and found it difficult to say she was in the wrong; this impenitence caused some of her lovers a suffering of which she was unconscious; it is a minor failing which strikes a dumb note in me, but which I have since discovered is not only common, but almost universal. I often warned people of Con"s dangerous smile when I observed them blundering along; but though she was uneven in her powers of forgiveness, the serious quarrel of her life was made up ultimately without reserve. Lady Manners was clever, gracious, and understanding; she was more worldly, more adventurous and less deprecating than her husband; people meant a great deal to her; and the whole of London was at her feet, except those lonely men and women who specialise in collecting the famous as men collect centipedes.
To digress here. I asked my friend Mr. Birrell once how the juste milieu was to be found--for an enterprising person--between running after the great men of the day and missing them; and he said:
"I would advise you to live among your superiors, Margot, but to be of them."
Con was one of the few women of whom it could be said that she was in an equal degree a wonderful wife, mother, sister and friend.
Her charm of manner and the tenderness of her regard gave her face beauty that was independent--almost a rival of fine features--and she was a saint of goodness.
Her love of flowers made every part of her home, inside and out, radiant; and her sense of humour and love of being entertained stimulated the witty and the lazy.
For nineteen years I watched her go about her daily duties with a quiet grace and serenity infinitely restful to live with, and when I was separated from her it nearly broke my heart. In connection with the love Con and I had for each other I will only add an old French quotation:
"Par grace infinie Dieu les mist au mande ensemble."
My dear friend, Mrs. Hamlyn, was the chatelaine of the famous Clovelly, in Devonshire, and was Con"s sister. She had the spirit of eternal youth and was full of breathless admiration. I hardly ever met any one who derived so much pleasure and surprise out of ordinary life. She was as uncritical and tolerant of those she loved as she was narrow and vehement over those who had unaccountably offended her. She had an ebullient and voracious sense of humour and was baffled and eblouie by t.i.tled people, however vulgar and ridiculous they might be. By this I do not mean she was a sn.o.b--on the contrary she made and kept friends among the frumps and the obscure, to whom she showed faithful hospitality; but she was old-fashioned and thought that all d.u.c.h.esses were ladies.
Christine Hamlyn was a character-part: but, if the machinery was not invented by which you could remove her prejudices, no tank could turn her from her friends. It was through the Souls and these friends whom I have endeavoured to describe that I entered into a new phase of my life.
CHAPTER IV
MARGOT FALLS IN LOVE AGAIN--"HAVOC" IN THE HUNTING FIELD; A FALL AND A DUCKING--THE FAMOUS MRS. BO; UNHEEDED ADVICE FROM A RIVAL--A LOVERS" QUARREL--PETER JUMPS IN THE WINDOW--THE AMERICAN TROTTER-- ANOTHER LOVER INTERVENES--PETER RETURNS FROM INDIA; ILLUMINATION FROM A DARK WOMAN
The first time I ever saw Peter Flower was at Ranelagh, where he had taken my sister Charty Ribblesdale to watch a polo-match. They were sitting together at an iron table, under a cedar tree, eating ices. I was wearing a grey muslin dress with a black sash and a black hat, with coral beads round my throat, and heard him say as I came up to them:
"Nineteen? Not possible! I should have said fifteen! Is that the one that rides so well?"
After shaking hands I sat down and looked about me.
I always notice what men wear; and Peter Flower was the best- dressed man I had ever seen. I do not know who could have worn his clothes when they were new; but certainly he never did. After his clothes, what I was most struck by was his peculiar, almost animal grace, powerful sloping shoulders, fascinating laugh and infectious vitality.
Laurence Oliphant once said to me, "I divide the world into life- givers and life-takers"; and I have often had reason to feel the truth of this, being as I am acutely sensitive to high spirits. On looking back along the gallery of my acquaintance, I can find not more than three or four people as tenacious of life as Peter was: Lady Desborough, Lady Cunard, my son Anthony and myself. There are various kinds of high spirits: some so crude and rough-tongued that they vitiate what they touch and estrange every one of sensibility and some so insistent that they tire and suffocate you; but Peter"s vitality revived and restored every one he came in contact with; and, when I said good-bye to him that day at Ranelagh, although I cannot remember a single sentence of any interest spoken by him or by me, my mind was absorbed in thinking of when and how I could meet him again.
In the winter of that same year I went with the Ribblesdales to stay with Peter"s brother, Lord Battersea, to have a hunt. I took with me the best of hats and habits and two leggy and faded hirelings, hoping to pick up a mount. Charty having twisted her knee the day after we arrived, this enabled me to ride the horse on which Peter was to have mounted her; and full of spirits we all went off to the meet of the Bicester hounds. I had hardly spoken three words to my benefactor, but Ribblesdale had rather unwisely told him that I was the best rider to hounds in England.
At the meet I examined my mount closely while the man was lengthening my stirrup. Havoc, as he was called, was a dark chestnut, 16.1, with a coat like the back of a violin and a spiteful little head. He had an enormous bit on; and I was glad to see a leather strap under the curb-chain.
When I was mounted, Peter kept close to my side and said:
"You"re on a topper! Take him where you like, but ride your own line."
To which I replied:
"Why? Does he rush? I had thought of following you."
PETER: "Not at all, but he may pull you a bit, so keep away from the field; the fence isn"t made that he can"t jump; and as for water, he"s a swallow! I wish I could say the same of mine! We"ve got a brook round about here with rotten banks, it will catch the best! But, if we are near each other, you must come alongside and go first and mine will very likely follow you. I don"t want to spend the night in that beastly brook."
It was a good scenting day and we did not take long to find. I stuck to Peter Flower while the Bicester hounds raced across the heavy gra.s.s towards a hairy-looking ugly double. In spite of the ironmonger"s shop in Havoc"s mouth, I had not the faintest control over him, so I said to Peter:
"You know, Mr. Flower, I can"t stop your horse!"
He looked at me with a charming smile and said:
"But why should you? Hounds are running!"
MARGOT: "But I can"t turn him!"
PETER: "It doesn"t matter! They are running straight. Hullo!
Lookout! Look out for Hydy!"
We were going great guns. I saw a man in front of me slowing up to the double, so shouted at him:
"Get out of my way! Get out of my way!"
I was certain that at the pace he was going he would take a heavy fall and I should be on the top of him. While in the act of turning round to see who it was that was shouting, his willing horse paused and I shot past him, taking away his spur in my habit skirt. I heard a volley of oaths as I jumped into the jungle.
Havoc, however, did not like the brambles and, steadying himself as he landed, arched with the activity of a cat over a high rail on the other side of the double; I turned round and saw Peter"s horse close behind me hit the rail and peck heavily upon landing, at which Peter gave him one down the shoulder and looked furious.
I had no illusions! I was on a horse that nothing could stop!
Seeing a line of willows in front of me, I shouted to Peter to come along, as I thought if the brook was ahead of us I could not possibly keep close to him, going at that pace. To my surprise and delight, as we approached the willows Peter pa.s.sed me and the water widened out in front of us; I saw by his set face that it was neck or nothing with him. Havoc was going well within himself, but his stable-companion was precipitate and flurried; and before I knew what had happened Peter was in the middle of the brook and I was jumping over his head. On landing I made a large circle round the field away from hounds, trying to pull up; and when I could turn round I found myself facing the brook again, with Peter dripping on the bank nearest to me. Havoc p.r.i.c.ked his ears, pa.s.sed him like a flash and jumped the brook again; but the bank on landing was boggy and while we were floundering I got a pull at him by putting the curb-rein under my pommel and, exhausted and distressed, I jumped off. Peter burst out laughing.
"We seem to be separated for life," he said. "Do look at my d.a.m.ned horse!"
I looked down the water and saw the animal standing knee-deep, nibbling gra.s.s and mud off the bank with perfect composure.
MARGOT: "I really believe Havoc would jump this brook for a third time and then I should be by your side. What luck that you aren"t soaked to the skin; hadn"t I better look out for the second hors.e.m.e.n? Hounds by now will be at the sea and I confess I can"t ride your horse: does he always pull like this?"
PETER: "Yes, he catches hold a bit, but what do you mean? You rode him beautifully. Hullo! What is that spur doing in your skirt?"
MARGOT: "I took it off the man that you call "Hydy," who was going so sticky at the double when we started."
PETER: "Poor old Clarendon! I advise you to keep his spur, he"ll never guess who took it; and, if I know anything about him, there will be no love lost between you even if you do return it to him!"
I was longing for another horse, as I could not bear the idea of going home. At that moment a single file of second horse-men came in sight; and Peter"s well-trained servant, on a thoroughbred grey, rode up to us at the conventional trot. Peter lit a cigar and, pointing to the brook, said to his man:
"Go off and get a rope and hang that brute! Or haul him out, will you? And give me my lunch."