# The Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman/Chapter 1

THE CONFESSIONS OF A WELL-MEANING WOMAN
I
LADY ANN SPENWORTH PREFERS NOT TO DISCUSS HER OPERATION
LADY ANN (to a friend of proved discretion): You have toiled all the way here again? Do you know, I feel I am only beginning to find out who are the true friends? I am much, much better. . . On Friday I am to be allowed on to the sofa and by the end of next week Dr. Richardson promises to let me go back to Mount Street. Of course I should have liked the operation to take place there—it is one’s frame and setting, but, truly honestly, Arthur and I have not been in a position to have any painting or papering done for so long . . . The surgeon insisted on a nursing-home. Apparatus and so on and so forth. . . Quite between ourselves, I fancy that they make a very good thing out of these homes; but I am so thankful to be well again that I would put up with almost any imposition. . .
​Everything went off too wonderfully. Perhaps you have seen my brother Brackenbury? Or Ruth? Ah, I am sorry; I should have been vastly entertained to hear what they were saying, what they dared say. Ruth did indeed offer to pay the expenses of the operation—the belated prick of conscience!—; and it was on the tip of my tongue to say we are not yet dependent on her spasmodic charity. Also, that I can keep my lips closed about Brackenbury without expecting a—tip! But they know I can’t afford to refuse £500. . . If they, if everybody would only leave one alone! Spied on, whispered about. . .
The papers made such an absurd stir! If you are known by name as occupying any little niche, the world waits gaping below. I suppose I ought to be flattered, but for days there were callers, letters, telephone-messages. Like Royalty in extremis. . . And I never pretended that the operation was in any sense critical. . .
Do you know, beyond saying that, I would much rather not talk about it? This very modern frankness. . . Not you, of course! But, when a man like my brother-in-law Spenworth strides in here a few hours before the anæsthetic is administered and says “What is the matter with you? Much ado about nothing, I call it. . .” That from Arthur’s brother ​to Arthur’s wife, when, for all he knew, he might never see her alive again. . . I prefer just to say that everything went off most satisfactorily and that I hope now to be better than I have been for years. . .
It was anxiety more than anything else. A prolonged strain always finds out the weak place: Arthur complaining that he had lost some of his directorships and that, with the war, he was being offered none to take their place; talk of selling the house in Mount Street, every corner filled with a wonderful memory of old happy days when the princess almost lived with me; sometimes no news from the front for weeks, and that could only mean that my boy Will was moving up with the staff. It was just when I was at my wits’ end that he wrote to say that he must have five hundred pounds. He gave no reason, so I assumed that one of his friends must be in trouble; and I was not to tell Arthur. . . This last effort really exhausted me; and I knew that, if I was not to be a useless encumbrance to everybody, I must “go into dock,” as Will would say, “for overhauling and repairs.” Dr. Richardson really seemed reluctant to impose any further tax on my vitality at such a time, but I assured him that I was not afraid of the knife. So here you find me!
​A little home-sick for Mount Street and my friends? Indeed, yes; though I have not been neglected. Are not those tulips too magnificent? Were, rather. . . The dear princess brought them a week ago, and I was so touched by her sweetness that I have not the heart to throw them away. If she, to whom I can be nothing but a dull old woman. . . I mean, it brings into relief the unkindness of others; and I do indeed find it hard to forgive the callousness of Spenworth and my brother Brackenbury. No, that—like the operation—I would rather not talk about. Their attitude was so—wicked. . .
You, of course, have been under an anæsthetic. I? Not since I was a child; and the only sensation I recall was a hammer, hammer, hammer just as I went off, which I believe is nothing but the beating of one’s heart. . . But before the operation. . . You must not think that I am posing as a heroine; but accidents do happen, and for two days and two nights, entirely by myself. . . It was inevitable that one should take stock. . . My thoughts went back to old days at Brackenbury, spacious old days with my dear father when he was ambassador at Rome and Vienna (they were happy times, though the expense crippled him); old days when my brother was a funny, ​impetuous little boy—not hard, as he has since become. . . I am fourteen years his senior; and, from the time when our dear mother died to the time when I married Arthur, I was wife and mother and sister at the Hall. On me devolved what, in spite of the socialists, I venture to call the great tradition of English life. . .
Lying in bed here, one could not help saying “if anything goes amiss, am I leaving the world better than I found it?” Under my own vine and fig-tree I had been a good wife to Arthur and a good mother to Will; and, if there had not always been some one of good intentions to smoothe over difficulties with the family on both sides. . . Blessed are the peacemakers, though I have sometimes wondered whether I did right in even tolerating my brother-in-law Spenworth. It is probably no news to you that he very much wanted to marry me, but I always felt that even Cheniston, even the house in Grosvenor Square, even his immense income would not compensate me for a husband whom I could never trust out of my sight. Arthur may be only the younger brother, I very soon found that the old spacious days were over; but with him one does know where one is, and I have never grudged poor Kathleen Manorby my leavings. There indeed is a lesson ​for the worldly! She was in love with a poor decent young subaltern named Laughton, more suitable for her in every way; however, the lure of Cheniston and the opportunity of being Lady Spenworth! . . . He transferred to an Indian regiment; and, if his heart was broken, so much the worse for him. I am not superstitious; but, when I remember that bit of treachery, when I think of Spenworth, unfaithful from the beginning, when I see those four dairy-maid daughters and no heir. . . Might not some people call that a judgement? It makes no personal difference, for the ungodly will flourish throughout our time; and, though my boy Will must ultimately succeed, he can look for nothing from his uncle in the meantime. I have lost the thread. . .
Ah, yes! I have done my humble best to comfort poor Kathleen and to give her some idea how to bring up her girls if she does not want to see them going the same way as their unhappy father. One is not thanked for that sort of thing; Spenworth, who blusters but can never look me in the eyes, pretends that he has refused to have me inside Cheniston since I publicly rebuked him, though he well knows that I will not enter the house while the present licence prevails. But one would have thought that even he would have had serious moments, ​would have felt that his soul might be required of him at any hour. . . A sense of gratitude, if not verbal thanks, was what I expected. . .
Hoped for, rather than expected. . . You are quite right.
And I have tried to keep the peace on the other side, at Brackenbury. There, I am thankful to say, there is the appearance of harmony ; but, goodness me, there is an appearance of harmony when you see pigs eating amicably out of the same trough. . . No, I ought not to have said that! And I would not say it to any one else; but, when I remember the distinction of the Hall in the old, spacious days. . . My poor sister-in-law Ruth—well, she knew no better; and Brackenbury, instead of absorbing her, has allowed her to absorb him. They seem to have no sense of their position; and in the upbringing of their children they either don’t know or they don’t care. When this war broke out, Culroyd ran away from Eton and enlisted. He is in the Coldstream now, and I expect the whole thing is forgotten, but Brackenbury had the utmost difficulty in getting him out. And my niece Phyllida instantly set herself to learn nursing—which, of course, in itself is altogether praiseworthy—, but she makes it an excuse for now living entirely unchecked and uncontrolled in London—the ​“bachelor-girl,” I believe, is the phrase. I did indeed force my brother to make her come to Mount Street; but, if that preserves the convenances, it is the utmost that I have achieved. When the trouble breaks out, when we find her liée with some hopelessly unsuitable “temporary gentleman” . . . I? In a rash moment I allowed Brackenbury to make some trifling contribution to the cost of the girl’s bed and board: the result is that she treats me as a lodging-house-keeper. . .
It was not a cheerful retrospect; but I had done my best, I could only say “Let me be judged on my intentions.” The future. . . That was what troubled me more. When Will resigns his commission, something must be done to establish him in life until he succeeds his uncle. He is nearly thirty and has never earned a penny beyond his present army pay; I cannot support him indefinitely; and these frantic appeals for a hundred pounds here and five hundred pounds there. . . I cannot meet them, unless I am to sell the house in Mount Street and give up any little niche that I may occupy. Frankly, I am not prepared to do that. One’s frame and setting. . . If his uncles would make a proper settlement, there would be an end of all our troubles; failing that, I must find him a well-paid appointment. And, ​in another sense, I want to see him established. Exactly! That is just what I do mean. Thanks to the energy of a few pushful but not particularly well-connected people like my Lady Maitland, social distinctions have ceased to exist in London. I will be as democratic as you please: I swallowed the Americans, I swallowed the South Africans, I swallow the rastaquouères daily; I don’t mind sitting between a stockbroker and an actor, but it is a different thing altogether when you come to marriage. My boy has to be protected from the ordinary dangers and temptations; and, though I would do nothing to influence him, it would be highly satisfactory if he met some nice girl with a little money of her own. Naturally one would like to see the choice falling on some one in his own immediate world; but times are changing, and it would be regarded as old-fashioned prejudice if one made too strong a stand against the people who really are the only people with money; or against a foreigner. . . But this is all rather like crossing the bridge before one comes to the stream. . .
Lying here, very much depressed, I wanted to make provision for the immediate future. Now, would you say I had taken leave of my senses if I suggested that I had some claim on Brackenbury and Spenworth? Does ​relationship count for nothing? Or gratitude? You shall hear! You remember that, when you left just before my operation, Brackenbury came in to see me. I had sent for him. I am not a nervous woman; but accidents do happen, and I wanted a last word with them all in case. . . just in case. . . Arthur never takes a thought for the future, and I told Brackenbury that, if anything did happen, he would be the real as well as the titular head of the family.
“It is not for me,” I said, “to advise or interfere with you or Ruth or your children. If—as I pray—Culroyd comes through unscathed, he has all the world before him, and you have only to see that he does not marry below his station. With Phyllida you must be more careful. She is young, attractive, well-dowered and a little, just a little headstrong. The war has made our girls quite absurdly romantic; any one in uniform, especially if he has been wounded. . . And you, who are rich, perhaps hardly realize as well as do we, who are poor, the tricks and crimes that a man will commit to marry a fortune. I do not suggest that Phyllida should be withdrawn from her hospital—”
“Oh, she’s signed on for the duration of the war,” Brackenbury interrupted.
​“But I do think,” I resumed, “that you should keep an eye on her. . .”
Perhaps there was never anything in it; but one young man whom Phyllida brought to Mount Street, a Colonel Butler, one of her own patients. . . Oh, quite a presentable, manly young fellow, but hopelessly unsuitable for Phyllida! My boy Will first put me on my guard when he was last home on leave; not that he had any personal interest, for all her four thousand a year or whatever it is, but they have always been brought up like brother and sister. . . My last act before coming here was to make Colonel Butler promise not to see or communicate with Phyllida until he had spoken frankly to Brackenbury. I understand that he has been invited to the Hall “on approval”, as Will would say; and then we shall see what we shall see. I fancy he will have the good sense to recognize that such an alliance would be out of the question: every one would say that he had married her for her money, and no man of any pride would tolerate that. . . Phyllida, robbed of her stolen joys, was of course furious with me for what she was courteous enough to call my “interference.” . .
“Her head is screwed on quite tight,” said Brackenbury, ”though I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”
​“I am insinuating nothing,” I said, “but do you want to see your only daughter married for her money by some penniless soldier—?”
“If she’s in love with him, I don’t care who she marries,” said Brackenbury with a quite extraordinary callousness. “He must be a decent fellow, of course, who’ll make her happy. I don’t attach the importance to Debrett that you do, Ann, especially since the war.”
As he had said it! I was mute. . . Every one is aware that poor Ruth was nobody—the rich daughter of a Hull shipping-magnate. I made him marry her because he had to marry some one with a little money—and much good it has been to anybody!,—but I hardly expected to hear him boasting or encouraging his children to pretend that there are no distinctions. . .
“Well, it’s not my business, dear Brackenbury,” I said. I was feeling too ill to wrangle. . . “When I asked you to come here, it was because—accidents do happen—I wanted to see you again, perhaps for the last time—”
“But aren’t you frightening yourself unduly?,” interrupted Brackenbury. “Arthur told me it was only—”
“Arthur knows nothing about it,” I said. It is always so pleasant, when you are facing the possibility of death, to be told that it is all ​nothing. . . “I wanted to see you,” I said, “about Will. You and I have to pull together for the sake of the family. If anything happens to me, I leave Will in your charge. His father will, of course, do what he can, but poor Arthur has nothing but his directorships; you must be our rock and anchor.”
And then I plucked up courage to ask whether Brackenbury could not do something permanent for our boy. Even a thousand a year. . . It is not as though he couldn’t afford it if Ruth shewed a little good-will, not as though either had done so extravagantly much for their own nephew. Brackenbury did indeed undertake to pay for him at Eton; but, as Will left before any of us expected, they were let off lightly. . .
Brackenbury would only talk of increasing expenses and the burden of taxation.
“I could face my operation with an easier mind,” I said, “if I knew that Will would never want.”
“Well, some one has always pulled him out hitherto,” said Brackenbury. “I suppose some one always will.” I had to rack my brains, but honestly truly the only occasion I could remember on which he had come to our assistance was when Will as a mere boy fell in with some men no better than common swindlers who ​prevailed on him to play cards for stakes which he could not afford. . . “He won’t want,” Brackenbury went on with the insolence of a man who has never done a hand’s turn in his life, “if he’ll only buckle down to it and work. Or he could spend less money.”
This, I knew, was a “dig” at me. Before my boy had time to learn how very little distance his army pay would take him, I had asked my brother to tide him over a passing difficulty. Would you not have thought that any uncle would have welcomed the opportunity? I said nothing. And then Brackenbury had the assurance to criticize my way of life and to ask why I kept on the house in Mount Street if it always meant “pulling the devil by the tail,” as he so elegantly expressed it. Why did I not take a less expensive house? And so on and so forth. I suppose he imagined that I could ask the princess to come to Bayswater. . .
“Do not,” I said, “let us discuss the matter any more. It is unpleasant to be a pauper, but more unpleasant to be a beggar. If my boy wins through with his life—”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” said Brackenbury. “They tell me he’s on a staff which has never even heard a shot fired.”
They tell me. . . Does not that phrase always put you on your guard, as it were? Of ​course he was quoting Culroyd, who is still young enough to imagine that whatever he does must be right and that every one must do as he does. Ever since Will was appointed to the staff . . . I should have thought it stood to reason; you keep the brains of the army to direct the war, and the other people. . . I won’t put it even as strongly as that, but there must be a division of labour. My Lord Culroyd seems to think that any one who has not run away from school and enlisted. . . Sometimes I have been hard put to it to keep the peace when they have been on leave at the same time. But I could not allow Brackenbury to make himself a ruler and a judge. . .
“Is it not enough,” I said, “That you have refused the last request I may ever make? Is it necessary to add slander to ungraciousness?”
“Oh, keep cool, Ann, keep cool,” said Brackenbury with his usual elegance. “From all accounts you ain’t going to die yet awhile; and, if you do. Master Will won’t be any worse off in pocket. He can earn his living as well as another. I’ll promise you this, though; if he gets smashed up in the war, I’ll see that he don’t starve, but that’s the limit of my responsibility. Now, does that set your mind at rest?”
I refused to continue the discussion and sank back on my pillows.
​“What,” I said, “what have I done to deserve this?” . . .
And it was I who found Ruth for him. . .
Do you know, after that, it was on the tip of my tongue to say I could not see Spenworth? He had made such a pother about coming up from Cheniston. . . If your brother-in-law were faced with an operation and begged to have what would perhaps be his last word with you . . . and if, through no fault of yours, there had been unhappy differences in the past. . . The nurse came in to say that he had arrived, and I felt that I must make an effort, whatever it cost me. He was worse than Brackenbury! What they said to each other outside I do not profess to know; but Spenworth came in, bawling in that hunting-field voice of his. . . Ah, of course, you do not know him! I assure you, it goes through and through one’s head. . . I begged him to spare me; and, when I had quieted him, I referred very briefly to our estrangement, which, I told him, was occasioned solely by my efforts to do what in me lay to promote peace in the family. Poor Kathleen . . . betrayed and neglected; the licentiousness of life at Cheniston—eating, drinking, smoking, gambling, racing; those four unhappy girls. . . A pagan household. . .
“But,” I said, “I do not want to disinter ​old controversies. If I have failed in achievement, you must judge me on my intentions. Lying here, though I am not a nervous woman, I have been compelled to think of the uncertainty of life. Let us, Spenworth,” I said, “bury the hatchet. If anything happens to me, you must be our rock and anchor. You are the head of the family; Arthur is your brother; Will is your nephew—”
“No fault of mine,” growled Spenworth in a way that set everything trembling. He is obsessed by the idea that rudeness is the same thing as humour. “What’s he been up to now?”
“He has been ‘up to’ nothing, as you call it,” I said. “But I should face my operation with an easier mind if I knew that Will’s future was assured. When the war is over and if he is spared, it is essential that he should have independent means of some kind. It is pitiable that a man in his position. . . Do you not feel it—your own nephew? With the present prices, a thousand a year is little enough; but Arthur can do nothing to increase his directorships; and if my poor guidance and support are withdrawn—”
“What is supposed to be the matter with you?,” Spenworth interrupted.
“I can hardly discuss that with you,” I said.
​“Well, Brackenbury told me—and Arthur told Brackenbury—,” he began.
“Arthur and Brackenbury know nothing about it,” I said. “For some time I have not been well, and it seemed worth the unavoidable risk of an operation if I might hope for greater strength and comfort. But I could not go under the anæsthetic with an easy mind if I felt that I had in any way omitted to put my house in order. Between us,” I said, “bygones will be bygones. Will you not give me the satisfaction of knowing that, if we do not meet again, I am safe in leaving Arthur and my boy to your care? You are the head of the family. Can my boy’s future not be permanently assured—here and now?”
I was not bargaining or haggling; it was a direct appeal to his generosity. . . Spenworth hummed and hawed for a while; then he said:
“I don’t feel very much disposed to do anything more for that young man.”
“More?,” I echoed.
“Well, I paid up once,” he said. “Arthur never told you, I suppose? Well, it was hardly a woman’s province. I was acting then as head of the family . . . about the time when you thought fit to criticize me very frankly. . .”
I had no more idea what he was talking about than the man in the moon!
​“Spenworth! I must beg for enlightenment,” I said.
“Oh, we’ll let bygones be bygones,” he answered. “The case was never brought to trial. But, as long as I’m likely to be called on to wipe up little messes of that kind, I’d sooner make a sinking-fund, to provide against emergencies, than pay Will money to get into more mischief and then have to stump up again.”
More explicit than that he declined to be. . .
“Then,” I said, “you repudiate all responsibility to your own flesh and blood? Whether I live or die, this is a request I shall never repeat.”
“Oh, we’ll see how things go,” he answered. “You may not be as bad as you think. If I find Will starving at the end of the war, I’d undertake to pay his passage to Australia and give him a hundred a year to stay there. . .”
Until you know my brother-in-law, you cannot appreciate the refinement of his humour. . .
“Let us,” I said, “discuss this no further.”
You have probably observed that a man is never content with being thoroughly ungenerous; he must always try to justify himself.
“You know,” he began, very importantly, “you wouldn’t have half so much trouble with ​that fellow, if you’d licked him a bit more when he was younger. . .”
This from Spenworth!
“Who,” I asked, “who made thee a ruler and a judge?”
And then, truly honestly, I had to beg him to leave me in order that I might compose myself. . .
Compose myself!
To shew you how unnerved I had become, I wrote down something which I had never breathed to Arthur or Will. We have always been so poor that I had dreaded an emergency, a sudden illness, for which I should be unable to provide. In Mount Street we are positive Spartans! Well, from the day of Will’s birth I have pinched and scraped, scraped and pinched, trying to put something by. . . A little nest-egg. . . Thirty years—nearly. I have never dared invest it, in case something happened. It lies at the bank—in a separate account—ready at a moment’s notice. When I was so ill four years ago, did I touch it? But before my operation—in case anything happened—I told Will the amount and how I had arranged for him to be able to draw on it. What I tell you is told to the grave; I have torn up the letter; they still do not know; but, when I saw the amount, I was truly ​tempted to say “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” . . . I have lost the thread. . .
Ah, yes! I was saying that my nerve had entirely gone. . . I was so much exhausted that I fell into some kind of trance. Goodness knows the thousand and one things that go to make up a dream. . . Opposites. . . All that sort of thing. . . I dreamt most wonderfully about Will and—I wonder if you can guess? Phyllida! They have been brought up together—cousins! She is young, high-spirited, very, very attractive; and, thanks to Brackenbury’s marriage, she is well-dowered. . . I said to myself in the dream “If she could marry happily some one in her own station. . .” And then I seemed to see her with Will. . . It was but a phantasy. I should do nothing to encourage it, I am not at all sure that I even approve. . .
Alas for reality! Phyllida came and bullied me for my “interference.” . . But I told you about that. And, the day before the operation, Arthur asked whether I really thought it was necessary. Like that! At the eleventh hour!
“I don’t trust these surgeons,” he said. “They make operations.”
At first I was touched. . .
​“Dear Arthur,” I said, “I am not doing this for my amusement.”
“Oh, of course not!,” he answered. “All the same, I wish it could be avoided. And, if it can’t be avoided, I wish you’d kept more quiet about it. I don’t know what you said to Spenworth and Brackenbury, but they’re making the deuce’s own tale of it.”
I begged him to enlighten me.
“Well,” said Arthur, “Spenworth says that you pretended to be at death’s door in order to force him to make a settlement on Will and that he might have consented if he hadn’t happened to know that you’d said the same thing to Brackenbury five minutes before. About being the head of the family and all that sort of thing. You know, Ann, it does make us look just a little bit ridiculous.”
You assure me you have seen neither Brackenbury nor Ruth? I just wondered who was privileged to hear this “deuce’s own tale” . . . I can hardly ask you to believe it; but I do assure you that this is the solemn truth; those two men were seeking to convince themselves that I was pretending to be ill in order to work on their susceptible emotions! They seem to have had the good taste to keep their little joke for home consumption, but you may be sure they made merry with Ruth and ​Kathleen about me. . . Too merry, perhaps; I can only think it was conscience that made Ruth offer to pay for the operation. Or perhaps it was curiosity. . . I wonder what their feelings would have been if anything had gone amiss. . .
No, I am thankful to say there was no hitch of any kind. The anæsthetic was administered, I heard that hammer, hammer, hammer—and then voices very far away. It was all over! That was the preliminary examination. Then I was subjected to that too wonderful X-ray light and saw myself as a black skeleton with a misty-grey covering of flesh, one’s wedding-ring standing out like a black bar round one’s finger. Too marvellous. I do believe in this science. . .
But not so marvellous as what followed. Dr. Richardson congratulated me, and I had to beg for enlightenment.
“It will not be necessary,” he said, “to operate after all. The symptoms are exactly as you described them, but a little treatment, principally massage. . .”
And that is why I am still here, though I hope to be allowed up on Friday. But lying in bed makes one so absurdly weak! What I have told you is for your ears alone. It would be altogether too much of a triumph for Spenworth. Instead of feeling any thankfulness that I had ​been spared the knife, he would only say. . . Well, you can imagine it even from the very imperfect sketch that I have given you. No, I am assured that massage makes the operation wholly unnecessary; and I am already feeling much, much better. If I have not taken the whole world into my confidence, it is partly because I detest this modern practice of discussing one’s inside (“wearing one’s stomach on one’s sleeve,” as Will rather naughtily describes it) and partly because I am altogether too humble-minded to fancy that the entire world is interested in my private affairs. When the princess asked “How did the operation go off?,” I said “Excellently, thank you, ma’am.” And that was what all the papers published. It was not worth while telling her that the operation was found to be unnecessary. I am not of those who feel obliged to trumpet forth that Mrs. Tom Noddy has left Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or Eastbourne for Gloucester Place. As Tennyson says, “Again—who wonders and who cares?”
At the same time—I loathe Americanisms and I do conscientiously try to express myself in what I may call the English of educated society; we do not seem to have any literary equivalent for “mentality,” so I must ask you to pardon the neologism—will you, to oblige ​me, try to imagine the “mentality” of Spenworth and Brackenbury? The sister-in-law of one, the sister of the other; casting about in her resourceful mind to discover any means of softening their hard hearts; clapping hand to forehead; exclaiming “I have it!”; retiring to bed; summoning the relations; making frantic appeal; exacting death-bed promises. . .
Truly honestly, I don’t think we have come to that yet. . .
And those two men have an hereditary right. . . Thank goodness, neither of them knows where the House of Lords is! There are moments when I feel very nearly a radical. . .
But you agree that they are hardly the people I should wish to discuss my operation with. And whatever I have said to you has of course been said in confidence.