London was waking up. Like a great big sleepy cat, rubbing her eyes and beginning to stir. Six o’clock; through the smoky darkness of a November morning, Big Ben gazed palely down on to the deserted streets and hoped that the people who would soon be hurrying along them would have learnt some sense from the huge engulfing War that had nearly brought the whole lot of them to slavery. And as if to emphasise the thought, the great clock smashed out the hour. Six o’clock; time to get up and do something useful, for a change. The great quivering waves of sound went flooding over the grey city. Down the river they went, chasing the flat-bottomed barges that cut through the brown water as a hot knife cuts through butter. Up into Trafalgar Square, to flutter the pigeons, bubbling and cooing in a feathery cluster under the sheltering grey stones. Along the Strand, where the ruins of St. Clement Danes witnessed to the barbarism of a Pagan foe. Everywhere they went---the waves---even to a turning off Bond Street, where the still shuttered windows hid a number of beautiful things that most people were now either too poor, or too ashamed to buy. And the small neat woman, sweeping the steps of one particular building, stopped sweeping, to strain her small ears in an effort to hear. Big Ben! how she loved it! How she had suffered, when on one dreadful night in Nineteen Forty-one, the beasts had hit it. Not that it had been out of action for long; London was too proud of her Watchdog for that. “Watchman, what of the Night?” Ring out, you brave old fellow. Tell all the fighting people looking up at your even paler old face that they will never give in. Send out your message to those glorious boys who skim over your head. Boys, whose valour has won us the world. Valour that has stretched to the great Americas. American boys linked with ours. Send---and as Mrs. Millar thought all these thoughts she brushed even harder at the plush-covered staircase. Her husband---she had met her husband for the first time under the shelter of Big Ben. Gone now, of course, as most people’s husbands were gone. Gone down in a Convoy that was bringing food to a host of people that were too lazy to care. And yet the thought of those who did care had warmed Mrs. Millar’s heart, for she was a very sweet woman. And she loved her job. She was proud of brushing the stairs that helped frightened people to find the happiness that they were looking for. Even if they didn’t find it themselves, the fact that it was there for other people to find gave Mrs. Millar a thrill. And now the stairs were done and time they were, too: a little smile played round the corners of her mouth as the well-beloved sound came stealing up Bond Street again. Half-past seven, and with it a lot of other sounds becoming audible. Vans, and milk-carts, and voices and soon there would be the early morning sunshine. Mrs. Millar began to hurry. At eight o’clock she had to be done here and along to another office higher up the street. At the other office she got her early cup of tea, and slab of bread and butter, prepared for her by a friend. Mrs. Millar bent to her task with a thrill of anticipation that the thought of tea always evoked. And Kate was a dear, and always had a bit of news for her. . . . News from her children and that was always a joy because Mrs. Millar hadn’t any of her own. And now for the brass polish and the rags and the leather, and the job would be completed for another day. For Mrs. Millar began her job early: the lovely luxurious office first, and then the stairs and then the brass plate down in the hall. On went the brass polish in a skilful splash and then the rubbing began. Such lovely letters; it did you good to see them shine out. And when she had finished rubbing, the early morning sunshine had just begun to flutter over the housetops. The pale face of Big Ben didn’t look half so pale with that pink streak across it. And as if the sunshine had given it confidence, Big Ben took a long whirring breath and prepared to give tongue again. Half-past seven o’clock. Mrs. Millar gave a little gasp as she bundled all the polishing things into a bag and straightened her back preparatory to racing up the stairs again.
“In a hurry, aren’t you?” and now it was the smiling face of the porter of the offices next door, looking down at her. The porter liked Mrs. Millar and meant to tell her so one day, but not yet. Not till his daughter Tillie was married; for two women in a house never answered. But somehow the porter felt that Mrs. Millar was not a woman who thought of a second marriage. Heart buried with her first, thought the porter humorously, until the second came along, when it was another story altogether. But he could wait. “In a hurry, aren’t you?” he said again and with a laugh this time. “A lot of nonsense and I don’t wonder you’re in a hurry to get away from it,” and with a derisive finger he outlined the shining letters of the brass plate that Mrs. Millar has just been polishing. “Marriage Bureau; I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself.”
“Why?” Mrs. Millar had large trusting grey eyes and she lifted them childishly.
“A lot of silly people coming here to try and get married. Why don’t they stay at home and do a job of work instead.”
“Would a job of work do instead of getting married?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I never did think about it except once,” said Mrs. Millar and she turned away with enormous dignity to go up stairs again. She liked the porter, but she had never been one to chaffer on doorsteps and she wasn’t going to begin to be one now. Slowly and methodically she began to replace the weapons of her early morning work in their corner cupboard again, and then with care she put on her hat and coat. She would wait a minute until the porter was well out of the way and then bolt down the stairs and race along to Kate, who, with her lovely steaming cup of tea and fund of unending gossip, was the joy of Mrs. Millar’s early morning work.
The three little whitewashed cottages stood there drenched in sunshine. Lovely little cottages: cottages out of a book. Cottages that stood in an old-fashioned garden, each one by itself though seeming to be cuddling under the wings of the other one. A madman had built them, said the villagers contemptuously, for all of them put together wouldn’t have made a decent sized house. Only one sitting room; only one bedroom and dressing room and the kitchen and bathroom and everything else so small that you could hardly get inside them. But still that had been his way, that funny old architect who had come down from London: bought the bit of garden that was really part of the Park that belonged to the Hall and then started to design and build these three funny little houses. And when they were done and everyone was waiting round to see what he would do with them he had handed them over to old Sir George Capel who lived at the Hall and disappeared. And rumour had it that he had died thousands of miles away, somewhere on an island in the Pacific.
And now Sir George had been dead quite a long time and had left the cottages to his only son, who lived with his widowed mother at the Hall. And, in a way, the cottages had become a problem. It was easy enough when the villagers were grateful for the tiny little dwelling places, but now they were not. They were too old-fashioned: no nice bow windows poking out into space, with imitation Tudor beams holding them up. No nice electric fires let into the walls set in bright blue tiles; nothing smart, as the villagers grumbled.
And as they grumbled very much Sir George’s son had very tactfully made a change. He explained to his Agent that the cottages were not suitable for villagers: they were too old-fashioned; a different type of tenant was required. Blythe had better set to work to find one. Someone who would appreciate the peculiar charm of the tiny houses, perhaps three friends who wanted to be near one another but not too near. Artists, or people who wrote books. Sir Philip had been vague but decided. And the right sort of tenant had been found. Blythe had been very successful. Charming studious men settled themselves in the little cottages, and wrote books and strolled into the village to post their manuscripts to their London Agents. Others came, painters some of them, and painted and set up their easels in the village street round which groups of children gathered and criticised. All very rural and delightful and easy to manage. Rents were paid regularly: the houses were kept in excellent repair, and the villagers approved of these well-bred guests of theirs. And then for some reason or other everything changed. A feeling of uneasiness crept into the air. War . . . was there going to be a war or wasn’t there? In any event . . . and then somehow the nice cultured men folded up their writing cases and easels and vanished. Some of them went to America, perhaps, but in any event they vanished. And then came the War with its smashing horrors and its disregard of ordinary decencies and London was evacuated of most of its children and Lady Capel got herself some more overalls and set to work. And then came the end of the War and the cottages had to be done up from beginning to end for evacuees had not been taught very well how to behave, and Lady Capel got her son back from the Far East, a thing she had not dared to hope for.
And now they were both sitting on the lawn under the big oak tree. Both a little older, Lady Capel especially so, as the terror of that deadly telegram from the War Office had never really left her, since she saw him step up into the waiting car that was going to take him away from her. But now he was back again. Also she could draw her curtains back at night, thought Lady Capel, whose sense of humour was her strong point. She was smiling now, although she spoke indignantly.
“I assure you, my dear Philip, that I do not exaggerate at all when I tell you that the young woman I met this morning had practically nothing on at all.”
“Really! How attractive. Was she young?”
“Yes, very young. And I went straight to Blythe. I said to him, ‘Blythe, who on earth have you let Merry Widows to this time? Because it won’t do at all. I cannot have people like that about this neighbourhood.’ And he said that he had let them to three ladies who were having a rest.”
“From what?” Sir Philip’s eyes were twinkling.
“From war work.”
“Well, I suppose the poor child was tired of her uniform. Don’t grudge her her freedom from constraining khaki, mother.”
“I don’t, but there must be moderation in all things. The human form is very pleasant, no doubt, but we don’t want to see\^ too much of it. Especially out of doors.”
“Well . . . I suppose it’s all a matter of taste.” Sir Philip stretched out his long legs and laughed. His mother had always amused him: it was part of her charm. It was joy to get back to her: joy to get back to the home that belonged to him; joy to get back to the old servants that remained. Joy, unspeakable joy to be quit of the murder and squalor and filth that was modern War. Poorer . . . one was bound to be much poorer of course, it was inevitable: one couldn’t go on spending thirteen million pounds a day for years and not feel it. But what was comparative poverty when you could draw a free breath? When any fool could get up and bleat out what he, poor simpleton, thought, without risking a lingering and torturing death. In any event . . . Philip drew a long breath and wondered again if it could be true that it was over. Over---free to breathe in the lovely belated November sunshine that made the corner of the glazed-in verandah as hot as July. “Well, I suppose it’s all a matter of taste,” he said it again and laughed aloud as he saw his mother prepare to explode.
“A matter of taste! Nonsense! Don’t be so complacent, Philip: the next thing will be that this wretched girl will be over here, trying to catch you. I believe that there are no lengths to which these modern girls will go to get hold of an eligible man.”
“I am far too old for her.”
“Nonsense, you are only a little over forty.”
“That is old to a young girl.” Sir Philip smiled reminiscently. Why had he never married? he had often wondered. Love affairs, yes, some of them bordering on the serious. But marriage, no. He was too happy at home . . . he was too fond of his mother: he loved his home too much, and if he married, his mother would have to go and he hated the thought of that. She belonged here: she had always been part of it and you would never be able to get a younger woman to understand that. No, he was better as he was, and as the afternoon sunshine came slanting through the old square panes of glass he breathed them in with an amazing feeling of well-being.
“You haven’t told me yet who the young lady is,” he said.
“Blythe says that she is the niece. I explained to you before, although I expect you have forgotten, that the cottages are let to three maiden ladies. And this girl is, apparently, staying with the one who lives in the middle cottage.”
“She must find it dull. No wonder she takes off her clothes when she goes for a walk. Which direction does she take? I must try to meet her. But surely she must find it cold in this weather.”
“1 don’t suppose she cares. These modern girls care for nothing. Fresh air and open windows even in the depth of winter. By the way, you might ring for tea, Philip; I want to go into the village before it gets too dark. Thank God the lamps are lighted again: how did we endure that blackout?”
“I can’t think; I suppose we endured it because we had to.” Sir Philip drew in his long legs and got up. Yes, how had they endured it all, he wondered, as a little later Barton, the old butler, made his exit with his usual respectful inclination of the head. Barton, bound up with his boyhood: the squat old silver teapot from which his mother was pouring out tea: the tray it stood on, all unimportant in themselves, perhaps, but interwoven with the very intricacies of his memory. “Yes, I must go and call. What is the name of the three old maids of Lee?” Sir Philip was helping himself to hot buttered teacake.
“Milne. Their father was an admiral, I gather. Admiral Sir Claude Milne. Oh, yes, their antecedents leave nothing to be desired.”
“That must be a relief to you.”
“Yes, I know you think I am a snob. And I don’t care if you do, because I am one. Yes, the three women are gentlewomen; not that I have seen them, because I haven’t: I always think it the very greatest mistake to interfere with one’s tenants. They always immediately ask for something if you appear to be friendly. But Blythe says that they are charming: especially the one with whom the niece is staying. She is the youngest of the sisters, so he says.”
“How old is she?”
“Blythe thinks about thirty-five or so.”
“Really? Quite young, in fact.”
“Yes, if only she had some money, she would do for you, Philip. Not that I want you to marry, because I don’t. But I am always afraid of your suddenly arriving with some young woman who looks like those young women who used to sell in those kiosks at the Old Earl’s Court Exhibition. I don’t know why I have that fear, but I have. Girls are so clever nowadays, and nice men of your age, so incredibly stupid.”
“Perhaps we are not so stupid as we look,” Sir Philip, leaning forward to double a slice of brown bread and butter together, was smiling.
“No, perhaps not.” Lady Capel, busily eating buttered teacake, was frowning. “In fact, we will hope not. In fact, we will say you aren’t and that will help to make it so.”
“Splendid!”
“You are laughing at me. Have some more tea.”
“Thanks. No, I never laugh at you, Mother. I appreciate you far too much for that.”
“Darling!” Lady Capel was silent for a moment or two. How had she lived, she was wondering briefly, when he had not been there? How did people live when they had lost the one person who made their lives the thing it was? Well, they didn’t live: they existed only, existed until the moment of release came. Release---and that word started another train of thought. A rather tiresome thought; Lady Capel was frowning again.
“Blythe says that the Miss Milne in the centre cottage is interested in Spiritualism,” she said abruptly.
“Indeed?”
“Yes, and that the other sisters don’t like it at all.”
“Why not?”
“They think it blasphemous.”
“Really! Why?”
“Well, it is, Philip. Of course it is. It is contrary to the whole teaching of the Church. I am surprised at you; I thought you would have been horrified at the idea.”
“I might have been once.” Sir Philip was silent as his mother stared at him. Should he tell her or should he not? No, this was not the moment. Besides, the vision had been so fleeting. Also it had been during the War. Actually on the battlefield, and men did see things on the battlefield. Also in the half-light: yes, there had been heaps of explanations of that dramatic happening: not that he had needed any of them, because he had known it was real. But people like his mother needed leading gently up to an affair like that. “Tell me some more about this particular old maid of Lee,” he said.
“Well, I don’t know that I know much more. Except that the way she goes on upsets the other two sisters very much. You see, they are both good Churchwomen so it would naturally upset them.”
“Why, I wonder?”
“Well, naturally it would.”
“I don’t see why?” Sir Philip leant forward and set his cup down on a little rosewood table. “Not that I hold a brief for Spiritualism, Mother, and as a matter of fact I very much dislike the word. It has been abused, you see, and it conjures up the vision of rather a sordid form of curiosity which is very far from the truth. The Early Church no doubt practised Spiritualism: at least we gather that it did. For instance”—Sir Philip stretched out his long legs, sliding a little lower in his chair. “For instance, Mother, Origen the Sage, whom St. Jerome considers as the greatest Master of the Church, after the Apostles, speaks of the manifestations of the dead. He tells us that ‘Many people have embraced the Christian faith because their hearts were changed by the apparition of a spirit. I take God,’ he says, ‘to witness the truth of what I say. He knows that I would not recommend the doctrine of Jesus Christ by fabulous tales, but by truth of incontestable facts.’ That is the word of a very fine old fellow and can be found in his Principles.”
“Well, you amaze me.” Lady Capel spoke after rather an uncomfortable silence. The result of the War, of course; horrors shook a man and it took some time for the effect to wear off. “How did you find all this out?”
“A fellow in our Mess was keen on this sort of thing. I used to talk to him, sometimes. But don’t be alarmed, Mother, I shan’t go off my head or anything. You won’t find the tea table suddenly climbing up the wall or the inkpot turning upside down with the ink still safely in it.”
“No, I hope not.” Lady Capel was laughing softly. She would not appear concerned, because she wasn’t. Philip was far too sensible: far too balanced. He always came to Church with her. He was a sidesman. He was her son and her darling. Suddenly the realisation that he was still there overcame her and her eyes filled with tears.
“Philip.”
“What is it, darling?” But there was no need to ask. Sir Philip got up out of his chair and stood behind his mother.
“Those awful days . . . when I thought perhaps you would never come back.”
“I know: but they are over. I felt it, too. Although I knew that I should come back.”
“How?”
“Never mind now. You ought to be going out if you are to catch any of the light. I’ll walk part way with you and then scout round to see if I can find the young lady with nothing on. Come on, go and get your hat on.” Sir Philip stooped and laid his lips on his mother’s hair.
“Promise me that you won’t marry her.”
“I promise you,” said Sir Philip solemnly and his clean-shaven lips broke into a very charming smile, as he slipped his hands under his mother’s elbows and heaved her up out of the cretonne-covered chair.
Penelope Milne was glad that her sisters had settled that she should live in the middle of the little row of cottages, because she liked it the best of the three. Not that that would have mattered, because her sisters had always settled things for her whether she liked them best or not. She was the youngest, of course, and had been left to them to look after when their mother and father died. Each sister had the same income; that, the other two had not been able to alter, although they had tried. For Penelope was so unbusinesslike: so easily influenced by others. The two elder sisters had sat very straight up in their chairs with their queer perched hats and had started at the lawyer as if to bend him to their will.
But they couldn’t: Mr. Paton was adamant. To begin with, he liked Miss Penelope Milne much the best of the three Miss Milnes and thought her charming. Women were not supposed to be sensible, thought the old lawyer indulgently; they were much more attractive if they weren’t. Men were the sensible ones. He said so as nicely as he could, for the Miss Milnes were apt to stay too long and his time was valuable.
“I don’t think so,” said Miss Phoebe Milne briskly. “I see that on the committees on which I sit. They are irresolute and waste far too much time in listening to what other people have to say.”
“Yes,” said Miss Dorothy Milne staunchly. For Dorothy had learnt that as she always had to agree with Phoebe in the end it was better to do so at the beginning.
“Well . . .” Mr. Paton played with his fountain pen and wondered if he would lift his knee so that it pressed the bell under his desk and brought his personal clerk on the scene. And then he decided that he wouldn’t. For he wanted to find out how his three clients were getting on in their new home. It was a venture for them after their secluded life in their London flat, now a heap of smoothed-over rubble.
“How do you like your new abode?” he enquired. “Is it as charming as it sounds?”
“Much more charming,” said Miss Phoebe crisply. “The name is ridiculous, of course, and in very bad taste. But the cottages are delightful. Each complete in itself and very easy to run. And to do the rough work we have managed to obtain an extremely efficient charwoman. She goes to each of us in turn; to Penelope first because she appears to have acquired the habit of early morning tea, a habit that my sister and I have mercifully avoided, and then to Dorothy and myself. She cooks for us if we want her to; in fact, she is a distinct find.”
“I am delighted.”
“So are we,” both sisters spoke at once.
“And have you met your landlord yet?”
“Not yet. We have seen him in Church: he is a sidesman.”
“Is he indeed?” Mr. Paton was astonished. For Sir Philip was a client of his. The sisters did not know it, of course, and probably never would. “Really, really.” Mr. Paton played with his fountain pen again.
“Yes, he and Lady Capel sit a few seats in front of us. He is a fine looking man, we think. And he follows the service very attentively which is also pleasing in these days of staring and fidgeting. Not that there is much to stare at, for mercifully Mr. Attwell has retained his common sense and there is none of that distressing display of ritual that has brought the Church into so much discredit.”
“Is it that that has brought it into discredit?” Mr. Paton spoke mildly, for he knew better than to provoke a client by expressing his own religious convictions.
“Of course,” and as Miss Phoebe spoke very firmly, Mr. Paton decided that he could with justification press the bell with his knee. He did so and his personal clerk appeared.
“When you are free, sir, there is a gentleman who would like . . .” Old Sam Cummins, who had been with Mr. Paton for nearly fifty years, always said the same thing. Although his master’s response varied. When Mr. Paton thought that the client sitting in front of him wanted a shove he would say, “I am free now, Cummins.” If he thought that the client would take the hint and get up himself he said, “I shall be free in a moment or two, Cummins.” As Cummins stood there waiting, the pale November sunshine seemed to flicker round Mr. Paton’s even paler clean-shaven chin as he said, “I am free now, Cummins,” and stood up.
And in a moment or two the two Miss Milnes were standing on the pavement outside the old offices. Miss Phoebe was cross. “I don’t like Mr. Paton,” she straightened her uncertainly balanced hat with an angry hand.
“Oh, Phoebe, why not?” Miss Dorothy was distressed. They had been going to have a happy day in London and now, if Phoebe was cross, it was all spoilt. For Phoebe out of temper was awful. Awful with a sort of pervading awfulness. Long ago Phoebe had been engaged to a curate, and on one frightful day he had overheard her scolding a maid and had at once broken it off. “My helpmeet must be a helpmeet in very truth and not a shrew”; he had said the frightful words in front of them all in the hall, and the maid had burst out with “It serves her jolly well right; she’s always at it,” and had then rushed away sobbing and screaming into the kitchen. And that had been the end of Miss Phoebe’s fleeting romance. But the gall and wormwood of it had eaten into her soul, for she had really loved the rather priggish young man. And from that day onward she had more or less hated everybody with a bitterness of resentment that she could very often not conceal. Only Dorothy would put up with her, for Dorothy, who had never had a love affair at all and had always longed for one, understood. Penelope couldn’t understand. For surely there was so much that in life that was marvellous and adventurous and stimulating, you didn’t need only a love affair to make it all worth while.
“That’s because you are virginal, darling Aunt Penelope.” Susan Milne, yellow haired and sprawling over the end of the low couch, spoke affectionately.
“Virginal?”
“Of course. If you are in your bathing dress and a man came along you would scuttle behind a rock and blush scarlet. He would have seen your outlines and that would be too appalling for words. The human form is a thing of shame and must be concealed at any cost.”
“I never know whether you are making fun of me or not.” Penelope Milne had large shy eyes and they were shy now. “I can’t keep pace with you, Susan; all your ideas seem to me to be so queer. Things that we used to keep secret you say straight out. There isn’t any reticence. Is it right for it to be like that, darling, or isn’t it?”
“It’s right.” Susan’s scarlet lips were smiling. “We get rid of our repressions like that. You, sweet angel, are teeming with them. Virginal repressions: at least we’ll hope they are virginal.”
“I don’t think they have had much chance to be anything else.” Penelope’s wide eyes were amused. She is a darling, thought Susan, a real darling and as innocent as a kitten. How can she be the sister of that old bitch at the end of the row? Or that silly old simpleton at the other end? No wonder Daddy likes her much the best: there isn’t any comparison between them. “I am not so sure of there not being any chance,” she said. “I’ve just seen a very attractive man just about the right age for you. Tall, lean and what I call hard-bitten. An air about him, don’t you know, the sort of person like Daddy, only younger, of course. Who is he, I wonder?”
“I should say, Sir Philip Capel,” said Penelope, after a little pause. “Our landlord, He and his mother live up at the Moat, about a mile from here. I’ve never seen him to speak to because, of course, all the business about these cottages is done by Mr. Blythe, his Agent. But I’ve seen him in church and he answers to the description that you have just given me of him.”
“Good gracious me, on your very doorstep! Penelope, darling, frisk up! Get another hat if you haven’t any coupons left for a suit. Not that your clothes are so bad; you do seem to have struck out for the shore, if I might describe it like that. Because Aunt Phoebe’s are a disgrace and so are Dorothy’s. But yours are nice in a rather unobtrusive way. How old are you, darling?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“I’m old. Dreadfully old. Hundreds of years old.”
“In mind you’re well under seven. Years don’t count. Tell me, darling.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Good heavens, that’s nothing. Sir Philip must be over forty. He hadn’t a hat on and the hair over his ears was beginning to turn white, you know . . . desperately attractive that always is. Darling, he’s for you, I know it. Pull yourself together and get ready for it. Because you’ll need some preparation, my sweet. You’ve sunk a bit, but it’s not too late.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But somehow Susan’s sweet interest in her was very consoling, thought Penelope briefly. Because, although she was old she didn’t want to be. Her life had made her old: her sisters had made her old. She had had to be old; it wouldn’t have been possible to be anything else. Their life at home had been old; devoted daughters to an ailing mother and an old martinet of a father. Plenty of money, so no need to go buffeting out into the world. In fact, it wouldn’t have been possible; such a thing would never have been permitted. The baby of the family, she had been even more sheltered than the other two. No . . . it was too late; but as she faced the vivid sparkling thing that was her niece, Penelope Milne suddenly wished that it wasn’t too late.
“Don’t unsettle me, Susan,” she said.
“Unsettle you! But that’s exactly what I want to do,” said Susan. “You’re getting set, like plaster of Paris. And you’re too young for that. Besides, why should you get set? You’ve got a home of your own now. Oh, I know you’ve got a tiresome sister on each side of you, but still, you don’t have to sit by the same fire every night, or face them at the same dining table. And you can lock your front door and keep them out. Don’t let their thoughts get through the walls: ossifying thoughts. Old, old thoughts that will turn you as rigid and unbendable as they are, so that to alter you’ve got to smash all up and go to pieces.”
“Oh, Susan darling.”
“Yes, but I mean it.” Susan sat very straight up and drew in her legs. “I don’t know what it is, but something seems to have shaken me all up inside. Here I am, after three days here, all trembling and excited. Perhaps it is that I’ve got a new job . . . but I’ll tell you about that later; that’s too exciting to burst on you now, you’d never survive it. No, but darling, it’s about you. I seem to see you. . . . Oh, I can’t explain it. I seem to get something from this room: something that’s all round you seems to be gathering into shape; I can’t express it. I know you’re keen on that sort of thing, very timidly, I know, but keen: unseen things and all that. Terrified that Phoebe shouldn’t approve but determined in spite of it. But here it is, taking shape all round you. Oh . . .” Susan suddenly gave a little cry. “No, he’s gone---but I saw him. There behind you. Penelope, he was there, as large as life and he was laughing.”
“Who was there?”
“Sir Philip Capel, the man I met this evening. Looking down on you and laughing. Just as he would laugh because you are such a little duck and so silly. Oh, Penelope.” Susan sat still with her hands pressed over her bright eyes.
“Did you really see him?”
“Yes, I did.” Susan lifted her face from her hands. Yes, it was the same sweet little sitting room with the prints and the parchment-coloured distemper and the carpet running up to the walls. And the bright little fire and her aunt sitting opposite to her. Yes, but there was a difference in her aunt. Something shining about her aunt, something that Susan had never seen before.
“If you did really see him, please never tell anybody,” said Penelope slowly. “One can’t: one mustn’t; it doesn’t do. You see, people are prejudiced; they are ignorant; they forget that we are really only vibrations, ourselves; they like to think of us as awfully solid. I am only just beginning: I hardly ever speak to anyone about it; in fact I don’t at all, I only read books. But the sisters would never forgive it: they would tell the Vicar and it would make a fuss. Darling, please. . . .”
“Good heavens, I shan’t tell a soul,” said Susan briskly. “Anything you do, my lamb, is sacred to me. And now, to save adverse comment, I’m going to pop along to see the aunts. You sit and meditate and when I come in again I’ll get the supper and we’ll have it on a tray in here by the fire. I’ll cut sandwiches and slab on the butter because the War’s over, and we’ll be as happy as kings.”
“Yes, do, darling.” Still sunk in her low chair Penelope watched her niece swing herself off the sofa and disappear. And then she herself sat very still. That long straight back: in church she had caught herself looking at it and had felt secretly ashamed. The keen profile with the sensitive mouth: once it had been turned to her and her eyes had absorbed it. Philip . . . it was a delightful name: lying there Penelope Milne closed her eyes and thought about it.
A little later, close up to the bright sparkling fire, Susan and her aunt began their supper. A nice supper, the sort of supper Penelope loved and had never been able to have in the London flat. Coffee, boiling hot and with froth on the top of the milk jug. Sandwiches: ham and tongue mixed and crisp lettuce in a glass dish to munch at the same time. Cold plum pie, with a jug of cream to pour over it and as much castor sugar as you wanted. All eaten right in the fire; it was heavenly.
“And now, tell me what you are going to do in London,” said Penelope, after a little pause. “When I last heard from Jim he told me that you were starting something new, but he didn’t tell me what it was. Something new with a friend. Something in Bond Street, or is it in a turning off Bond Street? He wasn’t quite dear about that.”
“It’s in a turning off Bond Street. Conduit Street, to be exact. We’ve got offices in a building that belongs to a friend of my friend, so we’ve got them cheap. Otherwise we shouldn’t have been able to afford anything half so smart. I’m going to live with her too: we’ve got a tiny flat right at the very top of the building. We’ve been frightfully lucky really: it’s a gem of a place.”
“And what are you going to do there?”
“Can you stand a shock, darling?” Susan’s eyes were dancing.
“Yes, now that I’ve had some of this boiling hot coffee I can. Also I can stand anything when I’m really warm and I am now. That’s the best of this tiny house, it gets really warm.”
“Aunt Phoebe says that it’s stuffy. She was complaining like anything when I went along just now. All the windows were open; it was too frightful for words. And Aunt Dorothy sat there looking all pinched and withered, not daring to say anything.”
“Yes, Phoebe always loved fresh air. That was the bother in the flat. Everything always had to be open.”
“Why?”
“Well. . . .” In the firelight, Penelope’s delicate face was flushed. Rows . . . endless rows; how she had hated them. Not exactly rows, though, because nobody had ever opposed the eldest sister. But everything in one’s brain clashed and rattled when Phoebe began. Perhaps after all it had been God who had sent that bomb and banged the whole block of flats into rubble and great bits of twisted girders like boa constrictors. No one was hurt except the porter, who had been dug out as cheerful as he always was, because everyone had gone away. And yet, of course, it couldn’t have been God, really. Only it seemed like God because she, Penelope Milne, hadn’t to begin that same old life again. But that was no reason why it should have been a right thing to happen. “Well, darling . . .” she began to try to collect her thoughts.
“You needn’t tell me,” said Susan calmly. “Because I know. Everyone knows that Aunt Phoebe has a fiendish temper: only you won’t say because you are too loyal. Anyhow, she has her own house now so she can have it as uncomfortable as she likes and if Dorothy is fool enough to go and sit in a gale, let her.”
“Yes.” Penelope reached forward and took another sandwich. This was, of course, happiness. A lovely fire, her favourite niece with her, a very comfortable bed and the prospect of a dainty tray of early tea brought to her bedside by a very nice charwoman who let herself in in the mornings. Oh, yes, and the prospect of a really hot bath before she went to bed. Any amount of hot baths because there was an electric heater. Yes, this was living, thought Penelope, drawing in a long breath of happiness.
“And now for my news,” said Susan, after a little pause. “Only I’ll just take away these things first and stack them up for Mrs. Millar. Odd that she should be called Millar: that’s the name of the dear little woman who cleans our offices. A perfect little duck of a woman. Always cheerful, although she must have a dog’s life. Always, cleaning and polishing things that belong to someone else. But still she is always cheerful. Generally when we get there she has gone, but sometimes she pops in at lunch-time to see if everything is all right. Now I’ll take these things away and then come back and we’ll have the most perfect evening: you can sew and I shall smoke and talk. Oh, Pen, darling, we are comfortable, aren’t we?”
“I am.”
“Yes, you look it.” As Susan began to collect the teacups and plates from the low table drawn in close to the fire, she wondered in some faraway part of her, if her aunt wasn’t too comfortable. Because, after a hateful life with a difficult sister, the relief of being away from her must be so terrific that one might be apt to let everything else slide except a luxuriant revelling relief in that. Penelope was still young: not more than thirty-seven at the most. Her hair hadn’t even begun to turn grey. Certainly she had lines round her mouth but her teeth were her own, and they were pretty, slightly inverted.
“I feel as if I ought to be helping you.”
“No, I’ll do it. You look so peaceful. Rest while you can, because what I am soon going to tell you is going to shake you up quite a lot.” Susan was laughing. Her yellow hair seemed to be laughing too. Her lovely mouth . . . why wasn’t Susan engaged to be married? thought Penelope suddenly: or perhaps she was. Susan did not talk very freely about her own affairs, although she always gave the impression of being enormously interested in something or other. This latest venture of hers; what was it? Did her father know and approve? But then Jim had always allowed other people to have their own way. Even Phoebe . . . but then, of course, that had been inevitable. Penelope settled herself a little more comfortably in her chair as Susan went out of the room with the tray. And now she was back again; still smiling and looking somehow as if she had all sorts of delicious secrets tucked away under her shining hair.
“And now for the great news.” Susan dropped into her chair and picked up her cigarette-case from the table. “A frightful pity you don’t smoke, Pen darling; I’m not going to call you aunt any more, you’re too young.” Through the haze of blue smoke Susan’s eyes were derisive.
“Too young: I wish I was.”
“You are; but it will take you some time to find it out. Well, darling, this is the news. Two pieces of news, really, but I’ll tell you the more exciting one first. You know I told you that I had a new job. Well, what do you think it is.”
“Being a secretary to a member of Parliament.”
“No, no such luck. Not that I should like it, because I shouldn’t: I abhor copying out other people’s letters. I had enough of that when I was in the Wrens. They found out that I typed: it was too ghastly for words. No, darling, try again.”
“You tell me straight out. I never can guess things.” Penelope was reaching down for her work bag. She sewed beautifully: little lacey collars and things; Susan always enjoyed watching her small fingers searching about for her working materials.
“Well. . . . “ Susan took a long breath. The flames shone on her dull silk stockings. Aunt Phoebe thought she showed too much of them but then Aunt Phoebe was a fool and had ghastly legs herself. “Well, a friend of mine and I have started a Marriage Bureau,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, I thought it would be a shock to you. It was to Daddy at first. But when I explained it to him he quite saw the sense of it.”
“But Susan. . . .” Penelope’s brain was whirling. Funny little back shops where people had their letters addressed and they had to collect them and sign in a book and pay a penny, or twopence. Queer newspapers, sent under plain cover, that you read furtively because you were frightened of being seen. Odd unmentionable complications that arose and sometimes ended in blackmail and you had to commit suicide to escape appalling disgrace. The low parchment coloured ceiling seemed to be descending on Penelope’s whirling brain.
“Yes, I thought you would be upset. But listen, Pen. Have you ever thought of the hundreds and thousands of gently-born women who would give their souls to meet a nice man whom they could marry and who never can?”
“Yes, but——”
“Have you ever thought of them?”
“Yes, but——”
“Well, but don’t you see that’s what we are for. Listen, I’ll explain. To begin with, we put the advertisement of the Bureau in all the best papers to give it a proper send-off. We put what it was, and what the booking fee was; and the booking fee was heavy, because we wanted to keep our clientele a genuine clientele: I mean, people are not going to pay a five guinea booking fee just for the fun of finding out what a Marriage Bureau is. And then we started. Are you too overcome to listen to any more, darling?”
“No.”
“I run the Bureau with a friend, Marcia Clifford, whom I met in the Wrens. We used to notice how most of the elderly unmarried officers fussed and snapped over details, until a man appeared on the scene. And then something seemed to come over them and they became quite human, especially if the officer was tactful and appeared to regard them as women and not just human beings. And we noticed it in the younger women too: those who were attractive and had men friends were much easier to get on with than those who were plain and only thinking of their work. So we came to the conclusion that Love was a tremendous lubricator: it seemed to soften the works and make the wheels go round more quickly. So we decided that when the War was over we would take a professional view of it, just in the same way that women become doctors or lawyers or anything else; the great joy being that work in the matrimonial market would not mean that we should have to pass exams, which we neither of us could do in any circumstances whatever. Have you anything to say, darling Pen?”
“No, nothing. Go on, my pet.”
“So when we got our discharge we met in Town and talked it all over. Marcia is engaged to a lawyer who has his offices in Conduit Street; as a matter of fact he owns the house. So he, as well as being frightfully convenient over legal questions, gave us two rooms on the first floor. They are at the back, but that doesn’t matter and no one knows that he owns the house, so don’t you tell anyone, Pen. And there we sit: we’ve furnished it very well, you know; very heavy mushroom coloured velvety carpets and curtains; Marcia used to help in a dress shop that went out of business and as luck would have it the woman gave her all the fittings because she got married and didn’t want them any more. And there we sit: two sirens luring the people in. And how they come! . . . heaven on earth, how they come! Five guineas registration fee and ten when ‘suited.’” Susan took the cigarette from between her cherry-coloured lips and crushed out the stub of it on the cut-glass ashtray.
“But. . . .”
“Yes, but that’s just it, there don’t seem to be any * buts,’ Pen. We expected all sorts of setbacks and difficulties; in fact, that was the only condition that Marcia’s young man made: that if we began by making a hash of it and getting involved in any way, the whole thing would have to shut down. He is fairly young, you see: his father, who was the head of the firm, has only just died. And Marcia’s young, too, and has the sense not to want to get married at once; he wants to be free to get the work going after the bad days of the War, and Marcia wants to have the fun of this before she settles down too. So there we are, as happy as birds in a nest. It’s frightfully exciting, too, to get letters and then the people come to see what it is all like; you can’t think what fun it all is.”
“But what sort of people come?” Penelope was beginning to feel a little less bewildered. Susan was so practical and so sure of herself, and Jim had always said that she was well able to take care of herself. Perhaps she would not do anything particularly dreadful after all. In any event.
“What sort of people come?” Susan’s slender legs were stretched out straight in front of her, the firelight turning them to rose-colour.
“What sort of people come? Let’s see. Well, people like you . . . little soft mice who have suddenly become conscious that there is more in the world than going to church and hearing the same thing said over and over again; that God made the world good, although we have tried to make it bad. That Male and Female created He them, and that there is more in that than the dreary bringing forth of children who can’t be properly educated; that there is an immortal flame that leaps between a man and a woman: a flame that can’t be quenched for ever and ever and ever. . . . And that the bringing forth of a squalling-baby doesn’t of necessity mean that that flame has been lit between the man and woman who do the trick.”
“Susan!”
“Yes, darling, I thought I should shock you. But you must remember that I have knocked about the world and know that there are hundreds and thousands of different types of men and women. You are the mouse type who believes what the Vicar tells you, even if he doesn’t himself seem to be a very good advertisement for it.”
“There you are mistaken, Susan, I do not.” Penelope had stirred a little in her chair. “As a matter of fact the Vicar has very little influence with me. He is, I am sure, a good man, and Phoebe and Dorothy like him very much. I go to church: simply because it would upset them if I didn’t. But if you think that what I believe begins and ends there you are very much mistaken.”
“The mouse suddenly sits up on its darling little hind legs and squeaks.”
“Yes, it can squeak when its beliefs are attacked.” Penelope was smiling. “But don’t let’s talk about beliefs: let’s talk about this extraordinary Bureau of yours: tell me some more, Susan.” Penelope raised herself a little in her chair. “Have you ever had any clients whom you have, as you express it, suited?”
“Yes, several. You see, we do it like this. Pretend it’s you, for instance: it isn’t and never could be, but just pretend. You come in and pay your five guineas and we write your name down in our book. Say Sir Philip comes in. Oh, I’m only just giving him as an example, and also pays his five guineas. Then Marcia and I sit and discuss it in the evening and think of all the people who would do for you. Then we think of all the people who would do for Sir Philip. And we decide on you. We then arrange for you and Sir Philip to meet somewhere; for tea at a restaurant, for instance; we generally choose Patricia’s in Milk Street, because we know her and she has lovely tearooms. Also there’s a band, which helps. We ask you to go there and we give Sir Philip your description. He comes up and says ‘how do you do,’ and the trick is done.”
“But supposing the trick isn’t done. Supposing he takes a dislike to me.”
“That’s where the Bureau comes in. It is the very apotheosis of tact. Sir Philip comes back to us and says that you do not come up to his requirements. We break it to you, that he thinks you are too young and pretty, or something to that effect: that he wants someone more staid. And then we start off again with both of you.”
“I can imagine nothing more hopelessly humiliating,” Penelope spoke almost violently. “To be had out on approval, as it were, and then turned down again. Why, the very idea of it is degrading.”
“But it isn’t really more degrading than getting to know a young man and then his either wanting to see you again or not,” said Susan mildly. “It sounds worse because it’s all more concentrated, so to speak. But it’s the same thing really.”
“I don’t think so at all.” Suddenly Penelope flushed scarlet. “I can see it as if it was me,” she said. “All tricked up to look my best and then Sir Philip summing me up and relinquishing me as a poor old thing who was trying to look her best, and just for him! Susan, I am ashamed of you for having anything to do with anything of the kind.”
“But it’s being a roaring success!”
“Well, then, all I can say is that women have lost all the fine feeling that they ever had.”
“But what are they to do if they want to meet someone and can’t?”
“They must go without.”
“Well, darling,” Susan sighed. “Don’t let’s talk about it; it only upsets you: you’ve got quite red in the face. Shall I tell you my other piece of news?”
“Yes.” Penelope was hunting for her handkerchief. The tiny little sitting-room seemed to be hemming her in. And yet wasn’t it better to be hemmed in than to be exposed to the great gaunt ugly world that took no account of reticences and finenesses of thought and spirit? If this was a sample of the post-War world, then it had surely been better as it was. Susan! her darling niece. Trafficking in the souls and emotions and even the bodies of her customers. Horrible. “Yes, tell me your other piece of news,” she said, and she stuffed her handkerchief into her work bag again.
“I am engaged,” said Susan softly. “To Tony; you will remember him. He was blinded in the war and he wanted me to give him up but I loved him so much that I couldn’t. We are going to be married as soon as we can: he is being trained to do something . . . anything, so that he can earn a little. And so you see that is why I must go on earning. I shall be able to; his sister will live with us: she is a dear and we are great friends. And that will set me free to go on with the Bureau and so you must wish it luck, darling Penelope, even although you may not approve of it.”
“Oh, my darling.” For Susan’s lovely blue eyes were blinded with tears.
“It’s so awful,” she choked. “He loved everything so: open air things and he was training to be an architect. And now it’s all gone for him: my poor darling, and he is so brave about it.”
“Perhaps he will be suddenly cured.” Penelope was down on her knees on the hearthrug. “But in any event he has you, Susan: think of the unutterable joy of that for him.”
“Yes, he seems to be rather pleased about it.” Susan was blowing her nose and smiling. “And if he is, I am glad. And now, Aunt Pen, it’s time for the news. What happened to all the things that are happening now while the war was on?”
“They happened, but there wasn’t time to tell us about them.” Still on her knees, Penelope’s sensitive mouth was quivering. She is still very good-looking, though Susan, wiping her eyes and sniffing and thinking of Tony and of how she loved and adored his silent eyes. Such patient eyes, hidden away behind those white lids. To steady herself she reached out and took another cigarette from her case.
The next day was a very beautiful one. One of those golden days that November seems to produce from some hidden store of her own, and send flooding over a delighted world. The village shone and glittered with the sunshine on the heavy dew. Susan, radiant in a very vivid dressing-gown, stood by Penelope’s bed and suggested that they should make a day of it and go by bus into the neighbouring market town. “And what do you think,” she said. “I’ve been reading the paper; Mrs. Millar brought it up with my tea; quite wrong of her, because it ought to have come to you first, but she says that you don’t like it until after tea. And that seraphic Lord Woolton, who kept us from starving during the War, has said that we needn’t have coupons for overalls. So I’m going to buy the most decorative one that ever was and we can easily take all day doing it and have a very cheap lunch for which I shall pay, because you’re such an angel to have me to stay.”
“Oh, darling, it does sound fun.” Penelope, in a very pretty bed cap, looked smiling and alert. Yes, it would be fun to go into Marsham Market: it was gay and it had one of those charming wide High Streets and there were one or two really nice shops and a Woolworth’s, which was always exciting. “Let’s catch the ten o’clock bus. I’ll tell Mrs. Millar and I know she’ll come back and do our supper instead of lunch; she does that for me if I ever go up to London for the day. Send her up, will you, darling, and I’ll tell her at once so that she can arrange her work that way.”
So that was that. Susan ran along after breakfast, to tell her Aunt Dorothy that they were going out for the day. Every time she saw her Aunt Dorothy she wondered how it was that Penelope was her sister. Dorothy had a look of permanent mournfulness. The corners of her mouth drooped and her eyes were faded. She looked as if she could never, in any circumstances whatever, have any fun. Susan came back to say that Dorothy thought it was going to rain and that Penelope was to be sure to take her umbrella, and that would she get her some darning wool.
Penelope, in a neat little felt hat, was getting into her fur coat. She had a basket beside her, a pretty basket with blue let into it. Her gloves were nice gloves, too, also of fur. Her aunt dressed quite well, thought Susan: rather old-fashioned, perhaps, but still that could be altered in time. If only Fate would arrange that she and Tony could come and live near Penelope. In this sweet village with its drowsy days and quiet nights, only disturbed by the owls that occupied the two high trees opposite to Merry Widows. Merry Widows; what a ridiculous name for a row of cottages, thought Susan, as they left their little green painted front door, with Mrs. Millar standing there to see them off. Especially cottages in which Aunt Phoebe lived! Mercifully they hadn’t to pass her particular cottage to get into the main village street, otherwise she would have been screaming injunctions to them and flustering Penelope before she could get out of hearing. Awful to be so cross, thought Susan, gay and vivid in her short fur coat and Russian cap. A frightful result of being unmarried, when you needn’t have been if you had only kept your temper. Cheerfully, and feeling that they were going to have some fun, Susan hopped lightly up into the waiting bus.
While Sir Philip Capel went wandering round the stables. Stables that were very nearly empty, although not quite. Although in a way he was glad of it. For it was frightfully difficult to get labour. The post-war world was a very different world from the one that had preceded it. Reconstruction on a vast scale was going on. Sir Philip was desperately anxious to get his farm going again but the difficulties were almost insuperable. The man who had looked after it before the War had joined up and been killed. Even if he could collect the remnants of his herd of Jersey cows and get them going again, it would be something. Cows: a couple of horses: pigs, just something to make one feel that one was part of the great Mother Earth, thought Sir Philip, strolling along in the sunshine and breathing in the lovely crisp autumn air. He could afford it, at least; they could afford it because his mother’s fortune was still more or less intact. Taxation halved it, of course, but still they had enough and to spare. And as Sir Philip reflected he suddenly felt uneasy. What right had they to have enough and to spare? What right had they to have the beloved old home? What right had they to be able to keep a couple of gardeners and a butler, and a stable boy? What right had he to be able to stroll along in the sunshine as he was strolling now? Oughtn’t he to be working at something instead of wishing he had someone to work for him? Oughtn’t they to be doing some good with their money instead of using it for their own comfort? Certainly they paid generous wages to devoted servants, but still . . . and then suddenly Sir Philip stopped walking and took his cigarette from between his clean-shaven lips. Here it was again . . . that amazing feeling. As if he was standing on the threshold of something. As if he could very nearly see through, and yet not quite. As if he was surrounded by an Invisible Host. The same feeling that he had had on that awful night when they were fighting with their backs to the shattered town of Calais. Forced back inch by inch, but still fighting. Until he had staggered back into the shelter of an old archway to take breath and felt his father’s hand on his arm and his father’s voice in his ear. “It’s all right, Phil, I’ve got my eye on you and you’ll be back in the old home again.” A stupefying experience and one of which he had never spoken to anyone. But here it was again: he flung his cigarette into the wet grass and shut his eyes, and stood very still.
And half an hour later he was strolling through the little village street of Chapelshades. Here were his cottages: he crinkled up his eyes as he looked at them, for the midday sunshine was bright on the cream distemper. Pretty curtains, especially in the middle one of the three. The grass lawn in front of them was well mown too; it looked charming close up to the cream walls. That was the best of having cultured tenants; they knew that such little details were important. And then Sir Philip stood still in the middle of the deserted village street. Who was that man creeping along with his hand on the walls? That was odd. A young man and not too well dressed either. Fishy: Sir Philip stood and watched him. He had passed the first cottage and was coming to the middle one, his thin hand still feeling along the wall, as if he was trying to do whatever he was going to do as noiselessly as possible. He would investigate this, for the blank look of the cottages gave Sir Philip the feeling that the tenants of them were out. Shopping, probably; it was just twelve: the midday train from London had gone on its tempestuous way about ten minutes before. Sir Philip opened and shut the little white gate that led into the green-grassed enclosure, and walked rather quietly along until he stood just behind the young man. A young man who had stopped fumbling and was standing there with his head a little bent as if he was thinking.
“Can I do anything for you?” Sir Philip spoke rather curtly.
But the young man, whoever he was, was quite equal to this sudden enquiry. An old hand at it, thought Sir Philip. There had been several very unpleasant happenings lately: old ladies found tumbled up in their lavender-scented sitting-rooms with their money and jewellery all gone.
“Yes, you can,” the young man spoke evenly. “Is this the middle cottage of a row called ‘Merry Widows’?”
“Yes.”
“Will you very kindly show me which is the bell?”
“Can’t you see it for yourself?” Sir Philip was incensed at this calm acceptance of the situation. He had been a fool to act so precipitantly; he ought to have waited to see what the fellow would do and to have caught him red-handed.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” The instant rejoinder was courteous.
Sir Philip, in horror at what he had done, was speechless. “I say, I cannot sufficiently apologise.” He found his voice at last.
“Don’t. I assure you I am quite used to it.” The strange blank eyes looked oddly alive. “That’s the worst of not looking blind: people don’t realise it and think you are up to something. No, I am a genuine case, believe me; I wish I wasn’t---and I am looking for someone called Susan Milne. She is staying with an aunt of the same name; at least, the surname is the same.”
“You are at the right house; let me ring the bell for you.”
“No, please let me, if you will show me where it is. You see, it makes me feel more independent. I have come down from London by train, and all by myself, too, which is a step in advance. Oh, thank you very much.”
“Do, at least, let me wait and see if they are in.”
Oh, yes, do, if you like.” The young man tugged at the old-fashioned bell and waited. And as they stood there Philip watched the sensitive brown face. It was quivering as steps sounded along the hall. The front door opened: a woman in coat and hat ready to go out. The charwoman, obviously; she spoke respectfully.
“No, Sir, the young lady has gone out for the day with Miss Milne. Can I take a message?”
“No, thank you.” And then the door was shut again. “I have drawn a blank. It was stupid of me to come; I must go back again.” The young man turned. “Thank you most awfully for coming to my rescue, Sir.”
“Please.” Something in Sir Philip was struggling for expression. He felt strange . . . unlike himself. Everything was strange; even the November sunshine was strange. Its brilliance seemed unearthly: making a background for something else. . . . This scene had all been enacted before. On some other plane. He stood there as again there was the sound of footsteps from within and the front door opened and the charwoman emerged. Had she not known who he was she would have asked them their business, thought Sir Philip, but she did know him, for her son was employed in his garden, so with a little respectful murmur she hurried away, leaving them standing where they were.
“Well,” the young man spoke again and his firm lips smiled. “Having drawn a blank I will return from whence I came,” he said and began to walk along the narrow paved path. “And thank you very much for coming to my rescue, Sir, as I have already said.”
“No, no, please”; there was a queer urgency in Sir Philip’s voice. “The ladies will be coming back in an hour or so: they will have to take the return bus from Marsham Market; there is only one. Do let me take you home with me to luncheon. I live not far from here; I shall be delighted, and then you can pay your call later in the afternoon.”
“Oh no, thank you most awfully”; the young man’s voice was very decided. “I can catch a train back, easily. You see, it was silly of me to come, really; a very pronounced sign of weakness and it serves me right that it hasn’t come off.”
“I don’t see that at all. It is very nearly lunch time. After luncheon you can go back to London if you want to: there is a fast train at half past two and I will motor you to the station.”
“No, no really, thanks.” The young man stood very still and his mouth trembled. “I may as well be frank,” he said, “because you are being so extremely kind. But I am not fit now to sit down with decent people to eat. I make a filthy mess of myself, or I might.”
“Please.” To Sir Philip’s horror he felt a rush of something like tears to his eyes. “Please. . . . When I reflect that had it not been for young men like you, every day and every night of our lives would be a horror and a nightmare. You will hurt me very seriously if you refuse to come home with me. Allow me, at least, the privilege of giving you something to eat before you return to London.”
“Well . . .” The young man seemed to be hesitating. “Your wife . . .”
“I haven’t one.” Sir Philip burst out laughing. “So you cannot raise that objection. My mother and I live together and I know that she will be delighted.”
“Your mother?” The young man’s face lightened. “Ah! that makes a difference---mothers make allowances. Mine did.”
“You have a mother?”
“I had. She was caught in occupied France and died there. My father was killed in the last war but one.”
“I see. I am sorry I asked.”
“No, please don’t be. I invited the question. Yes, I will gladly come back to luncheon with you. Which way?”
“Will you take my arm?”
“Yes, although I generally don’t. But I feel that you are not offering it to me out of pity. That’s what blind people loathe most---pity. I like to say to you, show me the way and feel that you understand. What is your name, please?” Slipping his arm into Sir Philip’s the two men turned into the village street.
“Capel. Sir Philip Capel to be exact.”
“There was a Major Capel in our bomb disposal squad. A R.E.”
“My cousin.”
“Blown to pieces. I often wonder what it feels like. One minute alive and here, and the next moment dead and gone. Alive still, of course, but somewhere else. It’s like being blinded: one second you’re all alert and keen and eyeing everything, and the next you’re staring into a dark pit and fumbling. Queer.”
“Is that how you lost your sight?”
“Yes. I ought to have been killed and wasn’t. In my blacker moments I wish I had been. It’s my optic nerve: the blast extinguished it. But don’t let’s talk about me. I can smell cows. Not smell them exactly, but they’re there. May we stand still a moment if we’ve got time? I don’t know how far away your house is.”
“We’re inside the lodge gates: only about a ten minutes’ walk. We’ve got loads of time. Yes, you’re right about the cows, but they are a good way away.”
“Are they? But that doesn’t matter, they’re there. I love cows: I always have done. Is there a fence or anything? Could I get over it and go in among them? That’s what I should love to do if you didn’t mind.”
“Of course; another few yards and we shall come to a gate. Here it is.” Sir Philip unlatched it and the young man went through.
“Let me go on alone, if you don’t mind, if there aren’t any ditches or anything. There’s something about a cow that goes to my head. When I was a small boy I used to stay on a farm with a Jersey herd and the farmer used to let me milk them because he said I got more milk than the farm hands did.” The young man started to walk on alone, and Sir Philip followed more slowly. His cows were docile enough but you never knew; when a man couldn’t see where he was going---and then Sir Philip watched, astonished, as he saw the cows lift their heads at the young man’s whistle. An unforgettable scene: he never forgot it. The tall figure of the young man, and his bare head with the sunshine making it fairer still. The cows trotting towards him in an intent interested crowd. Seven of them: he stood there surrounded. “There’s a pony somewhere”; smiling, he lifted his head to shout the words.
“Yes, in the far corner of the field.”
“Watch him come, too,” and then another whistle: a different tone this time. The fat grey pony lifted his head and gave a little whinny. And then he, too, started to trot towards the tall thin figure. Oh! for a camera, thought Sir Philip, to immortalise this amazing scene. The pony advancing from his corner, the cluster of cows: the fair head overtopping them. And then the young man speaking quietly and reasonably.
“Get out of the way, you fellows, and let me get through. No, stay where you are and don’t push. Oh, here’s the pony, determined not to be left behind! Where’s your nose, old boy,, and don’t shove about because I haven’t got any sugar.” A cheerful exhilarated voice and the sun shining on the white teeth. There he stood, his agony of loss forgotten. Born to deal with animals. Sir Philip’s heart gave a great leap as he stood there watching. His chance . . . his chance to do something for a fellow human being. But his voice was even, as he spoke.
“You’re marvellous with animals, young man. Have you ever had any training in farm work?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to have to do with animals. But I’ve never been able to. I passed too many exams, and then the War came. And now you see it’s too late.” Like a cloud the despair came down again. They walked together to the little gate: the cows and pony stood dejectedly watching them go. One cow bellowed mournfully in their wake.
“Don’t be a fool,” the young man turned and waved. “You’ll see me again on my way to the station,” he said, and smiled.
Old Barton, the butler, after hearing Sir Philip’s whispered words, came forward speaking confidentially.
“If you will allow me, Sir, I will show you the way to the cloakroom.”
“Oh, thanks very much. Give me an arm, will you? I don’t want to fall over anything.” But as Sir Philip turned to go into the drawing-room to tell his mother that there was an unexpected guest to luncheon, he unconsciously noted the change in the boy’s voice. There was a lilt in it: a sound of assurance. Something had given him confidence: for some reason or other life had taken on a different hue. “Look here, mother,” Sir Philip spoke urgently.
“Poor boy; where is he?” Lady Capel looked up from her writing table and frowned. “Blind . . . at that age: how appalling. That fiendish War! Of course you did right to ask him to luncheon.”
“Barton has taken him along to wash. The boy is frightfully sensitive: says that he makes a mess of himself at meals. Put him with his back to the window and tell him so. Speak as if he wasn’t blind: you’ll know how to do it.”
“Of course I shall know! You seem to forget that I worked at St. Dunstan’s during the War. Ah, here he is.” Lady Capel got up. “This is very delightful,” she said cordially; “my son has just told me that you are going to have luncheon with us, and in this out-of-the-way place, we welcome an unexpected guest, especially one that comes from London. Sit here, facing the window: the view is delightful and until the gong sounds I can tell you about it. And you’ll have some sherry, of course. I’ll get it for you myself, just to show how glad I am to see you. Here you are.” Skilfully and tactfully Lady Capel had advanced to meet her guest and was holding his hand close in hers.
“Thank you very much indeed”; with a sort of queer old-world courtesy Tony Fellowes raised the small be-ringed hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Oh, dear, how nice! No one has kissed my hand since I spent a winter in Rome years and years ago. Now, then, here is your chair. Is that all right?”
“Perfect.” Tony sank back and sighed. This was how people ought to behave and never did. No word of apology: no halting and rather awkward pity; nothing but just normal behaviour, which was what a blind person craved for and hardly ever got.
“And now here is your sherry and I’ll tell you what you are looking at. Firstly, a terrace and at the moment it’s rather devoid of anything but its own stones, but soon the yellow jasmine will be out: a winter flower that I love and always have heaps of. Beyond, there’s the lawn and trees on it and I expect---yes, there’re far too many leaves. But Walters, the head gardener, finds the work rather heavy now and it’s difficult to get younger men at the moment.”
“I can see it all,” said Tony, slowly. “And the grass is grey with dew and in one place there is a line of long sloping footmarks where Tom has walked with his broom. He held the broom above the grass so it hasn’t made any marks. And the trees are more or less bare of leaves and the lower branches are quite bare. But it’s the top branches that one notices because they spray out like feathers against the blue-grey sky. A rather cold, frosty sky now that the sun has gone in.”
“Yes.” Lady Capel was struggling with something that threatened to overwhelm her. But she had struggled successfully with it during her hours at St. Dunstan’s so she could do the same now.
“You understand how to treat a blind person.” Tony’s wide eyes were thoughtful over the rim of his heavily cut sherry glass. “You have come into contact with them before, I feel sure of that.”
“Yes.”
“I am very glad that your son brought me here to lunch,” said Tony comfortably. “For it means that I have met a friend. And I shall not forget it either.”
“It is very nice of you to say that.”
“I should not say it unless I felt it. When you are stricken, you don’t. You say what you want to say and you don’t care. Presently I shall care more: that is to say, I shall have to care, or people won’t have any truck with me. But at the moment, except for one thing, I am raw. Raw from top to toe and my soul as well.”
“And what is the one thing?” Lady Capel had moved nearer to the fire and was staring down into the red coals.
“The girl I am engaged to. The girl I came down to see to-day. Susan Milne, staying with her aunt in the middle cottage of a little row of them bearing the delectable name of Merry Widows.”
“Our tenants!”
“Really?” Tony turned in his chair. “Then do you know Susan?”
“No.” Lady Capel dismissed the fleeting memory of the scantily-attired young woman that she had met the day before. “No; you see, we make a point of never bothering our tenants until they show signs of wanting to be bothered. We know that they are there, and our agent, Mr. Blythe, sees that they have all they require and there we leave it.”
“How unusually intelligent you are, if I may say so?”
“Do you think so?” This charming young man spoke like an elderly Colonel. His diction was elegant and old-world. Susan Milne was a lucky girl if only she realised it. Lady Capel suddenly hoped that she did realise it. That she was worthy of this young man with his tragic and quiet acceptance of his frightful handicap.
“Ah, here is Philip! Philip, I like the young man you have brought to the house very much. He and I are friends and shall remain so.” Lady Capel was laughing and her face was flushed.
“I am extremely glad to hear it.” Sir Philip hid his amazement very successfully. For his mother was not prone to be expansive. “If she says she likes you she undoubtedly does.”
“Splendid, because I like her,” said Tony. He reached forward very carefully to set down his glass. As Sir Philip put out a hand, Lady Capel stepped forward and caught hold of it.
“Thank you for letting me try by myself,” said Tony. “There, you see, I’ve done it safely.” His sensitive fingers had found a clear space well away from the edge of the polished table and the glass stood there secure. “Your mother understands blind people,” he said. “She treats them as intelligent human beings and not as Robots to be trotted from one place to the other, whether they want to go in that direction or not.”
“You see she has taken a fancy to you,” remarked Sir Philip quietly.
“She is very kind. And I have taken a fancy to her. So would my mother have done if she had been alive. Although I am rather glad she is not, because I really think it would have killed her to see me blind.”
“Perhaps you won’t always be blind. Sight can be restored in the most marvellous way,” said Lady Capel.
“I know. One of our squad got his sight back like that. He was blown from one mixing room to the other and lost it. He was then blown out of the hospital and buried for thirty-six hours under debris and when they dug him out he said ‘Damn the glare,’ and then found that he could see again.”
“That might happen to you.”
“I know. But I don’t think about it,” said Tony simply. As the gong sounded he got up and held out his hand. “Take me to the dining-room,” he said, and he smiled as he felt Lady Capel’s hand close impulsively on his. “If you see me making a mess of myself, kick me under the table,” he whispered confidentially and again he raised the small be-ringed hand to his lips.
Lunch was a great success, although Sir Philip ate very little, because his thoughts were whirling. His mind had gone back to those frightful days before Dunkirk; for some reason or other he could not shake himself free of that nightmare time. “History is being made, my boy,” a close friend of his had yelled those words as they fought their way, first forward and then relentlessly backward, through the bloodstained streets of Calais. Calais, where he had so often gone clanking over the icy points of the railway that was to take him and many others to the heavenly snow mountains of Switzerland. Blessed days . . . now perhaps to be contemplated again, although he was a little heavy to risk those spreadeagled crashing falls that one sometimes got while ski-ing. But those words still rang in his ears, “History is being made.” Somehow he felt that it was being made now, while Barton moved carefully round the table, watching his young guest, who was obviously enjoying himself enormously. For Tony was very much at his ease. He managed his knives and forks with great dexterity, and once when old Barton leaned forward to guide his hand because he seemed a little at sea, he turned to smile up into the heavy-jowled, clean-shaven face. “Thanks most awfully,” he said and set to with renewed appetite.
And something had affected his mother in the same way. Lady Capel was animated and much more cheerful than she generally was. As if she had absorbed some of the youth of the boy who sat beside her. Sir Philip ate and drank and thought about it. Was it perhaps that he and his mother had been taken out of themselves and were being forced to think about someone else for a change? Their own home: their own lives: their own incomes: how the thought of all these absorbed them. Their own friends: people very much like themselves: charming, well bred, travelled: the same outlook, the same point of view. The same point of view that they had had before the War, the sudden realisation of this, hit Sir Philip in the face as if Barton had suddenly struck him across the mouth with his dinner napkin. Yes, that was it of course. . . . the same complaisance: the same lack of imagination, the same inability to see more than a few yards in front of one’s own face. And he was getting older . . . very quickly he was getting older. And life didn’t wait for you: it bustled on ahead. “Hurry along, there, someone else all ready to take your place: get off or get out.” Sir Philip put out his hand and encircled his cold tumbler with it. This must be a touch of fever: he recognised the symptoms. Everything in one’s horizon gone ail lopsided. He would have to look round for his quinine. Where had he put it? Barton would know: the old man knew everything.
“Yes, you see, that’s the bother.” Tony’s voice, clear and confident, came across the cream lace tablecloth. “Susan does do something to earn some money, and I don’t and I tell her it’s all wrong, She’s such a darling that she say it’s all right, but of course I know it isn’t. And the point is, when shall I? Of course, I have a very little money, about a hundred and fifty a year after the sharks have collared my income tax, but you can’t marry on a hundred and fifty a year, can you? And then somehow I loathe the idea of my wife providing more of the income than I do, although I know that sort of thing is all exploded nowadays. Well, there it is.” Tony smiled rather helplessly round the table. “I talk too much about myself, of course: blind people always do.”
“I don’t think you do.” Lady Capel’s voice was affectionate and reassuring. “And now come along back into the drawing-room and we’ll have coffee there.”
“Isn’t it time that I caught my train?”
“No, not yet; besides, I have another idea about all that. I haven’t suggested it to my son, yet, but I shall when we’ve had our coffee.”
“I’ll leave you alone to suggest it. That will give me the chance to go out to the cows again. Do you mind?” Tony’s eyes were turned eagerly from one to the other. “I love cows: tell her, Sir.”
“I will,” and then Sir Philip began to relate the little incident about the cows.
Laughing to himself, Tony moved about the room, his coffee cup in his hand. “I feel as if I knew the room,” he said. “It’s so odd, I feel as if I had been here before. The queerest feeling: I feel as if I can see everything. By the way, Sir, what time does the return ’bus get back from Marsham Market? I mustn’t miss Susan and I don’t know what time the trains go back to London. At least, I don’t know the ones after about half-past four.”
“There is a very good one at half-past six,” said Sir Philip. “A fast train. And the ’bus from Marsham Market gets back at four. I will take you to meet it.”
“Thank you most awfully.” Tony was felling along the edge of a table. “My cup,” he said. “Ah, no, it’s not necessary, for here is Barton to take it. Here you are, Barton.”
“How did you know, Sir?” Old Barton’s face was all alight with interest.
“I don’t know. I think I felt you. Your aura coming on ahead of you. Since I became blind I’ve believed a lot more in that sort of thing. You learn, you see, that seeing by your eyes isn’t by any means everything. And that sometimes by seeing with your physical eyes you miss a lot. Not that I wouldn’t chance it all the same.” Tony laughed. “Now may I go out into the Park again?”
“Do.” Sir Philip came forward. “Would you like Barton to escort you?”
“Very much, I should. That is to say, if Barton isn’t spoiling for his lunch.”
“I have had it, Sir,” said Barton, delightedly. Things were beginning to warm up, thought Barton. Something young about the house for a change. Not that he wasn’t devoted to his master and mistress, because he was, but somehow after all they had gone through, this sort of life got a bit stale after a time. When you had been waiting for the news, and holding your breath if a telegraph boy happened to come swishing up on his bicycle, just laying meals and clearing them away got a little monotonous.
“You’ll come back in about half an hour?” said Lady Capel.
“I will. Give me a hand, Barton. Thanks. Au revoir, my kindest of hosts and hostesses.” Tony turned to smile and went out.
A queer exit . . . the whole thing was queer, thought Philip. What would his mother say when he told, her something much queerer still. That he had made up his mind. . . . No, it was nonsense really; he couldn’t do things in such a hurry as all that. At least, not things that meant more or less of an upheaval. Although it needn’t mean that if they . . .
“Well, mother,” Sir Philip was standing by the mantelpiece, his elbow resting on it.
“Yes, I feel as you do. Absolutely taken aback. What a charming young man, and how frightful for him. Philip, we must do something for him: we must, I feel we must. I don’t know why I do but I do. Think of something that we could do. I have been thinking, but I can’t come to any conclusion. It’s all so sudden. To begin with, can’t he stay here for a couple of days? I didn’t like to suggest it before asking you. But we could fit him out for the night and then he could perhaps send for his things. I wish he wasn’t engaged to the young woman I saw yesterday, but if he is, we can’t help it. Can we?”
“No,” Sir Philip pondered. “I feel as you do,” he said. “Absolutely bowled over by the tragedy of it. But I have thought what we could do to help him. We could give him a job here, to look after the farm: he’s marvellous with animals, I’ve seen him, and he’d get on with Pilling, who isn’t really able to take any responsibility now. Between them they could run it perfectly: and I believe that a few weeks’ stay in the place would give Fellowes all the confidence and knowledge that he needs. He’s got the most priceless thing of all: that understanding of animals that you hardly ever come across. What do you think of it, mother: two hundred and fifty a year between us and the lodge, so that he can marry his Susan if he wants to?”
“Good gracious!”
“Yes, I thought it would take you by surprise. So it has me. . . . I mean to say, my sudden decision has taken me by surprise. All happening in the course of a few hours, barely that. But I don’t know what it is . . . I feel as if something or someone had taken me by the scruff of the neck and was shaking me like a rat. Wake up, wake up! before it’s too late. Get out of this swamp of self-indulgence and complaisance and all the rest of it.” Sir Philip lifted his head from his hand and his face suddenly went pale.
“You feel quite well?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then your decision must be a right one,” said Lady Capel quietly. “And in all your life, Philip, I have very rarely known you make a wrong one. That is to say, if it is a sudden decision. I can remember heaps of instances when you have had what you used to call a brain wave. The only point is this: Can we afford it?”
“Yes, easily. And that’s what makes me feel so strongly about it. We have no right to have more than we need, if someone else needs it badly. If it hadn’t been for young men like Fellowes, you and I should not be alive at all because we should have had the sense to forestall the Hun and do it ourselves. But we didn’t want to, and people like him saved us the ugly necessity.”
“Would he agree?”
“That remains to be seen. We shall have to ask him when he comes back. I will, if you like, as you mustn’t miss your rest and it would come better from me, perhaps. Then I’ll give him your invitation to stay. Which room shall I tell Barton to get ready for him if he decides to accept our invitation?”
“The oak room: facing the woods.” Lady Capel sat there with the sun on her face. “I hope the girl is nice enough for him. It will spoil it if we don’t like her and they live so close.”
“I fancy she is. Fellowes is an intelligent young man and wouldn’t care for a nonentity. And in any event, mother,” Sir Philip burst out laughing. “It does at least remove from your mind any anxiety that I might fall for her charms.”
“Oh yes, I forgot that! But you promised me you wouldn’t. Anyhow, I am determined to do it. It’s taken away that. . . .” Lady Capel put her hand up to her throat. “I felt that we were settling down into being so useless,” she said. “A sort of apathy. But if we are doing some good---nowadays, after all that horror---if we don’t do some good we might as well not be alive at all,” she said simply.
“I quite agree with you. We must never get like that again.” After his mother had left the room Sir Philip still stood there, staring down into the fire. Odd, how so important a decision had suddenly been forced on them both, he thought vaguely. But then that was the way important decisions were arrived at; at least, with him.
The shopping expedition to Marsham Market was an enormous success. There was gaiety in the air, thought Susan, as she shepherded her aunt in and out of shops. Woolworth’s was crammed and it was joyful and exciting to see the things going back to threepence again. “Look, Pen,” Susan was holding a glittering strainer up to view. “There weren’t any to be had in the War, and now look at them. Threepence; let’s have two to celebrate.”
“I have one already. A pre-war one,” but Penelope was gay and carefree too. They put the strainers into their baskets, and went on their way, eager and excited at the thought of lunch at the little inn overhanging the river. You could sit in a big bay window and be beautifully warm, because there was a roaring coal fire at each end of the room. A real old-fashioned hostelry where King Charles had fed and roistered with his followers. It was all delicious, thought Penelope, following Susan’s young gay figure into the dim panelled lounge. But then Susan always had been a charming companion, even as a tiny girl. Solemn and silent with her long yellow hair, now looped up into a knot low on her neck. And Tony Fellowes was a charming boy, too; they were well suited. Except for the frightful handicap of blindness with all that it meant. However . . . Susan was a determined young woman and would do what she wanted to. And so was Tony, for the matter of that. And his charming mother, who had died in occupied France. Caught on the Riviera by the savages. Worse than savages, thought Penelope, trying to subdue the uprush of joy that she always felt when she remembered the end of the leaders of that hideous gang. Because was it right to be pleased when a human being dangled at the end of a rope? Phoebe said that it was unchristian, but Penelope was not so sure. For did not the Master go hotfoot round the Temple with a knotted cord when He was angry? However . . . Penelope stopped thinking and gave her mind to the matter in hand. That was her great fault: to allow her thoughts to drift. Phoebe had always said so.
“We will have everything there is to eat, because we are ravenously hungry.” Susan was speaking engagingly to the waiter, who was obviously overcome by the bright flashing figure standing in the dim hall.
“Yes, Madame.” And so lunch was eaten in the big bay window overlooking the river. And afterwards coffee by the lovely fire in the hall: real fires, as Susan said luxuriously, stretching out her silk calves to the blaze. “And I can’t think why you are not always doing this, Pen. I should do it once a month, at least. It’s a different world to Chapelshades. Aunts Phoebe and Dorothy don’t come into it.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, why not?”
“I don’t know; somehow as you get older it’s not so much fun doing things alone. You want someone else: someone to turn to. Someone to whom you can just say, ‘look,’ and you know they are looking and thinking the same as you do.”
“Why? what?”
“That’s a bad sign, Pen darling. A very bad sign. Fight against it. At least, fight against it unless you mean to do something about it.”
“How do you mean it’s a bad sign?” Penelope’s little felt hat was slightly crooked as she leaned her head on the back of the brightly-covered chair.
“When you get the feeling that you want someone with you to whom you can say, ‘look,’ it really means that you are the one who is looking, and for that exact person,” remarked Susan wisely.
“Nonsense.”
“So you say, darling, but as a matter of fact I have great hopes of you,” said Susan complacently. “One of these days I shall see you shyly creeping up the plush-covered stairs of Number four hundred Conduit Street, with your five pounds secretly withdrawn from your Post Office account damply clutched in your trembling hand.”
“You won’t!”
“I shall,” said Susan naughtily. “And moreover, when you do, I shall have that attractive man that I met this morning tucked up my sleeve for you. I shall produce him as a conjurer produces rabbits from a hat and you will be so taken aback that you will jump at him.”
“I shall not,” Penelope began to laugh. Suddenly she was back in the beautiful old church with Phoebe stiff and uncompromising beside her. The famous stained-glass window behind the Altar, mercifully removed before the Huns could take potshots at it, was shedding its blue and golden shades over the greying head of the man who stood, lean and attractive, in the seat ahead of them. His coat was always cut right at the back, thought Penelope, who knew nothing about good tailoring. It showed his collar, just enough of it and not too much. He stood beside his mother, who obviously adored him. These two were their landlords, although they had not been to call. “And a good thing, too,” as Phoebe had roundly declared. “When you want things done you don’t want to be on friendly terms with the people who have to pay for it.” Phoebe had said this one day soon after their lease was signed.
“I should have thought that you did,” Penelope had ventured the remark because she was so glad that she and Phoebe were no longer going to live together.
“You would,” retorted Phoebe scathingly. And Dorothy had blinked and wondered why Phoebe was always so cross. Although it didn’t matter so much to Dorothy what Phoebe said now, because she adored gardening and Phoebe hated it. In gum boots, and a bashed-in old hat, Dorothy would spend hours over an apparently empty border, and this was why she had so enjoyed their exodus from their London flat: they had rented an old house with a garden until the War was over and the owner of it came back from foreign service. But now Dorothy would have a garden of her own and she had engaged a gardener, too. Quite on her own initiative and without telling anyone. He was a Devonshire man and had a delicious way of saying “yu” instead of you, and “I’m going tu,” and he had the same profound love of the earth and the things it produced as Dorothy had. He was elderly and lived with his widowed mother in a tiny whitewashed cottage a little outside the village and he was glad of the two pounds ten a week that Dorothy had decided to pay him for his daily care of her garden.
“You don’t mean to tell me that you have engaged a gardener at two pounds ten a week?” Phoebe had got wind of this extravagance and had made a special journey to the little cottage beyond Penelope’s to lodge her protest.
“Yes, I have,” and Dorothy had spoken defiantly because she had been called in from a conference with Mr. Maltby over the south border and she was annoyed. They had just been getting to the interesting part: Mr. Maltby was against filling the border too full and Dorothy had been pleading for her delphiniums, which she loved. Also for her Japanese anemones, both white and palest pink, that had spread and filled up valuable space that Mr. Maltby wanted for something else.
“Well, then, I think it’s disgraceful,” and Phoebe had gone back to her own cottage in a rage. Not so much because of Dorothy’s extravagance but because of the look of happiness that Phoebe had detected in her face. Dorothy had not looked like that when they lived together, and now she did look like it. Letting herself in at her little front door, Phoebe stood in the tiny hall and suddenly groaned out loud. No one knew and no one ever should know the torment of loneliness that she endured. Phoebe, stumping into her ugly little sitting-room and pushing the dimming coals into place with a stout square-toe, groped a little blindly with her hands.
And now the omnibus was on its way home. Lurching and squeaking it went racing along the country lanes, every now and then stopping to let out passengers who shouted good-bye to the driver and the conductor, for everyone in the omnibus seemed to be friends. Susan, staring out of her window, thought that it was this sort of thing that helped to make the British people exactly what they were. British people liked having simple fun, thought Susan. Priestley had said that once in one of his War Postscripts.
“Mrs. Millar will have got tea ready for us,” said Penelope in a nice cosy little voice as the omnibus charged a hill.
“Glorious,” said Susan simply. Because it was glorious. The countryside was quiet and beautifully rust coloured: she was in love with her Tony and he with her. And they were soon going to have tea over a beautifully made-up fire. What more could you want, thought Susan, straightening her hat, because the bus was now scrimmaging down the hill that led into Chapelshades. It was time they had a new ’bus. She remarked this as they walked in at the little gate that shut in the grass plot in front of Merry Widows.
“Yes,” and Penelope had only had time to say this one word when Mrs. Millar flung open the front door and seizing the baskets from the two ladies, announced that there was a young man in the sitting-room.
“What young man?” but although Susan asked the stupid question she at once knew---Tony, who had found his darkened, solitude too much for him. “Hallo!” the convenient little interjection hid the tumult of emotion in her voice as she saw him turn at her entrance.
“Don’t be cross with me for coming.” A little uncertainly he was groping his way across the room, although he had. had time to find out where the principal articles of furniture were.
“Cross! Don’t be an owl.” Susan’s slender arms were round his neck. “Half a minute, Aunt Pen, before I introduce our unwelcome guest. But I must kiss him first.”
“I’ll just tell Mrs. Millar to bring another cup,” Penelope was already out in the hall again. She had not seen Tony Fellowes since the War and his uncertain steps hurt her. Although . . . there was something about his face that was strange. An illumination: something almost unearthly. Something was shining through the brown skin. He was sunburnt. Penelope gave her brief orders and then was back in the sitting-room again. But the two, in quick conversation, did not hear her come in. She moved a book or two off a table and stood waiting for Mrs. Millar to come in with the tray. A nice tea: they had bought a cake in Marsham Market: while in the kitchen, Penelope had taken it out of its bag.
“Now then, young people.” Mrs. Millar had come and gone and still they talked. Something had excited them: their faces were flushed. “Tea, my dears.” Penelope whipped off the tea-cosy.
“Tell her, Tony, while I go and wash.” Susan got up from her crouched position. Her eyes were vague: incredulous. It wasn’t possible; such things didn’t happen in real life. They did in books, so that when you were very tired and disappointed you didn’t read anything except novels that ended happily.
“It’s this, Miss Milne, or shall I say Aunt Penelope, or Penelope, because that’s better still and you’re too young to be called Aunt. It’s this, and I’m going to tell you even before I say how do you do, because I’m so excited about it. Oh, here’s Susan back again, so that I can say it all over again to her, which is what I want to do most. Where are you going to sit, my sweet?”
“As close to you as possible. On this pouffe thing so that you can feel me holding you back when you get too excited.” Susan flopped on to the blue velvet-stool. “Also I’ll hold you off the cakes because I know what you are. And if you spill your tea I shall slap your hands. Now then, proceed.” Susan’s delicate face was ablaze with excitement.
“Well, it’s this.” As Penelope wielded the teapot Tony spoke. “I came down here quite by chance to-day,” he said, “it was feeble of me to do it, but I felt I must see this stupid girl. So I came and you were out. But a very nice gentleman called Sir Philip Capel befriended me and took me to his house to luncheon, which is the right way to say lunch, which without the ‘e-o-n’ is so common. And to cut a long story short, as they say in the best circles, as well as asking me to stay there---mercifully I brought a suitcase down in case there was an hotel and Susan could lend me the money to stay at it, although I have a little of my own. As I say, as well as all this that I have just described to you, this same kind gentleman, together with his Lady mother, which term well describes Lady Capel, has offered me a job at two hundred and fifty pounds a year and a house to live in, including gas and light and coal. And the only dark patch about the whole thing is that it takes from me any chance of dodging my marriage with Susan, a chance that I have been looking for for some time.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m not too keen either.” Susan’s hands were trembling. Joy was forming great tears in her eyes that she was trying not to let fall.
“But it’s too magnificent for words.” Penelope had set down the teapot. Mechanically she filled it up with water. “Susan, I shall have you close to me,” she said.
“I know.”
“I can’t believe it.” Susan spoke simply as she put back her wispy handkerchief into her sleeve.
“I shouldn’t have done before the War,” said Tony and as if he knew of the tears he put out one hand and drew Susan’s into his. “You can easily eat with one,” he said. “But I’ve seen things during the War that have made me believe in people. Deep down nobody’s really rotten: it’s only rotten surroundings and rotten teaching that make rotten people. Get a lot of gay young sparks in a ’plane that’s had its death blow and you see what people are made of. Every other man first. All this Sin business, it makes a sinner.” Tony suddenly stopped speaking. “I talk too much,” he said, “It’s one of the things that you’ll have to cure me of, Susan. Although the only one, of course. But heavens! what a time I’m going to have with you. Thing after thing to be eradicated until there’s hardly any of the original Susan left. And then how happy I shall be.”
“When’s your work going to begin?”
“Hush.” Tony’s clear eyes were all alight with laughter. They didn’t look blind at all, thought Penelope, gazing at them. “Hush,” he said, because that’s what I’m trying to keep from Susan: she’s too eager as it is; I don’t consider it’s at all nice, the way she goes on. My work begins at once,” he said, “ so Susan’s ridiculous job comes to an end at once and I’m glad it does. Although it will probably be the same as it is with those ghastly letter chains: some other fool will instantly carry it on. Anyhow, Sir Philip is going to get the Lodge ready for us at once so the least we can do is to go and live in it. Isn’t that so, Susan?”
“Yes.” Susan’s eyes were large and clear. “What perfect rock cakes, Pen.”
“Pig! you don’t care a bit that we’re never going to be separated again. May I have one, Penelope?” Tony put out a brown hand. How oddly they talked, thought Penelope, wondering, as she handed the cakes. And yet in a way it was frightening the way they talked. As if something was clamped down that would engulf the whole world if it was let loose. Like fire in a furnace---if you slipped back the rounded door, the flames would emerge and lick the walls. But in their day they talked much more. The protested their love. Although how did she know? . . . Penelope suddenly felt quenched again and as if all the joy and excitement had gone as far as she was concerned. She was outside: as she had always been outside. Not for her the blazing core of life: a blaze that was clearly to be seen on the two young faces apparently absorbed in nothing more than eating their tea. A blaze that if she was to leave the room would leap out. “Susan, it means . . . “ he would rest his face on Susan’s hair and slowly steal his mouth round to hers. Together they would sit and cling to one another; silently, because their joy would be too great for anything but silence. Penelope got up.
“I have just remembered.” she said hurriedly. “I’m so sorry to leave you two darlings, but I must have a word with Mrs. Millar. And don’t let the fire go down, Susan, if I’m not back just at once.”
“No, all right, don’t be long, darling”; but Susan spoke as if she was in a dream. Left alone, she turned and put her face down on her lover’s knee. “Never any more,” she said. “Never any more that hell, feeling that you are alone and can’t see and that I can’t be with you because we aren’t married.”
“I know.”
“Tell me you’re pleased.”
“I can’t, because I’m not. I shouldn’t be pleased if I got my sight back. Pleased doesn’t mean anything. Pleased! I’m going to weep: hold on. God! If I could do something to repay those two. Think of it: they don’t know me from Adam. Simply because a couple of cows snuffled round my face. And a fat overfed pony.” Tony was choking.
“Darling!”
“Susan, say you’re glad.”
“Glad! Please and glad can go to hell together for all I care. Tony!” Susan’s wet face was strained against her lover’s.
While Penelope, in her bedroom overhead, was putting away her outdoor things. Back they all went into their right places, for Penelope was methodical; you had to be methodical in a tiny house. Except her hat; that still remained to be put on the top shelf of the wardrobe with all the other hats. Silence from down below: a living, pregnant silence; not even the murmur of voices. Merry Widows was well built but you could hear just a murmur if people were speaking in ordinary voices. No, they were silent in their joy. Silent as she, too, would be silent if she had a lover. Silent from joy. Penelope took her hat and started to put it back on to the top shelf where it always lived. And then suddenly she let it fall on the floor. She didn’t care what happened to her hat: she didn’t care if she never saw it again. It was hideous, anyhow, and no one would ever notice if it wasn’t. She was done: finished, and love had passed her by and if love passed you by you might as well not be alive at all. “Say something, can’t you,” in a whispered voice full of a queer subconscious misery, Penelope stared blankly down at the polished boards.
Even early November wasn’t the right time to put most of the things she loved best into a garden. Miss Dorothy Milne, in her rakish hat, stared up into Mr. Maltby’s good-tempered face with despair.
“But why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I wasn’t here,” said Mr. Maltby, with amusement. Mr. Maltby very much enjoyed telling his mother about Miss Dorothy Milne’s garden. For she was entertaining, this little spinster lady with the disappointed mouth. Too much of the cross one at the end of the row, meditated Mr. Maltby, as he sat at the bright tea-table in his little cottage with his mother. Mrs. Maltby adored her son and loved hearing about his days in the little garden that he was getting into shape. Miss Milne would do for a wife for him, she thought secretly, feeling her heart leaping against her side as if one day it would burst through. One day it would really burst through, decided Mrs. Malty, and then who would look after her John? Her John, who could have done so much more than he had done if only they had had the money to help him to it.
“What does the sister say?” Mrs. Maltby was cutting the dough cake. Nice wedge-shaped slices: a lovely cake.
“Which one?”
“Miss Phoebe.”
“Oh, she---she comes down and runs round the side door to catch her and says what are you doing always in the garden? Haven’t you anything else to do but grub about like this, looking so disgraceful? What about the Mother’s Union this afternoon? And the Women’s Institute to-morrow? Twice the Vicar has asked where you are. What with you and Penelope to hamper me, our influence in this village is nil.”
“And what does she say to that?” Mrs. Maltby was laughing. Her son was an excellent mimic. He ought to have been in the B.B.C., thought Mrs. Maltby fondly.
“She? She looks at me like a frightened kitten and says: ‘Oh, but Phoebe, Mr. Maltby says that these days of early November are so important. That if we don’t utilise them to the utmost we shall have no Spring show at all.’”
“And what does she say to that?”
“Nothing. She only says: ‘Mister Maltby,’ and looks at me as if she would like to see me struck dead and goes away,” said Mr. Maltby, and his long, lean face shone with amusement.
“She thinks that Miss Dorothy shouldn’t say Mister.”
“I daresay.”
“If only I and your poor father had been able. . . .” This was Mrs. Maltby’s most persistent lament and Mr. Maltby was tired of it. For he knew quite well that if he hadn’t been so lazy he could have done much better than he had done. After the first Great War, for instance: he had had a good chance then. But it had meant application and hard work and he hated both of them. His happiness was to deal with flowers: to see them coming up from a place where you didn’t think any flower could possibly come up. And if only their one rich relation had thought it worth while to send him to a Horticultural College; then. . . . Ah, then! . . . things would have been very different. But Mr. Maltby had stopped thinking about that now. He had enough to live on for the moment and he and his mother were comfortable in their little cottage, so what more did anyone want? Nothing. He explained this briefly to his mother, pushing forward his cup for more tea.
“Yes, I know, but . . .” and then seeing her son frown, Mrs. Maltby changed the subject. They would turn on the wireless; she got up and did so. The old oak rafters of the little kitchen hummed to the sound of Solomon playing the piano. “That was a good shot of yours, mother”; John Maltby sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Music and flowers and the sight of bracken turning brown. And the tall grey stems of pine trees standing out against the turquoise of an evening sky. The sound of rushing water over smooth stones; those were the things that made up life, reflected John Maltby, forgetting that he was sitting in his mother’s kitchen and feeling himself one with the fingers that were turning the quiet warm air into magic.
While each one of the little cottages that made up Merry Widows was humming with an excitement that threatened to overwhelm them. Phoebe was determined about it. The whole thing was disgraceful. Their position in the village was at stake. Susan had produced this young man from nowhere: he was blind, which was very bad indeed, but which couldn’t be helped. On the strength of this he had obtained a post for which he was entirely unfitted. He was imposing on the charity of the Capels, whose tenants they were. And the whole, thing would end in disaster in which they would be involved.
“But how?” The three sisters had met in Penelope’s cottage. Susan had gone up to tea at the Moat, where Tony was. It was her first visit to the Capels and she had gone in fear and trembling. Supposing they didn’t like her; she said so, taking one of Tony’s warm hands between her own cold ones. “They will. They adore me so they must like you,” and Tony had borne her off. Leaving the coast clear for the confab on which Phoebe had insisted. The three sisters sat there staring at one another. Dorothy’s mouth was a little open. She was afraid. She spent her life being afraid; but she was not afraid of Mr. Maltby, thought Dorothy, gaining courage from the thought. “But how?” she said it again, suddenly feeling braver.
“How? It is obvious,” said Phoebe concisely. “This young man has no knowledge of farming. He leaps at this job because it gives him a chance of marrying Susan. After a month or so the Capels will see that they have made a mistake. And then they will be exceedingly annoyed, both with themselves and with us.”
“I don’t see why”; and this time it was Penelope who was speaking. Penelope’s face shone with a gentle eagerness to smooth things down. Susan was so happy: Tony was so happy: his face looked quite different. After he had gone the evening before, Susan had been so especially sweet. She had clung to her aunt, saying that she felt it was partly she who had brought this happiness into her life. “And the next person will be you”; Susan’s lovely wide smile had been especially sweet as she said these words.
“Oh no, darling; these things are not for me,” but even as she had said the words Penelope had felt a little throb of excitement. For supposing the impossible did come to pass and she did meet a man who would care for her. So that the loneliness and the prospect of more loneliness to come vanished into thin air. “I don’t see why.” She said it again.
“You never have been able to see two inches beyond your nose.” In her anger Phoebe spoke rudely. For there was something about her two sisters that suddenly frightened her. They sat there placidly and the lines on their faces seemed to be fading. Dorothy . . . the look on Dorothy’s face especially frightened Phoebe. Her hat was more becoming than usual and she had a pretty scarf round her neck. The scarf was knotted with care; not just strained round and tied in a wisp. “Mister Maltby,” the words struck anew on Phoebe’s consciousness. This was going to be another scandal to be faced; Dorothy was about to embark on a shameful intrigue with her gardener. She should not . . . they would leave Chapelshades, foregoing the remainder of their lease. They should live together again: decently, in a house with four walls with a basement for the kitchen. Together they could afford it: it was this ridiculous plan of splitting up their incomes, fostered by that old humbug of a lawyer of theirs, that had brought this condition of things to pass.
“We must give up Merry Widows and go and live somewhere else.” Phoebe said it very firmly.
“Go and live somewhere else?” Both sisters spoke together. And as they spoke they looked at one another. Neither Dorothy and Penelope had ever had much in common, but they had it now. A common cause against a common foe. A frightful thought to contemplate, for the foe was their own sister.
“Why?” Again they spoke together.
“It is unnecessary to go into details,” said Phoebe resolutely. “But I shall see Mr. Blythe myself. And I am sure he will understand. Houses are at a discount nowadays and he will be able to let these again at once. And probably at an enhanced rent.”
“I shan’t go,” said Miss Dorothy suddenly. She sat there with her mouth buttoned up into a little knot. “I like being here and I am going to stay here.”
“Dorothy!”
“It’s no good,” continued Miss Dorothy, calmly. “I’m too old, Phoebe. That was all very well when we all lived together; I bore it then because I had to. But I haven’t got to now and I’m not going to.”
“I rather feel with Dorothy,” said Penelope slowly. “I like living here and I see no reason why we should leave. After all, we have more or less only just come. It is an expensive thing to pack up and move off with all one’s possessions.”
“I will arrange it,” said Phoebe hoarsely. “Neither of you shall have any of the tiresome details to see to.”
“There is no reason why there should be any tiresome details to see to,” said Dorothy. “That is to say if we stay here, which is what Penelope and I are going to do. Of course, if you want to go you will have to, but we shall both think it very stupid of you. Shan’t we, Penelope?”
“Well. . . .” With a heart ravaged with pity, Penelope watched her elder sister’s face. Because of course, it was frightfully hard on her: she had ruled the roost for so long. Alone, deserted by the two who had always followed where she led. Poor old Phoebe! Penelope leaned forward. “Stay where you are, dear,” she said, gently. “Let us keep together as we always have done.”
“It is far better to be all together under the same roof.”
“I don’t think so,” said Dorothy, briskly. “I love being alone and having the fun of picking up my own letters from the mat. And not having to say who they are from and if I don’t want to not having to read out little bits. And now they have begun to print the flower catalogues again, it’s simply perfect. Mr. Maltby gets them, too.”
“Mister Maltby!” Phoebe was glaring.
“Yes, but why not. After what Russia did for us we aren’t going to call people by their surnames if they don’t like it. As a matter of fact, I don’t suppose Mr. Maltby would care, because he’s so intelligent; but I’m not going to risk it.”
“Phoebe, dear.” For Penelope was alarmed. Phoebe had got up from her chair and was staring round the room. As if she could break something, thought Penelope, wondering what was going on in her sister’s mind. Poor Phoebe: this must be awful for her. Revolt! revolt, where before, there had only been acquiescence.
“I am going home,” said Phoebe, after a little pause. “As I can make no impression on either of you, I cease to protest. Painful though it is to me, I cease to protest.”
“It’s only painful because you are not accustomed to it,” said Dorothy seriously. “Penelope and I are quite happy where we are, so naturally we don’t want to be rooted up simply because you do.”
“Please.” Phoebe was groping her way towards the door. Her square-toed shoes seemed to be feeling their way among the furniture.
“Dear Phoebe.” Penelope had got up from her chair and was following her elder sister. But Phoebe paid no attention. Allowing the front door to be opened for her, she went through it and disappeared. “Oh, dear!” Coming back into the little sitting-room, Penelope sat down again. “What shall we do, Dorothy?”
“Nothing,” said Dorothy stoutly. “Nothing, except leave her alone, Penelope. Because it’s only that she feels out of it that makes her like this. The feeling that Susan is engaged and that the Capels like Tony and that I am keen on my garden and that Susan loves you and confides in you. It’s jealousy, that’s all it is. And why you and I should be routed out again simply because Phoebe is jealous, I don’t see. And nor do you, really.”
“I hate her to be hurt.”
“She has very often hurt us!”
“Yes, I know, but still---that’s a new hat, Dorothy.”
“Yes, I know. Do you like it?”
“Very much. And the scarf.”
“Yes, that’s new, too.” Dorothy reflected. “When you get interested in flowers,” she said, “and see how lovely they are and their colours, you begin to wonder why man, made in God’s Image, can make such a fearful sight of himself.”
“Yes.”
“I’m much happier than I was; aren’t you, Penelope?” said Dorothy, after a little pause, during which she sat and stared at the fire.
“Yes,” said Penelope firmly. “Much.” But although she spoke firmly, Penelope knew that she was not telling the truth. Restlessness is not happiness, she reflected, letting Dorothy out of the front door to run happily back to her catalogues and her planning of the big border facing the late morning sun. To be happy you have got to be content, thought Penelope, shutting the little front door again and standing very still.
It was odd what a difference in their lives this sudden stretching out of a hand to the young blinded airman had made, thought Sir Philip, waking up to the sound of his door closing. His early tea: a pernicious habit contracted during his stay in India. That had been a very enjoyable year, reflected Sir Philip, kicking back the bedclothes and stepping into the furry mat and walking to the wash-hand-stand to brush his teeth. A wonderful country: he would like to see it again before he got too old to travel. Standing by the little tray he poured himself out a cup of tea and walked to the gas fire, already glowing. Too much luxury, thought Sir Philip, standing there in his silk pyjamas. But now that he and his mother had decided to devote some part of their incomes to the delightful plan of giving Tony Fellowes a chance, he did not feel so guilty about the luxury in which they lived. For there was no doubt that they were making two young people very happy. Susan Milne had come to tea the day before and had made a very pleasing impression on the household. For Barton, as an old and trusted servant, had been allowed to express his opinion.
“With all deference to your Ladyship, I consider that Mr. Fellowes has made a very wise choice,” said old Barton sententiously. “Miss Milne is as pretty as a picture and a real young lady.”
“Yes, I feel just as you do, Barton,” said Lady Capel light-heartedly. For her immense relief made her feel light-hearted. Susan had behaved charmingly: she had been perfectly at her ease and yet not in the least free and easy. Her gratitude had made Lady Capel feel ashamed. Two hundred and fifty pounds a year, a sum that would really make very little difference to their joint incomes. And yet it had sent two young people hand-in-hand into the Kingdom of Heaven.
“I can’t tell you!”---sitting close to the fire alone with Lady Capel, for Sir Philip had taken Tony away into his own sitting-room, Susan spoke jerkily.
“Tell me: I like to hear,” said Lady Capel gently. Odd how her opinion of this young woman had changed in the twinkling of an eye. That was the way with the young people of to-day; they looked like Ladies of the Town and behaved like gentlewomen.
“Well, you see, I was always anxious about Tony,” said Susan, shading her eyes with her hand. “He was alone in rooms in London, and I knew that he was desperately unhappy. He was too proud to go and stay with his relations---he doesn’t care for them: they were not, as he considered, kind to his mother when she ran away to get married to his father. And as both his mother and father are dead, he had no one close to him. He used to spend his time trying to find his way about London so that he should not be so helpless, and the thought of it used to frighten me. You see, although St. Dunstan’s were magnificent and anxious to have Tony with them, he would not go there. He said that so long as he had enough to live on he must be free so that he could see me when he wanted to; and that if he started on any intensive training he must give his mind to it. ‘Presently, Susan,’ he used to say, ‘Presently. Presently I’ll start doing something, but not yet. If I feel I’m chained up safe I shall go raving mad. Now I’m only partly mad, and when you’re there. I’m not mad at all.’ So that I felt as I myself was earning, we could go on like that, at any rate for a bit. And then this marvellous thing comes along.”
“Yes, it’s glorious for all of us,” said Lady Capel, simply. “But what about your work if you decided to get married soon? Can you give it up easily?”
“Oh yes, easily. Someone is already there longing to take my place. A friend of mine and I used to run it.” Susan’s eyes were clear as she lifted them from her hand. “You won’t like it when I tell you what it is,” she said.
“Tell me and see.”
“We run a Marriage Bureau,” said Susan, smiling. “In Conduit Street. People pay five guineas and we find a husband for them.”
“My dear child!” Lady Capel sat back in her chair. A marriage bureau: yes, it was difficult to swallow. An odd furtive occupation. And yet this girl was charming.
“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Susan urgently. “But truly, it’s all right: I mean to say, it sounds frightful, almost grubby, if you know what I mean, but somehow it doesn’t turn out like that. I could tell you---I will sometime, if I may---of people whom we have made very happy. But not now. Now I only want to think of how heavenly grateful I am to you and of how I know that you won’t ever regret it. Because I know you won’t. Tony is marvellous with animals: he always has been. And he’s got his whole soul in making a success of this. He will: I know he will.”
“Has he told you that we want him to stay here until his marriage? That we think the sooner he begins the work the better? He and Pilling have met, and evidently like one another and that’s very important when it comes to a younger man taking a position of authority over an older man and a servant.” Lady Capel spoke equably, although inwardly she was deeply touched by this lovely girl’s gratitude. Also she wanted to make it clear at once that Susan was not going to be invited to stay, too. Although probably she would not expect it.
“Yes, Tony has told me. And that makes me happier still, because it means that while he is here I can go back to London and settle everything up,” said Susan simply. “And I have told him that until a few days before the wedding I shall not come down here again. When I do come I want to come for good, and I shall go and stay with Aunt Pen and the wedding will be from there. It’s a frightful excitement for the three darlings,” said Susan, smiling.
“Do you know I have never yet met your aunts.”
“Yes, they told me. And I think you are wise, if I may say so. It’s far better to see people when they have really settled down. But you’ll love Aunt Pen: you won’t be able to help it. You’ll like Dorothy, too, probably; she’s mad on gardening. And you won’t like Phoebe at all!”
“Why not?”
“Nobody does,” said Susan. “She’s so cross. I believe she had an unfortunate love affair; I can’t imagine Aunt Phoebe ever having a love affair, but I believe she did. Daddy told me; the young man came to stay and heard Phoebe in one of her rages and broke it off.”
“Good gracious!”
“So she vents her disappointment on everyone else. They used to share a flat in London and I believe Dorothy and Penelope had an awful time of it. It doesn’t seem to have affected Pen so much: of course, she is the youngest, but Dorothy got to look as if she was going dotty: all sort of flattened out and drooping. But now, in some mysterious manner, she has perked up wonderfully. I think it’s her garden: she’s perfectly crazy about it and lives poring over catalogues.”
“Hasn’t she got a man called Maltby for her gardener?”
“Yes, who is he?” Odd how she had missed that solution of Dorothy’s reviving spirits! thought Susan delightedly. Although she must keep quiet about it. But how Tony would revel when she told him. Dorothy getting off with the gardener! Phoebe! Penelope! a whole vista of exploding bombshells shot up before Susan’s delighted imagination. Merry Widows would rock. Merry Widows would disintegrate, thought Susan, inwardly a seething tumult of merriment. “Who is Maltby?” she said again.
“Well, nobody seems quite to know,” said Lady Capel. “He and his mother live in a little cottage just outside the village; apparently quite ordinary working-class people. Not that they are natives of this part of the world, because they are not: they come from Devonshire. And rumour has it that Maltby will one day come into money from a rich relative. Not that I think he deserves it, because he is one of those rolling stones: he never seems to have stuck to anything. And I don’t think he’d have stuck to gardening if it had not been that he is a real green-finger man. Everything he plants grows: it is quite remarkable. We had him here once for a month, but it did not answer. He wanted his own way too much and the other men resented it. Not that he wasn’t excellent at his job, because he was.”
“I see.” So the next thing would be that she would be shepherding Dorothy up the aisle, thought Susan delightedly. Heavens, how Phoebe would rave! Oh, but what glorious fun life was going to be! She and Tony! Dorothy and her Maltby! No one for Phoebe, because she was so cross. But Pen mustn’t be left out. Who was there for Pen? Susan lifted her eyes to the door as it opened quietly. Sir Philip and Tony back again; Tony smiling and eager and looking as he used to look.
“Susan, I walked all the way to the stables without any help,” he said excitedly. “And I’ve milked a cow without spilling a drop and I settled the stool and pail myself. And Sir Philip will testify that I got a pint more milk than the cowman. And that was my first milking. And I’ll bet you an engagement ring much better than the one that I should otherwise have bought that next time I’ll get at least a pint and a half more. Tell her I got more, Sir.” Tony’s eyes were shining. Surely he cannot really be blind, thought Susan, watching him cross the floor. Yes, he was nearly into a table: Sir Philip had put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Clumsy, clumsy!” but Tony’s eyes were still shining. “And are all the girlish confidences over?” he smiled.
“Quite over, impertinent young man,” said Lady Capel affectionately. And her eyes, too, were shining. So that was what a little thought for other people beside themselves had done for them, thought Sir Philip, feeling his age a little as he watched the two young people meet and link fingers. Yes, he had missed a lot in life. Something that his mother had had, and he had not. For had he not sprung from a love such as the love of these two young people? Close, exquisite companionship of body and soul. And suddenly Sir Philip felt a sort of disgust steal over him. He had chosen the lesser part. He had been content with the fluent facility of the easy love affair that dodges responsibility. Because of the love of his home and the comfort of it he had closed his eyes to everything that really made life worth living. Shepherding Tony gently to a chair, he sat down in one himself.
“You look tired,” said Lady Capel. For the contrast was so glaring. These two young people all aglow: and her son with the look that tired people get. A light gone out: quenched. Dreary: Philip looked dreary.
“No, I don’t know that I’m tired,” Sir Philip spoke with his usual courteous charm.
“Your voice is exactly like the nicest Broadcaster’s,” said Susan, smiling. “There is sun in it.”
“Susan, I won’t have you flirting with Sir Philip,” said Tony. “I can’t see your face but I can feel it. And the smile that it wears at the moment is my exclusive property.”
“Idiot!” and then everybody burst out laughing. Tony’s youth and charm and valour in the face of overwhelming adversity were irresistible, thought Lady Capel. What on earth had they done before he came among them to cheer them up?
“Let us have a four at Bridge,” she exclaimed. “There is heaps of time before dinner. Susan, you can stay to dinner, dear?”
“It is more than kind of you,” said Susan simply.
“But that’s just what Lady Capel is---more than kind. Will somebody tell me what cards to play. No, wait a minute, I’ll go upstairs and fetch a pack that a low friend made for me. Raised pips: it took him ages but he did it beautifully. Then I can hold my own with the best of you. No, I’ll find my own way, if you don’t mind.” Standing up again Tony was making for the door. Opening and shutting it, he was gone.
“He is a dear,” said Lady Capel warmly.
“Do you think I am good enough for him?” said Susan wistfully.
“Quite.”
“When I think of what you have done for us,” as Susan took the cigarette from the box extended, her lips were trembling.
“And you for us,” said Lady Capel quietly. “Before you came I and my son were settling down into a rut. The same old round every day: just as it was before the War. The same old values: the same old things that either should or should not be done. You two young things have changed all that. Philip will have the interest of seeing Tony make good, as I am sure he will make good, and you and I can foregather, if you will allow me to. It will make an added interest for me.”
“Allow you to!” Susan put out an impulsive hand. “When if it wasn’t for you . . .”
“And when I think of the first time I ever saw you. I came home in a fine state, didn’t I, Philip? What had you on, Susan?”
“Only a bathing dress, because I had been sunbathing,” said Susan penitently. “It was vulgar of me but I hoped I should meet Aunt Phoebe. And I only met you.”
“Yes, you were in a fine stew.” Sir Philip ran his fingers through his hair. Oh, he felt old, he thought restlessly. He would have to rouse himself up or he would never be able to settle down indefinitely in the country.
“I’ve found the cards: give me full marks, all of you,” said Tony triumphantly. “And that although that priceless Barton wanted to do it for me. I know that Barton isn’t in the room or I wouldn’t say what I am going to say. A priceless man that: Susan, why don’t you earn more so that we can bribe him to leave his present employment?” Radiant with amusement, Tony was coming slowly across the floor, knowing that Barton was behind him: Barton, his heavy-jowled face all alight with pleasure. “For he’s just like a ray of sunshine in the house,” as he said afterwards. “He’s taken years off her ladyship’s life.”
“It’s put years on to Sir Philip’s,” said the cook, ruminatively. “I noticed it the other day. Walked quite like an old man, he did, sort of thoughtful, as if he was wondering why he hadn’t done more than he had. And yet he’s not much of an age either. How old would he be?”
“Not much over forty. But it’s the War done that. How many years of it did we have? A lot more than we expected, anyhow.”
“Never mind, we won it,” said Cook triumphantly. “Hands down we won it. Jolly well squalling for peace, they were, before we let them have it. And then at a price. A jolly good price, too, thanks to Churchill. Well, here’s the tea ready for you all. And they’ll have it a little later in the drawing-room to-night: half past nine instead of nine”; Cook, her nice cheerful face all alight with contentment, was drawing up her chair.
Breakfast at The Moat was always a delightful meal. And Tony had had the sense to adapt himself to it. At breakfast people either talked or did not talk; you had to find out which they did wherever you happened to be staying. At The Moat they talked if they wanted to but not because they felt they ought to. Barton moved unobtrusively round the table and went away at intervals and came back again. And as Tony ate what had been put before him because he felt it would be tiresome for the others if he groped his way to the sideboard, which was what he would like to have done, he realised how true it was that blind people developed a sixth sense. Blind people were able to tune in in some remarkable way to what others were doing and feeling and thinking. Especially to what they were feeling. Lady Capel was feeling something: she was opening her letters and feeling different things about each one. And then at last she spoke.
“A very delightful letter from your Susan,” she said. “And she asks me to give you her love and tell you that she has arrived safely and that you are to behave.”
“Thank you.” Tony lowered his eyes to his plate. Yes, that was perhaps one of the hardest things that he had to bear: he could no longer see her darling handwriting.
“I will read you the whole letter after breakfast.”
“Thanks so much.” Tony went on eating. Delicious bacon: Susan and he would get it from the same place when they were married. When they were married! Tony began to think about it. At any rate his blindness had brought that rapture nearer. Nearer---they wouldn’t have been able to marry for years if these two saints hadn’t given him this job. And yet . . . the two saints were not going to lose over it. For he would be good at the job; he knew he would. Already he was able to find his way about the farm entirely alone. Already he completely understood the lay-out of the Lodge, which was to be their home. He could almost see the view from their bedroom window. Their bedroom: the room where he would take her in his arms for the first time. No honeymoon; it was stupid to have a honeymoon when you were blind, it was only an added anxiety for your bride. No, they would go straight to their home and as soon as he had got out of his best clothes he would go and superintend the milking. Not for one hour did he want to put aside his work. His work was to come first; Susan wished it so. The Capels must come first, she felt the same as he did. Satisfy them first and then themselves. Tony drank his beautifully made coffee and wondered how it was that coffee could vary so. Perhaps some people didn’t put in enough. Ah! now there were other sensations floating down the table. Lady Capel had opened another letter: a foreign envelope this time: it opened more quietly. Less crackling about it.
“Good gracious me! Philip! Oh, he’s gone,” Lady Capel was raising her eyes from her letter. Tony felt that he could see her eyes all alight with excitement. How old was she? About sixty-two, perhaps. Her voice was young: she obviously had a young mind.
“Tell me,” said Tony confidentially. “It sounds exciting. That is to say, if it isn’t something private.”
“Oh, no. . . .” Lady Capel really was excited, thought Tony briefly. “Oh, no, it isn’t anything private, but Philip would know the man I am speaking of. A Sir Godfrey Fortescue, whom I used to know many years ago. He was a great friend of mine.”
“Is Barton in the room?” enquired Tony, inconsequently.
“No; why? do you want him? Marmalade, is that what you want? Here it is.” Lady Capel pushed the pot along the tablecloth.
“Oh, no, I’ve had heaps of marmalade,” said Tony quietly. “No, it’s only that I feel sure that Sir Godfrey was once in love with you.”
“How on earth do you know?”
“I don’t know. Something in your voice. It’s a pleased voice: a smiling voice. Is Sir Godfrey coming here?”
“Yes, apparently. His wife has died. I never cared for her. Nobody liked her: she was selfish and extravagant. He was in Cairo when he met her and it was disastrous. Some people say that she was a Eurasian but that I don’t know. In any event, she has gone.”
“How glad he must be.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Lady Capel was a little shocked.
“I expect he is. For now he can marry you. At least, he can ask you to marry him. Whether you will agree or not is another thing altogether.” Tony was rolling up his table napkin. “Is Barton here?”
“No, fortunately not.” Lady Capel did not know whether to laugh or to be indignant. This young man was like an elf in the things he did and said. You could not be angry with him because he was like an elf. You cannot scold a fairy, thought Lady Capel, also rolling up her table napkin and preparing to stand up.
“Have I gone too far?”
“No.” Lady Capel spoke frankly. “In a way, it’s a compliment to be told by a young man like you that I might marry again. But I certainly shan’t.”
“You will,” said Tony confidently. “And fairly soon, too. I can feel it: in some odd way I can see it. Sir Godfrey will look much nicer than he used to: grey hair will suit him. He will look like that man in Bitter Sweet; you know, the one who comes in in the last act. Tall and lean and bronzed and with an Empire Building look in his eyes.”
“Tony, you are ridiculous!”
“Am I?”
“How could I marry again? At my age!” But even as Lady Capel spoke, she knew that she could. Susan and Tony: it had waked it all up in her again because in the heart of a woman romance never dies. To be desired: loved, even although she had dearly loved her husband. To have it all over again: the fun of it: the thrill, the excitement. To go and buy a hat, feeling that it really mattered very much if it suited you or not. That someone would be there to look and approve. “Tony, you have made me feel like a stupid sentimental girl again,” she said, and she stood up and frowned.
“You could never be stupid. Lend me your hand so that I shan’t tumble over the table cloth and drag off all the cups and saucers,” said Tony cheerfully. “And let’s keep it a secret between you and me about your marrying again. I won’t even tell Susan that Sir Godfrey is coming when I scrawl her my letter on that disgusting slate thing that I should like to smash, with its strings and barriers. And when is he coming?” ended Tony, forcing a smile.
“He doesn’t say.” Lady Capel took Tony’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “And now I’m going to say something to you,” she said. “Something that I feel in my bones and know is true. Some day you are going to see again.”
“Don’t.”
“You bear it sublimely,” said Lady Capel abruptly.
“Sometimes I feel as if I can’t.”
“That’s why you’re sublime. That’s why you’ve cheered us all up. That’s why Philip and I have given you a job. And that’s why I believe as a supreme reward you are going to see again.”
“You make me feel that I want to emulate that fat pony of yours and roll on my back in the grass and kick my heels in the air. You ought to have seen him yesterday. It was a sight. And the cows, so superior, staring at him. And now, my dearest lady, I must hie me to my work.” Tony lifted Lady Capel’s hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Good-bye, you ridiculous child,” but as Lady Capel watched him cross the old square hall her eyes felt damp and as if they could quite easily shed tears. She felt disturbed: shaken in some way. She would go and sit down in her sitting-room and read her letters again. There now! she had forgotten to read Susan’s letter to Tony; how selfish of her. It had been getting Godfrey’s that had interrupted her train of thought. Godfrey I how well she remembered him. That night in the Embassy at Cairo how he had pleaded with her. “Yes, of course I remember that you are somebody else’s wife; how could I ever forget it,” his voice had been hoarse. “But that doesn’t prevent me from loving you, does it?”
And her own stupid stammering rejoinder. Largely because she was deeply moved herself. Godfrey: yes, it would be nice to see him again. Nice? How difficult a woman found it even to be honest with herself, reflected Lady Capel contemptuously, walking to the window and standing there looking out of it. Nice? She would adore to see him again, thought Lady Capel feebly.
Susan returned to London in a whirl of joy and excitement. All the well-known agony over, she reflected, watching Tony standing close to Lady Capel on the platform, still waving, although the train had nearly rounded the curve. For Tony was happy and cared for: even at this very moment Lady Capel was standing behind him waiting to take his arm and shepherd him back to the long car standing in the station yard. They were fond of him: they appreciated him and they knew that he was going to make good in this farming venture of his. He was having his chance: a chance that Susan in her darker moments had dreaded would never come his way. For the aftermath of the War was so appalling. Money? Where was it to come from? Millions----billions had been flooded out to keep the butcher of Berchtesgarten from overwhelming the world. And you cannot flood out millions without feeling the backwash of the tide that the vacuum creates. But now Tony was safe. In three weeks or so she would be his wife and he would be safer still. Susan snuggled her chin into the collar of her fur coat and stared happily out at the racing landscape.
An hour later she sat and gazed at her partner over the office writing table. Lunch had been sent out for, because they wanted to talk without the risk of being overheard. The room was warm and comfortable; Susan was radiant as she poured it all out; and Marcia listened with enormous interest.
“Although I loathe letting you down,” said Susan, biting into her third sandwich. “How are things going, by the way?”
“Very well.” Marcia poured herself out some more coffee. “Ready?” She held up the jug.
“Not quite. I like to drink at the end when it’s more or less cold. Tell me how everything’s going.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I think we shall have to close down,” said Marcia, after a little silence. “And I was dreading having to break it to you. Of course, I shouldn’t have broken it to you; I mean, the thing’s as much yours as mine. But Bill has had a wonderful job offered to him: a partnership in a firm in Bombay; solicitors in India make fortunes, especially if they belong to a reliable firm. And he wants to take it and of course I am pleased, because it means that we shall be married at once and go to India, a place that I have always longed to see.”
“My dear!” Susan stretched out an eager hand. “It seems to me that our Bureau has settled us all right,” she said.
“It seems like it,” said Marcia complacently. “And this news about you and Tony has made me feel absolutely different. I should have hated to leave you to find other premises, and, you know, all the fuss that running an office means. But now we can close down with a clear conscience. We must circularise our clients, because we can’t run the risk of them getting into the toils of something of the same kind, only shady. I gather that there’s one started in some queer Square off Notting Hill Gate, Well, you know what people are: some of them will commit any folly to get in touch with what they think is romance.”
“And what we know is romance,” said Susan softly.
“Is Tony happy?” Marcia was lighting a cigarette.
“Perfectly, And the Capels are saints. An angelic mother and an extremely attractive son who, if he doesn’t mind, will lose his attraction because he’s becoming stodgy. You know--- fearfully county and all that and Homespuns and tramping over the heather. Huntin’, shootin and fishin’. The Times and the leading article and not too late to bed. And careful with his drinks. A whisky and soda, mixed to exactly the same strength by the darling old family butler. Old school tie brought to a fine art by supreme unconsciousness that he’s wearing one.”
“Didn’t he show any signs of interest in you?”
“Not he. I was far too young for him. He would regard me as his daughter. Also, he’s very fond of Tony. It’s wonderful to see those two together. Those three together: they’re absolutely congenial. You’ll see them of course, at the wedding.”
“When’s it going to be?”
In about three weeks time. I think December the 2nd. It’s a Tuesday and a day I like. Or the third: I love three, but I don’t like Wednesday. Tuesday is to be the day and I shall be married in my going-away dress, I believe, unless Tony objects, although we shan’t go away because the instant he can shake himself free (that’s how Tony puts it: so gratifying!) he’s going to rush off to superintend the milking of the cows.”
“The Lodge sounds perfectly ducky.”
“It is: sweet. You can’t think how sweet. And so are the Aunts’ cottages sweet. I am to be married from Pen’s, which is the middle one. Pen is all in a flutter about it and I shouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the next one. If only I could drag Sir Philip into matrimony with her. They’d be as happy as larks.”
“Do they like each other?”
“My dear, they haven’t met yet. It’s all so coy and maidenly and nothing dashing such as you and I would engineer. And Lady Capel says, what’s quite true, that it is better to keep on business terms with one’s tenants unless they show any marked anxiety for it to be otherwise. But you know what Phoebe is: she lives at the end of the row and keeps an eye on both her younger sisters. Although I am not sure that Dorothy . . .” Susan burst out laughing.
“What?”
“No, it’s not fair. I don’t know anything for certain and I’ll tell you the instant I do. I promise you that. And now . . .” Susan became business-like, “there must be heaps to talk over,” she said. “Let’s each have another cigarette and begin. That’s to say if you’re not aching to skim along the corridor and peep at the Beloved.”
“Unfortunately, the Beloved is up in Cumberland at a case. A murder case or suicide, rather horrid,” Marcia shuddered. “Blackmail: what an awful thing blackmail is. And so easy. Think of this Bureau, for instance: how we could make people’s lives a misery if we chose.”
“I know. That’s why I’m sorry we’re closing down. Someone else will be sure to start one and they won’t run it as we do. However . . . that can’t be helped. Now then, let’s pull ourselves together, Marcia, and get busy. We’re both too happy, that’s what’s the matter with us. Both going to marry the men we love. Heaven on earth!”
“Yes we’re lucky.” Marcia’s voice was laconic but her eyes were bright. “A pity, though, that we can’t place both your aunts before we put up the shutters.”
“Yes, indeed.” Susan dragged off her hat and threw it on to the low easy chair. It really was a lovely office. Pale and dreamy in colouring and austerely furnished.
“We shall miss it all, Marcia,” she said.
“No, we shan’t,” said Marcia briskly. “We shall be so happy that we shan’t have time to miss anything. And now, my dear, for the last lists. Here we are and we must be quick, for the afternoon is our best time. I hate having to tell people that we’re closing down and can’t recommend anywhere else. But we certainly can’t: I shall be quite definite about that.”
Penelope was sorry when she heard that Susan was closing down. She saw the sense of it, but still she was sorry. The Bureau had not been going for very long and it was obviously being a success. It had also, obviously, met a need. It was tragic that it should be so but because a thing was tragic it didn’t mean that it wasn’t true. People wanted to get married: they did, there was no getting away from it. And if two nice sensible girls like Susan and Marcia could help them to do it, well, why shouldn’t they?
“It seems such a pity, dear,” oddly enough Penelope wrote to Susan at once about it. “Can’t somebody else take it on? It seems to me a great mistake to let something like this lapse, especially as it is obviously meeting a real need.”
But Marcia, to whom Susan showed this letter because she herself felt rather the same about it, was obdurate. “It’s very largely Bill,” she said. “He’s given me a fright. With him behind us, with all his legal knowledge, we are quite safe. But without that, people might go absolutely hooey. Think of the facilities for blackmail: I’ve rather got blackmail on the brain. Think how people could be deceived and let in and made to pay through the nose. No, he says, close down for good and all and don’t hand it on to anyone else, however much they might want to pay for the goodwill. As a matter of fact I’ve had several letters from people wanting to buy: I suppose they’ve found out from the porter that we’re going. I was going to show them to you first of all but Bill seized them: I do hope you don’t mind.”
Susan didn’t mind at all. As a matter of fact, she was rather relieved that she hadn’t to bother about the Bureau. She was too busy, too happy. She wrote a short note to her aunt to say that the Bureau couldn’t be kept on, for various reasons, and that she would be down three days before the wedding, which was to be on the third of December.
And Penelope, shutting the letter away in her writing case, felt sad. She knew it was stupid of her but she had got quite fond of the Bureau. She very often thought about it at times when she ought to have been thinking about something else. When Mr. Attwell, mounting the pulpit steps, looking rather more dishevelled than he generally did, closed his pale eyes and began, “In the Name . . .” Penelope also closed her eyes and began to think about the Bureau. It was she who was mounting the velvet-covered stairs that led to the office. It was she who tremblingly handed in her name, and five pounds five shillings, wrenched from her Post Office Savings Bank account. It was she, who, shaking in every limb, presented herself at the luxurious teashop in Bond Street and waited to see the tall lean hard-bitten man whom she dreamed of, enter and give a quick glance round and then come forward with a charming protecting smile. “Miss Penelope Milne, I believe? Look, there’s a nice table in the corner. Let’s take it, shall we?” And then Penelope ceased thinking. Because if you went on thinking you forgot what fun the ordinary little daily round was and wanted something else. Magic: you wanted magic. You wanted the same thing that had turned Susan’s horizon into a rim of gold. A rim of gold on the edge of the horizon just before the sun made his final plunge. And then Penelope would open her eyes and stare at Mr. Attwell to bring herself back to earth again. Thirdly, he had got to “thirdly”; she still had a little while longer. God is Love. Penelope shut her eyes again. In sickness and in health: till death us do part. Fancy standing by the side of a man you loved and hearing him say that.
“Wake up, Penelope”; it was Phoebe, giving her a great poke with her elbow.
“I am not asleep.” Penelope spoke aloud so as to put her elder sister to shame. Phoebe had no right to poke her like that in church. She turned a little to look at Dorothy. Dorothy was laughing: Dorothy, who hardly ever laughed. Above her gay scarf she had a laughing mouth. Penelope turned herself, square in her seat again. Three pews ahead she saw the skin on the lean brown cheek tighten. Had she spoken so loud, then? Yes, she must have done. Even the Miss Forsythes were stirring a little in their places. And now she knew that she had spoken aloud, for Tony, sitting next to Lady Capel, had his head all hunched up between his shoulders and was shaking.
“And now. . . .” Mr. Attwell had his back to the congregation and was booming his farewell. Somehow Penelope had an odd feeling that Mr. Attwell was glad that he could turn his back, because he too was laughing. “I am not asleep”; that would cheer Mr. Attwell up, because he must surely be conscious that his sermons were frightfully dull.
“Well, really. . . .” Phoebe was marching down the path to the gate like a grenadier. Dorothy, with a backward glance, was following. Dorothy had waved to somebody; Penelope could have sworn to it. She herself would have liked to linger to speak to Tony: it would have been a chance of getting to know the Capels; not that the introduction wouldn’t come very soon now, because it would: the wedding would bring that to pass quite naturally. But Phoebe had never been one to linger on emerging from Divine Service. Nonconformists lingered: Church people did not. Straight home to a cold joint on Sundays: that was the order of the day. “Well, really,” striding through the gate, Phoebe said it again.
“What?” Suddenly Penelope felt that she didn’t care. There was certainly cold meat for lunch but it was tongue, and there was a salad with some very nice mayonnaise sauce that she had made directly after breakfast. And a lovely little round raisin pudding bubbling away in its cloth. Mrs. Millar had made the pudding the day before. She would eat all these very close up to the fire: a fire carefully made up before she left for church. And then some coffee after lunch: the same lovely Nescafé that she had got to appreciate during the War. Vaguely Penelope felt that somehow Nescafé had helped to win the War. Morale: Churchill had spoken so much and so often of the necessity for morale. Well, after a fragrant cup of Nescafé your morale was there whether you made any effort or-not.
“Well, really what?” The three sisters were now in the little village street that led to Merry Widows. It was cold, but with a crisp coldness that made the thought of a fire doubly inviting.
“Since when do you speak aloud in church?” enquired Phoebe frigidly.
“Did I speak aloud?”
“Yes,” Dorothy burst out laughing. For she, too, had a delightful afternoon ahead of her. First luncheon with cold ham, and some chutney and some watercress, because watercress was good for you. And a nice cold sweet, made of sponge cake and chopped almonds and cream on the top. And then half a pound of chocolate ginger and a seed catalogue from Carters. Also a list of fruit trees which could be planted before the night frosts began. And no one to bother her or interrupt her thoughts. “Yes, you said, ‘I am not asleep,’” chuckled Dorothy. “Didn’t you see Sir Philip smiling and Tony all hunched up, laughing?”
“Well, I wasn’t asleep,” said Penelope calmly. “Which, considering the ghastly monotony of Mr. Attwell’s sermons, is something very remarkable.”
“Penelope!”
“When will you realise that Dorothy and I are grown up, Phoebe,” said Penelope suddenly. For suddenly all this seemed to be so stupid. A lovely crisp day, and no War and a nice luncheon and a fire. If only Phoebe had chosen to leave her alone this would never have happened. “Naturally it isn’t the thing to speak aloud in church,” she continued, “but it isn’t a capital offence, is it?”
“I am surprised at you.” With reddening nose Phoebe was striding ahead. If only her sisters had known how wretched she was, surely they would have been kinder to her, she thought passionately. Her thoughts leapt back to their Sundays during the War. Sunday had always been her day: she had managed it. They had set off for church at her command and returned from it in the same way. She had always carved on Sunday, a cold joint with nothing to go with it but boiled potatoes. A fruit tart, apple for six months of the year because it was more simple, and rhubarb for most of the rest. And then after lunch they had all sat in the drawing-room: not too close to the fire if there was one, because it was bad for you. And tea at five because her sisters liked it at four or half past and having it at five gave Phoebe a sense of power. Bleakly Phoebe sniffed and thought of the tiny table in her tiny sitting-room. She had had cold mutton for four days because it was too much bother to think of anything else. Surely her sisters could have agreed with her suggestion that they should always lunch together on Sundays. But no . . . they had both declined to consider the idea. Lonely . . . she was lonely, thought Phoebe doggedly. And it hurt, terribly it hurt. It swept your horizon bare of everything except yourself; there you were, outlined against it, a little black silhouette. Nobody caring. Nobody caring, ever, thought Phoebe, wrenching open the gate that led into their little grass-plotted enclosure.
“Well . . .” feeling vaguely pitiful, Penelope stood at her little front door and smiled. “Do you care to come in to tea, Phoebe?” Penelope gave the invitation although she hadn’t wanted to. For there was something about her sister’s face that made her feel vaguely uneasy. A stricken look. She had mentioned it to Dorothy the other day, but Dorothy had only laughed and said that Phoebe had always been so cross that now it was beginning to show. Probably it was only that, but it was disturbing, all the same.
“No thank you,” said Phoebe curtly. And walking away she inserted the key in her own Yale lock and vanished. But when she had shut the little green door behind her she began to cry. Loud, choking sobs that no one could hear because no one was listening or even wanting to listen, thought Phoebe, lifting her eyes to the ceiling and opening her mouth with grotesque grimacings.
The time to Susan’s wedding passed very quickly. Almost too quickly, said Tony, trying to pretend that he wasn’t counting the hours. “Really, I don’t know that I shan’t break it off.” Tony, with immaculately washed hands, was waiting for tea. He had had a busy day on the farm. He was happy, blissfully happy in his work. And the blessing was that he did it so well: an experiment was no longer an experiment, thought Sir Philip thankfully. For it really had been a step in the dark, to take on a young man without any qualifications, and blind into the bargain.
“Break it off?” Lady Capel, on the other side of the fire, was knitting a pull-over, corn-coloured, for Tony to wear with his leather coat.
“Yes; you see, marriage is such a tie,” said Tony thoughtfully. “And supposing Susan produces a baby every year.”
“You will have to see that she doesn’t,” said Lady Capel briskly. Somehow you could never be shocked at Tony. He had the mind of a child and a way of expressing himself that was indescribably naive.
“Yes, that’s all very well,” grumbled Tony. “But I am a young normal human being and so I feel pretty sure is Susan. However, we need not go into that any further. Perhaps I shan’t break it off; it wouldn’t be fair on the dear child. Also I should have to return the presents which I should very much dislike doing, especially yours, which is perfect. All the furniture for the little home. We should have to sleep on the floor; no, we shouldn’t, because, of course, if we broke it off we shouldn’t be sleeping anywhere together. Dear me: no, it wouldn’t do at all.” Tony became suddenly silent.
“I am so glad you like the furniture. But it isn’t as much of a present as it sounds. None of it is new, you see. We had heaps too much here.”
“But think what it would have been if it had been new. Nothing decent has been made since the War. You, know, you look much younger,” said Tony unexpectedly.
“I?”
“Yes, and you wonder how I know. But I can tell. There is a lilt in your voice, dear lady. Oh, dear! I do hope that you haven’t fallen in love with me. That would be deplorable in the circumstances. How could we manage? We couldn’t manage: it would be too difficult with Susan always around.”
Oh, dear, you do make me laugh.” Lady Capel leaned her greying head against the back of her chair and dropped her knitting in her lap. “In love with you, you revolting boy.”
“Ah, that’s all very well. Your merriment masks a breaking heart.” Tony was laughing too. He laughed out loud. “Oh, dear me, I am so happy,” he said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, and so are you. Something has happened: something nice. Do tell me what it is. My instinct scents a love affair, but I don’t see who there is for you to fall in love with except me and I’m booked; besides, you say you’re not in love with me.”
“Do you realise how old I am?” Lady Capel was wiping her eyes. There was undoubtedly something uncanny about this boy: she had always felt it. His body housed a sprite. Behind his wide-open blinded eyes lurked a perception that couldn’t be measured in ordinary terms.
“Yes, round about the sixties,” said Tony briefly. “The time when a good many women begin to wake up. If I’m spared and if I haven’t done my job properly I shall have to watch Susan when she’s sixty. As a matter of fact, I shall have done my job properly so she won’t need watching. But I wish you’d tell me. As a matter of fact, I think I know, but I’d rather be quite sure.”
“Tell me what you think you know. No, wait a minute; here’s Barton with tea. Philip is out so you can tell me while we have it. Or have you to get back to the farm?”
“No, not till five. I’ve got to guard against standing over Pilling too much. He’s perfectly capable and it’s always a pity to make a man dependent on you. No, I’ve got till five and by then I shall have been able to hear it all. Oh, dear, I am so happy!” Tony said it again. “Hallo, Barton, I hope you have brought us some crumpets,” Tony half-turned in his chair. “Crumpets all soppy with butter. Oh! How we used to long for them during the War. Didn’t we?”
“We did indeed.” Lady Capel was drawing the low table a little nearer to her. She smiled as Barton carefully arranged another one at Tony’s elbow. “Spoilt by everyone,” she said.
“Not I---I’m unspoilable. Thank you, Barton. As I said once before, when I am rich enough I shall entice you away from the Moat. But that won’t be yet.” Tony sat there smiling complacently as Barton withdrew, his clean-shaven jowls shaking with suppressed merriment. “I love Barton,” he said suddenly. “I’m like that revolting child who said, ‘Me loves evvybody.’ Why aren’t children like that put to death?”
“Perhaps you’ll start the fashion when your first-born says it,” Lady Capel was chuckling. She poured out Tony’s tea and took it to him. “You can find the crumpets yourself,” she said. “They are at your feet, on the stand in the fireplace.”
“Heavenly.” Tony stooped down and took one. But how careful he was. although he spoke so carelessly. His spotless handkerchief: his delicate way of wiping his lips. Lady Capel watched him.
“Don’t stare. I know I’m good-looking, but I don’t like it.”
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I can feel it. I suppose it’s rays. Everything is rays: any idiot knows that and I am far from being one. Tell me, there’s a dear.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. It was about three weeks ago. You had a letter and I told you then that the writer of it had been your lover. Oh, no, not in the sense that I should mean a lover; don’t flush that sweet pink. But a very proper lover. ‘I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more.’ What rot you darlings thing did talk in the old days. But you didn’t know that you were talking rot, so it was forgiven you. No, I mean Sir Godfrey Fortescue, darling.”
“I don’t know what you mean”; but Lady Capel was crimson. Perhaps it was the firelight, but anyhow, mercifully this irresistible boy couldn’t see. She picked up her cup and set it down again. “You are appalling,” she said.
“I know. Go on.”
“He is coming down here.” Lady Capel was stooping to the silver dish on the little stand. “And I am frightened. You see, Philip and I have been alone together for so long. So much is involved. This house: it is his, and if I married again I should have to leave it. Not that that would matter, for Sir Godfrey has a place of his own in Wiltshire. But you don’t understand---or perhaps you do. The relationship of a mother and son is a very clear one: so much is embodied in it. A sort of unconscious loyalty to the husband who was the father of that son. The son’s unconscious protection over the mother, because she was the father’s wife. Oh! it all sounds heavy and pedantic when you try to explain it. But it’s there all the same, desperately there. And if all that is to be shattered at one fell blow, just think of it! I go to Philip and say, ‘I am going to marry again.’ He would be appalled: his instant re-action would be that I ought to have put all that sort of thing behind me. He might even be disgusted,” said Lady Capel, wincing.
Yes, I see your point,” said Tony calmly. “But you know . . . “ and then he fell silent. For, after all, Sir Philip was his employer and a very noble and a very generous one.
“Perhaps if it actually comes to pass Sir Philip will get used to the idea,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Would it matter very much if he didn’t?”
“Would it matter?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, it’s difficult for me,” Tony hesitated. “You see, I owe so enormously much to Sir Philip. So desperately much. And he’s so splendid in loads of ways. Oh, in most ways. But he’s old for a man of his years: much too old. Much too set, if you know what I mean. He ought to marry too. Let’s all marry,” said Tony brightly. “I’m going to, anyhow, and I hope you are, too. But let Sir Philip marry too. That would be glorious!”
“Philip marry!”
“Yes, that gave you a jar, didn’t it? But it might easily happen. Someone young, like Susan, who would run this house all wrong; not that Susan would run it wrong, because she wouldn’t, she’s much too sensible. But you’d have to go then, and it would be agony. But if you go first there won’t be any agony; besides, you mightn’t have to go, who knows? And I have an idea that if Sir Philip saw you in love with someone not quite young he might feel that he might do it too. Who is there?” Tony was holding out his cup for more tea. “That very nice middle aunt of Susan’s: she’d do splendidly. Just the right age and a perfect dear. A mass of repressions, although she doesn’t know it. But that’s the fault of the one at the other end; a perfect old trout of a woman, though she doesn’t know it either. Thank you.” Tony was carefully putting his cup back into the saucer again.
“Oh, Tony,” Lady Capel sighed. “I can’t talk about it any more just now. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Utterly,” said Tony simply. “Do let me pass you another crumpet, although you have already had far more than is good for you. But they’re just right now, simply sopping. Look! see how cleverly I do it.” Neatly Tony stopped and picked up the silver dish and handed it across the thick hearthrug.
And now it was only three days before the wedding and Susan had arrived. Very calm and matter of fact but with a light in her eyes that Penelope saw and marvelled at. Susan? the gay worldly girl of whom she had always been rather frightened. She spoke to her brother about it: Jim Milne was staying at the little hotel in the Square, and was having tea with his sister.
“Yes, but I always knew Susan would fall in love very successfully,” said Jim Milne, who was a tall, rather leggy man with very little hair left. “And I’m glad that she’s lighted on someone who will bring out the best in her. She will be able to mother Tony and that will be a good thing. By the way, what charming people the Capels are. Susan took me up to see them after dinner last night. I have carefully said that I don’t want to dine out at all, except on the night of the wedding, when the young people will have gone. As I have lent them my car for three days they have decided to go down to Torquay for the week-end. But I liked them both immensely and both are obviously very fond of Susan and Tony.”
“Do you know that I have never met them?”
“Never met them?”
“No, you see. . . .” Penelope hesitated. “It’s Phoebe,” she explained. “I expect Mr. Blythe saw what she was like and thought it better that we shouldn’t meet our landlord on friendly terms; at any rate not until we had been here some time. There were difficulties: little things about plumbing and colour-washing, etc., etc., and I think Mr. Blythe got very tired of it. And I expect the Capels felt that if they began to visit us they would have it all over again: they don’t know, you see, that Dorothy and I are much more easy going. But we shall all meet at the wedding and at dinner afterwards and that will make it all right. Even Phoebe can’t talk about the deficiencies of the cottages if she is accepting the hospitality of the owners of them.”
“No, even Phoebe couldn’t do that. Poor old Phoebe! Aren’t you thankful to have a home of your own, Pen?”
“Oh, I am!”
“And yet you would never come and keep house for me.”
“No, because I have had always had a feeling that we three ought to hang together. And Susan, although a perfect darling, would always have felt that perhaps I was going to exercise supervision over her. And now she and I are going to be near together, which I shall love. What are you going to do, Jim?”
“Travel. Do what I have always longed to do, travel rough. Get passages on tramp steamers and go and visit the ends of the earth. Die, perhaps, by being washed overboard in a gale and go and join my darling without all the sickening fuss and paganism of a funeral.”
“Molly would have liked Tony.”
“Yes, she would. And I am sure she knows. Molly is very near to me and very often.”
“You have never thought of marrying again,” said Penelope gently. She glanced at her brother as he lounged in the low chair, his feet almost in the fire.
“Never. Such a thing never entered my head. Molly! heavens, any woman after Molly would have been a horror,” said Jim Milne simply. “No, I’m waiting to take it up again on the other side, Pen. And now I must get along back to the hotel. I’ve met a man there who is anxious to take me on at billiards. He little knows what he’s let himself in for. Well, if I don’t see you again before the great day, here’s the best of luck. Tell Susan to come round, and have lunch with me to-morrow and not to bring the young man, because I want to have her to myself for the last time and she’ll have plenty of him after I’ve set off for the North Pole.” And with this Jim Milne heaved himself out of his chair, kissed his sister as she sat there looking up at him and was gone. And as Penelope heard the front door open and shut she wondered why it was that lately she had felt so utterly different from anything that she had ever felt before. An upheaval of her whole outlook, as if she had suddenly come alive. Just as Dorothy had come alive: Jim had remarked on it. He had remarked on Phoebe, too, saying how she had aged. She and Dorothy had got younger while Phoebe had aged. Why was it? She sat there wondering. And then she heard the knock on the front door that meant that Dorothy was there. Dorothy kept up the Victory knock that they had always employed during the War.
“Come in.” Penelope, with the light on her hair, stood there with the door wide open. Even now it was difficult to remember that you could keep a door wide open when it was dark outside.
“Are you by yourself?” Dorothy looked important. Her eyes were bright and she smiled.
“Yes, quite alone. Jim has just gone and Susan is dining at The Moat. Stay and have supper with me, Dorothy. I’ll get it and we’ll have it by the fire.”
“I should love to. I put the guard on the fire when I came out so I needn’t go back. I’ll put my hat and coat on the stand here: your sitting-room is too pretty to clutter up with clothes.” Dorothy was shedding her outdoor things. She had on a well-made woolly cardigan and skirt. None of that rather hopeless collection of clothes that she had been accustomed to cram on anyhow. “Let’s get supper now,” she said. “And then we needn’t bother to come away from the fire again until I have to go. I’ll help you.”
So supper was got ready. And then the two sisters sat down to it. Pen looked almost pretty, thought Dorothy, spreading on butter with a lavish hand.
“Isn’t it enchanting to have as much butter as one wants?”
“Delicious. I missed it more than anything. And this is lovely butter from the Moat farm. Susan brought it down from Lady Capel.”
“Susan looks extremely happy,” said Dorothy, spreading on potted meat.
“Yes, doesn’t she.” Penelope was helping herself to coffee. “There is a great change in Susan and one vastly for the better. Susan has someone beside herself to think of.”
“Yes.” Dorothy was leaning back in her chair and setting her well-made teeth into the crust she had elected to cut herself. “That’s what one needs. Someone else beside oneself to think of.”
“Yes.”
“The bother is to find it,” said Dorothy easily. “But when you have: there you are!”
“Yes.” Penelope didn’t quite know what to say next. It was as if Dorothy had some delicious secret that she was hugging to herself. She waited. But she waited in vain. Dorothy’s next remark showed that she had elected to change the subject.
“What are you going to wear at the wedding? May I cut myself some more bread?”
“Of course.” Penelope watched her sister sawing at the loaf. Dorothy had small determined hands, very brown now from her gardening.
“I am going to wear my fur coat and cap. And underneath my blue suit. And I have got myself some very nice new fur gloves to match my coat. And some silk stockings that I can wear over linings. I will not have cold legs for anyone.”
“No.” Dorothy was chuckling. “How you have always hated being cold, Pen, and I don’t wonder, after the flat. Will you ever forget tea at five, and the fire only just lighted; And not being allowed to go near to it?”
“Never.”
“Why we ever put up with it baffles me,” said Dorothy complacently. “The people have the government that they deserve, as they used to say in the War. We deserved it: we were too stupid to rebel. Too craven.”
“I do so hate rows.”
“I don’t like them,” Dorothy chuckled. “I had a row with Mr. Maltby this morning,” she said.
“Who is that?”
“My gardener; don’t pretend you don’t know,” said Dorothy briskly. Don’t be like Phoebe and say ‘Maltby’ as if it was something waiting to be carted away by the dustmen. Russia changed all that. We are all equal or we very soon shall be.”
“Yes, it’s splendid,” said Penelope weakly. For she would do or say anything not to alienate Dorothy. If Dorothy liked to think that the Verger, for instance, was the same as Sir Philip Capel, well, why shouldn’t she? And of course, they were all the same really. Or weren’t they? Anyhow. . . . “Go on,” she said aloud.
“It was about fruit trees,” said Dorothy joyfully. “I had a catalogue, you see, and was frightfully keen to order some and fill the lower border with them. To plant them in the grass and make a sort of lovely little orchard, so that I could sit there. And Mr. Maltby said that it was too late and that it would be a waste of money.”
“And what happened then?”
“I gave in,” said Dorothy joyously.
“But then, where was the row?”
“That was it.”
“Do you mean that just two disagreeing was the row?”
“Yes.” Dorothy leaned forward and her eyes shone. “You two”; how heavenly of Pen to put it like that, “You two”; blissful words. Dorothy leaned back and shut her eyes.
“But I don’t see.” Penelope suddenly felt a throb of alarm shoot through her. Dorothy looked so queer, so sort of transported. Mr. Maltby! heavens! was Dorothy . . . Penelope leaned forward.
“What nice things one can have to eat when one lives alone, can’t one?”
Dorothy had opened her eyes again. Penelope heaved a sigh of relief. That was it, of course; Dorothy was revelling in her sense of freedom from restraint, just as she herself was revelling. “What are you going to wear at the wedding?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I haven’t thought,” said Dorothy easily. “I’ve got lots of new things, you see, so I shall put on some of them.”
“Have you got lots of new things? When did you get them?”
“I went up to town last week and had a real day’s shopping,” said Dorothy. “I wanted lots of things, like garden twine and bulbs and things that you can’t get here. So I bought some clothes as well. Principally things to wear just about the house, you know; one can’t look a sight when one is gardening; it’s an insult to the plants. I always think that Christ had some such idea in His Head when he spoke of the lilies of the field. Probably all the people listening to Him looked perfect objects and He wanted to rub it in.”
“Yes.” Penelope took a long silent breath. There was something very odd happening to Dorothy, there was no doubt about that. Christ; Penelope had never heard her say that perfect name before in such a happy, familiar, light-hearted way.
“Yes, and while I was about it I bought a complete new winter rig-out. A new fur coat, furs are just beginning to come into the country again, and a felt hat trimmed with fur to match. And a cardigan and skirt to match, Viennese, and very nice, too. And a wine-coloured dinner dress with fur on the sleeves and round the neck in a sort of high collar. I spent a fortune,” ended Dorothy complacently. “But I went to Mr. Paton first to ask if I could. And he pretended that he didn’t know me, I looked so much younger, and said that I could spend fifty pounds with a clear conscience as Trans-Atlantics were paying well and would continue to do so.”
“Have I got any of those?”
“I expect so, our shares are mostly the same. Why don’t you go a splash too, Pen? It’s so important to look nice at the dinner-party. It’s our first real introduction to the Capels and we ought to look our best. What are you going to wear at the dinner party?”
“I thought my old black velvet,” said Penelope uneasily.
“My dear, it’s hundreds of years old; you simply can’t,” said Dorothy emphatically. “Look here, Mr. Maltby doesn’t come to-morrow; let you and me go up to town and have a day’s shopping. Catch the eight-forty-three so that we have lots of time and plenty of light. And we’ll go to Dickins and Jones where I got my garment and you can see if there isn’t one rather like it that would do.They showed me a perfect blue one, with lovely hanging sleeves with fur on the chiffon: fur on chiffon is always heavenly. You’d look lovely in the dreamy expensive moonlighty blue. Do let’s go, Pen; it would be such fun and you hardly ever break out and have a day in shops.”
And so after a little demur on Penelope’s part it was settled. The sisters would meet at the station, or walk there together if they happened to emerge from their front doors at the same moment. And as Penelope got ready for bed, she decided that the idea of a day in town was fun. Real fun, because Dorothy was so keen. Dorothy . . . and then as Penelope remembered her keenness she remembered something else. “Mr. Maltby doesn’t come to-morrow; let you and me go up to town and have a day’s shopping.” Penelope sat down at the dressing-table and began taking out her hairpins one by one. And then as her naturally curly hair fell over her shoulders, she leaned forward and set her elbows on the glass covering of it. Phoebe . . . it would put an end to Phoebe, altogether, thought Penelope, picking up her ivory hair brush with an unseeing groping motion.
The next morning Mrs. Millar’s entry with Penelope’s early tea was almost cataclysmic. She rushed to the window and flicked up the spring blind with a jerk.
“What do you think, Miss?” Mrs. Millar could hardly speak for excitement. “It was on the seven o’clock news, calling all women; if they called all men for a change and tried to knock some sense into them it would be better, for a stupider lot of creatures I never came across. However, I listened because you never know and Bill had gone and I didn’t want him getting it first and lording it over me. And there it was as loud as they could say it.”
“What?” Penelope, lying there with her eyes bright over the edge of the eiderdown, was smiling. “But before you tell me, Mrs. Millar, let me tell you something in case I forget. I shall be out to lunch and tea as I am going up to London with Miss Dorothy for a day’s shopping.”
“Well. . . .” Mrs. Millar stood there with her mouth wide open. “Well, I never, if it hasn’t just come in time. Here’s your dressing-gown, Miss.” Mrs. Millar had turned to the door and was unhooking the long flowered gown. “Providential, I call it.”
“You still haven’t told me.” Penelope smiling comfortably, was shrugging her dressing-gown over her shoulders. She liked Mrs. Millar with her matutinal eagerness; it gave a zest to the day that was to come.
“No more coopongs,” said Mrs. Millar triumphantly.
“Good gracious. Not for anything?”
“No, not for nothing. But the public are asked to be as moderate as possible as is compatible with comfort in their purchases,” said Mrs. Millar in a high mincing voice. “And if they’d do away with these lady announcers I for one should be thankful. We hear enough of women without having them chattering at all hours of the day when one has to listen, or else one might miss something. This morning, for instance, when I heard her begin to squeak I thought ‘Oh, get away with you!’ and then, you see, it was a good thing I listened after all.”
“Yes, indeed,” and by now Penelope was excited too. No coupons! why, it made all the difference in the world to Dorothy and herself. Poor old Dorothy; how she would wish she had waited to do her shopping.
“From last night midnight,” said Mrs. Millar. “And if you wanted to know that men were silly that’d tell you. Last night midnight, when the shops were all shut. How’s your tea, Miss? As you like it?”
“Delicious,” said Penelope enthusiastically. And then Mrs. Millar went away. No more coupons! Why, it was superb news. Although she had a certain amount left it would have done away with half the pleasure to think and calculate. Coupons, the joykillers of the last three years. No, not three: much less than that. How they had spoilt that rapturous feeling of a day among the shops. Picking and choosing and wondering what you would have. And then almost the whole lot of them swept off by the ugly gleam of a much-needed mackintosh. Oh, this was heavenly; Penelope, snuggling lower in the bed, balanced her cup carefully between her hands. She would have to get up soon, as breakfast would be earlier. Mrs. Millar would grasp that as she had told her that she was going by the eight forty-three. A day in Town with the feeling that she was entitled to spend a little extra money on clothes, as Mr. Paton said they could. Life was worth living, thought Penelope, sitting up and putting down her cup and then sliding a slender leg out of bed.
And the day of shopping came up to all expectations. Except that the shops were crammed. Women looked as if they were going mad with spending, thought the sisters, jostled by shoppers as they almost fought their way into Dickins and Jones. But fortunately, Dorothy had left a good impression on one of the prettiest of the pretty assistants in the Model Gown Department. She remembered Dorothy and was delighted to see her back with an equally pleasant sister. The blue gown was fetched and displayed and eventually tried on. And even with her hair rather tousled from her close-fitting hat, Penelope was surprised at her own appearance.
“Good gracious me, how nice you look! Why have we always dressed so atrociously, Pen?” Dorothy, wedged in the corner of the little pale oak fitting-room, spoke warmly.
“Have we?” Penelope, turning under the shaded light, watched the shining mysterious folds of velvet with a sort of inner joy.
“Of course we have. Appallingly. Thinking in some way that it was right: that it showed a sort of superiority that was commendable. Like people won’t put on lipstick because they think they ought to stay as they are. It’s a form of conceit, really. They are able to stay looking objects because they are so virtuous that it doesn’t matter.”
“Is that it?” Penelope came nearer to the mirror. “Do you put on lipstick, Dorothy? Is that why you have suddenly got to look so much younger?”
“Partly,” said Dorothy guardedly.
“Have you got a lipstick?” Penelope looked at herself more closely. The nice assistant had gone to get her bill book. Yes, her lips were pale; she drew them in and blew them out again.
“Yes. Here it is.” Dorothy was fumbling in her bag. “Do it carefully: not too much at once. Yes, that’s it. Now press your lips together, like this. There now! don’t you look different?”
“Yes, I do,” said Penelope simply. “Except that it makes me look paler.”
“That’s easy enough,” said Dorothy recklessly. “When you’ve paid your bill we’ll go to their make-up department. Here she is again. Now, then, please, give us one of your pretty carriers, will you, because we want to take the frock with us? We want shoes and stockings and all sorts of things yet. We are having a lovely day.” Dorothy’s nice sturdy figure was all taut with interest and excitement. Not the same Dorothy at all, thought Penelope, wonderingly. A transformation indeed, and whether what had caused it was an advantage or not remained to be seen. But did it matter? If you looked alive and glowing where before you had only looked dead and withered, did it matter how the transformation had come to pass?
“This way.” They had now left the Model Gown Department and were walking across to the Dressing-Gowns. Everyone in the world must be buying a dressing-gown, thought Penelope. A dressing-gown had taken seven coupons, now it took none at all. No wonder people pushed and stared and moved hangers in their gloating excitement.
And now, after a day of delirious and almost reckless shopping, loaded with parcels, they stepped into the train. They were literally hung with parcels, because there was not time to have anything sent. Shoes and stockings and an evening petticoat and Dorothy had a paper carrier stuffed with bulbs and wooden labels and a thing for punching holes in the ground and a great bundle of fibre for bulb bowls indoors. It had been a superb day; as the sisters leaned back on the First Class cushions, for Chapelshades ran a day train to London at reduced rates, they sighed with pleasure.
“How much have you spent?” Dorothy spoke from behind an evening paper.
“I daren’t think.”
“What does it matter. You can only be alive once. And I want us to do Susan credit on Friday. She won’t be there but she doesn’t want a procession of moth-eaten aunts arriving at a nice house to be jeered at afterwards by the servants. We’re all right for the wedding: we’ve both got fur coats and they are nice ones. I only pray that Phoebe won’t look too much of a disgrace.”
“What do you suppose she will wear?” Penelope was looking at the lights of the houses as they flashed past them. Lights, after that dreadful black-out. Oh, the relief!
“I can’t imagine. I should say that very old moleskin coat and that rather battered hat that she’s worn for years. You can’t alter Phoebe! it’s no good trying. And one hates to feel ashamed of her; poor old Phoebe!”
“Do you suppose she’ll have anything in the least suitable for the dinner party afterwards? Susan says that several rather special people are coming to it. People high up in whatever positions they are: you know, the sort of people the Capels would know. They’ll be at the wedding, too: it will be rather mortifying for all of us if Phoebe looks an object. What evening clothes has Phoebe?”
“I can only remember that sort of broché coat thing with the skirt that didn’t really go with it. And you know what Phoebe is always about stockings; she never will change for the evening.” But Dorothy spoke carelessly. She was thinking about something else, decided Penelope, watching her sister’s well-shod feet crossing and uncrossing. Dorothy had changed: out of all recognition she had changed. What did it mean?
“Well . . .” she sighed. But in some way it was a sigh of excitement. Susan’s wedding, the day after to-morrow. Crowds of people: lots of Tony’s friends were coming down from London. Not that that would be an anxiety because any idea of Susan’s being married from Merry Widows had been vetoed by Lady Capel, even before it had been suggested. Susan could sleep at her Aunt Penelope’s but the reception would be given at The Moat. The car would fetch her in the morning and she would come up with her suitcase all ready packed for the brief honeymoon and dressed in the clothes in which she was going away. Pretty clothes: a blue suit over a silk jumper to match it, a fur coat and little cap to match that. Lovely fur gloves given to her by her father and a lovely white parchment suitcase, also given to her by him. The Capels had been very kind: very wasn’t the word at all; they had been overwhelmingly kind, reflected Penelope, wondering how she and her sisters would ever be able to return it.
“Chapelshades is the next station,” announced Dorothy, who had been peering out into the darkness. The railway lines ran quite close to the Maltbys’ cottage. “Ah, that must be it,” Dorothy suddenly spoke excitedly.
“What?”
“Only the house of some people I know. It’s so odd to be able to see lights after all those years of pitchy blackness. Do you remember how we used to tumble in and out of trains, Pen? How did we bear it?”
“We had to,” said Penelope, who was standing up and taking things out of the rack. The other people in the compartment watched her with uninterested gaze. Two typical country spinsters who had spent the day in London shopping. What did those sort of women think about, wondered the pretty young married woman who had a delightful husband waiting for her at the next station. The dullness: the boredom, the ghastly sense of having missed everything that made life worth living, reflected the young woman, watching Dorothy’s uninteresting profile pressed against the cold window.
“Here we are!” Heavens! she would have to help the creature, thought the young woman, eyeing Penelope staggering under a load of parcels. Clothes parcels, too. Clothes for Chapelshades; although, of course, the Capels lived there. But they, too, had caught the same sort of country dullness. Sir Philip: she had met him at a cocktail party some weeks ago. Not a word to say for himself. Tragic to see an attractive man get like that.
“Let me help you,” the young woman stood up.
“Oh, thank you so very much.” Penelope’s smile was radiant. The creature had quite nice teeth of her own, reflected the young woman as the train went on again. And the other stocky one looked quite pleased with herself. Well, there was no accounting for tastes. The young woman opened her bag and began to hunt for her lipstick.
Phoebe waked early on Susan’s wedding day. And as she did not have early tea and Mrs. Millar came to her last, she had the house to herself. She would not have the morning to herself; her sisters would be sure to be in and out in their joyful excitement, thought Phoebe, who considered their joyful excitement very silly indeed. The two young people were marrying on charity and she was surprised at her brother’s easy-going affability over the whole thing.
“But what exactly would you wish me to do?” Jim Milne hated going to see his elder sister, because he did not like her. He never had liked her and he considered that he was too old to begin to like her now.
“Well, have you no authority with Susan?”
“None whatever,” said Jim Milne cheerfully, and after a few minutes he made an excuse to go, leaving Phoebe to bite her lips in her bitterness of loneliness. Nobody wanted her now---she was well aware of it. Even Dorothy, who had been used to consult her about things, never consulted her now. She and Penelope were always together when Dorothy was not grubbing about in that ridiculous garden of hers. She was now beginning to cultivate the tiny front garden, making herself conspicuous in a gay overall and gum boots and her head tied up in a multi-coloured scarf. And the worst of it was that she did not seem to see how conspicuous she was making herself. Even saying to her elder sister that if the Vicar objected to seeing a middle-aged woman with her head tied up he was more foolish that she had thought he was. But that she was quite sure that Mr. Attwell did not mind because he had smiled and waved as he passed.
And now Phoebe dragged all the things out of her wardrobe and laid them on the bed. Inwardly she was afraid, but she would rather perish than admit it even to herself. Her clothes were old and she had all her coupons left because she had not used one of them, even for stockings. The only things that she had bought were three pair of tough businesslike combinations, and that had been last year. And now her coupons would be of no use and she could have lent some to Penelope when she had wanted to buy herself a Shetland jumper. Penelope had been very keen on that Shetland jumper but her elder sister had been adamant. “You do not need it,” she had said so firmly. “We are at War: it is not the time for frivolous buying.”
“I think a very little frivolous buying helps to keep up our spirits.” Penelope’s reply had been gentle because inwardly she was disgusted at her sister’s meanness. But it was of no use to get angry with Phoebe: you only hurt yourself: you could not hurt her.
And now Phoebe surveyed her clothes for the wedding. Two sets of clothes: because she was dining at The Moat with her sisters. She would get out the things for the wedding first.
And when she had got them out her heart sank. Here moleskin coat was brown and the sleeves were very old-fashioned. Her hat was of an ancient shape and the ribbon was faded. Her gloves were pale lavender, and Phoebe suddenly got a feeling that you no longer wore pale kid gloves at a wedding. Her stockings were of wool and of a good quality but they were beige-coloured, which was wrong. Her shoes were expensive shoes but the toes were very square indeed. And the dress that she was going to wear under all these things was grey and of a bygone shape. The skirt . . . it seemed to stick out where skirts did not now stick out. Well . . . Phoebe set her tough old mouth in a firm line. She did not care: she never had cared and she was not going to begin to care now. If the other people thought she was shabby they could think it. Dorothy and Penelope had spent money on new clothes; they had told her so the day before. Well, if they liked to waste their money they could. She had more sense. And now for the evening clothes; Phoebe stooped to a long drawer.
When she saw the black dress lying there she was frightened. She would not be able to go to the dinner that night; she would have to make some excuse. She lifted it out: it smelt of moth-ball in which it had been preserved. It was long and thin and made of moiré silk. The sleeves were long and thick and the neck was square. Feverishly Phoebe began to hunt in another drawer. The neck was too low: she would have to find something to fill it up. Yes, this would do: she dragged out a long lace scarf. She was clever with her needle. She would make a sort of square yoke, let in to the uncompromising square. After breakfast she would do this. Now she would hurry down and get her breakfast, so that when Mrs. Millar came she could go straight up and tidy the bedroom and leave it free for her to do her sewing in later.
And as Mrs. Millar moved about the bedroom, knowing that Miss Milne was safe downstairs, she picked up each pathetic garment in turn and squalled with laughter. Mrs. Millar was going to the church herself to see Susan married and she would look out for Miss Milne and tell her friends to look out, too. A proper guy she was going to look and that was quite certain. All these old clothes, only fit for a jumble sale. And at the dinner party to-night; that would be fun, because Mrs. Millar was going to help to wash up. Fine game the servants would be making of her when Barton wasn’t within earshot. Barton wouldn’t have a word said about the guests: there had been trouble about that before, and now the girls knew their places. But when they were alone! Mrs. Millar swathed the thick lace scarf round her neck and winked at her reflection in the mirror.
Meanwhile, a little farther along the row, Susan entirely self-possessed, was locking her suitcase. Penelope was watching her.
“How calm you are, darling.”
“What do you expect me to be?” Susan, with a cigarette between her red lips, was smiling. She took it out and knocked off some of the ash. “Should I swoon?” she enquired. “Or be Very Much Upset and in tears?”
“No, but——”
“The only thing that I am a little anxious about is Phoebe,” said Susan cheerfully. “I believe that she is going to disgrace us by her clothes. I shan’t mind because I am so happy that I don’t mind anything; also I shall not be at the dinner to-night, where she will show most. But you and Dorothy will mind and I hate it for you both, because you have both been such dears to me. Also Daddy will be furious.”
“It was perfectly hopeless to try and do anything about it.”
“I know. If you had done she would only have got more obstinate and probably worn her hat back to front. Not that anybody would have known because it is probably unintelligible as it is. But still . . .” Susan stooped to an open drawer. “Don’t let’s worry,” she said. “It will only spoil what is going to be perfect, for me, anyhow. Also it’s nearly time for me to dress in all my wedding finery and I am dying for that. The car is coming for me at twelve. As Tony says, the bridegroom is not supposed to see his bride until she meets him at the Altar. But as he can’t see me at all, even at the Altar, he says he will see me as soon as he can, which will be at about five minutes past twelve.”
“Oh, darling . . .” but in the excitement of dressing the niece that she loved Penelope forgot all her misgivings about her sister. Susan looked lovely: wide-eyed and dewy and lovely. And as with her pale suitcase in her hand she waited in the hall, Penelope thought that it was a cruel thing that Tony could not see her. However . . . she smiled and waved as Susan walked along to the big car drawn up outside the little entrance gate and then went back to see about her own preparations. Susan hated anything in the way of tears or demonstrations. The young people of to-day were very different, reflected Penelope, walking along the hall and then turning again as she heard a knock at the front door.
“Penelope, have you seen Phoebe?” It was Dorothy, gasping.
“No, why?” But Penelope knew why: Susan had foreseen all this.
“Mrs. Millar said that she wanted some white sewing silk. So I took it along. Penelope, she looks exactly as if she had collected all her clothes from a Rummage Sale. That frightful old moleskin coat, going brown and with sleeves bulging near the cuff: a ghastly hat, a sort of furbished up old hat that I don’t remember having seen for years. And that dreadful grey dress that we always loathed.”
“Can’t we stop her?” Penelope felt her hands going a little cold. To be laughed at . . . by all those smart people. To cloud Susan’s joy; for she would cloud it. “Dorothy, can’t we do anything?” Penelope suddenly found that she was wrenching her cold hands together.
“We could try: together we might do something. Let’s go now: it gives you and me heaps of time to dress; the wedding isn’t till two and it’s only a quarter past twelve.”
“Come on, then”; they hurried like girls along the little path: to meet their elder sister’s defiant eyes at the front door.
“What do you want?” But Phoebe knew. And inwardly she was afraid.
“Phoebe, you can’t go dressed like that.” It was Dorothy who spoke.
“Why not?” Phoebe shut the door. “You two have lost your heads,” she said. “Dorothy with her gardener and you with your sidelong glances at Sir Philip Capel. I am ashamed of you both and because of that I am determined to dress as I have always dressed: unobtrusively.”
“Unobtrusively? Disgracefully.” Dorothy had gone a little white about the top lip. She stood there glaring, as Penelope also stood there, silent with suppressed feeling. Although the bother was that Phoebe was right. To a large extent the thought of two men was influencing them. It had influenced Dorothy’s whole life, while she herself was only just beginning to feel the stirrings of it. To look well in the eyes of the beloved: the first passionate wish of the woman who loves. Loves! “Oh, God, don’t let me be such a fool.” Penelope sent up a quick agonised prayer.
“You can both go back and dress yourselves. Nothing you say will have the slightest influence with me,” Phoebe put her hand on the door knob.
“We owe it to Susan.” Why didn’t Penelope say anything? thought Dorothy.
“To Susan. To Susan, who has shown openly that she thinks me a frump and a bore,” said Phoebe. “To Susan, who has cadged favours from rich people for the man she, wants to marry. I have no use for Susan: none whatever.”
“Then why do you come to the wedding?” Penelope had roused herself to speak.
“Because you don’t want me to. You and Dorothy, who have leagued yourselves against me, your elder sister! Don’t think I don’t know: don’t think I haven’t watched it for weeks---months. It is all part of your plan to shake me off. I, who have watched over you: had your interests at heart. Everything---everything taken away from me: our home, our joint incomes.” The bitterness that threatened to choke her poured out of Phoebe in a great flood. “You think I look a frump now,” she said. “Wait until you see me to-night. I’ve got out my oldest frock . . . I . . . I . . .”
“Come along, Pen.” Dorothy had taken her sister by her arm. “Phoebe is mad to talk as she is doing. Come along, Pen.”
“Yes, but——” but Dorothy had dragged her out of the front door and on to the path outside. “Come along back with me,” she said, “and we’ll have some coffee and dress afterwards. We don’t want to arrive at the church all unhinged, which we shall do if we stay here. Yes, come along, it’s perfectly hopeless to try to do anything with her.”
“What did she mean?” Penelope was looking at the lovely bunch of chrysanthemums standing on Dorothy’s low polished tea-table. Surely they didn’t come out of the garden.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Dorothy recklessly. “Mrs. Millar will bring the coffee directly the kettle is boiling. Oh . . .” Dorothy stood with her head a little on one side. “The front door,” she said, and bolted out into the hall. The sound of voices: a man’s voice, a little pause and then Dorothy back again. She looks about twenty, thought Penelope vaguely. “Oh, what lovely flowers,” she said.
“Yes.” Dorothy was holding them to her face. “You hardly ever see real camelias,” she said. “Only imitation ones. Aren’t they like wax?” She held them out.
“Who was it?”
“Mr. Maltby.”
“Oh, Dorothy! do be careful,” Penelope spoke anxiously.
“Careful? I? I’ve been careful too long,” said Dorothy recklessly. “Do I look as if being a little careless was doing me any harm, Pen?”
“But——”
“Yes, I know: I know all the ‘buts.’ But there’s nothing to have any ‘buts’ about yet, so why should I bother? Ah, here’s the coffee.” Dorothy’s eyes were shining. “Biscuits, too; joyful sight! Thank you, Mrs. Millar. Now hadn’t you better get along yourself? You’re going to the wedding, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Miss.” Mrs. Millar had seen Mr. Maltby’s tall figure 86 pass the little gate and was chuckling. A fine figure of a man and a bit of mystery about him, so perhaps Miss Dorothy was not being as silly as some people might think. “Yes, Miss, I’ll get along now, if I may,” she said, and vanished.
“And what exactly are you going to wear at the wedding?” enquired Dorothy, biting into a crisp digestive biscuit with obvious enjoyment. “I know what you are going to wear at the dinner party because I helped you to buy it.”
“Almost the same as you. Fur coat and cap, and blue suit underneath and new silk stockings and best suede shoes. And lovely new gloves. Dreams of gloves.”
“It’s all fun, isn’t it?”
“Yes, except for Phoebe.”
“Oh, Phoebe! Forget about Phoebe.”
“I can’t. The things she said.”
“What? Do you mean about Sir Philip?”
“Well, all I can say is that I wish it was true. I should love you to marry, Pen, and somebody splendid like that. I love the look of him: don’t you?”
“Sidelong glances . . .” Penelope said it chokingly.
“Yes, but you aren’t going to take any notice of that. Phoebe is crazy with jealousy; she’s like an animal that is being hurt and only wants to twist and bite the person.”
“Other people might think it. He might think it.”
“Not he. He can’t. It isn’t true, either. I don’t believe he’s ever spoken to any of us, has he?”
“No.”
“Well, then, he hasn’t been near enough to notice sidelong glances even if there were any, which there aren’t. And let’s make ourselves look as nice as ever we can to-day. For Susan’s sake, as well as our own. Put on some make-up, Pen; don’t spoil the whole effect by pallid lips. Go and dress now, because it’s time, and come in and fetch me if Phoebe doesn’t turn up. Probably she’ll want to go alone if she’s feeling as she was just now.”
“Dorothy, you’ve completely altered,” Penelope got up out of her chair. “What is it?”
“I’m interested in something,” said Dorothy simply. “I’m glad to wake up in the morning instead of hating it as I used to do. You look almost completely different too,” and Dorothy put our her arms and hugged her sister. Her sister. It was lovely to have a sister who understood and sympathised, and who would stand by you if the moment for standing by ever came, thought Dorothy, collecting the cups and plates and making a little pile of them.
The Norman Church at Chapelshades was small and dark, with beautiful stained glass windows. During the War Sir Philip had had the windows removed to safety but now they were back again in their place, and the sun shone kindly through them. The ends of the old pews were carved: heavy carving, carving done by skilful hands that loved their job and, therefore, did it well. And the dark oak showed up the gay colouring of the pretty ladies who were now filing into them. Shown to their places by slim young men, smart in their well-cut morning coats and striped trousers. New clothes, obtained with difficulty from obdurate tailors who would wait for their money but not for their coupons. Overworked tailors trying to stem the rush of young airmen who craved to be out of uniform.
“Friends of the bride: friends of the bridegroom”; what crowds of people there were, thought Penelope, standing just inside the porch waiting for her sisters. All so smart and gay and fashionable. Thank heaven she had had the sense to spend a little money on her clothes. “Oh, how do you do?” Smiling and bowing vaguely, she gazed at a tall figure standing beside her.
“How do you do?” Mr. Maltby was amused. He, too, had had to stop and wonder who the smart young lady could be. Miss Penelope, looking at least ten years younger.
“I don’t seem to——” Penelope was faltering. And then suddenly all was clear. Dorothy standing there with a flush on her stolid little face. Dorothy also transformed, in her expensive clothes. And now it was Mr. Maltby’s turn to flush.
“How do you do?”
“See, I am wearing your flowers,” and then with a little smile Dorothy lowered her face again and caught hold of Penelope’s arm. “Phoebe prefers to arrive by herself,” she whispered the words as they went into the rustling, scented interior.
“Why?”
But Dorothy was too excited to answer. They were being shown right up to the front by a very slim young man, who had been carefully told exactly what the bride’s aunts were like. But only his intensive training as a Squadron Leader came to his rescue over this. For these ladies were undeniably smart. And the description of them had been otherwise. However---with this most difficult duty well performed, the young man, bronzed and upright, went off down the aisle again.
“I am the bride’s aunt.” Phoebe, standing truculently in the aisle, felt her hands cold in the old faded gloves. Well, she didn’t care: she didn’t care. Let all these smart people turn and stare at her: she at least was honest.
“This way, please.” With her eyes fixed on the erect young back, Phoebe stumped up the aisle. Brought to a standstill, she stood there, staring up into the blue eyes, which, having faced death so often, were quite unmoved.
“I can see my sisters higher up,” Phoebe spoke out loud.
“We are reserving the seats higher up,” said the young man calmly. For, as he reflected, seeing Phoebe stumbling to her place, although Fellowes could not see, his bride could and there was no reason why she should be unnecessarily mortified by having a relation looking a perfect object just under her nose.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair! Phoebe, pretending to pray into her lavender gloves, was raging. Shoved in at the back, while other people. . . . And now Phoebe, sitting back in her seat, stared about her. Higher up on the other side of the aisle, was Mr. Maltby! Mr. Maltby, dressed like a gentleman and looking like one, which was worse. Dorothy---Dorothy and Mr. Maltby: that would be the next revolting happening. Dorothy and Penelope: she could see them, if she moved her head a little to one side. Ridiculously dressed. Oh! the whole thing was monstrous. And now another stir. Sir Philip and Lady Capel coming up the aisle. Lace and furs and beautifully rouged lips. Another young man, equally well groomed and upright. Into the front seat, and Sir Philip stooping to put his hat down between his knees. All so calm and self-possessed, while she---shoved into the background and counted as nothing at all. Phoebe, gripping her hands together, felt her eyelids tingling. Surely it must be nearly half past two: yes, there was the organ beginning to play. And Mr. Attwell and another clergyman coming in. People walking rather more quickly up the aisle so as to get to their places before the bride arrived. And now Tony, very tall, coming from the vestry at the side. And with him his best man, also tall and slim in Air Force uniform and with a row of ribbons on his breast. Tony with his face turned to the west door: his soul watching even if his eyes could not. Penelope felt a rush of ridiculous tears to her own eyes. And then the gradual merging of the triumphant chords into the Wedding March. The bride, coming up the aisle on her father’s arm. A lovely nymph, thought the women, staring at her. Veiled and mysterious, as a bride should be. And the bridegroom with a look of exaltation on his face. Coming forward all alone and unaided to take her hand in his.
“Darling.” Everyone in the front seats could hear him say it. And not a few of them swallowed uncomfortably, wondering why everything suddenly seemed unworthy and futile, as if they had touched the fringe of things and then drawn back, afraid.
“Doesn’t Sir Philip look nice?” The service over, the bride and bridegroom were in the vestry. Dorothy, watching the tall figure disappearing up the chancel, whispered to her sister.
“Well——” but Penelope’s eyes were on the same slim young man coming out of the vestry again. He caught her eye and beckoned. Agitatedly she got up. She was to go into the vestry, but it ought to be Phoebe, the elder sister. But still---in those queer old clothes; Susan would be mortified. Susan who, with her arm through Tony’s, had gone into the vestry as though she was walking on cloud. Penelope got up and slipped carefully out of her pew.
A small vestry, rather hot. Susan, coming towards her, and kissing her. Tony reaching out for her hand and, oddly enough, getting hold of it at once. A tall figure with rather puzzled grey eyes gazing at her.
“Sir Philip, this is my pet aunt, Penelope.” Susan at this tremendous moment was conscious that here was an unexampled opportunity. Penelope really looked almost beautiful. Her face flushed and eyes alight.
“How do you do?” Sir Philip took the gloved hand in his. How was it that he had not met this young woman before, he wondered. Or perhaps he had and forgotten. Not that he would have been likely to forget this face: in its own delicate way it was an arresting face. The eyes, the sensitive mouth. Blythe had given him the impression that the Miss Milnes were all dowdy and unprepossessing.
“I . . . “ and then there was no time for any more, because the triumphant chords of the Wedding March came rolling through the narrow doorway. Out they all went, a little select company of them, Tony and Susan sweeping ahead. Down the aisle, a gorgeous young couple; no one remembered that Tony was blind as he went joyfully towards the high wide open west door, his bride on his arm. People outside were cheering: there was the slam of the door of a car. And then another slam and then another: people were following the young couple up to the Moat House. The dark little church was emptying although the organ still played triumphantly. It was all triumph and happiness, thought Penelope, beckoning to Dorothy to join her in the aisle and quite forgetting all about Phoebe. Triumph and happiness and a lovely lingering of the scent of flowers and all the things that make up a gay congregation.
“Here you are . . .” and now it was another young man shepherding them into a car. A fine long car with two people already in it. People they did not know in the least but who at once began to talk. The bride . . . she was lovely, wasn’t she? Good gracious me! are you two her aunts? Lucky women . . . and then more laughter and chatter as the long car went racing up to the house. A long avenue. . . . Penelope staring out of the window, was conscious that she was feeling frightfully excited. An excitement unlike anything she had ever felt before. The sort of excitement that she had felt as a child. Anticipation: breathless anticipation. And now here they were, a long low dignified old house and a butler at the door. Into the hall---and Sir Philip and Lady Capel standing there to greet them. Sir Philip looking down into her eyes again. It was too much, thought Penelope, just standing there, close to Dorothy, when the handshaking was over.
And then the awful truth broke on them simultaneously.
“Phoebe!” Both spoke at once.
“Where is she?”
“Heavens! I don’t know. Where was she in church: did you see her?”
“No.”
“How like her!” Dorothy was provoked. Not in the least disturbed, only provoked. Nothing could disturb Dorothy now; nothing could disturb her ever any more, she thought simply. For she loved and was loved in return. And if that happened to you you were in heaven; and if you were in heaven nothing counted but being there. That was enough for you for ever and ever and ever.
“Ought we to go back and look for her?” Penelope was staring through the door that led into the drawing-room. Tony and Susan standing under a great bell of flowers. Laughter and chatter and the same lovely scent of flowers everywhere.
“Certainly not. If Phoebe chooses to make a fool of herself I see no reason why all our fun should be spoilt,” said Dorothy firmly. “Come along and shake hands with the two darlings and then let’s go and look at the presents.”
So on they went. While Phoebe, still in the church, hid behind a pillar until it was quite empty. The verger, going round to collect the things that people had left behind them, saw her there and did not care. That was the crazy Miss Milne in her ragbag clothes: served her right that they had left her behind. Coming to a smart wedding dressed like that and her own niece, too. Ought to be ashamed of herself, decided the verger, putting the collection of flimsy handkerchiefs into his capacious pocket and walking up the aisle with his usual majestic step to deposit them in the choir-boys’ vestry.
While Phoebe, seizing her opportunity, rushed out of the big west door and down the steps. To get away . . . that was her one instinct: to get away. To hide: to hide from all these brutes and beasts who made her life a hell. People who despised her, simply because she was too dignified to dress herself up like a young girl. Her sisters---her own sisters, to whom she had devoted her life! So careless were they of her whereabouts that they were even now hobnobbing with people who didn’t care a snap for them. She herself would go home: she would go home and stay there all by herself. Perhaps she would kill herself, thought Phoebe, hurrying through the sunshine, blinded with tears. No one to see her; yes, a tall man ahead of her, walking with long leisurely strides; Mr. Maltby: another ugly menace to her happiness there. Phoebe slackened her pace. But Mr. Maltby had heard the hurrying footsteps. Too good to be true, of course, but she might have . . . He turned round. No, the elder sister. He hesitated then and stood still. Anguish . . . yes, this was anguish, and however much she might snub him, he could not disregard it.
“Miss Milne.”
“Obviously. What do you want?” Phoebe also stood still. As a matter of fact she suddenly felt that she could go no farther. The sunshine blinded her and everything danced in front of her eyes. Her heart was beating all over her. She reached out a sudden hand.
“That’s all right: hold on to me. Don’t try to move: come over here into the shade.” Mr. Maltby’s voice was matter of fact. “Better?”
“I am quite well, thank you.” Phoebe, straightening her ugly hat, was trembling. Yes, she was ugly all over, thought Mr. Maltby pitifully. What chance had a woman like this ever had? In all his varied life, and it had been a very varied one, Mr. Maltby decided that Miss Phoebe Milne hadn’t one redeeming feature about her. No wonder her two sisters---but Miss Phoebe broke in on his thoughts.
“Why are you not up at the house?” she asked rudely.
“I? I am only a gardener,” said Mr. Maltby simply. “A greater Man than I could ever hope to be was only a Carpenter and if you know your Scriptures, Miss Phoebe, as I am sure you do, you will remember that the Scribes and Pharisees never let Him forget it.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” said Phoebe sharply. “And although I thank you for your help, Maltby, I should wish you to remember that as you have just admitted, you are not a gentlemen.”
“Meaning?” said Mr. Maltby, gently.
“That I should be obliged if you would refrain from forcing your attentions on my sister,” said Phoebe furiously.
“Ah.” Mr. Maltby seemed to be reflecting. He spoke after a little pause. “I love her,” he said.
“How dare you?”
“Why not?”
“She is not in your station of life. I will not permit it.” Everything in Phoebe seemed suddenly to have turned to fire. Love . . . you could not get away from it. It haunted you: indecently it haunted you.
“Granted, she is not in my station. But what has that to do with love? Mr. Maltby spoke dreamily. The chequered shade of the tree under which they stood flickered on his face.
“I decline to discuss it.”
But Mr. Maltby laid a detaining hand on the shabby moleskin sleeve.
“You may have to,” he said. “And what better time than this. We are both disturbed emotionally by what we have just witnessed, the plighting of troth of two young things who love one another. Let us discuss it now, Miss Milne, instead of waiting until we are both cold and perhaps, because of it, bitter.”
“How dare you so presume?” Phoebe wrenched her arm away from the detaining hand. The creature had taken off his gloves and you could see that his hands were ingrained with dirt. Not exactly ingrained, and his nails were well kept, but it was not the hand of a gentleman. “I decline to discuss it,” she said.
“Very well, then, have your own way. Do you feel well enough to get to your home without my help? Or will you come to my home and allow my mother to make you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” and Phoebe, without another word, began to stalk away. While Mr. Maltby, watching her go, decided to stay where he was and smoke a cigarette. He had much to think of: much more than anyone knew, even his mother. Two letters from his lawyers: one of them quite amazing, although not quite unexpected. A distant relative: another of these rolling stones, thought Mr. Maltby, an amused twist on his lips. An uncle, dying without heir. She’ll feel different when she knows that there’s a “Sir” in the offing, thought Mr. Maltby, humorously. Not much money, probably, but a title goes a long way with the women. Quite enough to have got him asked up to the reception, thought Mr. Maltby, propping himself against a tree and tipping his hard hat over his eyes. Odd what things counted in this world and what things didn’t. Even after a hell War such as they’d just emerged from. But that was because things weren’t properly adjusted yet. Anyhow, not a word to anyone, not even to his little love. Sweetly pretty she had looked with his flowers pinned into her smart coat; Mr. Maltby began to dream.
While up at the Moat House, Tony, standing under the big bell of flowers, took his bride’s slender fingers in his and squeezed them.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Madly.” Susan’s eyes were bright and smiling.
“Have we shaken hands yet with the other aunt, the truculent one?”
“No, I don’t believe we have.” Susan stood and pondered. “No, I’m sure we haven’t. I saw Penelope a little while ago with Sir Philip. Her eyes were shining just as mine are now and she looked a perfect duck in her smart clothes.”
“How lovely do you look?”
“Too lovely for words.”
“And me?”
“Don’t be silly or I shall kiss you,” said Susan simply. “Here comes Lady Capel to say that we can break loose. Cake . . . we’ve got to cut the cake. Come on, darling.”
“Don’t let go of my hand. Let’s begin as we mean to go on.” Tony was laughing as they led him off. And Penelope, standing beside Sir Philip, watched him go.
“Most of their happiness is due to you,” she said softly.
“I?” He was surprised. This woman was charming, he reflected. Oddly charming. There was something different about her: a naïveté: a freshness of outlook. She said queer things in a charming way, seeming to be quite unconscious of it.
“How?” Somehow he wanted to hear her say it again.
“Why, you have enabled them to marry by giving them an income to marry on. It is a wonderful thing to have done. Who else would have done it?”
“Lots of people. Don’t forget that Tony earns his pay. How often can you say that of someone who goes into a job as more or less of an amateur.”
“But you didn’t know that when you took him on.”
“You are determined to make me out a philanthropist,” Sir Philip laughed. He is perfect when he laughs, thought Penelope, watching him. But his eyes look tired: I wonder why?
“Well, it is very sweet of you to be so generous in your praise. But you must not forget my mother. It is largely due to her taking an instant liking to Tony that we have done as we have done. Have you met my mother, by the way?”
“Only just to shake hands with her.”
“I don’t know where she is.” Sir Philip stared round the room. Crowds of people: what right had most of them to the lovely furs they wore, he wondered resentfully. Two hundred and fifty a year had transformed the world for two young people and yet that mink coat there must have cost at least three times that amount. Ah! there was his mother---talking to Fortescue. How young she looked. He was saying something amusing, obviously, for she was laughing. Fortescue. Godfrey; an old friend. Staying in the house, he had jumped at an invitation to stay. Fortescue---and his mother. What was this queer feeling that had gripped his heart? A child’s feeling: it came to him out of the mist of years.
Barton . . . Barton gazing down at him with his kind smile. “She’s only gone away for a week or two, Master Philip; she’ll soon be back.”
“Yes, but she’s left me behind!” how he had rushed away into the garden and sobbed and cried until found by his nurse and bundled up to bed. Kind: they had all been kind to him; and his mother had soon come back. But he had never forgotten that agony of desolation. Desertion: his mother had deserted him. And now, was it to happen for a second time? . . .
“The room is too hot for you”; Penelope put a timid hand on the black sleeve.
“No, no, I’m all right. Will you forgive me if I leave you for a minute or two. Or, no . . . let me take you over and introduce you properly to my mother. There she is: see?”
“She is talking to someone.”
“No one who matters.” Sir Philip’s voice was gay. How ridiculous he had been; one of those fantastic moments when his imagination ran riot. “Come along,” he took hold of her elbow.
“How do you do? Yes, of course I know you. Susan’s favourite aunt.” Lady Capel’s eyes were bright. She is in love with this nice man who is standing by her, thought Penelope simply: how happy they must be. “Yes, I shall be able to see more of you this evening: you and your sisters are dining here, of course. We shall send a car for you at a quarter to eight, if that suits you.”
“How very kind of you.”
“Not at all. By the way, there are three of you, aren’t there? I don’t think I have seen your elder sister yet. Is she here?”
“She should be here.” Penelope said it anxiously.
“Well there are so many people that I don’t wonder she has got lost,” said Lady Capel gaily. “Godfrey, you ought to be talking to somebody else.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know.” They had forgotten that she and Sir Philip were there, thought Penelope, watching them. With a little murmur she moved away. Here was love again. Transforming: illuminating: making young. Susan, Dorothy, and now Lady Capel. All! It was the sudden realisation of this last that had made Sir Philip change colour. It had suddenly happened, the closing down on him of a cloud. Penelope felt oppressed. Life was frightening. She would find her sister and they would soon be able to go home. It would be nearly time for the bride and bridegroom to go off. Yes, here was Susan, bearing down on her.
“Come and help me change, Pen, darling. We ought to be off because it gets dark so early. This way: come on.” Through the crowd and up the lovely shallow staircase. A beautiful bedroom with a huge fire burning in it. Clothes laid out on the satin eiderdown.
“Joy. Now I can have a cigarette in peace.” Susan was lighting one. “Ah, that’s good! Everything’s packed, there’s nothing to do. You were an angel to have me to stay, Pen. Well, how do you think it went off?”
“Perfectly.” Penelope was watching Susan slip out of the shining satin gown. “You’ll set fire to your veil”; she went forward to help.
“Thanks, darling. Yes, it was a success, wasn’t it? But what happened to Phoebe? I haven’t seen her at all. Tony asked where she was? I was so surprised at him remembering her.”
“I don’t believe she ever came,” and then Penelope burst into explanations. Susan, moving swiftly about the room, listened attentively.
“Don’t let it spoil things for you, darling. Take no notice of Phoebe and her repressions, otherwise you’ll never have a moment’s peace. You know what she is. Take a leaf out of Dorothy’s book and think of something else.”
“Susan, what is Dorothy going to do?”
“Marry Mr. Maltby, of course.” Susan, stepping into a tweed skirt, was laughing. “I saw him as I came down the aisle. He looked just as well-bred as most of the other people there.”
“But he is only a gardener.”
“Well, is he?” said Susan thoughtfully, surveying the jumper she was about to slip over her yellow head. “Personally, I believe there is some mystery about that man. In any event, Dorothy has obviously made up her mind that she loves him and is only waiting for him to pop the question. And as we are only going away for the week-end I shall be back to help you grapple with it all, darling, so don’t get keyed up. Go and sit down by that lovely fire; I don’t want any help: I’m only wearing ordinary clothes, except for a fur coat which is too sublime for words. Did you ever know anything so enchanting as Lady Capel giving me that lovely thing?”
“What is it?” said Penelope, awestruck.
“Canadian squirrel: a fur I adore. Now, then, how do I look? A cap to match, and my lovely top boots. Don’t you think I look nice?”
“Yes.” Penelope got up from her seat by the fire. “How calmly you take it all, Susan. We might just be starting off for a day at Marsham Market. And you are married---to the man you love.”
“I know: that’s why I am calm.” Susan was stowing things away in her handbag. “It’s so natural: so supremely natural. I don’t want to feel excited: it would spoil it. The church ceremony was nothing to me: we had to have it, of course, because it would hurt one’s friends if one didn’t. Also one must be legally married in case one should have any children. But to me the supreme thing is love: the real sort of love. Spiritual love as well as bodily love. And Tony and I have got them both, therefore our marriage will be a success. But don’t tell me that being married in church is a special way of getting God’s Blessing. If two people who don’t love one another stand in front of a clergyman and say that they do, God is only scowling at them. At least, that is my idea.”
“You go too fast for me,” said Penelope, smiling. “Kiss me, my darling, before we go downstairs. Have you got a handkerchief?”
“Of course. A lovely one. Pale pink chiffon. Here it is.” Susan whisked it out of her bag and flourished it. “Ready . . . all the suitcases are downstairs. It’s fun to live in a rich house, Pen, although I’m quite prepared to live perfectly happily in a poor one. Now, then, for the descent down the stairs with all flags flying.”
And Penelope and Dorothy, talking it over afterwards as they walked home---they had elected to do that rather than drive---decided that it was with all flags flying that the two young people had driven away. Susan at the wheel, radiant with the adventure of it all. Tony, smiling at the cheers of his friends and imploring his bride not to drive too fast. “Having caught me at last, it would be such a pity to kill me at once”; his face radiated pride and happiness as he shouted the words. Sir Philip, looking oddly subdued, and Lady Capel almost as radiant as Susan herself, standing there with a tall man close beside her.
“Who was that standing close to Lady Capel?” Dorothy was stumping along the avenue looking very pleased with herself. And then she stopped dead, bending to examine a plant.
“I believe that’s that lovely bush Michaelmas daisy,” she said. “I adore it and mean to have some. You can get them at those lovely botanical gardens at Wisley. We’ll go up one day.”
“It was Sir Godfrey Fortescue,” said Penelope, suddenly feeling uneasy, although she didn’t know why.
“Who is he?” Dorothy, who had finished her examination of the plant, was straightening herself again.
“I don’t really know.”
“Judging by her blissful expression I should say that they were in love with one another,” said Dorothy, beginning to walk on again. “What fun! another wedding. Lovely, and we can wear all these nice clothes again. Fine clothes; you and I did Susan credit, Penelope. It was a mercy Phoebe decided not to come.”
“Phoebe!” Why, she had forgotten all about her, thought Penelope, wildly. So many other things to fill her thoughts. Lady Capel and Sir Godfrey Fortescue. Sir Philip---he would be lonely: he might---Penelope cowered away from her shameful thought. “Oh, heavens, what shall we do about Phoebe?” And yet the awful thing was that she didn’t care. She didn’t care.
And nor did Dorothy care; for Dorothy’s head was full of other things, too. “Do about Phoebe? Leave her alone,” she said stoutly. “We’ve had enough of her dominion over us. We’ve a chance to be happy and I’m going to take it and not care a rap about what she either does or says. And if you take my advice, Pen, you’ll do the same.”
“But——”
“Yes, I know she’s our sister and all that,” said Dorothy briskly. “But being a sister isn’t only an excuse for being hateful. And I’m tired of it and if you have any sense you’ll be tired of it too. Pretend you didn’t notice that Phoebe wasn’t at the reception, because I have an idea that she was at the church; anyhow, I can easily find that out,” said Dorothy, looking drolly cheerful. “And if she doesn’t want to go to-night, only be thankful, because her clothes are a disgrace and will show most frightfully at a dinner party.”
“Yes, well . . .” but now the village was in view and Dorothy walked more quickly. If she was quick she would have a few minutes to go round her garden before it got too dark. John had said that he would put a bundle of roots down by the front door on his way to the church. John . . . the joy of saying his name. John . . . Dorothy was smiling as she walked more quickly.
“I’ll come in to you at half past seven,” she said, “and I’ll bring my torch. And you go along and see Phoebe, and don’t forget: don’t try and persuade her to come to-night. She’ll spoil it for us and for everyone else, too, because her clothes will make Lady Capel feel uncomfortable. And if you begin to feel compunctious remember Susan and Tony, and how bad it is for them to have a relation who looks like a Rummage Sale, only much worse.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You look about twenty-five,” said Dorothy suddenly. “That hat suits you beautifully: it’s wonderful what good clothes do for women of our age. I’m older than you are but even I look nice too. I can feel it,” and with a little wave of her hand Dorothy vanished into her front door, picking up something as she went, remembered Penelope afterwards. A bundle of something with a note tied on to it.
When, late that night, Sir Philip at last reached the sanctuary of his own room, he stood for a second or two, his back against the closed door, staring round him. The same room that he had left more or less lightheartedly a few hours before. The same room, still lighted by the flames of a beautiful coal fire. The only difference being that now the bed was turned down and his dressing-gown and pyjamas laid over the foot of it. Everything the same. And yet everything in his own world upturned and destroyed. Sir Philip heaved his back from against the door and walked to the fireplace. Standing there he stood staring down into the fire: and then, dazzled by the flames, he shut his eyes and remembered it all again.
It had happened after the last guest had gone. A successful evening; very successful: everyone had obviously enjoyed themselves. The two charming Miss Milnes---for the elder sister had been indisposed at the last, and had sent a message to that effect, mercifully in time to have the places at the dinner table rearranged. The two charming Miss Milnes: odd that they had not got to know their tenants earlier, for they promised to be very delightful neighbours, with their fresh unspoilt outlook on life. After dinner, he had sat for quite a long time with the younger of the two: she had eyes like stars and the untried mouth of a child. She had listened to what he had to say with eagerness, and had never interrupted with accounts of her own prowess in any particular direction. Unusual to find an intelligent woman who could listen, he reflected, talking with pleasure to her. And then there had been the other sister; not so good looking and fatter in the face, but also intelligent and with the appearance of having a very nice secret of her own, over which she was gloating. Yes, the evening had been a success and his mother had agreed with him as, with Sir Godfrey Fortescue, stooping to light a cigarette, she stood with her arm threaded through her son’s.
“Yes, it has all gone off well, hasn’t it, Philip?”
“Yes, splendidly.” At the moment he had wondered why her voice had trembled a little but had then decided that it was because she was tired. “You are tired, darling; you had better get off to bed”; he had patted her sweet white hand, smiling caressingly.
And then it had been Godfrey who had come forward. Godfrey, with a look in his eyes that told Philip what was coming. A look of possession: a look of proprietorship, a look that Philip would gladly have struck from his face with his open hand, if he had not had time to remember that he was a civilised human being and not a savage.
“Your mother and I have something to tell you,” he said. “We love one another. I always have loved her but have never even hoped to think that I might ever be free to tell her so. But now I am free and she has said that she will be my wife. And she only wants to hear you say that you are pleased to make her completely happy.”
“Pleased!” And as Philip stood by his fire, his elbow resting on the mantelpiece, he wondered what had happened to him then. Someone had taken control of him; he felt his father’s hand on his arm as he had felt it on that awful evening in Calais. The words of wild reproach, words that threatened to flood out of him with the violence of hysteria, had died on his tongue. He had smiled: he had bent and kissed his mother: he had shaken hands with Godfrey. He had rung the bell for Barton: a small bottle of champagne had been brought: the old servant had joined them in a toast. And then, after a few more quiet words, he had left them alone together, and come upstairs. His mother: left alone downstairs with the man who had replaced him. His mother: his mother, who had lived only for him, her son, for years. And now he was forgotten: he might not even be alive. He had seen it in her eyes: the eyes of a young girl dwelling with joy on the face of the beloved. Disgusting: revolting; he flung himself from the mantelpiece and began to rage about the room. Such things ought not to be allowed: there ought to be a law to prevent elderly people from making fools of themselves. Largely because of his love for his mother, he himself had never thought seriously of marriage. And now she had basely deserted him for another man, leaving him with the ruins of his life around him. His home: he would have to give his home up; he could not expect her to settle anywhere else: she adored it so. Barton, the old family retainer: he would pass from his control into here. Or rather into the control of that usurper, Fortescue. Who was he? Somewhere in Egypt they had met. But that was years ago. His father . . . the memory of his father was to be blasphemed. As a little boy he had often entered that lovely oak-panelled room overlooking the sunk garden. The dressing-room beyond, with its heavily leaded windows. And now Fortescue: a spasm of primeval jealousy shook Sir Philip as he stood stock still in the middle of the room. This was the sort of thing he had read about and always been contemptuous of. A father, recoiling with fury from a suitor who had dared to ask the hand of a beloved daughter in marriage. Jealousy: the jealousy of the jungle. Shivering, he tried to control himself.
And then had come the little quiet tap at the door that afterwards, thinking it over, Sir Philip decided had almost prevented him from committing murder.
“May I come in, Sir?”
“Yes, come in, Barton.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Inserting himself respectfully through a door that was barely ajar, Barton came in. One glance at his master had told him all he wanted to know. In spite of his generous reception of the staggering news, Sir Philip had had a nasty knock.
“I wish to say, Sir,” and then Barton began. Changes there might be and it was not for him, only a servant, to comment on them. But one thing he must make quite clear---Sir Philip, beloved son of a beloved master, was the only master whom he, Barton, was ever going to serve.
“Oh, Barton!”
“Yes, Sir, and may I, now I am here, say something else, Sir? I remember once, when you were a very little boy, you had a little nest of wild rabbits away down in the sunk field. You found them there and you used to go and watch them every day, so happy you were and you only told me about them. And then, one day, you came rushing to me sobbing and crying because they had gone. I shall never forget your distress; pitiful it was. And then I told you that it was because they were big enough to run that they had gone. But that there’d be some more. That being rabbits there was bound to be some more. And sure enough there were: one fine day you found them and came as happy as a cricket to tell me about it.”
“Yes, Barton.” Somehow the red-hot feeling in his brain was dying down. Sir Philip smiled as he put both hands up to his head.
“And if I might say so, Sir, I’ve always found it like that in life. There’s always something else, if I can express it like that, Sir. You’ve got me: for keeps you’ve got me,” said Barton, his old jowl trembling. “And while I’ve got breath in my body I’ll serve you faithfully. In the old home or out of it.”
“Barton.”
“I’m sure I’m very grateful to you, Sir, for your goodness to me.” Barton was openly weeping over the outstretched hand. They stood there together, in front of the fire, master and servant united by a common bond of desolation. But still . . . when Barton, after a trembling “Good-night, Sir,” had left the room, Sir Philip felt a lightening of his load of desolation. Life was like rabbits! with the shadow of a smile twisting the corners of his clean-shaven lips, Sir Philip shrugged himself out of his dress jacket and began to take out his studs.
And while Sir Philip paced his room with misery in his heart, Penelope Milne stood still in hers, and wondered what was the matter with her. She had just parted with Dorothy, the sisters had stayed up talking over the wonderful evening that had just come to an end. The guests at the dinner party: their frocks, their conversation, the delicious food and the perfect manner of its serving. The whole thing had been quite, quite perfect. Dorothy had spoken breathlessly.
“And you did look so nice, Pen. And I could see that Sir Philip thought so too. He talked quite a lot to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” What was the matter with her, wondered Penelope, as she breathed the little simple word? The magic that surrounded her: surrounded her, even now in her own little sitting-room. Dorothy, her sister, was wreathed in magic too. Something emanating from her: happiness emanating from her. She had a secret, a blissful secret, and this was making her kind and gentle and interested in her younger sister. Dorothy was going to marry Mr. Maltby. Had he asked her yet, wondered Penelope, longing to know and yet deciding that it was better to wait for Dorothy to tell her.
“And that very nice looking man, Sir Godfrey Fortescue is obviously madly in love with Lady Capel. I kept on watching them when they were not looking. I wonder what Sir Philip will think of that.”
“Think of what?” Penelope came down to earth with a crash.
“Why, if Lady Capel marries Sir Godfrey, I suppose he’ll have to leave the Moat House. He’d never turn his mother out of the home she adores.”
“Do you mean go away?”
“Well, I suppose he’d have to.” Dorothy was now quite certain that her sister was in love with Sir Philip Capel. She had it written all over her. What a match, thought Dorothy, her practical little mind bustling contentedly along. Sir Philip was just the right age, and there would be certain to be plenty of money and Pen had a little of her own, which was as it should be. She would have to enlist Susan’s aid in managing this affair. Susan would be splendid: she would make opportunities for Sir Philip and her sister to meet: doing it naturally as it ought to be done. Glorious; Dorothy yawned contentedly.
“My dear, we ought to be in bed. What is happening to us; we are breaking out.”
“I don’t see why Sir Philip should have to give up his own home,” Penelope, following her own train of thought, was frowning.
“Oh, well, perhaps he won’t have to,” said Dorothy, jumping up. “Anyhow, it hasn’t happened yet, so don’t let’s cross our stiles before we come to them. I wonder how Phoebe enjoyed her evening sulking at home. How ridiculous it was of her.”
“Phoebe! I had forgotten all about her. Oh, Dorothy! how awful of me.” Penelope also got up out of her chair. “Just think . . . I never once thought, she might have wanted something. . . .”
“Serve her right,” said Dorothy, heartlessly. You can’t go on and on being selfish without suffering for it. John says we’ve made a great mistake in letting her think that she matters so much. That it’s been bad for her as well as for us. And that’s it time that we stopped it.”
“John!” Penelope tried to smile and failed. “Dorothy, what are you going to do?” she said. Do mind! after all, Mr. Maltby is only your gardener.”
“And being my gardener would you expect me to call him Mr. Anybody?” returned Dorothy jauntily. Me, Phoebe’s sister!” and then Dorothy leant forward and gave her sister an impulsive hug. “You’re a dear,” she said. “And I love you very much, Pen, more than I ever have before. Because now I seem to understand you so much better than I ever have done before. You’re all clear to me like I’m clear to myself. And now I’m going to bed without any more talk. It’s nearly one o’clock. Oh, isn’t it heavenly to think that we needn’t drag hideous curtains over our bedroom windows any more?”
“Yes, heavenly,” and now, as Penelope stood in her bedroom gazing out into the little green lawn that was their front garden, she thought again that Dorothy had been right when she had said that it was heavenly not to have the black-out any more. Because although it was a cold night, it was a lovely starlit night. Big shining stars, set high in a dark blue cup. Standing there she leaned her forehead against the cold glass. If he went away what would she do? How would she live without this strange glowing rapture at her heart. How would she endure the feeling that she could not see him even if she wanted to? How would the days pass now that she knew what every blazing hour of a day could be? His hands: his smile, the whole perfection of him. And he liked her: he did. With Susan there they might be able to meet, perhaps. He liked to talk to her: he had singled her out that evening. There had been lots of people to talk to but he had chosen her. And once she had met his eyes across the flowers and the crystal and the silver; that had been before they had really talked together, and he had suddenly looked attentive and as if he saw her for the first time. The day that had passed had been the beginning of new things. Life was going to be different; with a strange bewildering difference. Penelope turned from the window after drawing the curtains together. She suddenly felt frightfully tired, and as if the glow that she had brought from the Moat House had faded. Things were going to be too difficult: too complicated. Dorothy---and Mr. Maltby: the row over that would be appalling, especially with Phoebe, and it would have its repercussions in the little village of Chapelshades. People would talk: some unpleasantly, and the Capels would hear of it. Then Lady Capel’s marriage: she would long breathlessly to hear all about that and would not be able to: unless Susan would tell her. And then suddenly the thought of Susan, perhaps even now asleep in the arms of the man she loved, broke in on Penelope’s troubled consciousness. Eternal and undying, the mystery and surrender of love. Susan, with her proud head and determined bearing, subject to the will of a man. Subject always---for what was love but complete surrender. Those two, young and lovely in their youth and setting out together along the great adventure of married life. Penelope, thinking about it, felt shy and vaguely curious. She had never allowed herself to think about that sort of thing: living with Phoebe had given her, and Dorothy, the idea that it was all vaguely disgraceful. But was it? Dorothy didn’t seem to think so, anyhow, reflected Penelope, drawing her curtains again and standing there thinking. For suddenly there seemed such masses to think about. Sir Philip, and Lady Capel, and now Dorothy, with all the frightful complications that that would mean. Heavens! how was she to get through it all, wondered Penelope, lifting her slender arms and beginning to hoist her lovely velvet dress over her shining head.
Oddly enough, the Mrs. Millar who looked after the premises of the Marriage Bureau in London that had belonged to Susan and her friend, was a relation of the Mrs. Millar who looked after the three sisters in Merry Widows.
“Not that we’ll say anything about it, because we won’t,” said Mrs. Millar senior. Mrs. Millar senior was the one who lived at Chapelshades and her niece from London was spending a few days with her.
“Why?” enquired Jane Millar softly. She was enjoying the few days’ rest and now that the Bureau was closed she could enjoy them with a clear conscience. London was lovely, but so was the country. The country was all quiet, just as if there was a fog over everything.
“Why, because the less you talk in a village like this the better. That’s why I like having you to stay, Janie; it’s a relief to be able to let things go a bit. I never mention my three ladies to a soul: it doesn’t do. Round the village it goes, just like that boomerang my Bill used to have that came back and cut his head open more than once.”
“My,” breathed Jane softly. The fire was warm and the tea was good and she hadn’t got to get up early the next morning and open up grimy offices. “Start off and tell me, then,” she said.
“Well, we’ll begin with the eldest,” said Mrs. Millar, reaching out and taking a second piece of doughcake. And you help yourself, Jane, and don’t wait to be asked. Do with a bit of feeding up you would, judging by the look of you. Well, we’ll begin with Miss Phoebe. Going off her head, is the old girl, if you ask me my opinion.”
“Lor!”
“Talking to herself and wearing all her oldest clothes and when I say old I mean old. Forgetting to eat and sitting there staring in front of her and not answering when you speak to her. It’s a fair cert, it is. I’ve seen it before in these old spins. A bad look out.” Mrs. Millar breathed heavily.
“But what’s started her off?”
“Lots of things,” said Mrs. Millar mysteriously. “Began with the wedding last week. The other two, they fitted themselves out with some nice clothes, real slap-up clothes they were and both of them looked a treat. But Miss Phoebe, she rummaged out a lot of jumble from somewhere and went all by herself to the church. I fancy she knew she was all wrong and yet was too cussed to try to be different. And she never went to the reception at all: nor to the dinner. Went to bed instead and when I got there in the morning she was in the bathroom, crying out loud to herself, ‘Oh, God, no one cares if I am alive or dead,’ she was crying out.”
“And do they care?” enquired Jane Millar, profoundly interested.
“No, they don’t,” returned Mrs. Millar emphatically. “Not a snap of the fingers they don’t and that’s the awful part of it.”
“Serves her right, though.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear,” said Mrs. Millar grimly. “And now we’ll get on to Miss Dorothy.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The middle one.”
“Who’s she like?”
“Neither. She’s all by herself, stoutish and stocky and independent. And what’s more, she’s going to show her independence by marrying her gardener.”
“Never!”
“She is,” said Mrs. Millar with relish. “I can see it, if no one else can, and I’m jolly glad too. Maltby is a real good sort and so’s his mother. Any woman might be proud to get him.”
“Do the others know?”
“Miss Phoebe doesn’t, but Miss Penelope guesses all right. But no one says anything and a good thing too. Better wait until a thing like that actually happens before you begin to blab about it.”
“But what will they say?”
“Who?”
“The village and Sir Philip and Lady Capel and all them.”
“Lady Capel won’t say anything, because she’s going to marry again herself. Fancy! after all these years, and she and her son so happy together, and all. They say he looks years older already and he only knew of it last week.”
“My!”
“Yes, we’re fairly on the go here,” said Mrs. Millar, complacently. “What with the bride and bridegroom back again and settled into the Lodge looking like two lovebirds. And Miss Dorothy, and Miss Penelope.”
“What’s she going to do?”
“Marry Sir Philip if she can get him.”
“Go on!” Jane was gasping.
“Not that she knows it herself, poor lamb,” said Mrs. Millar lifting the teapot invitingly. “But I know it. All her old clothes done up in great bundles ready to go off to that place in London where they sell them by auction, except for some things she gave me and very glad I was to have them, too. It’s as clear as daylight what’s going on in her mind. They can’t hide it, especially when it strikes them over thirty. Miss Dorothy, for instance, with her singing and her smiles and her excitement over every little bit of weed in her garden. And when he comes in to see to things the way she looks at him. Ever so confiding,” said Mrs. Millar, chuckling. “And I can see it all from the kitchen window. John, I heard her call him John last evening.”
“You never!”
“I did. And now I’m waiting to hear her tell me that she’s going to marry him. I bet she tells me first because she knows I understand. ‘You’re my friend, Mrs. Millar,’ she said to me the other day. ‘And Russia, who helped to save us, has taught us one thing and that is, that we are all brothers and sisters, or ought to be.’”
“That’s right,” said Jane, dropping two nice square lumps of sugar into her replenished cup. “Although I don’t fancy that’ll soften things when Miss Dorothy announces her news. However, it isn’t our affair, although I do love to hear about it all. Miss Penelope and Sir Philip; that’s the best of the lot. That’d do a good way against Miss Dorothy’s step-down, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, if it ever came off. Although I’m not so sure about a step-down. Those Maltbys have always been a bit of a mystery in the village. Letters from abroad he has; I’ve seen them up in the Post Office. Stuck all over with queer stamps and readdressed from somewhere.”
“Well, I never!”
“And now, you tell me something about yourself, Janie,” said Mrs. Millar comfortably. “We’ll leave the clearing away until later; let’s sit nice and cosy and you tell me. Marriage Bureau closed down, didn’t you say?
“Mnn. More like moved, worse luck. I don’t like it either. Not a bit the same sort of class; it can’t be, with Miss Susan and Miss Marcia gone. Some one in Notting Hill Gate has picked up all the bits and pieces and opened there. A second-class, shoddy sort of affair, so the porter tells me. But heavens! how the people flock in to it. So many killed in the War, you see, and lots of them lonely; that’s the bother.”
“Well, it doesn’t concern us,” said Mrs. Millar comfortably. “And what about the cleaning of it; are you taking it on?”
“Well, I am,” said Mrs. Millar reluctantly. “Made such a point of it, they did, and I know the carpets and all that. And my friend the porter, he lives near and so do I for the matter of that, and it’s handy for me. They open later, too, and close down earlier, and the pay is good. So I’ve taken it on, although sometimes I feel a bit ashamed of it. For I see a lot of shifty looking customers hanging about. Before it opens, too, which I don’t like.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry,” said Mrs. Millar easily. “If people can’t find what they want without putting down a five pound note for it I’ve not much pity for them. I bet you haven’t got to do that, Janie?” said Mrs. Millar, a note of expectation in her voice.
“No.” Jane Millar fell abruptly silent. “Auntie, would you marry again if you had the chance?”
“Not I,” said Mrs. Millar emphatically. “But then, I’m a lot older than what you are, Janie. And for you I should say ‘Yes.’ If he’s a nice steady fellow with a little saved and won’t impose on you. I’d say ‘Yes’ in double quick time, I would.”
“He’s nice all right.”
“And got a good job?”
“He’s the porter,” said Janie simply. “He waited till his daughter Tillie could get married and then he asked me. And I don’t know what to say. That’s why I was glad of these few days to think it over quietly. We’d have enough between us and we can have the top floor of the Bureau offices to live in. Three nice rooms and a bath and heating, all free. And not only working for the Bureau either, for there’s lots of offices there. And Bill can do the lift work as well. It’s a good chance really.” Jane Millar smiled.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“I should like to have been where I could hear Big Ben,” said Jane wistfully. “All through the War it seemed to keep one going. ‘While I can keep on striking so can you,’ it seemed to say. And just when we seemed to be getting a bit sloppy over it all, it seemed to pull us up. And I can’t hear it at Notting Hill Gate, except through the wireless.”
“You and your Big Ben!” said Mrs. Millar derisively. “I’d rather have a nice husband any day than the best clock that ever was. But don’t you worry, dearie, you take your time and give him his answer when you get back. He’ll wait if he really wants you: they always do.”
“Down here where you’re all falling in love it makes me feel as if I did want him,” said Jane Millar childishly. “It’s there where it’s all bustly that I begin to wonder.”
“Then you stay here till you’re all calm and settled. It’s a rare help to me with all that’s going on. One of these fine evenings I shall come in and tell you that I’ve found Miss Phoebe with her head in a gas oven and how can I get through all that fuss all alone? Not to mention Miss Dorothy and Miss Penelope.”
“And Lady Capel and Sir Philip.”
“Yes, we’re in a fine pickle down here, aren’t we? And now, if you’re quite finished, we’ll push the table back and get nice and close to the fire. That’s it. Why! you’re as thin as a lath, child.” Capacious Mrs. Millar surveyed her niece discontentedly.
“Bill says that’s what he likes. Likes to be able to pick me up in his arms and carry me where he wants to.”
“And we all know where that is and small blame to him, because you’re a pretty little thing,” said Mrs. Millar tenderly. “And now don’t you fuss yourself with your knitting, because we’ll turn on the wireless and listen to the news.” Mrs. Millar got up. “And it’s a mercy, too, that it isn’t a year or so ago when we couldn’t turn it on without hearing that something else had gone wrong somewhere else. A fair sickener we got, and just before it all blew up once and for all too.”
“That’s right,” said Jane, contentedly closing her eyes and slipping a little lower in her chair, because Aunt was always such a dear and everything was all right, because Bill loved her and she him, although she wasn’t going to say so all at once, because men were all alike, even the best of them: they thought that they’d only got to hold out their hands and you would just tumble into them like a stupid little bird that hadn’t got the sense to make up its own mind one way or the other.
Someone else was perturbed about Phoebe’s condition and that was Penelope. And one morning she ran down to see Dorothy to talk it over with her. But Dorothy was not in the house. No one was in the house. And it was such a cold day, too. Muffled up to her ears in her fur coat, Penelope went through the kitchen and out into the garden. Dorothy; where was Dorothy? She called her name.
“Hallo!” And to Penelope’s horror Dorothy suddenly seemed to appear. Where had she been? And now two figures instead of one. Had Dorothy been engulfed in Mr. Maltby’s arms? For there they both stood on the path, laughing.
“Good heavens!” Penelope turned to go back into the kitchen. This was too appalling! Dorothy and her gardener embracing one another. She went through into the hall and from there into the kitchen. A smell of tobacco smoke, and Dorothy didn’t smoke. A bright fire and two comfortable chairs pushed up close to it.
“What shall we do?” Dorothy spoke anxiously. “How dreadful that she should have happened to come in just then.”
“Why?” Mr. Maltby’s voice was cheerful. “Why, dear, she has to know some time. Let’s go and tell her now and get it over.”
“Oh, I can’t!”
“You can with me,” said Mr. Maltby consolingly. So in they went. Scrubbing his muddy boots on the mat outside the kitchen door, Mr. Maltby was glad that his mother had cleaned his leggings that morning. Corduroy breeches and black leggings: he really didn’t look so bad, reflected Mr. Maltby, removing his hat and laying it down on a kitchen chair. “Wait a minute,” he took a comb from his waistcoat pocket and stood in front of the little mirror.
“Oh! you’re so calm.”
“Why not?” Oh! he really was marvellous, thought Dorothy frantically, standing there and watching him. Of course, she had said “yes”; she would have been crazy had she said anything else. Love . . . he would love and cherish her, he had said so. What did it matter if the whole village turned up its nose and cut her dead: she would have love, a thing she had never had. A thing that she had never dreamed of having. What else mattered but love? What else was there but love? Dorothy, standing there gazing at the man she had just promised to marry, wondered if she was alive at all. Or whether this wasn’t heaven, into which she had been precipitated without knowing, as people had been in the War when they had got a direct hit.
“Now then.” Mr. Maltby had returned from the garden where he had watched the few stray hairs blow from his comb into the crisp frosty air. “Now then, come along with you.” Slipping the comb back into his waistcoat pocket he drew her hand through his rough sleeve.
“Oh . . . “ but Dorothy, feeling the strength of the arm on which she leant, simply for the joy of being able to lean, was beginning to lose a little of her apprehension. For, after all, no one could take John away from her. People might object, and fuss and say that she was making a fool of herself but that didn’t mean that they could take from her this abiding sense of heavenly peace because she wasn’t ever going to be alone any more.
“Pen, darling.” And then somehow it was easy. Especially when John began to speak too. He spoke with a certain amount of dignity. Not a bit as if he was only a gardener, thought Penelope, impressed in spite of herself.
“Yes, I know, but . . .”
Oh, Pen, what does it matter that John is a gardener? It’s a beautiful thing to be. Now that we are so friendly with Russia, can’t you see that these things don’t count.”
“But they do, dear.” Mr. Maltby was smiling. “Your sister is right: the opinion of the village will be that you are making a grave mistake in marrying out of your class. Am I not right, Miss Milne?”
“Yes.” You could be frank with this man, thought Penelope approvingly. He had a fine face: odd that she had never noticed it before. A fine profile, too; he had turned it to Dorothy.
“Will you leave me to speak to your sister alone, dear?”
“Of course. I’ll take the chance of running down to the shops. Stay until I come back, Pen,” and Dorothy had gone. A new Dorothy with shining eyes. A purpose in her sturdy back: a gaiety in her still slim ankles. And love had wrought this transformation. Penelope suddenly sat down, simply because she felt that she could not stand up any more.
“May I also sit down, Miss Milne?”
“Oh, please!” Why, he spoke almost as if he was a gentleman, thought Penelope, watching him as he sank his long limbs into the chair opposite to hers. Yes, but he wasn’t. . . . Susan! How would this affect Susan in her new position in the village? Her aunt married to a gardener. Tony; Sir Philip; Lady Capel. The Vicar: not that he would mind: he was too kindly in his outlook. But it would be bad for Susan: bad for them all. Oh, dear!
“What I am going to say to you now, Miss Milne, I would ask you, if I may, to keep entirely to yourself.”
“Of course.”
“I do not even wish Dorothy to know.”
“Dorothy!” Oh, heavens! “No, of course I won’t say anything to anybody.” She managed to say the words calmly.
“I want to tell you a little about myself. I owe it to you because of what has just happened. My father? My father was what would be termed a gentleman, although in my opinion he was not a gentleman, because, having married my mother, a girl very much below him in station, he deserted her and went to America, where he died. I was already born and as my mother was left with practically nothing, and my father’s family refused to have anything to do with her, I was brought up very simply. I am not properly educated: I know it, but I can’t help it. Then I am lazy and I am a rolling stone: I served with the Home Guard in the War that is just over and did not make my mark. I don’t like shooting; I like gardening and I hate the idea of killing anyone. Fortunately, I did not have to,” said Mr. Maltby, smiling reminiscently.
“Go on.” Something exciting was coming, thought Penelope breathlessly. It was going to be like a book. One of those lovely things that happen in books and never anywhere else.
“Apparently there is a title kicking about in our family somewhere,” said Mr. Maltby, still faintly smiling. “And owing to a good deal of slaughter in the War it seems to have come to me.”
“What!”
“Yes, I know, that’s what I felt when I heard it,” said Mr. Maltby. “And I shouldn’t have been so pleased if it had been only a title because that’s not much good alone. But it’s got some money with it. Not much, they say,” continued Mr. Maltby, fumbling in his pocket and drawing out some letters, “but enough for Dorothy and me to live on after we’ve made my mother comfortable somewhere, for she’s much too sensible to want to live with her son after he’s married. But---and now I’m coming to the point. All this is going to take a little time to settle up and until it is I don’t want anyone to know about it, least of all my little girl, in case it should end in a disappointment.”
“Is it likely to?”
“No,” said Mr. Maltby, smiling broadly. “Not so far as is humanly possible. But when money and titles are in the offing, lots of unknown people are apt to turn up and we’ve got to safeguard ourselves against any chance that I’m not in the running for them.”
“I see.” Penelope clasped her hands. “Oh, how madly exciting!”
“Yes, but not so exciting as the fact that your sister is willing to marry me as I am,” said Mr. Maltby simply. “That is a marvel and it’ll take me a long time to realise it.”
“She looks so happy.” Penelope’s thoughts were in a whirl. How unspeakable, how revoltingly snobbish she was. This news had entirely reversed her opinion of Mr. Maltby. Now, instead of looking down on him because he was a gardener, she was looking up to him because he had a title. “Sir John Maltby.”
“Lady Maltby.” “My sister, Lady Maltby.” Oh, how hateful she was!
“So you feel happier about it all, Miss Milne?”
“I always liked you very much,” stammered Penelope, flushing scarlet.
“I am sure you did,” said Mr. Maltby warmly. He was enjoying himself. For the first time he realised that a title might be a nice thing to have. “I hope it comes off all right,” he voiced his sudden thought.
“Oh, so do I.”
“And I think it will,” said Mr. Maltby, getting up. “And now I’ll be off before Dorothy comes back. She’s had enough excitement for this morning and I want to take her to see my mother this afternoon. She’ll love my mother: people always do.”
“Perhaps I may go and see her some time.”
“Surely,” said Mr. Maltby, beaming. “She’d be proud and so should I. And now good-bye, Miss Milne.”
“Say Penelope. Why not?” Penelope was smiling bravely. Because, as she reflected, title or not title, this man was going to be her brother-in-law. And he was fine and manly: why should she mind his calling her by her Christian name?
“Penelope: it’s a beautiful name,” said John Maltby. He stood there and smiled down at her. A shame not to tell her that all his claims to the title had been established, but he had wanted to see how she took it all. He was not going to tell a soul: not until he saw how the village reacted to the staggering news of his engagement to one of the Misses Milne, because then he’d know who counted and who didn’t. The Capels: he particularly wanted to know how the Capels took it and that charming young fellow, Tony, who had married the lovely Susan. Unfair, perhaps, but he wanted to do it like that.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye. Oh, I wonder what my other sister will say,” gasped Penelope.
“Miss Phoebe?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think we can guess, can’t we?” John Maltby was pushing his nice white handkerchief a little lower into his breast pocket. “We know what she’ll say and what a lot of other people will say, too. Not that it’s right, after the way that nation of peasants, headed by a peasant, fought such a decisive action for us that we won the War much quicker than we should have done otherwise, and thank goodness we had the sense to realise it. And America, with that wonder of a man at its head, a nation that sets very little store by a title, taking it as a whole. We’re behind the times, Miss Milne, and we’ve got to catch up. Not that we haven’t done a good deal already, because we have, thanks to our Prime Minister. But it’s time that we learnt that what counts in this world is what we can contribute to it. Not so much money, either, but brains and the honest work of an honest pair of hands.”
“How wonderfully you talk.”
“Oh, no, I don’t. It’s only common sense. And dealing with flowers makes you see common sense. There’s some that’ll crack their brains over an orchid, just only a green speckled thing that always reminds me of an insect. But give me an uncut field of grass that’s got far too many flowers in it for its own good, or the farmer’s either. Nothing so lovely to my mind as to see that wealth of colour bow its head to a passing breeze. Or take a cluster of foxgloves standing back in the dimness of a wood. Something lovely there that nothing you can cultivate can ever attain to.”
“You do talk wonderfully.”
“Dorothy thinks so,” said Mr. Maltby, smiling a little. “And I’m glad if her sister does too. But now I must get along. Not a word of what I have told you, Miss Milne.”
“Oh, do call me Penelope.”
“Well. . . .” Mr. Maltby hesitated. “It’s odd,” he said, “but in spite of all my talk I feel that it might be a bit of a liberty.”
“Oh no!”
“Penelope, then,” Mr. Maltby’s smile was very pleasant.
“And I do hope, Penelope, that you’ll be the next.”
“Next what?”
“To marry.”
“I? Marry? Oh, no!”
“But why?”
“Why, nobody would want to.” Penelope was scarlet. Marriage! and her own thoughts had been of practically nothing else for the last twenty-four hours. There was something in the air. . . . you couldn’t get away from it. Marriage . . . everyone was getting married. Susan, Lady Capel, Dorothy.
“Perhaps some day someone will persuade you to change your mind,” said Mr. Maltby mischievously. And then he went away. Just in time, thought Penelope, hearing Dorothy opening the front door with her key. He had gone out into the garden and would get out by the little gate at the end of it. He was tactful, thought Penelope, wondering how he had learnt to be. Probably he had a very nice mother: she would get to know her as soon as she could.
“Well?” Dorothy, her eyes alight with excitement, put down her basket. “Well, what did he say, Pen? Oh, I shall die, I’m so happy. Isn’t he nice, Pen? Do say you think so.”
“I do think so, very.”
“Of course, there’ll be the most fearful row.” Dorothy spoke complacently. “But I just don’t care. I shall be sorry if it upsets Tony and Susan and the Capels, but perhaps it won’t. After all, things have changed most frightfully. Lots of the best people are as Red as peonies now. And a good thing too. I’m Red and always shall be.” Dorothy suddenly raised her right arm in the clenched fist salute.
“Phoebe!”
“Yes, I know; I thought of her first, of course. But then, what is the use of bothering about Phoebe now? We’ve bothered about her quite enough, and nearly killed ourselves in the process. Let her go: let her be as crazy as she likes: I don’t care. I’m not going to care,” ended Dorothy emphatically.
“But after all, she is our sister. And that’s what I really came down to talk to you about, Dorothy. And then I came out into the garden and saw you. . . .”
“I wish I could have seen your face,” said Dorothy, twinkling.
“It must have been a study. Poor old Pen!”
“Yes, but I feel all right now about it. I like him. He’s genuine and doesn’t pretend anything, and that’s so important.”
“Yes, I know. And there are other things, too, that are important,” said Dorothy sagely. “For instance, his handkerchief is always clean and he has a reticent way of using it and of sneezing, too. And just now he combed his hair to make himself tidy for you and went out specially in the garden to let the hairs, if there were any, blow away, Don’t you know, those things count. Especially if you are going to live in close proximity to a person,” said Dorothy, suddenly flushing a very deep crimson.
“Yes; well——” Penelope suddenly averted her eyes.
This was disturbing: very disturbing. All of a sudden they seemed to have got very near to Something. To life; was it that they had got near to Life? Life with a capital “L.” A life that they had known existed, and yet in a sort of virginal alarm had always avoided?
“But to get back to Phoebe.”
“Yes, let’s,” said Dorothy accommodatingly. Somehow it was so easy to be accommodating when you were so frightfully, frightfully happy. When life was all one great glowing glory and nothing mattered any more, except that someone wanted you only for himself and said so, and kissed your lips when you had never thought anyone either could or would, and Christmas was coming and you were going to be married directly after.
“Mrs. Millar says that she hears her talking to herself,” said Penelope anxiously. For, as she reflected, this was all going to be quite hopeless so far as Dorothy was concerned. Dorothy wasn’t even listening. Her thoughts were miles, miles away from the needs of either of her sisters: that was quite obvious.
“So do I talk to myself,” said Dorothy complacently. “I heard myself the other day, in the kitchen. I said, ‘I love you,’ out loud. I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Pen; that’s nothing.”
“It is if you scream and wail.”
“Does Phoebe scream and wail?”
“So Mrs. Millar says.”
“I daresay she makes it up,” said Dorothy, consolingly. “People like Mrs. Millar love to make the most of that sort of thing. Don’t bother about it, Pen, we’ve bothered about Phoebe such a lot and it hasn’t done the slightest good. Besides, she’ll forget to scream and wail when she hears I’m going to marry my gardener. It’ll turn to curses and imprecations and that will divert her mind.”
“Dorothy, you don’t care a bit.”
“No, I don’t. And nor would you if you were as happy as I am. I wish you were: I wish you’d marry Sir Philip,” said Dorothy suddenly. “He’d do beautifully for you and you for him.”
“Don’t!”
“Why? Don’t you like the idea?” and Dorothy’s face changed. Good gracious! Pen! Heavens, it was in the air! Susan had fairly set the ball rolling.
“Oh, Pen!”
“Don’t, whatever you do, breathe it. Not even to John.”
“Of course I won’t. Ever. You’re my sister and you come first. My dear, we’ve got to arrange it somehow. We will: you see if we don’t. He likes you: he does; I could see it at the dinner party, especially; I caught him looking at you. My dear, you’ll be Lady Capel; how perfectly enchanting. And she’s going away: could anything be better? He’ll miss her: he’ll be lonely, and that shall be our opportunity. Pen!”
“Don’t, Dorothy. I’m revolting, I know I am. I think about it all the time. But somehow I believe I’ve always loved him. In church: I used to look at him in church. But he’ll never, never. . . .” Penelope’s eyes were bleak in their misery.
“Oh, yes, he will,” said Dorothy comfortingly. “These things happen: you don’t know how, but they do. Don’t weep, my dear: there’s no need for it. We’ll put our heads together. . . .”
“Promise me you won’t breathe it.”
“I promise. It wouldn’t do; I can see that quite well. But there will be other ways. Oh, Pen! it makes it much nicer for me. feeling that you’ve got something, too.”
“But I haven’t.” Penelope was wiping her eyes. Strangely comforted, she smiled into her handkerchief. “At my age: I ought to be ashamed of myself.”
“What about me, I’m glorying in it and I’m much older than you. It’s something to glory in. Pen, darling. . . . “ Dorothy suddenly took her sister in her arms. “Stand by me when the row begins,” she said.
“Of course I will.” Penelope returned the pressure of her sister’s arms. A sister! what a lovely relationship it was. Utter loyalty: you wouldn’t allow anyone to attack your own sister. “Perhaps there won’t be a row,” she said simply.
“I don’t see how it can be avoided.” Dorothy gave her sister a little squeeze. “Such a nice figure,” she said, “and when you are well dressed you do look so nice. And so do I.” Dorothy took a few steps backward. “Why have we always considered it a sign of virtue to dress like Jumble Sales?” she said dramatically.
“I don’t know.”
“I do. It’s because Phoebe drilled it into us. And that’s why I don’t pity her now. She’s had her chance and lost it. Everyone has their chance but not everybody loses it,” said Dorothy cheerfully. “And you and I are going to be two of the latter class.”
“Well. . . .”
“I’m going to tea with his mother this afternoon,” said Dorothy, gazing at herself in the mirror over the bureau. “What shall I wear?”
“Not anything too smart until you see what she’s like.”
“But not dowdy. I want to look nice for him.”
“Your brown things with the fur cap.”
“Yes.” Dorothy still stood there. “I wish you could feel like I do,” she said suddenly. “I can’t explain it. It’s like what I should think waking up in the Next World must be. Everything seems to be vibrating much more quickly and although the sun isn’t exactly shining, it’s illuminating everything. There’s something hidden that you daren’t go too near to in case it suddenly bursts out and engulfs you.”
“Yes.” Penelope had got up. Somehow the sight of her sister’s happiness was making her feel desolate again. Outside. For Dorothy had entered into the Holy of Holies and knew what real happiness was.
“Come again soon.”
“I will, or you come in to me. Come in this evening and tell me what Mrs. Maltby is like.”
“All right, I will.” And then Penelope let herself out of the front door. Had Dorothy even seen her go? she wondered. Absorbed: entranced. And yet not in the least aware of the great news that was to crown her happiness. Crown it and, incidentally, do away with everything that might have clouded its complete glory. Yes, Dorothy was fortunate, reflected Penelope, drawing the collar of her fur coat more closely up round her neck because the air was keen and the sun like a great red football in the clear sky. Christmas. Christmas was on its way. And then Penelope’s heart gave a great throbbing leap of anticipation. Perhaps the Capels would give a party to celebrate it. A real Christmas party, with mistletoe hanging from that thick brass chain in the hall. Mistletoe. That would give him a chance of kissing her if he wanted to. “Oh, Lord, let him want to,” prayed Penelope, as she fitted the little Yale latchkey into the lock of her own green-painted front door.
“How happy are you really?” Tony, his nice square teeth munching at a roast chestnut, spoke from the other side of the fire.
“Madly.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Clothe your words in more academic language.”
“Intensely, then. These chestnuts ought to have been boiled as well as roasted,” said Susan, picking off and throwing pieces of skin into the fire.
“No, if you boil them you do away with all the vitamins. And without vitamins you cannot live. The odd thing is that we did live before we found out about them. However, that is beside the point. Tell me, darling, are your satisfied?”
“Don’t I look it?”
“I cannot see.”
“Fiend, I forgot.” In a second Susan was kneeling on the rug beside him. “But doesn’t that just show you? One forgets: you are so wonderful: so altogether marvellous.”
“Aha! that’s the attitude I like!” His face blazing with happiness Tony threw back his head and shouted with laughter.
“On your knees, both mentally and physically. Boy! aren’t I lucky?”
“Don’t you be so sure.” Susan got back on to her heels and went back to her chair. “Although---I don’t know, perhaps you can be. Give me another chestnut. We shall have screaming indigestion after all this.”
“No we shan’t. We didn’t have a heavy supper. By the way, what a blessed stroke of luck getting Mrs. Millar to come and do for us. How did you manage it? Catch.” Tony skilfully threw a couple of chestnuts into Susan’s lap.
“I didn’t have to. She’s got some free time. Phoebe won’t have her there any more.”
“Phoebe? Which is that? Oh, that’s the one who never turned up at our reception. By the way, do you realise that that great event was only a week ago? It seems a lifetime.”
“Does it?”
“Of rapture,” said Tony slowly. The firelight shone on his bronzed face. Susan, watching, felt a great surge of tenderness flood over her.
“I love you,” she said softly.
“Yes, thank God,” said Tony simply. And then he laughed. “We must pull ourselves together,” he said. “We are becoming out of date. Also I have something to talk to you about. Lots of things, in fact. We’ll make ourselves stay up until ten o’clock, shall we?”
“I shall have no difficulty in staying up until midnight.”
“Liar!” Tony leaned forward and held out his hand. “You sweet,” he said, “my coy sweet. Quite Shakespearian in our coyness, in fact.”
“Goose. Say what you have to say and say it quickly,” returned Susan. “Oh, dear! how comfortable we are, aren’t we? Every night and every morning I say a prayer for the Capels. Those blessed dears---what we owe to them.”
“I know. What do you think of Lady Capel’s engagement, by the way?”
“I think it’s upset him most frightfully. He’s altered like anything. For her, I think it’s superb: she looks about twenty years younger.”
“I know. How remarkable it is how little you women can do without us,” said Tony complacently.
“Don’t be so conceited.”
“Isn’t it true?”
“Perfectly true.” Susan shook a lapful of chestnut skins into the fire. “Don’t give me any more or, I really shall be ill. Yes, it’s quite true. Look at Dorothy.”
“I know. My heavens! marrying her gardener. Doesn’t that just show how fierce the urge must be?”
“She believing Him to be the gardener. I don’t mean to be in the least irreverent, but I always love that so. So simple, and He must have looked so splendid. Well, the office has been glorified anyhow.”
“Are you religious, Susan? I never thought of enquiring.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. I don’t care for churches unless they are dark and empty, but I like to think of the Next World, and Christ as very stern and splendid and all that.”
“I see.” Tony was silent. “To return to your muttons,” he said, after a little pause, “and that reminds me that Sir Philip says that we can have some sheep if we want to. I should love that? Can’t you imagine the fun of having a tiny lamb and teaching it to be friendly?”
“Oh, heavenly.”
“Well, to return to Dorothy and her henchman. The Capels have taken it very well, I think. Especially Sir Philip. Lady Capel seems a bit het up, loss of prestige, and all that, but he seems quite calm.”
“Didn’t John go up and see Sir Philip?”
“Yes, I believe he did. That was nice of him. I daresay he was afraid that the Capels might be annoyed because of Dorothy being your aunt and me and all that.”
“Yes.” Susan was silent. “It does seem to me a little odd,” she said. “I don’t think I could marry a gardener, however lonely I was.”
“You have married a cowman.”
“Yes, but you are a gentleman.”
“Old school tie and all that. What about the U.S.S.R., Susan? Heavens! we should have been in the soup without them. Especially towards the end. My dear, I don’t like to see these retrograde tendencies in you.”
“No, well, I don’t mean it really. But all the same . . .”
“Yes, well, I know what you mean. But there’s something very fastidious about our friend John. I shouldn’t think he’d jar on Dorothy. Anyhow, she’s at the top of the world and that’s all that matters. Now, then, to pass on to Penelope. What’s the matter with her?”
“Is there anything the matter?”
“When one’s blind one can feel things,” said Tony slowly. “Vibrations, don’t you know; it’s all vibrations nowadays. That’s why I think people who object to Spiritualism are so stupid. Oh, I don’t mean the stupid sordid type of Spiritualism, grubby back parlours, and all that, but I mean the real thing. Because what more simple to see someone who has passed on if everything is only vibrations? Lodge and Barrett and Flammarion and people like that wouldn’t have counted insult and ridicule if there hadn’t been something in it. I mean to say, that it’s quite obvious that the Next World to this one must be vibrating at a much quicker rate than this one is. Therefore we can’t see it any more than we can see the blades of an electric fan when it is going full blast.”
“What odd things you think about.”
“Yes, don’t I? Now you are beginning to find out what a very wonderful person you have married, and how exceedingly fortunate you are. But to talk about Penelope for a little bit. My own impression is that she has fallen in love.”
“Who with?”
“With whom, my pet,” said Tony, reprovingly. “Not who with. Keep your English up to your High School standard, pray.”
“I didn’t go to a High School. I had a governess and finished in Lausanne.”
“Which accounts for a good deal,” said Tony. “Or, shall we say, excuses a good deal? Now don’t get riotous; I can sense that you want to throw something at me and you are not to. To return to Penelope. What do you think of my reaction to her vibrations?”
“I think you are right. Only that I found it out more than three weeks ago, and have been wondering ever since how I can bring it off?”
“Bring it off is also vulgar. Bring it to pass sounds much better.”
“It also sounds Biblical.”
“And why not? Why relegate the Bible to Sundays? The bother is that the Bible has been made much too easy of access and sold much too cheaply. However, that’s beside the point now. Now we have to deal with a human soul and the soul of the nicest of your aunts. She must be enabled to marry Sir Philip.”
“I know, that’s what I think. I knew that ages ago. It’s quite obvious, and I don’t know what to do about it, either.”
“My dear child, you can’t do anything. Fools rush in, etc.”
“I know, but it bothers me because they’d do so awfully well for one another and I’ve been wondering how I could arrange it.”
“You can’t. Leave it alone. Besides, how do you know?”
“I can tell. Also I suspected it when I was staying with her. She’s got that transfixed exalted look to the nth degree. One can’t mistake it.”
“Well. . . .” Tony crossed one long leg over the other. “Let’s leave that,” he said easily. “We’ll get back to it presently. Now let’s talk about Phoebe. We started before and then went off to something else. Is the old girl going off her rocker?”
“Phoebe?” Susan was startled. “Why, what makes you think so?”
“I don’t know. Vibrations again, perhaps. I met her this morning, on her way to the village. I heard her talking as she came along, and thought Pen would perhaps be with her. But she was talking to herself. ‘Oh, Lord, it isn’t fair.’ I heard her say it and then she must have seen me coming, because she began to cough to try and hide it up that she had been talking aloud.”
“Oh, dear!”
“I know. We can’t add wonky relations to all our other iniquities; the Capels will get fed up. Besides . . .” Tony fell suddenly silent. “Something in me goes out to that poor old trout,” he said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Unloved: unwanted: it’s an awful state for a woman to find herself in. And the more it’s her own fault, the worse it is, I think.”
“She’s made the lives of the other two such absolute hell,” said Susan, impatiently.
“I know she has and I can quite imagine it. But, you know, when one member of a family makes the lives of the other members of the family a hell, all the members of that family are to blame. It’s so fatally easy to sit down and say that so and so is unbearable. But then why not do something about it?”
“Perhaps they did.”
“I bet they didn’t. They simply sat down and bore it, thinking that by so doing they were out to earn a crown of glory. But that was the last thing they were earning. All they would get from the Judge of All Things would be a rap on the knuckles for having been so damned lazy.”
“How do you know?” Susan, her slender hands folded in her lap, was gazing across the hearthrug. The man she had married was not a bit the man that she had thought she had married. Far, far superior: she sat and waited for his answer.
“Why, because it’s sense, and if we aren’t to get sense from the author of all the Wisdom of the World our outlook is exceedingly black. No one is supposed to put up with folly from someone else. If they do they are condoning and fostering that folly and will be hauled over the coals for it.”
“Christ said ‘bear ye one another’s burdens,’” said Susan softly.
“Quite,” said Tony swiftly. “And no one said a truer word. But no one with the intelligence of the Nazarene would expect anyone to shoulder the burden of someone well able to shoulder it for himself. That would be putting a premium on laziness, and the Nazarene was essentially a Man of action. For instance, you happen to know a poor woman who has a drunken husband. She is ill and feeble and terrified so that when the husband comes home drunk, you rush in and bundle him into bed. But supposing that woman was strong and able to give him the clip over the ear that he deserved, your help would not be needed. In fact, it would be resented.”
“Yes.”
“Convinced, darling?”
“Partly; go on.”
“Well, that’s how it seems to me about Phoebe. The other two sat down under what was really complete tyranny. Their money went to the keeping up of the home that was beastly uncomfortable. No fires until some ridiculous date in the late Autumn. Tea at some fantastic hour, when they were so thirsty and tired and cross that they couldn’t enjoy it. And all because they were too lazy to fight.”
“But what would have been the good?”
“The good would have been that they might have thrashed out a compromise that would have enabled them to continue to live together under one roof, and yet lead their own lives. Now they live apart, and Phoebe is well on the way to going off her head. An unbridled will has turned on her, now that she has nothing to exercise it on. I can’t help feeling frightfully sorry for the old thing.”
“What shall we do about it?” said Susan, yawning, so that all her beautiful teeth showed.
“Nothing at the moment,” Tony suddenly stood up. “Come into my arms, my most beautiful thing; Oh, heaven! that I could see you.”
“You can feel me,” said Susan, suddenly stretching her arms above her head and then bringing them down so that she cupped her husband’s face with her hands.
“Ah, yes, indeed I can.” There was silence in the little sitting-room as, in a rapture, he pressed his young mouth down on hers. “Susan,” he said, “Susan, Susan! What a name! utterly preposterous! Come along, my sweetest. Who invented going to bed with the woman you love; it was a perfect flight of imagination on someone’s part. He ought to be decorated with the flying cross. A row of flying crosses. I’ll give him mine.”
“You won’t,” said Susan emphatically. ‘Come to bed and don’t be ridiculous. Your love-making becomes more preposterous every day.”
“Say you don’t like it.”
“Don’t like what?”
“Going to bed with me.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Liar.”
“You told me to say it,” whispered Susan, rubbing her chin softly up and down the brown cheek pressed to hers.
Christmas was near at hand, and everyone was thinking about it. The first Christmas after the Great War that had nearly engulfed the whole world must be a Christmas properly celebrated. And yet nobody seemed to know quite how to set about celebrating it. At least, the Capels didn’t. Everything there had suddenly become strained and difficult. Sir Philip, trying to be natural, found himself more unnatural than he had ever been. With Tony in the house it had been easier. Now that he and his mother were alone, with Sir Godfrey as a constant third, it was almost impossible. He would have to go away, of course; in the solitude of his own room Sir Philip thought about it. After Christmas: after the wedding. The wedding . . . as Philip thought about that his thoughts were dark and angry. His mother was old enough to know better. They had been happy as they were; why had she elected to smash it all up? To his cold but courteous insistence that she and her husband should make the Moat their home, they had returned an equally courteous refusal.
“Oh, no, darling; Godfrey would hate to leave Wiltshire. He has everything he likes there, and everybody knows him and he has his own servants.”
“But what about you?”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” said Lady Capel simply and then felt what a fool she had been to put it like that.
“I see,” and so it was arranged. After the wedding, which was to take place early in January, The Moat was to be given over to spring cleaning and a certain amount of decoration. Sir Philip would go abroad, leaving Barton in charge, and come back in April or so. But in the meantime Christmas had to be got through, somehow.
“I wish we could have a party and get everyone in to it,” said Tony restlessly. “But there’s this ghastly blight of Dorothy and her gardener that upsets everything. What shall we do about it?”
“What do the Capels think about it?” Susan, surveying herself in the mirror, was making up her lips; she leaned a little nearer to see better.
“I don’t think they know anything much about it. I told you that Maltby had been up to see Sir Philip, but he hasn’t. I met him this morning and he told me that he was going at about three o’clock to-day. I consider it decent of him to go: I expect he feels that it’s a bit awkward for us and wants to make it better.”
“Yes.”
“Pen seems taking it pretty calmly.”
“Yes, but she’s very fond of Dorothy. Also, she’s absorbed in her own thoughts.”
“Romantic one!”
“Am I not right?” said Susan, swinging round and beaming at her husband.
“I expect so: you always are. By the way, don’t have a baby yet, because two of my Jerseys are in the family way and they take exactly the same time as you would.”
“Thank you. I’ll put it off until it’s quite convenient to you and your cows.”
“Darling.”
“Idiot.”
“What do you think of Maltby?” said Susan, surveying her freshly varnished nails.
“I like him. I always have. There’s a sort of ne’er-do-weel attitude about him that I admire. Also, he never seems to remember that I’m blind.”
“No one does.”
“Yes, but I am.”
“I know. Darling, darling, I know. Put your darling head here and I’ll stroke it.”
“Thank you.” There was a little silence. Then Tony raised his head again. “What’s the time?”
“Five to three.”
“Time I went off and then I’ll be back at half past four. Can you wait until then for tea?”
“Of course I can. I’ll have a huge fire and crumpets waiting for you. And loads of butter so that it runs out of them. Mrs. Millar is good at crumpets.”
“Heavenly”; and Tony got up and went out, leaving Susan to sit there, warm and cosy by the fire. Cosy: how good it was to be cosy. Tony: she loved him more than she had ever thought it possible to love any man. She sat there thinking about it.
While Mr. Maltby, escorted to Sir Philip’s study by a wondering Barton, stood there waiting to be told to sit down.
“Well, Mr. Maltby?” This was as awkward a situation as he had ever been faced with, decided Sir Philip, forgetting for once his own problems. His ex-gardener engaged to be married to the aunt of the wife of his assistant. An awkward position indeed. Had Susan and Miss Milne not been as charming as they were, it would have been much easier. “Sit down,” he said.
“Thank you”; Mr. Maltby sat down. He smiled at his host.
“You know why I have come?”
“No.”
“I have come to apologise to you for having become engaged to a relation of Mrs. Fellowes,” said Mr. Maltby cheerfully. “It is an awkward position for you.”
“Why?” said Sir Philip suddenly. Because on quick reflection he wondered why it should be so awkward. A New Order? Were they not trying to build up a New Order where social position was not nearly so important as the innate decency of a man?
“Why? Why, because I used to be your gardener,” said Mr. Maltby simply. “Of course it’s awkward. But it’s not quite so awkward as it might be because of this.” And then Mr. Maltby began to explain.
“Good heavens!”
“Yes, I know: that’s what I felt when they first wrote and told me about it,” said Mr. Maltby.
“Does Miss Dorothy Milne know?”
“No, no one knows except Miss Penelope Milne and you. I felt that I should like it to be like that for a time, because I didn’t want my little girl to think of me as anything more than I was until I was quite sure that she knew her own mind.”
“I see.” Sir Philip reflected. He stared out on to the cold bare lawn and forgot himself and his own problems. “Let us have a party here and announce it,” he said.
“Here?”
“Yes. On Christmas Day. To many of us Christmas Day is a painful anniversary. This will make it a dramatic anniversary to say the least of it. The only thing is that I had better, perhaps, tell my mother. It will make it easier for her. Wait a minute. With your permission I will tell her now. I will get Barton to fetch her. May I?”
“Please.” Mr. Maltby stared at the tall back making for the door and thought that the New Order hadn’t done much so far. But perhaps it would presently. After all, it was natural. Between a gardener and a baronet with a certain amount of money, there was a great gulf fixed.
“How do you do, Mr. Maltby?” Lady Capel held out a cordial hand. Gosh! how much younger she looks, reflected Mr. Maltby, getting on to his feet.
“Listen, mother,” and then Sir Philip began. “Sir John Maltby,” he finished, smiling.
“Good heavens!”
And don’t you think it would be a good idea if we had a Christmas party here to break the great news to everybody?”
“What? Do you mean to Tony and Susan and her aunts?”
“Yes.”
“I should adore it,” said Lady Capel, youthfully. “Don’t you know, it’s just like a book. Oh, Philip, what fun! How many of us? Write down the names. Mr. Maltby’s mother: I mean Sir John’s mother, of course, the three aunts, Tony, and Susan and you and me. And Godfrey, of course. And Sir John. Nine of us.”
“When you say Sir John I really can’t believe it’s true. But I’ve got all their letters and it is so. Although they don’t put it on the envelopes because I asked them not to. Not yet.” Mr. Maltby was fingering his tie and feeling oddly happy. There was something about all this that made him very happy. To come to dinner at The Moat as an honoured guest when before he had worked in the garden as a paid servant. . . . And only a title to do all this, because he was just the same man as he had been before. The world was an odd place, reflected Mr. Maltby humorously.
“It is very kind of you,” he said simply. “I appreciate it very much. Especially as you have invited my mother. She will be shy and perhaps at a loss, but you will not mind that.”
“I shall soon put her at her ease,” said Lady Capel cheerfully.
“Does she know about you?”
“No, not yet. Somehow I was half afraid to tell her.”
“Will you wait until she hears it on Christmas Day?”
“Yes, I think so. I shall tell her that she is to hear some great news and that will keep her from thinking that she is doing anything out of the ordinary in dining in a big house like this.”
“We shall be delighted to welcome her here,” said Sir Philip warmly. “Good-bye, Sir John, and many thanks for your courtesy in coming up here to tell us first of all.”
“It all sounds as if it couldn’t be me,” said John Maltby slowly. “But it is, of course.”
“Yes, there seems no doubt about it,” and then, smilingly, Sir Philip escorted his late gardener to the door. Watching him sauntering down the long drive he wondered whether the whole thing wasn’t too fantastic to be true. Turning he went back to find his mother.
“Well!” Lady Capel had lighted a cigarette and was just flicking the match into the fire.
“I know: it’s one of those things that you read about in books. Too astonishing. But that was a good idea of yours to have a party to announce it.”
“I’m so glad you think so. I shall love it.” Lady Capel spoke wistfully. How odd it was that when something came along to make you ecstatically happy, something else also came along to spoil it?
“I wish you’d get married, Philip.” She said it slowly, looking a little shyly at her son.
“I? No, I know better,” said Sir Philip hardly, and then hated himself as his mother flushed and went away. His mother! until lately his all in all. And now, so far as she was concerned, he might not even be alive. A pity he had ever got alive out of Calais, reflected Sir Philip bitterly. Because if he went on as he was doing now he would soon be a hateful, soured old man. However, he had made his plans. Directly after the wedding, which was to take place in London, both Sir Godfrey and Lady Capel wished it to be celebrated as quietly as possible---he was going out to India. He would get in a couple of months before the hot weather set in and could then come back to a redecorated house and try to make for himself some sort of a life. What sort of a life, remained to be seen. Probably a deadly one, but then most single men of his age led a deadly life.
A few days later Dorothy, seeking out her younger sister, said that she couldn’t in the least grasp what this invitation to a Christmas party meant.
“Especially as John and his mother have had an invitation,” she said.
“John and his mother!” And now it was Penelope’s turn to be surprised. The Capels entertaining their late gardener! That was odd indeed. And then it suddenly became as clear to her as daylight. Of course . . . the Capels knew. John had told them the great news: how sensible of him! And they were going to make the Christmas party the occasion for announcing the great news. With a flourish of trumpets. How kind: how overwhelmingly kind of them.
“Well, times have changed, you know, Dorothy,” she said carefully.
“They haven’t changed as much as all that,” said Dorothy sturdily. “And I’m not going up to The Moat to have John and his mother patronised. I’ve promised to marry him and so I take his social position. And no one is going to look down their nose at him, not even Barton.”
“The Capels never would,” said Penelope warmly. For her heart was singing. She would see him again: she would see him again! They would be able to talk to one another and he might even . . . facing her sister, Penelope flushed crimson. People did kiss at Christmas under mistletoe and they would be sure to have some.
“The only reason I’m pleased is that it gives you another chance of seeing Sir Philip,” said Dorothy, sticking out her well-shod feet. “Oh, Pen, I do wish you’d get engaged, too.”
“So do I,” said Penelope, simply. “But I am afraid there is very little chance of it.”
“I don’t know. He might---he’s going to be frightfully lonely. But the only bother is that I’m afraid what I’m doing may prevent it. Not prevent it exactly, because nothing could do that if it was meant to be, but you know . . . Yet I’m not marrying beneath me,” cried Dorothy passionately. “What utter rot it is! Both John and his mother are gentlepeople at heart. If he happened to have a title no one would care a rap. In fact, not only would they not care but they would kowtow to him.”
“What shall we wear at the party, Dorothy?” For, to her horror, Penelope felt that this last remark of Dorothy’s was so near the truth that she could not discuss the matter any further. She would give it away if she did: she would burst out laughing or something and then Dorothy would ask why she was laughing and perhaps tell her fiancé about it and John would be angry. “What shall we wear?” she said gaily.
“What will Phoebe wear?” said Dorothy grimly. “That’s the point. Phoebe, who will barely speak to me now. And who cuts John dead if she meets him in the village. If you ask me, Pen, I believe Phoebe’s going off her head.”
“Don’t!”
“I do. Susan was speaking to me about it the other day. She says that Tony is going to tackle it. That he is sorry for her, and says that he can feel her vibrations and they are dismal ones.”
“They are certainly dismal ones but that’s her fault,” said Dorothy briskly. “And I’m not going to bother about her because it’s no good. And for the Christmas party I’m going to wear all the nice things that we wore for the wedding dinner party and you do the same.”
“What a mercy we bought them.”
“Yes, isn’t it? And I shan’t buy any more evening things at all because I shan’t want them. John and I shall lead the quietest life and I do hope you won’t mind, Pen, because we’ve decided to live, at any rate at first, in my cottage. He loves it and so do I and we want to leave his mother where she is, at any rate for the present. Phoebe will have a fit,” said Dorothy gloomily.
“Perhaps she won’t.”
“You look as if you knew something,” said Dorothy suddenly. “What is it, Pen? Has somebody left us some money and you are keeping it a secret.”
“Oh, no, no.”
“What, then?”
“I’m excited about the party,” said Penelope truthfully. “Naturally I am, and you know why, Dorothy. And that makes it nicer for me because you don’t think I’m a fool.”
“Of course I don’t,” said Dorothy warmly. And then she got up to go. A little uncertainly, though; her sister watched her. Dorothy was bothered: how lovely to think that in a few days’ time her cause for feeling bothered would be entirely removed. And not only removed, either; joy would be flooded in in its place. The man she loved lifted up out of the position he occupied. And yet how wrong it all was, reflected Penelope, going back into her cosy little sitting-room again. Because what was a title after all? Nothing. Nothing at all. Shouldn’t they all know better by now, after the War in which all classes had given up everything they possessed to fling it into a common pool. Well . . . Penelope sat there thinking. The Christmas party; what would it bring to her? As she sat there staring into the little dancing fire, she wondered.
As Tony tied his dress tie he told his wife that he knew that something was going to happen that evening. Something exciting.
“What?” Susan, in her clinging satin frock, was stooping to put on her slippers.
“Something exciting. Something madly exciting. Is my tie straight?”
“Yes, perfectly straight.”
“What a marvel I am. You are lucky, Susan.”
“I know,” said Susan simply. “You don’t suppose, do you, that anyone as run after as I was would have chosen anyone who wasn’t worthy of me? If so, you are not as brilliantly clever as I thought you were.”
“Horrid girl. Tell me that you didn’t let anyone kiss you but me.”
“Rubbish! Of course I did. Scores of them. But you kiss best!” said Susan lightly. “Now for my coat. And yours. Lazy, you’re waiting for me to get it out of the wardrobe for you.”
“Of course I am. It is your duty, dear.”
“Rot.” Susan strolled to the wardrobe and unhooked the coat from its hanger. “You know that Phoebe has refused to come to the party to-night?”
“Yes, and it depresses me. Christmas night is Christmas night and it’s awful to think of the poor old girl alone at home. When this exciting week is over I’m going to give my mind to Phoebe. And you see if I don’t do something about it.”
“I am rather dreading to-night,” said Susan, standing behind her husband and giving his coat a little tug. “It’s rather straining things, I think, to ask the Maltbys. A gardener is a gardener in spite of the New Order that we hear so much about. But people like Barton never change and he’ll think that it’s all wrong for them to be sitting at the same table with master and mistress. If I were Dorothy I should expire with nervousness before I got there.”
“Don’t forget that it’s all good will and me loves evvybody,” said Tony reprovingly. “Get the right spirit before you start, for heaven’s sake. What with you and Phoebe I shall have my work cut out. What time is the car coming?”
“Half-past seven. It fetches us first and then comes back for Pen and Dorothy and the Maltbys.”
“My heavens. Well, we must key ourselves up to respond suitably to the various reactions and repressions and all the rest of them. I myself personally, as a man in my Squadron used to say, am so looking forward to eating and drinking more than is good for me that I don’t care about anything.”
“Kiss me, Susan,” said Tony suddenly. “How lovely do you look, darling?”
“Frightfully lovely. Just lovely all over.”
“I can well believe it,” said Tony simply. He gathered the shining figure into his arms. “Don’t let’s ever have a baby,” he whispered. “Only you and me, for ever and ever and ever.”
“All right,” said Susan accommodatingly. “No babies if you’d rather not. Only cows and ponies and kittens. Polly’s going to have some more, by the way.”
“Again!”
“Yes, again. She brought him in to show me. That rather pretty tabby from the farm.”
“How coarse of her. Oh, Susan, what fun it is being married, isn’t it? I never dreamed it could be such fun.”
“Yes, it’s glorious fun,” said Susan soberly. “Far more fun that I ever thought it could be. The little simple things are such fun; not only the sleeping together part: that’s enchanting, of course, but in a different way. But it’s waking up and finding you there and all that.”
“Yes.” Tony slanted his head. “The car,” he said. “All set? My overcoat’s downstairs. That’s it.”
And a few minutes later they were slipping through the frosty darkness. A real Christmas: the sort of Christmas one dreamed of. Holding each other’s hands, they smiled like happy children.
Realising that the Christmas party had to be faced whatever his own private opinion of it might be, Barton braced himself up to make a success of it. And now the great evening had come. Standing there, he surveyed the dinner table. Lovely: even Barton thought that it was lovely. The shining oval of the mahogany table, the beautiful lace mats, the crystal bowl of chrysanthemums: the rosy light flooding down on to the silver. The roaring fire: the whole thing was as it should be, thought Barton, stooping to adjust a wineglass. And if his master thought fit to invite his late gardener to dinner on Christmas Day, then it was his job to make the best of it and he wouldn’t stand any backchat from the staff, either, neither outdoor nor in.
And an hour later Barton stood behind Sir Philip’s chair, still well satisfied. Nine of them, and all looking as if they had had a good dinner. Well dressed, too: even Mrs. Maltby looked dignified in her black silk dress and little lace collar. She behaved like a lady, too, thought Barton approvingly, watching her wait to see what the others did with their knives and forks before picking them up. And drinking nothing but water; that was wise of her. And Maltby, too, in his dress jacket: a good one, and he too behaving as if he knew what was what. Odd that was, considering what he was. But he sat there with his fingers twined round the stem of his wine glass quite at his ease, and Miss Dorothy beside him, proud as a peacock. Yes, it had all gone off well, thought Barton, wondering why his master had made that little gesture that meant that he was to stay where he was.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Sir Philip had got up on to his feet. “The King, God bless him.” He smiled round the table.
“The King, The King.” This was grand, thought Mrs. Maltby, also standing up. Not that she could drink the toast, because she only had water in her glass. A pity that, and then she glanced down at her wineglass. A little pool of something golden in the bottom of it. Delightedly she lifted it to her lips and sipped. That must have been John when she wasn’t looking.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Philip was saying it again and still smiling. “I am not going to make a long speech, don’t be alarmed. You’re all wanting to pull your crackers and put on your paper hats and I don’t blame you. Because speeches are out of place when we are all friends, as we are here. But I just want, on behalf of my mother and myself, to say how glad we are to have you here. The first Christmas for many years without the shadow of war behind it. But there is something else that I have to say,” continued Sir Philip, looking round the table. “And I want very gently to prepare you for it. It is good news: very good news. It concerns one of our guests. . . .”
“Is it me?” enquired Tony blandly.
“No,” said Sir Philip. And then everyone burst out laughing. About time, thought Barton, who had been watching Mrs. Maltby. She was perturbed, and looked as if she was going to cry. But now the laughter had broken up the slight feeling of tension encircling the table. Sir Godfrey: he looked a little constrained. Upset about sitting down to dinner with a gardener, thought Barton shrewdly, although if his lady took it as she did he needn’t have minded about it.
“No, it is not you, Tony,” continued Sir Philip, and Penelope, watching the clean-shaven face, thought that she would really have to die with joy, he looked so superb. “No, it is not you this time. The good news concerns one of our other guests; the man whom we welcome here as the affianced husband of Miss Dorothy Milne.” Sir Philip turned round. “Barton, fill the wineglasses again,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.” There was a portentous silence as Barton walked carefully round the table. Not that they were going to have their glasses really fully up because they weren’t, thought Barton. Sir Philip, meeting Penelope’s shy gaze, thought how pretty she was. He smiled at her. She dropped her eyes, trembling and flushing with joy.
“Now,” Sir Philip braced himself for the great moment. “I ask you all,” he said, “to join with me in drinking the health of Sir John Maltby and the gracious lady to whom he is engaged.”
“What on earth does he mean?” It was Tony who spoke in a whisper.
“What he says,” said Susan swiftly. Her quick intuition had grasped it all. Not that Dorothy had known, because she obviously hadn’t. She sat there very white, staring at her lover.
“The health of Sir John and the future Lady Maltby,” said Susan, leaping to her feet. “Enchanting news, just like a book. Quick, before we all get self-conscious again. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’” said Susan, beginning to sing it.
“John . . .”
“It’s all right, dear.” As the excitement died down Sir John got up on to his feet. He caught his mother’s eye; she was calm and grave: nothing like that would upset his mother. “It’s kind of you,” he said, “very kind: the toast and the song and everything. And I’m proud, very proud. But most of all am I proud because this little lady here took me when she thought I was just nothing at all.” He stooped and took Dorothy’s hand in his. “Nor I am anything at all,” he said simply. “This hasn’t altered what I was before, but it’s made it better for her and for that I’m glad.”
“Oh, heavens!” and now Susan was reaching out and snatching up crackers. “Quick! or we shall all dissolve into tears,” she whispered. “Be funny, there’s a darling.”
“Is it true?” A little later, Dorothy, her paper hat over one eye, was whispering.
“Perfectly true.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Do you mind?”
“No,” said Dorothy truthfully. Because she didn’t mind. This was triumph pure and simple. Her golden hour of triumph. God was good: very good. Because it would make it so much easier for everybody, including her kind host and hostess. Lady Maltby: fancy being able to say it in shops! “May I have your name, please, Madam?” “Oh, yes, of course: Lady Maltby.” Sitting there Dorothy wondered whether it wasn’t all perhaps a dream after all. This lovely littered table, Tony trying to stick on a false moustache; Her lover bending over to speak to his mother. Penelope laughing as she pulled a cracker with Sir Philip, who had left his chair to go round to her. Penelope; yes, Penelope must have some happiness too. Some real happiness: some magic glittering happiness such as hers. Sir John. John. Nothing to fear now for him. No more snubs and unkindnesses. All straight sailing for both of them. “God, You are very good to me,” Dorothy whispered the words as she sat there under the rosy light.
“And now, come along, darling”; her lover had her by the hand. Out into the hall, where the logs flamed like great torches. His mother, shepherded by Sir Philip. Sir Godfrey holding Lady Capel’s hand: another happy couple, there, thought Dorothy, dreamily watching them. Sir Philip: standing there sipping his coffee, Dorothy watched him leave Mrs. Maltby to his mother’s care and go to Penelope. Penelope flaming into animation. Dorothy heaved a little sigh of relief as she saw them turn and go into the drawing-room together. John: he was standing there by her. Susan, with her lovely eyes full of joy and excitement. “What on earth do you feel like, Dorothy? Won’t Phoebe be pleased? And now Tony, coming carefully across the soft carpet. “Well, Dorothy, what about the New Order? What would Comrade Stalin say? All the same, I’m old school tie enough to be pleased about it. And so would Stalin be if he’s the fellow I think he is.” Congratulations: Laughter: laughter and warmth and merriment: a new heaven and a new earth. Christmas as it was meant to be. Love. . . . Dorothy suddenly sat down on a little velvet high-backed chair, her coffee cup rattling in its saucer.
While in the drawing-room, Penelope, moving a little on the wide sofa, felt, rather than saw, her host sit down beside her.
“Well, what did you think of the great news?” He was smiling.
“I knew, you see, he had told me before. But you did it so beautifully. It was just as it should have been. It is a wonderful thing for Dorothy.”
“And for all of us. It will make it so much easier. It might have been difficult: it would have been difficult.”
“Yes.” Why couldn’t she think of something to say? wondered Penelope desperately. She had him there beside her. Oh! to keep him there.
“I am so glad to have had this opportunity of seeing you all here. But I am sorry your eldest sister could not manage to be with us.”
“Phoebe is queer.”
“Queer?”
“Yes; she takes things very hardly. Susan’s marriage: Dorothy’s engagement. I don’t think even this great news will move her. She seems to want to be alone: to brood over things so as to make herself wretched.”
“Yes.”
“The next great event will be your mother’s marriage to Sir Godfrey,” ventured Penelope, after a little pause.
“Yes, and my exit.”
“Your exit?”
“Of course. I am going abroad. The change would be too violent otherwise. My mother and I have lived together for years.”
“Abroad.” Oh, God! then it was all coming to an end. Her foolish dreams; those secret rapturous imaginings. All coining to an end.
“Yes, I am going out to India. I know the Maharajah of Bikanir very well: he has invited me out for some big game shooting.”
“I see.”
“I shall come back, you know.” Sir Philip was amused. The despair on this charming face was rather entertaining. Someone at any rate would miss him. But he hardly knew her. He racked his brains to remember where they had met before and when. At the wedding, of course. He had spoken to her quite a lot: he remembered it well.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Penelope’s voice was heavy. Why had she been so excited about this party? What had she expected from it? The same old silly dreams that she had dreamed all her life. Surely now she might try to gather some shreds of common sense around her.
“When I come back again we must meet more often,” said Sir Philip kindly. “I shall be lonely, you see, and my friends will be doubly valuable to me.”
“You don’t want to be bothered with me,” said Penelope drearily. And even then as she said the words, she thought how stupid they were. Sort of asking for a compliment.
“How do you know?” Sir Philip’s eyes were amused. She was like a child, this beautifully dressed woman with the soft fur round her wrists. She had the eyes of a child: the untried lips of a child. Sensitive quivering lips. She was upset: Sir Philip felt vaguely flattered, because lately no one had seemed to want to bother about him. Susan, with her flashing beauty, and that young husband of hers. His mother achieving a lost youth with no apparent effort. Only he himself old and dreary and lacking in enterprise. Surveying a future in which he figured as an ageing uninteresting old bachelor. Being taken pity on by the younger generation because they were sorry for him. “How do you know?” he said it again.
“Because I do know.” Penelope set her lips together. “Perhaps it’s because I had a little of that delicious wine for dinner and I hardly ever do drink anything and it’s made me feel that I don’t care what I say. I’m lonely and dull and you’re splendid and I had a feeling that if you were here you might perhaps come and see me sometimes and we could be friends. Oh, I don’t mean anything,” said Penelope incoherently. “I mean I’m old and all that, but to be friends with you would have meant so much to me. And now it can never come to anything.”
“Why not?” Sir Philip was turning to light a cigarette. Flicking his lighter into flame he wondered why he suddenly felt so much more cheerful. “I say, I’m so sorry”; he hastily extended his open case.
“No, I don’t smoke, There again, old and stupid,” said Penelope heavily.
“But why? Many women don’t smoke. My mother, for one.”
“Your mother! Look at her and compare her with me,” said Penelope recklessly. Because, as she wildly reflected, what did it matter what she either said or did now? He was going away and would forget her entirely: men always did forget. Also he might very likely never come back. He would meet someone in India, or on the ship going out there. That’s what happened. “Look at your mother; perfect all over. Hair, hands, everything just right. I’m only dowdy. I have on a nice dress for once but that’s only because I felt we owed it to Susan to dress decently. No, it’s hopeless,” said Penelope, clasping her hands together and letting them fall on to her soft blue lap. “And it’s seeing this all so lovely here that makes me know it is. It’s another life in which we don’t count at all. Dorothy has found happiness and is going to be much happier than she thought she was, because having a title must make a vast difference. But I . . . “
“Yes, you?” Sir Philip turned aside again to blow out a cloud of smoke.
“Well, I shall just be me,” said Penelope simply. “Stodgy and ordinary and after a while not caring. And then a little while after that getting bitter like Phoebe.”
“Don’t get bitter. It hurts,” said Sir Philip briefly.
“Why? have you ever been bitter?”
“I have been more bitter since my mother’s engagement to Godfrey Fortescue than I should ever have thought possible.”
“Tell me.”
“We have always been together,” said Sir Philip slowly. “Always, ever since I was a boy. Our interests have been the same: we like the same things, we enjoy the same things, our tastes are the same. And then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue my mother tells me that she is going to be married. I might as well not be alive: my mother doesn’t care. Oh . . . “ Sir Philip shrugged his shoulders. “She cares, of course, in a way. I mean, that if I was ill she would look after me; I don’t mean that. But as an occupation and an end I am no more. She cares for someone else. And there you have it in a nutshell.”
“You mind very much.”
“Very much indeed.”
“I see.” Penelope lifted eyes full of sympathy. “You are in worse plight than I am,” she said.
“Perhaps.”
“Ought you perhaps to be talking to somebody else,” said Penelope anxiously, after a little pause. For there seemed to be a little lull in the conversation. Through the high arched doorway people were gathering in a little cluster.
“Come and play a game, Philip. Miss Milne, we want you.” It was Lady Capel, shining and smiling under the rosy lights.
“We are happy as we are,” said Philip unexpectedly. “Leave us out of the game; we’ll watch you.”
“Ought I to?” Penelope spoke anxiously.
“Of course not”; he put a detaining hand on her knee. “I’m going to show you some of my heads in the hall. Games are tiresome things; let them manage them themselves. Let Godfrey play host for this evening. Leave us out of it,” he called smilingly.
“Tony, did you hear that?” Susan whispered the words with dancing eyes.
“Yes, Has Penelope pulled it off?”
“She’s making progress,” said Susan delightedly. “Boy, aren’t I pleased. She’s sitting there with eyes like stars looking as guilty as a child that’s been caught in the store cupboard. Come along, let’s fling ourselves into this to divert attention from there. Tony, they’re getting up and going away.” Susan, in an ecstasy, was still whispering.
“Did you really shoot all these?” In the library Penelope, awestruck, was staring up at a great tiger’s mask.
“Yes.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“No. I might have been if I had been on the ground. But I wasn’t. In India you sit up in a tree in what is called a machan. Safe as a house.”
“Oh.” Penelope felt quite unreasonably relieved. For him to be going away was bad enough, but if she had had to imagine him being tom to pieces by wild animals it would have been quite unbearable.
“Shall we sit down here?” Sir Philip was showing the way to a little sheltered corner by the lovely fire. Fires in every room: what on earth must they spend on coal?
“Now then, tell me some more about yourself. May I smoke or do you hate the smell of a cigar?”
“No, I like it,” said Penelope untruthfully.
“Good.” Sir Philip took one from his crocodile case. Clipping off the end he dropped it into the fire. This was pleasant, he reflected. This was a very charming woman. Unaffected and able to listen intelligently without interrupting.
“You tell me some more about you,” said Penelope wistfully, “I have told you about me, and it’s dull.”
“Why have you made up your mind that it’s dull?” Sir Philip drew on his cigar so that it glowed rosily.
How can it ever be anything else? Love is the only thing that is really interesting. Nothing is really interesting that hasn’t magic in it.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Philip fell silent. Magic! Magic! How long was it since he had felt the revivifying breath of magic. Twenty years? Quite.
“Haven’t you given up all hope of magic rather early?” Sir Philip was smiling.
“I am thirty-seven.”
“I am forty-seven.”
“But haven’t you given up the hope of it?”
“I had.” Sir Philip’s eyes were reflective. Christmas: a very good dinner, champagne and a liqueur brandy to follow. He must be careful.
“What has happened to make you alter?”
“Meeting you,” said Sir Philip simply. “You are so sweet and so unspoilt.”
“I?”
“Yes, why not?” and Sir Philip laughed out loud. He suddenly felt young and carefree. Ugly forebodings for the future dropped from him. Here was a very charming young woman and a beautiful fire and it was Christmas. He glanced behind him. Yes, he thought so: he got up and took the sprig of mistletoe down from behind the old print. Sitting down again he slipped an arm along the back of the sofa.
“Look,” he said.
“What?” Unsuspecting, Penelope turned her face to him. Stooping his own, he kissed her softly on her cheek.
“Oh.”
“But I was justified.” Sir Philip held out the mistletoe.
“I . . . “
“Has no one ever kissed you before?” enquired Sir Philip, the corners of his mouth twitching. For this was entertaining to the last degree! This pretty woman looking like a girl with her eyes shining like stars. Suddenly he felt that his self-respect had been restored. Someone thought him attractive, anyhow.
“No.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Only yes.”
“Well.” Penelope suddenly dropped her face into her hands. “I am such a fool,” she said; “can’t you see that I am?”
“No.” Sir Philip suddenly felt that he didn’t care. This was Christmas and one did all sorts of queer things at Christmas. He slipped his arm round her again and drew her closer to him.
“Someone might come in,” said Penelope, in an agony.
“No, they won’t. This is my own room and even at a party no one ever comes into it. Besides, they are all occupied with a game for at least the next half-hour. You say that you have never been kissed.”
“No.” Was she alive or had she passed into the Next World, wondered Penelope wildly. Was this what love made you feel? This blaze: this all-consuming rapture.
“Well, then, let me kiss you properly.”
“You did.”
“Did I?” Sir Philip laughed low down in his throat. “You baby,” he said, “you small unworldly baby. Turn your face round to me and compare this kiss with the last.”
“I . . . “ After a long silence Penelope, trembling, withdrew her mouth.
“Well . . .?”
“I . . . “
“I am behaving disgracefully; I am quite aware of it,” said Sir Philip after a little pause. “But it is Christmas, isn’t it, and one does unusual things at Christmas.”
“Yes.” This is how that friend of hers had described her sensations when that high explosive bomb had fallen in the gardens opposite their flat. A vacancy: a feeling that the heavens had disintegrated, leaving her naked and stripped of everything except sensation. She had expected: what had she expected? Was he making fun of her, or was it? . . . “Yes,” she said feebly.
“I should like to think that I had made your first experience of a kiss a pleasant one,” said Sir Philip, after a little pause, wondering why he hadn’t the sense to keep quiet instead of complicating himself still further.
“You have,” said Penelope. Dignity was coming to her rescue. Her insane impulse to cast herself into his arms and cry that she didn’t care what he did provided that he kept on doing it, was being strangled at birth. This was the moment when you didn’t let go of the few shreds of self-respect left to you. Men behaved like this: it meant nothing to them. It didn’t herald a declaration of love: in fact, it was instead of one: if a man loved you he said so first.
“I think we ought to go back,” she said lightly.
“Are you tired of me? I am sorry.”
“No, no”; in desperation Penelope linked her hands together and crushed them between her knees. “No, no, it isn’t that. But I . . . “
“You are sweet,” said Sir Philip simply. “And I hope we shall see a great deal more of one another. We shall, I am sure of it. Now let us go back if you really want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then,” said Sir Philip, whimsically, and he drew her into his arms again, smiling over her head into the fire.
A few weeks later the terrific excitement about Sir John and Lady Maltby had died down. They were married and happily installed in the end cottage of Merry Widows. Lady Capel was also married and had gone away to Wiltshire, and the Moat House was being done up. Barton, in his element, was superintending the workmen who, not knowing when he was coming, were not allowed to idle over their meals. It was Barton’s job to watch over his master’s interests: his master, from whom he had received a cable announcing his safe arrival in India.
“So that’s that,” said Susan, greeting her husband as he came in to a rather belated tea. “How nice you look: all open and Empire-building in your leather coat.”
“More than you do in this hot-house of a place. Kiss me.” Tony, sinking into his chair, dragged Susan down with him.
“Cave man!”
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it. You adore it. You live for my kisses. Boy I aren’t we happy?” Tony was grinning. “Yes, I’ve washed my hands: don’t sniff at them like that.”
“Sir Philip has got to Bombay.”
“How do you know?”
“Barton told me.”
“How did he know?”
“He had a cable.”
“He must have been pleased. But this old feudal spirit is very regrettable. I thought the New Order had scotched it. However, Barton is old: we must make allowances for him. What about Penelope?”
“Penelope!” Susan groaned over the filling cup. “Dorothy is the only sane one left out of those three now.”
“Good heavens!” Tony leaned forward. “Yes, I’ve got it. Thanks. Why, what do you mean?”
“Why, ever since that Christmas party, Penelope has been quite different. At first she was uplifted: you know, the Light that never was on sea or land.”
“Don’t joke about it. That’s what envelopes us, and always will do, please God. However, that’s beside the point; I mustn’t elaborate or I shan’t be able to keep you off and I am busy. Hold off.” Tony began to laugh.
“Kiss me.”
“In the middle of tea! What a woman. However”; Tony put down his cup and held out his arms. “Now,” he said.
“Not I. The inclination has passed. Go on.”
“Tiresome girl. Now my tea has lost a little of its pristine heat. However, as you have done the same, well and good.” Tony picked up his cup again. His sensitive mouth was twinkling with laughter.
“Don’t be so disgusting. No, listen to me. At first Penelope went about looking as if she had some delicious secret, as Dorothy did when John first hove on the scene, only more so. Then it began to wear off and when Sir Philip went down with influenza it wore off more. And then when he took such an age to get better and the wedding came along and he went up to London, it vanished altogether.”
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Well, you said yourself that after the party Penelope went about on air. She hoped, you see, that Sir Philip’s rather lukewarm lovemaking on the night of the party would materialise. But it didn’t. If there was any lovemaking, which I always rather doubted, and you were positive about, it was the result of a good dinner and something to drink. Also the ‘me love evvybody’ complex is infectious. And now she’s left. She’s had a peep and it’s left her desperate. How would you feel, for instance, if I had allowed you to kiss me once or twice and then sheered off?”
“To begin with, there wasn’t any question of allowing me. It was the other way round: you only had a rather favourable position in the queue. And should you have proved a disappointment I should instantly have taken somebody else.”
“Aha!” Tony, after first carefully setting down his cup, waved his arms excitedly above his head. “Aha I now you’ve hit the drawing pin on the head. There isn’t anybody else and there never will be. That’s what’s eating into Pen’s soul. There she is, plantée la, for ever. Sir Philip has thought better of his jejune venture and has made a successful getaway. And Penelope is left to face the trivial round, the common task which is supposed to furnish all we need to ask and never has done and never will do. For Man made in God’s image wants a touch of the Divine in his life, and unless he knows what real love is he never gets it.”
“Oh, Tony!”
“Talking like a book, aren’t I?”
“No, talking like your darling angel self and I adore you.”
“Forward Miss.”
“What shall we do about it all?” said Susan, after a little pause, during which she set her white teeth into a piece of dark chocolate cake.
“Well, my instinct is to leave Penelope alone. I can’t do anything about my employer’s love affairs and I don’t mean to try. But with Phoebe it’s different. My heart aches over that grim, tough old girl. She’s in agonies. You’ve only got to look at her to know that. And I feel that I might be able to help her. Sometimes a young man can help an old woman because he can adopt the filial attitude and that unlooses the maternal repressions which having had to be repressions, have played old Harry with the wretched victim.”
“How clever you are.”
“I know.”
“I like the idea of your wanting to help Phoebe,” said Susan after a little pause. “Have some more tea. I don’t like Phoebe myself, because I know how wretched she’s made the other two, but I like to think that you think it’s worth while to bother about her.”
“It’s always worth while to bother about an unhappy person. No, no more tea, thank you, my dear. I’m going to begin to call you ‘my dear’ now because I think that the old-world sound of it may keep you in check.”
“Do you want me kept in check?”
“No.”
“I love your face when you’re thinking that I’m nice,” remarked Susan complacently.
“What does it look like?”
“Luminous.”
“Like that clock of yours with the luminous dial that I gave you ages ago.”
“Nicer.”
“Boy! I must look attractive. But we must mind, because the cows must get busy first.” Tony’s sightless eyes were alive with merriment. Surely he must be able to see somewhere, thought Susan, watching them. When people were dead blind for ever they looked dead. Tony never looked dead.
“Bother your cows.” Susan got up. “I’m going to sit on your knee,” she announced. “Firmly, and for ten minutes only. Then I’m going to see Dorothy and her John. Heavens, isn’t Dorothy happy! It’s amazing to see her: she used to be so drab.”
“Mind she doesn’t get a flying start in the Nursery stakes.”
“That seems on your mind. Dorothy is too old.”
“Don’t you be so sure. Dorothy is one of the tough type that lasts; also I have a great admiration for the sons of the soil in certain directions, and John is one of them. But now, no more about anyone but ourselves! We’re the most important people now. I love you. Whisper your reply in true maidenly fashion into my neck. Higher up, or I can’t hear you properly.”
A few days later Tony told Susan that he would not be back to tea that afternoon and that she was not to wait.
“Business?”
“Business.”
“Good boy,” said Susan softly and asked no questions. A chance for her to get some long overdue calling done. Now that the War was over they had been able to get their tiny car out of store. Happily she went upstairs. Life was good and the man she had married was not the dependent boy she had thought him to be. Strength in good measure was Tony’s portion and she rejoiced in it. And now he was going to tackle old Phoebe. Well, she wished him luck. Peeping into the bathroom to see that the packet of Lux was there, Susan went on her way to collect some silk stockings to wash before she went out.
“Who is it?” Two hours later Phoebe spoke through the letter-box. She had begun to do this, as it saved her the bother of opening the door. Also, it stopped her sisters from constantly running in. They didn’t want her and had showed it. Very well, then, they couldn’t have her, thought Phoebe, smiling a little at the thought.
“It is I. Tony. Come to see you,” said Tony pleasantly. He had had to stoop to reach the letter-box and he choked a little.
“I don’t want to see anybody,” returned Phoebe, lowering the flap of the letter-box and going away.
“Hi!” Tony was not to be defeated. Probably all the windows were closed, as it was February, but still, through the letter-box the house had smelt funny, somehow. Gas? Ah, gas! The old convenient exit. Not that Phoebe would be as crazy as that. At least, he hoped not. “Hi!” He lowered himself again to shout.
“Go away.” Phoebe was obviously shouting from the end of the tiny passage.
“Not I. I shall stay here till midnight, shouting,” Tony put his mouth very close to the letter-box so that he could speak softly. He did not want the other two sisters to know he was there. “Let me in. I want some tea. Susan has gone out and I can’t get any at home.”
“Go away, I tell you.” Phoebe was breathing heavily. Like an animal caught in a trap: Tony could hear her.
“You surely won’t turn away a blind man from your door.” Tony spoke persuasively. “A blind nephew into the bargain. By marriage, of course. You can’t refuse to give a blind man tea.”
“I can refuse to give anyone anything.” Phoebe’s voice rose in a scream. “Nobody wants me, so I don’t want anybody.”
“I want you,” said Tony, beginning to feel slightly alarmed. But having begun he intended to go on. Phoebe was very nearly quite crackers: that was obvious. The next thing would be that she would gas herself and set the whole village by the ears. What with one thing and another they had made themselves quite conspicuous enough in the village of Chapelshades. A halt must sometime be called to excessive publicity.
“Let me in,” he whispered.
“Susan has sent you. Susan, who hates me.”
“I swear she hasn’t. Susan doesn’t care enough for you to do that,” said Tony skilfully.
“Dorothy or Penelope. Because I won’t let them in. They think that they will get in this way.”
“No. Oh, I am getting so cold,” said Tony. He coughed.
“Go home, then.”
“No, I have come to see you. Besides, I want some tea.”
“I have no tea ready.” But there were slow footsteps coming along the passage. Tony braced himself. If she opened the door and struck at him he would be helpless. But he must chance that.
“Go away, I tell you.” Phoebe in her turn was stooping and speaking through the letter-box.
“Oh, the cold, the cold!” Tony was stamping his feet. “That is the worst of not being able to see; I can’t walk fast.”
“Curse you!” Suddenly Phoebe flung the door wide open. A waft of stale air rushed out. Gas and stale air. He had got in just in time, reflected Tony, stepping over the mat and into the tiny hall. The sound of a key turning behind him---well, he had learnt to feel his way about pretty well and would chance a scrimmage with her.
“The house is cold,” said Phoebe. “Cold as my heart is cold. Cold and bitter; can’t you smell it?”
“Yes, I can,” said Tony frankly. “The whole place stinks like hell, if you’ll excuse the expression. Let’s open a window, shall we? This is the sitting-room, isn’t it?” Skilfully he threaded his way in between the furniture. “Ah, here we are!” He dragged the sash down from the top and turned round.
“Let’s light a fire, shall we?” he remarked conversationally. “And then I’ll help you make tea.”
“You have only come to torment me.” Phoebe, standing by the door, was glaring. Dishevelled and with unbrushed hair, she stood there in an old overall with torn cuffs. A mercy I can’t see the old girl, thought Tony humorously. Off her rocker or very nearly so.
“No, I haven’t come to torment you,” he said cheerfully. “Only to cadge some tea, because I can’t get it anywhere else. Although I always had rather a pash on you, Aunt Phoebe. Now then, let’s get busy. The kitchen: that’s the best of it for me; the lay-out of all these cottages is the same. Forward to the kitchen.”
“You have only come to torment me.” And then Phoebe broke into great choking sobs. “Why did you come at all? I was happy alone: I was going to set forth by myself to find happiness. And now it is too late.”
“And a good thing, too,” said Tony briskly. “People who put their heads in gas ovens make a lot of trouble for other people and it isn’t fair of them. And it isn’t like you, because you’re not that kind. Now then, forward, Aunt Phoebe, into the kitchen. Is the light on in here, by the way?”
“No.”
“Turn it on because, although I can’t see anything, it makes me feel more friendly like. No, I will, that makes me feel independent.” Tony clicked down the switch. What did the room look like, he wondered. In any event it was cold as the grave. He shivered.
“You are cold.”
“I am.”
“Your heart is not cold.”
“It very soon will be at this rate. Let’s light a fire. Is it laid?”
“Yes.”
“Then I can do it with my lighter.” Taking it out of his pocket he knelt down on the hearthrug. Hearing her coming towards him he wondered if she was going to knock him over the head and decided that he must chance it. And then he felt a hand trembling on his hair.
“My son.”
“That’s it.” Tony was watching the flames lick round the paper and sticks. Odd how you could very nearly see things, he reflected. How akin one’s brain and eyes were to one another.
“My son.”
“Mother,” said Tony abruptly. He didn’t like saying it at all, but he felt he must. When people were queer in their heads you had to try all sorts of things.
“You care enough to call me mother?” Phoebe was fumbling with both hands. Vague fumblings as if she was trying to feel her way through the fog that surrounded her.
“Of course I do. And I shall like you much more when we’ve had some tea. Now, how is the fire doing? Is it really alight.”
“Yes.”
“It’s a good grate. The room will soon be warm. Now then, for the kitchen. Hold my hand while we go there.”
“This way.” Phoebe’s hot convulsive grasp made Tony shiver. And yet, as he reflected, it was better to do the thing properly while you were about it. Also, she had not felled him to the ground or set fire to him or done any of the things that she quite easily might have done with him so helpless.
“What a smell of gas.”
“I turned it off when you called through the letter-box.”
“Where’s the window. Better open it for a second or two before we light it for the kettle. That’s it. Aren’t I clever in the way I can feel my way about?”
“Yes.” Phoebe was opening a cupboard. “I will do it all,” she said. “You go back to the sitting-room and get warm. I felt your hand: it is cold. You mustn’t catch cold, my boy.” Phoebe began to mutter to herself.
“Sure I can trust you to do it properly?”
“I can’t have my boy catching cold.” Phoebe was moving quickly about the kitchen. Solid footsteps, no longer uncertain. “If he does my heart will be broken, because he is the only person who cares if I am alive or dead.”
“That’s right,” said Tony cheerfully. “And I like lots of butter. Let’s spread it ourselves, shall we? It saves a lot of bother and one gets more that way.”
“Listen to him.” Phoebe suddenly gave a great gurgle of laughter. “My hands are dirty”; she was washing them under the tap. “What is there to wash for if you are alone?”
“Self-respect,” said Tony briskly. “Once lose that and you’re on the downgrade.”
“Is the downgrade death? Does it end in death?”
“No, it ends more often in the lunatic asylum. And then you don’t die for ages and it’s very expensive and a bother for everybody.”
“Will you come and see me sometimes?”
“Yes, if you behave, and don’t do silly things like not letting anyone in and starving yourself.”
“I am hungry now.”
“Good! so am I. Hurry up and get things ready. Yes, you can light the gas now; I’ll shut the window. That’s it. Now then, going to be a good girl?”
“He says he’s my son. My only child.”
“And because of that he’d like some jam. And some potted meat, if you’ve got any that isn’t opened and gone bad.”
“I have a new pot. Feel it and see.”
“Yes, that’s all right.” Tony was fingering the sealed lid of a glass bottle. “I’ll open that. Now get busy, Mother, before I tear pieces off the loaf with my hands.”
“Listen to him!” Phoebe bustled delightedly about the kitchen. Light, light and warmth. A shuddering away of the phantoms and the shadows. The great big skeleton’s head had gone. The queer insistent voices had ceased. The fear of open spaces and lonely stretches was dwindling. This fair-haired boy: this child of hers had brought healing in his brown hands.
“Is the drawing-room warm?” To Tony’s amazement, Phoebe spoke almost normally.
“I’ll see. Yes, it’s on the way to being warm, anyhow,” he called along the passage.
“Come back: come back.” There was suddenly a sound of terror in Phoebe’s voice.
“What’s the matter?” Tony stood there in the kitchen doorway, blinking.
“I thought you had gone.”
“Come on now, effort?” Tony spoke good-humouredly.
“I know. I will try.” Phoebe’s voice was humble. “Yes, the kettle is nearly boiling. You can trust me, my son: you can trust me.”
“All right, then, I’ll go and see that everything is O.K. in the sitting-room.” And a few minutes later he wondered if he had imagined all that about Phoebe being mad. Although madness and sanity were only divided from one another by a very slender barrier. He ought to know that, because when they had broken to him very gently, that he would never see again he had felt for two or three hellish days and nights that he was going mad. And then Susan had come: his lovely Susan whom he would never see again, in this life anyhow, and she had laid her slender hands on his blinded eyes and told him that she loved him more, if possible, and that she would never leave him: never, never. And the terror thoughts had backed away from him and the horrors that had closed round him broke up their grisly circle and disappeared. And there was Light where before there had only been impenetrable Darkness.
“The room is warm.” Phoebe was pouring out the tea.
“Yes, lovely.”
“My heart is warm.”
“Splendid,” said Tony, munching contentedly.
“It will get cold again.”
“No it won’t, if you are sensible and invite me to a fine tea like this at least once a week.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes.”
“And keep out the others.”
“You mustn’t be stupid about the others, you know.”
“They hate me.”
“Nonsense! They are far too busy about their own affairs to hate anybody,” said Tony reprovingly. “That’s what you’ve got to fight against, these hate complexes. They play old Harry with us, you know. Old Harry is putting it mildly.”
“Have you ever hated anybody?”
“Of course I have. When they told me that I was going to be blind I hated God Himself.”
“God Himself.”
“Yes.”
“I know what it is to hate God,” said Phoebe in a low menacing voice. “I know what it is to get up in the night and curse Him.”
“Quite. And it’s a very silly thing to do,” said Tony lightly. “Because curses like that have a way of coming home to roost. I like this potted meat. You have some too.”
“Thank you.” That Phoebe was hungry was obvious. Tony could hear her munching on and on and on. The poor old girl was going to her death on an empty stomach, thought Tony whimsically. However, he had prevented that. And Phoebe was going to be his good deed for the day. God had treated him extremely well in giving him Susan and a job. So the least he could do was to make a decent return for it.
“You won’t tell anyone that you have been here?”
“Not a soul.”
“Nor that I was going to kill myself.”
“No. Or at least, yes,” said Tony, pondering. “Yes, if you won’t promise not to do it again. No, if you will.”
“The Voices come and tell me to do it.”
“Then tell them to go to hell and send for me,” said Tony cheerfully. “Believe me, the Voices have a healthy dread of the underworld. It’s there they come from, you see, and they don’t want to have to go back there.”
“Are they real, then?” said Phoebe tremulously, wiping her mouth.
“No, not exactly real. But real enough to upset the applecart especially when you haven’t had anything to eat for several days.”
“I can see a light round your head,” said Phoebe suddenly. “It is coming towards me.”
“Splendid!”
“It says to me, there is hope for you when you have your son.”
“Better still,” said Tony enthusiastically.
“If you will come and see me I will tidy the cottage and try to live.”
“Of course I will come to see you. Often.”
“Could you fix a day.”
“Of course,” said Tony, thinking what an infernal nuisance it was going to be. But still, it was something worth doing to save this poor old girl’s reason. She was probably a kind old thing at heart. “It is Tuesday to-day,” he said. “Next Tuesday at the same time and several flying visits before then.”
“Shall I give you my spare latch-key?”
“Do.”
“Will you walk in and just call Mother.”
“I will,” said Tony, holding out his cup. “More tea, please, Mother.”
“Oh, my darling boy.” In frantic haste Phoebe was lifting the teapot. Suddenly she broke into low sobbing again. “My son, my son,” she whispered. “I have never had one, I know, but you have come to take his place. If I had had a son I should not have felt this awful bitterness. This bitterness of Marah.”
“A son might have been an awful bother, you know,” said Tony confidentially. “Debts at Cambridge and all that. You never know where it will end. I was a son and so I know.”
“Have you debts? I will pay them. Wait, I will get you the money.”
Tony held out a detaining hand. “No, I’m up on the right side at the moment, but I promise you that if I am in difficulties I will come to you. Should Susan have a baby, for instance.”
“Who is Susan?”
“Susan? Susan is my wife.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Phoebe spoke after a little pause. “Things are beginning to come back. They seem to be swimming towards me holding up their arms for help.”
“Haul them up the sides of the ship. May I smoke?”
“Of course.” Phoebe got up. “I will clear away the tea things, she said, and then will you sit by the fire and talk to me a little?”
“I will.” Tony got up and moved over to the fire. A nice fire: he could feel the warmth of it. He would stay about half an hour more and see Phoebe well on the way to recovery, he reflected. For her malady had not been very deep seated: that was obvious. So little had served to break down the reserves of misery and bitterness. Poor old Phoebe! Tony felt very pitiful over Susan’s oldest aunt as he stood there warming himself and waiting for her to come back from the kitchen.
As Tony and Phoebe chatted together and the firelight from the really very successful fire that Tony had lighted grew stronger, Penelope sat in her own sitting-room and shivered. She often shivered now: it was becoming a habit. Of course, it was very cold and when you felt hardly any inclination to go out you got chilled all through sitting about. It was odd how she no longer wanted to go out. Before Christmas she had always wanted to go out after tea: she had rested in the afternoon with the thought of that little expedition always before her: it had nestled there like a nice warm little glow. Tea first and then a little expedition to the village to buy some little thing and then perhaps a visit to see Dorothy on her way back. Or to see Phoebe. Not that she had been to see Phoebe for a long time now because it was quite hopeless trying to see her. She wouldn’t let you in: and if she did, after a long discussion, she looked so queer and said such queer things, that you wished for a long time afterwards that you hadn’t been. And as for Dorothy, she was so happy with her John that it gave you a pain in your heart to look at her. If you were happy yourself you could have borne it, but if the whole of you was one devastating ache for something you would never have you could not bear it, and it was not of the faintest use to try.
So Penelope sat there and stared into the fire. Vaguely she felt that her head was aching. Nor was she hungry, so she would cut out supper, which would save a lot of bother. Ah! there was the postman’s knock. Standing up her face flamed. You never knew: she rushed out of the sitting-room into the tiny hall. No, a commercial shaped envelope with English stamps. Sick from the revulsion of feeling she went slowly back, into the sitting-room again. Miss Milne, at Merry Widows (middle cottage); what a funny address. She opened the envelope.
“Dear Miss Milne” (she read),
“You won’t remember me but I was one of your clients at the offices in Conduit Street. Anyhow, this is just to tell you that I have started a business like yours in Bayswater, and am doing quite well. I enclose my card in case at any time you can send me along anyone you may meet. Glad to hear that you are so happily married; we have your old char to do out our offices for us. She’s married the porter from next door, so it all works out very well. She was a Mrs. Millar, now a Mrs. Grundy. Quite a good name for us, don’t you think? Well, all the best from
“Patricia Molesworth.”
Penelope read the letter again. For Susan, of course. What should she do with it? Burn it: Penelope suddenly felt that what was the use of passing it on. Susan wouldn’t want to keep up with anyone who wrote like that, she was obviously not a lady. She cast her eyes over the card. “Marriage Bureau”: that was on the top left-hand corner. “Patricia Molesworth. Marriages arranged. Strictest secrecy.” And then the address: “42 Charlesworth Street, W.7.” Standing there, Penelope read the letter for the third time and then, tearing it into little pieces, she dropped it into the fire. Odd how difficult it was to burn paper after the War, when you had to save every little scrap for salvage. And now for the card. Penelope fingered it with her slim white fingers. Listless fingers. They played with the thin cardboard as her down-bent eyes took in what was written on it. “Marriages arranged.” Marriage: that was what she in her hopeless romantic imbecility had thought that Sir Philip had meant when he had kissed her on Christmas night. The thought of it had kept her heart alight for days after that never-to-be-forgotten evening. “I shall come and see you very soon,” he had said the enchanting words as he held her hand at parting. And she, with her face still flushed from his kisses, had heard them in a tumultuous, throbbing silence. And then . . . what? Days and days of waiting. And then the news that he was ill with influenza. More days of waiting and watching for a letter, perhaps. And then at last the letter. At first she could not open it: her heart was beating so in her breast: her body---beating all over her.
“Dear Miss Milne “ (Sir Philip had very nice handwriting),
“I am so sorry that this wretched influenza of mine has prevented me from coming to see you. And now I am afraid that I shall not have time as I am off to London to-morrow. And from there out East, where I expect to be until April or so. But then I shall hope to be back again when we must meet again.
“Always sincerely yours,
“Philip Capel.”
Standing there with the letter in her hand, Penelope’s first sensation was that of hatred. Hatred for the man who had stirred her senses simply for the fun of it. Because he had kissed her persistently and passionately, laughing at her when she stirred uneasily in his grasp. She had cheapened herself; Penelope’s agonised sensibilities convicted her of an impurity beyond coherent thought. Had he suggested it she would have committed any sin. The sin of sensuality: poor Penelope’s austere bringing up rendered her almost incoherent from despair. She was disgraced: he had not come to see her because he was ashamed of her. For ever she was relegated in his mind in the category of those women that you did not invite to your house. Writhing, Penelope thought of nothing else for days on end. Sleepless nights, when she composed letters to him. “I have had your letter and I know that why you did not come to see me was because you were disgusted. But believe me, I have never behaved like that before. No man has ever kissed me before; I told you so and I thought that because of that you would have respected me. But instead of that——” and then in her agony Penelope would start up in bed and give a little moan. This was what hell was, she reflected. This was why people took to drink so that for a few moments, anyhow, they should stop thinking.
And now, standing there, holding Patricia Molesworth’s card in her hand, she decided she would keep it. You never knew what you would feel like one day. Perhaps one day the lonely misery of a shameful remembrance would get you down altogether and you would commit any folly to get rid of it. In any event, going over to her bureau, Penelope put the card into a tiny softly-slipping drawer.
While Dorothy, after stacking up the supper things for Mrs. Millar to wash up in the morning, came back to the sitting-room again.
“John.”
“My dear.”
“Why do you suppose Sir Philip took no more notice of Pen after that evening Christmas party when he seemed to live in her pocket? They were alone for hours after dinner while we were playing that game.”
Sir John Maltby reflected.
“He was afraid he had gone too far. He is a cautious man: his upbringing has made him like that. He would know that your sister would have fairly old-fashioned ideas and that if he persisted in seeing her she would probably expect him to propose to her. And he was not prepared to go as far as that. At any rate, not yet.”
“You proposed to me.”
“I know. But not until I had had plenty of opportunity of observing you, my child.”
“I love it when you call me ‘my child.’”
“Do you? Then come and sit down beside me and bring a writing block and a pencil so that you can note down the names I tell you. I’ve got Carter’s new catalogue, the first since the War, and it warms my heart to see it again in all its new beauty.”
“May I have one of those little grey fir trees that look like Christmas trees with frost on them?”
“If you are a good girl,” said Sir John tenderly, thinking that Capel was a fool to miss the chance of this woman’s sister, who was probably made of the same fine steel that made every waking hour a joy because you were sure of her. And every sleeping hour a time of calm happiness because you knew that you would wake to find her there beside you.
“Are you happy, John?”
“Very.”
“You don’t ask me if I am happy.”
“No, because I know you are. And you ought to know that I am.”
“I ask it because even now I can’t believe it’s me. I’m so plain: so ordinary. Oh! I’m not asking for compliments: you know that. But I am plain: I always was the plain one. When I think of what you have done for me I feel inclined to bow my head and weep tears of joy. And when I think of Penelope feeling the same as I used to and probably more so, because I never dreamed even in my wildest moments that anyone could like me, I feel as if I must do something to help her.”
“Perhaps you will be able to one day.”
“I don’t see how.”
“No, nor do I. But one never knows. Now stop moralising and come and sit down here with a pencil and tell me what to send for. I want the garden to be very beautiful this Spring; and Summer, too. Roses: masses of them: some of those little squat standard trees that look like bouquets when the flowers are in full bloom. Come and sit here, darling: pull up that low chair, because then you will be level with the table.”
It took Patricia Molesworth some time to find out what Penelope really wanted.
“What do you think she is driving at?” She threw the letter over to her partner, sitting at the writing table opposite to her.
“She wants a husband and is too terrified to say so,” replied May Bridges, smoothing her eyebrows with a reflective red-nailed finger.
“Who do you suppose she is?”
“One of the thousands of well-bred spins, whose instincts and traditions have kept them celibate when every instinct within them was shrieking to be otherwise.”
“Really, May: your language is flowery.”
“I know, I ought to have written novels. Perhaps I shall one day, when we are raided by the police.”
“Don’t be silly. We keep well within the law.”
“I know we do. But one can never tell. I didn’t like the look of our last male client.”
“No, nor did I, and I wouldn’t take his booking fee.”
“Thereby making an enemy. And perhaps a dangerous one.”
“In a business of this kind you must always take a certain amount of risk.”
“Quite. But you want to avoid making enemies if you can. You could easily have taken his fee and linked him up with that fat baggage who married the chauffeur---who was killed in the War.”
“My dear! she’s well off.”
“She doesn’t think so,” said May coarsely. “Money isn’t what she wants, my child.”
“Well, to get back to Penelope Milne,” said Patricia reflectively. “Who have you got on your books?”
“That Colonel with the white hair and co-respondent’s shoes. Rather on the down-grade, perhaps, but he is at least a gentleman. Also I think he has a small income of his own.”
“Why does he come to us?”
“I don’t know, unless he has been mixed up in some scandal. But that’s not our affair. He has come to us and paid his fee so it’s up to us to find him someone.”
“Are you going to write to her?”
“Yes.” Patricia Molesworth unscrewed the top of her pen. “I’m going to write at once. And when she gets up here and sees the office and all these hangings, she’ll be reassured. We’ll link her up with Colonel Ross and have done with it. And that will bring in thirty guineas: worth having. We’re doing well, May.”
“Because the world is full of fools.”
“Ssh---that’s not the way to speak when you’re making money out of them. Only I’m rather sorry now that I wrote to Susan Milne to remind her of my existence. By the way: Milne.” Patricia had reached out for a letter. “Milne; yes, by heavens, the same address. My goodness, that’s a bother.”
“Why? All the better. People will pay anything to keep out of a scandal. Especially people like that. Carry on the good work, my dear, and catch the elderly aunt. I bet that’s who it is. Then when we’ve got her well primed down and the family are objecting we can squeeze them for hush money.”
“May, you are filthy!”
“I’m not: I’m a good business woman and a potential writer of detective novels.” May was laughing. “Get on with your letter and I’ll post it on my way back to lunch. Ah! here they come up the stairs. Take your letter into the other room; I’ll attend to these.”
“Dear Miss Milne” (wrote Patricia, safely settled in the adjoining room),
“Your letter has interested me very much and I hasten to answer it. Yes, this is a Marriage Bureau that a friend of mine and I are running. Of course, we are very particular as to whom we take as clients, but if you are, as I think you are, a relation of my friend, Susan Milne, now Fellowes (I was so interested to hear of her marriage), we need not trouble about that. Many thanks for your booking fee of five guineas: I enclose a receipt for it. You will be hearing again from me shortly. Until then, believe me to be, dear Miss Milne,
“Yours sincerely,
“Patricia Molesworth.”
Penelope got this letter the following day when she came down to breakfast. Mrs. Millar had put it on the tiny table by the fire. Standing there, Penelope felt again the queer sick feeling that now rarely left her. A feeling as if part of her was in suspension. As if she could not draw a deep enough breath. As if she wanted to cry out and yet was dumb. She stared at the letter in its nice thick envelope. She could not open it: she would put it into the fire unread. And yet if she did that what would happen? She would have to go on living the life that she was living now: a blank life of shamed desolation. He would come home and notice that she had aged and changed and avoid her. He would avoid her anyhow, but seeing her haggard and unlovely he would avoid her more. Sitting down, Penelope opened the letter and began to read it. Mechanically she poured herself out some coffee and put a lump of sugar into it. Drinking it she felt the heat of it doing her good. It was streaming a sort of vicarious life into her. What was there to eat? She stared vaguely over the rim of her cup. Porridge: and Mrs. Millar made porridge very well. Setting down her cup Penelope reached out for the salt. Why was it she felt so odd, she wondered? So drained of everything that made you feel alive. A queer blankness of outlook. As Phoebe had been some time back until Tony had undertaken her. There was a vast change in Phoebe since those first frightening days after Christmas. Then it had seemed as if she might even be going off her head. Now it was her own turn to feel as if she was going off her head. You reached out and found nothing. And then in a mad desperate attempt to feel something, however base, and to fling from you the abyss of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm you, you reached out and snatched at anything. Penelope picked up the letter again. And then, with a frozen feeling of fear, she laid it down again. Susan’s aunt: they had guessed it at the Bureau. Why hadn’t she thought of the similarity of surname before? Terrified, she got up. She must write at once: on her knee as she ate, then she could rush out and post it before she began her regular routine of stupid little daily duties. If she did anything different Mrs. Millar might suspect something. Getting up she went to the little writing desk and took out her blotting book. It had stiff covers so that she could write on her knee.
“Dear Miss Molesworth (she wrote),
“Thank you for your letter, although one thing in it makes me a little anxious. I should not like my niece, Mrs. Fellowes, to know that I was in correspondence with you. You speak of complete secrecy on your side, and I hope it means complete secrecy. Otherwise I shall be obliged if you will return me my booking fee of five guineas, which I sent you in Treasury notes.
“Yours truly,
“Penelope Milne.”
Having written this, Penelope felt a little better. She shut it up in an envelope and put her blotting book back in her desk. The letter she would keep in the pocket of her jersey coat until she had time to put on her outdoor coat and run out with it. The pillar-box was just close to the end of their tiny front garden. Very convenient: writing that letter had made Penelope feel better. Because, after all, what was she afraid of? Susan had spoken of her Marriage Bureau in glowing terms. Numbers of people had been made happy by it. People, who would not otherwise have had a chance, had been given a wonderful chance. She would meet some nice man and go away with him as his wife and forget all the humiliation and misery of the last few weeks. Soiled and shamed by her wanton submission to his careless caresses, she would forget Sir Philip and all he had meant to her. And then, standing there staring out of the window, Penelope knew in a sudden blinding flash that she would never forget him. The thought of him would be a gaping, jeering wound for ever and the staunching of it by a base and financial barter of herself would be nothing at all but an anodyne. But all the same, Penelope set her pretty teeth on her white lower lip. She would go on with what she had begun. However it ended she would go on with it, because it gave her something else to think of. Something else beside the tormenting recollection of kisses given so freely that they had proved her own undoing. For no man wanted what he could get so easily. The library: the lovely fire: the pressure of that mouth on hers. Oh, God, help me to forget it! Flinging her hands over her face Penelope was gasping in her dreadful distress.
While up in London, twelve hours later, Patricia was chuckling.
“We’ve got her,” she said.
“Who?”
“Susan Fellowes’ aunt.”
“Good business. And what about Ross?”
“I’m going to write to him now.”
“What does she say?” enquired May, picking a cigarette daintily out of her tortoise-shell case.
“She asks for her money back if it isn’t kept secret that she’s dealing with us.”
“As frightened as that,” replied Patricia with satisfaction, beginning to look round for her fountain pen.
It was Tuesday and Phoebe was waiting for Tony to come to tea. Everything was ready including Phoebe herself. A transformed Phoebe: Susan could not get over it.
“What have you done to her?” She asked the question as she lounged in a low chair in front of the fire.
“Nothing, except impressed upon her that someone is fond of her.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. She’s a tough old warrior and has a heart of gold. It’s a tender heart, enclosed in layers of adhesions. I’ve torn down the adhesions and she can feel it beating again. She’s coming to life, perhaps for the first time since her young man cleared off and left her.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Tony twisted his head to send a cloud of smoke up the chimney. “Lots of things. Her garden, for one thing. Dorothy is helping her over that and it’s a great thing for Phoebe, because it gets her out of herself as well as out of the house. Now I must go, darling. Kiss me, my lovely; how sweet you look.”
“Do I? Splendid.” Susan held up her face. “Give my love to Phoebe and try and find out how Pen is. She seems to me to be the wonky one now: I never saw such a change in anyone. And why is she always going up to London?”
“Ask me another.” Tony was laughing. “If she had false teeth I should say that she was having another set made, but she hasn’t, has she?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Susan’s beautiful teeth flashed in the firelight. “Go on, my darling, and take care of yourself.”
“So long then, my sweet.” And Tony went out. How happy he was, he reflected, going carefully along close to the hedge. If only he could see . . . as he walked in the darkness he thought over a dream he had had the night before. He had not told Susan because the waking had been so agonising. He had dreamed that he could see: that he could really see and that it wasn’t a dream. He had argued it out with people who seemed to be standing near him. “No, don’t you try to persuade me: this is only a dream and I shall wake up and find that I am still blind. I have been had like that before.” But it had seemed so utterly real that his heart had leapt with the rapture of it. Joyfully opening his eyes he had waked. Hardly daring to move he had looked towards the little table where he knew Susan’s clock with the luminous hands and numbers would be standing. And then, with his heart faint and sick, he had sunk back on the pillows again. It had been a dream after all: what was the object of torturing a man like that? But now, as he walked through the frosty air, his heart was light again. Life was gorgeous in spite of everything. He rang the little bell by Phoebe’s door with a smile on his face.
“Oh, come in, my boy.” Phoebe’s welcome was rapturous. She stood there ready to close the door behind him. Phoebe looked very nice: she had on a cherry-coloured jersey suit and it set off her white hair. She had a string of pearls round her neck. Tony stood there smiling.
“How nice you look.”
“Can you see me?”
“Yes, quite well. You look young and gay. What’s the colour of this? “Tony took a corner of the coat between his finger and thumb.
“Cherry colour.”
“And the blouse?”
“Blue; a queer blue that goes with it.”
“Gorgeous.”
“Come along in to tea.” Phoebe was leading the way. Her eyes shone with a possessive pride. Here was her child to care for and feed up with all the things he liked best. Life held something when you had a child to care for. And he liked coming: he did: you could tell it.
The room was warm and the fire was sparkling. The table was loaded with nice things to eat. Down in the hearth the silver hot water dish was full of crumpets. Crumpets with the butter streaming out of them as crumpets ought to be.
“Heavens I shall burst if I eat any more.” Tony, licking a buttery finger, spoke gaily.
“Let me give you some more tea.”
“Well, perhaps just some more tea.” Tony stretched out his long legs to the blaze and felt how nice it was all being. The same sort of feeling that you got when you had nursed an animal back to health.
“Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Tony sat forward and took possession of his cup. And then he lay back again.
“Tell me something interesting.”
“About?” Phoebe’s eyes were gay with pleasure.
“Anything.”
“I want to ask your advice.”
“I am proud to give it to anyone so intelligent.”
“Naughty boy.” Phoebe laughed fondly. Her child---she looked at his fair head pressed against a blue cushion and felt her heart well out with love. Her child: her son: the son who had come to drag her back from the gates of hell opening in front of her terrified gaze.
“It’s about Penelope,” she said.
“Yes.” Instantly Tony was all attention. So Susan had been right. There was something wrong there.
“Yes.” He said it again.
“There is something amiss with Penelope,” said Phoebe slowly.
“What sort of a thing?”
“I don’t know.” Phoebe spoke slowly. Even now she found it hard to speak without reserve. Her sisters---a certain amount of bitterness still lingered. “I used to look after Penelope,” she said gruffly.
“I know you did. Beautifully, I am sure.”
“No, I didn’t. I was hard and selfish,” burst from Phoebe.
“I can hardly believe that,” said Tony gently.
“You don’t know. I was. I ran the house and they had to conform. I was sometimes cruel: I was so unhappy. . . . I had thought I should have a home of my own.”
“I know. Never mind, you have one now and you make me very happy in it.”
“If it had not been for you I should have killed myself.”
“Naughty girl. Yes, I am afraid you would,” said Tony caressingly. Oh, there was something infinitely pathetic about a lonely woman . . . he held out a kind hand.
“You saved me.”
“Cut out the gratitude and get to the point. What about Penelope?”
“Well . . .” Phoebe, struggling with her emotion, was wiping her eyes. “Well, it’s this,” she said. “Penelope is afraid of something.”
“Afraid of something?” In his surprise Tony sat up.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I have been watching her. Unknown to her I have been watching. She has a hunted look. If you go there she only opens the door a crack and then when she sees who it is she opens it widely.”
“But you got to the stage that you wouldn’t open the door at all.”
“I know. But I was nearly mad: I know it now. I do not like to think that my sister is suffering in the same way as I was.”
“Hmm.” Tony, lay there and reflected.
“Then there’s another thing.”
“Yes.”
“The other evening I was coming back from the village and was passing Penelope’s cottage and I saw a man coming out of her front door.”
“A man!”
“Yes.”
“But why not?” said Tony, after an instant’s reflection. “It might have been a tradesman. Or John Maltby.”
“No, it was neither. It was someone who looked like a gentleman. Tall and with white hair.”
“Tall and with white hair? Who does Penelope know answering to that description?”
“No one,” said Phoebe solemnly. “That is why I am anxious.”
“Did you say anything to her about it?”
“Yes. I went round the next morning. She looked frightful, as if she had not slept all night. She asked me what I wanted, as she was busy: she would hardly let me in. And I said that I wanted to know who her visitor was. That I had seen a man come out of her house the evening before.”
“And what did she say?”
“At first she did not answer. And then she said that she was thinking of having some new fencing put up and that the man had come to see about it.”
“Well, that was probably quite true.”
“It was not. That man was a gentlemen,” said Phoebe.
“But lots of gentlemen do unusual things nowadays,” said Tony easily. “I do, for one. I am a cowman.”
“Yes, I know, but——”
“You mean that I have to because I am blind.”
“I did not say so.”
“No, but thought so,” said Tony, smiling. “No, I am not in the least hurt, Phoebe, dear. No, but seriously: why do you think that there is anything that matters about this man that you saw coming out of Penelope’s cottage?”
“I don’t know, but I do.”
“Obviously. But have you no reason for it?”
“Penelope is always going up to London.”
“Up to London——”
“Yes. And there is another thing. The postman is always stopping at her door. Penelope never used to have many letters.”
“Yes, but what do you suspect?” Tony spoke a little impatiently. Women . . . how they magnified every little happening; especially when they lived alone. What could happen to Penelope? that well-behaved, almost prudish spinster. The very idea that anything could happen to her was fantastic.
“Let’s talk about you for a change,” he remarked. “May I smoke?”
“Of course. I have got you some cigarettes. Here they are.” Phoebe, the joyful colour mantling in her cheeks, walked to the mantelpiece.
“Good girl. How you are improving.” Smiling, Tony reached up and took the box from her hand. “Thanks awfully,” he said, and lit one. “Now, then, tell me all about your garden. No, first, look here: let’s keep this about Penelope to ourselves. There is probably nothing in it at all, but if there should be it’s far better not to have had any talk about it beforehand. I won’t tell Susan even, and don’t you tell Dorothy. Keep it to yourself, and also keep your eyes open and let me know if anything happens that you think I ought to know.”
“Very well.” Phoebe went back to her chair. A secret with this boy whom she loved: an added joy to the life that she now shared with him. Phoebe began to talk. Catalogues: ideas for the wide border at the end of her garden: what John had said about it. Phoebe liked John. “He is a fine man,” she spoke proudly.
“Yes, we’re lucky to have him in the family, but you didn’t always think so, Phoebe.”
“I was foolish.”
“We all are sometimes.” Tony smiled indulgently. “But you feel better now, don’t you?”
“I feel quite different.”
“No more gas ovens!”
“Please, Tony.” Phoebe spoke like a young girl. And this was tough old Phoebe, who had ruled her sisters with a rod of iron. Tony was touched.
“Yes, it was a shame to remind you.”
“I ought to be reminded,” said Phoebe, solemnly. “I ought to be reminded. And that’s perhaps why I think so much about Penelope. I was desperate and you came to my rescue in the nick of time. Who would go to Penelope’s rescue if she were similarly situated? I might not know: I might be too late.”
“I think you exaggerate,” said Tony. “You see, what you have gone through yourself has made you apprehensive for others. Don’t worry, dear, and if you are really distressed just send me a message and I will come at once. You need only say that you would like to see me before my usual Tuesday visit, and I shall understand.”
“Thank you.”
“And now tell me about the plans for the new border,” said Tony, stretching himself luxuriously and preparing to settle in for a really comfortable half-hour or so.
“Dear Miss Milne,
“We have now arranged a rendezvous with Colonel Ross and if you will meet him at Marcia’s in Waterfall Street at four o’clock to-morrow afternoon, he asks me to say that he will be delighted. Marcia’s is the tea shop at the corner; you may know it. Just where Bond Street runs into Regent Street.
“Wishing you all success and happiness in this great adventure of yours.
“Yours sincerely,
“Patricia Molesworth.”
Penelope got this letter on a cold rainy morning in February. She saw it on the mat as she came downstairs. Mrs. Millar had not arrived as usual, as she had a heavy cold, and Penelope had come downstairs to make her own tea. She very much disliked making her own early tea: she liked it brought to her bedside. Not that it mattered really; also, if you had had a bad night it was rather a bother to have to wait until a quarter to eight for your tea. And on this particular morning Penelope had had a very bad night but she had fallen asleep in the early morning, waking unrefreshed and with aching head, at about half past seven.
And now here was the letter she had been waiting for. Picking it up, she felt her heart throb behind her eyes. It throbbed in jerks and made her headache worse. She read it and then put it back into its envelope, quite unconscious that she did so, because now a deadly feeling of fear had fastened on her. Panic: she felt it round her heart. A dry bleached feeling as if the blood had receded from it, leaving it pallid and vacant like a patch of sand when you poke a stick into it after the tide has gone down. She was involved: she had enmeshed herself with those visits to Charlesworth Street. Colonel Ross: who was Colonel Ross? They had explained to her who he was and then she had seemed to understand, but now it was vague again. She was to meet him the very next day: it has got as far as that. She took a step or two backwards and leaned against the wall. The tiny hall seemed to enclose her in a sort of foggy grip. She was enclosed all round: she walked unsteadily into the tiny kitchen. She would get herself some tea and that would perhaps clear her brain. Something she must have to clear her brain.
But the next day she felt better. She dressed with care. With the cunning of the secret drinker she prepared what she would say if anyone asked her where she was going. Someone did: Dorothy, who ran in to see her just before luncheon.
“Hallo, Pen! Making yourself look smart? Where are you going, my dear?” Dorothy spoke cheerfully, because she was inwardly enormously relieved to see her younger sister looking more or less normal. Latterly Pen had looked so queer, and Dorothy, bubbling over with her own happiness, did not want anything to spoil it.
“I’m going up to town after lunch; I’m catching the two-thirty. I had a letter from Dolly Richards to-day; do you remember Dolly Richards, Dorothy? And she wants me to go and see an exhibition of pictures in Bond Street: a friend of hers has got one there; and I thought it would be fun and a change. I’ve been feeling rather dull, lately, and going up to London is always fun. It takes so little time: it’s so stupid to be buried here all the time.”
“You seem to have developed a taste for going up to London lately,” said Dorothy, curiously.
“I know, and I’ll tell you why, only don’t tell Phoebe or she’ll fuss. My hair has been coming out most frightfully, and I’m having Vibro Massage at the Stores. I knew if I told Phoebe she’d recommend somewhere else or say that it was the wrong thing to have or something. Don’t tell her, there’s a dear.”
“Of course I won’t.” Dorothy was overwhelmingly relieved. Across the luncheon table half an hour later she told her husband how overwhelmingly relieved she was.
“What a family you are for imagining that something awful is going on that you don’t know anything about.” John Maltby was amused. He was often amused by his wife.
“I know. But sometimes I’m right.” Dorothy spoke with decision. “I was right about Phoebe: I don’t exactly know what did happen, but I do know that Tony took her in hand just in time.”
“Clever little woman,” said John Maltby indulgently. And then they began to talk about something else. That was the joy of married life: there was always something interesting to talk about, thought Dorothy, surveying her husband with the look of joy in her eyes that the sight of him always brought.
While Penelope, a little later, sat in the corner of her first-class compartment and watched the fields and hedges racing by with a sort of detached curiosity. In a couple of hours’ time she would have done the frightful thing that she had planned for so long. It was surely better to do something frightful than to wait and go mad. After all, she was only one person among millions. Susan had told her that lots of people went to her Marriage Bureau, so that it was quite an ordinary thing to do. And the Bureau had made it very clear that Colonel Ross was a gentleman. A gentleman and lonely, because he had spent most of his life abroad and had come home after the Great War to find that most of his old friends had died and that the younger generation was scattered.
“Hasn’t he any relations?” Penelope, in the sheltered secrecy of the grey velvet hangings, had become more daring.
“Yes, a sister. Married, and an invalid,” said Patricia fluently. “She lives in Yorkshire.”
“I see. Where does Colonel Ross live?”
“In an hotel in West Kensington.”
“How dreadful.”
“Yes, I think he is very tired of it,” said Patricia truthfully. “But perhaps between you, you may be able to think of something happier for him. You see, that is what we are for, isn’t it: to bring two lonely people together?” said Patricia, showing her nice teeth and thinking that this woman must have gone quite off her rocker to have embarked on the course that she had now undertaken. However, that was not her business. Her business was to make the Bureau pay and it was more difficult than she had anticipated. People had to be squared not to talk and that was expensive.
And now Penelope was watching the battered buildings that meant that they were getting near to Waterloo. Twisted girders and heaps of bricks and pathetic little rows of houses with smashed roofs and windows blocked up. Remnants of a devilment that had nearly destroyed the world. Past Doulton’s, with its gay Victorian architecture and smashed windows. Round the curve into Waterloo, with its echoing roof and endless stretches of platforms. And now doors wrenched open and a flood of human beings, all making for the exits. All intent on their own business and no one caring in the least about her. What did it matter what she did? thought Penelope, walking rather slowly because she had lots of time. Who would care if she came to grief? Really care, that is to say. Susan was happy: Dorothy was happy: Phoebe was beginning to be happy. She was the only one out of it all and shamed into the bargain. And at the thought of her shame her footsteps quickened. Anything, anything to escape from the memory of that. Anything to get herself well out of the way before he came back from India. She dragged her ticket out of her glove almost with violence.
And this feeling of desperation lasted her until she arrived at Marcia’s, the nice secluded teashop where she was to meet Colonel Ross. She went in through the swinging doors and stood there hesitating. She was five minutes later than she had meant to be, but perhaps that was just as well. It would make it doubly certain that Colonel Ross would be there first. He was and for a second he sat in his corner, watching her. And then he got up, threading his way between the tables.
“Miss Milne?”
“Yes,” said Penelope, lifting her eyes to the rather cadaverous face above hers. A cadaverous face with a brownish moustache trimmed into points. Eyes under which the flesh hung in bags. A mouth that she could not see very well for the terror that shook her. She must get away from this man at once, of course. She saw now the insanity that had obsessed her ever to embark on this thing. It struck her in the face with its open hand. She stepped back.
But Colonel Ross was accustomed to women. In the old days at Dinard he had had quite a mild success with one or two of them. He laid a detaining hand on her shaking arm.
“I have a table in the corner,” he said. “Come along and I will take you to it.”
“You know, I don’t think . . .” But short of making a scene how could she get away, wondered Penelope desperately. She would temporise and then say that she had to catch an earlier train than she expected if he would very kindly not mind her leaving a little abruptly. They were threading their way between the pretty little tables set some way away from one another. In the farther corner the orchestra began to play.
“Here we are.” Colonel Ross was intrigued with the frightened creature who trembled under his hand. She was a lady and probably had money. She reminded him of the people who used to stay at the big hotel in Dinard: the hotel with the lovely garden; people who dressed quietly and brought their maids and valets with them. A real high-stepper, thought Colonel Ross, delighted. “Here we are; now then, sit you down and make yourself at home. Tea, I suppose: you ladies always like tea. Yes, tea for two,” he addressed the attendant facetiously. “And crumpets. Do you like crumpets, Miss Milne?”
“I think I would rather have toast.” Penelope was wondering how she could get away without her haste being too conspicuous. Suddenly she remembered the cosy little sitting-room of her cottage. Dorothy coming in to see her: Mrs. Millar’s cheery greeting when she brought in her early tea. Normal happenings: little joyful normal happenings. Why had she ever left them? Why had she ever thought that anything like this would help to stifle memory? Besides, even memory was better than this. This was ugly: vulgar, somehow tainted. This man: he smelt of something; what was it: whisky? She smelt it when he turned to speak to her.
“Well, and now we’ve got to get to know one another better, haven’t we? Two lonely people in need of companionship.” To do Colonel Ross justice he was doing his best to adjust himself to this slim, frightened woman sitting bolt upright in her chair. Money, of course, and a fearful longing for something must have driven her to this. Not that she looked like that, reflected Colonel Ross, who had had his adventures, but then you could never tell. Sometimes the quietest-looking were the hottest when they got going. “Tell me something about yourself, my dear little woman,” he said.
“I? Something about myself. Well, I don’t think there is anything.” said Penelope. How near was the door? Supposing she made a rush for it, what would happen? Said she felt faint or something. But he might follow her; make a scene. People would stare: there might even be a policeman; it would be in the papers.
“Oh, there must be something.” Colonel Ross saw the tea approaching and he was hungry. That was the worst of a bed and breakfast arrangement: you got jolly hungry by teatime unless you had a good lunch, which he could hardly ever afford. “Ah, here’s tea,” he said, “and your toast and my crumpets. Now we shall be able to get busy and talk as we go. You pour out the tea, my dear little girl, and then we shall be all cosy, shan’t we?”
“Lord, hear our prayer and let our cry come unto Thee.” Where had she heard that? Oh, Patrick MacCormick on the wireless. St. Martin in the Fields. Yes, you prayed like that when you were desperate. And she was desperate now. Desperate to shake herself free of this. Desperate to get away out of the sight and hearing of this man. She had never met a man like this before.
“Thank you.” Colonel Ross had taken his cup from the slim white hand. “Now, then, here’s your toast: eat it up and get a little colour into those pale cheeks of yours.”
“I feel I ought to explain.” The hot tea had given Penelope a little strength. “I only did this just for fun: just for fun, you know. I didn’t really mean anything by coming here to meet you.”
“Shy, eh?” Colonel Ross looked facetious. “Well, I like shyness, my dear, I like it. You won’t go far wrong with me if you’re shy. Or shall we call it coy; it sounds prettier. More suited to a pretty little woman like you. Coy, yes, that’s it, coy.” Colonel Ross laughed complacently.
“No, I really mean it.”
“You don’t like the look of me, eh?”
“No, no, it’s not that at all.” Oh, the room was hot: Penelope was gasping. “Oh, no, it’s not that at all. I am sure you are charming, but you see I did it for a bet. One of my friends said that I wouldn’t and I said I would, so here I am.”
“Is the friend here?” said Colonel Ross, looking round the room.
“Oh, no.”
“Then how will he or she know that you did come after all?”
“I shall tell them.”
“And stand to win a tenner on that. I don’t think,” said Colonel Ross. He drank some tea and sucked in his moustache. Shivering, Penelope heard the awful sound. “Oh, Lord, hear my prayer . . .” she breathed.
“No, joking apart, let’s get busy,” said Colonel Ross. “And I like you all the more for being a shy little girl. Now then, tell me where you live and forget all about why we met and all that. There’s plenty of time to talk about all that. I don’t want to hurry you, my dear little girl.”
“I feel——” The relief made Penelope falter. He was not so bad after all, then. He did understand and saw that she wasn’t the sort of woman for him. They would find him someone else. She would be able to get away in quite an ordinary manner. “Oh, Lord, I thank Thee.” Penelope smiled.
“I live in a little village called Chapelshades,” she said, “quite a small place in Surrey.”
“All, yes, I know it well, or I used to know it when I was a boy. A sweet little spot,” said Colonel Ross, helping himself to more crumpets. “And do you live alone?”
“Yes, I live in a little cottage in the middle of a row,” said Penelope. “And I have a sister on either side of me.”
“Married?”
“Yes, one is: the other isn’t.”
“And what is the row of cottages called?” enquired Colonel Ross. “Or hasn’t it a name?”
“Oh, yes, it has a queer name. Merry Widows,” said Penelope, laughing in her wild relief at the turn things were taking.
“Merry Widows, indeed,” and now Colonel Ross was laughing too. He laughed heartily with his mouth wide open. He had false teeth, thought Penelope, very white ones. Dreadful teeth: she averted her gaze from them.
“And now, then, my dear little girl, what are we going to do next?” said Colonel Ross who, having found out what he wanted, was able to be complacent. To be tied up for life to this shrinking woman of uncertain age was not the fate he wanted: Patricia would fix him up with something more lively. Although Miss Milne might be useful in other ways. He would let her get away now without any fuss and then he might also be able to get away without having to tip the girl.
“You’ll let me see you to the station,” he said.
“Oh, no, thank you very much. You see, I want to do a little shopping before I catch my train.”
“You ladies do love shopping, don’t you? And you don’t want me to come with you?”
“Oh, no, thank you very much.” Oh, he was being nice, thought Penelope wildly. Making it easy for her to get away without a fuss. “You know, I do think you are being kind,” she said eagerly, her pale face flushing in her eagerness.
“Not at all.”
“You don’t think it hateful of me to have come up to meet you just as a joke.”
“A little unkind, perhaps.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, no, of course you didn’t,” said Colonel Ross indulgently. “And it doesn’t mean because you don’t fancy me as a husband that we can’t meet again, does it?”
“Oh, well, I’m rather afraid it does,” said Penelope, and all in a sudden her terror flooded over her again. Because there was something about him that frightened her. Why had she told him where she lived? She had been mad to do that. “You see, I am going away,” she said.
“Where?”
“Abroad,” said Penelope recklessly. “I love Switzerland so, and now that we can cross the Channel again I feel that I must go.”
“Ever been to Paris?”
“Not to stay there,” said Penelope, feeling round for her gloves. The band was playing the “Haunted Ballroom,” that most exquisite of all exquisite melodies. She saw the crowded tearoom in a dream. Unreal: terrifyingly unreal. No, she was safe: she would have gone in a minute. She stood up.
“Thank you ever so much for my lovely tea,” she said. “No, please don’t leave your table because I am afraid that I have hurried you. Can’t you sit and listen to the band a little; they are playing so beautifully.”
“Alone,” said Colonel Ross, reproachfully.
“I have behaved badly,” said Penelope, despairingly. What did it matter what she said, now that she was free? Free. Free to go back unmolested to the haven of her own home. “You see, it was such a stupid thing to do,” she faltered.
“I hope you win a tenner to make good the loss of your fiver.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure I shall,” Penelope’s eyes were flying. “It will pay my fare to Switzerland,” she said, laughing tremulously.
“So it will.” And then they said good-bye. She couldn’t get to the door quick enough, thought Colonel Ross, settling himself back in his corner again, and watching her go. That hadn’t, taken long from first to last. And now, in case he forgot, as one’s memory became treacherous as one got older, he would make a few notes. Ah, yes, that was a fine looking woman sitting over there in the corner: he stared at her over the edge of his little red notebook and smiled complacently as she made a little gesture of invitation.
“The Church and Commercial Stores.” As the taxi steered up to the curb Penelope gasped out the words.
“Yes, Miss,” said the taxi-driver, clicking down the flag. The lady was a bit excited, evidently. Well, the Church and Commercial Stores would cool her down. She’d meet a lot of the same sort as her there. Wars may come and wars may go, but the Church and Commercial Stores, well, it just goes on for ever, thought the taxi man, who was a humorist at heart and who also had a daughter in the Bag Department. A fine set-to, as there was when they moved all that down to the ground floor. Might have been moving the Doomsday Book by the way they went on. And then it was the Stationery! Talk about the excavations in Rome; with a wary eye the taxi-driver accelerated and skimmed skilfully in between the buses.
Penelope never forgot the feelings with which she got back to the cottage. There was a bright fire burning and on the table a great big bunch of daffodils put just anyhow into a blue pottery jug. Those must be from Dorothy. Also a note from her, saying that she would run in at about eight o’clock just to see how she was but not to answer the door if she was too tired to bother with anyone. Then Mrs. Millar had been in and had laid ready a tray by the fire. It’s home, thought Penelope breathlessly. Home and security. How had she ever left it? How had she ever dreamed of leaving it? What had been the madness that had driven her out into a mad search for distraction? Because it had been madness; she saw that plainly enough now. To find herself safely at home again was like waking from a ghastly nightmare. Never, never would she feel like that again: never. Because now she knew what it was to be at the mercy of an unknown thing. Here she was safe: safe and secure against threatening horrors. For the first time for many days she ran joyfully upstairs to take off her hat and coat. Home . . . she was home again: safe and secure.
And Dorothy, coming in to see her later, could hardly believe her eyes and ears, when she saw the transformed Penelope who greeted her.
“Yes, London was lovely. But oh, how glad I was to get back! Dorothy, we are lucky to have these darling little cottages for our very own.”
“Yes, aren’t we?” said Dorothy, beaming. “And what were the pictures like?”
“Pictures?”
“Yes, you told me that you were going up to see some pictures with. Dolly Richards.”
“Oh, yes, of course I did.” Penelope’s head stopped whirling. “Yes, of course, the joy of getting back made me forget all that. Yes, they were very good, rather good, that is. I never much care for picture exhibitions, especially when you’ve got somebody with you. When you’ve said ‘lovely’ twice, there isn’t anything more to say.”
“Yes, that’s true,” and Dorothy laughed delightedly. Something had transformed Penelope, that was quite certain. “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself, and you look much better for the little jaunt. I’m specially glad, because lately you haven’t looked well, and I’ve been bothered about you.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“And now we’re on the subject I’ve a feeling that you’ve been bothered about Sir Philip. Oh, don’t mind my speaking about it,” said Dorothy as Penelope made a little warding-off gesture with her slim hands. “I had a sort of feeling that you perhaps felt that you hadn’t behaved well on Christmas evening: you know, spending so much time alone in the library with him. No earthly reason why you should feel like that but you know what we are: we were brought up so queerly and since I’ve been married I’ve learnt how awfully silly some of our ideas were.”
“I made myself cheap.” Penelope spoke in a low, strangled voice.
“You didn’t! It isn’t in you: you couldn’t,” said Dorothy forcibly. “Oh, I knew it was that that was bothering you and I longed to say and didn’t quite like to. But now I can. Pen, darling, don’t be a silly goose; you couldn’t make yourself cheap even if you wanted to and Sir Philip wouldn’t be the man either to encourage you to. He isn’t like that.” In her excitement Dorothy caught hold of her sister’s hand. “Just think, Pen, he’s coming home,” she said.
“Who is?”
“Sir Philip.”
“But I thought not until April!”
“Susan and Barton have both had letters. He’s homesick: he’s coming home sooner. He ought to be here in a little over a month from now.”
“Next month.”
“Yes, next month.”
“So soon?”
“Yes, quite soon now,” Dorothy was delighted. Bubbling over with happiness herself, she longed for her sister to be happy too. Sir Philip . . . perhaps in his loneliness he would turn to Pen for companionship. John said that she was a romantic little goose and as she burst into their sitting-room a little later in the evening, he said the same thing again.
“But Pen looks quite different. You know how she’s been looking; all anyhow and haggard as if she was going off her head.”
“Well, but the change from that has not been caused by the news that Sir Philip is coming home, because she didn’t know it until you told her and you say that you noticed the change in her directly you got there.”
“Oh, John, you’re so matter-of-fact.”
“Am I?” said Sir John Maltby, his grave eyes dancing with amusement.
“No, well, perhaps you aren’t.” Dorothy slipped her stocky little figure inside the encircling arm. “Oh, John, I want Pen to be as happy as I am,” she said.
“How can she? There’s only one of me, isn’t there?” John Maltby was laughing. “But now, then, there’s no time for being romantic any more. I’ve got to complete this list for Spring sowings: sit down and help me.”
And as they sat and pored over one enchanting catalogue after another, Penelope sat in her warm little sitting-room, her hands folded in her lap. He was coming back; coming back sooner than he had meant to. Perhaps even now. Drawing a long breath she sat and stared into the fire. Oh, thank God that things had happened as they had that afternoon. God was good and had not allowed her to make an irreparable fool of herself. Her five guineas had gone, but what did five guineas matter in the face of the disaster that had been averted? Besides, it had taught her so much. Outside this sheltered life that she led; a life that she had been fool enough to despise, there were dangers and pitfalls, that she had not even dreamed of. But he had behaved well, that tall thin man, smelling of whisky.
He had behaved well, but then he had seen how innocent and stupid she was and had taken pity on her. No man would want to take advantage of an innocent stupid woman: there was good in everybody, and in spite of not being very pleasing to look at he had had a kind heart. You could tell that by the way he had let her go so easily and after all, he had had to pay for the tea. What a mercy she hadn’t eaten any cakes, reflected Penelope happily, because at a shop like that they would have been certain to have been quite fourpence. After Dorothy had left her Penelope sat and drifted from one happy dream to another. Safe in her own home and no one to make her afraid. Sir Philip coming home much sooner than he had meant to. Dorothy close at hand: her own loving, loyal sister who longed for her to be happy, as she was. Phoebe, regaining health and happiness, instead of being miserable and frighteningly queer. Oh! all was peace and calm again instead of dreadful and menacing. She felt as she could imagine someone would feel if they went to a doctor fearing the worst, and then were told that there was nothing the matter with them at all. A vast and engulfing sense of relief. Sitting there, with her hands in her lap, Penelope closed her eyes and wondered why she had been so miserable before.
Colonel Ross wrote a good letter. At school, many years before, he had always won the prize for composition. Once, on a never-to-be-forgotten occasion, he had been chosen to go to the Crystal Palace to receive a prize from the hands of Princess Louise: a prize for an essay on Cruelty to Animals. So now, when he sat down to write a letter, he sat down with a feeling of satisfaction. In the horrid hotel in West Kensington in which he lived he always wrote in his bedroom. Since the War they had not resumed their convenient plan of giving notepaper to their guests. So he had to buy his own and as he liked it to be of good quality it was quite a tiresome expense. He lighted his gas fire, which burst angrily into a bluish hissing flame, and sat down at the small table which wobbled if he pressed hard on it. However, if he wedged it against the wall, it was not so bad. He did so: took his fountain pen out of his waistcoat pocket, and taking off the cap of it, stuck it on to the rounded end.
“Dear Miss Milne” (wrote Colonel Ross),
“Just imagine, it is more than a week since that delightful afternoon when you were so good as to come up to town and have tea with me. In a way that was a very disappointing afternoon for me, because I thought you so sweet, and you evidently did not think me sweet at all! However, I was able to put all right with the Bureau. You see, you ought apparently to have written to them yourself to say that I did not meet with your approbation. However, as I say, I squared all that with them so you need not trouble about it any more. But I do feel that I can’t allow you to quite slip from my horizon without a little struggle to keep you. Cannot we meet, not with any idea of marriage---that, I grasp, is quite out of the question for you and I could not force myself on you---but just as friends? I should think it so kind of you, if you would. This address will always find me.
“Yours sincerely,
“Ronald Ross.”
“Dear Colonel Ross” (wrote Penelope),
“Your letter has just come; I was going to the village and the postman handed it to me so I came back to read it as I like to answer letters at once. It is very kind of you to say that you would like to see me again, and I am so sorry that I did not make it quite clear that when I left you the other day I left you for good. You see, the whole thing was a great mistake: I think I explained it all to you while we were having tea. I did not at all know what I was doing when I went to a Marriage Bureau: I went more or less out of curiosity as my niece used to manage one.
“I do hope that this will make it all quite clear.
“Yours sincerely,
“Penelope Milne.”
When Colonel Ross got this letter he read it over twice. He then took the pencil copy that he had made of his own letter and read it very carefully. He then sat down at his rickety table and pulled out his pen. The ink in it was low: he got the bottle and filled it again.
“Dear Miss Milne” (he wrote),
“Your letter is such a disappointment to me that I feel that I must answer it at once. Cannot you reconsider your decision? Why be so cruel to a man who has only respect and affection for you? You may say that after so short an acquaintance you cannot have affection for me. Ah, but you do not know how sweet you looked that afternoon: so shy and so timid, with the colour coming and going in your cheeks.
Let me come down and see you: it is nothing of a journey.
“Awaiting your reply with eagerness.
“Yours sincerely,
“Ronald Ross.”
Penelope got this letter when she came down from her afternoon rest. She saw the envelope lying on the mat below the letter-box: it shone white in the dim afternoon light. And as she saw it she gave a little scream. Her eyes widened and she caught her breath. The aftermath of that mad adventure was on her track; she suddenly knew it with an awful certainty. Fool: fool that she had been! What should she do? What should she do? She snatched up the letter and hurried into the sitting-room, cowering over the fire. Tea . . . no, she must read it before she made her tea. Lord help me: she prayed as she tore the envelope open. Reading it, she clutched at the lapels of her jersey coat. She must answer it at once and get it off by the evening post. Tea? What did tea matter in the face of this horror?
“Dear Colonel Ross,
“I am afraid that you have not quite understood my letter. You see, I hate to hurt your feelings but I think I must say, once and for all, quite frankly that I do not wish to see you again. I am ashamed of what I did; I say so, also quite frankly. Please respect my feelings and do not write again. I gave you my address in all innocence; I did not think you would betray that innocence or shall we say, folly, in writing me letters that you must surely know are not welcome to me.
“Yours sincerely,
“Penelope Milne.”
When Colonel Ross got this letter he had the grace to feel very slightly ashamed of himself. However, times were hard and hotel bills had to be paid, whatever the state of the private exchequer. Fortunately, there was still some whisky in the fat round bottle. He poured a little of it into a small tumbler, drank it neat and got out another sheet of notepaper. Why the hell didn’t they put the postage back to a penny halfpenny? Sucking in his moustache and feeling a little better for the drink, he pulled his fountain pen out of his waistcoat pocket.
“My Dear Miss Milne” (he wrote),
“Your letter is cruel: how cruel you evidently do not grasp. What have I done to be shut out from even your friendship? It is hard enough not to have won your love but to be shut out from even a sight of you is hard indeed. In fact, I do not feel that I can bear it. Unless I hear from you by return of post I shall come down to Chapelshades the day after to-morrow and shall hope to find you at home.
“Yours sincerely,
“Ronald Ross.”
What shall I do? What shall I do? White even to her lips, Penelope was pacing up and down her sitting-room floor. For several nights now she had not been able to sleep. People would find out: people would find out what she had been doing and the shame of it would kill her. Someone would see the letters. Dorothy would come in while she was reading one of them and the look of her would give it away. Dorothy would know; John would know: Susan and Tony would know. She had trafficked with her body because she was miserable. Sir Philip would find out. It would kill her: I shall die: I shall die! Penelope began to moan out loud. There was no way out; there was no escape! He was after money: this was the beginning of blackmail, of course. She would have to give him the money: if she didn’t he would begin to write anonymous letters to her relations. She would write to the Bureau; no, no, she couldn’t do that because Miss Molesworth might write to Susan. She would tell the police: face the horror and the terror and have done with it. No, no, she couldn’t do that. The village would get to know: everyone would get to know. Miss Milne, who was so mad to get married that she paid a Bureau to find her a husband. She was a prostitute; no, much worse than a prostitute, because she had enough to live on and to eat. What shall I do? What shall I do? She stared at the firelight dancing on the ceiling as she whispered the words. It was nearly five o’clock and the post went at a quarter to six. She must write and post at once: she must write more firmly this time. She sat down at her writing-table and dropped her face into her hands. Death would be better than this, she thought simply. That would be how it would end, of course; it generally did with blackmail and that was why the punishment for it was so severe.
“Dear Colonel Ross” (wrote Penelope),
“Must I say again that I beg you to cease writing to me. Your letters cause me a great deal of distress and if you continue to write them I shall have to show them to my relations and that may make trouble for you. Please do not write to me again: in fact, I must put it more strongly than that. You are not to write to me again.
“Yours sincerely,
“Penelope Milne.”
When Colonel Ross got this letter he hunted round for some more whisky, drank a little and sat down to reflect. Now was the moment for decision. Would she have the guts to show his letters to her relations? No: it was very improbable. She had too much to lose by doing so. To begin with, her first letter had been open to question. He slipped a hand into his pocket and took out a little bundle. Yes, here it was: “I am so sorry that when I left you the other day I did not make it clear that I left you for good.” Left him where? What a little simpleton to put it like that. No mention of a teashop, which would have saved her. Well, well . . . he took out his fountain pen, staring at the gold nib of it. A good pen: you couldn’t get them like that nowadays. An American pen. Smart people, the Americans, and they had come into the War in the nick of time. He would like to go to America: perhaps he would go there one day when things were brighter for him.
“Dear Miss Milne” (he wrote),
“Your letter has just come. It is an unkind letter, to say the least of it. I shall come down and see you and chance finding you at home. And as to showing my letters to your relations: do so by all means if you wish to. There is nothing in them of which I am ashamed. Why should I be ashamed? I have only expressed in them my affection and respect for you.
“Yours sincerely,
“Ronald Ross.”
As he put this letter in the envelope Colonel Ross considered that he had been rather brave to say that about her relations. It was a bold bid and might not succeed, but he thought it would because bold bids generally did succeed. Should he or should he not go down? Probably, but not just yet. He would wait for her answer first.
It came promptly. Penelope had written it with a trembling hand and Colonel Ross saw it and smiled. When they began to tremble it was time to get busy. But he must be frightfully careful. He read the letter a second time.
“Dear Colonel Ross” (wrote Penelope),
“My letters seem to have no effect on you. So now I am going to try to appeal to the best in you. You know quite well that I did a very foolish thing in consulting a Marriage Bureau: a thing that I have since had cause to bitterly regret. Now please leave me alone. I have done you no harm: what can be your motive in torturing me with letters? I do not want my relations to know that I did it; you see I am putting all my cards on the table. As an officer and a gentleman, please respect my plea to you to stop writing.
“Yours sincerely,
“Penelope Milne.”
“An officer and a gentleman.” Colonel Ross had commuted most of his pension but the quarterly remittance of what there was left of it had come that morning so he had been able to get in another bottle of whisky. He drank deeply and sat down to think. What should he do next? Not put any more in writing: that was quite certain. They couldn’t catch you out if there was no compromising correspondence. Getting up, he fished an old A.B.C. out of the bookcase. No, it wasn’t so old: only last month; they had given it to him in the office when they got in their new one. Chapelshades, Chapelshades. 27 miles, Waterloo. Cheap day ticket. 1st Class 6/10, return. Yes, he would go First Class and he would go that afternoon. Then he would be able to return in the dark, which was better. He would catch her unawares and put the fear of hell into her.
And Penelope saw him at the door. Lately she had spent the afternoons in her sitting-room, close up to the curtains. She could see through the curtains but no one could see in. Always the terror hung over her that he would come down to Chapelshades and seek her out. Seeing him standing there she heard the bell shrill through the house. What should she do? pretend she was out and leave him standing. But then either Dorothy or Phoebe would see him and perhaps come out to ask what he wanted. She got up and crept to the door. The bell rang again.
“Ah! there you are.” Colonel Ross had on rather a shabby overcoat but otherwise he looked all right. His teeth gleamed in a smile.
“What do you want?” Penelope was ashy pale. She was a good deal thinner in the face, decided Colonel Ross, stepping over the mat.
“I want to see you.”
“I told you not to come.” The front door was shut and they stood together in the narrow hall. Again the whiff of spirits. Penelope shuddered.
“I never take that from a lady,” said Colonel Ross jauntily. “May I put down my hat?”
“I must ask you to go at once.”
“Oh, no: come come!” Colonel Ross spoke with a sort of sudden steely intonation in his voice. He took off his hat and began to shrug himself out of his overcoat. Laying them on the oak box he smiled again. “Have you a sitting-room? he said. “We might be overheard out here.”
“I am alone in the house.”
“Better still.” They walked into the tiny sitting-room. A pretty room, thought Colonel Ross appreciatively. A nice fire and lots of flowers, and pretty chairs.
“Won’t you ask me to sit down?”
“Tell me what you have come for.”
“To see you.”
“That is not true. You have some other reason. Tell it to me, quickly.”
“Very well, then.” Colonel Ross spoke roughly. “I want some money,” he said. “It may not sound very pleasant, but I do. You have put yourself in my power; I could easily ruin you by showing the first letter you wrote me.”
“Why? What did I say in it?”
Colonel Ross had learnt it by heart. “When I left you the other day I left you for good,” he said slowly.
“That is nothing.”
Colonel Ross smiled. “You think so.”
“I know there is nothing in it. I left you at a teashop.”
“You don’t say so,” said Colonel Ross smoothly.
“But. . . .” Penelope’s eyes were wide.
“It might have been a bedroom.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Quite, but who is to know that?”
“You can’t be such an utter cad.”
“People who are hard up can be all sorts of things,” said Colonel Ross calmly. “You have no idea what a pass it brings one to. May I sit down? Sit down yourself, you look pale.”
“How much do you want?”
“At the moment, ten pounds will do.”
“Will you give me a receipt for it?”
“Certainly not.”
“How does one——” Penelope sank into a chair. “I didn’t know that there were such people,” she whispered.
“You have much to learn.” Colonel Ross had had a good drink at the station buffet. It had given him courage. “You have much to learn,” he said softly. “I wish you would let me teach you.”
“What do you mean?”
“We are alone in the house. We are not likely to be disturbed.” Colonel Ross stood up. He trod gently across the floor and bending over her he laid his hand on her hair.
“You . . .” Sick with fear, Penelope crouched beneath his touch. If only Dorothy would come in. If only anyone would come in. If he . . . her mind whirled. What did one do if . . .
“May I kiss you, darling?”
“If you attempt it,” Penelope struggled up out of the chair. “If you touch me,” she panted, “I shall scream: I shall . . .”
“Who would hear?” said Colonel Ross complacently. Nothing was further from his mind than an attempt on this terrified woman’s virtue, but it was rather fun to see her reaction to his suggestion of it. He had not expected to get any fun out of this expedition from London. “Who would hear?” he repeated.
“If I give you ten pounds will you go away?” gasped Penelope. The room was whirling round her. Everything felt odd and. distorted as if it was not real. She stared up into the face looking down on her: the smell of. whisky seemed to form a cloud round her agonised senses.
“You want me to go away at once.”
“Please.”
“Well, then, I suppose I shall have to,” said Colonel Ross regretfully. “I can get tea at the station, I suppose.”
“I will fetch the money,” said Penelope. She got up and walked to the door. Mercifully she had just cashed a cheque, so she could give him notes. If she had had to give him a cheque---her bank would have seen. . . . Her accountant, who did her income tax returns, might have wondered. Clutching at the narrow banister she went up the stairs. Her cash box, in the wardrobe. She emptied it and went downstairs again.
“If I give you this you will return my letters?” She held out the notes.
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
“At once, when you get back.”
“Of course. And will you give me mine?”
“Yes, I will give them to you now if you wish it.” Unsteadily Penelope approached the writing table. She must be crazy, thought Colonel Ross incredulously, or perhaps it was a trick. No, she had laid the small packet of them in his hand, together with the notes.
“Here you are”; she said the words quietly. Almost fainting, her one idea was to get it all over and this man out of the house before she collapsed. He took the notes and letters and her hand at the same time.
“Good-by, then,” he said quietly.
“Can you open the front door? You have to turn the little handle.”
“I can manage it.” Colonel Ross was on the way to the door. He was tall: nearly up to the ceiling. A little pause as he got into his overcoat in the hall. His hat: he would be pressing it down on his bald forehead. The opening of the front door: the shutting of it. Footsteps on the path and the lessening sound of them. Wide-eyed and tearless, Penelope sagged backwards into a chair and shut her eyes.
Colonel Ross paid his second visit a week later. As there had been no word from him and no return of her letters Penelope was expecting it. Watchful at her sitting-room window she saw him standing there. The early Spring sunshine shone on his well-polished shoes. One of her sisters would see him; her heart beating in her throat, she rushed out to let him in.
“Well . . .?” They stood in the hall together.
“This time I really am hard put to it,” said Colonel Ross, grinning.
“You have not sent me back my letters.”
“Now, then, how careless of me!” said Colonel Ross, clapping his gloved hand to each of his pockets in turn. “No, and I’ve not got them with me. But I will send them: I really will.”
“How much do you want?” said Penelope hoarsely.
“How much have you got handy?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“That’ll do to go on with.” Colonel Ross stared at Penelope as she rushed up the stairs. Slim ankles: she was quite a decent-looking woman. Back again he took the notes from her hand. “Give me a kiss,” he said.
“If you . . .” Deadly pale, Penelope backed against the wall. This was only the beginning, of course; she had thought it all out during the sleepless nights. Victims of blackmail almost always killed themselves in the end. She would kill herself eventually but she was not brave enough yet. “Get out!” she said.
“Well, you’re not very complimentary,” grumbled Colonel Ross. But he was not disposed to argue, because this was an agreeable and easy way of getting money. “Ta ta,” he said and went away.
And meanwhile up at the Moat House things were in full swing. Only a few days now until the master was due to arrive. Barton, in high spirits, was finishing up odds and ends, with Mrs. Millar’s help. The regular staff were due back from their holidays the following day. Mrs. Millar and Barton were friends of long standing. Barton always invoked her aid if he happened to be shorthanded or if there was any special job of work to be done. And now they were sitting over a good tea laid in the kitchen in front of the beautiful coal fire. An Aga cooker at one end and an open fire at the other, a comfortable kitchen and a good tea, too. They sat and ate and talked.
“And how are all you three getting on?” enquired Barton, who was interested in Merry Widows and their occupants.
“Fine. At least two of them are. Lady Maltby is O.K.; you wouldn’t know her for the same young lady, and since Mr. Tony took notice of her, Miss Phoebe’s going on a treat. Getting out and about and trotting round the village just as she used to.”
“And what about the other one: Miss Penelope. Such a pretty young woman, I thought her. She looked so sweet and gentle at the Christmas party. Well dressed, too.”
“Miss Penelope.” Mrs. Millar reached out and took a second piece of dough cake and wondered. Less said, soonest mended? That was Mrs. Millar’s motto, and generally she adhered very faithfully to it. But now Mrs. Millar was really worried. Things were going wrong with one of her young ladies, very wrong. And they would be more wrong still if something wasn’t done pretty soon, decided Mrs. Millar, making up her mind at the same time to take Barton into her confidence and chance it. Barton could be close as a clam if he wanted to. And his advice was always sound: she had proved it more than once. “Listen,” she said and began to talk.
Barton listened for some time, and then spoke.
“Hold on a minute,” he said. “How do you know all this?”
“I don’t know it all for certain,” said Mrs. Millar. “But I put two and two together. And the other afternoon I’d slipped in by the back door because I’d forgotten the key for the morning and I’d left it on the dresser. And I heard two people talking in the hall. First I heard a man and he said, ‘This time I really am hard put to it.’”
“And what did she say?”
“Something about letters, he hadn’t sent them back. And then he seemed to be looking for them or something; I couldn’t quite hear that bit of it. And then she said, ‘How much do you want?’”
Barton was leaning forward. “And what did he say?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“And did he get it?”
“I think he must have done, because I heard her go upstairs and open her wardrobe where she keeps her money box. The poor lamb thinks I don’t know that it’s there but of course I do, bless her heart. I shook it this morning and it was quite empty.”
“It sounds like blackmail,” said Barton slowly. “But what could that gentle young lady have done to get herself mixed up in something like that?”
“Well, I’ve read some letters,” said Mrs. Millar, shamefacedly. “And I fancy they shed a bit of light on it. I didn’t ought to have done it, of course.”
“We all do it,” said Barton cheerfully. “Go on, what did you read?”
And then Mrs. Millar explained. Barton listened attentively.
“Marriage Bureau? Wasn’t Mrs. Fellowes running something of that kind before she married?”
“Yes, but that was a posh affair. My Janie used to clean the offices: real gentry used to come there and no doubt about it.”
“What does she do now?”
“Cleans offices for some low-down affair that bought up Mrs. Fellowes’ velvet hangings. And that’s where I think Miss Penelope has got mixed up. Mind you, I don’t know for certain but I think so. I’ve seen some letters come in, and I know she’s written a good many. And she went up to Town one day, no, twice she went. But I don’t want to say anything to my Janie because I don’t want to talk about what goes on down here to her; it isn’t the thing to do. Less said, soonest mended, and that’s always been my motto and always will be. And I wouldn’t have said anything to you about it, Robert, if I hadn’t been so worried.”
“Oh, that’s all right; we’re old friends,” said Barton solemnly. “Besides, blackmail’s blackmail and we can’t allow that. How does Miss Penelope look? How’s her health and all that?”
“She looks like death,” said Mrs. Millar ominously. “When I take her tea in the morning and she lies there with her eyes shut, she might be dead for all the difference there is. And I know she doesn’t sleep. I can tell by. the way the bedclothes is all tumbled about.”
“Twenty pounds! That’s a lot of money for a young lady like that.”
“Yes, and that’s not the first he’s got either.”
“Got to be stopped somehow.”
“Yes, but how?”
“That’s just the point,” said Barton. “That’s where they get away with it, do these devils. Properly terrify a woman and then you can do anything with her. What’s she done, either, your Miss Penelope, that’s so bad? Nothing, I’ll be bound. Been silly, perhaps, but that’s not bad, is it?”
“Yes, but you don’t know these young ladies. Brought up strict, they were, all sorts of ideas about things that even you and me never had. Miss Susan, she’s quite different. Miss Susan: just hark at me,” said Mrs. Millar, laughing.
“Oh, well, she looks so young it’s easy to make the mistake.” Barton was smiling too. But inwardly he was perturbed. Blackmail was an ugly thing and often had ugly consequences. They didn’t want suicides and things like that in Chapelshades, especially not in cottages belonging to his master. But he would bide his time. Barton had begun to reflect. Bide his time and not say anything more to Mrs. Millar about all this because when women began to talk they never knew when to stop. He knew enough now to go on with and when it was time for him to know more, no doubt he would find it out or be told it. Time enough when something happened to take steps to stop it. And now to change the subject, he said so amiably.
“I’m glad to,” said Mrs. Millar with relief. “What’s on your mind, Robert?”
“The paint in the Master’s room,” said Barton solemnly. “When you’ve done we’ll go up and have a look at it. My opinion is that it wants a good clean down for all they’ve been dabbing about with it. Proper lot of lags, these workmen, since the War. Want it all their own way but they didn’t get it here,” said Barton, chuckling, with evident relish, over some private reflections of his own.
Sir Philip arrived in England on a lovely afternoon in late March. As the Continental express fled up to London, cutting its way through the Kentish orchards heavy with apple blossom, he felt again that rapture of content at being in his own country again. India had been superb and he had had some excellent shooting, and the hospitality he had received had been unique, but, all the same, England held a charm that was perfectly impossible to describe. It was something not quite of this earth, thought Sir Philip, leaning back in his comfortable seat in the Pullman car and watching the landscape as they fled past it. And London: as the chauffeur, beaming all over his face, watched the porter putting the suitcases on to the back grid, and then, grasping one himself, slid it in under Sir Philip’s feet, Sir Philip felt again the immortal charm of London. Home: he was home again. And soon he would be back in Chapelshades with Barton to look after him and the farm to interest him, and Tony and his charming wife and that delightful Miss Milne, with whom he had flirted so outrageously on Christmas night. He would go and see her immediately and explain to her how sorry he was that his illness and the fuss of his mother’s marriage and everything had combined to make the last few weeks of his stay in England so impossible to manage.
And Barton’s welcome was all that even the most exigent of employers could have desired. All the servants were pleased to see him back: that was obvious. The dinner was beautifully served and cooked, and there was a lovely fire both in the hall and library.
“I thought you would prefer the library, Sir.”
“I do,” said Sir Philip cordially. Nice old Barton; as he drank his coffee Sir Philip felt touched by Barton’s thought for him. He was afraid that he would miss his mother and their evenings in the drawing-room together. Not that he did miss her much: Sir Philip felt ashamed at his lack of feeling in that direction. And yet what a mercy it was that one’s mind reacted like that. His mother had gone: she had chosen another life and was happy in it. Then why should he repine? He was not going to, thought Sir Philip, turning to the pile of letters at his elbow and deciding that as soon as he had lighted a cigar he would make a start at them.
But by nine o’clock he had become restless. He longed to be out and looking at his own lands again. He walked to the window and drew the curtain; bright moonlight, a lovely night to be out. It was almost as clear as day. Smiling, he remembered the full moon of the War and the dread of air raids that it had brought with it. Even now it was difficult to remember that you might leave your curtains dragged back with the light on! He went out in to the hall and took his coat out of the cupboard. A nice old coat that he always wore when he went out on the prowl. An old felt hat: he dragged it down over his eyes.
“Are you going out, Sir?” Barton had entered noiselessly from the back of the hall.
“Yes, Barton, I long to see it all again. Don’t wait up if I’m late. It’s such a lovely night and I’ve got the sound of trains in my ears. I want to get rid of it.”
“Very good, Sir;” and closing the door respectfully behind his master, Barton went back to his thriller. While Sir Philip, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, strolled down the drive. It was quite fairly warm and a perfectly still night. The moon hung in a cloudless sky; not even a cumulous cloud in sight. From the thick yew hedge on either side of him came little scuttling sounds of small creatures on their nightly prowl. Ahead of him a rabbit skipped across the path: waited with cocked ears to listen and then dived for shelter. England, blessed country, of his birth . . . Sir Philip’s thoughts were busy. Back in it again he would show his appreciation of his birthright by trying to think less about himself. Footsteps: coming towards him: a little impatiently Sir Philip hoped that it was not someone on his way to welcome him home thinking that he might be lonely. He was not in the least lonely, nor did he want to be welcomed. He had had his welcome from Mother Earth as soon as he set foot on English soil and was getting it again from the moon and the stars. “Oh, ye stars of Heaven, bless ye the Lord. Praise Him and magnify Him for ever.” Sir Philip stood still and turned his face up to the sky. A great blue arc pinpricked with stars. Marvellous! Incomprehensible in its vastness. How small it made you feel. He still stood there motionless. What had happened to the footsteps? They had been light footsteps: the footsteps of a woman. They had turned aside: probably one of the maidservants scurrying away because she heard him coming. And yet, where was there just here to scurry to? There was only the narrow footpath that led to the lake. The lake: he would see about getting some more ducks for it. A lovely place for ducks, with the undergrowth hanging low over the edges of it, and the still beauty of the water-lilies. It would look lovely under the moon. He would turn off the avenue and go and have a look at it. Yes, here was the opening. He felt the branches brush against his mouth as he put out his hands to force a way. Yes, here it was, cold, and still, under the moon. Not a sound: he stood there entranced. Yes, the squawk of a waterhen and the faint echo of its paddling. Something had startled it on the farther side of the water. He peered ahead of him. He had seen something: a quick movement of someone or something. For a second he felt a twinge of fear: it was dark and it was late and this was a queer place to find someone. Perhaps he had imagined it. A pity he hadn’t brought his torch with him. Ah, he had, at least there was a torch in one of the pockets of the coat. Probably the battery had run down. No, it hadn’t; he clicked down the switch and saw the instant gleaming response. And now to investigate.
“What on earth are you doing in there? Come out.” Sir Philip was half on his knees peering into the undergrowth. A woman. He turned on his torch and heard her faint scream. The white light blazed on to a frozen pallid face.
“Miss Milne!”
“They said that you were not coming back until to-morrow!”
“What on earth are you doing in those bushes? Sir Philip’s mind was in a whirl. He spoke breathlessly, for, all in an instant he had heard his father’s voice. Gently, Philip, gently.” His father’s voice, as he had heard it at Calais. The irresistible urge to leave his fire and come out into the night. Again: here it was again! Something beyond him: something outside himself directing him.
“What on earth are you doing in those bushes? Come out”; he took her by the arm and dragged her. Resisting, she moaned and turned her face away. “But what are you doing there?” He slipped his arm round her as she staggered up against him. Odd how all in a moment the clouds had come up. The moon was shrouded: across the lake a shadow scudded like a witch. Holding her, he spoke insistently.
“I am sorry: if you will let me go I will go home again.” Penelope, blind with fear, was gasping. He had caught her: just as she had thought that she was so safe he had caught her. For days now she had chosen the right place: where the bank shelved steeply down. Very steeply: she had looked down into the water and seen it still and almost solid in its depth.
“Tell me what you were going to do here?”
“No.”
“I insist.”
Penelope moaned.
“Were you contemplating drowning yourself?”
Clutching at him she gasped.
“But what on earth for?” Sir Philip spoke incredulously. Suicide! this calm self-contained woman with the child’s mouth. Suicide!” Tell me,” he said again. “Look here, here is your coat: put it on.” He stooped to pick it up and helped her into it. “Now tell me,” he said.
“Don’t ask.” Trembling all over, she tried to drag away from him.
“Of course I shall ask.” He tried to speak lightly. “Drowning yourself in my lake; I have a right to ask.”
“They said you would not be back until to-morrow. I made sure. I asked Susan. Susan said that it would be Friday.”
“It seems to me that it was a good thing it was Thursday. Now then, you must go home. I will take you.”
“No, no: someone might see us.”
“No, they won’t; it’s as dark as pitch---the moon has taken pity on us. Hold my arm. That’s it; no, really hold on: that’s right.”
“I can manage alone.”
“But you’re not going to,” said Sir Philip quietly. “It’s quite near; we can let ourselves in to your cottage without a sound. And don’t forget I have never seen your cottage. I was coming to see you and then got that cursed influenza; don’t you remember?”
“Don’t you remember?” Oh, yes, of course; memory was coming back. Memory was flooding in and driving out other Things. Yes, but those Things were still there. She struggled in her terror.
“Come along, like a good child.” Wondering at himself he drew her along. “Give me your key”; as they got near he bent his head and spoke gently to her. She fumbled and, finding it, gave it to him.
“What a cold little hand. That’s it. Here’s the gate: yes, I remember it all now.” Very silently they crept past Dorothy’s cottage. Carefully he winked the torch on to the green front door to find the keyhole. “That’s it”; he opened it and drew her in, not letting her go. A dark house, but the sparkle of firelight in the sitting-room.
“Where’s the switch? Ah, here it is! What a pretty room!” Sir Philip spoke cheerfully. He went in and his quick gaze swept round. When people meditated suicide they generally left a letter for someone. Ah! here it was. His hand closed on the letter on the little table.
“Give it to me.”
“No, in the circumstances it is mine.” He slit it open. Still holding her, he read the few words aloud. And then he read the name on the envelope.
“Dorothy—
“Dorothy, darling, I am going, as it is much better for everyone and things can never come right unless I do. Please tell Sir Philip that I was sorry to have to do it in his park but I could not find anywhere else and I am so afraid that gas might damage you and Phoebe, perhaps.
“Penelope.”
“So.” He put the letter in his pocket. “Tell me,” he said.
“I can’t; you never know. They might harm you. I can’t: don’t ask me. Oh, why did you come?” Dishevelled, Penelope was shaken with sobs.
“Yes, cry; it will do you all the good in the world. Look here, what about something hot? Some tea: we should both enjoy some tea. Can you show me where to make it?”
“Tea?” Penelope seemed bewildered. What did he mean? He was so calm! Tea; but she had been going to kill herself.
“And may I put some coal on the fire?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Penelope passed her hand over her hair. What a sight she must be looking! “I am untidy,” she faltered.
“Yes, you are rather. Let me lend you my comb: a very fine one that I bought at Port Said.” He drew the little leather case from his waistcoat pocket. “And while you’re doing that I’ll take off my coat, if I may, and put it with my hat in the hall. And then for tea! I can make tea beautifully and you shall watch me doing it.” Sir Philip went out. Dazed, she watched him. He was here, taking care of her. The sort of thing she had dreamed of. With trembling fingers she pressed her hair into place. Tea . . . she had taken in some milk that she had not used. It would be there.
“I can make the tea,” she said.
“Without putting your head into the gas oven.”
“I . . . May I have my letter? The one I left for Dorothy.”
“No.”
“I——”
“We will make the tea together,” said Sir Philip quietly. “Don’t try to hurry; we have heaps of time.” He went with her into the little kitchen. All so spotlessly tidy: there was something about the meticulous neatness of it all that touched him profoundly. The poor child. “They”: she spoke of “they.” How could he find out if she would not tell him? He watched her as she crept about the kitchen. “I’ll light it with my lighter,” he took it out of his pocket and snapped it over the hissing gas jet. “That’s it. All set. No, I don’t want anything to eat unless you do. A biscuit. Yes, well, perhaps a biscuit would be nice. Give me the tray; I’ll carry it.”
Back in the sitting-room they ate and drank. The fire sprung up and crackled amiably. Penelope lay back in her chair as he watched her. He waited until the hot tea had driven a little colour into her lips.
“Now,” he said.
She turned terrified eyes on him. “I can never tell you,” she said.
“That is final?”
“Yes.”
“Then . . .” Sir Philip reflected. “Then I must find out for myself. That is to say, if you really will not tell me.”
“I implore you.”
Gently he interrupted her. “We won’t speak of it again,” , he said. “We will talk of something else, and it is this. Unless before I leave you will give me a promise that you will not attempt your life again, I shall take you now into Lady Maltby’s cottage and tell her exactly what has happened.”
“I . . .”
“Promise me.”
“You don’t understand” In her agony of mind Penelope wrung her hands.
“And whose fault is that? How can I understand if the only person who could explain, won’t?” said Sir Philip quietly. “But so much I do understand, and you must give me credit for having a little intelligence. I cannot bring myself to believe that anything that could happen to you could be bad enough to warrant your taking your own life.”
“Oh, you don’t know.”
“Agreed,” said Sir Philip, and he laughed. “Now give me that promise,” he said. “Otherwise. . . .”
“Only until to-morrow.”
“No; your promise must be binding for a week.”
“And then?”
“And then we shall have cleared it all up,” said Sir Philip cheerfully.
“If you only knew.”
“I am waiting to know.”
“No, no . . . yes, I promise,” said Penelope helplessly.
“Good child.” Sir Philip got up. “Good child,” he said again. “And now I must go and I want you to go to bed. Have a hot bath if you can: I believe that my excellent tenant has an electric heater in her bathroom: am I not right?”
“Yes.” Penelope got up on to her feet. He was there, standing close to her. What did anything matter? For the moment, anyhow, the Terror was driven into the background.
“You know, sometimes I think that you must have thought that I behaved badly on Christmas night,” said Sir Philip. Taking one of her hands, he spoke apologetically, like a boy. “But you went to my head: you were so sweet. Did you mind very much? And then I was ill and could not come and see you. You must have wondered.”
“No.”
“Not even a little, didn’t you wonder?” Heavens! was this the same face that had peered wildly at him through that undergrowth a short while ago?
“Well, perhaps . . . .”
“Am I forgiven?”
“There was nothing to forgive.”
“And will you go to bed like a good child and sleep soundly?”
Am I in heaven? wondered Penelope simply. Because with him comes strength. He will help me: to-morrow I will tell him and he will help me. He will understand: his voice is gentle: he speaks to me as one would speak to a child.
“Yes, I will go to bed at once,” she said.
“Good, and I will come and see you to-morrow,” said Sir Philip. “A formal call, you see, so as no one will know about this. And now, good-night,” He held her eyes with his. “May I?” he said.
“May you?”
“Don’t you remember? Is that very flattering for my self-esteem?” He stooped his head and kissed her. “Now do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“So until to-morrow,” he said. “And I shall let myself out very, carefully and silently. Good-night, my dear.”
“Good-night.” Penelope stood very still as he went out into the hall. His coat: his hat; she watched him. And as she watched him he turned and smiled at her.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good girl,” and then he was gone. Out into the darkness, taking with him---what? Something that he already had, thought Penelope, dropping down into the chair drawn up close to the fire. The chair he had sat in: turning, she buried her face in the cushion that his dark head had so lately pressed.
When Sir Philip got back to the Moat House he found that Barton was still up. It was late: just on midnight. Barton was anxious: his master had been travelling all day: he ought to be in bed; he said so very respectfully.
“I don’t feel in the least inclined for bed, Barton.” Sir Philip handed over his coat and hat. The fire in the hearth was still glowing. Huge logs; he stirred them with his foot. Should he tell Barton what had happened? The old man was absolutely trustworthy. He might know something; servants did get to know things. There might be some rumour current in the village. He pondered.
“Barton.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I want to consult you about something. Come into the library, will you? Yes, you can lock up first.”
“Very good, Sir.” So he had found out, had he? How? How had he had time, wondered Barton, slipping the great bolt across the door. Who had he seen while he was out? Had he been to see Mr. Tony and if he had, did Mr. Tony know? No, Barton decided against that. Barton felt pretty certain that no one knew except Mrs. Millar and she would never breathe a word except to him. Too dangerous to chatter about a thing of the kind: Barton completed his rounds and then went solemnly into the library.
“May I pour you out a drink, Sir?”
“Please.” Sir Philip sat there staring into the fire. He felt shaken, unlike himself. It had been a strange homecoming: a shattering homecoming. And supposing he hadn’t come but had spent the night in London at his Club, as he had told Barton that he might do? What then? Would she even now be floating, white face upturned to the moon, the still lake water washing in and out of her mouth?
“Barton,” he said, “sit down. I want to tell you something.” And then, with the heavy cut-glass tumbler in his hand, Sir Philip began to speak. And Barton, sitting respectfully a little way away, listened with his old face set in solemn lines. Providential: Barton whispered the words to himself. Providential in more ways than one. For now he could put his master right about it all. He listened to the end.
“What can it all mean, Barton?” Sir Philip tipped his brown throat to drink.
“I can tell you, sir,” and then, with his wise old eyes fixed on the fire, Barton in his turn began to speak. Sir Philip, listening, felt a wave of fury surge up in him. Blackmail: that poor innocent child. And what, after all, had she done? But what a blessed mercy Barton knew about it. How wise he had been to obey his own instinct and consult him.
“Thank God you have been able to tell me, Barton,” he said at length.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Is Mrs. Millar reliable?”
“Absolutely, Sir. I’ve known Mrs. Millar for years and never known her make a mistake in telling what she shouldn’t.”
“You will, not, of course, tell her what I have told you to-night.”
“No, Sir.”
“Then I think that’s all, Barton,” said Sir Philip, drawing a long, rather tremulous sigh. His first evening at home! And what an evening!
“I have your permission to go, Sir?” said Barton, standing up.
“Yes, indeed, and get off to bed. You must be dog tired.”
“No, Sir, only pleasantly tired,” said Barton amiably. “Goodnight, Sir.”
“Good-night, and I’ll turn off the lights as I go up. I shan’t be long now,” and then Sir Philip was alone, with his thoughts. What were they? he wondered, settling himself a little lower in his chair. Strange, bewildering thoughts. Why had he cut short his visit to India, missing thereby some specially good big game shooting? Why had he gone out that night? Wiry had he turned off and followed the path to the lake? Why, why, why? There was something infinitely pathetic about her, he reflected, remembering the pale agonised face that had shone out at him under the glare of his torch. So utterly unfit to cope with the filthy activities of a man like the one that Barton had described to him. Ross . . . Colonel Ross: Philip began to think. The name somehow seemed familiar. Ross---yes, it began to come back to him. The 1914 war: Captain Ross in his company. A fine young fellow who had won distinction. A Ronald Ross. Probably not the same. This Ross had done a particularly gallant action in crawling out through No Man’s Land to rescue a wounded sergeant from barbed wire. But even then he had been a hard drinker. Well . . . it was time to turn in. The next few days were going to be difficult ones. He drank off what remained of his whisky and soda and got up to switch off the light. Penelope: poor little thing, with her trembling hands and frightened mouth. A mouth that he had kissed again almost in spite of himself. With a little shrug he took the letter that he had picked up from the table out of his pocket and read it again: “Dorothy, darling, I am going, as it is much better for everyone and things can never come right unless I do. Please tell Sir Philip that I am sorry to have to do it in his park but I could not find anywhere else and I am so afraid that gas might damage you and Phoebe, perhaps.--- Penelope.” Well, the world was a hard place for women of that type. And the next day was going to be a difficult day for her. She would have to tell him herself: he did not want her to know that Barton knew anything about it. She would tell him in the end; frowning at his own thoughts, Sir Philip went slowly up the wide polished staircase.
It was about five o’clock the following evening when Sir Philip rang the bell of Penelope’s cottage. He had been very busy all day and had seen Tony and Susan and the Maltbys. Dorothy, all excitement, watched him pass her sitting-room window on the way to her sister’s.
“John! He has gone to see Penelope.”
“Of course he has; he has been to see everyone. Don’t be ridiculous. You are the most romantic creature I have ever met.”
“Can you wonder?” Dorothy, peering, saw the tall figure vanish inside the green-painted door a little higher up. “Now do you suppose he is kissing her?” she gasped.
“Of course he isn’t.” John Maltby laughed aloud. “Kissing her! Don’t be so ridiculous!”
“Oh, John, I do want Pen to be as happy as I am.”
“Haven’t I told you already that there is only one of me and so she can’t be?”
“Yes, I know, but——” and then Dorothy broke off. There was tea to clear away; she set about doing it.
And meanwhile in the little sitting-room Penelope stood and watched him come in. The room was full of flowers. Spring flowers: narcissi, smiling deliciously.
“I love the first Spring flowers, don’t you?”
“Oh, I do! and I was able to get these this morning.”
“Have you ever seen the narcissi growing in Switzerland?”
“Oh, I should think I have. Heaven on earth.”
“Yes, I love Switzerland too. Well, now then, we have lots to talk about, haven’t we? So we had better begin. I’ve had such a morning meeting people; delightful to be back again.”
“Yes.” Oh, what was he going to say? wondered Penelope. But her eyes had lost that ghastly look that they had had lately.
Her head felt clear, too: clear and sane again. Mrs. Millar, coming in with her early tea, had been petrified at the change. There was Miss Penelope sitting up in bed looking as if she had slept. And that after a couple of weeks of looking as if she was going bang off her head. Bustling downstairs again, Mrs. Millar decided that something had happened to put things right but what it was she didn’t care so long as it had happened.
“Yes, I want you to be very frank with me,” said Sir Philip, sitting down in a chair and then instantly getting up again. “It’s too low,” he said. “I shall collapse if I sit in that.”
“Try this.” Penelope laughed out loud. And somehow the laughter broke the ice. Settling himself again he smiled. “That’s better,” he said. “Now, then, we are all set, I think, and we have a good hour to talk. And now, Miss Milne, to begin with, you must tell me the truth.”
“I can’t!” In an agony Penelope buried her face in her hands.
You must, because I already know it. Fancy if he said the words, thought Sir Philip, noting the bowed head without apparently a grey hair in it. More than he could say. He had found several that very morning.
“You must.”
“You will never . . .”
“Never what?”
“Speak to me again.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Philip kindly. He leaned across the small space that separated them and took hold of one of her trembling hands. “Get it over,” he said. “You’ve got to tell me, so get it over.”
“You won’t understand.”
“Perhaps I shall, better than you think.”
“It’s a hideous . . . degrading story. . . .”
“We all have patches in our lives that we wish we hadn’t.”
“Have you any?”
“Have I any?” And now it was Sir Philip’s turn to laugh out loud. “Have I any? Listen to the child! Good gracious me, yes. Things that you would never dream of: things that if you heard them, would make you never want to speak to me again.”
“I can’t imagine that,” said Penelope simply.
“Can’t you?” Yes, she was very sweet, reflected Sir Philip. Something within him stirred. She was very specially sweet. A delicate reserve: a bloom over her that one very rarely met with in a woman of her age.
“No.”
“But this is not getting us anywhere, is it?” Sir Philip spoke gaily, but his lips were firm. “The time is getting on; out with it.”
“If you would not look at me.”
“Of course I won’t,” Sir Philip swung his chair a little round. The fire was gay, and the flowers on the mantelpiece were fresh and delicate. It was a charming room. “Now, then,” he said, “and I’ll smoke, if I may. May I?”
“Of course.”
“Have you an ash tray?”
“Oh, yes.” Penelope got up to take it from the writing table. As she passed his chair he caught hold of her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Courage,” he said.
Sitting down again Penelope gripped both hands together in her lap. “It was like this,” she said. And listening, Sir Philip thanked God that she was not going to lie. Out it all came: corresponding in every detail to what Barton had told him, although, of course, there was much more of it.
“And so, of course, I felt that death was the only way out.” Twisted in her chair, Penelope was sobbing into the cushion.
“And fortunately I prevented that.” Sir Philip moved his chair so that the back of it touched Penelope’s. He drew her head on to his shoulder.
“Poor child.”
“Don’t touch me. I am not fit. . . . “
“Nonsense! Nonsense!” He took her cold hand and held it in his own. The warmth of his grasp was surely melting her heart, thought Penelope, clinging to him. This man, who had saved her from death, and who now knew all the hideous story of her degradation, still thought her fit to touch. “Lord, I thank Thee, silently, and with bowed head,” Penelope was praying.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
This was the moment to move away, of course, But suddenly Sir Philip felt that he didn’t want to. Her simple faith in him had profoundly stirred him. Also, why not? They were alone in the house: no risk of an awkward and embarrassing interruption.
“If you get any more letters from Ross you must hand them over to me.”
“Yes.”
“And if he comes keep him outside. Never mind if he makes a row: as a matter of fact, he won’t.”
“Phoebe and Dorothy.” Penelope breathed the words.
“He won’t dare to make any fuss.” Sir Philip spoke emphatically. “That’s what women can never understand and that’s why this type of man has such a hold over them. He’ll go away rather than risk meeting any of your relations. As a matter of fact, I have an idea that he will consider it more profitable to write.”
“Yes.” Penelope was watching a sparrow sitting on the top of the fir tree outside the window. He sat there and chirped. Brisk and alert he sat there in the cold Spring sunshine and chirped. Free from dread: free from fear, as miraculously as she was now free from fear.
“May I call you Penelope?” Sir Philip crossed one long leg over the other. How amazingly comfortable it was to have a woman clinging to one. And a woman of this type with all the intelligence and understanding that the young did not possess.
“I should love it if you would.”
“That’s very nice of you. No, don’t move, you’ve had a ghastly time and it’s good for you to relax. And now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” said Sir Philip. And after a pause he told her.
“But . . .”
“You see, the Bureau will be terrified of a prosecution,” continued Sir Philip. “Once get the police in and they’re finished. So they’ll come to heel at once. They will, as I say, get Ross to the teashop again under the pretext of meeting you there. I shall be there instead and the rest of the business can safely be left to me.”
“But for you. . . .”
“Good gracious me, I don’t care,” said Sir Philip blithely. And with an amazement almost equal to Penelope’s he felt that he didn’t. He twisted his head and looked down at the face pressed against his shoulder.
“Your head fits there,” he said. “I told you it did on Christmas evening.”
“Please.” Penelope’s face was scarlet.
“You enjoyed that.”
“Yes; but I ought not to have. . . .”
“Nonsense. Why not?”
“It was partly because I was so frightfully ashamed that I . . . “
“Ashamed of what?”
“Of having let you.”
“Let me what?”
“Kiss me.”
“But I thought you liked it.”
“I did, I did. And that was why. And then . . .”
“Well?”
“I knew that you were ill and couldn’t come, but somehow I thought . . .”
“Well?”
“I thought that it was perhaps because you were disgusted with me.”
“Good God!” Sir Philip laughed tenderly. “No,” he said. “I was all wrong about that: I ought to have come. But I was seedy and you know my mother’s marriage really upset me rather badly and I am one of those stodgy old people who want to be quite sure before they do a thing. So I went off to India and got damned sick of it and came back before schedule. And a good thing I did,” he said gravely. “Fancy! That was only last night; it seems aeons away.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll promise me that you’ll trust me over all this.”
“Oh, I will!” breathed Penelope.
“Then I must be off,” said Sir Philip abruptly. He drew in his long legs. “I’m going to kiss you before I go, though.”
“Oh!”
“Turn up your proper alarmed little face and try to still some of the Early Victorian complexes,” said Sir Philip gaily. He drew her closer to him.
“Penelope,” he kissed the word on to her lips. “Now, then, call me Philip.”
“Oh, I can’t possibly.”
“Good gracious me! I thought I was stodgy, but I think I’ve met my match.” He took the hand nearest to him and turning it palm upwards he pressed his mouth into the warm hollow of it. Yes, at last he had met the woman he wanted to make his wife. He felt a sudden joyful certainty, but he wasn’t going to tell her so yet. They would have another party at The Moat and announce their engagement then. It was all very much clearer to him how. It had been her agonised shame at his apparent coldness that had driven her into that insane adventure. Fancy! if he had arrived home a few hours later! A day later---and he nearly had! He shivered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Sir Philip cheerfully. He stood up and shook himself. “Well, and now I’m off,” he said. “And I shan’t be back until it’s all over. I shall go up to London to-morrow and come and tell you as soon as I am back. And until I am back you are not to worry. Do you understand?”
“Supposing he hurt you.” Penelope’s gaze was wide with apprehension.
“Me?” Sir Philip threw back his head. “You flatter him,” he said. “Now, then, where’s my hat. By the way, comb your hair before anyone sees you.”
“Oh, why?” Crimson again, Penelope’s hand flew to her head.
“No, I’m only teasing you. Come, just one more kiss before I put on my hat. Can’t you really manage to call me Philip?” His eyes laughed over her head.
“I don’t think I can.”
“No; well, I’m content to wait.” He pressed her face against his shoulder and then let her go. “Sleep well and eat well till I come back again,” he said and left her standing there. And when he had gone Penelope walked to the little oval mirror that hung close to the window. Is it me? she whispered, looking into it. Is it me? Can it be me? What have I done that God should be so good to me? She stood there trying to compose herself.
While Dorothy, seeing Sir Philip pass the window, rushed out into the garden where her husband was digging a trench. “He’s only just gone,” she gasped.
“Who has?” John Maltby paused to lean on his fork and laugh.
“Sir Philip.”
“Where’s he only just gone from?”
“Oh, John, you know!” said Dorothy excitedly.
“How long has he been there?”
“More than an hour.”
“Good work. Go and put on a coat and come out here and advise me about this,” said John Maltby, beginning to dig again.
After what he had heard about it, Sir Philip was rather pleasantly surprised at the appearance of the Bureau. He sat and faced Miss Molesworth over the discreet writing table.
“So you see, we must get busy at once,” he said.
“Yes, I quite grasp that.” Patricia Molesworth was terrified. In fact, she was more than terrified. Ross had twice been round and she dreaded seeing his face in the doorway again. And now here was this distinguished looking man prepared to prosecute to the furthest extent if things could not be arranged to his satisfaction otherwise. He preferred to remain anonymous: Sir Philip had made that clear, but if she would care for the police to be called he would give his name to them.
“Oh, no, no.”
“I am a friend of Miss Milne’s and have her permission to act in any way that may seem best to me.”
“Yes, yes.”
“You had better get Ross on the phone at once and tell him that you have heard from Miss Milne and that she wishes to meet him at the same place and at the same time as she did before. That she has something of interest to tell him and that she is getting in touch with him through you as she thinks it better. I will wait while you ring through so that I can hear what you say.”
“Very well.” With trembling fingers Patricia lifted the receiver and called the Exchange. There was a brief pause and then Sir Philip heard a man’s voice.
“Is Colonel Ross in?”
“I’ll find out, Madame.” Another pause and as he waited Sir Philip glanced round the room. Lovely hangings: all very discreet and well thought out. A place of the kind might be a great boon if run on proper lines. Susan had done quite well with hers, he believed. He turned his head again.
“Speaking”; the voice came through quite fairly clearly. He listened as Patricia explained. He noted her delicate hands and well-kept finger nails and decided that it was a pity a girl like this had got mixed up in an affair like this. There was always the hope, however, that the very severe fright that he had given her might decide her to give it up.
“Yes, but don’t you see.” Ross was a wily bird and difficult to persuade, decided Sir Philip, wondering what he should do if he refused to keep a rendezvous at Marcia’s. “No, no, I assure you,” Patricia lied with a fluency born of long practice.
“To-morrow afternoon, then, at four o’clock. By God, if there’s any hanky-panky about this I’ll have the police about your ears.” Colonel Ross was obviously a daring blackmailer, thought Sir Philip, hearing the words.
“Don’t be so silly. It’s up to us to keep everything O.K. in an affair of the kind. No, it’s all on the straight.” Patricia was smiling at the calendar standing beside the receiver. “That’s all right, then, and you’ll come along and tell us what’s happened afterwards, or Miss Milne will. Ta ta, then,” and with the receiver back in its place Patricia turned to Sir Philip.
“You could hear? Or shall I tell you?”
“No, I could hear, thanks.”
“You won’t——” Patricia was rather pale. She wasn’t a bad girl, decided Sir Philip, meeting the square gaze.
“Not if I can possibly avoid it, and I think I shall be able to. He won’t want to get into the hands of the police any more than you will. Why don’t you give this all up: it’s unworthy of you, surely.”
“Perhaps I shall.” They shook hands silently. As he went down the stairs a little woman wiping the pale treads of them with a damp cloth stood up and stole a glance at the tall man in the well-fitting overcoat. Why, if that wasn’t Sir Philip Capel from Chapelshades. What could he be doing here? wondered Janie Millar, closing her firm little mouth with a snap. Not a word to anyone, of course, not even to Bill. Janie went on wiping down the stairs and wondering. And as she wondered she decided what she would do. At lunch time, when the two young ladies went out and the office was closed, she would pop in and look at the register. You could find all the names in there, she had done it more than once, because there wasn’t anything wrong in it. She would see then whose name was down so as to bring Sir Philip up there. And Janie very soon found the name she wanted. Closing the ledger again---such a grand ledger, all leather with gold corners---she stood there quite cold with excitement. Miss Milne, Miss Milne from Chapelshades, the pale thin one with pretty eyes and teeth. Miss Milne getting mixed up with a marriage bureau; what on earth would Miss Phoebe do if she knew. And Miss Dorothy that was, now all that grand with a titled husband. My . . . as Janie went downstairs again her gentle gaze was wide and fixed. And now Sir Philip coming up to see about it. Well, what did it mean? wondered Janie, going into her own neat little flat and shutting the front door of it behind her. If only she could tell Bill, but of course she couldn’t. Or Aunt down at Chapelshades; she might know something because she did for Miss Penelope and could see the letters. Aunt! why, if she even breathed it Aunt would be down on her like a cartload of bricks. Keep your mouth shut about what don’t concern you: once her severity had been terrible when Janie had bleated out something she had overheard when she was doing for a lady in a flat in London. No, it didn’t do to tell anyone. Not that she wouldn’t like to, thought Janie, hearing her husband’s step and knowing how he would say the sensible thing if only she was wicked enough to let on and tell him what she had done.
When Sir Philip saw Colonel Ross sitting in the corner of Marcia’s teashop, he wondered for a second or two what he should do. And then he decided. He was dead on time so there was no hurry. He would sit down a few tables away from him, study him unobserved and try to discover whether he was the Ross he had known in 1916.
And after a little while he decided that he was. Much, much older, of course, but the same man. Something in the set of the head: the shape of the nose. Something in the hands: Ross’s hands had always been restless. God, but how the man had gone to seed! Drink, of course; you could read it in every line. And now what should he do? What now should be his line of approach. He sat and waited. Sometimes if he waited the guidance came. Yes, it had come . . . he got up and wended his way between the tables.
“Excuse me, but is it Ross?” he said.
“Yes, that’s right.” Colonel Ross showed his terror by the quivering of his mouth. A plain-clothes policeman: well, he would face it out until it was hopeless to attempt to do so any more.
“You don’t remember me.” Sir Philip was smiling.
“No, I can’t say that I do.” Colonel Ross bit on his cigarette. It sagged crooked and he took it from between his Ups and crushed it out in the ash tray.
“Remember Festubert in 1916?”
(Yes, Colonel Ross remembered. Trying to forget had become too difficult for him, afterwards. You had to do something about it, otherwise you would go mad.) “Rather,” he said. And then he frowned, trying to concentrate. And then he stared. “Capel,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How on earth did you recognise me?”
“Something in the turn of your head. Let’s have tea, shall we? I say, this is a stroke of luck.”
“I am afraid . . .”
“Meeting someone?” Sir Philip smiled. “Not forgotten your old habits, eh, Ross? Do you remember Mademoiselle Freniné, at the restaurant at the corner. Well, let me sit here till she comes, if I’m not in your way.”
“Do.” Colonel Ross’s brain was in a whirl. This man . . . he had heard vaguely of him. Surely he had a place near Miss Milne’s. They would meet: the complications would be frightful. . . .
“Here’s the waitress. Yes, we’ll have tea, please. And crumpets: you like crumpets, Ross. Yes, this is my party.” Sir Philip was smiling. (Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy. He would be merciful: there was a better way to approach all this than by severity. You did not bludgeon a man who was down and out. The pitiful signs of it: the brown shoes polished till there was nothing of them left. The cuffs, turned back so that you could hardly see them.)
“I . . . “ Colonel Ross’s eyes were glued to the door. (What should he do when she arrived? Why had he ever entered in on all this? Capel had reminded him; there was a time when he could hold his head up. They had had a splendid time all together in France. The sing-songs: when he had crawled in that night they had put him to bed in the hay and sung to him: “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” The regimental surgeon had chased them out. He had slept the sleep of exhaustion. His C.O. had made a speech the next day. They had all got tight. His eyes filled with easy tears.
“Perhaps she won’t come,” suggested Philip. The orchestra in the corner was tuning up.
“What’s the time? My watch. . . .” Colonel Ross looked down at the black, stupid face of the watch that he always wore although it hadn’t gone for ages.
“Twenty past four. What time did you expect her?”
“At four.”
“Well, then, I should say that you could give her up with a clear conscience. I’m quite ready for my crumpets, and I hope you are.” (Ah, indeed he was.) God! the man was starving. Sir Philip caught the waitress’s eye. “We’ll have some sandwiches,” he said. “What do you like, Ross?”
“Potted meat,” said Colonel Ross, eating and feeling inclined to choke. This man . . . he had not forgotten the old days, then. He sat with his old friend and did not seem to notice the ugly degrading signs of poverty. Poverty and degradation. His errand there to-day. Oh, for a drink: it would steady him. What should he do if she arrived? his piteous victim. She wouldn’t: not now: she had funked it. Yes, but to live you must have money and it was an easy way to get it. He must have the only thing that kept him sane. And it was so costly now. Not as bad as it had been during the War, but bad enough.
“Thank you”; the sandwiches had arrived. Sir Philip took one because the crumpets had all gone. When you were hungry you forgot other people. Hungry: this man was hungry. This man, who, by his inconceivable gallantry had won the D.S.O., was hungry. So hungry and desperate that he had taken to blackmail. Blackmail. An ugly crime, but then ugly crimes sometimes had their sources in ugly things. Things beyond a man’s control. Drink: it had been hinted in the Mess that Ross’s father had been a drunkard. And when drunkenness was in the blood: you did not condemn a man because he had inherited consumption from his father. Supposing he himself had been down and out and short of cash. Who was to say what he himself might not have done?
“Have some more tea?”
“Thanks.”
“Where are you living now?” enquired Sir Philip, as he tipped the teapot.
“In an hotel.”
“Pretty deadly, I should say.”
“Yes, it gets a bit monotonous. Where are you at the moment?” For he’d got to know, decided Ronald Ross, his eyes flying to the door again.
“Where I always was. Chapelshades, down in Surrey. My mother married again just lately, so I’m there on my own. You must come down and see me sometime, if you will.”
“Thanks very much.” Colonel Ross withdrew his eyes from the door. She would not come now; God had been merciful to him for once. God be merciful to me, a sinner. He would cut loose from this filthy way of living; he would send her back her letters and let her go. He had the letters with him: he had been going to use them as a threat.
“Have some more tea.”
“No, thanks, I’ve made a perfect beast of myself as it is.” Colonel Ross laughed shakily. “I was hungry,” he said simply. Because what was the use of pretending? They were old friends: you didn’t pretend to an old friend.
“Then supposing we get along to my Club,” said Philip easily. He caught the eye of the waitress and beckoned to her. “Your lady friend won’t come now,” he smiled. “And if she does she deserves to miss her tea for being so damned late.”
“I say---do let me.” Ronald Ross was fumbling.
“No, of course not.” Philip had taken out his purse. “Yes, we’ll get along to the Club and have a drink,” he said cheerfully. “There are some comfortable chairs there and we can have a talk about old times. I’ve plenty of time if you have,” he ended tactfully. “Thanks, that’s all right,” he smiled at the waitress. “Now then, Ross, come on, and if you meet her as we go out, cut her dead.”
“Safe at last.” Installed in the taxi, Colonel Ross laughed shakily. He smelt of stale whisky, reflected Philip, but that was only to be expected. The point was what was to happen next? Perhaps after a good stiff whisky and soda he would talk without much questioning. Because this ugly business had to be thrashed out and settled once and for all. He glanced at the profile turned to the window. A hopeless case? No case is hopeless, decided Philip briefly, especially when a man still keeps his nails clean. It was a cared-for hand: his eyes dwelt on it.
In the deep chair in front of the roaring fire: Sir Philip had chosen one of the smaller rooms as likely to be more deserted. He spoke after a long silence.
“So now you know why I accosted you, Ross,” he said.
“What are you going to do?” The reply came hoarsely.
“I don’t know. That depends on you.”
“The police?”
“Not if I can possibly avoid it. I should hesitate to condemn an old friend to what might be penal servitude.”
“I . . . “
“Have you any letters of hers?”
“Yes.”
“Here, by any chance.”
“Yes.”
“May I have them?”
“Here they are.” With a shaking hand Colonel Ross drew the pathetic little packet from an inner pocket. With averted face he handed them across the space that separated the two chairs.
“Are they all there?”
“Yes.” It was odd how he felt quite sure that this man was telling the truth, reflected Philip, as he reached out and took them. Poor silly little child. And the poor brute who had tortured her. He turned and signed to a servant.
“A couple of whiskies and sodas,” he said. “Or would you like anything else this time, Ross?”
“No, thanks, I prefer whisky.” The voice came muffled.
“Tell me at once if you are going to prosecute,” suddenly Ronald Ross seemed to regain his dignity. The dignity of a man who was determined to face the firing squad as a man should face it, decided Philip, feeling a vague admiration for him.
“It is extremely difficult for me to decide what I am going to do,” said Philip, after a short silence; “You see, blackmail is not a thing you can fool about with. I dare not condone it now when I have sufficient evidence to convict and let you go on with it later when I shall be more or less helpless.”
“I see.”
(There is hope for the man because he does not protest, thought Philip swiftly.) “Can you give me any assurance that. . . . Ah! here are the drinks. Soda for you?”
“Just a spot,” said Colonel Ross wanly. The tray set down between them, Philip tipped the tiny bottle of soda. “Here’s luck,” he said and looked at the other man over the rim of the tumbler. Down and out: what must it feel like to be down and out, wondered Philip, he who had never known what it was to be short of a penny. Down and out and nothing ahead of you but filthy hotels and threadbare clothes and a craving for strong drink impossible to satisfy, so that at last it vanquished you and you chucked yourself into the Thames.
“Say something,” he said, briefly.
“You won’t believe me if I do.”
“The mere fact that you don’t say anything makes me think that perhaps I might,” said Philip wryly.
“What do you want me to say?” With his eyes on the fire Colonel Ross sank back into his chair. His ankles were still neat, thought Philip, although heaven knew what the socks were like higher up and lower down.
“That you won’t do it again.”
“What assurances have you that if I say it I mean it?”
“None but your word.”
“The word of a drunkard.”
“Really, Ross!” Sir Philip laughed a little impatiently. Was it going, then, to be impossible to help this man?
“I’m back in the old days,” said Ronald Ross, after a pause. “I’m not a derelict living from hand to mouth in a cheap hotel. I’m not a man trading on the fears of sensitive women. I’m a decent human being, for the moment anyhow, probably because the whisky is good and I’ve had enough of it to make me forget myself.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“I am indifferent. Hand me over to the police: probably the enforced abstinence would be the best thing in the world for me.”
“Ten years’ enforced abstinence?”
Ronald Ross shivered.
“If I gave you some money would you keep straight?”
“Probably not.”
“What, then, can I do?” said Sir Philip hopelessly. For suddenly he felt hopeless. He had expected something else. He had expected terror and an agonised clutching at any loophole of escape. There was still something left of the man who had dared to crawl half a mile on his stomach while Verey lights illumined him at intervals, to rescue a man hanging like washing on barbed wire.
“I had a friend,” said Ronald Ross, and he stirred in his chair, “Who was very much like I am now, but he was fifty-five and I am only fifty-two. Yes, I think I can say that he was worse than I am as he had started the rat complex and so far I have been spared that. His friends got together and persuaded him to go into one of these places where they treat people like him and me. And he came out completely cured.”
“Yes.”
“But it was a very costly business. Ah! please do not offer to pay for me or I shall regret having told you.” Yes, this man still retained a certain dignity, down and out though he was, thought Philip briefly.
“If the wherewithal could be provided, would you consent to undergo the cure?”
“No, because when I came out again what should I do? I should be restored to health with nothing to live on. I commuted most of my pension and I can just scrape together a hundred and twenty pounds a year after I have paid income tax. I sleep in an unheated garret; at least, the garret possesses a gas fire that smells and gives out no heat, but I can very rarely afford to light it. I am on the bed and breakfast tariff, which means that I very often go to bed hungry. If you consider that a life, I don’t. If I turn over a new leaf I cannot borrow from my friends and not repay them. I cannot trade on the fears of sensitive women. I fact, I cannot do anything, can I?”
“Look here, listen to me,” said Philip roughly. “We are old friends: we went through hell together and I want to help you. Let me pay for this cure business; I want to. And when you come out cured I will see that you do not go back to the life you have just described.”
Ronald Ross stirred in his chair.
“And you say that to a man who has just descended to blackmail.”
“You are not responsible for your actions.”
“No, that may be.” Ronald Ross heaved a long trembling sigh.
“We will stay here and dine, and you shall think it over.”
“Don’t give me any more to drink or I shall be tight and disgrace you.”
“Not with a decent meal inside you.”
“No, that might help.”
“You will do what I ask you?” said Philip urgently. For suddenly this all seemed to him to be so very important. This man was not bad: there was some of the divine still left in him. He had come up to meet him, determined to be merciless. And now his whole being was rent with pity. This man, with his gallant record, chucked on to the dustheap. He himself, who had never really done anything outstanding, surrounded with the utmost luxury. The luxury of the Club in which they both found themselves now. The warmth, the service, all the things that made life pleasant. And this man had none of them. And yet he had handed over Penelope’s letters without a word. He had neither bargained nor pleaded nor attempted to borrow money on them. There was something fine about the man. There was something fine about him. . . .
“My clothes are not fit for the dining-room of a Club like this.”
“Nonsense.”
“I am not so sure about it being nonsense.” Glancing round to see that they were not observed, Ronald Ross turned the sole of his shoe upward. A slab of brown paper over a large hole. He smiled.
“Don’t: you distress me very much.” Philip frowned.
“I believe in prison they provide you with footwear.”
“Don’t, please.”
“If you let me off this time what guarantee have you that I shall not break out again. Habits of getting easy money die hard.”
“I ask for no guarantee.”
“Good God, Capel, don’t make me weep.” With clenched hands Ronald Ross sat trembling in the deep chair. “Wait until the effect of that last good drink wears off,” he said, “and then I will say to you I swear I will not go back on you.”
“And you’ll dine with me?”
“With pleasure.”
“And afterwards you will allow me to see you back to your hotel?”
“Also with pleasure.”
“And you will meet me again so that we can talk all this over and make plans?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s change the subject,” said Sir Philip light-heartedly. Let’s talk about the old days. What did you do during the last War, Ross?”
“I? I took on a job as out-porter at Waterloo,” said Ronald Ross calmly. “I didn’t do badly, taking it all round, what with the tips and everything. But trying to lift a heavy trunk did me in eventually and I had to spend a certain amount of time in hospital.”
“I see.”
“Even I didn’t feel equal to doing nothing while men a good deal better than I was were bringing food across a submarine-infested sea,” said Ronald Ross simply. “And no one else seemed to think me employable, somehow. What did you do?”
“They sent me to the Middle East.”
“Not too pleasant.”
“No, now one comes to think of it it wasn’t,” said Philip quietly. (An out-porter at Waterloo!) “Now, we’ve just time for a short drink before dinner. What’s yours?”
“I’d rather wait until dinner, if you don’t mind, Capel,” said Colonel Ross simply. “You see, the good work has begun. God bless you. I can’t say what I feel.” He struggled with his emotion. With trembling hands he dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. And his handkerchief, as well as his nails, was clean, thought Philip, deeply moved.
Late the following afternoon Sir Philip went round to see Penelope. It was odd how much there was to keep one occupied, he reflected, as he sat at his writing table. Letters: contracts: estimates. Also a letter to the Home that Ross had told him of. Would he ever really screw himself to going in to it? wondered Philip, sighing as he stamped the envelope. Old habits died hard and it was easy to make promises when you were under the influence of a strong emotion. Certainly when he had left Ross at his hotel he had appeared perfectly sober and was still resolved to make the break away. Well, time would show.
And now to tell Penelope what had happened. It was beginning to get dark as he stood in the hall waiting for Barton to help him into his Burberry. Penelope: how easily her Christian name slipped from his tongue. What was he going to do about all this? thought Philip, taking his stick from the leather barrel. Was he in love with her? Not yet, he reflected, nodding pleasantly to Barton through the glass panels of the front door. She attracted him very much but that wasn’t love. Or was it? wondered Sir Philip vaguely.
But when he saw Penelope standing under the light in the hall he was shocked again.
“What is the matter?”
“The bell. I thought . . .”
“I told you to trust me and not worry.”
“I know, but——”
“Come, come, I can’t have this,” Sir Philip laid his hat down on the oak box and took off his coat. “What is the good of my attempting to help you if you won’t be helped?”
“I am sorry.” Penelope wrung her hands.
“So you ought to be,” said Sir Philip briefly. “Come and sit down by the fire and let me tell you.”
“I do; I do trust you,” said Penelope, standing in the middle of the little flower-filled sitting-room. “But it’s all been so awful; so degrading; and you oughtn’t to have to do with degrading things. That’s all I mean: I don’t mean anything else. And I was so afraid for you yesterday. I seemed to see it all and that frightful tea place and him. . . .” Penelope covered her face with her hands.
“As a matter of fact it all went off very differently from what I had expected,” said Sir Philip, and he began to explain. He explained at length as she sat beside him. “And here are your letters,” he concluded, taking them out of his breast pocket.
“Oh!”
“Are they all there?”
Penelope counted them. “Yes.”
“Splendid. Yes, I feel that we can trust Ross,” said Philip thoughtfully. “I knew him in the old days, you see, and although he was wild enough then and had already begun to drink he had a reputation for a certain blunt honesty.”
“I can’t believe it. It would have been so awful to have had to prosecute him. So terrible, somehow.”
“Yes, and for you as well as for him. Because it would all have had to come out in Court, of course. Ross would know that and I was afraid at first he would use it as a weapon. And the mere fact the he didn’t gave me hope. You see, I said that I should have to hand him over to the police and a baser man would at once have said, what about you?”
“And he didn’t?”
“No, he never even hinted at it.”
“I misjudged him, then?”
“Difficult to say. No, I should say not. I was able to appeal straight away to the decent in him, you see. The 1914 War: the hell we went through together: the memory of his gallantry; all that jerked him up and out of the slough in which he is generally wallowing. It restored his self-respect, for the time, anyhow. And then he had a decent meal and a couple of drinks with clean soda in them, and he was able to sit in front of a good fire in a dignified room. All that helped tremendously and will help tremendously in the future.”
“Do you think he will go into the Home?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And what will he do when he comes out?”
“That depends on his state of health. For a time, anyhow, I shall make myself responsible for him.”
“You are good.”
“Am I? May I smoke?”
“Of course.” And then for a little while they sat silent. It was pleasant, reflected Sir Philip, watching her contentedly settling down beside him. The fire was bright and the flowers were fresh and lovely. He would have to keep her supplied with flowers. Something in a pot would be nice. He had some beautiful azaleas in one of the greenhouses. He said so.
“Oh, how heavenly. How I should love one.”
He possessed himself of her hand. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course I don’t. I love it.” She sat very still. This was heaven, of course. This was the cosy contentment of perfect companionship that was heaven. Not the trembling thrill of a kiss and probably he wouldn’t want to kiss her now that all this ghastly affair was settled, but just cosy content.
“Are you happy?” said Sir Philip abruptly.
“Yes, very.”
“And not frightened any more?”
“No.”
“Why?” Sir Philip suddenly felt a boyish wish to hear her tell him.
“Because your presence takes away fear from me,” said Penelope simply. Because, as she reflected, why pretend any more? He had rescued her from death: he had removed a terror almost worse than death from her life; then why not be frank with him? He knew, of course, that she adored him and always would adore him. But that did not alter things and never would. He was one of those men whom women did adore, a man who had a compelling chivalry and kindness where women were concerned. He had done all he had done for her from that motive only and the knowledge of that would have to content her. And it should content her, decided Penelope resolutely.
“That is a very beautiful thing for a man to hear said about him.”
“I am glad you are pleased, because it is true.”
“Do you know that you are very sweet?” The warmth of his grasp seemed to envelop her soul like a flame.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Some people make one feel sweet,” said Penelope after a little pause. Because now, in the dim light, it was easy to talk to him. “Have you ever noticed that? And then there are some others that make you feel that you want to scream and get away.”
“Yes, I have often noticed it,” said Sir Philip, laughing. “What should I do if I belonged to the latter class?”
“You couldn’t.”
“I might.” He detached her little finger from the others and played with it. “You have too high an opinion of me, Penelope.”
“No, Philip, I haven’t.”
“Bravo!” Sir Philip burst out laughing. “The mouse squeaks,” he said.
“I can squeak much louder than that.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“No, it’s gone back into its hole again.” Penelope was scarlet. What was the matter with her? She would have to pay for this with the most ghastly reaction. But he was so close to her and Oh! so dear. What did it matter if this enchanted hour never came again? Why shouldn’t she sense the rapture of it to the full?
“May I kiss you?” Sir Philip turned in his chair. Her head was very close to his shoulder. What was this feeling of well-being that enveloped him? Was it love or wasn’t it? Was it a feeling born of the tragedy of what had passed between them, or was it the real thing? Who could tell---and he was old to take a chance.
“If I say no what will you think?”
“I shall think that you find me distasteful.”
“You know that that isn’t so.”
“Then what could be your reason?” He took her chin between his fingers and lifted it.
“I might have my reasons.”
“Give me one.”
“I can’t think of one now,” said Penelope, whispering.
“Afterwards it will be difficult for me,” said Penelope, struggling with her longing to break into tears. “You see, for a man it is different. A kiss doesn’t mean very much to a man, but to a woman it rather embodies all that she has ever for.”
“And what is that?” Yes, he was sure, reflected Sir Philip briefly. She had all the charm of the grown woman with the simplicity of a child. “Penelope.”
“Yes.” Penelope sat up a little straighter. She must grapple with herself, she reflected. And not give way to this exquisite abandonment to the rapture of having him close to her.
“Supposing I tell you that I love you?”
“But you don’t.”
Sir Philip burst out laughing. “That’s settled it, then,” he said. He drew her a little closer to him. “No, this isn’t comfortable,” he said. “I can’t talk to you properly with my head screwed round. Come and I’ll settle you on that couch and sit on the edge of it beside you.” Gently he dragged her up out of her chair and led her across the room. “There,” he said, and smiled down at the slimness of her. Her delicate face flushing with the wide eyes fixed on his. Her slim ankles, he encircled them with his warm hand.
“Oh!”
“Like it?”
“Yes.”
“Shocked?”
“No, not really.”
“Only rather.” Sir Philip’s teeth flashed white. “Heavens, you still have a lot to learn,” he said. “However, with skilful teaching I may manage it. Penelope, I know I am elderly and stodgy and wanting in many respects, but I think that as my wife I may be able to teach you how to love if you are willing to learn.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.” Penelope had turned very white.
“Must I say it again?”
“But you don’t love me!”
“But why not?”
“Why, you couldn’t!” She rolled over a little and buried her face in the cushions. His wife! Was she crazy or was this a dream? Or was it true and heaven had come down to earth?
“Look at me, darling.”
“But——”
“But what?” He stooped and took her face between his hands. “But what, Penelope? What is there odd about it? Can’t I love you if I want to? Or don’t you want me to?”
“But——”
“Well?”
“Philip, it can’t be true!” Penelope sat up on the sofa. The same sitting-room: the same firelight on the ceiling: the same flowers in the blue mug on the mantelpiece. All the same things and yet at the same time all utterly different. Flooded with magic. The Light that never was on sea or land. For her, all this was for her . . . she lay back again and felt him lift her in his arms. Strong arms that held her closely to his coat. She felt his mouth on hers. She slipped her hand a little above his wrist and felt the dark hairs above the watch bracelet and the strength of the arms that held her. Giving herself up to the rapture of it she shut her eyes on the joy in them.
“Talk about me love evvybody, the place simply stinks with it.” Susan, looking at her husband rather anxiously, saw that he was very pale again. He had looked pale lately: he had not looked the same. Was it all going to end in ruin and despair? wondered Susan, gripping her hands together. Not if she could prevent it. She spoke cheerfully.
“Yes, I know, but it’s so sickening to see Sir Philip mooning about like a lovesick boy. As a matter of fact, it’s the first time that I’m glad that I’m blind, so that I can’t see him. But it’s in his voice: like treacle. And it’s the same with Pen: exuding the love touch. And Dorothy so full of her good strong man. And John with his ‘little woman’ touch and Phoebe all over me. Oh, God, I’m so tired of it all.” Tony flung himself down in a chair.
“Darling.”
“Oh, heavens, don’t you begin!”
“Sorry, my boy.” Susan’s beautiful eyes were suddenly full of tears.
“Don’t, it’s me. I’m filthy; I’m not fit to black your boots. I know you don’t wear boots, I mean shoes. Come here, for God’s sake come here.” He groped in the air and then dragged her down on to his knee.
“Darling, be patient with me,” he whispered. “Sometimes I feel that I can’t bear it.”
“I know, I know; don’t I know. Darling!”
“No, don’t be kind. Give me the rough side of your tongue, if it’s got one.”
“Of course it has. But not for you.” Susan’s eyes were starry. It was bound to happen, of course; he was young; the novelty of his job was wearing off, eager as he was about it. Not to be able to see: hell, eternal hell, to anyone of Tony’s temperament with his passionate love for beautiful things.
“Another of these ghastly celebrations, with everyone exuding cordiality. And Pen and Dorothy chuckling with pleasure over the catches they’ve made. Titles rattling like peas in a tin. And Phoebe thinking I’m fond of her when I don’t really care a tinker’s cuss about anyone but you. And Sir Philip, mine cordial host, and Barton with his sickening retrograde sycophancy; heavens! what long words. Oh, Susan, can’t we go to bed at eight, and love each other privately without all this display about it?”
“No, darling, I’m afraid we can’t.” Susan was trying to laugh and not succeeding very well. She, too, wished that there was not to be another of these dinner parties at the Moat House. They had had one very successful one to celebrate Dorothy’s engagement and to announce John’s succession to a title. Wasn’t that enough? Must it all be gone through again, with more congratulations and speeches and Penelope flushed and happy, blissfully happy. Susan had never seen anything to equal it, and Sir Philip’s look of proud proprietorship. It made one feel so impatient, thought Susan, hating herself for her selfishness. “No, darling, I am afraid we can’t: we must go in for it,” she said. “I know you loathe it and if it makes it any nicer for you I can tell you quite frankly that so do I.”
“It makes it much nicer. When Sir Philip gets up to propose everybody’s health, will you be thinking, ‘Oh, shut up and sit down, you fool’?”
“Yes, I shall.”
“Glorious I then I can bear it.”
Susan laughed: a gay, happy laughter that was suddenly reflected on Tony’s grave lips.
It was good to bring the light back into his face again. Because what were they going to do if it all fell back quenched into despair again? There would be no emerging again this time. Before it had been comparatively easy, what with the excitement and joy of being able to marry, and their cottage and everything. But now . . . In spite of desperate efforts to control her thoughts Susan went about her dressing for the dinner party with a heavy heart.
“What I hate is all the chauffeurs chucking cigarette ends about by the stables,” grumbled Tony from his tiny dressing-room. “That’s where the accommodation for the animals is so old-fashioned: all that ought to be entirely away from the servants’ quarters.”
“There won’t be many outsiders, will there?”
“I think the Vicar’s coming: not that he has a proper chauffeur, but he gets the verger to drive him or something and that’s worse. And Dr. Ford, who has a chauffeur; Ford is staying there, by the way; I meant to tell you. At least, he’s staying the week-end; he hasn’t come yet. He’s that famous oculist from Welbeck Street, a friend of Capel’s; if he tries to ferret about in my eyes I shall tell him to go to hell. I’ve had enough of their tricks in my time.”
“I am sure he won’t, darling.” Yes, Tony was in one of his bad moods, almost the first he had had since his marriage. Well, this was all part of her job: she must get him out of it. She would be able to in time: not just at once, perhaps.
And later in the evening she felt that perhaps she had succeeded. Tony was gay and lighthearted and made himself very agreeable to Dr. Ford, answering a few tactfully put questions. And Penelope---it was worth anything to see Penelope’s happiness, thought Susan wonderingly. She looked so young, so sweet and childlike and Sir Philip was obviously so proud of her. And Phoebe, well dressed in a black velvet frock with a train, and her best jewellery in full parade. And Dorothy watching her tall husband with delighted eyes. The family was really doing itself rather well, decided Susan: titles simply rattling about like peas in a tin, as Tony described it. And mercifully, Barton seemed pleased with the way things were going; otherwise it would have been damned difficult for Penelope, thought Susan shrewdly. For Barton knew how to run the Moat House just as his master liked it and if Penelope wasn’t acceptable to Barton then Barton would have known how to make it very difficult. However, that evidently was not a state of things that would have to be bothered about; Barton was already showing great deference to his future mistress and that was all as it should be, and Penelope in her turn was being extremely nice to him. Not too nice, but just right, decided Susan, watching her aunt.
And now it was all over and they were home again. And to Susan’s dismay all Tony’s heavy depression had returned. They undressed in silence: there was no suggestion of any love-making. And at last, for the first time in their married life, Tony asked if she would mind him sleeping in his dressing room.
“I feel evil,” he said. “I can’t help it, Susan, I feel evil. I hate God. I hate him as much as I used to hate Hitler.”
“Darling, of course I understand,” said Susan, with trembling lips. And so they parted for the night. Young and healthy Susan lay awake for some time, and then slept with tears on her face. While Tony lay awake: his sightless eyes turned to the wide open window. It was cold, but he liked the cold. It stung his face and he liked the feeling of it. He liked the sensation of discomfort; it tuned in with his brooding misery. Blind . . . blind for life. Never to see the trees again and the flowers and worst of all, never to see Susan again. If she had a child? never to see its face. Cursed of God, stricken down by a hideous malevolent Being whom some people were fool enough to call their Father. Rolling on to his side Tony bit into his pillow. This reminded him of those first frightful nights in hospital, except that then they had been merciful and had given him something to still his thoughts. Burying his face deeply into the pillow, he groaned through his clenched teeth.
And then he must have slept, because at about three o’clock he waked with the smell of smoke in his nostrils. Without an instant’s hesitation he got out of bed and dressed. Fire---the ever-present terror to the blind. Probably, more than probably, it was a bonfire; now that the War was over you could leave them burning all night with a clear conscience. But all the same, he let himself noiselessly out of his room: down the stairs and into the hall. Mercifully he was accustomed to lock up at night: he slipped the chain from across the old-fashioned door and shot back the well-oiled bolt. His overcoat: he had nearly forgotten it; he got his Burberry out of the carved cupboard in the corner. Fire . . . better to be prepared. He went into the lavatory, took the towel from the glass bar and turned on the cold tap. Soaking it, he squeezed it and took it in one hand and with the other he opened the front door and let himself out. It was a cold night: he shivered. Smoke, heavens yes, the air was full of it. Which way was the wind; he wetted a finger and held it up. Blowing from the Moat House. Fire---what he had been afraid of; some fool of a chauffeur with a still-burning cigarette, chucked down anywhere. Going cautiously down the path he stepped out into the avenue. Oh, to be able to see! He felt his way for a pace or two. Probably it was nothing but he would go and see. His animals, his beloved cows: the horses, the fat pony; he loved them all as if they had been his children. Ah, yes, but his instinct had been right. Fire . . . he could hear it. He could hear voices; he could hear a crackling. He began to run. Careless of what might happen to him he tore along. Along the avenue; when would it come to an end? Ah, here he was at the gate. God in heaven, what was this? he came into collision with something and went headlong. Up again, he clutched at his head: had he broken his skull? Yes, he must have done; it was on fire, blazing. His animals: never mind his head; if he died he would get to his animals. They would be terrified: they would stampede. His head was on fire; he could see the flames: they licked round his hair or they felt as if they did. On, on . . . when would he get there? Where was he? Ah! he was getting nearer, because he could hear voices. Somebody was shouting. “They won’t come out, Sir.” No, of course they wouldn’t for anyone but him. Into the courtyard; yes, he was there now. Hell! some fool had caught hold of him: it was his employer. “Get back, Tony!” They were all yelling: the fire made a hissing noise; nasty; he remembered it from the noise that planes made when they caught fire. “Let me go”; frantically he swathed his head in the wet towel, shook himself free and went rushing on. The door; yes, here it was. Inside an inferno of terrified animal noises. “Girls, girls,” Tony called out in his high sweet voice. “Girls, girls, out you come; clever girls, here is Tony. Come along, darlings; yes, the doors are open. Girls, girls. . . .” God! it was hot: something fell burning on to his hand, but they were coming out; what did anything matter; cleverly they never trampled him down; yes, the cows were out, now for the horses. “Come along, boys, quick, here is Tony; don’t be frightened, my beauties.” A whirl of terrified hoofs, men scattering in the courtyard. “Careful, Tony!” Why the hell can’t he be quiet! thought Tony vaguely. And then a cry as something fell burning on him; staggering, he lurched away from it. Arms round him: something cold on his hands; lifted from the ground, he struggled to be free. “Leave me alone, can’t you!” His employer’s voice: “I think they’re all out.” “Yes, but I must be sure!” Crying out, he fought them and then had to give way. A blankness: the clouds down on him as they used to descend on his plane, driving it into a muffled silence. Blankness: carted away into infinity: the end, the end for him, anyhow: Tony sank into profound unconsciousness.
And he did not wake for the next three days. Lying there in the big bow-windowed bedroom in the Moat House he lay there swathed in bandages. Drawn curtains; there must be no light at all, said Dr. Ford, who, profoundly interested, was thankful to have had the chance to be there; appointments cancelled. Nurses, day and night, every thing necessary, fetched down from London. Susan in the house: Susan, white and still and sleeping in a tiny bed in the corner of the large room in case he should recover consciousness, and want her. And then one night he stirred and spoke.
“Susan.”
“Mrs. Fellowes”; the night nurse walked to the little bed and touched her shoulder. “Your husband is asking for you,” she said.
“Tony.” Susan, snatching her dressing-gown from where it hung on the end of the bed, crossed the floor.
“Where am I? What a stupid question. What does it matter if you are here too?”
“Never mind where you are, darling. You’ll all right.” Susan sank on her knees by the bed and laid her head on the sheet. Weakly he struggled a hand from under the covers and laid it on her head.
“Did the animals get out?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Who’s this?” Tony spoke after a little pause. The night nurse had gone out and come back with Dr. Ford. Dr. Ford, tall in his silk dressing-gown. He glanced at Susan and smiled. And then he signed to the nurse to take the bedside light away. Only the blue nightlight remained, three still figures under the strange dim light. And the still figure on the bed. And then Dr. Ford stooping over the bandaged face.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“You’ve had a nasty time.” Dr. Ford’s skilful hands were busy with bandages. “But you’ve come through well. I’ll give you just five minutes to talk to your wife and then you must go to sleep again. Now, how’s that?” Dr. Ford had drawn back the bandages from the high cheekbones and Tony’s dark eyelashes lay revealed on his cheek. “Better?”
“Yes, much better.” As Dr. Ford watched him intently, Tony lay placidly still. Her fair head under his hand, Susan also lay still with closed eyes. And then Tony suddenly opened his eyes. Difficult to really see, decided Dr. Ford, his own eyes strained down on his patient. And then he stood there and lifted his head and drew a long trembling breath.
“Oh, ye moon and stars, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever”; the words came in a quiet still whisper from between the bandages. “No, don’t say anything to me: leave me like this. No, don’t move, Susan, my sweet; I’m not mad or anything like that. It reminds me of a night when we were over the Alps: there wasn’t anything but God. There isn’t anything but God now: even you don’t count, Susan.”
“That’s enough for now.” Very tenderly Dr. Ford was adjusting the bandages again. “Thank you, Nurse. Quietly the nurse came up with the little tray of instruments. She was crying, thought Susan, lifting her head and watching her. Crying: why? Because of what Tony had said? She felt inclined to cry too, but she wasn’t going to. She watched as the tiny syringe went home and Tony’s white hand fell sideways.
“That’s it, he’s asleep again.” Dr. Ford spoke as if he was a little breathless. They lost their heads, thought Susan, a little contemptuously; she was the calmest of the lot. Of course Tony was going to get well; she had known it all the time.
“Come in here just a minute, Mrs. Fellowes, before you settle off again. Yes, he’ll be all right now.” Dr. Ford was smiling now. A smile of triumph; doctors were queer people, thought Susan, standing there feeling detached and a little irritable.
“He’s better, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yes, much better. You didn’t grasp. He has got his sight back,” said Dr. Ford quietly.
“Got his sight back?”
“Yes, didn’t you hear him? I was profoundly touched. His first instinct to thank God,” said Dr. Ford quietly.
“But,” Susan stood there very still. “You wouldn’t tell me what wasn’t true just to keep me going?”
“No, no, certainly not. No, it’s a fact. I’ve seen it happen before. It’s too technical to explain, but when I brought him in here three nights ago, I could tell that he had nearly cracked his skull. That must have done it.”
“Will it last?”
“Oh, yes. It’s like the connecting up of an electric wire. Contact has been re-established.”
“I can’t——” Susan began to cry. “I can’t——” She sobbed with streaming eyes. She is very beautiful, thought Dr. Ford, slipping a kind and professional arm round her. “I can’t help it,” she choked.
“I could howl like a dog myself if it wasn’t my job not to,” said Dr. Ford whimsically. “It’s glorious: this sort of thing makes everything worth while. All the agonies and the disappointments and the tragedies seem to melt away. Now go back to bed, my dear, and sleep peacefully, so that you look your loveliest for your husband to-morrow.”
“It isn’t a dream?”
“No, it isn’t a dream. And here is Nurse with some tea which will make it even less of a dream than ever,” said Dr. Ford. “That’s a good idea of yours, Nurse, and I’ll have some too, if I may. Don’t make it too strong or we shall none of us get any more sleep to-night. All right for you to keep awake, because it’s your job, but Mrs. Fellowes and I want to sleep off our excitement, don’t we, Mrs. Fellowes?”
“Me loves evvybody. Even the sickening child on the front page of the Sunday paper who says it,” remarked Tony three weeks later. With a green shade over his eyes he was sprawling on the sofa by the fire in his own home. Susan, opposite to him, was knitting.
“Darling.”
“Can you believe it’s true?”
“No.”
“I can. You’ve got a wisp of hair sticking out over one ear.”
“I haven’t,” said Susan indignantly. But her hands flew to her shining head.
“Got you! That’s part of the fun of it,” said Tony lazily. “Oh, God! I’m so happy. What have I done to deserve it?”
“God doesn’t wait for us to deserve things, otherwise we should go short,” remarked Susan. “He’s lavish: kind people always are. Look at us all here. Pen in transports and incidentally making a very good marriage. Dorothy in raptures and looking younger every day. Phoebe all alert and happy in her little potterings. Sir Philip striding about as if he owned the earth, and you and I . . . “
“And you and I,” repeated dreamily. “Oh, ye moon and stars, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever.”
“What made you say that first of all?”
“What else was there to say? What else described what I felt? What would you have said if you had been in hell and then suddenly found that you weren’t? When I saw your shining head: and Ford stooping over me and that little blue light away in the corner. What else could I say? It was like being over the Swiss mountains in the moonlight: it’s all too vast: you want to hold on to something vaster still.”
“Darling.”
“My lovely.”
“I expect you’ll have to brace yourself up for another celebration at the Moat House,” said Susan mischievously.
“Heavens! What makes you think so?”
“Why, because the wedding is going to be in London,” said Susan. “No fuss, they neither of them want it. And, after all, it is far more suitable. Then when they come back they’ll want to have some sort of a housewarming.”
“I shall have to get something else to do, of course,” said Tony, after a little pause. “I can’t just go on farming.”
“Ford says that you want to give your eyes quite a year’s rest. No reading for exams or anything like that.”
“No---well, I can bear to do that all right. Let’s spend the time in having a baby, shall we?”
“Thank you.” Susan dropped her knitting on to her lap.
“Can you bear a shock?” she said.
“Yes, quite well.”
“Then I think I’m going to have one.”
“You don’t!”
“I do. It’s too soon yet to be sure, of course, but I think I’m fairly sure.”
“Susan!” Tony got up from the couch and crossed the floor. “Susan,” he said, and kneeling, he buried his face in her lap. “Susan, I shall be able to see it,” he said.
“Yes, I know you will. And that’s why I’m so glad. I couldn’t have borne it otherwise.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Of course they don’t. I don’t know for certain myself yet.”
“Oh, dear! God is handing out favours all round, isn’t He?” said Tony shakily, “and to think that I said I hated Him.”
“He knew you didn’t really,” said Susan easily. “I expect He’s used to those sort of explosions from people when they’re desperate. After all, if a person is all Love He doesn’t have to be explained to.”
“No.” Tony got up from his knees. “We mustn’t be feeble,” he said. “Now, then, to return to the question of a celebration. Do you really think there’ll be one?”
“Sure of it. It’s rather in the Capel blood and Pen will be sure to fall in with anything the Beloved wishes. But it won’t be yet. The wedding isn’t till next month and then they’re going to Switzerland for a motoring tour. It’ll be about June.”
“A breathing space,” said Tony, going back to his sofa. “ Susan, what shall we call our first born?”
“Anthony.”
“Sure you want to?”
“Positive.”
“Good, so do I,”, said Tony, putting a paper over his face and beginning to whistle.
“And Barton thinks you’d better come up and help with the waiting,” said Mrs. Millar, firmly. “You don’t mind, do you, Janie?”
“Not a bit,” said Janie brightly.
“You never know, it might lead to something,” said Mrs. Millar, bustling about the kitchen. “Now that that Marriage Bureau’s closed I don’t see why you can’t come down here and Bill get something to do. He’s handy at anything, isn’t he?”
“Yes, very.”
“Well, I’ve had a word with Barton already and we’ll see what happens,” said Mrs. Millar cryptically. “Anyhow, I’m glad that Bureau’s closed, I never held with it.”
“No.” Janie shut her firm little mouth and wondered how much her aunt knew. “How many of them are there for the party?” she enquired.
“Ten.”
“Who are they?”
“Sir Philip and his lady, and she is a real lady, every inch of her. Lady Maltby and Sir John, Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes, Miss Phoebe, Dr. Ford, the man who does eyes, and a Colonel Ross.”
“A Colonel Ross!”
“Yes.” Mrs. Millar’s eyes were blank. Knowing what she knew, no one was more surprised than she was and Barton thought the same, but that was neither here nor there. A real gentleman: and thin and all that and looked as if he’d seen better days, but a gentleman all the same. Just off to America, and come down for a few days first.
“Colonel Ross.”
“You seem surprised. It’s a common enough name, Janie.”
“Yes, I know.” Janie took hold of her thoughts. The big ledger with leather corner and gold stamping. Miss Penelope Milne in one column and Colonel Ronald Ross in the other. Well, I never I thought Janie, staring. And what she had thought was true, then. Aunt did know something about it. But she wouldn’t say so, no, not she!
“Like a job down here, Janie?” enquired Mrs. Millar, hooking the round top of the kitchener back over the replenished fire.
“Yes, I should.”
“Means holding your tongues, you know.”
“We can do that all right,” said Janie, feeling a sudden inclination to put it out. “We can do that all right, Aunt.”
“Then we’ll see what we can do about it,” said Mrs. Millar, twitching a dry dishcloth down from the airing rail and doubling it in four preparatory to encircling the oven door-knob with it.
“The only thing that I shall miss is Big Ben,” said Janie plaintively.
“Will you?” said Mrs. Millar indulgently. And having settled the pie dish in the oven she cast a quick glance at the grandfather clock and walked to the corner of the room.
“What do you want more than that?” she said indulgently.
“Nothing,” whispered Janie. With closed eyes she listened to the lovely deep booming of the great clock. London: the hurrying crowds, now lessening. Bond Street . . . the grey early morning haze that dimmed the sunshine. London! blessed, beloved, darling old London. She opened her eyes again.
“Here is the nine o’clock news. And this is Stewart Hibberd reading it.”
“Nice to hear his voice again,” said Mrs. Millar.
“I like Bruce Belfrage best,” said Janie, shutting her eyes again.