He carried the sandwiches into the drawing-room and found Alicia arranging plates on the hearthrug.
“We shall make crumbs,” said Miss Burton resignedly.
“So what?” said Alicia. “What’s this I hear about your going to Blentley, Richard?” She spoke lightly but she was annoyed; at Blentley, four miles farther off, he would be unseeable unless she walked there on purpose.
He explained about old Mr. Fielding, for he was not going to tell her that a hopeless passion was torturing him and that he felt the Spartan framework of his life was being undermined by the comfort at Sunglades; and Alicia listened without feeling or expressing much interest in the returning wanderer and aged impresario. She had come—rather earlier than most of her contemporaries—to a time when her life was a search for satisfaction. It was no longer a prolonged joke or party or love affair, and her interest in “characters” and “marvellous stories” and ludicrously embarrassing situations had simply faded. All that sort of thing, which had seemed so funny five years ago, was rather dim nowadays. She did not foresee the day when the interest would revive, concentrated upon the funny sayings and doings of her own and her friends’ children.
“Oh—rather a bore,” she said at the end of Richard’s explanation. “Still, it is his home, I mean.”
“That is what I feel, though I appear to be in a minority of one,” said Richard. “His return is viewed with apprehension, not to say dismay, by those who should be most relieved and delighted, namely, his children.”
“Ssh—! Mr. Fielding doesn’t know yet!” said Miss Burton, with a nervous glance towards the kitchen.
Richard and Alicia both raised their eyebrows. It was a simultaneous expression of surprised disapproval from their generation, and as they did it, they both realized that they were experiencing the same feelings. Miss Burton glanced scaredly at their faces, which suddenly looked young and severe, like two prefects come to judgment.
“Isn’t that a little odd?” said Richard pleasantly.
“Won’t he get rather a nasty jar?” asked Alicia.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid he will; I did say to Constance that it wasn’t fair,” said Miss Burton nervously, still glancing towards the kitchen, “but Mr. Fielding—Kenneth, you know—can be very difficult, and if he took it into his head to encourage his father to come here——”
At this point, any other human being would have demanded stoutly, “Why shouldn’t he?” But Richard and Alicia simply withdrew from the conversation. Richard made it a habit never to discuss other people’s problems because it wasted energy, and Alicia, as we know, was no longer interested in “priceless situations.” It was Miss Burton’s bad luck that she should have been drawn into a discussion with two such unnatural people.
“Oh, well, it’s Miss Fielding’s affair, of course,” said Richard indifferently, and Alicia said, “Will that be enough watercress? There is some more outside.”
“You and I have rather the same way of thinking about some things,” he said to her, when Miss Burton had gone out of the room to wash her hands for supper.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“I really hadn’t thought about it,” she replied dishonestly. “I think skeletons in the dirty linen cupboard are a bore, if that’s what you mean.”
“It is what I mean. Do you know of a room to let in Blentley?”
“How much do you want to pay?”
“As little as possible. I shall want meals included.”
“I should think some of the new houses on the Luton road let rooms. I suppose you’d get something for about thirty shillings a week.”
“Twenty-five would be better. Thanks. I’ll walk over when the holiday’s over and make inquiries.”
She looked at him as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece, a very tall, fair young man with cheeks thinner than usual from illness. The thought of the man she had been with that afternoon was still warm in her memory, and she could look at Richard more detachedly than usual. But her decision was still, yes, he’s attractive.
“This preoccupation with personalities——” he went on thoughtfully, staring into the fire, “is a bourgeois disease that will disappear with capitalism. People like this old man, whose personalities are swollen beyond normal size, exhaust ordinary people and waste their time by provoking endless discussion and argument and marvellings at their behaviour, and the principle even extends to nations; we have the swollen state which draws unnatural attention to itself by roaring about its misfortunes and rights. The beauty of a team of actors such as the Russians and the French produce, or a field of buttercups or a swarm of fish, the beauty and fitness of the norm, is lost on these personality drunkards. Do you know what I like, Alicia?” turning towards her, “I like to lose myself in a crowd. Then I’m most myself.”
“You couldn’t lose yourself; you’re too tall,” she said, laughing. “Don’t people always look at you?”
“I might be much more conspicuous than I am,” he said, displeased. “Being looked at is largely the result of wanting to be looked at. You, a woman, should know that.”
“And you’re a ‘character’ yourself,” she went on maliciously, “I never met anyone the least like you, anyway.”
“Possibly your world is a narrow one,” he retorted, and then the rest of the party came in and grouped itself about the fire. Vartouhi knelt between Alicia and Richard and offered him sandwiches with a grave, innocent face, most unsuitable to one who had just been viciously poking a tiny green doll’s umbrella, her Christmas present from Alicia, down the kitchen sink. She had noticed his growing friendliness with Alicia and resented it. He had admired her first; he must go on admiring her, and she would not put up with a rival, especially one like Miss Arkwright, whom she hated because Alicia had two fur coats. She did not think Alicia pretty or fascinating or mind her being a rich man’s daughter, but she did envy her those two fur coats, and why should she get attentions from her, Vartouhi’s, admirer? Is a beastly girl, thought Vartouhi, forgetting to hand Alicia the sandwiches.
If she’s going to be as rude as this, he can’t go on caring about her, surely, thought Alicia as she tranquilly ate a sandwich to which she had helped herself. He dislikes “characters” and personality-bores; suffering cats! What else is she, with her plaits and her ropey little apron? Hold on, Arkwright; patience and tidy hair will yet win the day—if we want it to be won, that is. This afternoon has made everything seem a bit different.
Conversation at supper was very cheerful, as conversation always is when carried on in the absence of some severe and worthy soul who would disapprove of its being so; in this case there were two souls of this type, so the conversation was doubly cheerful. It was the guilty conviction that a dozen times throughout supper Miss Fielding’s finger would have been held up in smiling reproof and Mrs. Miles’s shout of Nonsense! and Rubbish! have resounded on the air that made Richard’s speeches so silky and Kenneth’s jokes so hearty, Alicia’s wisecracks come out with so inimitable a drawl and The Usurper’s wit flash so brilliantly. Betty and Vartouhi were audience, the one contributing her pretty laugh and the other her delighted little face, to the general gaiety. The firelight danced over their laughing faces as they sat in the circle of empty plates and crumbs scattered on the carpet, while above them the curled, massive heads of the Chinese prince-flowers in their white and silvery-pink stared raptly out into the dusk.
After supper the rehearsal was resumed with hilarity. They did make some attempt to do it seriously but unfortunately everybody was in the mood when even ordinary remarks seem exquisitely funny, and Little Frimdl had just no chance at all. Every one of Dr. Stocke’s sentences either had a double meaning or was funny enough as it stood, and when Richard came to his big speech, he could get no further than—
“Misled and unfed are the ricelands——”
which he gaspingly repeated three or four times and then collapsed into a chair, crowing into his handkerchief whi
le the rest of the Spirits of Co-operation and Non-co-operation stood round him whooping weakly and offering him beer.
It was while all this noise was going on in the drawing-room that the scullery door, which led out into the garden, might have been observed slowly opening into the brilliantly lit, deserted kitchen. A face, crowned by a fashionable soft hat with a decidedly American cast, came cautiously round the door out of the black-out, and was followed by a small man in a long overcoat whose superfine cloth was finished by a rich, soft, luxurious collar of sable. The rest of the visitor’s dress was to match in opulence; his gloves were fine pale hogskin only faintly marked by the stains of a journey and his American shoes were finished off with white spats. In his buttonhole he had an orchid, protected from the cold of the winter night by a little hat of cellophane. He had a pointed silver beard and a fresh healthy face with blue eyes.
As soon as he saw the kitchen was empty he straightened his shoulders and smiled. Then he took a biscuit off the table and ate it, listening with his head on one side to the noises that came from the drawing-room.
“A party,” muttered Mr. Eustace Fielding. “Can Constance be dead, and the house let to strangers? But certainly on Sunday I was told that she was out. Not dead. Ah! I hear Kenneth’s laugh, poor boy.”
Putting another biscuit into his mouth, he set out in the direction of the cheerful sounds, smiling to himself as he listened. Across the hall he went, glancing from side to side at its familiar furnishings, and finally pushed open the drawing-room door. Giant flowers, and firelight, and the laughing faces of pretty women made a charming picture among the soft blue-green and rust colours of the room, but everybody was making such a noise that he had been there for quite half a minute before anyone noticed him. Then Betty glanced down the long room and saw the open door with the old man standing beside it, and gave an exclamation. Everyone turned to look, and the next instant Kenneth and Miss Burton were hurrying forward with exclamations of welcome.
“Father! Of all people! How are you?” and Kenneth seized one of his parent’s hands and heartily shook it. “How ever did you get here? and why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Have you had any dinner?”
“No, and I should like some, please,” replied Mr. Fielding senior in a light, pleasant voice while his eye roamed keenly among the ladies in the background as if selecting types for a floor-show. He speaks with simplicity and directness, at least, thought Richard, who was watching the scene with some dismay. But what an old bounder. And the stuff on his back would keep a nursery school for a fortnight.
“Uncle Eustace! It must be five years since we met,” said Miss Burton, taking her uncle’s hand and shaking it, “how are you after all this long time?”
“I am very well, thank you, Frances, my dear. And you?”
“Very well too thank you, Uncle. We’ll get you something to eat at once—Vartouhi—I’m afraid there isn’t mu——”
“I have thought of that,” interrupted Mr. Fielding, and dived into one capacious pocket and produced a flat black case. He dived into another on the other side and produced a flat black flask.
“Whisky——” said Mr. Fielding, “and”—he flipped open the other case and disclosed to the fascinated eyes of his audience a large expanse of bloody meat—“steak.”
“Your ration! How thoughtful of you, Uncle!” cried Miss Burton.
“Oh, I ate my ration for lunch yesterday. I got this from a man I know in London,” and Mr. Fielding made his way to the most comfortable chair and began removing his outer garments and handing them one by one to Kenneth, while he keenly yet amiably studied the group by the fire.
“Betty! Betty Marten!” he suddenly cried in a satisfied tone while unwinding a silk scarf. “I was sure I knew that pretty face. What a delightful surprise! What are you doing here?”
He stood up, beaming with pleasure, and Betty came forward and greeted him and introduced Richard, whom he remembered seeing once twenty-five years ago in his pram. (Or says he does, thought Richard, uncharmed.) Mr. Fielding did not remember Alicia but did remember her mother, after whom he inquired, nodding smilingly on hearing that she was now married to someone else. After he had eaten the steak Vartouhi cooked for him, and congratulated her upon its excellence, he brought out and lit an excellent cigar. Slowly that ultra-masculine, undemocratic, old-fashioned fragrance diffused itself throughout the chaste apartments of Sunglades, winding over the copies of The Aryan Path and past the paintings of blue spirits with no legs and making the place smell like the foyer of the Empire Music Hall.
CHAPTER 19
IT WAS THIS unfamiliar yet nevertheless unmistakable smell that greeted the old gentleman’s two daughters as they walked home across the garden about half-past ten that night. The air was brilliant with moonlight and Mr. Fielding, who took a childlike pleasure in air raids, had been standing on his doorstep hopefully surveying the heavens and smoking a few moments since. The smoke lingered on the motionless air.
Miss Fielding and her sister stopped dead, sniffing, and exchanged a glance of horror.
“Cigar-smoke!” breathed Miss Fielding. And Mrs. Miles said deeply:
“Father!”
As one woman, they began to hurry towards the house. As they drew near to it the sound of music could be heard; heard very loudly. They exchanged another glance and Miss Fielding shook her head. Mrs. Miles said nothing. Each knew what the other was thinking and feeling.
Behind the front door, the brilliant lights shone on the gleaming expanse of the parquet hall, where Kenneth was waltzing with Vartouhi to the music of Live, Laugh and Love, gayest of tunes from a fairy-tale Vienna. Down the long shining floor they waltzed, with Vartouhi’s little feet in their shabby black slippers twinkling obediently after Kenneth’s big ones, her gaudy cap fluttering in the wind of their dancing and her laughing face lifted to his. On the stairs were grouped Miss Burton and Richard and Betty and Alicia, watching and laughing as they hummed the catchy tune. They had all been dancing, even Richard, who had ignored his weak ankle as he led out Alicia, and now they were resting and watching the two who were agreed by all to be the experts. Half-way up the stairs, like a little Father Christmas in the shadows, sat Mr. Fielding, with shady boughs of fir and red, glittering holly framing an old gilt mirror above his head, smiling sympathetically upon the scene and wondering if it couldn’t be worked up into a cabaret number. It was upon this orgy that Miss Fielding and her sister opened the door with their latchkey.
“Well! What fun!” exclaimed Miss Fielding playfully, advancing into the hall and stopping the waltzers in full flight like shot swallows. “And how long has this been going on, I should like to know? How much rehearsing has been done, you bad people?” All the time she was speaking, her eyes were searching into the darker corners of the hall for her father, and she suddenly detected him, skulking (the word came immediately into her mind) half-way up the stairs. Typical.
“Father!” exclaimed Mrs. Miles, detecting him at the same moment. “What a——” she checked herself. One of her unpleasant virtues was a chronic truthfulness, and never mind anyone’s toes; and as she could not on this occasion say that her father’s visit was a surprise, she just repeated “Father! Well!” which did not sound cordial.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fielding simply, coming down the stairs and coming across the hall, looking small yet prosperous, to pat his two large daughters on the arm.
“Have you dined?” inquired Mrs. Miles with enormous earnestness, peering down at him. He just nodded.
“I get Ovaltine,” said Vartouhi suddenly, darting away.
“Oh good,” said Mrs. Miles, still addressing her father and hurling her fur coat onto a chair. “Did you have a good journey down? And by the way, is Henry here?” glancing round as she suddenly remembered her husband.
“He telephoned about nine o’clock to say that he can’t get away after all,” said Miss Burton, coming forward with a guilty look, as of one caught furtively sipping gin.
?
??Oh, too bad,” beamed Mrs. Miles tragically and absently, sinking into a chair and fixing her father with a severe stare that seemed to go into his future, as well as over his past. “Oh, I do call that bad luck.”
“What is bad luck?” demanded Miss Fielding sharply, from her place at a side table with the drinks; she feared that her parent might already be unbosoming himself of his troubles.
“Henry! Henry cannot get away after all,” said Mrs. Miles.
“How tiresome. But perhaps it is just as well: we shall be rather a tight fit as it is and one more would make it impossible,” muttered Miss Fielding, her mind busy with plans as to who should sleep where.
In the kitchen Vartouhi was preparing the Ovaltine and thinking how much more cheerful the house had been lately. Is because of Mr. Fielding the young one, thought Vartouhi. At last he sees how foolish he has been for many years to let his sister rule him and make his manhood a mockery. Now he begins to remember his bravery as a soldier and his medals. He thinks: I am a Man! and so he rejoices and buys me a present—how I wonder what!—and kisses the women of the house with laughter and asks his honoured ancient father to spend the feast of Christmas beneath his roof. Is a very good thing, concluded Vartouhi, carrying the tray of Ovaltine into the drawing-room.
Betty and Miss Burton were conferring in the now deserted hall—where the rugs had been replaced and the gramophone removed.
“He will have to go on the Kumfi-Slepe in Richard’s room,” Miss Burton was saying. “Just for to-night——”
“Richard hates sharing a room,” said Richard’s mother.
“Well, I am dreadfully sorry, Betty,” said Miss Burton fussily, “but it isn’t my fault—you know what Uncle Eustace is—one never knows what he is going to do next—we never have—and Constance seems so upset at his coming—Joan too—anybody would think they had had no warning, and I know for a fact he wrote to Connie at least a week ago——”