Why not? thought The Usurper, but Miss Burton thought that it was better not to say it aloud.
“And Betty does nothing to discourage him!” burst out her cousin, “it’s positively indecent, at their age! And Richard giving presents to Vartouhi, and all the time she must have been sucking up to Kenneth behind our backs—really, I don’t know what the house is coming to—it’s like—a—like a farmyard!”
“Oh really, Connie, I think you’re making too much fuss about it,” said Miss Burton very daringly. “Everybody naturally feels friendlier at Christmas and you know Kenneth and Uncle Eustace always have been—er—attracted to the opposite sex” (women, thought The Usurper scathingly). “They don’t mean anything by it. After all, Vartouhi doesn’t encourage Richard, and he really behaved very well yesterday, poor boy: I’m sure he proposed to her and was turned down; he looked so odd at dinner.”
“Then it was very silly of him, and even sillier of her to lose a good chance,” said Miss Fielding crushingly. “I thought Kenneth was so glum because Father was carrying on with Betty, but I suppose, if what you say is true, he was glum because he was jealous of Richard carrying on with Vartouhi. Jealous of Richard! At his age! Disgusting!”
“I don’t think anybody is jealous of anybody,” said Miss Burton, determined not to let her go from the room with all these suspicions still in her mind. “It’s all much—much lighter than you think, Constance. I’m afraid it’s Joan who has made you take such an exaggerated view.”
“Joan is worried, naturally, Frances.”
“Joan is overworked and needs a good rest,” retorted Miss Burton and The Usurper thought, So does Big Ben. “Couldn’t you and she agree not to talk any more about it to-day?”
“Impossible,” said Miss Fielding, getting up. But she looked less worried, and at the door she paused and said, looking back at her cousin curled like a mouse in the large bed, “Of course, it would be very awkward to have to get rid of Vartouhi. She really suits us very well and before this affair I quite liked her, quaint little thing. I don’t want to have to sack her.”
“I hope you won’t, Connie,” said Miss Burton earnestly, raising herself on her elbow, “you know we were both getting quite worn out with the work before she came and you don’t want us to be landed with any more evacuees, do you?”
“Well, I will see; you may be right,” and Miss Fielding tramped downstairs again to her own room.
Love—thought Miss Burton, lying on her side and staring at the Christmas roses on her bedside table. And she tried to have some beautiful thoughts about Love, but really, all she could think of was how much she wished they had three good maids again and the war was over and it was possible to buy a chicken for lunch if you wanted one, and then she was shocked to find herself thinking that Love was only one more nuisance to deal with. So she got out of bed and began to get up.
I will keep them all busy rehearsing Little Frimdl to-day, thought Miss Fielding, as she coiled and pinned her hair, and that will keep them under my eye. I will not have a repetition of yesterday, with Father and Betty in each other’s pockets all day and Richard getting up before it was light to hang round Vartouhi in the kitchen, and then going off in that peculiar way after lunch without saying a word to anybody. Betty can’t want him to marry a little foreigner who isn’t much better than a servant. I shall speak to her about it to-day—if I can get her to attend to anything else but her own affairs—and if she hasn’t noticed anything, I shall tell her straight out what’s going on. It’s most peculiar; I never noticed that Richard was mooning after Vartouhi. Perhaps Frances is imagining the whole thing. But I must say she’s always been right about that sort of thing before. Only I don’t take any notice of what she says about Betty and Father. Of course there’s something in it. I suppose I can believe my own eyes. It’s simply that Frances is fond of Betty and so she makes excuses for her. And as soon as the holiday is over I will see about getting rid of Father, and Betty and Richard too. And Vartouhi as well, if Kenneth doesn’t pull himself together. Oh dear, oh dear, why must people make such fools of themselves and upset everything? Thank goodness I was never that way myself, and Joan was always most sensible, even when she was engaged.
The fact is, Sex is a Destructive Force, more often than not used by the Evil Principle for its own ends, and I will not have it rampant and unchecked in my beautiful home where Our Mother spent her last years.
Such were the plans of Miss Fielding for Boxing Day. But (as in a “whodunit” in which the house party is cut off from the rest of the world by a snowstorm and everybody is plotting against everybody else) the other members of the party also had their plans; and when she announced playfully yet firmly at breakfast that to-day presented the perfect opportunity for getting in two good long rehearsals of Little Frimdl, she was annoyed to be greeted by a series of rebellious murmurs; Richard was going to spend the day in town with friends; Kenneth proposed, as it was not raining, to do some digging and tidy the greenhouse; Betty murmured something about writing letters and mending; and even Vartouhi said that she was going to sew on the beautiful thing. Miss Burton said nothing, but Miss Fielding knew from experience how she could slip away to nowhere just when you wanted her. The only support for her plan came from Mrs. Miles, who announced in a solitary bellow, of course, what a grand idea, and from Mr. Fielding, who was always ready to talk and bustle about. His support was rather disconcerting, for he was very out of favour with Miss Fielding and her manner towards him throughout breakfast had been markedly grave.
The fact was that the more sensitive members of the party had not yet recovered from the shocks of yesterday, and felt the need of solitude and reflection to restore their composure. Kenneth had been made to feel his imprudence in lending his father such a large sum of money; both his sisters had pointed out that doubtless this was the Beginning of It and the Thin End of the Wedge, and so on, and these prophecies had strengthened his own sense of recklessness and guilt. In these times! when unearned incomes were dwindling steadily beneath the pressure of unforeseen circumstances and Income Tax! Lending money to promote a night club! He must be mad!
He had not dared to tell them that it was to be called The Last Banana.
He had slept badly because he was worried, and this morning he wanted to get away from everybody and work in the garden; with the dark wet winter earth and the bundles of bast and the flower pots and seedling boxes, moving them about and rearranging them in the quiet of the December day until he had soothed himself into his usual state of mind.
Richard had decided that another day like yesterday would—would give an importance to their little group that would be false when compared with what was happening in Europe, and so he was simply going to run away; to know when to do this, and not to feel ashamed of doing it, was a famous conserver of energy, he had always found.
As for Betty, she was wishing it was time to go back to work, because the holiday was being both dull and full of anxiety for her; and old Mr. Fielding, beside her at the breakfast table, was planning to sit over the drawing-room fire with her for most of the day, smoking and laughing and gossiping.
In the face of so much quiet but steady opposition, Miss Fielding found it impossible to press her plan and she got up from the breakfast table in a bad temper. Vartouhi, who was more fortunate than she realized in having a fixed programme of work to occupy her day, immediately began to clear the table, and the others dispersed upon their own affairs.
“Betty——” said Miss Fielding ten minutes later, opening Betty’s door—“are you there? I want to speak to you—oh, now why are you making your bed? Vartouhi can easily do it.”
“I thought I might as well. I don’t mind, really.”
Miss Fielding shut the door and sat down upon the dressing-stool. Betty went on making the bed. Surely she can’t be going to tackle me about the Night Club King? she thought incredulously—though I wouldn’t put it past her. Anybody would think I enjoyed having the poor old sweet dancing ro
und me, instead of praying for nightfall.
“Do you realize that Richard is—er—is very attracted to Vartouhi?” began Miss Fielding abruptly.
Betty looked at her across the bed, as she sat firmly on the dressing-stool, fresh and neat in her good dark woollen dress, with her lips pressed purposefully together, and thought what an interfering bosser she was. Betty was also (as at most of the “scenes” and “good long talks” at which she had unwillingly assisted) conscious of a strong desire to giggle. But she was also determined to protect her son.
“Oh—is he?” she said mildly. “I know he likes flirting with her, of course; anybody can see that, but I don’t think it’s serious.”
“He proposed to her yesterday,” said Miss Fielding solemnly.
“Did he? How thrilling! How do you know?”
“I don’t know for a fact, but Frances had her eye on the two of them all day and she is sure he did,” said Miss Fielding, taken aback by this girlish flutter of interest.
“Frances is a romantic old goose,” said Betty, straightening the eiderdown. “She loves that sort of thing.”
“All the same, she is usually right, Betty. And I do feel that you ought——” Miss Fielding paused, anxious to choose words which should have a strong effect—“you ought to take a very serious view of the matter,” ended Miss Fielding.
Betty, also choosing her words, rejected the “Why?” that rose to her lips and replied soothingly:
“I will, Connie. Thanks awfully for telling me.”
“But you don’t!” exclaimed Miss Fielding, suspecting not without reason that she was being soothed and resenting the fact. “You don’t seem at all upset. I cannot make you out, Betty. Now if I had an only son, who was delicate and clever (at least, some people seem to think he’s clever), I should be very deeply distressed at the idea of his marrying a refugee, a foreigner, a girl who may be pretty, but who isn’t much better than a servant. Besides,” Miss Fielding went on dropping her voice a couple of notes and looking meaningly at Betty across the bed, “that sort of thing … you never know where it may lead, and we don’t know what Vartouhi’s morals are.”
“Possibly not, but I know what Richard’s are,” said Betty, beginning to feel angry.
Miss Fielding sniffed, but said nothing.
“Yes; I know that he wouldn’t lead anyone astray unless they were willing,” said Betty.
“My dear!” Miss Fielding was deeply shocked. “I should hope he wouldn’t behave like that to anyone, whether they were willing or not! If I thought that he would, I should be very sorry to think that he had ever stayed under my roof.”
“Especially not a girl much younger than himself, an exile from her own country, with no money and hardly any friends,” Betty went on. Colour had come into her face.
“Well, I am very relieved to hear it,” said Miss Fielding, not sounding in the least relieved. “In that case, if what you say about him is true, don’t you think it is very likely that he has asked her to marry him?”
“I’m sure he hasn’t,” said Betty decidedly, “because he has no money. He can’t afford to marry for years yet, until he has an academic job with a good salary. We have often discussed it,” she ended, with her prettiest smile.
“Oh, then he does discuss his affairs with you?” asked Miss Fielding, looking at her keenly.
“Oh yes. Everything. Ever since he was a tiny,” lied his mother.
“And has he talked to you about Vartouhi?”
“Oh yes, quite openly. He thinks she’s a charming little thing (which she is, of course) but nothing more. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Connie. It’s very kind of you to bother about Richard, but he can take care of himself.”
“Oh well, so long as you’re satisfied,” said Miss Fielding, getting up from the dressing-stool and marching towards the door. “I still think you’re taking it too lightly but of course you never did worry about anything, did you? even as a girl.”
“I’m afraid not. Awful of me.”
“Our Mother always used to say—I’m sure you won’t mind my telling you this, you know her funny joky way and how she always spoke out so splendidly, just what she felt about people—‘Betty is a lightweight in the boat-race of life.’”
She got muddled with boxing, thought Betty but she only nodded and continued to look pleasantly attentive.
“And I always say that you care about nothing but Richard and hats!” cried Miss Fielding; laughing jovially.
“And handbags!” said Betty, laughing too.
“Well, you are very lucky not to worry,” said Miss Fielding, going solemn again as she felt the conversation taking a lighter tone. “I suppose it hasn’t——” she hesitated, then went on, “I know you won’t mind my saying this to you, as that old affair between you and Kenneth was so many years ago—but you haven’t noticed Kenneth looking at Vartouhi, have you?”
“Ken? Good heavens no, Connie! What an idea!”
“But the scent—the scent, Betty! Joan says it can’t have cost a penny less than seven guineas.”
“Ken’s so kind; he wouldn’t think about the price of a thing if he wanted to give someone pleasure,” Betty said warmly, glad to be able to say something truthful at last. “He’s sorry for her, that’s all.”
“Yes—well, I hope so,” said Miss Fielding doubtfully, shaking her head as she went out of the door, “but you know what a fool he’s always been about a pretty face.”
And, nodding and smiling, she shut the door behind her and tramped downstairs.
Betty sat down on the bed and swore; then put some powder on her nose and went downstairs (we are sorry to say with malice in her heart) to find old Mr. Fielding.
She found him in the hall, telling Richard where he could get a pre-war meal in London if he didn’t mind paying for it. He did not add “or ask where it comes from,” but Richard, looking huntedly at him, filled in this gap and was more anxious than ever to be off.
“… a thick juicy steak and those little button French mushrooms and plenty of onions. And something to wash it down with!” said Mr. Fielding, all twinkling and rosy, looking up at Richard, who had four slices of Spam and half a loaf in his pockets, as iron rations to take to his friends in London.
“You surprise me,” said Richard, “but not very much.”
“Ah ha! Well, they say you can buy anything in London and Pekin if you’ve got the money, and it’s still true, in spite of the war. Now don’t forget, my boy; the second turning on the left down Windmill Street. I shall be interested to hear how you get on—and give my love to Bebbini, he and I are old friends. Enjoy yourself! Good-bye.”
Richard blew a kiss to his mother and shut the front door.
“I’ve just told him where he can get a first-class feed,” said Mr. Fielding to Betty. “Hope he does; it will do him good; he’s too thin for his height.”
Betty only smiled. This was usually enough; but Mr. Fielding went on:
“Nice boy. I didn’t like him at first, you know.”
“No?” said Betty.
“I thought that he was highbrow. But there’s good stuff in him. Well—there would be—he’s your son,” and he suddenly gave her an adoring smile, and patted her arm.
Oh goodness, if only it were time to go back to the Ministry, thought Betty.
Miss Fielding, happening to cross the hall at this identical moment, observed both the arm-patting and the smile.
“Let’s take a turn round the garden,” suggested Mr. Fielding, and Betty, still feeling revengeful but not so revengeful as she had been, went to get a coat.
In the kitchen garden, Kenneth had carefully closed the door that shut away the outside world and pulled an old hat over his eyes and turned up his coat collar and was pottering about. The day was cold and still with a veiled sun gleaming fitfully in a cloudy sky. Frost lingered on the ground under the big cabbage leaves. He went into the greenhouse and began to tidy it; untangling bast and rolling it into neat balls and ar
ranging the flower pots in rows and sweeping down the racks and shelves with an old broom. It was very quite in there, and everything was still except the clouds moving slowly across the sun and casting their faint shadows on the ground. The warmth of two hundred summers seemed distilled in this ancient glass house, for the air was never really cold there even in the depths of winter. He had been worried enough when he came into the garden; about his father, and the loan to his father, and the anger of his sisters, and about some feelings of his own which he had not clearly thought out (for he belonged to the generation that has not the habit of telling the truth to itself about its feelings), but gradually he began to feel peaceful and soon he ceased to think about anything, and worked on in a trance of contentment, aware only of the rough surfaces of the pots and shelves as he handled them and the smell of dry earth and warm wood. He began to whistle softly.
When he had been working there for some time he saw out of the corner of his eye something moving across the garden. It was Vartouhi, carrying a white basin in which she was evidently going to gather winter spinach. He felt irritated. She’ll come in here bothering, was his first uncontrollable thought, for the habits of half a century of bachelorhood are not easily broken down and, although he had been a model son and was now almost a model brother, as well as a devoted admirer of women, his life-experience of them was that they usually did bother. They were not fond of solitude and silence, and the prettier they were the more they shrank from those two pleasures, and the more (it seemed to him) did they bother. Well, it’s only natural, he thought vaguely. But he pulled his hat over his eyes, as if in the hope that she might think he was somebody else.
In a moment or two she had worked her way across to the greenhouse—although it was true that the best spinach grew in a bed immediately outside it—and was busily filling her bowl, without a glance in his direction. She had on gumboots and her brilliant Bairamian scarf tied round her head like a peasant. He kept on glancing at her through the dusty panes, and presently began to wish that she would look at him. At last he opened the greenhouse door and called to her: