All this time Miss Fielding had remained standing silently in the background and Vartouhi had taken no notice of her. In answer to Kenneth’s hearty greeting she slightly inclined her head. Really, I’d no idea Con could be so nasty, thought her brother. I hope to heaven there won’t be a row.
Rising from her knees, Vartouhi went across the threshold of Sunglades once more, and found herself face to face with Miss Fielding. Everybody held their breath.
“Honoured sister,” said Vartouhi very politely, making a low curtsy, “I say good morning to you.”
“Well, Vartouhi, so you have come back,” was Miss Fielding’s unpromising response. “Lunch is on the table, Kenneth,” and she turned away and walked into the dining-room.
Lunch passed off more pleasantly than everyone expected. Miss Fielding ate in silence, with downcast eyes and compressed lips, only saying, “Very handsome” when Vartouhi courteously held out the ruby ring for inspection, and taking no part in the discussion of wedding plans.
Towards the end of the meal two red spots appeared on her cheeks which Kenneth saw with dismay. By Jove, Connie is in a rage, he thought, and decided to turn Vartouhi over to Frankie after lunch and slip away to the office until the storm had passed.
They were to be married early in May, which gave Vartouhi about five weeks in which to prepare a trousseau.
“How exciting,” said Miss Burton; and there followed an awkward pause. No one liked to break it by asking if the bridal pair intended to live at Sunglades but that was what everybody wanted to know. Three people’s futures would be affected by their decision.
It was Vartouhi herself who spoke at last. Placing one hand upon that of Miss Burton and the other on that of Mr. Fielding as she sat between them, she said, with a new graciousness and looking indescribably foreign:
“When we are married we shall live here first of all, at Sunglades. Honoured second-father, honoured cousin, will you live here with us? I will look after you in your old age, my second-father; and you, my cousin, too also.”
“Yes, that’s a splendid plan,” said Kenneth heartily. “No, Frankie, no ‘buts.’ Father, that will suit you, won’t it?”
“Well, it’s a wonderful idea, Ken; I should hate to leave Sunglades after all these years——” said Miss Burton, greatly relieved. “It’s more than kind of you both.”
“That will suit me perfectly,” said Mr. Fielding quietly. All this excitement should have been pleasant, but he felt so tired and confused that he could not enjoy it.
“Are sixteen people in my father’s—first-father’s—house,” said Vartouhi. “My first-father, my mother, me (when I was live there), my sisters, Yania, Yilg, Djura, K’ussa, my nice Medora, my sister husband, two cousin varry old and poor, my mother’s three sisters not married, and my first-father’s brother, is varry rich and drink too much. Then we have ten servants too also. I like that. To have manny, manny people in a house is a happy thing. So you stay here, both you, and we all be happy together.”
Everyone laughed except Miss Fielding. No one dared to look at her.
As soon as lunch was over Miss Burton said that she would go and telephone the news to Betty, who would be so pleased; would Vartouhi come too?
“No, I clear away lunch. Honoured sister, will you go and rest?” said Vartouhi, inclining her head towards Miss Fielding.
“Oh—er—thank you. You had better——”
But here Miss Fielding’s feelings, which had been choking her throughout lunch, at the spectacle of Vartouhi full of fresh airs and graces and queening it over them all, became too much for her. She had been going to say, “Call me Constance,” but it was no use; she could not bring the words out, the sight of Vartouhi folding the tablecloth with that proprietary air was the final straw, and she rushed from the room.
“Is feeling bad,” said Vartouhi to Kenneth, who had lingered behind the others.
“Poor old Con, yes, I’m afraid she is. After all, it’s pretty hard on her. And it’s going to be rather complicated too. The house is one-third hers.”
“I do not understand.”
Kenneth explained.
“Buy that bit from her,” said Vartouhi, “then she can use the money to get a husband.”
“I don’t think she wants one, dear.”
“Avvrybody wants a husband. But she is so old. I cannot have her live here, Ken-neth. Would be fighting all day. The wife must rule in the house.”
“Yes, I quite see that. Poor old Con. Well, I suppose I’ll have to talk to her, and then I must get along to the office. I’ll see you later, dear.”
Vartouhi finished clearing away, then wheeled the dumbwaiter out to the kitchen and began to wash up, first carefully hanging the ruby ring on a hook on the dresser. She sang as she worked and the yellow hyacinth gave out its sweet smell to the sunlight. Afterwards, she went upstairs on affairs of her own.
Kenneth, in his outdoor clothes, went cautiously to the door of the little morning room that had been his mother’s and knocked. A muffled voice told him to “come in,” and he obeyed.
His sister sat there at his mother’s desk, with her eyes full of angry tears and a damp handkerchief clenched in one hand.
“Now, Con … now, old girl,” he said, and tried to pat her shoulder.
Miss Fielding jerked away from him.
“I am not upset for myself, Kenneth. I am upset for you.”
“Me! I’m as happy as a sandboy—haven’t felt so good for years.”
“Yes, that’s what worries me. You are so blind. You have been entrapped——”
“Now, Connie, steady on, you know.”
“You have, Kenneth. Entrapped by a greedy, calculating, baby-faced little—little——” Miss Fielding retired into the handkerchief again.
“You’ve never liked her,” said Kenneth, helplessly, too upset himself to feel angry (poor old Con, her bark was always worse than her bite), “that’s the trouble.”
“Because I’ve always seen through her. She’s been after you from the moment she set eyes on you——”
“Yes, she told me so,” said Kenneth.
“What! Told you so? Of all the barefaced, brazen, calculating——”
“I think it’s rather flattering and it’s damned funny too, the way she tells it—I wish you could have heard her——” said the infatuated man, laughing at the memory. (Miss Fielding gave a dismal trumpet into the handkerchief.) “She says it’s time she had a husband, having reached the impressive age of twenty, and as I hadn’t got a wife (she can’t make out why, by the way) and I’ve got a ‘large rich house’ and plenty of money, she thought I would fill the bill nicely.”
“How you can be so—so—materialistic—so unspiritual—you admit she’s marrying you for your money——”
“Oh, we shall get on all right,” said Kenneth. Not for worlds would he have betrayed the tenderness that linked him with his quaint little love. If Con liked to think he was a fool and Vartouhi was a gold-digger, let her.
“I hope you will, but I very much doubt it.”
“Dammit, Connie, you aren’t very encouraging, are you?”
“I am sorry, Kenneth. I do not feel encouraging. I have never regarded you as the right type to make a good husband and I see no reason to change my opinion now.”
“Well, really, Connie——” Words failed him for the moment.
“That is why I have always discouraged your silly flirtations and infatuations,” said Miss Fielding. “Often at considerable trouble to myself.”
Kenneth said, “Good God Almighty,” in a meditative tone, and his sister winced.
“There is no need to blaspheme, Kenneth.”
“Sorry. May I ask who you do think is the right type?”
“Well—Henry. Henry is the only person I can think of at the moment, though of course he is not good enough for Joan.”
“No, of course not, poor b-blighter,” said Kenneth feelingly. “And that’s your idea of a happy marriage, is it? with the w
ife wearing the trousers and the husband going round looking permanently browned off? It isn’t mine.”
Miss Fielding shut her eyes.
“The fact is,” said Kenneth, as if to himself, “most people just don’t know what happiness is.” He continued to look at his sister’s tear-stained, long-suffering face, and shook his head. “Just don’t know what it is,” he said again. “But I know. I’ve always known, only I’ve been a fool and haven’t gone the right way to get it.”
“I shall go and stay with Joan for a time,” said Miss Fielding faintly into the handkerchief.
“That’s a very good idea, Connie. It’ll give things time to settle down a bit. But you’ll come to the wedding, won’t you, old girl?”
“Oh I don’t know, Kenneth. It’s too soon—don’t ask me yet. I shall have to see how I feel.”
“Just as you like, of course, old girl. But I think Vartouhi would like you to come and I know I should.”
He waited for an answer, but none came. His sister continued to sit behind the handkerchief in silence, and presently he went out of the room and left her to it. He thought that he would go and take a peep at Vartouhi before he went down to the office; and ran upstairs two at a time, whistling. But at the top of the stairs he stopped. The door of the large linen-cupboard on the landing was open, and its lavender-scented and snowy contents were disposed in neat piles on newspaper upon the floor. Among them knelt the future mistress of Sunglades. She was counting sheets.
Some months later Betty Marten was taking a short holiday at her family’s home in Devonshire. Among her morning letters was one from her daughter-in-law which she opened with anticipations of amusement, for Alicia’s letters although curt as a man’s were always entertaining. After reading half a page she gave a slight shriek.
“What’s the matter?” inquired her sole companion at the breakfast table (who was none other than the successfully sublimated gardening aunt), without looking up from The Times.
“Who do you think is getting married now?”
“Goodness knows. There seems to be an epidemic of it in that part of the world.”
“Constance Fielding! I thought I should never get over Ken and that little savage, but this is more amazing still.”
“Good gracious me. That really is a surprise,” said the gardening-aunt calmly.” Who to?”
“Doctor Stocke—at last. Frankie and I always hoped they would. It appears that he sent her a letter in his own language and when she translated it, it turned out to be a proposal.”
“How romantic,” said the aunt. She got up and crossed to the window and stood looking out at the garden where the splendour of another June was beginning.
“They’re going to travel about, lecturing on peace,” continued Betty, turning over a page, “at least, for the present.”
“Let us hope that they will be listened to,” said the aunt. “Elizabeth, this honeysuckle has forty-seven flowers on it. I’ve just counted.”
“How delicious, darling. I’ll come and smell it in a minute. Alicia and Rick do sound happy.”
“Bless them.”
“Alicia says, This marriage is like a Mainbocher suit; you don’t get tired of it and it will wear for ever. Oh—when Rick heard about Kenneth’s engagement, he said they would naturally gravitate towards each other because they were the only two pure barbarians in the neighbourhood, Kenneth being the more amenable barbarian of the two. That’s all. Just her love to us.”
She got up and came over to the window. The delicious scent of the honeysuckle, rich with the zenith of summer, was strong on the warm air. The outsides of the long honey-coloured horns were dark crimson.
“Heavenly,” murmured Betty.
“There’s something a little absurd in someone getting married at that age, don’t you think?” said the aunt presently. “And it’s a risk too. They’re both set in their ways and too old to change.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Betty, bending forward once more to sniff the honeysuckle and expressing the feeling of most of the human race, “I think it’s always nice to hear of someone getting married.”
CHAPTER THE LAST
IN SUMMER THE mighty beech trees cast their shade on the foothills of the mountains of Bairamia, and the dark green leaves above the hoar silver trunks rustle in the wind from the sea. Through the coolness and shadow of evening; along the narrow track that wolves had begun a thousand years ago; down the side of the mountain from her convent where the nuns looked up to the Roman citadel on the height; past the shattered tiles and stones of that citadel mingled with the yellow scree of the slopes; down through the airy shade of the lilac thickets; along by the icy stream where the red tulips grew, rode the Reverend Mother of the Convent of Santa Cipriana on her high sloping Circassian saddle. She rode on an old white horse and before her plodded an old man carrying a carbine. The water made a rushing rippling sound and the air was beginning to smell of lilac. Four black birds flew in the gulf of clear air below the travellers and the sunset shone through the tips of their wing feathers and made them transparent. The eyes of the Reverend Mother and the old man followed their flight.
“Sleep-When-The-Sun-Sleeps is going to his nest,” said the old man. “We shall not be in the Khar-el-Nadoon before dusk, Holy One. You will have to sleep the night there at the house of Gyges. It is well?”
“It is well,” said the Reverend Mother placidly. She was about sixty years old and dressed in coarse bright blue linen that framed her wrinkled and clever face in severe folds.
They went steadily on. The shadows grew longer and the air cooler. The Reverend Mother glanced down at the brilliant grass, and first she saw the small yellow daisies shut, and then the globe-flowers, and then the tulips. She moved her fingers over her worn dark wooden beads and said the Prayer of Evening and the old man muttered it too. The sun went down behind the mountains and the rose colour faded out of the sky. They reached the Khar-el-Nadoon as the first stars came out.
The family of Gyges was seated at supper in the long, low living-room with its whitewashed walls hung with rich red and blue carpets. Lamps burned in the four corners with a brilliant smoky light and the smell of hot oil mingled with the steam from the whole lamb, piled about with rice and herbs, that smoked in a huge painted dish in the midst of the circle of people. The servants stood against the walls, ready to attend the family with bowls of water and towels for their greasy hands after they had taken food from the communal dish.
The light played over the white and yellow robes, the fair hair under square white caps, the long laughing eyes and smiling faces of Vartouhi’s people. Outside the stone house, in the clear blue night, the fruit was setting well on the trees, and in the small meadows, as thick with flowers as with grass, the sheep and goats were being milked under the olives. The nearest Italian soldiers were two miles away in the village, homesick and frightened. The family of Gyges plunged their hands into the lamb stew and ate with the appetite of people who trust in God and know that their country will soon be free from the invader. Presently, at a signal from the old man Gyges, a servant turned the knob of a large battered wireless cabinet and Turkish music rang out on the air; a thrilling and melancholy refrain of eight bars endlessly repeated, sonorous yet shrill. They ate and smiled and listened, the family likeness playing over their faces, and outside the door a crowd gradually gathered to listen to the music; poor fruit-pickers and workers who lived in hovels among the orchards, and people from the village a mile or two away, and one or two of the itinerant beggars whom a progressive Government had forbidden to beg and who hid in the woods by day and only came out at night to steal. A steady murmur of conversation and comment floated into the room on the cool night wind and the light of the lamps played now on a solemn exhausted face under a linen cap stiff with dirt and age, and now on a young face, wild and smiling. All were listening intently and some of them moved their heads and clapped their hands in time to the music.
Presently there was a commotion amon
g the crowd and the old man with the carbine pushed his way through them and past the servants standing at the door and made his way into the room. The meal itself was over, and the family was drinking the thick, sweet syrupy coffee that had just been poured for them by Yilg, the eldest unmarried daughter now at home.
Gyges looked up with dignity as the old man entered and waited for him to speak.
“The blessing of God be with you and on your house, honoured father of five daughters,” said the old man, putting the carbine carefully on the floor and then bowing and touching his brow, his lips and his heart. “The Reverend Mother of the Convent of the Holy Cipriana is outside and wishes to see you because she has a message from your daughter, who is now in the Country of Ships.”
This had been the Bairamian peasants’ name for England since the days of Elizabeth. From their bald mountain slopes of scree where the snow could find no permanent foothold they watched the ships going along the dark dazzling sea in the straits below, and for four hundred years most of the ships had been English. Twice in England’s history they had heard how she had been saved by her great fleets and her sailors and now she was being saved by them once again. The soldiers from England who had come to fight the Italians and free Bairamia in the old days had come in ships from England, and scaled the shaly cliffs with ropes and ladders while the guns of the ships kept watch below. Nowadays, of course, the music-and-talking-that-danced-along-the-air told them things about England—and about their own country too—in their own language, and lately the English aeroplanes had taken to flying over Bairamia and dropping packets of chocolate and good advice, and there was an English flying boy, a mere child who seemed half-asleep yet laughed as often as one of themselves, in the Italian prison camp at Ser. But they still thought of England as the Country of Ships.
When the family heard what the old man said an excited buzz of conversation began.
“Beg of the Holy One to enter our poor house at once,” said Gyges, and ordered fresh coffee to be made and sent for some dishes of sticky sweetmeats rolled in finely powdered sugar.