They sat far apart, each in a corner. Tony was very tired after his sleepless night. His eyes were heavy and the lights hurt them when the car passed through a bright little town.
“Have you been having a lovely time?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“No, rather lousy really. But I don’t expect you want to hear about that.”
“What are your plans?”
“Vague. What are yours?”
“Vague.”
And then in the close atmosphere and gentle motion of the car, Tony fell asleep. He slept for two and a half hours, with his face half hidden in the collar of his overcoat. Once, as they stopped at a level crossing, he half woke up and asked, deep down in the tweed, “Are we there?”
“No, darling. Miles more.”
And then he fell asleep again and woke to find them hooting at the lodge gates. He woke, too, to find that the question which neither he nor Brenda had asked, was answered. This should have been a crisis; his destinies had been at his control; there had been things to say, a decision to make, affecting every hour of his future life. And he had fallen asleep.
Ambrose was on the drawbridge to greet them. “Good evening, my lady. Good evening, sir. I hope you have had an agreeable voyage, sir.”
“Most agreeable, thank you, Ambrose. Everything quite all right here?”
“Everything quite all right, sir. There are one or two small things, but perhaps I had better mention them in the morning.”
“Yes, in the morning.”
“Your correspondence is all in the library, sir.”
“Thank you. I’ll see to all that tomorrow.”
They went into the great hall and upstairs. A large log fire was burning in Guinevere.
“The men only left last week, sir. I think you will find their work quite satisfactory.”
While his suitcase was being unpacked, Tony and Brenda examined the new bathrooms. Tony turned on the taps.
“I haven’t had the furnace lighted, sir. But it was lit the other day and the result was quite satisfactory.”
“Let’s not change,” said Brenda.
“No. We’ll have dinner right away, Ambrose.”
During dinner, Tony talked about his trip; of the people he had met, and the charm of the scenery, the improvidence of the Negro population, the fine flavour of the tropical fruits, the varying hospitality of the different Governors.
“I wonder if we could grow Avocado pears, here, under glass,” he said.
Brenda did not say very much. Once he asked her, “Have you been away at all?” and she replied “Me? No. London all the time.”
“How is everybody?”
“I didn’t see many people. Polly’s in America.”
And that set Tony talking about the excellent administration in Haiti. “They’ve made a new place of it,” he said.
After dinner they sat in the library. Tony surveyed the substantial pile of letters that had accumulated for him in his absence. “I can’t do anything about that tonight,” he said. “I’m so tired.”
“Yes, let’s go to bed soon.”
There was a pause, and it was then that Brenda said, “You aren’t still in a rage with me, are you? . . . over that nonsense with Mr. Beaver, I mean?”
“I don’t know that I was ever in a rage.”
“Oh yes you were. Just at the end you were, before you went away.”
Tony did not answer.
“You aren’t in a rage, are you? I hoped you weren’t, when you went to sleep in the car.”
Instead of answering, Tony asked, “What’s become of Beaver?”
“It’s rather a sad story, do you really want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I come out of it in a very small way. You see, I just couldn’t hold him down. He got away almost the same time as you.
“You see, you didn’t leave me with very much money, did you? And that made everything difficult because poor Mr. Beaver hadn’t any either. So everything was most uncomfortable. . . . And then there was a club he wanted to join—Brown’s—and they wouldn’t have him in, and for some reason he held that against me, because he thought I ought to have made Reggie help more instead of what actually happened, which was that Reggie was the chief one to keep him out. Gentlemen are so funny about their clubs, I should have thought it was heaven to have Mr. Beaver there, but they didn’t.
“And then Mrs. Beaver turned against me—she was always an old trout anyway—and I tried to get a job with her shop, but no, she wouldn’t have me on account she thought I was doing harm to Beaver. And then I had a job with Daisy trying to get people to go to her restaurant, but that wasn’t any good, and those I got didn’t pay their bills.
“So there was I living on bits from the delicatessen shop round the corner, and no friends much except Jenny, and I got to hate her.
“Tony, it was a lousy summer.
“And then, finally, there was an American vamp called Mrs. Rattery—you know, the Shameless Blonde. Well, my Mr. Beaver met her and from that moment I was nowhere. Of course she was just his ticket and he was bats about her, only she never seemed to notice him, and every time he met her she forgot she’d seen him before, and that was hard cheese on Beaver, but it didn’t make him any more decent to me. And he wore himself to a shadow chasing after her and getting no fun, till finally Mrs. Beaver sent him away and he’s got some job to do with her shop buying things in Berlin or Vienna.
“So that’s that . . . Tony, I believe you’re falling asleep again.”
“Well, I didn’t get any sleep at all last night.”
“Come on, let’s go up.”
II
That winter, shortly before Christmas, Daisy opened another restaurant. Tony and Brenda were in London for the day, so they went there to lunch. It was very full (Daisy’s restaurants were often full, but it never seemed to make any effect on the resulting deficit). They went to their table nodding gaily to right and left.
“All the old faces,” said Brenda.
A few places away sat Polly Cockpurse and Sybil with two young men.
“Who was that?”
“Brenda and Tony Last. I wonder what’s become of them. They never appear anywhere now.”
“They never did much.”
“I had an idea they’d split.”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“Come to think of it, I do remember some talk last spring,” said Sybil.
“Yes, I remember. Brenda had a fancy for someone quite extraordinary. I can’t remember who it was, but I know it was someone quite extraordinary.”
“Wasn’t that her sister Marjorie?”
“Oh no, hers was Robin Beasley.”
“Yes, of course . . . Brenda’s looking pretty.”
“Such a waste. But I don’t think she’d ever have the energy now to get away.”
At Brenda and Tony’s table they were saying, “I wish you’d see her.”
“No, you must see her.”
“All right, I’ll see her.”
Tony had to go and see Mrs. Beaver about the flat. Ever since his return they had been trying to sublet it. Now Mrs. Beaver had informed them that there was a tenant in sight.
So while Brenda was at the doctor’s (she was expecting a baby) Tony went round to the shop.
Mrs. Beaver was surrounded with a new sort of lampshade made of cellophane and cork.
“How are you, Mr. Last?” she said, rather formally. “We haven’t met since that delightful weekend at Hetton.”
“I hear you’ve found a tenant for the flat.”
“Yes, I think so. A young cousin of Viola Chasm’s. Of course I’m afraid you’ll have to make some slight sacrifice. You see the flats have proved too popular, if you see what I mean. The demand was so brisk that a great many other firms came into the market and, as a result, rents have fallen. Everyone is taking flats of the kind now, but the speculative builders are letting them at competitive rents. The new tenant wi
ll only pay two pounds fifteen a week and he insists on its being entirely repainted. We will undertake that, of course. I think we can make a very nice job of it for fifty pounds or so.”
“You know,” said Tony, “I’ve been thinking. It’s rather a useful thing to have—a flat of that kind.”
“It is necessary,” said Mrs. Beaver.
“Exactly. Well I think I shall keep it on. The only trouble is that my wife is inclined to fret a little about the rent. My idea is to use it when I come to London instead of my club. It will be cheaper and a great deal more convenient. But my wife may not see it in that light . . . in fact . . .”
“I quite understand.”
“I think it would be better if my name didn’t appear on that board downstairs.”
“Naturally. A number of my tenants are taking the same precaution.”
“So that’s all right.”
“That’s quite satisfactory. I daresay you will want some little piece of extra furniture—a writing table, for instance.”
“Yes, I suppose I had better.”
“I’ll send one round. I think I know just what will suit you.”
The table was delivered a week later. It cost eighteen pounds; on the same day there was a new name painted on the board below.
And for the price of the table Mrs. Beaver observed absolute discretion.
Tony met Brenda at Marjorie’s house and they caught the evening train together.
“Did you get rid of the flat?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s all settled.”
“Mrs. Beaver decent?”
“Very decent.”
“So that’s the end of that,” said Brenda.
And the train sped through the darkness towards Hetton.
PERIOD PIECE
Lady Amelia had been educated in the belief that it was the height of impropriety to read a novel in the morning. Now, in the twilight of her days, when she had singularly little to occupy the two hours between her appearance downstairs at quarter past eleven, hatted and fragrant with lavender water, and the announcement of luncheon, she adhered rigidly to this principle. As soon as luncheon was over, however, and coffee had been served in the drawing room; before the hot milk in his saucer had sufficiently cooled for Manchu to drink it; while the sunlight, in summer, streamed through the Venetian blinds of the round-fronted Regency windows; while, in winter, the carefully stacked coal-fire glowed in its round-fronted grate; while Manchu sniffed and sipped at his saucer, and Lady Amelia spread out on her knees the various shades of coarse wool with which her failing eyesight now compelled her to work; while the elegant Regency clock ticked off the two and a half hours to tea time—it was Miss Myers’s duty to read a novel aloud to her employer.
With the passing years Lady Amelia had grown increasingly fond of novels, and of novels of a particular type. They were what the assistant in the circulating library termed “strong meat” and kept in a hidden place under her desk. It was Miss Myers’s duty to fetch and return them. “Have you anything of the kind Lady Amelia likes?” she would ask sombrely.
“Well, there’s this just come in,” the assistant would answer, fishing up a volume from somewhere near her feet.
At one time Lady Amelia had enjoyed love stories about the irresponsible rich; then she had had a psychological phase; at the moment her interests were American, in the school of brutal realism and gross slang. “Something else like Sanctuary or Bessie Cotter,” Miss Myers was reluctantly obliged to demand. And as the still afternoon was disturbed by her delicately modulated tones enunciating page by page, in scarcely comprehensible idiom, the narratives of rape and betrayal, Lady Amelia would occasionally chuckle a little over her woolwork.
“Women of my age always devote themselves either to religion or novels,” she said. “I have remarked among my few surviving friends that those who read novels enjoy far better health.”
The story they were reading came to an end at half past four.
“Thank you,” said Lady Amelia. “That was most entertaining. Make a note of the author’s name, please, Miss Myers. You will be able to go to the library after tea and see whether they have another. I hope you enjoyed it.”
“Well, it was very sad, wasn’t it?”
“Sad?”
“I mean the poor young man who wrote it must come from a terrible home.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Myers?”
“Well, it was so far fetched.”
“It is odd you should think so. I invariably find modern novels painfully reticent. Of course until lately I never read novels at all. I cannot say what they were like formerly. I was far too busy in the old days living my own life and sharing the lives of my friends—all people who came from anything but terrible homes,” she added with a glance at her companion; a glance sharp and smart as a rap on the knuckles with an ivory ruler.
There was half an hour before tea; Manchu was asleep on the hearth rug, before the fireless grate; the sun streamed in through the blinds, casting long strips of light on the Aubusson carpet. Lady Amelia fixed her eyes on the embroidered, heraldic firescreen; and proceeded dreamily. “I suppose it would not do. You couldn’t write about the things which actually happen. People are so used to novels that they would not believe them. The poor writers are constantly at pains to make the truth seem probable. Dear me, I often think, as you sit, so kindly, reading to me, ‘If one was just to write down quite simply the events of a few years in any household one knows . . . No one would believe it.’ I can hear you yourself, dear Miss Myers, saying, ‘Perhaps these things do happen, very occasionally, once in a century, in terrible homes’; instead of which they are constantly happening, every day, all round us—or at least, they were in my young days.
“Take for example the extremely ironic circumstances of the succession of the present Lord Cornphillip:
“I used to know the Cornphillips very well in the old days,” said Lady Amelia—“Etty was a cousin of my mother’s—and when we were first married my husband and I used to stay there every autumn for the pheasant shooting. Billy Cornphillip was a very dull man—very dull indeed. He was in my husband’s regiment. I used to know a great many dull people at the time when I was first married, but Billy Cornphillip was notorious for dullness even among my husband’s friends. Their place is in Wiltshire. I see the boy is trying to sell it now. I am not surprised. It was very ugly and very unhealthy. I used to dread our visits there.
“Etty was entirely different, a lively little thing with very nice eyes. People thought her fast. Of course it was a very good match for her; she was one of seven sisters and her father was a younger son, poor dear. Billy was twelve years older. She had been after him for years. I remember crying with pleasure when I received her letter telling me of the engagement . . . It was at the breakfast table . . . she used a very artistic kind of writing paper with pale blue edges and bows of blue ribbon at the corner . . .
“Poor Etty was always being artistic; she tried to do something with the house—put up peacocks’ feathers and painted tambourines and some very modern stencil work—but the result was always depressing. She made a little garden for herself at some distance from the house, with a high wall and a padlocked door, where she used to retire to think—or so she said—for hours at a time. She called it the Garden of Her Thoughts. I went in with her once, as a great privilege, after one of her quarrels with Billy. Nothing grew very well there—because of the high walls, I suppose, and her doing it all herself. There was a mossy seat in the middle. I suppose she used to sit on it while she thought. The whole place had a nasty dank smell . . .
“Well we were all delighted at Etty’s luck and I think she quite liked Billy at first and was prepared to behave well to him, in spite of his dullness. You see it came just when we had all despaired. Billy had been the friend of Lady Instow for a long time and we were all afraid she would never let him marry but they had a quarrel at Cowes that year and Billy went up to Scotland in a bad temper and little Ett
y was staying in the house; so everything was arranged and I was one of her bridesmaids.
“The only person who was not pleased was Ralph Bland. You see he was Billy’s nearest relative and would inherit if Billy died without children and he had got very hopeful as time went on.
“He came to a very sad end—in fact I don’t know what became of him—but at the time of which I am speaking he was extremely popular, especially with women . . . Poor Viola Chasm was terribly in love with him. Wanted to run away. She and Lady Anchorage were very jealous of each other about him. It became quite disagreeable, particularly when Viola found that Lady Anchorage was paying her maid five pounds a week to send on all Ralph’s letters to her—before Viola had read them, that was what she minded. He really had a most agreeable manner and said such ridiculous things . . . The marriage was a great disappointment to Ralph; he was married himself and had two children. She had a little money at one time, but Ralph ran through it. Billy did not get on with Ralph—they had very little in common, of course—but he treated him quite well and was always getting him out of difficulties. In fact he made him a regular allowance at one time, and what with that and what he got from Viola and Lady Anchorage he was really quite comfortable. But, as he said, he had his children’s future to consider, so that Billy’s marriage was a great disappointment to him. He even talked of emigrating and Billy advanced him a large sum of money to purchase a sheep farm in New Zealand, but nothing came of that because Ralph had a Jewish friend in the city who made away with the entire amount. It all happened in a very unfortunate manner because Billy had given him this lump sum on the understanding that he should not expect an allowance. And then Viola and Lady Anchorage were greatly upset at his talk of leaving and made other arrangements so that in one way and another Ralph found himself in very low water, poor thing.
“However he began to recover his spirits when, after two years, there was no sign of an heir. People had babies very much more regularly when I was young. Everybody expected that Etty would have a baby—she was a nice healthy little thing—and when she did not, there was a great deal of ill-natured gossip. Ralph himself behaved very wrongly in the matter. He used to make jokes about it, my husband told me, quite openly at his club in the worst possible taste.