‘Yes, Colonel Phillips and Saxon had to run him out of the yard,’ said Mrs Wither, who was so much embarrassed by the events of the afternoon and so overwhelmed by the calamities that had befallen her garden party that she was nearly crying. ‘Here they come now … oh, Colonel Phillips, how good of you! I do hope you’re not hurt? I can’t tell you how sorry we are …’
‘Nonsense, nonsense. Not your fault. No harm done,’ said Colonel Phillips, grimly (he was limping). ‘Your chauffeur got the worse of it, I’m afraid. The fellow got him down before I could stop him. Gave his head a nasty crack. Your good Cook is attending to him. Parsham! your beastly dog got loose and legged it up the road … bowled me over, confound it. He’s half-way home now, I should think.’
‘Is Saxon much hurt, Annie?’ asked Tina, with trembling lips, as the party slowly went back into the garden, all talking at once and agreeing that the Hermit was a disgrace, Mrs Caker a great pity, and their association a scandal. A beautiful evening was setting in, the wind had fallen at last. Little gold clouds were spread over the sky.
‘Not much, Miss Tina; he’s got a nasty bruise. But, Miss,’ Annie lowered her voice, staring down respectfully at her large feet, ‘he’s so upset. His mother being there, you know, Miss. With that man. The worse for drink. Isn’t it dreadful, Miss, a nice respectable boy like Saxon. In front of everyone. Calling him names, Miss. Cook and me didn’t know where to look.’
‘I’ll come down and see him,’ said Tina suddenly, turning her back on the garden party (which was now going like a house on fire, since something nasty had happened and given everyone a subject for talk. There is nothing like something nasty for bringing people together).
‘I’m so sorry about it all, Annie,’ went on Tina, as they walked quickly back to the house. ‘He is a nice respectable boy, and I should like him to know that we’re not angry with him because his mother came here like that.’
There was an indescribable comfort in talking thus to Annie, who had been with them for fifteen years and known Tina as a girl, in the shadow of the ugly, staid house where she had been born. Though she did not love the house nor the people in it, though she took them for granted and longed to get away from the life she lived there with them, she felt that by talking about Saxon like this she was drawing him into the circle of her own life and surrounding him with comfort and warmth. Tina wanted to show Annie, Saxon himself, everyone, that The Eagles cared for him, and supported him against the grossness of his mother and her life.
The hush that had fallen with evening, the calm golden light on the house, the cobblestones and the half-open garage door, seemed beautiful to her. She felt happy yet sad, as though she were listening to music.
‘Is he in your parlour?’
‘Yes, Miss Tina.’
The servants’ parlour was on the other side of the house and had a view of the road and the oak wood. The room was full of reflected sunbeams thrown up from the white lane, and in this strange shimmer of light, Saxon looked very pale. He was sitting in Cook’s own wicker-chair while Cook herself carefully bathed an ugly bruise at the back of his head with warm water and boracic. He was very quiet. Tina saw at once that he was blinded by rage. He looked up at her as though he did not know her.
‘There – here’s Miss Tina come to see you,’ said Cook, in as soothing a voice as her austere nature could manage; she spoke as though he were seven years old.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Tina, quietly.
‘Oh no, Miss; Doctor Parsham said I could do all that was necessary. But it’s made him feel sick like, for the minute.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Annie, importantly. (Fawcuss was upstairs helping to usher out the visitors.) ‘Falling like that. Bound to.’
Saxon said nothing, but stared at his boots.
I must say something to comfort him, thought Tina. It’s horrible to see all his courage gone. What can I say? Nothing patronizing; nothing soft or ‘cheery’. Difficult.
But as she looked at his dark lowered head and the line of eyelashes lying obstinately on his pale cheek, she suddenly found herself speaking from her heart, as though he and she were alone.
‘You mustn’t mind about it,’ she said, gently yet with authority, bending a little towards him. ‘It’s horrible, I know, but it doesn’t make any difference to you, Saxon. A person’s self-respect isn’t hurt by what other people do to them. Only you can hurt your own self-respect. So you mustn’t mind.’
Cook and Annie, standing apart, seemed a little surprised, but Cook nodded approvingly. The three women looked gently at him, as though he were a child; and Tina’s honesty and tenderness, the dour goodness of the ageing servants, seemed to surround him like a wall, reminding him that other people also cared about Virtue in her myriad forms, that his battle was not fought without allies.
He did not look up, but said in a very low, yet distinct, tone: ‘Thank you, Miss Tina.’
When she got up to her room that evening about ten o’clock she found on the black lacquer table a little bunch of pink roses, their stems neatly tied with bast. None grew in the Withers’ own garden; the nearest came from a cottage on the other side of the wood near the cross-roads, where the children stood on Sundays and offered them to passing motorists. He must have walked all the way back with them, made some excuse to get into the house, and found his way, while the family were at dinner, to her room.
A sweet breath came hauntingly from them and scented the air about her all night while she slept.
About half-past eight that evening, as the servants were settling down to listen-in, a van rushed into the yard, dusty and triumphant, driven by an old man. Out of it hopped a little boy, and flew up to the back door with a huge package.
It was the cakes.
CHAPTER XVI
How happily three summer days flew past! Viola shone with her secret; she played with Polo, picked out tunes on the piano with one finger, sang last year’s songs up and downstairs, tried to help everyone and made rather a nuisance of herself. She wrote Mrs Victor Spring, Viola Spring, Yours sincerely Mrs V. Spring, all over her writing-block, repaired her small store of clothes with a vague idea of being ready for a sudden departure, and kissed the dance programme every night before she went to sleep. It has been hinted that her nature was affectionate; now that it had received encouragement there was no holding it; she was in love, so much in love that she did not realize that it was Wednesday morning and the letter had not come; and that the man she was in love with was the legendary Victor Spring. Victor had now become Him. He was less of a real person than ever. She never once thought about his character or his income or his mother. She was drunk. She wandered about like a dazzled moth, smiling dreamily, and running downstairs when the postman came, crying:
‘Anything for me?’
He had said: ‘Good. I’ll write to you,’ so of course he would. It was not like last time when he had not said anything.
When Friday morning came and there was no letter, she could still find satisfying reasons why there should not be, for she remembered Mr Wither saying that Victor was very busy just now; and had not Victor himself told her that he had cut two Board meetings and a trip to the North to come to the garden party? Having made this excuse for him, she happily resumed her waiting for the letter, living on memories and hardly aware of the days as they flew, nor of the fact that the atmosphere of The Eagles was much pleasanter than was usual.
Tina had fresh liveliness in her manner and colour in her cheeks, Madge was always good humoured and made a lot of jokes, which pleased Mrs Wither and kept her from disapproving of everything as much as usual, and Mr Wither, because the money had again rallied, was on top of the world. He showed it by suddenly giving the four women a pound each.
Fawcuss, Annie and Cook were kept busy and contented about the annual Summer Fête given by the Vicar of Sible Pelden; they were knitting, baking and sewing things for the Give What You Like stall. Saxon’s whistle, cheerful and sweet even when it was rendering: ‘Wh
addam I Gonta Do?’ was heard all day round the mansion and in the yard like the voice of an invisible house-spirit. Polo learned to do Trust and Paid For. Mr Spurrey wrote that his rheumatism was better. The weather was beautiful, and everything too pleasant to last.
The general contentment was increased on Monday morning by the arrival of an elegant printed invitation, to the entire household, to attend a garden party at Grassmere on the following Saturday!
Mrs Wither studied the card, printed in white on scarlet with a tiny sailing-boat in one corner. It had that air of just having been thought of and rushed off in hundreds by an up-to-date and expensive printing firm that marked all the Spring stationery. It looked exciting. It made you think ‘Now why didn’t we splash a bit and have our cards done like that?’ It was only later that you realized that the party itself, the house it was given in, the food and the drink, would have to be even more exciting than the card, in order to justify the excitement the card had raised. Then, of course, you gave up the whole idea and bought ordinary cards as usual.
‘It says “Staff too, please!” on the back,’ said Tina, craning.
‘So it does,’ murmured Mrs Wither, turning the card round. It was pretty, it was exciting. All the same, she did not quite approve of it.
‘It must be going to be a jolly big party,’ said Madge.
I’ll wear my pink, thought Viola, her happiness mounting because she would see Victor again, in the sunny gardens of his own home, and hear from him why he had not had time to write and fix up definitely about the theatre. She wandered off into delightful thoughts about Victor and clothes.
‘Did you see this, m’m?’ inquired Cook, primly, but looking rather pleased, when Mrs Wither went down later to see her about some domestic matter. It was another card, addressed to The Staff, The Eagles, printed in white on dark blue with a lawn-umbrella in one corner. ‘From the staff at Grassmere, m’m. It’s a garden party they’re giving next Saturday. Quite a big affair, I should think, m’m.’
Cook then shut her lips, lowered her lids, and gazed modestly at the floor. The next move was Mrs Wither’s.
‘Oh yes. Yes. We have had one too, Cook. We are all invited, it seems. Very kind of Mrs Spring,’ said Mrs Wither, who thought it very odd and ostentatious of Mrs Spring, but felt that she, as gentry, must back up other gentry, even in their eccentricities.
‘Will it be convenient for me and Fawcuss and Annie to go, m’m?’ pursued Cook, firmly.
‘Oh yes, Cook, by all means. We will all go. We will have a cold, early lunch,’ went on Mrs Wither, a faint eagerness invading her voice, ‘and lock up the house—’
‘I suppose that would include Saxon, m’m?’
‘Oh yes, certainly, by all means. Saxon, of course.’
And they went on to work out plans for Saturday in detail, enjoying the party a week before the party was due. This is one of the many advantages of leading a quiet life.
‘Well, I’m sure I hope they have better weather than we had, m’m,’ said Fawcuss, coming leisurely in to fetch a new tin of Vim from a cupboard. ‘I’m sure everything was against us the day we had our garden party, m’m, of course,’ said Fawcuss, stooping slowly to get the Vim out of its dungeon, ‘weather makes such a difference; all the difference, you may say. It’s easy enough to make a show, isn’t it, m’m, if everything goes right. But what with the weather, and that dreadful man, and that woman, and the Doctor’s dog, and them cakes—’
By this time a sobriety had fallen upon the kitchen. Murmuring yes, it had all been most unfortunate, Mrs Wither retreated.
As they drove through the lanes to Grassmere on the day of the garden party, Viola was happier than she had ever been in her life. Her own feelings, the flowers and trees, the sun high in the blue sky, seemed slowly rising, rising towards some wonderful moment. The whole of life was moving upwards, like music, or a wave before it breaks. At any moment now – as they drew nearer to Grassmere – the marvellous thing would happen, and nothing would ever be the same. She did not think clearly about her feelings, but sat quite still in the heart of happiness with eyes half closed and parted lips. Bright pink roses glowed in the dusty hedges. Summer heat came up from the glaring road and fell from the darkening elms. The day, and Viola, were wonderfully, triumphantly happy.
When Grassmere came in sight they all exclaimed, for the trees were looped with white and scarlet bunting, and there was an awning in those colours over the gates. Music drifted through the trees and they could see light dresses moving across the lawns.
‘Quite gay. Must have cost young Spring a pretty penny.’ Mr Wither’s tone expressed approval, and some awe at the temperament which could spend a pretty penny on a festival so at the mercy of chance as a garden party.
Mr Wither was mistaken. Victor never took chances. If he saw his plans were about to be upset by God, he altered them before God had time to act. Had he not been sure of perfect weather, that garden party would have been turned at the last minute into another sort of party, suitable for indoors.
Saxon, giving Tina a faint smile, drove off to fetch the three maids from The Eagles, and the party moved slowly in through the gates.
It was a far bigger affair than they had expected. There must have been over a hundred people, walking leisurely about, playing tennis, listening to the string band, reclining in deck-chairs and lying on swing-seats, stepping out of the drawing-room french windows with drinks in their hands and exclaiming: ‘Isn’t it scorching! Couldn’t have had a better day for it! Just Vic’s luck, of course.’ Laughter and the low roar of voices almost drowned the music. White-jacketed waiters moved deftly in and out, feeding and oiling the crowd, popping piles of exotic sandwiches under people’s noses, saying: ‘Certainly, sir. Very good, sir. Excuse me. Pardon, sir. Pardon, Madam … pardon …’
The party from The Eagles felt quite bewildered. They could not see one person they knew; the host and hostess were not to be detected, and they did not know where to look for them. The party was so much larger and more luxurious than they had expected that they were almost shocked. It was like finding themselves at the Royal Garden Party in a nightmare.
But after they had all found deck-chairs, and been fed and given tea by the waiters, and recognized one or two people, they began to enjoy the party, though they were content merely to sit and watch. Mrs Wither did say once that they really ought to go and find Mrs Spring, but the chairs were so comfortable, the tea so delicious, and the afternoon so hot that they lingered on, under their rose-pink umbrella, without making a move.
People were still arriving, fashionable strangers, presumably from London, or from Stanton where the Springs had many friends. Viola was quite content, studying the clothes of the women and wondering who they were. She was not jealous of them, because Victor had kissed her. He would not have kissed her unless he liked her better than all these beautifully dressed girls. Presently she would see him.
‘Hullo – good afternoon! Have you had tea and everything? Yes – good. Unpleasantly hot, d’you not think? I am so glad that you could come.’
It was Hetty sauntering up to them, pallid with the heat and looking bored, a tail of hair poking out under her shady hat.
‘How do you do … oh, not too hot, surely? We were just saying what a perfect afternoon it is – provided that one can sit still, of course … ! and a delightful party, really delightful, so original, and it was so kind of your aunt to ask the maids, too. Are they having their party—?’
‘Oh yes, at the other side of the house. May I sit here?’ pulling up a chair. Mr Wither, who ought to have bounded to do this for her, slept.
‘Do.’
‘I am relieved to hear that you are not finding the entertainment too deplorable,’ went on Hetty, drearily.
‘My dear! Of course not. What a strange thing to say!’ Mrs Wither gave a shocked little laugh; what a peculiar girl Miss Franklin was. ‘How could anyone not enjoy it? And the maids were so pleased to come – of course, that class doesn’
t get much pleasure, does it? Perhaps that’s all for the best, really, for pleasure seems to have a bad effect on them, doesn’t it, though one ought not to say so in these “Socialist” days, I suppose.’
Mrs Wither would have been surprised to learn how much pleasure the Hermit and Mrs Caker had.
‘Does it?’ said Hetty vaguely, who did not think much about the lack of pleasure among the English working classes. ‘Does it not, I mean?’
Her voice went off into silence, and she fell into a reverie about the staff at Grassmere and decided that they had a good deal of pleasure, what with their wireless, separate bedrooms, good table and servants’ hall. But it was too hot to argue. She stared dreamily through half-shut lids at the bright dresses floating over green lawns, the pink lively faces with open laughing mouths, the heavy boughs of the trees hanging down.
‘Where is your aunt?’ inquired Mrs Wither, after a sleepy pause. ‘I have not seen her yet, nor your cousin.’
‘She is in the drawing-room, I imagine, with Vic and Phyl. They are still being congratulated,’ replied Hetty; and then, with a disagreeable shock of dismay, realized what she had said.
‘Congratulated?’ exclaimed Mrs Wither, animatedly, sitting up. ‘What for? Is your cousin—?’
‘Yes, engaged. Yes,’ stammered Hetty, aware from the corner of her eye that young Mrs Wither was staring at her with a face going ever paler, even under the glow shed by the rosy lawn-umbrella, while her eyes were widening as though she saw a blow coming.
‘Yes, it was in the Daily Telegraph yesterday, but perhaps you do not take the Telegraph’ (Mr Wither woke up and shook his head, muttering, ‘No, Morning Post’) ‘and this party is really to celebrate the engagement, you see.’
(I must keep on talking, so they won’t notice her … fancy looking like that over a sunburnt void like Vic, indeed and indeed, tastes do differ …)