There was a frown on Leila Yorke's brow, as if she had temporarily suspended the thinking of lovely thoughts and had turned to others of an inferior grade.
'You look peeved,' said Sally, noting this.
Tm feeling peeved,' said Miss Yorke. 'What was that bell I heard?'
'That was the County starting to call. A Mr. Cornelius. I don't know who he is.'
'He's the house agent. Keeps rabbits.'
'Oh, does he? Well, he likes to be neighbourly, so he brought you the Sunday papers.'
'Bless him. Just what I wanted.'
'And thirty-two of your books, to be autographed.'
'Curse him. May his rabbits get myx-whatever-it-is.'
‘And he wants you to give a little talk to his literary society which meets every second Thursday.'
'Oh, hell!'
'Keep calm. I got you out of it. I told him you were thinking out a new novel.'
Leila Yorke snorted bitterly.
'You did, did you? Then you wantonly deceived the poor man. How can I think out a George Gissing novel in surroundings like these? I always thought the suburbs were miles and miles of ghastly little semi-detached houses full of worn-out women ironing shirts and haggard men with coughs wondering where the rent was coming from, and look at this joint we've fetched up in. A palace, no less.'
'Would you say that?'
'Well, it's got a summerhouse and two bird-baths and an aspidistra in the drawing-room, not to mention a reproduction of Millais' Huguenot and a china mug with "A present From Bognor Regis" on it in pink sea shells, which I'll bet they haven't got at Windsor Castle. I ought to have known it. That young hound was pulling my leg.'
'What young hound?'
'You know him. Widgeon. You brought him along to see me, and we got along like a couple of sailors on shore leave. We split a bottle of the best and got kidding back and forth about his uncle Rodney and Johnny Shoesmith and what have you, and in a weak moment I confided in him about this novel of squalor I'm trying to write, and he told me that if I wanted a place where I could absorb squalor by the gallon, I ought to come to Valley Fields. He said if I played my cards right, I could get this Castlewood house, and like a chump I told him to phone Cornelius and fix it up. And here I am, stuck in a luxury suburb about as inspirational as Las Vegas. For all the grey atmosphere I'm likely to find here, I might just as well have stayed where I was. Shows how unsafe it is ever to trust anybody in a solicitor's office. Twisters, all of them.'
Twice during these remarks, as the perfidy of Frederick Widgeon was made clearer and clearer to her, Sally had gasped - the first time like a Pekinese choking on a bone of a size more suitable to a bloodhound, the second time like another Pekinese choking on another bone of similar dimensions. She was stunned by this revelation of the Machiavellian depths to which the male sex can descend when it puts its mind to it, and Leila Yorke looked at her oddly, puzzled by the expression on her face.
'Why,' she asked, 'have you turned vermilion?'
'I haven't.'
'Pardon me. You look like a startled beetroot. This means something. Good Lord!' said Leila Yorke, inspired. 'I see it all. Widgeon loves you, and he talked me into taking this house so that he could be next door to you and in a position to tickle you across the fence. Shows character and enterprise that. I see a bright future for the boy. if only I don't murder him for letting me in for this Valley Fields jaunt. Yes, we have established that important point, I think. Love has wound its silken fetters about Widgeon.'
If Sally had been a character in one of Leila Yorke's books, she would have ground her teeth. Not knowing how to, she sniffed.
'It would be odd if it hadn't,' she said bitterly. He loves every girl he meets.'
'Is that so?' said Leila Yorke, interested. 'I knew a man once who had the same tendency. He was a chartered accountant, and all chartered accountants have hearts as big as hotels. You think they're engrossed in auditing the half-yearly balance sheet of Miggs, Montagu and Murgatroyd, general importers, and all the time they're writing notes to blondes saying, "Tomorrow, one-thirty, same place." I wouldn't let that worry you. It doesn't amount to anything. Men are like that.'
‘I don't want a man like that.'
'You want Widgeon, whatever he's like. I've been watching you with a motherly eye for some time, and I've noted all the symptoms - the faraway, stuffed frog look, the dreamy manner, the quick jump like a rising trout when spoken to suddenly. My good child, you're crazy about him, and if you've any sense, you'll tell him so and sign him up. I'm a lot older than you, and I'll give a piece of advice. If you love a man, never be such an ass as to let him go. I'm telling you this as one who knows, because that's what I did, and I've never stopped regretting it. Were you engaged?'
'Yes.'
'Broke it off?'
'Yes.'
‘I was married. Much worse, because it hurts more that way. You've so much more to remember. But a broken engagement's nothing. You can stick it together again in a couple of minutes, and if you'll take my advice, you'll attend to it right away. You'll probably find him in his garden, rolling the lawn or whatever they do in these parts on a Sunday morning. Pick up your feet, kid, and go and tell him what you really think of him.'
‘I will,' said Sally, and set forth with that resolve firmly fixed in her mind. She was breathing flame softly through the nostrils.
8
FREDDIE was not rolling the lawn when she came out into the garden, he was seated in the shade of the one tree that Peacehaven possessed, reading the Sunday paper which Mr. Cornelius had so kindly brought him, and Sally, reaching the fence, paused. The problem of how to attract his attention had presented itself. 'Hi!' seemed lacking in dignity. 'Hoy!’ had the same defect. And 'Freddie!' was much too friendly. What she would really have liked, of course, would have been to throw a brick at him, but the grounds of Castlewood, though parklike, were unfortunately lacking in bricks. She compromised by saying, 'Good morning,' in a voice that lowered the balmy temperature of the summer day by several degrees Fahrenheit, and he looked up with a start and having looked up sat for an instant spellbound, the picture of a young man in flannels and an Eton Ramblers blazer who is momentarily unable to believe his eyes. Then, rising acrobatically, he hurried to the fence.
'Sally!' he gasped. 'Is it really you?'
'Yes,' said Sally, and once more the temperature dropped noticeably. A snail that was passing at the time huddled back into its shell with the feeling that there was quite a nip in the air these mornings, and would have slapped its ribs, if it had had any.
'But this is the most extraordinary thing that ever happened,' said Freddie. 'It takes the breath away. What are those things they have in deserts? I don't mean Foreign Legions. Mirages, that's the word. When I looked up and saw you standing there, I thought it was a mirage.'
'Oh?'
'Well, I mean; you can't say it isn't remarkable that I should look up and see you standing there. It…how shall I put it?...it took the breath away.'
'Oh?'
There is something about the monosyllable 'Oh?', when uttered in a cold, level voice by the girl he loves, that makes the most intrepid man uneasy. Freddie had been gifted by Nature with much of the gall of an Army mule, but even he lost a little of his animation. However, he persevered.
'Don't tell me you've come to live at Castlewood?'
It was practically impossible for Sally to look colder and prouder than she had been doing since the start of this interview, but she did her best.
'Do you need to be told?'
'Eh?'
'I've heard the whole story from Miss Yorke.'
Freddie gulped. This, an inner voice was whispering, was not so good.
'The whole story?''
'Yes.'
'She spilled the beans?'
'She did.'
'You know all?'
'I do.'
'Then in that case,' said Freddie, suddenly brightening as a man will when he has found a good talking
point, 'perhaps you'll get it into your nut how much I love you. I will conceal nothing from you.'
'You won't have the chance.'
'I did lure the Yorke here, and I'd do it again. I'd lure a thousand Yorkes here. It was imperative to have you within easy talking distance so that I could plead my cause and get you to stop being a little fathead.'
'I am not a fathead.'
'Pardon me. You appear to be under the impression that my love isn't sincere and whole-hearted and all that sort of thing. Therefore you stand revealed as a fathead.'
'And you stand revealed as a cross between a flitting butterfly and a Mormon elder,' said Sally with spirit. 'You and Brigham Young, a pair.'
This silenced Freddie for a moment, but he continued to persevere.
'I beg your pardon?'
'You make love to every girl you meet.'
'It's a lie.'
'It is not a lie.'
'It is a lie, and actionable, too, I shouldn't wonder. I must ask Shoesmith. Really, to come here flinging around these wild and unwarrantable accusations…'
'Unwarrantable, did you say?'
'That was the word I used.'
'Oh? Well, how about Drusilla Wix?'
'Eh?'
'And Dahlia Prenderby and Mavis Peasemarch and Vanessa Vokes and Helen Christopher and Dora Pinfold and Hildegarde Watt-Watson?'
This rain of names plainly shook Freddie. He seemed to shrink within his Eton Ramblers blazer in much the same way as the recent snail had shrunk within its shell, and, like the snail, he had the momentary illusion that Valley Fields was in the grip of a cold wave. In a voice that gave the impression that he had tried to swallow something large and sharp, which had lodged in his windpipe, he said:
'Oh, those?'
'Yes, those.'
'Who told you about them?'
'Mr. Prosser.'
'Oofy?'
'I told you he came to see Miss Yorke one day. I showed him round the place and we got talking and your name came up and he said you were always in love with every girl you met and proved it by supplying details. Those were the only names he mentioned, but I have no doubt he could have added hundreds more.'
Freddie, was stunned. He stammered as he spoke. He had seldom been so shocked.
'Oofy! A fellow I've practically nursed in my bosom! If that's his idea of being a staunch pal, then all I can say is that it isn't mine.'
'He was merely passing on information which is generally known to all the young thugs of your acquaintance. It is common knowledge that if all the girls you've loved were placed end to end, they would reach from Piccadilly Circus to Hyde Park Corner.'
It seemed to Freddie that Castlewood, a solidly built house, though of course, as in the case of most suburban houses, it was unsafe to treat it roughly by leaning against the walls or anything like that, was doing an Ouled Nails stomach dance. With a strong effort he mastered an inclination to swoon where he stood. He found speech and movement, and not even Mr. Molloy, when selling oil stock, could have waved his arms more vigorously.
'But, dash it, don't you understand that those were just boyish fancies? You're different.'
'Oh?' said Sally, and if ever an 'Oh?' nearly came out as 'Ho!', this one did.
Freddie continued to act like an emotional octopus. The speed at which his arms were gyrating almost deceived the eye.
'Yes, of course you're different. You're the real thing. You're what I've been hunting around for ever since I went to my first kindergarten. And all those girls you've mentioned had popped in and out of my life long before I met you. Oh, Sally darling, do get it into your loaf that you're the only damned thing in this damned world that matters a damn to me.'
In spite of herself Sally found herself wavering. She had planned to be firm and sensible, but it is not easy for a girl to remain firm and sensible when such melting words are proceeding from the lips of the only man she has ever really loved. And a disturbing, weakening thought had floated into her mind—to wit, that she herself had not the unimpeachable record which she was demanding from this opposite number of hers. She had never revealed the fact to him, for a girl likes to have her little secrets, but she, too, had had her experiences. There had been quite a troupe of Bills and Toms and Jimmys in her life before Frederick Widgeon had come into it, and what did they amount to now? They had gone with the wind, they meant nothing to her, she did not even send them Christmas cards. Could it be that the Misses Wix, Prenderby, Peasemarch, Vokes, Christopher, Pinfold and Watt-Watson ranked equally low in the estimation of Freddie Widgeon?
As she stood debating this point, a voice spoke in her rear.
'Hullo there, Widgeon.'
'Oh, hullo, Miss Yorke. Welcome to Valley Fields.'
'Welcome to Valley Fields, my foot. I'd like a word with you some time about Valley Fields and its grey squalor.'
'Any time that suits you.'
'That was a nice trick you played on me, was it not? Still we can go into that later. For your information, I'm inclined to take a lenient view.'
'Good show.'
'Now that I learn that it was love that drove you on. Love conquers all.'
'You betcher.'
'If you're in love, you're in love.'
'You never spoke a truer word.'
'Well,' said Leila Yorke, who was always direct in her methods and seldom beat about bushes, 'how's it coming? Have you kissed her?'
'Not yet'
'For heaven's sake! Are you man or mouse?'
'Well, you see, there's a snag. I'm not so dashed sure she wants me to. The thing's what Shoesmith would call sub judice.'
'Of course she wants you to.' '
You really feel that?'
'It's official.'
Freddie drew a deep breath. 'How's chances, Sally?'
'Pretty good, Freddie.'
'That's better. That's more the stuff. That's the sort of thing I like to hear,' said Leila Yorke, and wandered off, thinking what Mr. Cornelius would have called lovely thoughts. The situation reminded her a little of the getting-together of Claude Hallward and Cynthia Roseleigh in her Cupid, The Archer.
Woof!' said Freddie some moments later.
‘Oh, Freddie!' said Sally. I've been so miserable, Freddie.'
‘Me, too. Plunged in gloom.'
‘Do you really love me?'
‘Like billy-o.'
‘You'll always love me?'
‘Till the sands of the desert grow cold.'
‘Well, mind you do. When I'm married, I want my husband to stay put, not go flitting from flower to flower.'
‘That shall be attended to.'
‘I don't want you ever to speak to another girl.’
'I won't.'
And don't…’
'I know what you're going to say. You would prefer that I didn't kiss them. Right ho. Never again. It's just a mannerism.'
'Correct it.'
‘I will. I'll be like Johnny Shoesmith. He wouldn't kiss Helen of Troy if you brought her to him asleep on a chair with a sprig of mistletoe suspended over her. And now hop across that fence, and I'll show you round Peacehaven.'
Leila Yorke, meanwhile, after doing the setting-up exercises with which she always began the day, had gone back to her bedroom to dress. She had just completed her toilet when the front door bell rang. With a brief 'Oh, hell!', for this, she supposed, would be Mr. Cornelius paying a return date with another suitcaseful of books to be autographed, she went to answer it.
It was not Mr. Cornelius. It was a snappily dressed man of middle age with a frank, open face, and a lofty brow resembling Shakespeare's, who gazed at her with fine, candid eyes as if the sight of her had just made his day.
'Miss Leila Yorke?'
'Yes.’
'Good morning. Miss Yorke. This is a wonderful moment for me. I am one of your greatest admirers. That must be my excuse for this unceremonious call. Could I speak to you for a few minutes, if I am not interrupting your work? It would be a great privilege.'
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9
Sunday, with the marts of trade closed and no chance of going out and doing a little shopping, was always a dullish day for Dolly Molloy, and after the departure of Soapy for Castlewood she had found the time pass slowly. She did her nails, tried her hair a different way, changed her stockings three times and experimented with a new lipstick, formerly the property of a leading department store, but she was unable altogether to dispel ennui, and it was with relief that as the hour approached when one would be thinking about a bite of lunch she heard a key turning in the door.
'I thought you were never coming, honey,' she cried happily, bounding up to greet the warrior back from the front.
But her happiness was short-lived. One glance as he came into the room was enough to tell her that here was not a man bringing the good news from Ghent to Aix but one who had a tale of failure to relate. There was a cloud on Soapy's brow, and his eyes were sombre. His whole appearance conveyed the suggestion that in the not distant past he had undergone some spiritual experience which he had found disturbing. Only too plainly he was in the grip of that grief - void, dark and drear, which finds no natural outlet, no relief, in word or sigh or tear - which in the early eighteen-hundreds had depressed the poet Coleridge.
He sank into a chair and wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief which his helpmeet had picked up at Harrod's one afternoon last winter and given him for Christmas.
'Gosh!' he said in a voice that might well have come from a tomb.
Dolly was a good wife. Though quivering with curiosity and burning to ask questions, she knew that first things must come first. Some quarter of an hour ago Room Service had deposited on a side table a tray containing ice and glasses, and she hurried to a cupboard and extracted from it gin, vermouth and a shaker. A musical tinkling broke the silence that had fallen on the room, and presently Soapy, after he had had one quick and had got started on another rather slower, gave evidence of being sufficiently restored to be able to render his report.