The duke then took them for a short stroll in the park, which was dank and gloomy. During the course of it, however, Jasper managed to obtain several promising snapshots of his grandfather as well as an interesting study of Lord Rousham, who, peeping over the edge of his nest as they passed, began to pelt them with orange-peel, chattering wildly to himself.
‘Wonderful fellow, Rousham,’ said the duke, hardly bothering even to look up, ‘he can turn his hand to anything, you know. That’s a first-class nest he has made. They tell me it is entirely lined with pieces of the India Report. Of course we miss him in the House just now, but I bet you he is doing good work up there all the same.’
Presently they were joined by the curator, who had come to inform Jasper that all visitors must be outside the park by six o’clock.
‘That’ll be in ten minutes time,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come again and take the duke out? We always allow it in the case of the moderate ones. There is an excellent tuckshop in the village and they love to go there, it makes a nice change for them.’
‘I’ll do that one day,’ said Jasper. ‘I had thought of taking him over to see Lady Chalford as I know she would be pleased. And by the way, there is to be a garden party and pageant at Chalford House next Wednesday week, and she asked me to find out whether you would care to come over for it, and bring any of the peers with you?’
The curator accepted this invitation with pleasure, and so, when it was put to him, did the Duke of Driburgh. After this, Poppy and Jasper, feeling more exhausted than if they had spent the day with a small boy at his private school, mounted their Rolls-Royce and drove away.
13
The artistic young men of Rackenbridge found themselves a good deal inconvenienced by Mrs Lace’s preoccupation in her new love-affair. Their hearts were perhaps less affected than their stomachs, the emotions of those young men had never been much shaken by any petticoat, but up to now they had always been able to count on Comberry Manor and its chateleine for such agreeable amenities as free meals and pocket-money during the summer. This year a gloomy change had come about. The colony had already been at Rackenbridge for over a month, but as yet not one single picture, photograph, piece of pottery or hand-woven linen had been commissioned by their patroness, nor had she introduced to the studios, as she usually did, any gullible visitors. Almost worse than this trade depression was the fact that practically no invitations to meals at Comberry were now being issued. The artistic young men were getting tired of scrambled eggs and sardines eaten off studio floors, they longed to sit up to a table and attack a joint.
This state of affairs was rightly laid at Noel’s door. As well as providing a complete distraction from the ordinary routine of her life he had shaken Mrs Lace in the belief that her friends were geniuses. He assured her that in London they were perfectly unknown, and his attitude towards their work, too, was distressing. For instance, after glancing at Mr Forderen’s series of photographs entitled ‘Anne-Marie in some of her exquisite moods’ which, when they were first taken a year before had caused the greatest enthusiasm in Rackenbridge, he had remarked quite carelessly that she ought to have her photograph taken by some proper photographer.
‘Don’t you see,’ Anne-Marie had said, ‘that these pictures represent, not me but my moods, this one, for instance, “pensive by firelight,” don’t you think it rather striking?’
‘No I don’t,’ said Noel, whose own mood that day was not of the sunniest. ‘It is nothing but an amateurish snapshot of you looking affected. Frankly, I see no merit in any of them whatever, and as I said before, all those young aesthetes at Rackenbridge strike me as being fearfully 1923, and bogus at that.’
As a result of this conversation the series was removed from the walls of Anne-Marie’s drawing-room, from whence it had long revolted Major Lace, and consigned to those of a downstairs lavatory. Here it was duly observed by poor Mr Forderen on the occasion of the cocktail-party.
Under the stress of these circumstances Rackenbridge abandoned the petty jealousies which usually marred its peace, and decided with unanimity upon a course of action. Mr Leader, who, up till now had been the envied but acknowledged favourite at Comberry Manor, was deputized to woo Mrs Lace away from her Philistine lover or, if this should not prove feasible, to point out at any rate that her old friends were entitled to some small part of her time and attention. To this end Mr Leader sent a little note accompanied by an offering of honey in a handmade jar, in which he begged Mrs Lace to keep a midnight assignation with him at a spot well known to them both, a little green knoll surmounted by a giant oak tree. He knew his Anne-Marie well enough to be convinced that whereas she might easily refuse to see him alone if he called in the ordinary way at six o’clock, the prospect of tearful scenes by moonlight would be beyond her powers to resist. Sure enough, at the very stroke of twelve o’clock she crept from her conjugal bed, leaving Major Lace to the company of his own tremendous snores which, as she well knew, nothing short of an earthquake could disturb. Throwing a chiffon wrap over her chiffon nightdress she floated away to join Mr Leader at his oak tree.
As she approached he took a graceful step forward, throwing out both his hands and cried, ‘Beautiful Swan!’ hoping thus to evoke romantic memories of a time when he and she were known in Rackenbridge as ‘Leader and the Swan’. ‘You look more lovely than I have ever seen you to-night. Are you a denizen of this earth, you wonderful creature, or do you come to us from another sphere!’
Anne-Marie, arranging herself upon the greensward, assumed a classical pose and gazed up at him with sombre eyes.
‘I have com,’ she said, her foreign accent more than usually stressed. ‘It was dangerrous and deef feecult, but I have com. What ees it that you want – que veux-tu mon ami?’
‘Everything,’ said Mr Leader, moodily, ‘or nothing.’
Anne-Marie leant back and waited for the passionate outburst which she hoped was coming; she was not disappointed. Mr Leader, assuming the attitude which had proved so successful when he as Hamlet and she as Ophelia had taken Rackenbridge by storm two years previously, began to accuse her of unfaithfulness, not to individuals, but to the deathless cause of Art. He told her that she alone could provide inspiration to those who loved her so earnestly, that no good work had been done at Rackenbridge that year, or could ever be done again until she should consent to shine like a star in their midst once more. As individuals they could bear her loss even if it killed them, as artists it was their duty to recall her to hers. Mr Leader spoke in this strain for some time, during which Anne-Marie wept and enjoyed it all very much, and particularly wished that Noel could have heard. When at last she had an opportunity to speak she said that those to whom she meant so much must make a tremendous effort to understand her now. She explained that she was probably one of the world’s great lovers, and her love for Noel would be accounted in days to come as one of history’s greatest loves.
‘You must remember,’ she said, gazing at the moon which hung over them like a large melon, ‘that love, if it is to be worth while, is always tragic, always demands immense sacrifice. Otherwise it is of no value. I will sacrifice everything to it ruthlessly, my husband, my children, my reputation, even all of you my friends, you and your wonderful work must go to feed the flames which light its altar. Je n’en peux rien, que voulez-vous. C’est plus fort que la mort.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Mr Leader, gloomily contrasting in his mind scrambled eggs and sardines with the very satisfying quality of Mrs Lace’s food; ‘but, dear Anne-Marie, can he be worthy of your exquisite intellect? We all greatly fear that he is not.’
‘That may be so,’ she said, complacently, ‘but that is neither here nor there. What is intellect, compared with passion? I tell you that I love him, he occupies my time, my thoughts, my very soul – there is no room in my life for anybody else at the moment. When he is gone, as go he must, I may come back to all of you, an empty hollow husk; life will hold no more for me, but I shall at least have loved an
d made the great sacrifice, and I shall struggle on to the end, living for my memories.’
Her voice trailed away into a sob. Mr Leader, in the face of so much fortitude, and so much grief, found no words with which to suggest that a few free meals and one or two of the usual small commissions would be a great boon to himself, and his companions. He assured Anne-Marie that when her hour of sorrow should come she would find loving friends at Rackenbridge ready and anxious to pour balm into her wounds. Before he could enlarge upon this theme, Anne-Marie, whose trailing chiffon afforded but little warmth, and who was blue with cold, was floating back to that excellent circulation which, in her eyes, constituted Major Lace’s chief virtue as a husband. Mr Leader sadly set forth on the long tramp to Rackenbridge.
One o’clock in the morning. The village of Chalford was sleeping soundly when a flickering light appeared in the sky and presently became a steady crimson glow. A reflection of it shone into Jasper’s room, so he got up, very sleepy, and went out on to the green, looking to see where it could come from. In doing so he ran into Mr Leader, who was walking quickly towards Rackenbridge.
‘Oh, hullo!’ said Jasper, ‘what is it, a house or a haystack?’
Mr Leader merely gave him a nasty look and hurried away.
Jasper, turning a corner of the village street, saw that Eugenia’s Social Unionist head-quarters were a mass of flames. He felt sorry for Eugenia, he knew that she would be very much upset by this disaster. As it was a pretty sight, and he now felt fairly wide awake, he stayed to watch it blaze. Presently the others appeared, having been woken up by the smell of burning.
‘Jolly little bonfire, isn’t it?’ said Jasper, putting his arm round Poppy’s waist. ‘Nothing we can do would be of any use, luckily. Hullo! here are the Comrades, rotten luck for them I must say.’
The Comrades marched up in formation, but seeing that no human effort would avail to extinguish that furnace, they indulged in a little community singing to keep up their spirits in the face of this setback to their cause.
Lady Marjorie, by the light of the flames, observed Mr Wilkins and with a little cry of excitement she streaked off in his direction.
‘Wonderful, what love will do for a girl,’ observed Jasper. ‘I can’t think when she finds time to grease her face nowadays; I suppose it will seize up soon, like a motor car. Hullo! here come the Laces to see the fun – goodbye, Noel. What did I say? This village is a perfect hot-bed of romance, isn’t it, darling Miss Smith?’ He kissed her ear. ‘Oh, God! there are the detectives again; come on, let’s bunk shall we? I’m sick of the sight of them.’
‘Yes, in a way,’ said Poppy. ‘The only thing is, if they are still here it must mean that they haven’t got any evidence on us.’
‘I can’t imagine why you don’t hand out the dope and let the old boy divorce you if he wants to. It would save a lot of trouble.’
‘Feminine caution, I suppose,’ said Poppy. She was a good deal in love with Jasper, but not sure that she wanted to marry him. Certain aspects of his nature seemed far from satisfactory.
‘He is such a fearful pickpocket, you know,’ she said, in a burst of confidence to Marjorie. ‘I can’t leave my bag lying about for a moment.’
‘Goodness knows how much he’s had out of mine,’ said Marjorie.
‘Funny how customs have changed,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m sure in our mothers’ day ladies didn’t fall in love with thieves.’
Early next morning, Eugenia, on Vivian Jackson, came thundering down to the village at a hard gallop. Having inspected the still smouldering ruins of her head-quarters, she went round to the Jolly Roger, where she found Jasper and Noel eating breakfast in their pyjamas.
‘It is a nuisance,’ was all she said, but Jasper thought she had been crying. He plied her with sausages and she became more cheerful.
‘Of course, it must be the work of Pacifists,’ she said, with her mouth full, ‘and you may be quite sure that I am going to sift this affair thoroughly. Wait until I have run them to earth, the brutal yellows financed by Jews too, no doubt.’
‘Talking of Pacifists,’ said Jasper, suddenly, ‘whom do you think I saw last night hurrying away from your head-quarters just after the fire must have started? Dear little Mr Leader. He was behaving in a highly suspicious manner, I thought.’
Eugenia made that gesture which usually accompanies a snapping of the fingers. It was one she was very fond of, but as her hands were soft and babyish she seldom achieved a satisfactory crack. On this occasion it was completely absent.
‘Mr Leader,’ she cried, ‘how mad of me, I had forgotten all about him. Of course, when we have a nest of filthy yellows in our midst, we need look no further afield. Very well, I shall act immediately.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I will send the Comrades to fetch him along,’ said Eugenia. ‘Terrible shall be the fate of the enemies of Social Unionism. In fact, I think I will arrange for the Comrades to seize him this very afternoon, while he is working in his STUDIO.’ (She pronounced the word with infinite contempt.) ‘He is probably laughing up his sleeve by now, thinking that nobody will ever find out who is the author of that foul crime. They can bind and gag him, and bring him to a quiet place I know of in Chalford Park, where I will court-martial him at the drumhead.’
‘And if he is found guilty?’
‘If,’ cried Eugenia, tossing her head, ‘there is no “if”. He shall be found guilty and Oh, boy! will I have him beaten up? Terrible shall be the fate —’
Jasper, however, with some difficulty restrained her from putting such extreme proposals into practice. He explained that the time was not yet ripe for a blood-bath in Chalford, that such a proceeding would do infinite harm to her cause and that if she carried it out she would get herself into serious trouble with the Comrades at the London head-quarters. Those men of iron, he hinted, might easily degrade her from her position of patrol leader and remove her little emblem if she drew down upon them the unwelcome publicity that would follow such a step. It was this last argument which persuaded Eugenia to leave the whole matter in Jasper’s hands.
‘If he really did it, I think perhaps some small punishment is coming to him,’ said Jasper, ‘but it is absolutely essential that we should hear what he has to say for himself.’
‘That’s why we must have a trial,’ said Eugenia, ‘and you can’t have a trial unless he is gagged and bound first. He is far too cunning and cowardly to put his head into the lion’s den of his own accord.’
‘We must consider it carefully,’ said Jasper, ‘there are probably ways and means.’
In the end, Lady Marjorie, whose passion for Mr Wilkins had brought her down from her high horse, and revealed her as a most surprisingly good-natured creature, allowed herself to be used as a decoy. She sent a note to Mrs Lace asking her to tea at the Jolly Roger. ‘We hope so much that you will be able to come, Yours sincerely, Marjorie Merrith. PS. We wanted to invite also that charming Mr Leader whom we met at your cocktail-party, but cannot find out where he lives. Could you very kindly give him the message for us?’
‘Very good indeed,’ said Jasper, when this composition was submitted to him, ‘I particularly like the use of the royal “We”.’
Anne-Marie was pleased with her invitation. It was the first occasion on which she had been asked, except by Noel, to anything which was unconnected with the pageant, and privately she thought it was high time. Also she was pleased that Mr Leader had been included, and not her dreary husband. She had wished for some time that the Jolly Roger should make overtures to Rackenbridge. It would be so nice, she thought, if their inhabitants were to be merged into one Society for the Admiration of Mrs Lace. Besides, truth to tell, Noel’s demeanour during the last few days had been slightly disquieting – he had seemed preoccupied and lacking in ardour. It would be an excellent stimulant for him to catch a glimpse of Mr Leader’s breaking heart.
In fact, Noel was worrying. It was not his nature to live as Jasper did, from
one day to another, picking up by fair means or foul enough cash for the needs of the moment and being dragged out of the bankruptcy courts about once every three years by protesting relations. He had always admired Jasper for this mode of life, envying the ease with which he could get something for nothing, and his eternal serenity, but was quite unable, at the last resort, to imitate him. His mother was a Scotchwoman and he, although hardly burdened with moral scruples, had inherited from her a care for the future. How often now did he curse himself for letting Jasper know of his legacy. This mad idea of pursuing unknown heiresses (he forgot that it had originated, in a moment of exaltation, from himself), would never have come to anything but for Jasper. When the first glow of excitement had died down he would have taken a cheap little holiday, perhaps in Spain, and then have returned to his job, happy in the extra security afforded him by the possession of a small capital. In time he would doubtless have achieved a partnership in his firm.
Under these circumstances it was specially irritating to observe that Jasper pursued, with great cheerfulness, his usual policy of living in the present. To see that jolly face one might suppose that there was no such thing as a day after tomorrow.
Noel, for his part, enjoyed nothing, not even his affair with Anne-Marie; he was tormented by the thought that his aunt’s legacy was being frittered away with nothing to show for it, never considering that a happy time might be set off against the more material advantages which money can secure. He sent for his pass-book, and was overwhelmed with misery and self-reproach when he found that in one way and another four hundred pounds of his money had disappeared.