by E. H. Young
“And the dove sets off again to-morrow,” said Miss Spanner.
“On another flight of imagination.”
“That’s about it.” She gave one of her startling bursts of laughter.
“It’s not funny,” Rosamund said.
“Funny! I wasn’t trying to express mirth. That was meant as derision at the thought of the poor dove among those beasts of prey, sniggering behind their grinning fangs.”
“I wonder,” Rosamund said. “I wonder if those grins are not a little nervous.”
“Of the British lion? They know he’s gone to sleep and if they’re not sniggering now they’ll do it yet.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Rosamund said. “And isn’t it horrible to think that not one of those brutes can have enjoyed honest laughter for years. Perhaps never. There can’t be honest laughter where there’s cruelty and anyhow they haven’t any humour in our sense, the whole lot of them.”
“It’s a very peculiar sense,” Miss Spanner reminded her.
“Yes, we’re a peculiar people,” Rosamund said with satisfaction, “but what are we going to do, Agnes? How are we going to live, if we lose our pride in ourselves?”
“Get it back somehow,” Miss Spanner said, giving her nose a specially hard knock.
Chapter XLVI
Sandra had been at pains to show Rhoda she was not involved in Flora’s error. “Let’s do something,” she said towards the end of that week. “I’m glad school begins to-morrow. Everything’s ready for the wedding and these are such horrid days to get through. I suppose it’s rather cowardly, but I want to get away and pretend this is just a nice ordinary day with no special need to listen to the news. Let’s go to Mr. Lindsay’s on our bicycles. He’d give us something to do.”
“But I’ve had to take my bicycle back to the shop,” Rhoda said.
“You could hire it again, couldn’t you?”
Rhoda made a rapid calculation of how much pocket money would be left when she had paid for the wedding present she was giving Chloe. “I’d like that better than anything,” she said fervently, “but I’d have to get back rather early, quite by five o’clock.” That, she thought, would give her a wide margin of safety, before her father’s return.
“Well, that’s easy,” Sandra said. “We shall have had enough by then because I expect it will be weeding. Of course James stays as long as there’s anything to do.”
“James?” Rhoda said.
“He’s working there.”
“Is he?” Rhoda’s tone was now mournful. “Aren’t men lucky! They can do whatever they like.”
“So can we, sometimes, and this is one of the times. We’ll take our lunch and then no one need bother about us. Your mother wouldn’t mind, would she?”
“No, she wouldn’t mind.”
“Then let’s go.”
Rhoda shook her head. “Not there,” she said.
“But you said you’d like it.”
“Yes, I know, but you see—” Rhoda stopped there. She did not want Sandra or anyone else to see what she saw herself, the possibility of another smirching word from Flora. She would be sure to discover that James was working with Cousin Piers, perhaps she knew it already, and though Sandra could guess nothing of this, she saw in Rhoda’s eyes an appeal for the acceptance of her decision and the asking of no questions and she said quickly, “All right. We’ll go for a long walk instead.”
“Where there are fields,” Rhoda said.
“The fields are getting farther and farther away, but I know some woods and when we get out of them we see the sea.”
“On this side of the river,” Rhoda decreed.
“All right,” Sandra said again, loyally trying not to solve a puzzle to which she began to find a clue.
It was a good day they had together, talking very little but unembarrassed by their silences, and these young things who should have been looking forward hopefully to the future, agreed with unconscious pathos, when they parted in the Square, that it would be a nice day to remember.
Flora, who had had a very dull one, looked with what was supposed to be amusement at Rhoda’s red face and untidy hair as, rather footsore, she limped into the dining-room where the others were just finishing tea, with her father, most unexpectedly early, at the table. It was a good thing she had not hired the bicycle, a good thing she had not crossed the river, for while Mr. Blackett merely raised his eyebrows at her appearance, Flora said at once, “You look as if you’ve been farming. Have you? Because if I were you I wouldn’t.”
“I know you wouldn’t, but I’m lucky not to have any looks to bother about.”
“There’s something in that,” Flora said. “Have you been just with Sandra Fraser all the time? You must have been bored. You have a queer taste in companions, but perhaps you think it’s worth your while. Where have you been, really? Over to Cousin Piers again, I suppose.”
“You can suppose anything you like.”
“And you can answer a civil question when it’s put to you,” Mr. Blackett said sharply.
“Flora’s questions aren’t meant to be civil,” Rhoda said calmly. “This tea’s cold. I’m going to make some more and have it with Connie in the kitchen.”
“Yes, a very queer taste in companions!” Flora laughed after her.
“And you,” said Mrs. Blackett, “will never have any at all unless you can cultivate a more generous spirit,” and at this unwontedly severe remark, Flora showed the genuine astonishment of her father when he was accused of the same fault.
She was exactly like him, Mrs. Blackett thought, in character and in looks. They were both gazing at her with eyes a little defensively veiled, there were the same high spots of colour on their cheeks and there was the same over-redness of their lips.
“Oh!” Flora burst out at last, “of course no one must say a word against Rhoda!”
“It would be pleasant to hear you say anything else,” was Mrs. Blackett’s reply, “but she is used to it and I think she minds much more when you attack her friend.”
“Friend!” Flora exclaimed and she looked at her father. She felt this was his cue.
“Friend?” Mr. Blackett repeated in a grave tone.
“Yes,” Mrs. Blackett said, “and I am very glad she has such a nice one.”
“I don’t believe Rhoda cares two pins about her,” Flora said.
“Don’t judge everybody by yourself,” Mrs. Blackett begged, and before either Flora or her father could frame a retort there was an exclamation from Mary who had been an interested but puzzled witness of this scene.
“Here’s Chloe Fraser coming now,” she said, and Mr. Blackett, taking a glance through the window, had a momentary vision of youth and happiness speeding towards his door. “What can she be coming for?” Mary wondered.
Mrs. Blackett knew. A few weeks ago she would have regretted Chloe’s arrival at this moment; now she was rather pleased. She was pleased, too, when having met her at the door and taken her into the drawing-room, they were followed there by Flora and Mr. Blackett in time to hear Chloe say, “Such a lovely present, Mrs. Blackett! I had to come over at once. I don’t know why you should be so kind,” and to see Mrs. Blackett kiss her as she said, “I wanted to be sure you would see something very pretty every time you looked at it.” Then her warm, gracious tone changed to a colder one. “I don’t know whether you have ever met my husband,” she said.
“We know each other very well by sight, I think,” Chloe said smiling at his slightly exaggerated bow, smiling, but with difficulty, at Flora. “And you’ll come to the wedding, Mrs. Blackett?”
“I shall come to the church to see you married. On Wednesday, isn’t it?”
“Yes, on Wednesday. Whatever happens.”
“Whatever happens,” Mrs. Blackett said with approval.
“And
thank you very very much,” Chloe said, clasping her hands tightly in the hope that Mrs. Blackett would believe in the sincerity of her thanks. “But I shall see you before then, shan’t I? You’ll come and see the other presents?”
“Yes, I should like to do that,” Mrs. Blackett said, accompanying her to the door and there, without spectators, kissed her again and wished her happiness. “And I think you will have it,” she said.
“Yes,” said Chloe, “I know I shall, if it’s only for a few days,” and she returned as swiftly as she had come.
Mrs. Blackett went back to the drawing-room prepared, even anxious, for questions, and at once, as though she suspected she had been robbed of something, Flora demanded, “What did you give her?”
“An old gilt mirror,” Mrs. Blackett replied.
“And you meant she’d see herself when she looked at it?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant. I wanted to give her something as pretty as she is and nothing but her own reflection seemed to do.”
“I can see no reason why you should have given her a present of any kind,” Mr. Blackett said.
“And, anyhow, she isn’t as pretty as all that!” Flora cried.
“No?” Mrs. Blackett inquired gently. “But you see, Flora, she has charm, too, and that is more important. And,” she went on, looking beyond these two unfriendly faces, “that comes from within and has a beauty of its own and lasts for ever. So,” she said more briskly, “I have paid my little tribute to it,” and she ended this interview by going, not too quickly, to the garden door and standing there for a minute before she descended to the garden. She had given them every chance to speak, but neither of them had taken it. Mr. Blackett merely gave a slight cough and turned it into a hum. It was not what she had said, but her manner, which was remarkable. There was, Mr. Blackett realized, a new kind of authority in it or, rather, a new sureness of herself, and he took a sly look at Flora to see whether she had received the same impression, but Flora was asking herself, with aggrievement, in what particular quality of Chloe’s she was lacking, and if she really lacked it, how she was to get it.
She lifted her bowed head. “I don’t think she’s as wonderful as all that, do you?” she asked resentfully.
“A pretty piece,” Mr. Blackett said tolerantly. “Somewhat lacking in colour, I think.” He liked Mrs. Fraser’s blue eyes better than Chloe’s grey-blue ones, her vivacity better than Chloe’s quietness.
“Yes, I think so, too,” Flora said eagerly.
“Both,” Mr. Blackett went on, “in her appearance, which is of very little importance and, if I am not mistaken, colourless in character. And you and I know that character and intellect are the first necessities.” He patted her shoulder. “I much prefer my own daughter’s qualities,” he said and would not embarrass her by looking for signs of her modest gratification.
She made a mocking face at his retreating back. How stupid he was, she thought. Anyone could deceive him. She was sure that woman in France, pretending he was a kindred spirit, had simply been using him to pass the time and he had no idea that she herself cared nothing about character except that it seemed to have some connection with this indefinable thing called charm, but she knew that it might be valuable for the future to keep him in this state of ignorance. And what was this charm? she wondered again, going upstairs to find it if she could, and so successfully finding it in her looking-glass when she saw the brilliant enamels of skin and lips, the greenish eyes under the black hair, that she thought her father must be purblind and her mother bewitched by those people across the road. And they must be purblind too, she decided with a heavy heart. What was she to do with the prettiness no one else seemed to appreciate? There must be someone somewhere who would take her view of it and, while she shared her father’s political opinions, and thought it would be wicked to become involved in someone else’s quarrel—though it was noble to try to avert it—she did see, in the possibility of war, the possibility of escape from home, a chance of getting those experiences which were her due.
Mr. Blackett, in his study, could see no advantages in that disaster. He looked at his bookshelves and could not find anything to suit the uneasy moment. He had come home earlier than usual, to his own quiet kingdom, where his eyes would not be affronted by sensational newspaper placards or his ears vexed by speculative chatter. His midday meal had been ruined by the reminiscences of his contemporaries who usually shared his table, by their interested and quite superfluous inquiries about his activities in the last war and by the polite reserve with which they accepted his explanations. He had thought all that was over years ago and he had not been able to produce for these men the remark with which Bertha had always been well satisfied, about the hard necessity for some people to resign all hope of glory.
He had come home to be soothed and he had been disappointed. Rhoda had returned from an expedition and a companionship of which he disapproved, looking like a tramp and in a quarrelsome mood and Bertha’s reproaches had been directed towards the wrong person; she had attacked Flora. And if he had not come home early he would never, he supposed, have heard about the wedding present and this savoured of deceit. He wondered how much it had cost and whether he was expected to pay for it. He did not intend to do so. And then, with a quiet dignity, Bertha had taken the stage and made her little speech and her leisurely exit, a new Bertha, he thought, and yet, rummaging in his mind for incidents and words he had put aside as useless and now found he needed, taking them out and looking at them, they became more significant than he had believed. Once she had told him Flora was like him and he had been pleased, but lately she was finding faults in the girl. Did that mean she was finding them in him too? She had accused them both of lack of generosity and when had she ever acknowledged a virtue in him or given him a word of praise? And in the romantic sanctity of their bedroom, had she not laughed at him? Mr. Blackett, who had been pacing the room, stood still and saw, not the carpet at which he looked, but a dark well of unknown depth. Half fascinated and quite horrified, he stared down, knowing that the longer he looked the darker and deeper it would become, until, with self-preservation more urgent than curiosity, he stepped back into safety. He remembered her gratifying signs of jealousy and the carpet closed over the pit.
Chapter XLVII
On the next Sunday, the last of September, Rosamund heard a more imperative note in the early call of the church bells and she fancied that there must be more hurry than usual in the answering pattering feet, as though prayers to be efficacious, and they needed to be that, must be particularly punctual, as though a special effort of pleading, could persuade God to renounce his laws and make life meaningless by wiping out all responsibility for past acts and thoughts.
“But perhaps I’m wronging them,” she said as Miss Spanner entered, wearing her Sunday frock and looking reproachfully at Rosamund in her nightgown.
“Wronging them!” Miss Spanner exclaimed. “You couldn’t if you tried. In the first place, you’re incapable of imagining enough vileness.”
“Thank you, Agnes, but I wasn’t thinking of that gang. I was thinking of the people who go to church to pray; sneering at them a little, I’m afraid, but they may not be asking for miracles. They may just be asking for the right spirit, but I wish they would do it from their comfortable beds and let other people sleep in peace.”
“Peace!” Miss Spanner cried.
“Is it? Will it be?”
“Who for?” Miss Spanner asked. “Would you call it peace if some kind friend decided that you must give up half your house and nearly all your freedom with the expectation of losing all of it to the accompaniment of a little torture, just to save him from getting mixed up in a dispute for which there’s no justification except filthy greed? Well, that’s the role we’re playing. No justification! No justification!” Miss Spanner cried in a fury. “And half the world, more than half, is behaving as though it’s perfec
tly reasonable to grab anything you fancy. And the greed won’t stop there. You’ll see. Why should it? But the victim hasn’t consented yet to being carved up. Queer, isn’t it? Selfish. You’d think he’d be grateful for being allowed to keep a little bit of his own body. And I hope he’ll prefer to keep it all.”
“And that will mean war.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re not prepared for it.”
“No.”
“I think I’d better get up,” Rosamund said.
“And why need we be prepared,” Miss Spanner continued, “when we can appease the wolves by throwing other people at them? But the appetite can grow by what it feeds on—we’d better remember that. When I was a child I used to believe that a steady human eye could control the most ferocious brute. Did you believe that, too? The cowed animal, acknowledging its superior, simply slinks away. We’re trying that trick as well and the animal must find it very amusing. He knows these particular human eyes haven’t outstared any aggressive creature yet. The old Noah was lucky. He had all the beasts of prey safely under lock and key. But I don’t believe you’re listening. And oh,” Miss Spanner said contritely, “I suppose it’s easy for me to talk like this. It’s different for you.”
“Isn’t it the way I’ve always talked myself?” Rosamund said wearily. “It’s the way I still feel, but there are complications, Agnes, complications, and I do hope Piers will take it into his head to come over this afternoon.”
