Birthday Party

by C. H. B. Kitchin

  I said, “They eat flowers, and I’ve always preferred flowers to vegetables, just as Théophile Gautier said he would sell his bread to buy jam. Do you read Théophile Gautier, Ronnie?”

  “No,” he answered. “The last generation wasted its time on that sort of thing. We don’t.”

  When the meal was over, Ronnie went inevitably upstairs to his library, and Stephen Payne wandered into the garden. I went to the desk in the morning-room, to write some letters, supposing that Dora would go to her drawing-room to have her nap. However, I had hardly been sitting in the writing-chair five minutes when she appeared at the door and said, “Isabel.”

  “Yes, Dora?”

  “I want to ask you when you think I ought to make my arrangements with Ronnie.”

  It was like one’s cook suddenly saying, “I’m sorry, mum, but I really must complain about the range.”

  “I should think this evening,” I answered. “But what arrangements do you mean?”

  “Oh, about the removal of my things. You know, some of the things in the drawing-room were bought out of my private money.”

  “I’m sure there won’t be any difficulty about them,” I said. “Ronnie ought to let you have all the things in the drawing-room—and in your bedroom too. I should ask him, after dinner, quite openly. Young people don’t understand our delicacy, you know. I’ll ask him for you, if you like, and will tell me what you want.”

  If she had been wearing an apron, she would have twirled the corner.

  “Oh, I can speak to him, if you think it’s quite all right. Thank you very much all the same, Isabel. I’ll ask him if he can spare me a few minutes after dinner. I thought it better that he should know before he sees Sir Thomas Hill to-morrow. And I wanted you to know what I was doing. And there’s something else I ought to talk to him about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m afraid it’s private.”

  I paused, wondering whether to tell her that I knew. But I decided against it, and said, “All right. Only, don’t harass him too much. He’s rather on edge with these big changes coming. And you mustn’t expect him to behave quite as you were brought up to behave. Oh, Dora——”

  I called her back just as she was going to the door. “Yes?”

  “Is this Dr. Rusper really coming at five o’clock?”

  “Yes. I told you he was.”

  “Well, will you let me have a few words with him?”

  “Why?”

  “I have a reason. I’ve taken a liking to your brother, and I’m sure Dr. Rusper will view his case very differently when I’ve said what I have to say. You’re quite willing to be guided by his view, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. But I don’t see——”

  “Never mind about that. When he arrives, let him be shown in here. I’ll be waiting for him. You might be in the drawing-room, and I’ll bring him in to you when I’ve finished. But let me talk first.”

  “But he’s certain to ask for me.”

  “I dare say. But I’ll intercept him. I really think it’ll be wiser. We don’t want another scene. By the way, have you arranged for him to stay the night?”

  “No. He couldn’t, I’m sure. He’s frightfully busy. He’s going to America with his wife at the beginning of next week. An international conference on pneumonia, he said. He’ll catch the 7.50 back to London to-night. I suppose it doesn’t matter sending him to the station in the car?”

  “Of course not. And the idea is that your brother will go with him?”

  “I expect that’s what Dr. Rusper will suggest.”

  “Well, I shall tell him that I don’t think it’s at all a good suggestion.”

  She shrugged her shoulders unskilfully, pondered a moment and said:

  “I do wonder what will become of Tan.”

  “I’m sure Ronnie would gladly give him to you.”

  “I think it’s hardly fair to keep a dog in a flat, do you? He’s been a great comfort to me while I’ve been here, though I think he prefers Eames to me.”

  “Perhaps Eames would like him. I wonder, by the way, what’s going to become of Eames—and the rest of them: I do hope they’ve been saving up. I don’t suppose they have any idea, yet, of these changes. Ronnie hasn’t said anything to them, and I haven’t.”

  “And I haven’t,” she said defensively, and yawned.

  “Well, I suppose in a few days we shall see everything more clearly and shall all know what we’re going to do.”

  “I’m sure I hope so, Isabel.”

  She went into the drawing-room for her nap.

  As I started writing again, I wondered if I could keep the members of the house-party separate during the afternoon. I felt unable to manage them collectively, and wished I could make it a rule that all their remarks must be addressed to me and no one else. Was I being proud, pathetic or idiotic in trying to play the mistress of Carlice till the very last minute? Or was I following a sound instinct? I have grown very superstitious these last few days, and am prepared to see omens in everything.

  One of the letters I had to answer came from a spinster who organises our local flower-show. They are having a meeting to-night, at the village hall, and Jackson and Mildon—poor men, little knowing—are to attend. I ought to have answered before. I must send the answer round by hand. Charles can take it, after tea. Then we shan’t have him here, if there’s any unpleasantness on Rusper’s arrival. And Eames is taking Simmonds to the carnival at Riseley . . .

  Dear Miss Carlice,

  Do you think we might beg the hospitality of the Abbey for our show next year? We have to settle these things well in advance. As perhaps you know, we can’t count on Lady Ellerton as heretofore. I write to you because I am not sure whether I ought to approach Mrs. Carlice or your nephew, who I believe is very soon to celebrate his twenty-first birthday. We are holding a meeting in the Village Hall on Monday, Sept. 7th, at 8. . . .

  What shall I say? “Dear Miss Eagre, in twenty-four hours Carlice Abbey is going to be given to the Communist party. I don’t know their views on flower-shows, but I suspect they are unfavourable.”

  No, I must say, “Wait and see. I’ll write again as soon as I can.” She’ll read the letter aloud at the meeting. I must take care . . .

  Ronnie said he went to some house-agents about the value of this place. We had always imagined it to be priceless, because it seemed inconceivable we should ever sell. The agent said we couldn’t hope for more than twelve thousand and should probably only get five or six. Or we might have difficulty in selling at any price. I think Ronnie enjoyed telling me this. (And yet people are clamouring to pay fifteen hundred pounds for shoddy little bungalows on the outskirts of Riseley.) If I became owner of Carlice, would it lessen my enjoyment to know that I owned an unsaleable property? This is a question to be put and answered very secretly. Honestly, I think I can answer “No.” But it depends very much upon one’s mood. The real me says “No.” It must say “No.” If I were the owner of Carlice, if I could live here and become rooted in the stones and soil and felt the root of every tree, the formation of every border and piece of lawn depended upon me, and I on them—— But it is useless to work myself up like this again. All I have to do is to answer these letters, perform one little act of charity—that shouldn’t be difficult, with a suburban doctor to deal with—and then go round the house collecting one or two little odds and ends which are legally mine, and say good-bye. Oh, why did Claude beget a lunatic for his son? There was no weakness on his mother’s side. The weakness must be in us. Claude should have been the girl who married and went away, and I should have lived here for ever. A fairy story . . .

  3

  Charles brings in the tea.

  “Charles, when we’ve finished and you’ve cleared away, would you walk round with this note for Mi
ss Eagre? I want her to get it before six. You know where she lives? The house up the hill beyond Major Inchley’s.”

  “Yes, ’m.”

  He’s getting too fat here. The walk will do him good.

  “And you might tell Flora that we’re expecting a visitor about five—a Dr. Rusper. He will probably ask for Mrs. Carlice, but I should like him shown in here, where I shall be.”

  “Yes, Miss. Mr. Ronald said he’s going for a walk and won’t want any tea.”

  “All right. But we are three, you know. We shall need a third cup and saucer. Mr. Payne will be here.”

  The lad can’t even count. And here is Mr. Payne, coming in by the garden-door.

  “You were quite right about those rabbits, Miss Carlice. I counted six as I walked through the birch wood. And I rather think one of them got into the garden.”

  “You must shoot them all after tea.”

  “Hadn’t I better try now? My trustee’s coming after tea.”

  “I think there won’t be any harm in letting him see you can handle a gun. Let him see you with a gun in your hands.”

  “Oh, I’ve tried impressing him like that before.”

  “Well, my persuasion will be added this time. I’m not advising you to shoot him, mind! In any case, here’s tea. We have it early, because Dora likes to be roused from her nap by it. Charles, you might go and knock at the drawing-room door.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Dora likes me to pour out. Very weak, and no sugar?”

  This takes me back to the tennis tournament days, and the first tea here after their marriage, when she asked me to pour out. To-morrow, if I pour out tea, I shall feel that I’m pouring it down the throats of expectant Communist mothers, though I think they would like it stronger than we make it here. And, of course, not China.

  Now Dora comes in, still yawning.

  “Do you know, I’ve had the most extraordinary dream?”

  “What was it, Dora?”

  “Oh, I’m so sleepy, I feel as if I were talking in my sleep. Perhaps it’s this changeable weather. I dreamt we had all been dreaming we’d ever lived here—Ronnie, you and I. I’m not quite sure about you. But Ronnie said if he’d been here it was in a previous incarnation. And I said I’d never been here at all and that I belonged to South Mersley and would vote for South Mersley through thick and thin. How silly it sounds!”

  “And did I say anything?”

  “You said, ‘I haven’t been here yet, but I shall be in my next incarnation.’”

  “Oh, Mr. Payne, do leave that heavy scone and have a sandwich. Mrs. Sowerby makes them so badly. Yes, Dora, what happened then?”

  “Nothing. Charles knocked on the door and woke me up. But it was a frightfully vivid dream. I still feel I’m standing at the top of the little hill that leads to Elmcroft—you remember it, Stephen?—outside a polling-booth, draped with election colours, and saying, ‘I vote for South Mersley for ever, through thick and thin!’”

  Chapter XIV: RONALD CARLICE

  “RONNIE!”

  Damn! She sits like a spider at the centre of its web. Doors open, window open. She sees and hears everything. I’d have stayed out till dinner, only after luncheon she begged me to be back about five, just in case there was a scene between Payne and his trustee. I hoped I could slip safely upstairs to the library. But it was not to be, as they say in obituary notices.

  “Ronnie!”

  “Yes, Aunt Isabel?”

  “Ronnie, Dr. Rusper has arrived. You know—Stephen Payne’s guardian whom Dora stupidly sent for after that bother last night——”

  “Well, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “No, of course it wasn’t. Now, Ronnie, you’re not going to be bothered with any of us much longer—oh, I know exactly what you feel—but to-day you’ve got to be a little gentleman. You can be a little Communist to-morrow if you like. Dr. Rusper seemed very much upset to hear that Stephen Payne was shooting rabbits. I asked him to shoot them, and, till to-morrow, if the rabbits belong to anybody, they belong to Dora. Dr. Rusper broke away from me in rather an ill-mannered way as soon as he heard a shot outside——”

  “How did he know it was Payne shooting?”

  “I told him. I said, ‘Your ward is shooting some rabbits for me, in the garden.’ He said, ‘Payne shooting?’ I said, ‘Yes, why not?’ and he told me that I was under a very grave misapprehension and stalked out on to the lawn. I’m afraid there’s going to be a most frightful row. Yes, there is. There they are, coming towards the house, Stephen carrying the gun. What a fool the doctor is to touch it like that. I’d shoot him if I were Stephen. But that’s what you’ve got to prevent, Ronnie.”

  “Why should I?”

  The two men, one big and black, and the other flimsy and fair, are crossing the lawn. The flimsy one carries the gun.

  “What do you want me to do, Aunt Isabel?”

  “Just to be ready. That’s all. Wait a moment. I suppose you haven’t been thinking things over, Ronnie?”

  “I’ve thought a good deal, but not your way, I’m afraid.”

  “Dr. Rusper!”

  Good heavens, what a voice the woman has!

  “Dr. Rusper!” she shouts again.

  They’re coming this way. Payne leads. Poor flimsy little man. I was an idiot to tell Dora about my row with him last night. It was my fault for making him drunk. If only she hadn’t caught me on the landing, as Isabel caught me in the hall just now.

  “Dr. Rusper, this is my nephew, Mr. Ronald Carlice.”

  Rusper gives me a quick bow, and says, “In one moment, Madam.” He follows Payne closely to the gunroom door. Can’t Payne do anything but walk like a sleep-walker? Yes, he does. He turns round and makes a stand.

  “If you’ll kindly remember your manners, Rusper, I’ll put the gun away at my convenience.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll hand it over to me here and now.”

  Payne goes inside, and the doctor follows him. Has Payne been drinking? The whisky is out on the side-table. Yes, and a glass not quite emptied. It’s she who gave him that.

  “Now, Ronnie, you see . . . You’ve got to stop this quarrel.”

  “In there?”

  Shall I remind her of what happened in there? But she remembers all right. Trust her for that.

  “Ronnie, please go in and take the gun from Mr. Payne. He’ll give it to you. And send Dr. Rusper over here to me.”

  “Do you know, Aunt Isabel . . .”

  “Ronnie, go quickly. I order you to go.”

  Oh, Lord, the fool in the gunroom is shouting now! “Weapon in the hands of an irresponsible . . .” He ought to have said “lethal weapon.” That’s the usual phrase.

  Ronnie, you must go.

  Did she say that, or did I? All right, I’ll go.

  “Let me past, Dr. Rusper, please. Now, Payne, don’t be a fool, there’s a good chap. We can straighten all this out afterwards. Just give me that gun. It isn’t done, you know, for two people to hold a gun at once. It isn’t, really.”

  I’ll give it you as soon as Rusper clears out of here.

  Now the other one’s talking.

  Mr. Carlice, I wish you’d leave this matter to me. I know how to handle these cases.

  “Well, you don’t know how to handle guns, either of you. The safety-catch doesn’t turn that way, you fool. Oh, Dr. Rusper, I wish you’d get out, for God’s sake . . .”

  I know my duty, Mr. Carlice. Now, Payne——

  Get out, you damnable interfering fool. Didn’t you hear Mr. Carlice tell you to get out?

  Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Never let them spell your name with an “s” my boy. My father said that. And it’s all quite irrelevant.

  “Rusper, my good fellow . . .�
�

  Take your bloody hands off.

  And there’s Aunt Isabel’s face peeping round the door.

  “Aunt Isabel, can’t you call this maniac off?”

  I’m not a maniac, Carlice. I’m only——

  “I didn’t mean you, Payne. I meant the other fool.”

  Carlice, leave this to me——

  “That’s the trigger you’re touching. Aunt Isabel, you’re—— Don’t point the muzzle here——”

  Now they’re all shouting at once.

  Payne, I command you——

  Command yourself, you——

  Please, Dr. Rusper, you’re making a fool of yourself——

  “You’re fools, all three of you—Oh—Oh——”

  Chapter XV: DORA CARLICE

  1

  WHEN I heard the shot, I was in the drawing-room, looking in the bottom drawer of my bureau. I’d decided it should be the last time I would look there. If the box was still missing, I should simply say to Ronnie: “After your father died I found a tin cash-box in one of his bedroom drawers. It was labelled, in his writing, ‘For my son Ronald Carlice, to be given to him on his twenty-first birthday.’ I kept it for nearly ten years in the bottom drawer of my bureau. I looked for it last June, soon after your sister was killed, and it wasn’t there. I looked for it yesterday, and it still wasn’t there. I’m very sorry. I can’t do anything about it.” And it was as I’d expected. My half-finished embroidery with the pink rose was there and the boxes of old photographs—but Claude’s box hadn’t been put back.