by Frank Baker
I nodded without speaking and the maid went upstairs. I was sitting in an oak armchair, holding out my hands to the fire and coughing hoarsely. Curiously I studied the furnishing. It was all antique, mostly Jacobean, beautifully polished. Firelight glowed in a grandfather clock. There were samplers, glass paintings and old prints on the walls. A lantern clock struck eight. Behind me, a wide staircase rose to the second floor and doors opened on to the other rooms. The stair-carpet was of pale gold; so were the curtains. On a table, under a gigantic chrysanthemum embedded in a brass pot, I saw several copies of the Cornford Mercury and two volumes of Wayside Bundle.
Some minutes passed. Nobody came. I grew more and more uneasy. Was she suspicious? Was that devil Austen spying on me somewhere? Were they sending for the police? Could I ever hope to claim the owner of this house a house branded by so many years of impeccable taste as my Connie Hargreaves?
The maid came down the stairs.
‘Her ladyship won’t be a minute, sir,’ she said. ‘And won’t your reverence let me take your hat and overcoat?’
‘No, no–’ I mumbled crossly.
She was a darling girl. Black hair and rosy cheeks; simply topping in the firelight. I was getting more and more sick of my beard. There aren’t many pretty girls about and when you meet one you don’t want to be whiskered. It was damned hot too.
Suddenly a voice called from an open door upstairs.
‘Mollie–Mollie–’
The girl hurried away, and I heard voices on the landing.
‘Have they covered up Dr Pepusch, Mollie?’
‘I’ll go and see, your ladyship.’
‘Do. He must always be covered when we have visitors. Remind cook.’
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘That is all, then. I shall not need you any more. I hope you are not forgetting your prayers, Mollie?’
‘Oh, no, your ladyship.’
‘Whenever you wish to go to this Mass, you must tell me. I do not approve of the Roman Catholic religion, but since you are one I expect you to fulfil your obligations. I believe you are obliged to go to this Mass?’
‘That’s right, your ladyship.’
‘Quite wrong–quite wrong–still–by the way, is the Dean arrived yet?’
‘No, your ladyship. Canon Hauty–he’s waiting downstairs.’
‘Dear–dear! How stupid of me! I quite forgot. Tell him I am just coming. Offer him Wayside Bundle to read.’
‘Oh, my dear Canon! Too bad of me to have kept you waiting. But why do you not take off your greatcoat? Are you cold?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m hot.’
I took off my beard.
‘How dare you! How dare you!’
She moved towards a bell-rope that was hanging by the side of the great open fireplace. With a sudden wild vehemence Dr Pepusch screamed from somewhere in the back of the house. ‘Avaunt! Avaunt!’ A door slammed. I ran to the bell-rope and caught her by the arm.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ I said. I stood with my back to it. I felt my power rising. I fixed her with both my eyes. ‘Sit down,’ I commanded.
Panting a little, wringing her hands, she began to speak. ‘I–I–’ But she could not go on. She was weakening. I knew I was winning the first round. Brutally, I determined to deliver a knock-out blow, now, at once, while my power was on me.
‘You’re a naughty old woman!’ I said sternly. I hated it; I loathed calling her that. But it was no use showing any mercy now.
Amazed, speechless, she fell back into a chair as though I had struck her. Quickly I continued. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you. A lot of bones. And when I pick bones I don’t like an audience. You leave that bell alone.’
Her head fell forward on her chest; she was breathing heavily. I suppose it must have been a terrible shock to her, particularly as she’d put on a puce-coloured velvet dress with a high lace collar brooched by a handsome cameo. All done in honour of Canon Auty, of course; you could see that. I believe, though I won’t swear to it, there was a dash of rouge on her cheeks.
‘I’ve given you every chance,’ I said. I spoke hurriedly and tried to avoid looking at her. There was something so terribly pathetic about her; it was hard to speak sternly.
‘You forced me to this,’ I went on. ‘I don’t like getting into your house in this way. It’s beastly; I hate it. But when you go round telling vile lies about me–when you turn your horrible chauffeur on to me with half a crown–’
‘Which you took!’ she snapped, with sudden spirit. ‘Contemptible!’ Her eyes glittered angrily.
‘And why not?’ I cried, her anger infecting me. ‘Who are you, I should like to know? You think you’re Lady Hargreaves, don’t you? Well, you’re not. You’re a thought, that’s all you are; a mere thought. Uncle Grosvenor! I’ll Uncle Grosvenor you! You reckon you can do what you like ever since I gave you that title, don’t you? Well, you can’t! You’re going to do what I like. Suppose I had turned you into a mouse, eh? A small, underfed mouse; a church mouse. And then set our ginger Tom on you? I might have done that if I’d had a spiteful mind. But I didn’t. I made you Lady Hargreaves. And this is the thanks I get–half a crown flung at me by an illiterate chauffeur. You ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, downright ashamed–’
I stopped. It was like the scene I had had with her in the lay-clerks’ vestry over again. She was holding her handkerchief to her eyes; her shoulders were shaking. A most unaccountable anguish came over me. I could not bear to see her cry. It was no good. Minute by minute I was losing my ground. And minute by minute I knew with a fatal certainty, she would gain the strength that I was losing. Power ebbed from me and rose in her. It would always be so; always. If I relinquished my power over her, she would seize it and exert it over me. What I had made was becoming too strong for me.
There was a long silence. I made a last valiant effort.
‘Well, what have you to say?’ I demanded.
‘What–can–I say, dear?’
‘Eh?’ I sat up and took notice. ‘Did you call me–dear?’
‘Yes, dear. I did, dear.’
Had I then won? Had I for ever driven away her assumed independence?
‘Oh,’ I grunted. ‘So you’re sorry, are you?’
‘My dear boy–I–’ She burst into floods of tears. With an immense effort I bit the tender, consoling words from my tongue. But they were in my heart.
‘What can I say?’ she sobbed. ‘I am but human.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I muttered uneasily.
She looked up at me with tearful eyes. ‘I have wronged you–yes! I confess it. I have treated an old friend badly. And yet–am I entirely to blame?’
‘What do you mean?’ I felt my bones turning to water.
‘Did you,’ she cried with sudden passion, ‘welcome me to Cornford as an old friend deserves to be welcomed? Have I once been able to recapture with you the happiness of that sunny day we spent together upon the Serpentine, when all your youth and–’––
My voice rose wildly. ‘You’ve got to come right off that stuff once and for all. You know as well as I do that we never went on the Serpentine. The whole story is a pack of lies. Lies–Miss Hargreaves! You are my lie!
’ It was my last bolt. She stared at me–half frightened–half frightening.
‘Norman’–and her tone was almost pitying–‘there can be no doubt. No further doubt. Your brain is rapidly becoming affected. My dear, I am so sorry. For a long time I have been fearing something like this. I should have faced up to the matter sooner. I am afraid that you are not–quite as you should be, dear. Try to realize it. Hold on to yourself. Get grip. Grip is essential in such cases. My poor Agatha suffered in much the same way. You would not care to end as she did.’
‘No,’ I muttered. ‘I wouldn’t care to end as–she did.’ And, in my mind, I conceived a hundred different deaths for Agatha, each one more horrible than the last.
She rose slowly from her chair.
�
�Stay–where–you–are,’ I hissed malignantly. But it was a half-hearted hiss, I knew that.
‘Sit down!’ she snapped suddenly. I stared at her. Was I crazy, or was she actually growing larger, seeming to tower above me? Her eyes blazed out at me from her powerful little head; her fingers clutched an ivory paper-knife on a console table.
‘I warn you–’ I began weakly.
‘SIT DOWN!’ The words were like iron. I fell back into a chair. My God, I thought, this is the end; this is the terrible end. She is beginning to control me. In a week or so I should be powerless to do anything except what she desired. Already my will was impotent; I could do nothing but stare at her feebly, as a rabbit must stare at a snake. They say the rabbit enjoys being hypnotized by the snake; I can believe it because, in spite of my wretchedness, I could not be otherwise than wholly fascinated by her. It was terrible to realize that I had given her this power; that I had, from the depths of my misguided compassion for her, silently willed strength into her mysterious being.
‘You witch,’ I murmured. ‘You absolute old witch!’
‘That is enough!’ she rapped out. Then she let me have it, true and proper. In blazing anger she told me exactly where I got off. And I got off; meek as a lamb.
‘I have tolerated too much far too much. No doubt but you are suffering from an aberration of the mind but is that any reason why I should be inconvenienced? You have insulted my family, you have dogged my footsteps from place to place, you have written a scandalous letter about me you have, most seriously, imperilled my name in this town. And now you have the impertinence to come before me, wearing a beard, abusing me in language that would be criminal did I not mercifully assume it to be insane. It is an outrage, Mr Huntley; it is an outrage. Only one of two courses is now open to me. Either to invoke the power of the law upon you or have you sent away to a mental home. You have gone too far, Mr Huntley; I do not know whether anybody could go farther.’
It was true. It was horribly true.
‘Yes,’ I muttered. ‘I have gone too far. I know that.’
‘Then you must be prepared to pay for your foolishness. I cannot any longer allow the twilight of my days to be clouded by the menace of a criminal lay-clerk who happened to cross my path because of an accident.’
‘I–do wish you wouldn’t keep saying I crossed your path,’ I said weakly.
She held up an imperious hand. ‘Cease!’
I ceased. I watched her wonderingly as she swept across to a bureau on the other side of the room. Finding paper, ink and a quill pen, she sat down. After a little thought she began to write.
‘What are you doing, Miss Hargreaves–please?’ I asked. I started to rise.
‘Stay where you are!’ she snapped immediately. ‘I am writing to my solicitor. There shall be no more anonymous letters, Mr Huntley.’
‘But–’ A ruined career stared me in the face. I didn’t like the look of it. ‘Please don’t do that,’ I cried. ‘Please don’t.’
‘And why should I not?’
Why should she not, indeed? I racked my brains in search of an argument that would touch her. ‘You couldn’t do it,’ I said. ‘Not after–not after the wonderful times we’ve had together. Look at that morning in the Cathedral! The person who played the organ as you did, couldn’t write the sort of letter you’re going to write now, Miss Hargreaves–’
‘Lady Hargreaves, if you please!’
‘Lady Hargreaves, I mean. Please don’t give me away by all that we have in common please don’t give me away. I won’t bother you any more, I swear I won’t. I was mad. I don’t know why I did it.’
I was almost down on my knees before her. It was ghastly.
She put down her pen and slowly came over towards me.
‘Norman,’ she said in a gentle voice, ‘because of what we have in common–yes, I will once more overlook your conduct. But it must not happen again. It must never happen again.’
‘I promise it shan’t.’
She rang the bell suddenly.
‘James Burley,’ she said briskly, ‘would, I know, give you special attention if I write to him. I imagine he is still in Harley Street. Yes, I will write to-night. Expense? Tut! You must have the best advice. Obviously it is a very complicated case.’
Mollie came in, stopping and staring at me in bewilderment.
‘Oh, Mollie,’ said Lady Hargreaves, now completely herself, ‘bring a carafe of water and some sal volatile. Mr Huntley is unwell. Is Sarah fed?’
‘Y-yes your ladyship.’
‘Go along, child go along. Don’t stand staring at Mr Huntley like that.’
Mollie went out, still looking back at me over her shoulder. Lady Hargreaves settled herself in an armchair, crossed one leg over the other, played with a golden chain round her neck, and looked at me with a patronizing smile.
‘Yes. James Burley’s little establishment on Exmoor would, I think, be the place for you. Poor Norman! No matter for the moment. Let us put aside the tragedies of life. You told me, I think, some time ago that your mother was similarly affected? Yes? Rest, I beg you. Relax. Close your eyes.’
I felt drowsy, numbed of all movement. Like a shadow in a dream I was aware of Mollie coming in. I heard Lady Hargreaves speaking.
‘Thank you, Mollie. That will do. Oh–take Mr Huntley’s beard and skull-cap and hang them in the coat-cupboard. I abominate untidiness. Yes, yes, child –the beard.’
Mollie took them gingerly. I stared at a glass of sal volatile Lady Hargreaves was holding out before me. I shuddered. I loathe sal volatile.
‘I don’t want it,’ I protested feebly.
‘Naughty! Tch! Come now–you mustn’t excite yourself again. I abominate scenes! Let me put a cushion behind your head. There–there!’
Vaguely I realized that somebody was knocking at the front door.
Mollie showed father in.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Am I interrupting ? You said something about coffee.’
‘Come in, my dear Mr Huntley. Mollie, take Mr Huntley’s coat; and beard Oh! he has no beard. Then bring some coffee–and a bottle of cognac. Sit down, Mr Huntley. Your son and I were having a little tête-à-tête. I was about to read him my sonnet sequence, “The Nine Owls”.’
‘Owls, eh? H’m.’ Father wandered about in his usual large manner, picking up things and looking at pictures. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he said. ‘Oliver Goldsmith used to live here, you know. Or was it Grinling Gibbons? Never can remember. Their style’s very alike.’
He sat down. ‘I suppose you two have settled everything about the concert?’ he said.
‘Well–’ began Connie.
Father nodded. ‘Good. Now we can have a nice little chat about books and things. One or two stories I should like to tell you. Ever met Conrad?’
Lady Hargreaves screwed up her face. ‘I cannot quite remember,’ she said.
‘I didn’t,’ said father. He lapsed into an unusual silence.
‘Such an age–such writers–’ began Connie.
‘You remember Henry James’ story about the owl?’ asked father.
‘I think not.’
‘Never can be sure of it myself. But it seems he kept an owl–an albino bird it was–in his bathroom. Well, one evening he took up the sponge, see–and it bit him and said, “Lovely-lovely-lovely”. Like that. Of course, he’d picked up the owl by mistake. But this is the interesting part. The owl saying “lovely” gave him the idea for one of his best lines. Dare say you know it. “Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping, wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.” Beautiful poetry, Lady Marston. You and I couldn’t write like that, not even if we kept ten white owls in our bathrooms.’
‘But surely, Mr Huntley, George Meredith wrote those lines?’
Father nodded. ‘So everybody thinks. Actually he stole them from Henry James. Happened to be lighting his pipe outside the bathroom. They had a cottage at Winchelsea. My aunt lived there later. Funny, really.’
M
ollie came in with the coffee, cognac, and three balloon glasses.
‘Ah!’ Father rubbed his hands together. ‘I like brandy. My father was a smuggler, y’ know. Practically lived on brandy. Nice life, really. Thanks.’
I waited, wondering whether I should be offered any. But I was not. Father pushed his coffee aside and closed his palms round his glass. He looked over to me. ‘Put it to your nose, boy,’ he said. ‘Get the bouquet.’
I looked down at my empty hands and shook my head slowly.
‘Norman is a little unwell,’ explained Lady Hargreaves. ‘It would be most unwise for him to take brandy.’
‘Unwell? How do you expect the boy to be well without brandy? Here, boy–’ He poured out a stiff glass for me and passed it over. I took it. Lady Hargreaves frowned and tapped her stick on the floor. I drank quickly before she should snatch it away from me. ‘Here,’ cried father, ‘you mustn’t drink brandy at that speed. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I told you,’ Lady Hargreaves said coldly, ‘he is unwell.’
‘H’m,’ said father. ‘H’m.’ He drank, and we were all silent for a little while.
‘I’ve brought my tune,’ remarked father presently. ‘Here it is.’ He drew a postcard from his pocket. ‘Doesn’t look very long, but I always add bits as I go along. Norman’ll have to write out the accompaniment.’
Lady Hargreaves, glancing at the tune briefly, rose and went over to a Sheraton cabinet in a small boudoir adjoining the hall. She returned with some manuscript paper which she gave to father.
‘This is the Canzona I spoke of,’ she said. Father glanced at it cursorily.
‘The great thing about my tune,’ he said, ‘is cantabile. I’ll run over and get my fiddle and play it for you.’
‘You see,’ Lady Hargreaves was saying, leaning over father’s shoulder and pointing to a bar in the manuscript on his lap, ‘you see how skilfully the tune leads into the variation, without a break. I hope you will bring that out, Mr Huntley. This appoggiatura here is, of course, the willow-wren. You must bring that out too.’
‘H’m. Yes. Like that bit,’ said father vaguely. He sipped his cognac and casually dropped the manuscript on a chair by his side.
