Miss Pickhill, some years her senior, had no artificial graces. She was shorter and thinner than her sister, and both her complexion and her hair were her own. The one was non-existent, and the other had faded from gold to dusty straw, here and there streaked with grey. She wore clothes of good material but tasteless design, lived in a gaunt house in one of the roads leading off Putney Hill, which she had inherited from her father, and interested herself in Parish matters, the Girl Guides, the Women's Conservative Association, and various other worthy enterprises. No one could fathom what attracted her to the house in Charles Street, for she plainly disapproved of everything she saw there, and received no encouragement to continue her visits. The truth was that she was not at all attracted, but had been brought up to know where her duty lay. She said that it was her duty to keep an eye on her sister. She also considered it to be her duty to utter the most blighting criticisms on Mrs. Haddington's manners, appearance, morals, and ambitions; and to prophesy a rapid descent to the gutter for her niece, who had been brought up, she said, to think of nothing but painting her face and running after young men.
She was engaged on this fruitful topic when Beulah returned from having tea with young Mr. Harte, and had just informed Mrs. Haddington (whom she persisted in calling Lily in the teeth of every injunction to alter this commonplace name to Lilias) that she would live to rue the day when she sent her daughter to be educated at a school in Switzerland, instead of rearing her to be a useful member of society, when Beulah walked into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Haddington betrayed no pleasure at the sight of her secretary. "Well?" she said sharply. "What is it?"
"I'm sorry to interrupt you," said Beulah, laying a scrap of silk on the arm of her chair, "but this is the nearest I can get to the stuff you gave me to match."
"Well, it won't do," said Mrs. Haddington, contemptuously flicking the scrap with one pointed, blood-red fingernail. "Really, I should have thought you could have seen that for yourself!"
"I did, but I thought I'd better bring you a sample of it. And caviare is the same price everywhere."
"I sometimes wonder what I pay you for!" remarked Mrs. Haddington.
Beulah flushed, and folded her lips.
"Exactly what I have always said!" remarked Miss Pickhill. "What a healthy woman of your age, Lily, wants with a secretary, or whatever Miss Birtley calls herself, to run her errands for her is more than I can fathom. Caviare, indeed! More of your grand parties, I suppose! Enough to make poor Father turn in his grave!"
"That will do!" Mrs. Haddington said, dismissing Beulah.
"Will you want me any more today?" Beulah asked.
Mrs. Haddington hesitated. She was taking a party to the theatre, and dining afterwards at London's newest and smartest restaurant, so that there really was nothing at all for her secretary to do. "No, you can go," she said at last. "And please don't be late in the morning!"
"I never am," replied Beulah. "Good-night!"
"A very impudent manner that girl has," said Miss Pickhill, as the door closed behind Beulah. "Not but what you bring it on yourself, with your slave-driving ways. I suppose she'll be leaving next!"
"Oh, no, she won't!" replied Mrs. Haddington, with a slight laugh.
"Yes, that's what you say, but nowadays girls won't put up with the way you treat them, and so I warn you!"
"You needn't worry: I know too much about Miss Beulah Birtley for her to leave me in a hurry. Now, if you don't mind, it's time I went up to change. I have a theatre-party."
Miss Pickhill said severely: "Theatres and balls! You don't seem to me to think of anything else. Where you get the money from to pay for all this wicked extravagance is more than I can tell! It's no use saying Hubert left you very well-off he didn't leave you with a fortune; and, what's more, if he had it would be taken away from you by the Government. Sometimes I lie awake for hours worrying about the way you live, Lily, and expecting to read in the paper any minute that you've been had up for cheating the, Income Tax, or running a gaming-house."
"Running a gaming-house! Really, Violet - !"
"I wouldn't put it beyond you," said Miss Pickhill darkly. "You can fool all these grand friends of yours, I daresay, but you can't fool me! There's very little you'd stop at, Lily. You've always been the same: out for what you can get, and never mind how! I shall never forget how you threw poor Charlie Thirsk over because Hubert came along with twice his income. Well, I'm sure I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but I never did like that man, and no more did Father. He always said there was something not quite straight about him, and as for the people he went about with - Well, there's only one word to describe them, and that's flashy! Like that Mr. Seaton-Carew I'm always running into here!"
"There's a remedy for that," retorted Mrs. Haddington. "Don't come here!"
"Oh, I know very well I'm not wanted!" said Miss Pickhill, in no way abashed. "But blood's thicker than water, and I know my duty, Lily!"
With these words she offered her cheek to her sister, a courtesy which Mrs. Haddington acknowledged by touching it with her own, said that there was no need to ring for the butler, since she was quite capable of seeing herself out, and went away. Mrs. Haddington was just about to go up to her bedroom when the door opened again, and her daughter strolled into the room.
Cynthia Haddington was nineteen years old, and a girl of quite outstanding beauty. She was dazzlingly fair, with large, china-blue eyes, and hair of shining gold. A slender figure, exquisite tailoring, and the discreet use of mascara on brows and lashes brought her appearance to perfection. An expensive finishing-school, while adding very little to her mental attainments, had taught her to move with more grace than was often to be seen amongst her contemporaries; she was a good dancer; she skated well; played a moderate game of tennis; and had a good enough seat on a horse to show to advantage on the Row, if not in the hunting-field. Her disposition was uneven; nor did she give the impression of being one who enjoyed robust health. During her first season she had flagged rather frequently; but she seemed to be growing accustomed to late hours and town-life, and was beginning to develop astonishing recuperative powers. When she was doing what she liked, she was gay and good-humoured, but when anything happened to thwart her plans she was inclined to fall into what her mother called a nerve-storm and everyone else called tantrums. Those who disliked her said that she was wholly devoid of intellect, but this was unjust. Whenever she had a few minutes to spare between her various engagements she would turn over the pages of society journals, even reading the captions under the pictures; and she never entered her bedroom without turning on the radio.
She came in now, looking tired, but extremely smart in navy-blue, with a tiny hat on her head, and very high heels to her shoes, and uttered in the slightly adenoidal voice acquired through constant study of the delivery in vogue amongst her favourite announcers: "Oh, Mummy, too sickening! I walked into Aunt Violet on the doorstep! I do think she's too lethal! Why do you let her absolutely infest the house?"
"Because I can't stop her," replied Mrs. Haddington. Her eyes ran over the charming figure before her, and softened. "That frock suits you. I wasn't sure, at the time, but it's just right. Where have you been, darling?"
"Oh, I went to a flick with Lance, and then tea," responded Cynthia, sinking into a chair and casting off her hat. "It was rather ghastly, really, with captions and things, because of being in Italian, and an absolute purge, Mummy, which Lance thought was too terrific!"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Haddington. "Lance… Well, that's all right, I suppose. I can't say I really like that young man, and in some ways I'd rather hear that you were running round with Timothy Harte."
"I think Timothy's marvellous!" agreed her daughter, with simple enthusiasm. "I mean, he's much betterlooking than Lance, and I go frightfully big for that kind of blue eye that goes with dark hair, don't you? In some ways, I wish it was him that was a peer, and not Lance."
Mrs. Haddington saw nothing to deprecate in this naive speech;
she agreed with it in the main, but said that peers were not everything. "I don't like the way Guisborough lives, or the ridiculous ideas he has. If he hadn't come into the title -"She paused. "Well, of course, he is Lord Guisborough, but he wasn't brought up to be!" she said. "From all I can discover, his mother was quite a common sort of person, besides - But never mind that!"
"D'you mean being Lance's father's mistress before he married her?" enquired Cynthia. "I know all about that. Trixie's frightfully proud of it, because she believes in doing away with marriage-ties, on account of being a Communist."
"I can believe anything of Beatrice Guisborough, but doing away with marriage-ties has nothing whatsoever to do with Communism that I ever heard of!"
"Oh, hasn't it? P'raps I got it wrong, then. Only I do know she wishes her father hadn't married her mother, because if he hadn't Lance wouldn't be Lord Guisborough, and she simply hates that. She won't be an Honourable herself, and she's always trying to get Lance to go on being plain Mr. Guisborough. Actually, I don't think Lance wants to, poor sweet. In fact, I think he's rather thrilled about being a Lord."
"Then I wish he would learn to behave like one!" said Mrs. Haddington tartly.
"Yes, I do too," agreed Cynthia.
"In some ways, I should prefer young Harte for you."
"Yes, but he won't ever be a Lord, Mummy," Cynthia pointed out.
"No, but he'll be a baronet. He comes of a very good family; he's well-off; and he's got the sort of background I want for you, my pet. I'm not too sure about Guisborough. The people he mixes with, and the political opinions he holds, and the fact that he wasn't brought up in the right surroundings - well, sometimes I wonder whether he'll ever have the entree - title or no title! His father seems to have been a waster, and of course he more or less dropped out when he made that disastrous marriage."
"How on earth did you find out all this?" demanded Cynthia.
"I made it my business to find out," said Mrs. Haddington shortly. "I'm not going to let you make a mistake that might ruin your life. You're all I've got, and all I care for, Cynthia, and I'm determined you shall have the best!"
Her daughter yawned. "Actually, I shall marry anyone I like," she said. "In some ways, I think I should rather like it to be Lance, because there's simply nothing he wouldn't do to please me, besides being Lord Guisborough. Of course, he isn't utterly devastating ,like - oh, like anyone! Anyway, I haven't made up my mind, and the whole thing is too boring!"
Mrs. Haddington looked searchingly down into the flower-like face, just now set into lines of weariness and discontent. "You're tired," she said. "You ought to go straight to bed, only that we're going to this first night."
"I shall be all right," Cynthia murmured, her eyelids drooping.
"You shouldn't have let Guisborough take you to the cinema this afternoon."
"Oh, Mummy, don't be so silly! What on earth else was there to do? Sit at home, and read a book?"
Mrs. Haddington appeared to feel the force of this argument, for she said nothing for a moment or two. The delicate chime of an ormolu clock on the mantleshelf made her raise her eyes quickly to it, and exclaim: "We must hurry, or we shall be late! Cynthia - tell me, my darling! - you haven't been meeting Dan unknown to me, have you?"
Cynthia's eyes flew open at that. "Dan? Whatever do you mean?"
Mrs. Haddington sat down on the arm of her daughter's chair, and tenderly smoothed the helmet of spun gold about her pretty head. "Listen, my pet! I know Dan's attractive, but he's not the man for you. He's an - an old friend of mine, but if I thought that you —'
"Darling Mummy, do be your age!" begged Cynthia. "I haven't the slightest desire to cut you out with Dan!"
Mrs. Haddington saw no need to reprove her offspring for this speech. She merely said: "Then that's all right. But you mustn't think I don't know that he's been doing his utmost to get you to fall for him. And, of course, men of his age -"
"Too Victorian!" interrupted Cynthia. "Really, Mummy! Oh, God, is it actually six o'clock? I must fly!"
She wrenched her slim body out of the chair, and bent to pick up the discarded hat. Mrs. Haddington said: "You'll have time for a hot bath: it'll freshen you up."
"I shall be all right," Cynthia repeated. "Who's coming with us?"
"Roddy Vickerstown, the Kenelm Guisboroughs, and Freddy Atherstone."
"Christ!" observed Cynthia.
"Well, I know, darling, but the Kenelm Guisboroughs know everybody, and I'm particularly anxious to get you invited to Mrs. Atherstone's dance. It'll be one of those intime affairs -"
"It sounds lousy," said Cynthia. "And Kenelm Guisborough is so dull he makes me practically basinsick, besides having that dim wife, and hating Lance's guts for being the heir! I suppose it'll be some ghastly play, too, with a Message, or something that makes you want to cry with boredom!"
Mrs. Haddington regarded her in some perturbation. "Darling, if you're really too tired, I'll ring Nest up, and ask her if she can possibly -"
"Oh, Mummy, do stop fussing!" Cynthia said impatiently. "I shall be all right when I've had a bath!"
Mrs. Haddington looked doubtful, but when she next saw her daughter she perceived that the hot bath had had unexpectedly recuperative powers. A vision in delicate shades of floating yellow chiffon, Cynthia ran down the stairs three-quarters of an hour later, and burst upon the assembled theatre-party, partaking of sandwiches and cocktails in the library, with apologies for her tardiness on her smiling lips, and such a brilliant glow in her eyes as caused Mr. Freddy Atherstone, hovering on the brink of matrimony with another, to experience a serious cardiac qualm. Only Mrs. Haddington, staring for an unwinking moment, seemed to derive no pleasure from her daughter's radiant beauty; and although Mrs. Kenelm Guisborough afterwards informed her husband that Lilias had looked at Cynthia in the most extraordinary way, the revealing moment passed so swiftly that Mr. Kenelm Guisborough was able to assert that he had noticed nothing, and that his wife was always imagining things.
Chapter Four
By the time that Mrs. Haddington's duplicate Bridge-party assembled, at nine o'clock on a Tuesday evening, several persons' tempers were exacerbated, and Miss Beulah Birtley had been obliged to swallow an aspirin to quell an incipient headache.
The day began badly with the inevitable discovery by one of the invited guests that circumstances over which he had no control would prevent his honouring his engagement. Having assured the delinquent, in her sweetest voice, that it didn't matter at all, Mrs. Haddington slammed down the telephone, and ordered her maid, who had just brought up her breakfast-tray, to send Miss Birtley to her at once, and to tell her to bring the address-book with her. Upon its being pointed out to her that Miss Birtley was not due to arrive in Charles Street for another quarter of an hour, she delivered herself of some rather venomous remarks about the inefficiency and laziness of every member of her staff, which did nothing to endear her to the representative before her. Indeed, this prim-lipped virgin lost no time in requesting her employer, in accents of painful gentility, to accept her notice.
"Don't be a fool! Why should you want to leave?" demanded Mrs. Haddington.
Miss Mapperley said that she would rather not say; and at once, and in curious contradiction of her statement, began to enumerate the many and varied reasons which made her disinclined to remain under Mrs. Haddington's roof. Chief among these seemed to be her dislike of being expected to wait on two people. She said that she had never been one to complain but that maiding Miss Cynthia was one person's work, and work, moreover, for which she had not originally been engaged.
As Mrs. Haddington had been determined to set her henchwoman to work that day on the task of altering the frock she had bought for Cynthia to wear that very evening, and which a conscienceless couturier had delivered on the previous afternoon in a far from perfect condition, these fell words made it apparent that some at least of the day's plans would have to be re-edited. She was not the woman to bandy words with one who would all too
probably walk out of the house on slight provocation, so she merely dismissed Miss Mapperley from her room and vented her wrath presently on her secretary.
The fact that Beulah did not arrive in Charles Street until ten o'clock furnished her with an excellent excuse for verbally blistering the girl. That she had herself ordered Beulah to go first to Covent Garden market that morning, to buy flowers for the party, she at once acknowledged and dismissed by saying acidly that she would have supposed Beulah to have had time to have gone there twice over.
"Don't stand there making excuses, but go downstairs and fetch me my address book! I'm a man short tonight! And when you've done that you'll have to go to Fulham and get hold of Miss Spennymoor, and tell her I want her to come here today to alter Miss Haddington's frock. Why the wretched woman isn't on the telephone is more than I can fathom! She doesn't deserve to be employed at all when she makes things as difficult as she can. You can do the flowers when you get back."
By the time Beulah returned from her errand to the little dressmaker in Fulham, Mrs. Haddington had been driven into the last ditch, and forced to fall back, for her substitute guest, on the one person she had vowed never to invite again. Rather than include herself amongst the players, an arrangement which she considered detrimental to the smooth running of, the party, since a hostess's eye (she said) should be everywhere, she had unbent towards Mr. Sydney Butterwick, who was providentially free that evening. By rearranging the tables, so that he and Dan Seaton-Carew should play in different rooms for as long as was possible, she hoped that he might be deterred from giving expression to the jealousy he suffered every time Mr. Seaton-Carew bestowed his favours elsewhere. Mrs. Haddington was even broader-minded than young Mr. Harte, but she had the greatest dislike of shrill-voiced, nail-biting scenes being enacted at her more select parties.
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