“My time isn’t very valuable,” said Lady Emily easily. “I like getting to places early and having a look round. You’re looking rather tired, Dick.”
“The wear and tear of having nothing to do.” He took the chair beside her; there was rather a prickly pause.
“No word yet of Geneva?”
“Oh, I’ve turned that down. There’s something in the air now about Washington. It’ll probably fall down, like everything else.” “I hope it won’t. I think you’d be better — if they gave you something-intelligent to do.”
He smiled sourly.
“Think I’m going rotten; is that it, Emily?”
“It’s bad for anyone to be without reasonable occupation for such a long time,” she told him tranquilly.
“We’re finding out a lot of things that are bad for us, since 1918! I’m supposed to be in an enviable position,” was the cynical retort. “I’m pulling down a salary — which I don’t need — for doing absolutely nothing every day from ten to four: while most of my ex-colleagues are tramping their feet off, fawning and lickspittling to get jobs they would have thrown out of the window six years ago, and wondering where the hell to find the price of a haircut! That may sound an exaggeration,” he concluded, “but it’s pretty damn near the truth in several cases I could mention. I tell you, the plight of my fellow men doesn’t make me any more of a favorite with myself than I am with them, for what they are pleased to call my good fortune — undeserved, in brackets and underlined.”
Again the silence fell between them. Richard drained his glass and beckoned the waiter to fetch him another. On Lady Emily’s the dew lay undisturbed. She said, suddenly and softly, as though she desired to show him that she was ready to make some amends, “I’m sorry about the little Timson girl.”
Richard felt his heart miss a beat.
“What?”
“Didn’t you know? I thought you were bound to.” Her surprise was so genuine that it carried no sting. “The little one — Jo —’s got measles. Isn’t it tiresome for them?”
“But they’re going away the day after tomorrow,” he said when he could speak.
“I felt sure you would have heard. Mrs. Timson rang me this morning — she was coming to give my head a rub; it’s been a little troublesome again. She’s had to cancel the hotel reservations and everything, for of course the elder girl may get it too. I feel so sorry for her — I’m sure anyone who works as hard as Mrs. Timson needs her summer holiday.”
“I’ll have Kay sent down to Vemey.”
“Dick” The small, frozen monosyllable showed her disapproval.
“The child can’t swelter in town through the summer months, can she? Susan Clayborne can take her; nobody’ll even notice they’re there. Father never comes out of his room now, and Mother won’t be disturbed in a place the size of ours. They can have a bedroom and a sitting room, and be out of doors all day.”
“You know your own business,” she told him frigidly.
“May I remind you that I’m going to Scotland for the fishing?” he retorted with an equal coldness. “I’m due to leave on Saturday, and I shall probably spend six weeks in the North. That should be enough — for Bell as well as for you.”
“You don’t suggest she — knows?”
“How do I know what she knows? If her imagination is anything like yours, Emily, then God protect me from virtuous women! Bell and I have hardly met since Easter; I went in for half an hour to see the children when they came back from school!” He saw with relief his luncheon companion looking toward him from the door and rose. “Excuse me, my man’s here. I hope you don’t have to wait long for your friend.”
Why had Bell not let him know? He haggled over the question during lunch. Instead of returning to his office he put through a call, learned that nothing of importance had come in, and walked back to South Audley Street. He flung himself into an armchair, determined to have things cut and dried before he rang up Bell. After a few minutes’ consideration he put in a call for Vemey; better make sure it was settled that end before making his suggestion, which he had no reason to think she would refuse. While he waited for the call to go through his eyes fell on the square book of limp blue leather which lay at his elbow, and he smiled involuntarily as he recognized Kay’s diary — the one of last year, which he had read and chuckled over many times. It was very good, but written, of course, for an audience. Occasionally one caught a glimpse of the real Kay flickering behind the careful, self-conscious phrases. Clever, for a child of that age, those occasional imitations of Pepys. He had renewed it, at her request, in January; the other, the “private” one, did not need renewal; it was a three-year diary.
“Mr. Richard Somervell speaking. Tell Mrs. Somervell I would like to speak to her ...”
The other book; that was what he would give his eyes to see. The other book, written in the simple, slipshod fashion of the one or two of her letters which Bell had shown him when first she went to the Towers: Kay being herself, not thinking about vocabulary or style or any of the tricks she had used to impress him in the diary she had so eagerly pushed into his hands at the end of the Christmas term.
His mother’s faint, wavering voice came distantly on the line ...
VERNEY COURT WEDNESDAY
DARLING MUMMY,
One of the lovely things here is the wonderful collections. Old Mr. Somervell (whom I haven’t seen) has got cases and cases of beautiful old silver and china, and Mrs. Somervell asked me into one of the drawing rooms (one of!!) the other day to show me her miniatures. Hundreds of them. At least fifty or sixty. Done on porcelain. One is only an eye; Mrs. Somervell says it belonged to one of her ancestresses who had it painted as a wedding present for her husband, who wore it in a ring. It is painted so beautifully that it seems to follow you — quite uncanny. There is a fine collection of paintings too. This is a very cultured house ...
“Cultured”: what a queer word for the child to use. But she was right. Somervells and Hopes were cultured people; even she — Bell — knew enough to recognize that. She found herself brooding on this mysterious quality which, on the few occasions she had encountered it, commanded always her uneasy respect; this quality which she had not — but suppose Kay had it? It would be hard and funny (Bells stand-by in epithets for anything that eluded her understanding) to have a cultured daughter; it saddened her, as if Kay had gone into another room where she could not follow. Yet why should she not follow — if only a little way?
During that year Bell had thought much about her elder daughter. That flash of vision which had come to her on the Speech Day at the Towers had not wholly vanished; it still dispensed its faint, uncertain afterlight upon her thoughts of Kay. A new humility, that puzzled and distressed her, informed her attitude to the child; she struggled against it, often, with resentment, for she felt it was an “unsuitable” attitude from a mother to her daughter. She would deliberately call up visions of Kay sullen, stubborn, short of speech, and ungracious, to combat that delicate stranger, that young, pale Prunella, speaking her last, heart-rending line: “In the autumn let me die.” And it was always the stranger who triumphed, whose gleam came gradually through the scowl of the remembered Kay, until, as by an act of transformation, the frowning Kay had vanished, was absorbed into the creature of light, the one who weakened all Bell’s resistance, all her conventional theories of a mother’s “authority” over her daughter. Never again, although she would have been torn in pieces rather than admit it, would she have “authority” over Kay.
“Well, how did Kay get on in the play?” Richard had asked on her return from Hampshire.
“Very well,” she had answered gruffly. Not even with Richard-had she had the vocabulary — could she have shared the mystery of her experience.
Another thing that had troubled her, during the Easter holidays: Kathleen was growing up, and for some reason in her case it was not the easy, plantlike process which it had been in the case of Bell and her brothers and sister. I’ve got to
take more trouble, she told herself; I must try and sympathize more, and take an interest in the sort of things she cares about. Even in her craze for reading. Not that I can be expected to start reading books at my time of life, and with all I’ve got on my hands! But I might get her to talk about these novels or whatever it is she’s keen on; she might even read to me a bit, while I’m doing something else; I can stand most things except poetry. I might get her to read me that play; I dare say I’d get a clearer notion of what it was about if it was read to me.
I feel she’s growing away from me; it oughtn’t to be like that as they get older. Mother used to say, “My daughter’s my daughter all my life.” I mustn’t get out of touch with Kathleen. It’s difficult, when I see so little of them, but I’ve got to try. Mother and daughter should be companions; its queer that it should be so much easier with Jo. My word, how that child reminds me of Laura! Though she’ll never be as pretty. Funny little cuss! She’s a regular Lambton; Father would have been crazy about her. Poor Katie. I wonder if she remembers her tonic and if they see she changes her shoes after games.
The one satisfactory thing I’ve done with my money was taking out that insurance, to make sure Kathleen has an income from the time she’s twenty-one. She will never stand up to the rough-and-tumble, like Jo. And if all goes well we’ll move into another place when I have them home for good: somewhere in the suburbs, with a nice piece of garden. There’ll have to be a good train service — or perhaps it will run to a small car by then. It looks as if Remmy put me on to a good thing in this nursing home: though he’s got a lot of capital to get back before we start raking in the shekels! I may have to ask the duke to wait a bit before he gets back his money, but he’s a nice fellow. Think of old Flora turning up such trumps! It only shows you should take people as you find them; the rest’s their business, not yours.
But how nice and steady it will be, after all these haphazard years! Phew. It will be like coming to the end of a race, and, candidly, I can do with a breather. I’ve cut some pretty near corners in my time too. Look out, Bell, I’ve said to myself, or you’ll be getting warned off!
One thing I’ve made up my mind about: no more loans to Stan and Ozzy. If Stan’s such a rotten businessman he can’t manage his own affairs that’s his lookout by now. And I’m not paying for Ozzy’s wife to stand her flash friends drinks at the Cafe Royal; my word, I’d like to have seen his face if he’d caught her! He’s got a nasty awakening coming to him one day, has that lad, but he won’t have it from me. No; all I earn from now on’s going on Kathleen and Jo — with a bit, I hope, for myself; you’ve deserved it, old girl — although I say it that shouldn’t.
Jo’s measles ran their usual violent course; she measled as wholeheartedly as she did most things, and took an enormous interest in herself as a patient. When she was getting better George and Hetty, alternately, insisted upon coming up in the evenings — and Hetty, usually, on early closing days — so that Roll could get out of doors and have her exercise, without which her energy and her spirits were both apt to flag.
It was on one of those Thursday ‘early closings” that she was strolling home from St. James’s, making her way toward Piccadilly, where she wanted to get some wine jelly for Jo, when, glancing desultorily toward the windows of the antique dealers, a face leaped so vividly from its dark background that she was brought to a standstill on the pavement. Bell’s long sight was much better than her short; she stood out in the stream of passers-by, unconscious of mutters and glances of irritation, with her eyes fixed upon the object which, from its elevation in a showcase, had arrested her attention.
Kathleen! The small, frail face, framed in loose ashen hair, the languid posture of the head, the heavy eyes and long, delicately modeled throat were, in Bell’s vocabulary, “Kathleen all over.” She took a step nearer, cautious, incredulous, and drew out her glasses to inspect at nearer range the little enameled patch or snuff box — it might have been either — from which the disconcerting likeness looked dreamily toward her. The child might have sat for it! Before Bell had time to think she was inside the shop, rather puzzled as to procedure, for she had never entered such a place before and had not the least idea what she might be asked to pay for the box.
The price gave her a shock. The dealer saw it and became supercilious.
“These rare pieces, madam, always fetch their price. I can show you something in another class —”
“No, I wouldn’t be interested.” She had taken off her gloves; her strong fingers handled the little box reflectively; she felt herself possessing — knew that she must possess — it. “I’ll give you —”
A pained look crossed the dealer’s face.
“I’m afraid we’re not open to an offer. As I say, this piece is exceptionally fine — I might say a collector’s piece. We have only had it in our possession a few hours, and I very much doubt whether it will be here by this time tomorrow. Several of our customers are interested in work of this class and period.”
She felt her heart quicken its beat, the grip of her fingers tighten. Don’t be a fool! she told herself. He’s trying to jump you. She asked coolly, “What’s the period?” and knew from the almost imperceptible flicker of the man’s eyelids that she had made some sort of a gaffe. She set her lips, frowning at him defiantly,
“If you care to look with this, madam” — he was offering her a magnifying glass — “you will see the signature.”
She looked; it conveyed nothing to her.
“H’m ... What would I get for it if I wanted to sell it again?”
Again the eyelids flickered.
“That would depend, of course, on the buyer. Disposing of it privately — as much, or more, than you paid for it. In an auction you might get considerably more, particularly if collectors were bidding.”
“And if I brought it back to you, to dispose of it for me?” She was speaking idly — gaining time — for she knew that once she had the thing in her possession nothing on earth would persuade her to part with it.
“Well, madam” — the dealer smiled aloofly — “we have, of course, our profits to consider.”
Bell drew out her checkbook ...
It was pure chance that, coming out of the shop, she walked straight into Remington. He looked at the name blazoned above the entrance, pursed his lips, and let out a whistle.
“What’s it today, Bell? Tang horses or a nice bit of famille verte? Glad to see you gambling on the success of our veriture.”
She could not refrain from exhibiting her purchase. Her heart was still ticking guiltily; she must have been crazy to spend all that money. She watched his face greedily, anxiously, as he examined it. Remmy knew about these things; he would know if she had been “done” or not.
“My word!” His expression showed mingled respect and astonishment at this unexpected proof of her good taste: an illusion Bell proceeded, characteristically, to destroy.
“You see who it is? Go on, Remmy, you know I wouldn’t buy a thing like this for fun.”
He chuckled.
“Now you mention it, I suppose it’s a little like Kay?” Good old Bell! She had no idea of posing as an amateur of the arts.
“A little!” she was scornful. “It’s the spit and image!”
“Well, whatever it is — you’ve got a damned fine piece there; so don’t start putting your cigar ash in it, I suppose you know its Sevres?” He waved her good-by from the door of his car.
Sevres; that was French. French, and old, she was thinking as she came out of Fortnum’s with the jelly. On impulse she crossed the road and entered Sotheran’s.
“Have you got any books about this sort of thing?” For the second time she displayed her purchase, and was gratified, not only by the salesman’s admiration but by his evident respect. Bell became thoughtful: she had never commanded this type of respect before. She did not deserve it, of course, because she did not know a thing about it and had only bought it for the sake of Kathleen. Yet a titillation of pride,
mingled with excitement, ran through her. If only Katie had been here, to share the fun with her!
She came out of Sotheran’s with a large expensive volume under her arm. In the taxi she opened it, to look at the colored plates; they were certainly beautiful. The letterpress defeated her; she would have to take a good look at that another time. “From the collection of the Earl of Letchington.” She took out the little box again to compare it with the plate. Well, I don’t know; but this looks to me as good as anything they’ve got in here. “From the collection of Mrs. Bell Timson” — oh, come off it, you old silly! You’ve just spent a shocking sum of money and it’s gone to your head. She wrote that evening:
KATIE DARLING,
... It’s funny you should tell me about the collections, because I’ve just started collecting myself. You’ll see, when you come home. What do you think? I’ve bought a book to tell me all about it! So you see there’s a bit of culture in Mother, after all!
She did not know, nor would have cared, that she had laid the foundation of the jackdaw-like accumulation of beauty and rubbish which was to become her vagary in later years: “Mother’s crotchet,” as the girls called it. She did not know it would become a habit, when people asked what she would like for Christmas or birthday presents, to say, “Oh, some sort of a little box.” French, Italian, Swiss, Spanish boxes; boxes from Mexico and distant Caribbean islands; boxes in silver-gilt, porcelain, glass, leather repousse, stone and wood mosaic — chased, perforated, painted, inset with precious stones — even horrors in antimony (“Oh, Mother, you can’t put that beast in your collection!”); she never threw one away, although as her standard of living altered the cheaper and uglier ones were hidden in drawers, to leave room for the gems that were displayed in her cabinets.
Bell foresaw none of this as she stuck the stamp on her letter and walked down Plymouth Street to drop it in the box. She only felt that she had forged a link — perhaps, with luck, only the first of many — with Kay.
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