“In that case I won’t,” said Mrs. Morland. “It would be so uncomfortable to be in a law-suit like Jarndyce v. Jarn-dyce, going on for several generations, and I am sure my boys wouldn’t like it,” at which Lord Crosse couldn’t help laughing, though very kindly, and then by way of apology he asked her if she would come to the Barsetshire Agricultural show with him. Mrs. Morland asked if he was exhibiting.
“Oh no,” said Lord Crosse. “I have a couple of cows for the household but I couldn’t possibly be a landed gentleman. You must remember I am not county. John-Arthur’s children may be; his grandchildren probably will be, if there is any county left. I am only a climber so far.”
“Well, that is all very comfortable,” said Mrs. Morland, “because I am just Mrs. Morland who writes those books, so there we are. After all, you are a baron and Lord Stoke says the barons are the oldest and best titles.”
“Oldest certainly. I don’t know about best,” said Lord Crosse. “After all Aberfordbury is one. And I do hope John-Arthur will marry, because it seems waste of a title not to keep it going. There’s a lot to be said for life-peerages—they are less strain on a family.”
“Of course I don’t know, as I have never been a life-peer— nor a peeress either for that matter,” said Mrs. Morland. “Did your wife like being a peeress?”
“Yes, I think she did,” said Lord Crosse. “We had always done everything together and whatever it was she tackled it.”
“I do wish I had known her,” said Mrs. Morland, not for the first time, for much as she liked Lord Crosse and felt safe and comfortable with him, there are times when a woman finds women very restful. “We could have talked about our children. You see there is really no one at High Rising to talk to about my children. George Knox wouldn’t listen if I did and even if he listened he wouldn’t hear because he would really be thinking of what he was going to say next.”
“A great defect in a listener,” said Lord Crosse gravely. “I hope you don’t find it in me.”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Morland. “You are really very fair. You do talk rather a lot about your daughters’ families, and if your other daughter’s family is as nice as Mrs. Carter’s I don’t wonder. If I talked to you about my family though, you would be bored.”
Lord Crosse did not make any answer for a moment.
“I do apologize,” he said after a pause. “I am a bore myself. Nearly as bad about grandchildren as Victor Hugo— though if all were known I expect his grandchildren found him a frightful bore and spoilsport.”
“But you aren’t Victor Hugo,” said Mrs. Morland.
“No, thank God,” said Lord Crosse. “In the first place because I would be French and in the second because I should be dead and not have the pleasure of sitting with you; of having got to know you of late; of admiring your courage and your delightful inconsequence and indeed everything about you.”
“It is very nice of you to say so,” said Mrs. Morland, “but men really do prefer men. You only have to be in a mixed party with a hostess who doesn’t bother to make people mix and you will find all the men getting together to talk about dull things.”
“And don’t all the women get together too?” said Lord Crosse.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Morland. “But to talk about really interesting things. I like men very much. But if I had to be on a desert island with one sort only, I think I’d choose women. Rather a bore at times perhaps, but I’m not sure if men wouldn’t be worse. What do you think?”
Lord Crosse, rather taken aback by this novel view of desert islands, said he thought men. After all, he said, the three boys in Coral Island managed very well, and then rather spoilt his case by adding that boys wouldn’t want a woman on an island—unless it were a mother.
“Then we will each stick to our own island,” said Mrs. Morland.
Lord Crosse was silent. Then he said, “Do you really mean that?”
Mrs. Morland, looking at some distant invisible object, said she really did.
“Then I am sorry I said as much as I did,” said Lord Crosse, in his turn looking away across the water-meadows. There was a silence.
“If I weren’t sitting on a bench in full view of everyone, I would sit down flat on the garden path like Miss Betsey Trotwood,” said Mrs. Morland. “Did you mean what you said, Lord Crosse; or am I only imagining? I do imagine, you know. It’s my profession.”
“Yes, I did say it,” said Lord Crosse. “I said it because I meant it. And if my wife were here I would say exactly the same—and what is more, she would understand” he said; almost like a schoolboy’s “And sucks to you,” or whatever today’s equivalent is.
“I am extremely sorry, but I simply couldn’t,” said Mrs. Morland. “That is if you mean what I suppose you mean. To begin with, there is your wife to consider. It isn’t fair to take it for granted that she would understand when she isn’t here to speak for herself. Oh, please, Lord Crosse, go back to where we were five minutes ago. You can, you know. And I shan’t ever say a word.”
“That I do believe,” said Lord Crosse and fell silent, looking away across the garden and the water-meadows. “Nor shall I. Nor shall anyone else as far as I am concerned. Or if they do, it won’t be because I have” said anything. My one wish is that no one should ever know—for your sake.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Morland and laid her hand on his knee for a moment. “And I am sure your wife must be thinking what a couple of sillies we are,” at which Lord Crosse couldn’t help laughing and then he said that whatever Mrs. Morland might be, he certainly wasn’t a silly, because he knew how to take good advice. “So it is to be Farewell and Hail,” he said. “I renounce my hopes of indulging in the felicity Of unbounded domesticity.”
“And we will not be parsonified, Conjugally matrimoni-fied,” said Mrs. Morland. “And I shall not say a word to anyone—though I might cry just a little,” she added, hitting her eyes with her handkerchief.
“And I may have an extra glass of port tonight and think of a permanent widower’s future,” said Lord Crosse, “but there shall not be a night of memories and of sighs.”
“And when I get home” said Mrs. Morland, “I shall write a beautiful scene where Madame Koska refuses to marry the nice detective who has helped her from so many villains, because she feels she is too old to be bothered with a man about the house—you see she had been married before, years ago, and her husband was really practically nothing but an expense,” at which words Lord Crosse had an uneasy feeling that this was partly autobiographical. As indeed it was, but all so long ago, and now like a dream.
“In that case,” said Lord Crosse, “may I ask you to have lunch with me at the County Club one day and go on to the Barsetshire Agricultural Show?” which invitation Mrs. Morland accepted with the greatest pleasure.
“If,” said a quiet voice with considerable authority in it, “you can tell me where my wife is, I shall be much obliged. She has the most provoking way of not being here when I need her.”
Mrs. Morland looked up, as did Lord Crosse. A middle-aged man of slight wiry build, with greying hair and moustache and dark piercing eyes, dressed in good well-worn tweeds and those rather old-fashioned short gaiters that prevent burrs and bits of grass and corn getting into one’s boots, was standing before them, holding a stick which Mrs. Morland at once recognized as one which was always in the hall, waiting obediently for its master.
“How do you do, Sir Robert,” she said, and got up and shook hands with him. “How very nice that you are at Holdings for good. When I last saw Lady Graham she was in the Saloon. You know Lord Crosse?”
“By name of course,” said Sir Robert, holding out his hand which Lord Crosse was glad to take. “Pomfret says you are a great acquisition to the East Barsetshire County Council. I am standing myself now that the army has done with me. If I get in I shall beat my sword into a ploughshare. A figure of speech of course.”
“And your golden locks time has to silver turned, Sir Robert,” said Mrs.
Morland, carried away by her literary leanings.
“Daresay it has,” said Sir Robert, “but I’m damned-saving your presence—if I’ll let anyone have my helmet for a beehive. I wanted to talk to Goble, but Emmy won’t let me get a word in edgeways and makes me feel rather like King Lear. Those Pomfrets are a masterful lot. There’s my wife. Looks like an angel—as she is—and ran the whole place all through the war while I was away and kept it on till I was retired. No one has a chance with those Pomfret women. Her mother, Lady Emily, was the same. She ran Rushwater and my father-in-law though everyone thought she was a halfwit,” which was a very unfair description of Lady Emily but had some truth in it; for her ladyship had been a little like Mother Carey whom Tom met in the Water-Babies, apparently sitting and doing nothing most charmingly, yet causing all sorts of things to be arranged and carried out and all sorts of people to coalesce who seemed the most unlikely persons in the world to do so.
“And what’s everyone doing?” said Sir Robert. “Emmy’s down in the cow-sheds with Goble, trying to get a young heifer out of him—but she won’t. Where are all the young people?”
Mrs. Morland said that as far as she knew they were mostly on the river, including Lord Mellings who had come over in his car.
“That’s a nice boy of Pomfret’s,” said Sir Robert. “And his father did the right thing in sending him to Sandhurst. If you want your boy to be a soldier, get him into the Brigade. It’s a pity Pomfret wasn’t a soldier. His father was a poor piece of work and didn’t bring the lad up properly, but he managed to bring himself up and that wife of his is a first-rate woman. And I know something about first-rate women. I must go and look at the hatches; those reeds want cutting again,” and Sir Robert walked away with the erect and confident bearing of a man who not only knows his own job from end to end, but has also successfully commanded men, dealt as a military diplomat with politicians, and nearly always got his own way; which had meant on the whole the way that was best for England.
“Well, here we sit like a picture by Marcus Stone, R.A.,” said Lord Crosse, “only I can’t think of a title, and his people are young and wear empire gowns and old-fashioned uniforms.”
“ ‘Does truth sound bitter,’ ” said Mrs. Morland. “How would that do?”
“Dear me, how my wife would have liked you,” said Lord Crosse. “I know I have said it before, but I will say it again. She loved Browning and we used to read aloud to each other. Well, Mr. Browning shall say for me that I will hold your hand but as long as all may, or so very little longer.”
“He certainly shall not,” said Mrs. Morland firmly. “And I must go now because Lord Stoke is driving me back and I see him coming out of the farm gate. He has been doing cows or pigs with the bailiff,” and she got up.
“Nay come, let’s go together—at any rate as far as the drive,” said Lord Crosse, which made them both laugh and the point of emotion was safely turned, leaving we think the foundation of a quiet and lasting friendship behind it.
Gradually the guests from outside were leaving. Lord Stoke, after a running fight with Goble in which both sides had lost and won ground, had asked for his dog-cart to be brought round.
“Oh, Lord Stoke, why didn’t you come in your brougham?” said Edith, who ever since the day of her lunch at Rising Castle and the gift of the pearl necklace had felt slightly important.
“Not in this weather” said Lord Stoke. “The only trouble is my man doesn’t like sitting with his back to the horse. Says it makes him feel sick. My old groom didn’t feel sick, but these young fellers have no guts.”
Edith looked for the young fellow, but only the elderly groom was visible.
“And how are your pearls, young woman?” said Lord Stoke to Edith.
“Very well, thank you,” said Edith. “But I don’t wear them when we go on the river, just in case. Cousin Sally is going to have a dance at the Towers in the autumn and I shall have a new dress and the pearls will be in all their glory. I do like them.”
“That’s a good girl,” said Lord Stoke as he climbed to his seat. “Where’s Mrs. Morland?”
Lady Graham then came out with Mrs. Morland. The groom, who had got down and was holding the horse’s head saw her safely up, climbed up behind, and away went the equipage amid cheers from the Graham and Leslie boys.
After a good deal of discussion the younger members then decided to drive into Barchester, dine at the White Hart, go to the Odeon where Glamora Tudor was co-starring (but in larger letters) with Buck Follanbee in Love in a Bath, described by its producers as the Great Erotic Drama of all Time, in which Charlotte Corday after starting the French Revolution has a suicide pact with a gentleman called Marat and they both cut their veins in a swimming tank about a hundred feet by twenty-five in Glorious Technicolour and the Wide Screen; so that everyone is happy, and apart from the blood being a kind of orange-pink and the water deep blue, the whole film is doubtless the super-factual representation which its makers claim. So they all went off in their own and other people’s cars and peace descended on the house.
After dinner Sir Robert and Lady Graham sat outside, away from the breeze and watched the summer-time light dying.
“It is nice to have you at home Robert” said Lady Graham, as they sat looking across the water-meadows. “It makes me think of the night you proposed to me.”
“I nearly didn’t propose to you, my dear,” said Sir Robert. “The stupid waiter had spilt some coffee down my shirt, and I had to go to my rooms and change first. I was in a perfect fright because you. had been dancing with that young de Courcy and I thought he might get in first.”
“George de Courcy?” said his wife. “The most dreadful lout like all those de Courcy boys. He smelt of wine and trod on my skirt and I nearly cried. In fact I did ask mother to take me home, but she wouldn’t and then most luckily George fell down in the refreshment room and the caterers put him in their van to sleep it off and delivered him at Ennismore Gardens next day—that was where the de Courcys had taken a house for the season. Now we shall have to see about a season for Edith.”
“I don’t know,” said Sir Robert. “That girl of ours has a will of her own. She wants to learn something about estate work. It’s all cut and dried. She wants to go to the Towers for a bit and do some kind of course in Barchester and pick up hints from Roddy Wicklow. What do you think?”
“Really nothing,” said Lady Graham placidly. “Emmy went off to Rushwater to do cows and got married and Clarissa went off to college and she is married, so if Edith really wants to do an estate agent course she will probably get married too. That poor George Halliday rather cares for her, I think, so the lowers mightn’t be a bad plan for a few months.”
“Young Crosse doesn’t seem uninterested in her either, as far as I have seen since I came down,” said Sir Robert.
“And there is Ludo at the Towers,” said Lady Graham.
“Good God!” said Sir Robert, more we think from surprise at the number of possible pretendants to his daughter’s hand than from active disapproval of any one of them.
“Well, Robert, you know she will do exactly as she likes” said Lady Graham, “and she is your daughter.”
“I never thought she wasn’t,” said Sir Robert.
“Poor George,” said Lady Graham, unmoved by her husband’s insinuation. “He has enough to do with his father’s death and the place on his hands without thinking of Edith. I don’t know what arrangements his father might have made, but death duties would be the end of Hatch House. Robert, ought we—”
“Now don’t worry,” said Sir Robert. “If there’s another war the boys will be killed before I am. But I’ve done all I can and Keith and Keith are pretty good at the job. Half the lawyers in England must be doing nicely out of helping people to save their places and their money. It’s all a gamble. But I’m a good life, God willing, and in any case you are all right my dear.”
“I was reading the Newcomes the other day” said her ladyship, “and the one real
ly good, happy person in it is Lady Anne Newcome.”
“Why, my dear?” said Sir Robert. “I haven’t read it lately. Her old husband dies, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does. But you are not old,” said Lady Graham. “And when you are dead I shan’t be able to retire to a large house in Wimbledon with my servants and a carriage and no bother about money. I shall have to live in Goble’s cottage. And talking of houses, Robert, those Carters at the Old Manor House are extremely nice and quite the right sort and have done the house up beautifully.”
Then they took a short walk along the river and watched the western sky turn from pink and gold to a lovely cold, clear green with one star shining, till the air became chill and they went indoors.
“Poor George Halliday,” said Lady Graham, as her husband shut the inner door against the evening mists from the river. “Don’t put the chain on the door, Robert. The children are out.”
“I’m sorry he’s lost his father,” said Sir Robert, “but he’s young.”
“Young, but not so young,” said Lady Graham. “And a widowed mother on his hands. I don’t mean to be unkind because I might easily be a widow myself if things went wrong.”
“Don’t be so foolish, my dear,” said Sir Robert. “Young Halliday has a good house and the farm should be paying quite well. He’ll marry soon and then we’ll find a cottage for Mrs. Halliday. Nice woman.”
“I don’t think he will marry, poor boy,” said Lady Graham.
“A bit young to be a confirmed bachelor,” said Sir Robert.
“Not so very young either,” said Lady Graham. “None of those soldiers are, Robert. But I think he is one of the people who deserve all the good luck they don’t get.”
“Now, stop talking like Old Moore, my dear, and go to bed,” said Sir Robert. “I must write one or two letters and then I’m coming up. Good-night,” and with a look of great affection at his wife he went into the little room which was known, according to what it was wanted for, as The Library, The Estate Room, Your Father’s Room, The Study, and The Boot Hole because there Sir Robert had his boots and shoes, of which he had a large number, all kept in exquisite order by his own hands. He wrote one or two letters and then went to the outer door which was left open for the Barchester revellers’ return.
Never Too Late Page 28
