Ladies of Lyndon

by Margaret Kennedy

  She shot a glance at Agatha.

  ‘The portrait has always been considered a very good one,’ said Marian in an offended tone.

  ‘Oh, very clever! Undeniably clever!’ agreed Mrs Gordon Clewer. ‘It was a very clever young man who painted it. A protégé of one of Mary’s peculiar artistic friends. Rather du peuple, you know, but that was really what gave him distinction. The other artists of the period were mostly gentlemen, or, at any rate, cultured. He came down to Lyndon to paint her, I remember, and if you met him about the house you were apt to mistake him for some tubercular under-gardener or something, come in to water the plants. It’s a pity he died so young. He would have distinguished himself. As it was, John would never believe that he really had talent. He used to ask Mary why she must bring such people into the house and why she couldn’t get the thing done by somebody really good. Poor Mary! How furious she used to be!’

  ‘Cynthia! Isn’t it your bedtime?’ inquired Marian with meaning.

  It was not, and she knew it, but Mrs Gordon Clewer must really be reminded that poor John was Cynthia’s father. She was going a little too far, even for an old lady. Perhaps she felt so herself, for, after a few seconds, she added sweetly:

  ‘Of course it’s wonderful of you to have given it up, my dear Marian. And so like you! You have a positive flair for this sort of thing.’

  Lady Clewer was not quite sure in her own mind what a flair was, but she took the remark as a compliment, as it was undoubtedly meant.

  2.

  Lois at the piano did much to relieve the languors of the evening. It was an employment in which she always appeared to advantage, having good hands and arms. Her mother, fully sensible of this, encouraged her music. She had a little talent and a great deal of temperament—qualities which urged her towards musical composition. She had written several ‘Tone Cycles,’ which sounded very effective when she sang them. Tonight, however, she larded these more intellectual items in her repertoire with a few simple love songs out of compliment to John and Agatha, who were sitting together on a distant sofa looking at photographs of Lyndon. Cynthia, who never relaxed a sidelong surveillance, was forced to decide that they were dull lovers. They were, indeed, far too well bred to betray themselves by any form of public endearment; their very conversation, though pitched too low to reach the others, was pointedly impersonal.

  John appreciated immensely this discreet semi-privacy; it was symbolical of his entire courtship. He had chosen his bride for her gravity and for the sedate composure of her manner, enchanted to find so much reserve and dignity in anything so young. He did not generally care for girls, disliking their vivacity and finding no recondite charms in inexperience. He had always looked forward to marriage as a duty, inevitable, but infinitely boring and to be postponed if possible.

  He had not danced above two or three times with the silent Miss Cocks, however, before he began to be aware that duty can be agreeably reinforced by inclination. Here at last was a girl, beautiful and innocent, yet possessed of a delicate and deliberate assurance;she sampled life discriminately, never losing her poise and never permitting herself to be engulfed. He was vastly pleased to find that he could be so completely in love.

  The brevity of their courtship had given them few opportunities for intimate conversation, but he had seen all that he wanted. He suspected that she might be naturally cold in temperament, but this, in a wife, did not displease him. He had no great opinion of fond women, for he had encountered too many of them. Agatha was like none of her predecessors. He could almost enjoy the barriers put upon their intercourse. These decorous weeks, with their wealth of social functions, were like a prologue to the bridal day when, veiled and mysterious, she should be given entirely into his possession. The prolonged privacy of the honeymoon would give him leisure enough in which to contemplate and examine his prize. He was content meanwhile just to watch her as she bent over his photographs and to mark, with a recurrent shock of pleasure, the still pose of her little head. Though she seldom raised her eyes, he was quite sure that she knew all about the admiration in his regard. She had, in such matters, an intuition which she had probably inherited from her mother.

  For that mother he had the warmest admiration, since to her training and experience he ascribed many of his bride’s perfections. His good opinion was amply returned. Mrs Cocks could not praise him enough to Mrs Gordon Clewer; he was an ideal son-in-law. The two ladies sat on an enormous chesterfield in the middle of the room, conversing in undertones because of the music. Mrs Gordon Clewer nodded and chuckled. She, too, had a good opinion of John. He was her favourite great-nephew. The boy had taste. She had always prophesied that he would choose well.

  ‘And your girl, too,’ she added, ‘I remember saying at the beginning of the Season that you wouldn’t have her on your hands for long.’

  ‘I’m very glad she’s marrying so promptly,’ said Mrs Cocks. ‘I do believe in girls marrying young. Of course, she’s very young; only just eighteen. But it’s so much easier and wiser for them to marry before they form their tastes too much, don’t you think?’

  ‘Dear me, yes! They get such decided opinions once they are past twenty, that there’s no doing anything with them.’

  The old lady took a good look at the unformed Agatha through a small quizzing glass, adding:

  ‘She’s being so pretty behaved over those photographs, it’s quite a pleasure to watch them. I’ve known you long enough, haven’t I, to say without impertinence that her manners are quite charming?’

  ‘And even if she is young,’ pursued the mother, looking gratified, ‘he is twelve years older. Old enough to look after her properly.’

  ‘A sensible age,’ said the old lady tranquilly. ‘Just the age for settling down. And quite time, too! In fact Marian was getting rather anxious. Poor Marian! Always so conscientious! So determined that we are never to forget that John is the head of the family. She couldn’t have taken his position more seriously if he’d been her own son. Her feudal instincts are really amazing. And for some months she’s been greatly put about because she thought he wasn’t going to do his duty and take a wife; so this engagement is an immense relief to her. She has such a sense of responsibility, you know; I really believe she had persuaded herself that she was in some way to blame because he was evidently enjoying his bachelorhood. And lately I fancy she caught wind of an establishment which … but I expect I’m being indiscreet….’

  She paused for a moment, to discover, perhaps, whether her reference had been news to her companion. It apparently was not, for Mrs Cocks made a little sound of assent. Mrs Gordon Clewer continued:

  ‘Ah, well! I daresay you’ve heard as much about that coil as I have. Marian was very funny about it. She won’t see when things are really best ignored.’

  There was a short silence, and then Mrs Cocks said gravely: ‘I think John is very sensible, don’t you? I mean, I think he’ll make a sensible husband.’

  ‘Of course he will, my dear. Men of his type generally do. They marry late, very often, but then they choose well and carefully.’

  ‘I’m so glad you think so,’ exclaimed Mrs Cocks. ‘Not everyone upholds me on that point.’

  And she glanced across the room at her husband who, seated beside Lady Clewer, was sleeping with painful obviousness. His faint objections to the match had been, for a day or two, an inconvenience to her. Mercifully they had soon wilted before her own overpowering common sense. She listened complacently to Lois, who was singing: ‘Glad did I live and gladly die!’ to an accompaniment of consecutive fifths. Mrs Cocks was not musical, but she had been to enough concerts to mistake the piece for Grieg. Lois was perfectly scarlet with pleasure as she set her right.

  ‘It seems that she composed the thing herself,’ observed the lady to her family on the way home. ‘She’s my friend for life.’

  Varden woke up for a few minutes in order to make some strong remarks about the music they had been hearing. He spoke at unusual length and with extra
ordinary venom. Mrs Cocks defended Lois, maintaining that the evening would have been very much worse without her.

  ‘And you can’t have heard much, Varden,’ she added, ‘for you slept the whole evening.’

  ‘Not nearly as well as I could have wished.’

  ‘She looks nice playing,’ observed Agatha.

  ‘Yes. It’s a pity she has her mother’s little blue eyes. They don’t go well with that rather Jewish colouring. And that clumsy mouth! But she’s not bad looking. Personally I’m rather sorry for her. I expect she’s catching it now. At dinner I felt Lady Clewer was just saving it up until we’d gone. Didn’t she look fierce? For all the world like a wax doll in a tantrum.’

  ‘She was rather tempersome about James, too, I thought.’

  ‘Oh,’ cried Mrs Cocks, ‘weren’t you disappointed not to see James? I was. I’m dying to see how he has grown up. I remember him as a little boy, of course; about nine, I should think. When we stayed at Lyndon once. He was queer then, wasn’t he, Varden?’

  ‘I don’t recollect him, my dear.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t see much of him. But he came into the drawing-room one evening with the little girls. Cynthia was quite a baby; it was very soon before Sir John died. Lois was very nicely behaved – came and shook hands with us quite as she should. But nothing would induce James to look at us. He crawled away and hid himself under a sofa. Such an ugly little boy, too, with this enormous head and very gappy teeth. Children like that are always very slow getting their second teeth, I believe. It’s a great sign. She was so good with him, not apologizing particularly, you know, but just saying: “Oh, James is rather shy today, I’m afraid.” She really has been wonderful with him.’

  It occurred to Agatha that the wisest course would have been to put James under some special training. But she did not say this, as she had no wish to criticize Lady Clewer if she could help it. Varden, however, said it for her.

  ‘Well, she thought it over,’ explained Mrs Cocks, ‘and felt that it would really be very cruel to send him away to school. He is so shy and sensitive, and at home they understand him and don’t tease him. She felt that his own mother would not turn him out. And, of course, after his father’s death she had all the responsibility for him.’

  ‘But surely there are specially trained governesses …’

  ‘Oh, but Miss Barrington has been so splendid! So patient! Lady Clewer was telling me about her the other day. She is really Cynthia’s governess, you know, but she has taken the greatest pains with James. She taught him to read after a fearful struggle. He would not fix his attention. And Lady Clewer hasn’t neglected the question of special training, I can assure you. She’s gone into all this manual training, which is so important where deficients are concerned. Getting him very good drawing lessons. She says he has quite a turn that way.’

  Varden gave it up. His wife was evidently determined to see no flaws in Lady Clewer’s stepmotherhood. He went to sleep again and they finished their journey in an unaccustomed silence. It occurred to the bride, with a slight shock, that this was one of the last of their little family expeditions. Very soon she would travel back from parties alone with her husband. This was an odd idea, for she was hardly ever permitted to drive alone with John. It had only happened three times—each of them a most glowing adventure. She was sure she would never get used to the notion of being alone with him as a matter of course. She did not know that she wanted to get used to it. In a way, being engaged was probably nicer than being married. It was more exciting. She ascribed her faint reluctance to regret at parting with her parents. She was convinced that she would miss her mother dreadfully, but she could not manage to feel very strongly over the loss of her father. He never seemed quite like a real person, somehow, though he had given her pearls for a wedding present.

  Struck by an unusual contrition, she kissed him goodnight very kindly in the hall before going up to bed. Varden looked a little surprised but had the presence of mind to pat her shoulder with a creditable appearance of tenderness.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ she heard him mutter. ‘That’s a very handsome young sprig you’ve got hold of. Very handsome! I shouldn’t wonder if it turned out quite a success.’

  And he shuffled off to dream over books that smelt of dust, crouching all night beside his green-shaded lamp. He looked very withered and old, with his bent shoulders and sharp, yellow face. He was fumbling with the handle of his library door as she climbed the stairs; a strange, dim figure, centuries removed from her own vital youthfulness. She thought that years alone had flung this gulf between them; she could not guess that he was already sundered from his kind by the recognized shadow of approaching death. He knew that his days were short and looked at the rest of humanity as across the unbridgable abyss of the grave. There was not very much time, now, for this father and daughter to know each other better.

  Arrived in the seclusion of her bedroom she sat down before a looking-glass and studied herself carefully for a few minutes. She decided happily that fatigue was not unbecoming to her; it merely invested her with an interesting pallor. To these meditations she was impelled by no personal vanity, but by a conscientious and painstaking sense of duty. It was with some difficulty that she had learnt to be concerned over her appearance; for she was naturally indifferent to it. Since her engagement, however, she had made real efforts, aware of the power of her loveliness over John.

  Her cousin, Gerald Blair, who had loved her first, was different. He took very little account of her beauty; indeed she had reason to suppose that he scarcely regarded it at all. But then she had not seen him for two years; not since that undignified episode at Canverley Fair.

  She felt herself beginning to blush and saw that the pale person in the glass had got quite pink. The memory of that afternoon was a constant humiliation to her, for she knew that she had been very vulgar. She had conducted herself as no lady should, and a most unladylike retribution had overtaken her. Instigated and abetted by her graceless cousin she had done a lot of low things; she rode in swing-boats, and sucked Dorchester Rock in long pink sticks, and, finally, insisted upon having a look at the Fat Lady. This sight, so unexpectedly horrid, had hastened her doom. She had felt a little sick, she remembered, as she entered the Fat Lady’s stuffy booth; its occupant had been a coup de grâce. Gerald, who was at that time a medical student, supported her manfully to a fairly private spot behind some caravans. To her gasping apologies he replied that he was used to much worse things in hospital.

  Mrs Cocks took a stormy view of the event and was unappeased when the totally ineligible Gerald announced, with some show of penitence, that he and Agatha were engaged. He was promptly eliminated from the horizon and Agatha was sent to school in Paris, where she soon learnt to be ashamed of herself. But, in a mood of self-discipline, she had preserved a memento of her escapade, a wonderful photograph of the pair of them, taken, developed and framed, all in five minutes, by a machine on the fair ground. The proprietor merely had to pull a handle and the photograph came out in ‘Brooch, Locket or Tie Pin, As Suits Lady Or Gent, Price One Shilling.’ They had purchased one apiece upon entering the fair, which, as the shameless Gerald remarked, was a good thing, for they were in no condition to be photographed when they departed.

  She thought of him now a little shyly. He was away in America, working with a friend in some very new kind of hospital. She wondered if he had forgotten all this; it would be most convenient if he had. Anyhow, when she met him again she would be married and very dignified. As the Lady of Lyndon she could surely manage to live down the past. Gerald would come to stay with them, and she would be extremely nice to him, but matronly. These speculations were interrupted by her mother who, entering briskly, demanded why she was not in bed.

  ‘I brought you home early especially in order that you might get your proper night’s rest. I don’t want you to be over-tired and in bad looks next week. Hurry up, dear!’

  Agatha obediently began to hurry and her mother sat on the
bed as if for conversation.

  ‘Not a bad man, Major Talbot, when you come to talk to him. But uncommonly little to say for himself. What is that mark on your shoulder, child? Is it a little spot? Come into the light and let me look! Oh, it’s only where a hook has rubbed you. Tell Andrews to sew it down. What was I saying? Oh, yes! About Mrs Gordon Clewer.’

  ‘You began about Major Talbot.’

  ‘Did I? Oh, well, I’d finished about him. Mrs Gordon Clewer said such nice things about you, my dear. I was so pleased. I felt I must tell you. For she’s not a person who likes people easily. She thinks your manners are so nice.’

  Agatha shook herself free from the clinging softness of her clothes and strolled away to the wash-hand stand. At intervals, while she splashed the warm water into her face and over her ears, she heard fragments of her mother’s dissertation on good manners: ‘… the longer one lives the more one sees the importance … especially in marriage … at the bottom of all these horrid scandals and divorces … ill breeding, pure and simple, is nine-tenths of the trouble … among decent people such things really don’t occur….’

  Mrs Cocks broke off suddenly to descant upon trousseau lingerie as Agatha slipped into a nightdress. She had, after all, countermanded those sets in embroidered lawn that Agatha had wanted. Silk was so much more serviceable. Agatha, reflecting that, once married, she could have as many lawn nightdresses as she pleased, assented and jumped into bed. Mrs Cocks continued gravely:

  ‘I expect you think all my remarks about manners and marriage are beside the point. Perhaps they are, now. You are in love for the time being and I daresay it’s all very nice. Of course, while that lasts it’s all plain sailing. And, my darling, I don’t see why it shouldn’t last, in your case. For a very long time, at all events. It’s such a suitable marriage. But, in case of accidents, a really well-mannered husband is a great stand-by. You’ll know what I mean someday, if you don’t now.’