Mary felt quite excited as she dressed for the party. She had a cherry-coloured frock of soft cashmere which seemed just right for the occasion.
“Not bad at all—really,” said Mary to herself, and as she looked in the mirror and made a few adjustments to her dark brown curls the thought crossed her mind that perhaps—other people—might think she looked quite nice.
Poppet was ready and waiting in the drawing room when Mary went downstairs. “Mary, you’re perfectly sweet!” she excalimed. “That frock is just your colour. May I pin these two roses on your front?” and as Poppet was an artist in dress the two lovely pink roses pinned to Mary’s “front” completed the picture.
“Yes,” said Poppet surveying her guest critically. “Yes, you’ll do. In fact I never saw you look better. Let’s each have a cocktail before they arrive because we shan’t have time afterwards. I never seem to get anything to eat or drink at my own parties. Where’s Johnnie?”
Johnnie appeared at that very moment and made a bee-line for the table where the food and drink was arranged.
“One each before they come,” said Johnnie firmly. “If you’ve got to go wandering round with a jug you never get any yourself. I think I’ll have two while I’m about it.”
“Yes, darling, do,” said Poppet. “And have some of Janet’s biscuits. The caviare ones are terribly good.”
Westkirk was not a fashionable place, so the guests (who had been invited to come at six thirty) arrived at the time appointed or quite soon after. The Lamberts’ car had been all round the town collecting people who had not cars of their own; these included Mr. Orme and Anne, the two Maddons and little Mrs. Bannister. (“I didn’t know Poppet had asked her,” said Mr. Lambert to Mary. “We had better give her lemonade. She won’t notice and it’ll be safer.”) Roger brought Mrs. Ayrton and Nell; he also brought Georgina, for Nell in the goodness of her heart had rung up the Lamberts and asked if she might come. The Claytons came and brought old Miss Cannan (who was Aunt Beatrice’s special friend) and the remainder of the company consisted of people Poppet had met in the town that morning and people she had suddenly thought of and invited by telephone.
There were about forty guests; they filled the drawing room and filtered onto the verandah and as they all knew each other well, meeting almost daily in the town or on the golf course or at some of the many social functions which took place in Westkirk (such as the Women’s Rural Institute, the Girl Guides Local Association and Church Bazaars), they were naturally enchanted to meet each other again in Poppet’s drawing room. They had so much to say to each other and so many things of common interest to discuss that the noise of talk and laughter became louder and louder every moment.
Georgina Glassford was the only stranger—she knew nobody — but Poppet remembered this and introduced her to everybody within reach. Luckily there were several personable young men who were all agog to make Georgina’s acquaintance and soon she was the centre of a little group and was chatting to them happily. Although Poppet did not like Georgina (and most certainly did not want her as a next-door-neighbour), she was bound to admit that the girl was good-looking and well turned out and obviously attractive to the opposite sex, if not to her own. She was an asset to the party, which was a mark in her favour.
Poppet had not yet solved the mystery of Roger and Georgina. There was a mystery, she was sure; they had been as thick as thieves that Sunday when she had met the Amberwell party going to church and Roger had opened the gate for her. But Roger had not wanted the girl to be asked to the party, and he was not one of the group which had gathered round her tonight. Mary might know the reason, but Poppet did not intend to ask her, for Mary must not be teased about Roger any more.
There was not much that escaped Poppet’s eye for she was a born hostess and deeply interested in the affairs of her friends. She noticed that Arnold Maddon and Anne Selby had drifted out into the garden to admire the roses; she noticed that Nell had been pinned down into a corner by old Miss Cannan; she noticed that Mary—dear little creature—was helping Johnnie to wait upon the guests; she noticed that Marion Ayrton had sat down upon the sofa and was looking slightly dazed . . . but it isn’t the cocktails, thought Poppet, it’s just the noise and heat. I must get somebody to take her on to the verandah. Dr. Maddon will do.
It was not easy to find Dr. Maddon amongst the crowd and in her search for him Poppet came across Roger standing near the door. Roger was not talking to anybody but was gazing over the heads of his fellow guests, which he could do quite easily.
“Darling Roger, you’ve got nobody to talk to,” exclaimed Poppet in dismay. “Shall I find somebody——”
“No—please,” replied Roger hastily. “I just like looking round.”
“How nice to be so tall. I can’t see where anybody is; it’s a great disadvantage for a hostess.”
Roger looked down at her and smiled. Her head reached the second button of his waistcoat. “I could lift you up,” he suggested.
“That would be lovely,” she agreed. “But perhaps a little too—too obvious. Tell me what’s going on. Can you see Mary anywhere?”
Roger said he could.
“I do wish you’d get hold of her for me,” said Poppet fretfully. “She’s handing round biscuits—and there’s no need. The young men ought to be handing the trays. Mary has been running about all day helping me. She’s done quite enough. Do get hold of her, Roger, and tell her she’s to stop handing trays and enjoy the party. Tell her I said so.”
“Poppet’s orders,” said Roger nodding. He hesitated and then exclaimed, “Oh, I’m sorry!”
“But I like it,” said Poppet laughing merrily. “Everybody calls me Poppet—if they don’t do it to my face they do it behind my back—so just call me Poppet if you can do it easily.”
Roger said he could do it very easily, and in fact he had been trying not to do it for some time, and with that he pushed off through the crowd on his errand. For a few moments Poppet watched him; she could see his fair head above the heads of her other guests. She would dearly have liked to stand upon a chair and see what happened when he reached his objective, but unfortunately that was out of the question. Heaving a sigh of regret at her dwarfishness, Poppet continued her search for Dr. Maddon. She was hampered considerably by the friendliness of her guests who all wanted to talk to her and tell her how much they were enjoying her hospitality—but presently she found Dr. Maddon, purely by luck and not by good guidance, and seizing him by the arm told him to rescue Marion Ayrton and take her into the garden.
“Drink this,” said Johnnie’s voice in her ear. “Go on, drink it up. You need it.”
Johnnie really was sweet, thought Poppet as she smiled at him and obeyed.
“The show is going well,” said Johnnie. “You can tell by the noise. Frightful din, isn’t it?”
“Frightful,” agreed the hostess with complacency.
“Have another wee drop before I go?”
“Well, just half. Oh Johnnie, what about Mrs. Bannister?”
“It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ve got her on lemonade . . . but the governess is getting a bit high. Shall I put her on lemonade or would she notice?”
“Yes,” said Poppet. “I mean put her on lemonade. It doesn’t matter if she notices.”
They parted and went their ways and the din increased.
*
2.
It was peaceful and cool in the rose-garden. The din could be heard in the distance like the sound of the sea. Not even Amberwell roses were as beautiful as Poppet’s.
“Look, Arnold, they really are lovely,” said Anne.
“Yes,” agreed Arnold, but he said it vaguely as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Anne was suddenly frightened. Why had she come here with Arnold? Why had she allowed Arnold to inveigle her into the rose-garden? He had suggested that they should come here and look at Poppet’s roses, but he was not looking at them. He was going to “say something” she was sure. Of course in one way
it would be better if he “said something” because she could tell him it was “no use” and make things absolutely clear; but in another way it would be dreadful. Anne did not think she could bear it. Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer. She wished she had the courage to escape. It would be easy to escape from Arnold. He could not run after her. She could make some excuse and run up the steps, back to the crowded room and to safety. But Anne could think of no excuse, her brain was paralysed, she was rooted to the ground.
“Anne,” said Arnold. “I brought you here to tell you something. The Old ’Uns have been discussing our affairs. I just wanted to tell you that it’s all right. I understand.”
Anne was dumb with terror.
“It’s all right,” repeated Arnold earnestly. “Your Old Boy told my Old Boy and he explained it to me—so you needn’t worry any more. We’re friends.”
Anne was still dumb and Arnold hesitated, for it was difficult to know how to go on. His Old Boy had told him quite a lot about Anne—and some of it in medical language—and had concluded the lecture by saying, “So if you really want her you may have to wait for years—but to my way of thinking she’s worth waiting for.”
“I could strangle him,” Arnold had muttered.
“Hm’m, I daresay you could, but murderous feelings never did anybody any good and if you take my advice, you’ll put all that out of your head.”
“I’ll try,” said Arnold. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll try. And I don’t mind waiting if you think there’s any hope.”
“I never said there was hope, did I? You’ll be wise to get that out of your head as well. Mind you, Arnold,” declared Arnold’s Old Boy, wagging a finger at him, “mind you, if you so much as breathe a word of love or marriage to that young woman you’re done—finished for good and all. That young woman needs a friend, not a sweetheart. Maybe some day she’ll need a husband—maybe not.”
At first Arnold had decided to say nothing about it to Anne, but just to be a friend to her. It seemed the easiest way. But then he had changed his mind. Once or twice when they had been talking he had seen the look of a woodland fawn appear in Anne’s clear eyes; it was a frightened, startled look—almost a look of horror. If Arnold had needed any confirmation of his Old Boy’s assertions, Anne’s startled eyes would have given it to him.
This being so it seemed better to clear up the matter and state his position clearly.
“We’re friends,” repeated Arnold, smiling at Anne in a friendly sort of way.
“You mean it, really?” asked Anne incredulously.
“I mean it,” replied Arnold with conviction. “We’re friends and we’ll always be friends. That’s all I want—ever.” (God forgive me for the lie, thought Arnold.)
“Oh, Arnold, I’m glad! I was afraid——”
“Well, you needn’t be afraid any more.”
She sighed with relief and pleasure.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” asked Arnold.
“Yes, it’s marvellous. Nothing could be better. You see I like you so very, very much.”
The grey eyes were raised to his with such a look of affection and trustfulness that Arnold was repaid. “That’s—all right then,” he said with a catch in his breath. “We know where we are, don’t we?”
“Yes, we know where we are,” agreed Anne smiling. “It really is simply perfect. And now I can be as nice as I like without—without you thinking——”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Arnold. He hesitated and then added, “Well, now that it’s settled perhaps we’d better go back,” because he felt he had had as much as he could bear for the moment.
*
3.
Nell was talking to old Miss Cannan—or rather old Miss Cannan was talking to Nell.
“Beatrice is quite herself again,” said Miss Cannan.
Nell said she was very glad to hear it.
“Oh quite herself,” nodded Miss Cannan. “She has quite regained her—her determination. I have been staying with her in Edinburgh for a few days and we went to some of the Festival Concerts. It was most enjoyable.”
Nell said she was glad.
“That was a very curious little attack Beatrice had in Rome, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Nell. “I wonder——”
“It must have been most unpleasant for her to be laid up in the Pensione, and Madame Le Brun seems to have behaved in an extraordinary way.”
“Yes,” said Nell. “Poor Aunt Beatrice was——”
“But she thoroughly enjoyed her journey home in the aeroplane. In fact she enjoyed it so much that she intends to fly to Copenhagen next year for her holiday and she is very anxious for me to go with her.”
“It would be nice,” suggested Nell.
“I have never been—airborne,” said Miss Cannan in doubtful tones. “Beatrice assures me it is a delightful sensation but I am not a good sailor and I might feel unwell.”
“There are things you can take,” Nell told her. “Roger says avomine is good.”
Miss Cannan rummaged in her bag. “I must write it down in my little book,” she said. “I don’t really intend to go (Bournemouth would be much more restful), but Beatrice is so very—persuasive . . .”
“Yes,” said Nell. “She is, isn’t she?”
*
4.
Meanwhile Roger had found Mary and delivered his message. He removed the tray of biscuits from her grasp and, handing it to one of Poppet’s personable young men who happened to be standing near, told him to get on with it.
“Yes, sir,” said the P.Y.M. smartly. (He was doing his National Service and knew a superior officer—even in plain clothes—when he met one.) “Yes sir, I’ll circulate the biscuits. I’d have offered before, only——”
“There are some chairs on the verandah,” said Roger taking Mary’s elbow the better to steer her through the crowd.
“But I think I ought to—” began Mary.
“Poppet’s orders,” said Roger firmly.
They settled themselves comfortably upon two chairs at the end of the verandah. Roger offered his companion a cigarette and lighted one himself. “This is nice,” he said. “It’s frightfully hot and noisy inside, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s fun. It’s fun seeing everybody in their best clothes. Don’t you think so?”
“Some people,” said Roger, looking at Mary. “Some people look—awfully nice—in their best clothes.”
“What about the bow-window?” asked Mary.
“Oh yes—the bow-window. I saw Lumsden about it this morning and he says it’s a grand idea. Of course we’ll have to get Strow to draw up some plans but Lumsden will keep him up to the mark.”
“Must you have Mr. Strow?”
“I’m afraid so, unless I sack him completely. He’s been rather useless, hasn’t he?”
“Absolutely useless.”
“Arnold came along while Lumsden and I were measuring it out,” continued Roger. “At first he said it was an unnecessary expense—his usual reaction—but when I pointed out that unless the room could be enlarged we should have to bag one of his classrooms to entertain the parents he gave in at once and became quite keen about it.”
“Good,” nodded Mary.
“You’ll let me know how it gets on, won’t you? I mean you’ll keep on writing to me and telling me things.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I like getting your letters. They’re full of you. When I read them I can hear you talking.”
“Can you, Roger?” She hesitated and then added, “So are yours—full of you, I mean.”
For a moment Roger was silent and then he sighed. “I wish I needn’t go back to Germany,” he said. “Sometimes I’ve thought of chucking it and settling down at Amberwell. What do you think, Mary?”
“I think you’re too young,” she replied with a thoughtful smile. “Too young—and too energetic. There wouldn’t be enough for you to do. It’s bad for people not to have enough to do.”
> They went on talking about it. Roger explained how he was pulled both ways—by Amberwell, and by the fascination of his career—and Mary listened with interest. They went on talking until the din, which had been raging in the distance, suddenly decreased and they realised that the party was over.
Chapter Sixteen
1.
It was september before Dennis Weatherby was able to take advantage of the invitation given him in Rome. Weatherby Manor was sold to the syndicate and was being turned into a country club and Mrs. Weatherby moved into her new house in Harrogate. Dennis was pleased with the little house, it was comfortable and modern; the garden, though somewhat neglected, had possibilities.
The relationship between Dennis and his mother was a delightful one; they understood each other and enjoyed the same jokes and, best of all, they like the same people.
If there had not been so much to do, so much bother with lawyers and removers, Dennis would have gone to Amberwell before, but he made up his mind to get the necessary business over first so that he would be free and could enjoy his visit to Amberwell with a clear conscience. Several times he had been on the point of telling his mother about Nell Ayrton but on each occasion something had prevented him . . . and anyhow there was nothing much to tell. There was nothing, except that he had fallen in love with Nell before he went to Burma and that they had carried on a regular, but strictly platonic, correspondence for three years. His dearest wish was to marry Nell, but until he had seen her and put his fate to the test it was no use talking about it. Of course his mother knew that Tom Ayrton was one of his greatest friends and he had told her about meeting Roger in Rome and all about “Aunt Beatrice.” He had made a very amusing story of the affair and they had laughed over it together.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 15
