Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  It was all too tidy to have been lived in, and, therefore, too tidy to live in, and it took Daisy nearly an hour to take the chill off the room, as she put it, though the heat here was nearly as intense as it had been in town. Gladys, who was no good at this subtle business of restoring life to a dead room, occupied herself with writing out the names of the guests very neatly on cards, which she then, with equal neatness, affixed to the doors of their rooms.

  Daisy paused at the end of this hour and surveyed the room with satisfaction. “For one who has till so lately been a corpse it isn’t bad,” she said. “Don’t you see the difference, Gladys? It was like a refrigerator before. Yes, let’s have tea at once, shall we, and then go out? There’s lots more to do. We must pick great boughs of laburnum and beech for all the big vases. Gardeners are no good at that; nor are you, dear, for that matter. You tell them to pick boughs, and they pick button-holes.”

  “I hate picking flowers at all,” said Gladys. “They are so much nicer where they are.”

  Daisy poured out tea.

  “I know you think that,” she said, “and I entirely disagree. Whenever you see flowers in a house you think what a pity they are not growing in the garden; whereas, whenever I see flowers in a garden, it seems to me such a pity they are not in the house. Of course, when the house is quite, quite full, I don’t mind the rest remaining in the garden.”

  Gladys laughed.

  “I think that’s like you,” she said. “You want to use things on the whole, and I on the whole want to let them enjoy themselves.”

  “That sounds as if you thought yourself a perfect saint of unselfishness and me a greedy pig,” remarked Daisy. “If you don’t come to tea I shall eat all the strawberries. Perhaps you wish they had never been picked, and left to rot on their stems by way of enjoying themselves.”

  Gladys finished the last name on her packet of cards for guests’ rooms.

  “No, I don’t go as far as that,” she said, “because I like the taste of them, which you can’t get at unless you eat them. Now flowers look much nicer when they are growing.”

  “Yes, but they are not yours so much when they are growing,” said Daisy. “I like them in my house, in my vases. Yes, I suppose I am greedy. Oh, I am going to enjoy myself these next few days. All the people I like best are coming, and they mostly like me best. That is such an advantage. Wouldn’t it be awful to like somebody very much and find he didn’t like you? What a degrading position! Oh dear, what a nice world!”

  “More than usual?”

  “Much more. I’m dreadfully happy inside. Don’t you know how you can be immensely happy outside and not really be happy at all? But when you are happy inside you are happy altogether, and don’t mind a wet day or going to the dentist’s one scrap. Isn’t it funny how one gets happy inside all in a moment? I suppose there is a cause for everything, isn’t there? Ugh! there’s an earwig. Oh, it’s going your way, not mine. I wonder what the cause of earwigs is. I wish they would find it out and reason it away.”

  Gladys put an empty inverted teacup over the earwig.

  “What made you happy inside?” she asked.

  “Well, darling Aunt Alice started it two afternoons ago when we came back from the Zoo. I had a delightful talk, and she gave me some excellent advice. She quite realized that I wasn’t exactly what most people would call being in love with him, but she advised me anyhow to make up my mind whether I would say ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and recommended ‘yes.’ And so I did make up my mind, and the very next day, do you know, Gladys, when I dragged you away from the ball so early — —”

  “Because you had a headache,” said Gladys, ruthlessly.

  She had been enjoying herself, and still a little resented Daisy’s imperious order to go away.

  “You needn’t rub it in, darling. Well, that very night something happened to me that frightened me at first. I began to feel quite differently about him.”

  Daisy got up quickly.

  “I’ve been so dreadfully happy ever since,” she said, “although sometimes I’ve felt quite miserable. Do you see the difference, or does it sound nonsense? Let me explain. I’ve only felt miserable, but I was happy. Gladys, I do believe it’s It. It does make one feel so infinitesimal, and so immense.”

  Gladys looked up quickly at her cousin. Whatever It was, this was certainly a Daisy who was quite strange to her — Daisy with a strange, shy look in her eyes, half exulting in this new feeling, half ashamed of it.

  “I hardly slept at all that night,” she said, “and yet the night didn’t seem in the least long. And I don’t think I wanted to sleep except now and then when I felt miserable. And I believe it’s the same thing that makes me feel miserable which makes me so happy. Gladys, I shall be so shy of him to-morrow when he comes here that he will probably think I’m in the sulks. And he’s coming early probably, before any of the others — before lunch, in fact.”

  Gladys got up.

  “Oh, Daisy, I don’t think you ought to have arranged that,” she said. “Do you mean he will find just you and me here?”

  Daisy laughed.

  “He needn’t find you unless you like,” she said. “And I didn’t exactly arrange it. I told him you and I would be alone here, and he asked if he might get down early. I couldn’t exactly forbid him; besides, darling, I didn’t want to.”

  “Mother wouldn’t like it,” said Gladys.

  “So please don’t tell her,” remarked Daisy. “I hate vexing people. She won’t find out either. We shall go on the river or something, and come back after the rest of the people have arrived. You are so old-fashioned, Gladys; besides, it isn’t certain that he will come. He only said he would if he could. But he is the sort of man who usually can when he wishes.”

  “I ought to tell mother,” said Gladys.

  “I know, but you won’t.”

  Daisy laughed again, and then suddenly, without reason, her spirits fell.

  “Oh dear, what a little beast I have been!” she said. “I did arrange that he should come, Gladys; at least, I made it imperative that he should ask if he might, and now it seems so calculating and cold-blooded. Girls like whom I used to be till — till about forty-eight hours ago are such brutes. They plot and scheme and entrap men. Pigs! I almost hope he won’t come. I do, really. And yet that wouldn’t do either, for it would look as if he had found me out and was disgusted with me. I believe you are all wrong, both you and Aunt Alice, and that he doesn’t care for me in the least. He has flirted with half London. It isn’t his fault; women have always encouraged him, just as I have done. What beasts we are!”

  “Oh, well, come and pick boughs of laburnum,” said Gladys. “Let’s go and do something. We’ve been indoors all the afternoon.”

  “But I don’t want to pick boughs of laburnum,” said Daisy. “Why should we do the gardener’s work? I want to cry.”

  “Very well, cry,” said Gladys. “Oh, Daisy, I’m not a brute. I am so sorry you feel upset. But you know you are very happy; you have told me so. I should like to be immensely sympathetic, but you do change so quickly, I can’t quite keep up. It must be very puzzling. Do you suppose everybody is like you when she falls in love?”

  “And I wish I was dead,” said Daisy, violently, having arrived at that dismal conclusion by some unspoken train of thought. “I wish I was a cow. I wish I was a boy.”

  “But you can’t be a cow or a boy,” said Gladys, gravely, “and you don’t really wish you were dead.”

  Daisy suddenly had a fit of the giggles, which before long infected her cousin also, and they both lay back in their chairs in peals of helpless laughter. Now and then one or other would recover a little, only to be set off again by the temporarily hopeless case, and it was not till they had laughed themselves tired that the fit subsided.

  Daisy mopped her streaming eyes.

  “L-let’s pick laburnum,” she said at length. “How silly you are! But it would save such a lot of trouble to be a cow. If I laugh any more I shall be
sick.”

  “Come into the garden, then,” said Gladys. “Oh dear! I didn’t mean that. Don’t laugh again, Daisy; it does hurt so dreadfully.”

  CHAPTER XI.

  Whatever might prove to be the conduct of others, it seemed clear next morning that the weather meant to do all in its power to help Daisy to have a happy time, and another hot and cloudless day succeeded. The girls intended originally to lunch at one, since that gave a longer afternoon; but at one, since nobody had appeared, it seemed wiser to put off lunch till half-past, since that was the hour at which they lunched in London. Eventually they sat down alone to a meal even more belated. But at present nothing could touch or mar Daisy’s happiness.

  “It is much better that he shouldn’t come,” she said, with an air of decision. “I daresay Aunt Alice wouldn’t like it, though it couldn’t have been supposed to be my fault. Very likely his motor has broken down; he told me it usually did.”

  She laughed quite naturally; there was no sting in his absence.

  “In fact, he told me he usually sent it on ahead,” she said, “and started walking after it about half an hour later. In that way, by the time he arrived his chauffeur had generally put it to rights again, and he got in.”

  “Then he ought to be here in half an hour,” remarked Gladys.

  “Yes. Shall we have lunch kept cold for him? It would be hot by the time he arrived if we didn’t. Oh, Gladys, I believe you are laughing at me. How horrid of you!”

  “Not in the least. But I am rather glad he didn’t come. I hate concealing things from mother.”

  Daisy put her nose in the air.

  “Oh, you needn’t have worried. He would have been quite certain to have told Aunt Alice himself.”

  “You didn’t think of that yesterday,” said Gladys.

  “No. What disgusting salad! I believe it’s made of turnip-tops. I’m very glad he didn’t come to lunch.”

  “Men are so greedy about their food,” said Gladys. “I don’t mind what I eat.”

  “Evidently, since you can eat that. Oh, Gladys, I don’t mean to be cross, but when you say things on purpose to annoy me it would be such bad manners in me not to appear to be annoyed. Do you think his motor has broken down? Fancy him tramping down the Bath road on a day like this! He hates walking unless he is going to kill something. He was charged by a rhinoceros once. If you try to shoot them and miss, they charge. How awfully tiresome of them! He killed it afterwards, though. It was quite close. You never heard anything so exciting.”

  Gladys laughed.

  “Oh, Daisy,” she said, “you told me that before, and you said it was so hard to know what to say if you didn’t know a rhinoceros from a hippopotamus. And now you find it too exciting.”

  “Well, what then?” said Daisy, with dignity. “I think one ought to take an interest in all sorts of subjects. It is frightfully suburban only to be interested in what happens in your own parish. Somebody said that the world was his parish.”

  “I don’t know what parish Grosvenor Square is in,” said Gladys, parenthetically.

  Somehow Daisy, in this new mood, was far less formidable than the glittering crystal which had been Daisy up till now. She seemed to have rubbed shoulders with the world, instead of streaking the sky above it. Her happiness, you would say, even in the moment of its birth, had humbled and softened her. Gladys found she had not the slightest fear of being snapped up. Several times during lunch Daisy had snapped, but she had snapped innocuously. They had finished now, and she rose.

  “I expect him in about an hour,” said Daisy, rather magisterially. “Let us finish the flowers. I love flowers in my bedroom, don’t you? Do let us put a dish of them in everybody’s bedroom. It looks so welcoming. Books, too; everybody likes a book or two in his room. It’s so easy to do little things like that, and people appreciate it enormously. There’s the whole of the afternoon before us; nobody will arrive till the five o’clock train.”

  “But I thought you said you expected him — —” began Gladys.

  “Darling, pray don’t criticize my last remark but three. Every remark becomes obsolete as soon as another remark is made.”

  Daisy’s last conjecture was correct, and it was not till after five, when tea had been laid on the broad, creeper-covered verandah to the east of the house, that any one appeared. Then, however, they appeared in large numbers, for most of Lady Nottingham’s guests had chosen the train she recommended to travel by. Every one, in fact, arrived by it with the exception of Jeannie Halton and Lord Lindfield.

  “I knew Jeannie would miss it,” Lady Nottingham said, “but as she was equally certain she would not the thing had to be put to the proof. Daisy darling, how are you? She insisted on being taken to the symphony concert; at least, she didn’t so much insist as Lord Lindfield insisted on taking her. They were to meet us at Paddington, and in case — Jeannie went so far as to provide for that contingency — in case they missed it, he was to drive her down in his motor.”

  Victor Braithwaite, who had come with the party, joined in.

  “I know that motor,” he said. “It can do any journey the second time it tries, but no journey the first time. He took me the other day from Baker Street to South Audley Street, and it stuck in the middle of Oxford Street.”

  Jim Crowfoot helped himself largely to strawberries, and turned to Daisy. He was a slim, rather small young man, with a voice some two sizes too large for him. He was supposed to be rather a good person to have in the house, because he never stopped talking. Had it been possible to cover him over with a piece of green baize, like a canary, when one had had enough, he would have been even more desirable.

  “I suppose that’s what they mean by second thoughts being the best,” he said. “It isn’t usually the case; at least, I find that if ever I think right, it’s always when I don’t give the matter any consideration. I came down here without considering that I promised to dine with Mrs. Streatham this evening, and it was an excellent plan.”

  Mrs. Beaumont broke in. Her plan was always to be tremendously appreciative of everybody for two sentences, in order to enhance the effect of the nasty things she said of everybody the moment afterwards. It set the nasty things off better.

  “I think every one is too horrid about our dear kind Mrs. Streatham,” she said. “She is the most hospitable woman I know, and you, for instance, Jim, go and eat her cutlets and then laugh at her. She asked me to dine with her next Friday, but I said I couldn’t, as I remembered I was already engaged. When I looked at my book I found it was with her that I had already promised to dine. I like being asked twice; it shows one is really wanted.”

  “Oh, we’re all really wanted,” said Jim. “But we don’t always want the people who want us. That is the tragedy. If you’ll ask me to dinner once, Mrs. Beaumont, I will transfer two of Mrs. Streatham’s invitations to you.”

  “There you are again! You are not kind. It would upset her table.”

  “Not at all. Her husband would dine downstairs, and her daughter would dine upstairs. That is the advantage of having a family. You can always make things balance.”

  “I have a family,” said she, “and that is exactly why my bank-book won’t balance. But when I overdraw I always threaten to transfer my account. Bankers will stand anything but that, won’t they, Mr. Braithwaite? Let us go and stroll. Dear Jim always talks so loud that I can’t hear myself think. And if I don’t hear myself think I don’t know what I shall say next. Do tell me, was it on purpose, do you think, that Mrs. Halton and Lord Lindfield missed their train? I may be quite wrong, but didn’t you think that Alice said it as if she had rather expected it?”

  “Surely, she said she expected it.”

  “How interesting! What a heavenly garden! I only have just met Mrs. Halton. Every one says she is too fascinating.”

  “She is perfectly charming,” said he. “Is that the same thing?”

  “Oh, not at all; you may be perfectly charming without being the least fascinating. No man e
ver wants to marry a perfectly charming woman; they only think it delightful when one of their friends does so.”

  Daisy had heard most of this as the two left the verandah and strolled off down the garden, and the effect that it had on her was to make her label Mrs. Beaumont as “horrid.” She was quite aware that three-quarters of the ordinary light conversation that went on between people who were not friends but only acquaintances was not meant to be taken literally, and that no one of any perception took it otherwise. Tribute to Aunt Jeannie’s charms had been paid on both sides; the woman had heard of her as “too fascinating,” Victor had found her charming. Daisy herself, from her own point of view, could find no epithet too laudatory, and she endorsed both the “fascinating” and the “charming.” But she was just conscious that she would have preferred that Victor should have called her fascinating, and Mrs. Beaumont charming, rather than that it should have been the other way about.

  But it was not because Mrs. Beaumont called her fascinating that Daisy labelled that unconscious lady as horrid; it was because she had made the suggestion that Lord Lindfield and her aunt had missed the train on purpose, in order, so it followed, that they should drive down together in the motor whose second thoughts were so admirable. Daisy scorned the insinuation altogether; she felt that she degraded herself by allowing herself to think of it. But that had been clearly implied.

  The group round the tea-table had dispersed, and she easily found herself next Aunt Alice.

  “Everything is in order, dear Aunt Alice,” she said, “and Gladys has worked so hard. But I don’t think I should have come down yesterday if I had known there was a symphony concert this afternoon. What did they have?”

  “Brahms, I think,” said Lady Nottingham, vaguely. “There is Brahms, isn’t there? Neither Jeannie nor Lord Lindfield quite knew. They went to see.”

  “But when did they settle to go and see?” asked Daisy.