by E. F. Benson
“Yes, Mr. Boyton is one of those who does not want to kill something just because it is a fine day,” she said.
That would not do: there was the mention of killing again.
“And how are your partridges doing, Sir Hermann?” she added.
The two men presently strolled away, for though Mr. Boyton would not shoot, Sir Hermann was quite determined that he should appreciate the pursuits of an English country gentleman like himself to the extent at any rate of looking at his Jersey cows and poking a pig in the back, and when he was gone, Aline supposed that the embargo on war-talk was removed and began again.
“It seems so odd to me,” she said, “that any Englishman can bear to be doing nothing at a time like this. I am delighted that Mr. Boyton could come, of course, but I fully expected to find that he was immersed in work of some sort. Hermann has been splendid. He gave fifty thousand pounds only yesterday to the Red Cross, and his subscriptions to the county funds — well, there is simply no counting them. I tell him he will reduce us all to beggary, but he says, ‘Well, so much the better. Who wants to be rich, when there is so great a need for money?’ And he’s going to change our name to Gardner, which is so English, is it not, and so much better represents all we feel!”
Somehow to Helen Grote these very proper sentiments were worse than the war-talk she had come here to avoid. It was not exactly that she doubted the sincerity of Aline’s protestations, though she certainly protested rather too much; indeed she more felt the callousness of Aline, so largely German both by birth and association, being able to cut clean away from German sympathies. She could have understood her being torn in two by conflicting strains, she could have felt for her in a situation which surely must have been almost intolerable, but what she could not comprehend was the apparent absence of any such situation at all. She ought to have been miserable: instead she was a happy savage John Bull.
Aline’s big blue eyes filled with the tears that lay less deep even than her words.
“And to think how happy and secure we all felt such a few weeks ago,” she said. “Do you remember that little party I gave with the German and French Ambassadors and Princess Eleanor, when Saalfeld conducted and Kuhlmann sang? How little any of us dreamed of the trouble that was coming.”
At that moment there suddenly leaped into Helen Grote’s mind, with a sense of significance, the sentence in Kuhlmann’s letter, “I need but say that I trust the hospitable Sir Gurtner’s judgment more than that of the German Ambassador.” It had never before occurred to her to correlate it, to feel any curiosity as to its place. But when Aline, referring to the night of the party so few hours before Kuhlmann’s departure, said that no one had dreamed of coming trouble she wondered to what this referred. Kuhlmann had certainly learned Sir Hermann’s view of the situation before he wrote that letter.
“But your husband guessed what was coming, didn’t he?” she asked. “He took a different view from that abominable old Ambassador, who thought we were going to let treaties be torn up, just as Germany chose, without stirring a finger?”
Aline remembered the interview she had had with her husband late that night, and his general injunction as to secrecy. By his private information with the aid of his own foresight he had sown a golden harvest while the world still slept, but surely it was impossible that this was matter of common knowledge. She saw she must be careful, a precaution that usually ends in being too careful.
“Ah, no, it came like a thunderclap to Hermann,” she said. “He was simply knocked down by it.” Helen had not the slightest reason to make a mystery of her information.
“Yes, dear Aline,” she said. “All I meant was, when did the thunderelap come? Your party — how well I remember it — was on a Thursday, and Kuhlmann left for Germany on the Saturday, while we were still all drowsy and comfortable. But he left me a little note of adieu, and said in it that he had gone because he trusted Sir Hermann’s judgment more than the Ambassador’s.”
Aline in her desire to be careful was full of protestations.
“I had no idea of it at all,” she said volubly. “Hermann hadn’t given me the slightest clue that he was uneasy till we all knew that war was inevitable. How proud I was of being English when that splendid ultimatum went out that England would not tolerate the breaking of the treaty. But are you sure he said anything to Kuhlmann? I expect somebody else spoke to him: probably he got it mixed up and meant to say that he trusted the German Ambassador’s judgment more than Hermann’s.”
Instantly she saw that would not do, since now everyone was aware that the Ambassador had clung to the belief that England would not intervene, and from carefulness made things a shade worse.
I remember he talked to us that night,” she said, “and was terribly pessimistic about the whole situation.”
Helen could not help remembering that only just now Aline had said that on that night nobody dreamed of trouble. There was clearly some little confusion somewhere, though not probably Kuhlmann’s, and she had not the smallest desire to investigate it. People get muddled over dates — she always did herself — and she attempted to slide off the topic. Little as she wanted to talk about the war at all, she thought she would make some violently anti-German remark, such as Aline would appreciate, in order to put the muddle away.
“It’s odd how little Germans can appreciate the psychology of honourable and civilized people,” she said. “The Ambassador, for instance, as I said, thought we were going to see a treaty torn up and not stir a finger.”
Now Aline was quite capable in the pursuit of her Englishness of making that identical remark herself, but when she heard it made by an Englishwoman she revolted against it.
“But it was life and death to Germany,” she said. “She had to invade Belgium! Her promise couldn’t be held to bind her. And they say that France really invaded Belgium first.”
The two were now thoroughly at cross-purposes. Helen Grote, in her private reflections that morning, had been equally loose in her conception of a promise, seeing therein only a temporary obligation to suit certain circumstances. But now when she heard that doctrine stated she saw its abominable falsity. Even though the outcome of that for her intimately was that Robin must soon go out to uphold the sacredness of a promise, she repudiated with scorning her own conclusion of the morning. She got up.
“My dear Aline,” she said, “that is the sort of thing one is tempted to think, and is ashamed of having thought. Why the whole English case, which you and I feel in our bones, is based on the negative of that. As for people saying that France invaded Belgium first, that is what Berlin says to Potsdam, and Potsdam to Berlin. And how unspeakable those accounts of German atrocities in Belgium are. But don’t let us talk about it: I so longed in London to get away from it all. May we have a stroll round your delicious garden? How well I remember it.”
In spite of Helen Grote’s expressed desire to get away from the thought of the war, Aline could not let that remark about German atrocities pass unchallenged. Once again, as on the Sunday at Cambridge with Robin, she spoke before she knew she had spoken.
“Oh, those infamous lies,” she said. “The Germans are incapable of such brutality. It is wicked of the English papers to publish such things.”
“Anyhow, do not let us think about them,” said Helen. “Surely we can forget it all for a little in this home of peace. The rose-garden: do let me see your new rose-garden.”
The rose-garden served its purpose for a while, but as they came back, in the gathering dusk across the lawn, once again the topic intruded itself.
“I must go up and see the children,” said Aline, “before they go to bed. Every night they all sing a verse of ‘God save the King.’ Isn’t that darling of them?”
She omitted to state that this was a very recent practice, and perhaps she had better not have alluded to it at all, for the nursery windows were thrown wade open just above them, and, on the moment, the first few bars of the “Watch by the Rhine” came floating out i
n shrill childish trebles. It stopped quite suddenly and howls succeeded.
“I must run in,” said Aline. “Yes, darlings, Mummie is coming to you now,” she called out.
She hurried off; presently the howlings ceased, and the more orthodox strains were uplifted. It was ludicrous enough, but Helen felt it was just a shade uncomfortable also. She would have liked a clearer view of what was going on in poor Aline’s breast. She could have understood so well the frank admission of torn and shredded sympathies: what was harder to comprehend was this intense desire to appear wholly English. And Aline’s subsequent appearance and explanation did not really elucidate matters. As usual, when everything was not going precisely as she wished it, her eyes were bright and brimming.
“I must really get rid of the children’s nurse,” she said. “She scolded them for singing the ‘Watch by the Rhine,’ and called them horrid little Huns. You cannot expect children to know all that is going on.”
But again Helen found herself in some little perplexity of mind. Was Aline’s indignation with her children’s nurse entirely due to the fact of her having called them Huns? Or did the fact that she had, by implication, called the Germans “horrid Huns” have anything to do with it? She began to feel rather more interested in the analysis of Aline’s state of mind.
Though the party at dinner only consisted of the four of them, with the addition of the clergyman of the parish and his wife, who walked across the Park from the Rectory (Mrs. Tempest carrying her evening shoes in a whitey-brown paper parcel), there was a very elaborate menu, and both Sir Hermann and Aline continually showed their appreciation of the duties of territorial magnates.
Before the arrival of the guests Aline had explained to Lady Grote that the invitation had been sent and accepted before her telegram had arrived, and had further told her that Mrs. Tempest was a very well-connected woman, much as if Lady Grote was likely to consider it as a very extraordinary thing that she should be expected to sit next a mere parson. He was asked to shoot with Sir Hermann next day in place of Mr. Boyton, and Aline exhibited a great interest in the church decorations for the approaching harvest festival, promising fruit and flowers and, if she could find time, her own personal embellishment of the altar. She also repeatedly pressed on them both second helpings of the dishes, urging them to make a good dinner, and implying, as was perfectly true, that they did not usually find themselves in a position to eat so largely of rich and expensive food. Kind no doubt these intentions were, but there was mixed up in them a self-conscious knowledge of the kindness, and a condescension in bestowing it at all. Sir Hermann’s attitude was not less perfectly appropriate than hers, and after dinner, when his guest had been practically obliged to drink at least two more glasses of port than he wished, he insisted on his taking home with him another cigar, which he would be glad of to-morrow. The price of it was also mentioned.
A bridge-table was laid out in the drawing-room with two new packs of cards and sharpened pencils, and on the entry of the men Aline got up.
“Mrs. Tempest has been telling me,” she said, “that she much prefers to look on at Bridge than to play it, and that Mr. Tempest never plays for money. So shall the other four of us have a rubber? You sit and watch Lady Grote’s play, Mrs. Tempest, and you will, I am sure, learn something. And there’s a very comfortable chair for Mr. Tempest, and I daresay he hasn’t seen the evening paper yet. Shall we cut, Helen?”
Helen would have been as incapable of sitting down to play Bridge in her own house, while leaving two guests, the one to look at the evening paper, the other to observe her own play, as of suggesting that she herself should go to bed and leave the others to amuse themselves. She made a disclaimer as regards playing Bridge at all. But instantly her hostess’s face clouded.
“Oh, but Mr. Boyton likes his Bridge so much,” she said, “and so does Hermann. Hermann said this afternoon that we should be able to have a rubber after dinner, didn’t you, Hermann? And Mrs. Tempest will enjoy seeing you play so much.”
There was no possibility of making further indications, so thought Helen Grote, for if Aline had no inkling of the ill-breeding of such a scheme it was no use making hints. Besides, primarily she was here as a guest, and it was no part of a guest’s duties to teach her hostess manners. So with more directions from Aline to Mr. Tempest as to where he would find the Sketch and the Graphic when he had finished the evening paper the rubber began. But Mrs. Tempest was not long allowed the pleasure and instruction of watching Helen play, for almost at once Aline summoned her to another chair where she could watch the brilliant manœuvres of herself. Then Mr. Tempest was called from his perusal of the evening paper.
“Sit here by me, Mr. Tempest,” she said, “and see how I play this hand. Mr. Boyton has gone two no-trumps, you see, and I have doubled. That is where I shall defeat him. Look, too, Mrs. Tempest: was I not right to double? Now watch!”
Aline was now quite happy. There were two people completely engaged in looking at her skill, and naturally admiring it, while her opponents were sitting paralysed under her long suit. She fined them, she made them bow down to her cleverness, and while she was yet in the heyday of her triumph, her husband, who with Mr. Boyton was playing against her, suddenly spoke in German.
“Then you have revoked, my dearest,” he said, as she was gathering up a trick.
“No, I haven’t,” said she; “and besides, Hermann, you had no right to say that, for you are dummy.”
She, too, had replied in German: he recovered the sense of locality first.
“Ah, that is so,” he said. “I am sorry, Mr. Boyton. But she did revoke.”
Her voice grew shrill and querulous.
“You have no right to say that,” she said. “I have followed in every trick. Have I not, Helen?”
Helen laughed.
“No, my dear, of course you have revoked,” she said. “Are we not lucky to have escaped the penalty by dummy pointing it out? That sort of luck never happens to me.”
“Everyone is against me, ‘ said Aline.
“Ach, do not be a child, Aline,” said her husband. “Go on: we are all waiting for another revoke, which I shall leave to Mr. Boyton to discover.”
At once all Aline’s pleasure was spoiled. She knew perfectly well that she had revoked, and all the delight of having two people to look at her beautiful play, and two opponents to writhe under it, was instantly gone. She gathered up the cards at the end of the deal, and looked at her next hand, which she dealed herself in dead silence. She felt that she, at any rate, knew how to behave like a lady. Luckily Helen, on this occasion, knew how to behave like a lady too, and put down a magnificent hand in response to her own unchallenged spade.
About half way through Mrs. Tempest got up.
“I think my husband and I ought to be going,” she said.
Aline turned a convalescent face to her, and held out her left hand, without getting up.
“Good-night, then, Mrs. Tempest,” she said. “So pleased you were able to come. Good-night, Mr. Tempest. You are shooting with my husband to-morrow, aren’t you? Let us see, where were we? Goodnight. Let me see the last trick, Hermann.”
“Nein: it is quitted.”
He pressed the electric button that was let into the edge of the table.
“Good-night,” he said. “It is your play, Aline. Auf Wiedersehen, Mr. Tempest. My servants will be in the hall.”
Helen and Mr. Boyton both rose to shake hands and the two guests left the room.
Aline gave a little sigh of relief.
“Such dear good people,” she said. “I felt sure you would not dislike meeting them, Helen, so I did not put them off. It will have been such a treat for them to come here and hear a talk of things outside their little Rectory. Let me see...
Aline had announced that they kept country hours here, and consequently when a rubber came to an end, about half-past twelve she swept the cards together and gave a great country yawn. She accompanied Helen up to her room, alluded to the
Napoleon bed on the foot board of which was a cluster of golden bees, reminded her that in her bath-room next door was hot water perpetually on tap, as the hot-water furnace burned day and night, like the fire of the Vestal Virgins, and told her that there was always a manicurist in the house, in case she wanted his services, and a telephone to her maid’s room. That was a device of Hermann’s; he had gone into it himself, most carefully, and had arranged that each bed-room communicated by telephone with the corresponding number in the servants’ rooms, so that No. 3 in the guests’ part of the house rang up No. 3 in that part of the servants’ quarters which was reserved for the valets and maids of visitors. Mr. Boyton, so she had ascertained from her own maid, had not brought a man with him — was not that odd, but she supposed that Mr. Boyton only had parlourmaids — so the first footman had been sent to sleep in No. 5 (servants’ quarters) in case Mr. Boyton wanted anything. If your friends were kind enough to come and stay with you in the country, the least you could do was to make them comfortable. “So, good-night... It was sweet of you to come.”
Helen began to wonder, when she was left alone, just how comfortable she had been all evening. She knew now that she could have a hot bath or a manicurist or her maid at a moment’s notice, but she had somehow taken all that sort of thing for granted. If you wanted anything of the sort, you had it; it happened. But she found that she had not taken for granted a quantity of things that had actually occurred. It had not seemed to her really possible that you could be rude to your guests, or that you should take Bridge as anything else but a game, or that your children should sing the Watch by the Rhine as they were going to bed. These were all rather remarkable proceedings....
She did not trouble herself to disentangle them, when, after ringing for No. 3 servants’ quarters, her maid came in to brush her hair. But she had a general impression left on her mind that there was a great difference between friends and those who really were no more than acquaintances. Acquaintances gave you surprises — there was the root of it — friends never did. These surprises might in their very nature be pleasant or unpleasant; if they were pleasant, it was likely that the acquaintances, should they be equally satisfied with you, were on the high road towards friendship. But if these surprises were unpleasant....
