Susan Settles Down

by Molly Clavering

“Hullo, Polly! Pretty Poll, then!” wheedled Oliver.

  The parrot merely fixed him with a baleful and unwinking stare. “Ye’ll catch it!” it said, and chuckled sardonically.

  “Charming bird,” Oliver murmured, turning away.

  “How can we hide the traces of our crimes?” was Charles’s practical inquiry. “We can’t do anything about the bell, but they may think someone else pulled it out by the roots—”

  “A book under that sofa-leg—” Oliver said, and while they hurriedly pushed a fat volume of Browning’s Complete Works into place as a castor, Susan turned the vase round so that the lack of its handle was concealed from the casual glance.

  “Judging by the dust, this place is merely a dump for aged furniture, and nothing will be discovered before next spring-cleaning,” she said, and cheerfully dropped the handle in among the pampas grass.

  These guilty alterations were hardly carried out before the door opened and Miss Pringle, resplendent in royal purple velveteen, entered sweepingly, astonishingly like the Spirit of Poetry Calling Burns from the Plough in an engraving above the fireplace. “Ah! At last! I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, her manner that of a queen condescending to lackeys. “And you have brought your men-folk with you too. So pleased—”

  Oliver, who strenuously objected to the term “men-folk,” muttered a greeting with an expression of stifled fury. Charles, whose manner on such occasions was so languidly exquisite as to be overpowering, murmured “How-d’you-do?” with distant sweetness.

  “I hope you’ve brought your little contributions to read?” continued Miss Pringle in a slightly less exalted voice. Even on her Charles’s prince-in-exile courtesy had its effect.

  Oliver brightened at once. “I have,” he said eagerly. “But you’ll have to excuse Charles. You see, all his articles are so frightfully technical and highbrow that they are only intelligible to the—well, to the intelligentsia, in fact.”

  “Really?” breathed Miss Pringle, plainly supposing that she was entertaining Genius, and casting a respectful glance at Charles. He, though hard put to it not to laugh, passed a hand wearily over his noble brow and frowned sternly into vacancy. After a suitable pause he said in a faint, tired voice: “I’m afraid that my work would hardly be interesting to your little gathering, Miss Pin—Pringle.”

  Susan turned a laugh in quite a creditable cough, and the three moved in their hostess’s majestic wake across the hall and into the room beyond.

  3

  The collection of drooping women seated in a semi-circle about the edge of a mustard-coloured carpet seemed to revive a little on beholding two men. But Miss Pringle was not going to encourage any frivolity. Before greetings could be exchanged or introductions made she said graciously: “I am sure, Miss Parsons, that you won’t want to interrupt Cissie’s little song recital. All her own composition, and we are so eager to hear the last one of the cycle. So shall we just find chairs and listen?”

  Susan crept to a vacant seat next to Peggy Cunningham, behind whom, on a comfortless wooden settle, was perched a small, smart, fair woman with her back to the light. She was in the act of yawning dismally but prettily, as some fortunate women of the kitten type can.

  Miss Jelly Pringle was seated at the upright piano, and by her, also arrayed in a flowing velveteen robe of extreme shapelessness, stood Miss Cissie, her hands clasped on her stomach, in an attitude of rapt meditation. After several discords, struck in a commanding fashion by the pianist, she warbled a song about fading lilies in a faint flat voice admirably suited to the theme.

  Polite hand-clapping and murmurs of ‘“Wonderful!” “so gifted!” “a real treat,” followed this last number of the “song-recital,” and Susan heard the pretty fluffy creature behind yawn again.

  Peggy was about to speak when the unknown leaned forward and whispered exhaustedly: “Peggy! how long will this perfectly terrible entertainment last?”

  “Ages.” Peggy was quite certain on that point. “Oh, do you know Miss Parsons? Have you met? Mrs. Holden—”

  “How do you do?” began Susan and Mrs. Holden in chorus, and broke off to laugh.

  “Isn’t this too, too appalling?” said Mrs. Holden, bending confidentially towards Susan and sweetening the rather stuffy atmosphere with lily-of-the-valley. “I came to be amused, but I’ve had to creep out of sight because I’m yawning so terribly. It’s lack of air as well as boredom, of course.”

  Susan, interested in meeting the object of Jed Armstrong’s alleged affections, was surprised to find her a woman of this particular type. She had expected someone more open-air, more straightforward, and certainly older, though to be sure it was difficult even to guess at Mrs. Holden’s age. She had a neat little turned-up nose, a lovely fair complexion, possibly supplied by Elizabeth Arden but none the less effective, an air of entire self-possession, and a pair of those eyes which wander at once in the direction of a man. She had also the faculty of making every other woman in her presence feel hot, clumsy and ill-dressed, and correspondingly irritated or amused according to their natures. Susan was amused. “A man-eater,” she thought. “Amusing for short periods at a stretch, but fatal for anyone as simple as poor, dear Jed. This woman could do what she liked with him—and no doubt she’s going to!”

  Aloud she said in a cautious undertone: “Has Miss Pringle performed yet?”

  “Oh, dear me, yes.” It was Peggy who replied while Mrs. Holden hid another dainty yawn with an exquisitely gloved small hand. “She opened the ball. Don’t ask me what it was all about, for I’m sure no one knew. But it was very mystical and allegorical and bursting with split infinitives. ‘He bent to tenderly gaze’—you know—”

  “Mrs. Williamson is going to read us a poem,” announced Miss Pringle with a reproving glance towards Peggy’s corner of the room.

  Mrs. Williamson, a stout woman, purple in the face with heat, pride and embarrassment, rose and took her place in the centre of the carpet. Her hands, tightly gloved, clutched a sheet of paper, from which she now proceeded to read in a voice broken by frequent gasps. “Blackthorn Blossom,” she began, and gasped.

  “Fair harbinger of the summer day,

  You gladden us with the promise of May,

  And your snowy crown

  Which the wind blows down,

  Is beautiful (gasp) but you cannot stay.

  Ah, shed no tear for the flowers that fall.

  For heaven is watching o’er them all.

  And another year

  They will all appear,

  And your eyes with beauty again enthral.”

  “Well, it rhymes,” said Mrs. Holden thoughtfully, “so I suppose it is a poem? Somehow, I have always hated poetry.”

  Miss Pringle then opened fire with a “little friendly criticism, dear Mrs. Williamson,” in the course of which purely destructive work she pulled the luckless “poem” to shreds and succeeded in wiping the pleased smirk entirely from its poor author’s round, fat face When she had finished, Mrs. Williamson looked as though she might burst into tears at any moment, and only the entrance of the maid with a tea-tray cheered her.

  It was strange to see how every face brightened at sight of the massive Victorian teapot, and Susan could only conclude that the feast of poesy had not been sufficiently satisfying to fill those whose thoughts strayed lovingly towards scones and cakes.

  “If we can only escape without one of Miss Pringle’s own poems,” murmured Peggy. “I can bear anything.”

  Oliver, who had moved closer to them, at once said loudly, ignoring Peggy’s angry glances: “By the way, Miss Pringle, aren’t we going to hear one of your poems? You know, we missed your reading—”

  Miss Pringle, nothing loath, beamed on him. “Mine are simple little verses,” she began, almost coyly. “Let me see, I wonder if I can remember anything. . . . Ah, yes! I have some lines inspired by meeting a poor little orphan one day on the road. I will recite them—and of course,” she added generously, “I shall expect criticism.”
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br />   “As if she didn’t know that everyone’s afraid to criticize her!” grumbled the mutinous Peggy.

  “Little lad with the golden hair,” began Miss Pringle in an assumed babyish lisp which Susan found peculiarly revolting:

  “Little lad with the golden hair,

  And the wistful, wondering, blue-eyed stare—

  ‘Where is your mother, dear?’ said I,

  And you said: ‘Muwer’s up wiv Gawd in the sky!

  Up above where the angels are,

  Where the skies are bwight wiv many a star—’”

  “Oh, God!” said Charles violently in Susan’s ear. “I’m going to be sick—I want to creep under a sofa and howl!”

  Susan missed the remainder of the orphan’s touching references to his “muvver,” but the poem contained the name of the Deity, always pronounced in a reverent hushed tone, repeated an incredible number of times. There was, of course, no criticism. The poem received its meed of sycophantic applause from the Literary Club’s members, while the few Philistines present sat in a dazed silence until roused to partake of tea.

  “And now,” said Miss Pringle when the repast was all too speedily over, “we have a great treat in store to finish off this pleasant afternoon. Commander Parsons has very kindly composed a poem, which he will now read to us.”

  At this last moment Susan seized her brother by the sleeve. “Oliver,” she whispered desperately, “don’t you think you’d better not?”

  It was in vain. He shook off her hand and stalked to the middle of the room, where he took a small note-book from his pocket, and clearing his throat impressively, flapped over the pages.

  “Charles!” said Susan. “Can’t you do anything to stop him?”

  “It’s all right,” said Charles consolingly. “I don’t believe a soul will understand it.”

  Oliver was speaking in a modest manner to Miss Pringle. “. . . Oh, yes. I carry this little book and jot down any ideas as they occur to me. Of course, they are crude, unpolished, but I know you will be lenient. We rough sailors, you know . . .”

  Susan found herself clasping Peggy’s hand and praying that he had at least refrained from the too blatantly vulgar, but as she had not been allowed to censor the masterpiece, she did not know what might be about to be read aloud.

  “Stray Stanzas,” said Oliver pompously, “in the Doric. Ahem.” Once more he cleared his throat, and then, in a broad accent obviously acquired from studying the almost unintelligible speech of Jems, he delivered himself of his effusion.

  “Oh, crappit heids are a’ perjink,

  The apple-ringie’s jimp an’ sma’,

  Frae ilka airt the hoodies blink,

  An’ whaups gang wheeplin’ i’ the snaw.

  Ayont the law the yowes are sweir,

  The gowans wimple tirra-vee:

  The wullie-waught’s ta’en a’ his gear,

  An’ aiblins he’s gane aft agley.

  Wae’s me yon waefu’ wullie-waught

  That’s rived the baudrons frae the ha’,

  Sair was the collie-shangie wraught,

  But fient a haet said he ava’.

  Gae steik the yett wi’ caller oo,

  An’ gar the boatie row fu’ weel:

  Yon crimson-tippit beastie’s fu’,

  For Bauldie is a stieve dour chiel.”

  To say that this farrago of nonsense was received in respectful silence would give a poor idea of the breathless hush which fell over the drawing-room of Kaleside when his voice died away. Of all his audience apart from Susan and Charles, Peggy Cunningham was the only one acute enough to gather the truth, and she, with shaking shoulders, had buried her face in her handkerchief. Susan and Charles thought it wiser to avoid one another’s eyes. They did not want to break down altogether and give the graceless poet away.

  “I find,” said Oliver gravely, in reply to his hostess’s somewhat dazed thanks, “that I can express myself so much more vividly in Scots. Ah, Miss Pringle, What a wealth of beautiful words the Doric contains. But—you haven’t given me any helpful criticism on my little attempt to capture the spirit of this wonderful countryside.”

  Never in her wildest imaginings had Susan pictured herself feeling sympathy with Miss Pringle. Whatever the circumstances, but impaled on the horns of the present dilemma, she knew a momentary pity for the august poetess. To admit ignorance of her native tongue was obviously not to be thought of by a professed admirer of Burns: to criticize the incomprehensible was not possible. And when, with a gracious smile, she said that any criticism of such a—such a charming piece would be impertinence, and she felt sure every member agreed with her, Susan almost clapped her for her adroitness. The members, thankful that nothing more difficult than appreciation was called for, all cordially assented.

  “I thought,” said Mrs. Holden plaintively, “that you and your brother were English, Miss Parsons?”

  Susan noticed that she said “I fought” and “your bruwer,” for among other pretty little affectations she evidently numbered an inability to pronounce the letters “th,” which men at least probably found appealing.

  “So we are,” said Susan; and unwilling to give Oliver away, richly though he deserved it, added: “But I think he has been studying the local dialect ever since we came to Easter Hartrigg. We love Scotland and all things Scottish.”

  “Do you really? How wonderful of you!” said Mrs. Holden. “Now I simply loave it all. Why hasn’t Jed asked you to Reiverslaw while we are there? I’m so bored with everyone!”

  “As a matter of fact, we are coming to dinner in a few days.” Susan told her.

  “How divine! Your bruvver too, of course? And your friend?” Her eyes wandered towards Oliver and Charles, and Susan with an inward feeling that was not all amusement, beckoned to them. Even as she was making the necessary introductions, she could not help wondering if this pretty, feather-headed little creature would ever settle down with honest Jed and live his country life with him. A charming animation had taken the place of Mrs. Holden’s former bored languor, and in a second she had absorbed both men as a sponge mops up water.

  Besides a faint misgiving on Jed Armstrong’s behalf, Susan felt a pang as she caught sight of Peggy’s rather wistful face. Poor child, she could not hope to compete with this little grass-widow any more than I could, thought Susan; but I don’t mind in the least, she evidently does.

  Peggy’s vague envy was dispersed by an unwelcome interruption in Miss Pringle’s most rallying tones.

  “Surely you were out on a very wet afternoon the last time I saw you, Peggy?” she asked meaningly. Her voice was loud, and the attention of everyone near was instantly attracted. Peggy’s smooth young face remained blankly polite as she answered: “What day was it, Miss Pringle? I don’t remember having been out in any bad weather lately.”

  “But yes, dear child. We all three saw you, we were driving in the donkey-carriage, and you were just coming out of that wood near Muirfoot,” the inquisitor persisted. “Perhaps, though,” with a dreadful archness, “you were too much occupied to notice us! We saw that you were with young Graham—”

  “I think you must have made a mistake, Miss Pringle. I haven’t seen Ronald Graham except in church for months,” said Peggy quietly. She held her head up, but the tell-tale flush rose to her cheeks in a rich tide of colour, and Susan saw that her frank eyes were troubled.

  Miss Pringle never took a contradiction kindly, perhaps because she herself was in the habit of contradicting others, and Susan was thankful when Oliver suddenly turned and said, loudly and clearly: “Well, we’ll have to push off, Miss Pringle. Thank you for a delightful afternoon.”

  Other people began to make drifting movements towards the door, and Peggy seized the opportunity to leave, after being bidden farewell by her hostess with marked coldness.

  “I am so sorry we had no time to hear you, Miss Parsons,” said Miss Pringle. “But at our next meeting you must come earlier and let us have the pleasure—”

 
; Mentally resolving to shun the next meeting and all those which succeeded it, Susan replied with a smile and a vague polite murmur; and catching Charles’s eye, moved out into the hall. The three hostesses, lovingly intertwined, stood on their step, an imposing group upholstered in velveteen, and waved as the Squib bucketed off along their drive.

  “That little woman you introduced me to, Susan,” said Charles suddenly. “She was the one I saw at the Races. You remember? I was sure I’d seen her before somewhere, but I still can’t place her, and she flatly denied it. Who is she, anyhow? Mrs. Someone? Not a wife, I should say, by the look of her. A widow, probably, either merry or grass.”

  “Neither,” said Susan. “Though her husband isn’t supposed to be going to live long. That was Mrs. Holden. I’m sure I said her name quite distinctly.”

  “No, darling. You mumbled ‘Lieutenant Commander Um, Mrs. Er-hur’ in such a county voice that I couldn’t make out my own name, let alone hers,” answered Charles. “But look here, that isn’t the girlfriend of your pal, Oliver? The fella with a voice like heavy firing practice and a figure to match—is it?”

  Oliver chuckled. “That’s her,” he said briefly and ungrammatically.

  “Well, well. And what does our gifted novelist think of her? She’s a regular sprig o’ fashion, isn’t she, Sue? Too much scent for my simple taste, though.”

  “I think she’s probably amusing when she takes the trouble not to be bored,” said Susan. “And certainly most beautifully dressed, and easy to look at. But I don’t know her any better than you do.”

  “I thought you authors could spot characters at a glance. Another illusion shattered,” said Charles.

  The Squib, now behaving with lamb-like meekness, was’ bearing them homewards swiftly; the narrow road ran before them into a stormy sunset where jagged peaks of dark purple cloud strove with a sea of gold. The long rays fell slanting over the drenched woods and fields, touching them to splendid deep colour, but the hills still sulked behind a bank of mist, which drove across their humped shoulders, heavy with rain yet to come. “Jed would say that the packman’s on Cheviot,” said Oliver, nodding his head at the half-seen line of hills. “There’s going to be rough weather.”