Lady Staveley waved away a plate of ham which had appeared as a supplement to the meat course.
“Well now,” she said, and wondered where she should begin. The names seemed to hang back, like guests unwilling to take precedence of each other in going through a door. She felt surprised at this, for she was not a woman subject to hesitations or second thoughts.
“There’s Dick to start with,” she said.
“Oh yes, he’s coming back from stumping the country,” said Sir John. “He’ll be tired, I expect.”
“Dick’s never tired,” said his mother.
“Political meetings are much harder work than bamboozling a lot of Arabs,” Sir John observed. “Who next?”
Again Lady Staveley took a look into her mind and found the names reluctant to come forward.
“Then there’s Nelly,” she said.
“Oh, Nelly, it’s a long time since we’ve seen her. What’s she been up to, I wonder?”
“She’s in London,” said Anne. “I spent two or three nights at Portman Square. She had a musical party—some foreigners playing in a quartet—and a lot of people came to it.”
“Bohemians, mostly, I suppose?” said Sir John. “Don’t expect you knew any of ’em.”
“I did know one or two,” said Anne, with a touch of spirit. “And there were some older friends of Aunt Nelly’s whom we all know.”
“Watching the circus, I suppose?” said Sir John.
“Well, they didn’t exactly mix, but I think they quite enjoyed meeting the lions.”
“Like the Christians in the Coliseum, I should fancy,” Sir John said. “Nelly always did like that kind of thing. Still, there’s no accounting for tastes.”
“It wasn’t quite my cup of tea,” admitted Anne, half wishing that it had been.
“I should think not. Well, who’s to keep Nelly amused? She’ll be bored to tears with us.”
“Oh, nonsense, John,” said Lady Staveley. “Of course she won’t. She’s lived half her life in the country, and she’s far more practical than you think. She used to take a great interest in local happenings at Whaplode in the old days; she was always getting up plays and entertainments for the village people and helping with charities. She was adored there.”
“I know people say that,” said Sir John; “but I’ve heard a different story, that the villagers didn’t really relish her benevolent intentions and were terrified at being dressed up as Lady Macbeth and Julius Cæsar and being made to dance round the Maypole, and drink lashings of hot soup, however ill they felt. Anyhow, she won’t have time to get up entertainments here; so what are we going to do for her?”
“Well, we shall have Antony.”
“Antony? Antony who?”
“Helen’s Antony—Antony Lachish.”
“Oh, he’s coming, is he? We are honoured. I know that people do find him amusing, but personally I can never hear a word he says. And he’s so restless, always jumping about, and fading away, like a will-o’-the-wisp. And he looks so delicate—not that that’s anything against him, I dare say. When he was a child Helen let him go about too much with grown-up people and over-stimulated his brain. Such a pity. Anyhow, he never turns up; he’s chucked us twice at the last minute. What reason have you for thinking he’ll come?”
“I had a telegram from him an hour ago,” said Lady Staveley, with a controlled air of triumph. “Here it is. ‘Arriving Anchorstone six-twenty-eight. Love. Antony.’”
“Pooh, love indeed,” said Sir John. “Love in a telegram. What are people coming to? I don’t suppose he loves us very much. Still, let’s hope he does turn up. He’ll take Nelly off our hands a bit. Who else is there?”
Anxious to get the ordeal over, Lady Staveley made another dive into the aquarium. The next fish seemed easily caught.
“There’s Victor Trumpington.”
“Good,” said Sir John shortly. “Always glad to see Victor.”
Anne coloured slightly, but made no comment.
“And then?” said Sir John. “Or is he the last?”
“By no means,” said Lady Staveley, wishing that he were. She felt that perhaps the week-end bill of fare would sound more palatable to her husband if it came from Anne, for he was seldom irritable with her. So she turned to her daughter and said:
“I’m getting muddled, Anne. Who else is there?”
Anne knew what her mother’s chief difficulty was, but declined to help her out.
“Didn’t you say Monica was coming?”
“Monica?” said Sir John, helping himself to a piece of cheese. “Why, she was here only the other day. I remember, because Dick should have turned up and he didn’t. Kept somewhere tub-thumping. I thought she seemed a bit disappointed, but it wasn’t our fault. Still, she’ll see him now, if that’s any consolation to her. She’s a nice girl, Monica, you know where you are with her. No frills, no nonsense, good with a horse—a nice outdoor girl. So that’s the party, is it? Let me give you a glass of port, Edie. You’ll need it before Monday morning comes.”
He pushed the decanter towards her.
Lady Staveley exchanged glances with her daughter. It was no use putting off the evil moment. She reminded herself, as so often before, that her husband’s bark was much worse than his bite. He was like a dog who made a great demonstration in front of the horses, but it was she who held the reins. Nevertheless, she broke an almost invariable rule and poured herself out a half a glass of port.
“You must be patient,” she said. “That isn’t quite all.”
“What?” said Sir John, pausing with his glass half-way to his lips. “Do you mean there’s someone else coming?”
Anne bent her head over the coffee tray, which the footman was handing to her, and fixed her eyes on his large red hand, and said, with the idea of postponing any outburst till the servants had gone:
“Shall I pour your coffee out for you, Papa?”
“That’s very kind of you, my dear. Three spoonfuls of sugar and no milk.”
She handed him the cup. “And now shall I light your cigar?”
“That’s most obliging of you.”
Over the match she watched the servant’s figure retreating down the hall. Only just in time; for Sir John, unmollified by his cigar, immediately returned to the attack.
“Did you say there was someone else coming?”
The short breathing space had given Lady Staveley time to rally her forces.
“Yes,” she said, with a flourish of ironical defiance. “There’s Miss Hilda Cherrington and Mr. Eustace Cherrington.”
It was out.
“Who on earth are they?”
“Miss Hilda Cherrington,” said Lady Staveley, speaking slowly and patiently and rather loudly as if she were addressing a foreigner or a refractory child—a bluff that on such occasions she sometimes tried—“is the Secretary of the Clinic for Crippled Children on Highcross Hill. That’s right, isn’t it, Anne?”
Anne nodded.
“Never heard of her,” said Sir John.
“Perhaps not, because you don’t move in high medical circles. She’s doing an extremely fine work there.”
“But what’s she doing here?” asked Sir John.
Lady Staveley stirred her coffee.
“It’s rather a long story, but I’ll make it as short as I can. Miss Cherrington and her brother lived in New Anchorstone when they were children, and he was the little boy who got lost in the park one wet day, with Nancy Steptoe, Major Steptoe’s daughter, and Dick happened to pass by and heard her calling for help and brought them in here. We gave them some dry clothes and a hot drink. The little boy had a heart attack or something, and was very ill afterwards. You probably don’t remember: it all happened years ago.”
“I do begin to remember something,” said Sir John. “But you haven’t explained to me why, after we’ve managed to get on without each other all that time, you’ve suddenly invited them to spend Saturday to Monday with us.”
Lady Staveley sighed. �
�You go on, Anne,” she said. “You know the next part of the story better than I do.”
Anne disclaimed such knowledge. “All I remember is,” she said, “that Dick and I and Nancy and Gerald Steptoe were riding on the sands towards New Anchorstone, and Dick was grumbling because there were no castles or rock gardens to trample on, when suddenly we saw two children in the distance and he called out, ‘Come on, let’s ride over them!’—you know how he liked to give people a fright. When we got a bit nearer Nancy told us they were the Cherringtons, who were friends of hers, and we pulled up. They seemed to be having a quarrel. She was going for him with her spade, and he was looking at her helplessly, like a rabbit with a stoat.”
“I hope they won’t do that when they’re here,” said Sir John.
“Dick said we must stop her killing him, and told Nancy to ride on and congratulate the boy on having been left some money by old Miss Fothergill.”
“You remember her, John?” said Lady Staveley. “An old lady, half paralysed, who lived with a companion.”
“Of course I do. One of the pillars of the place. Great pity she died.”
“She couldn’t live for ever, Papa. Well, they didn’t know about the legacy, and Dick asked me if we should tell them and I said yes. Then Dick introduced me to the sister——”
“How did he come to know her?” demanded Sir John.
“He had been to the Cherringtons’ house while the boy was ill to ask after him, and met her there. She didn’t say very much: she seemed shy and angry. I suppose it was because of the quarrel.”
“Was she pretty?” asked Sir John. “Though I suppose you could hardly tell at that age.”
“She was rather pretty,” said Anne. “I remember Dick said something about her coming over to see us, but she never came. That’s all I know. Mama will tell you the rest.”
“I can only tell you what Dick told me,” said Lady Staveley. “The boy made good use of his money, and got a scholarship to Haughton and then another scholarship at St. Joseph’s——”
“Did he, by Jove,” said Sir John. “He must have been what we called a ‘groize.’”
“And when Dick went down the other day to address some society there, he found that this Mr. Cherrington was the secretary, and I suppose they talked about old times.”
“I still don’t see where the sister comes in.”
“Oh, that’s to do with politics. Dick wants to know about Child Welfare, and so on, and as this seems to be Miss Cherrington’s subject he thought he would pick her brains.”
“Couldn’t he have done that in London?” said Sir John.
“Well, you know how he loves showing people the house, and he wanted to see the boy, who’s thought to be promising, and is fond of old houses, so it seemed a good opportunity to ask them both. She seems quite a nice girl, judging by her letter.”
“I expect she is,” Sir John said, absently. His indignation appeared to be cooling, now that he knew the worst. But it would be a pity to abandon the fire while the embers were still glowing. “What I want to know,” he demanded, “is, who arranged this party?”
“Dick and I between us,” Lady Staveley said, “with some help from Anne. Do you see anything to object to in that?”
“I think I can guess who chose who,” Sir John said darkly. “And where are you going to put them all?”
“What an extraordinary question for you to ask, Papa!” Anne exclaimed. “Do you really want to know?”
“Well, I suppose it’s my house.”
“Nelly is in the State bedroom. Monica is in the Magnolia room, Miss Cherrington is in Anne Boleyn’s room, Victor is in the Nelson room, and we’ve put Antony and Mr. Cherrington in two of the tower rooms, where they’ll be company for each other. Antony likes to have someone to talk to.”
“He does indeed,” said Sir John feelingly. “Where’s Dick’s room?”
“His sitting-room?”
“No, I know which that is. I mean, the room where he sleeps.”
“He’s got King Henry’s room,” said Lady Staveley. “His own is being done up.”
Sir John looked as if he would have liked to find fault with this arrangement, but all he said was, “I suppose that’s all right.”
“You can alter them if you wish, dear.” Lady Staveley’s voice was suave. “The cards are all in the doors, but they can easily be changed.”
“I’d know what to do with them if I had my way,” said Sir John, but it was a tired thunderbolt and fell quite harmlessly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and have a nap now,” he said. “Do you want me to be on duty at tea-time?”
Lady Staveley felt she could afford to be magnanimous in victory.
“Just as you like, dear; Antony and the two Cherringtons are coming by the six-twenty-eight. The others are all motoring down unless Dick comes in his plane.”
“Hope he won’t do that,” said Sir John, rising. “I don’t like this new idea of his. Cars are quite bad enough. The boy’s too reckless: he’ll end by breaking his neck.”
Lady Staveley was ruffled out of her usual composure.
“Don’t talk like that, for Heaven’s sake,” she said, almost sharply. “I wish he wouldn’t, too. Perhaps one day he’ll get tired of taking risks.”
Sir John, who was gathering up his cap and stick, was heard to mutter something. Then his steps clattered up the polished stairs and the door closed behind him.
Left to themselves, mother and daughter exchanged sighs of relief, and as far as their notions of deportment allowed them to, slumped in their chairs.
“All things considered, I think that went off very well,” said Lady Staveley. “You were a great stand-by, Anne.”
“You’d never guess, would you?” Anne said, “from the way Papa talks, that he really enjoys having people to stay? I think he enjoys it more than we do.”
“He has none of the responsibility,” said her mother.
“I know. When they come he’ll be all affability and old-fashioned courtesy and blame us for not doing enough for them. I shouldn’t be surprised if he took quite a fancy to this Miss Cherrington.”
A shadow passed over Lady Staveley’s face. Her eyes, which generally beamed with good humour, turned slightly hard, and her small, well-shaped, aristocratic nose, usually in retirement between the bulwarks of her plump cheeks, suddenly asserted itself.
“There’s no telling whom he’ll like,” she said. “We’ve been married all these years and I still don’t know. But I think it would be quite a good thing if he did find Miss Cherrington interesting to talk to.”
“There’ll be Monica,” said Anne thoughtfully.
“Yes, dear Monica. I was afraid she might not be able to come at such short notice.”
“I thought you managed the Infant Welfare part wonderfully,” Anne said. “Even I found it quite convincing.”
“I’m always a little nervous about Dick’s sudden fancies,” said Lady Staveley. “And he’s so headstrong. We don’t know anything about the girl: she might take him seriously. I never knew a man so restless. I expect it’s just another whim. After all, he hasn’t seen her for fifteen years; she may have changed completely.”
“Perhaps it’ll be like that time when he made us ask Miss Vandernest down, do you remember?” said Anne, “and he took against her the first evening and wouldn’t speak to her, and went out all the next day and left her on our hands?”
Lady Staveley laughed.
“Yes, it was a great nuisance, but it was also a good riddance.... If I knew how to put someone in an unfavourable light I should be tempted to do it, for her sake and his.”
“Oh, you do know, Mama.”
“Not when Dick is concerned.... And fifteen years. It’s odd he should have remembered her all that time. I wonder what she’s like? I suppose a hospital nurse sort of person. They’re often very pretty.”
“He told me she didn’t like him,” said Anne suddenly.
Lady Staveley looked serious again.
“He just told me that,” said Anne. “Perhaps she’s fond of old houses too, not only to look at.”
“That’s the most plausible explanation, but she doesn’t sound quite that sort of person.”
“Then I wonder why she is coming?”
The answer to that they never knew.
7. THE SHRINE OF FANTASY
ALL THE house-party, except Lady Nelly Staveley, had arrived, saluted their host and hostess, and dispersed to their rooms to change for dinner. Stretched in his bath, Eustace let his mind dwell on the events of the past hours. He tried to imagine what Hilda was doing, but since she parted from him, under Anne’s escort, at the drawing-room door, he had been unable to visualise her; she would not come at his call. The play of circumstance, tampering with reality, had severed them. This was a new experience, and it left him at once uneasy and elated. Despite the nervousness, all his feelings tended to elation; they soared up in him like bubbles in champagne.
He was here, in the shrine of fantasy, that was the great thing, in the very scene of so many waking and not a few sleeping dreams. And Hilda was here too. It was a fulfilment.
The long journey had passed quickly, beguiled by the inspired impromptus of Antony’s conversation. Eustace was afraid Hilda might be shy and distrustful with him, for he had a frivolous way of talking, and the seriousness of his mind he kept for ideas, not for the practical issues of life. But he was insatiably curious about people, and few could resist the very evident interest he took in their lightest remarks. Talking came as naturally to him as breathing, and every breath he drew seemed to discharge its oxygen into his mind, sometimes to the neglect of his body. Sitting beside Hilda, whose face glowed with health, he looked terribly tired; his face was grey, and there were shadows on his temples. Once or twice he dropped off to sleep almost in the middle of a sentence; his head rolled on to his shoulder, almost on to Hilda’s, his mouth fell open and he even snored; but so deeply had the spirit left its mark on his features and on his slight, thin body, that even in these moments, when most people would have seemed completely animal and a little disgusting, his physical envelope never lost the impress of his mind, and when he came to himself it was instantaneous, like the switching on of a light. Nor did he find any difficulty in the transition between talk and silence; they flowed naturally into each other, and when he wanted to read he took up his book and did so. Social constraint could not live near him, he banished it, and with it many tedious preoccupations that, for Eustace, clogged the machinery of living. What matter if they lost their luggage? What matter if the train broke down? What matter if Lady Staveley hadn’t after all been expecting them and sent them away to find rooms in an hotel? Such disasters were infinitely unimportant while Antony Lachish talked.
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