Felicity - Stands By

by Richmal Crompton

  “So I told him that I was going to his lecture myself and I’d show him the way and—Frankie, I took him right away from the village and across country five miles to Upper Marleigh. I pretended afterwards that I thought the lecture was going to be at Upper Marleigh. I was awfully nice and apologetic about it—afterwards. At first he quite enjoyed it—for the first quarter of a mile or so. He talked about total abstinence and said that I reminded him of a dear departed friend of his! Then he stopped talking and began to puff and perspire. Frankie, he did puff and perspire. I’ve put years on to that man’s life. I’ve taken pounds of superfluous fat off him. I took him over two ploughed fields just to take that spick and span look off his boots. I got him muddied up to the knees. I said that it was a short cut. When we got there we found that the lecture wasn’t to be held there at all, but down at Marleigh, and that there was no trap or taxi to be hired anywhere.

  “It was a terrible moment for him, Frankie. He sat down on the grass by the roadside just outside the village pub and took his boots off. Just for that moment he was almost human. Like a tramp. I was quite nice to him. I told him how sorry I was. He didn’t say much. He just moaned that he’d never get over it—never. He said that over and over again.

  “I was almost sorry for him, Frankie. However, the shades of night were falling fast, so I admonished him a little and then went into the pub and got him a glass of beer. He drank it off without a word. Then I went and got him another glass, and he drank that off without a word. Then he asked what it was, and when I said beer he said he wouldn’t have drunk it if he’d known, because he was a total abstainer. He said he’d thought it was lemonade. I said that perhaps it was lemonade, and he seemed comforted.

  “Then he put on his boots again and off we started. He’d cleaned them up with grass, so I had to take him through the ploughed fields again. He left little rivulets of perspiration behind him. It was almost dark when we got home. When he was getting over a stile at the bottom of the hill he trod on a cow and said ‘Damn!’ Quite a lot of expression in it, too! And he didn’t even apologise. You know, he ought to be grateful to me for the rest of his life. I turned him into a real live man for a whole evening. A ten-mile walk, two glasses of beer, and a ‘damn.’ I’ve given him something to remember in his old age.

  “Anyway, we got down to Marleigh again, and he said that he didn’t think he’d go to see the vicar or anyone. He didn’t feel up to it. He’d write and explain. We went to the station and found a train just starting to town, so he got into it. He said his feet were causing him indescribable agony. Just as the train was going off he asked me rather anxiously if he smelt of lemonade. He seemed much relieved when I said he didn’t. We parted without bitterness, though he didn’t actually say he’d enjoyed it. But he looked quite perceptibly thinner. Anyway, that’s the end of the story.”

  “Not quite,” said Franklin drily. “The story got about somehow, and, as I said, your brother John heard about his wild young sister’s leading an eminent dignitary over hill and dale—–”

  “And Johon,” continued Felicity, “being Johon,” she pursed up her mouth, folded her hands and imitated to perfection her elder brother’s precise enunciation, “was shocked.”

  “Exactly! So John communicates with your aunt—–”

  “Oh dear!” sighed Felicity.

  “And the result,” continued Franklin, “is that he is coming down to confer with your aunt and your sister as to what is to be done about it.”

  “Oh, Hades!” said Felicity.

  “And the conference is to take place to-morrow.”

  “Oh, and—–”

  The door opened suddenly, and Rosemary entered, followed by a tall thin man with a sallow face and an unpleasant mouth hidden by an over-cultivated moustache.

  Rosemary went up to Felicity. She ignored her grandfather’s secretary. Or rather, she acknowledged him only by a lowering of her white lids and an almost imperceptible curl of her beautiful lip. Rosemary, as a rule, treated her grandfather’s employees graciously. But she did not treat her grandfather’s secretary graciously. It was as if some antagonism had sprung up between them at their first meeting and had grown stronger ever since.

  “My sister Felicity,” she said. “Lord Rowman.”

  Felicity looked up and down the thin figure. Her eyes rested finally on the little sneering mouth behind its covering moustache. Then she inclined her head very haughtily. The chattering schoolgirl of a few minutes ago had vanished completely. She was Miss Norma Felicity Montague Harborough, endowed with her due share of the famous Harborough haughtiness. Rosemary and the man went over to the window.

  “This is the view I told you about,” said Rosemary in her sweet, drawling, indolent voice. “You can see three counties from this window.”

  The man’s little eyes were fixed on the perfect lines of her profile.

  “It’s certainly a beautiful view,” he said meaningly.

  She knew what he meant but she showed neither pleasure nor resentment, only that supreme boredom that was her usual attitude to everyone and everything. Without looking at Felicity or Franklin again, she swept from the room, followed by her cavalier.

  “Well,” said Felicity, as the door closed behind them, “what a fish! That’s a new one, isn’t it? It’s jolly hard to keep up with them!”

  Franklin’s mouth was tight.

  “If you want to know all about him,” he said slowly, “he’s a rotter, but he’s rich and belongs to a family nearly as old as yours. His father married an American millionairess, and now they’re both dead and this fellow’s got it all. He’s Society’s most eligible parti.”

  “And I suppose he’s in love with Rosemary?”

  “One presumes so.”

  That night Felicity woke up with a start. She had gone to bed early and fallen asleep at once. At first she could not think what had roused her, then she saw Rosemary standing motionless at the window like a beautiful ghost in her white wrapper, looking down upon the moonlit garden.

  “Rosemary!”

  Rosemary turned slowly.

  “What’s the matter?” said Felicity.

  “Nothing,” said Rosemary. “I couldn’t sleep. So I just—came in.”

  “Goodness! You did give me a shock! I thought you were a ghost! What time is it?”

  “Just about one.”

  “Heavens, to-morrow morning! Let me see, what was going to happen to-morrow? Oh, I remember. They’re going to meet in council to discuss the scandal of me and the dignitary.”

  Rosemary did not speak or move. She stood as if carved in marble, her wonderful eyes still fixed on the window.

  “The only thing I do hope,” said Felicity, “is that Aunt Marcella doesn’t come and take up her quarters here. I believe she’d love to. She’d have larger scope for bossing than at the Dower House.”

  “Oh, she’s going to come for a time,” said Rosemary slowly. “She may make you the excuse. But she’s going to come and chaperone. You see, grandfather won’t be back for another fortnight, and Lord Rowman’s going to come and stay here next week.”

  “Is it all arranged?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Well, then, once she gets here she’ll stick here, and how will you like that?”

  “I don’t suppose it will make much difference to me.”

  “Are you going to marry this Lord Rowman?”

  “Why not?”

  “People say he’s a rotter.”

  The still, beautiful figure outlined in the moonlight shrugged its shoulders faintly.

  “People could say that about most men. He’s rich. He could give me the sort of things that I can’t live without. I’m sick of being poor.”

  “We aren’t poor.”

  “We are. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Lord Rowman could buy us up ten times over and not feel it.”

  “But, Rosemary”—Felicity sat up in bed, her arms on her hunched-up knees, her chin on her arms, her plait hang
ing over her shoulders, her eyes dreamy—“but, Rosemary, does it matter about a person being rich? I mean, if someone jolly and kind and—–”

  Rosemary interrupted her.

  “The novelette hero, you mean,” she drawled; “good, and kind, and true, and brave? He doesn’t exist in real life, my child.”

  “But—Frankie—–”

  “Please,” drawled Rosemary coldly, as she drew her dressing-gown about her, “spare me a eulogy on Mr. Franklin. Good-night!”

  *

  The family council had assembled, and was conferring in the library. Felicity had at first decided to play truant for the day, then she had come to the conclusion that it would be more entertaining to stay. So when she was summoned to the library she went with large, innocent, wondering blue eyes behind which danced the little devils of mischief.

  Her elder brother John sat in the armchair by the fireplace. Lady Montague, Felicity’s aunt, sat next to him. Rosemary, exquisite and bored, sat limply on the window-seat, gazing down at the terrace.

  “Where does the corpse sit, Mr. Coroner—or shall I stand?” said Felicity pleasantly to her elder brother.

  “Felicity,” said John gravely, “this is no subject for levity.”

  John was a lawyer and a Member of Parliament. He was very thin, and precise, and judicial. His glance—even when he was only wishing you good-morning—was always stern and accusing. He had a little clinging wife called Violet who adored him, and no children. He had not brought his wife to-day as he had come upon what he termed an “unpleasant duty.”

  Felicity sat down in the vacant armchair, sprawling her slim, shapely young body in a manner that offended, indescribably, Lady Montague’s ladylike taste.

  “In our family,” began John, in his best public manner, resting his elbows on the arm of his chair and making his finger-tips meet, “we have always set our faces against allowing our young people to be brought up with that utter lack of restraint or discipline which is a characteristic of the age; but in your case we have, I am afraid, neglected our duty.”

  “Felicity darling!” murmured Lady Montague, unable any longer to restrain herself. “I can see your—er— knees!”

  “Yes, I know,” said Felicity. “I’ve got rather nice knees.”

  “When I heard about your escapade last week,” went on John, “when I heard of your deliberately misdirecting a worthy public man, who is also a dear friend of my wife’s father—I give you the credit, my dear girl, of not knowing that—–”

  “No, I didn’t,” admitted Felicity; “but it does make it more interesting.”

  “When I heard that,” said John, “I realised how we had—er—neglected our duty in making no arrangement for your—er—your—your menage”—John felt that that was not quite the right word, and hurried on—“during this year between your leaving school and your coming-out. Your aunt has her own duties, of course, which amply occupy her time, and your sister”—with a courteous bow in the direction of his beautiful, unresponsive sister, who was still staring dreamily down at the terrace (John respected Rosemary’s social success)—“has her innumerable social calls, and grandfather, of course, is—er—is also too busy to attend to the matter.”

  “Your style’s going off, John,” murmured Felicity sadly “Anyone might say, ‘attend to the matter.’ ”

  John ignored the interruption.

  “So we have discussed the matter in all its bearings, and we have decided that, subject to grandfather’s consent, your aunt should employ some lady who will supervise your studies and accompany you on your walks and—er—–”

  “Chaperon the dignitaries?” supplied Felicity.

  “Er—supervise your studies,” said John, who liked to have the last word.

  “It all sounds simply ripping,” said Felicity. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you all. The only thing I’m doubtful about is whether the lady aunt chooses would really care for me. I have a sort of feeling that I mightn’t be her sort. I suggest that you let Frankie and me choose the lady.”

  “I’m sure,” said John patiently and courteously, “that Mr. Franklin would be the first person to realise that he is quite unfitted for such a—er—transaction. Your aunt will choose the lady. She will also take up her residence here for a few weeks till the—er—arrangement is—er—in full working order.”

  “Frankie, do you realise that the momentous day has arrived?”

  “I realise,” said Franklin patiently, “that you’re sitting on the papers I want. They’re important papers connected with the estate, and you aren’t doing them any good.”

  “Don’t be a gross materialist! I want your whole attention, and I’m not going to move. Now listen, Frankie. To-day three people are going to arrive and dash to the ground our cups of happiness. First of all, there arrives Miss Bloke! It’s a vulgar name, isn’t it? But she’s not vulgar! Oh, dear, no!”

  “And who’s Miss Bloke?”

  “Don’t you know? She’s the companion-chaperon-instructress chosen by Aunt Marcella to bring my red hairs in sorrow to the grave.”

  “She may be nice!”

  “She mayn’t! I’ve just seen her photograph!”

  “What does she look like?”

  “She looks a perfect lady. I shall never be able to bear her. And she’s not only one! There will be three serpents in our Eden ere the sun sets, Frankie!”

  “Oh, you mean—–”

  “I mean Aunt Marcella, who arrives some time before lunch. That’s a pity, you know, because we’re going to have pheasant, but Aunt Marcella’s presence will take away my appetite, and I shan’t be able to do justice to it. Then the third serpent is Lord Rowman. Rosemary is going to marry him because he’s got a lot of money. You know, Frankie”—she brought out a purse from her pocket, and from the purse a pound note—“I’d give this—all that’s left of what brother John generously gave me when he came down here messing up my life last week—I’d give it gladly if there could be three separate accidents to the three serpents on their way down to-day.”

  “I say, Pins,” said Franklin, “don’t do anything rash, will you?”

  Into Felicity’s eyes came that innocence and meekhess that those set in authority over her had learnt to dread.

  “If I could think of anything to do,” she said dreamily, “I’d do it!”

  “Thank Heaven you can’t!” said Franklin.

  “All we can hope for,” said Felicity, “is that Fate will open out a way for us.”

  “As long as you don’t start monkeying with Fate—–”

  “You’re unsympathetic, Frankie. You’re ruffled because Lord Rowman’s coming. You’ve not your nicest side out at all. Here are your nasty old papers. I’ll leave you to your materialism. Good-bye!”

  Half an hour later Felicity thrust her head through the library window.

  “She’s come.”

  “Who’s come?” said Franklin absently, without looking up from his work.

  “Blokie, of course, darling. I’ve seen her in the distance.”

  “What’s she like?” said Franklin.

  “She’s worse than your wildest nightmare, Frankie. She only doesn’t wear elastic-sided boots because they aren’t manufactured nowadays, I’m going to drown myself in the village pond.”

  “Not the pond, Pins,” pleaded Franklin. “It’s so dirty. Do try to think of a cleaner death.”

  “All right,” said Felicity cheerfully. “I’ll hang myself from the tallest pine-tree on the mountain-side. That’ll be more poetical, too. You’ll send a wreath to my funeral, won’t you?”

  She swung off, whistling. She hoped that Miss Bloke could see her swinging and hear her whistling. She went down to the main road and past the village. Just outside the village a car passed her, and in it she saw the sallow features and over-developed moustache of Lord Rowman “Oh, lord,” she groaned, “now all the three of them will be there! Ours’ll be a nice ’ouse, ours will!”

  She turned the bend in
the road and stopped short. A green caravan stood by the roadside, and near it was a man sitting in the shadow of the hedge smoking a pipe. Felicity’s eyes went from the caravan to the man and from the man to the caravan. She liked the caravan and she liked the man. The caravan was a most fascinating shade of green and the man had a humorous face with a turned-up nose and a mouth whose curves even in repose suggested a grin.

  “Hallo!” said Felicity.

  “Hallo!” said the man, taking his pipe out of his mouth and grinning at her “’Ot, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, ain’t it?” agreed Felicity.

  She sat down on the grass by the side of the man.

  “What have you got in the van?” she said pleasantly. The man took his pipe out of his mouth again, grinned at her, and uttered the one word “hannymals.” Then he replaced his pipe.

  “Going to a circus?” said Felicity, with interest.

  “No, miss,” said the man. “I’ve been over to old Mr. Moxton’s place in Mossbridge—taking hannymals to him.”

  “Oh, I know about him!” said Felicity. “He’s very eccentric, they say. Did you find him eccentric?”

  “An’ I did, miss,” said the man. “’E wrote to my boss—a dealer in hannymals my boss is; supplies curious pets to the haristocracy an’ the stage. Top of the tree in that line, my boss is. There’s no hannymal that my boss can’t perduce—at shortest notice, too . . . Well, this here Mr. Moxton ’e wrote an’ he said he wanted a snake an’ a tiger cub an’ a swearin’ parrot, an’ would we send a selection of each for him to choose from.”