At the same time, services in the chapel, which of course ante-dated family prayers in the hall, had also been dropped. Lady Vayne, a little troubled about this, was nevertheless consoled by the fact that the chapel which adjoined the servants’ hall with the drawing-room above it, had not been consecrated. In the old days when there had been a resident chaplain, and everyone on the property had attended as a matter of course, it was worth the trouble of training the maidservants to sing in the choir. But now, after morning service in the parish church, evensong in the chapel was more than could be expected of anybody. Alas, alas! The chapel had gradually become a storing place for surplus furniture, chairs and rout seats for dances and Fräulein’s bicycle, whilst the hall was given up to relaxation, music, dancing and games. It made a perfect ballroom, and on New Year’s Eve was cleared of all its furniture and the oak floorboards carefully polished for that great event to which both servants and children looked forward with such eagerness—the Servants’ Ball.
As was fitting for such an occasion, a tray of buttonholes made the round of the bedrooms before dinner, single flowers for the gentlemen, larger sprays for the ladies. Dinner was curtailed and hurried over and the members of the house party, after donning their white kid gloves, waited patiently in the drawing-room till summoned to the hall. Meanwhile the band arrived and took up its position, with much tuning of instruments, on the raised platform at one end of the ballroom. One of the side doors would open and Truelove, with Mrs. Campbell on his arm, emerge, followed in pairs by the other servants in strict order of precedence. Strangely enough, their guests came last, for each servant was allowed to invite one friend; and thus, with the heads of the outdoor staff and their wives and the members of the house party, a sufficient company was formed to fill the large room.
Here it might be noted that the Servants’ Balls at Vyne differed from some which were held in other great houses in that they took place above stairs not below; and that everybody from highest to lowest was expected to attend.
When all were assembled, the party in the drawing-room entered and the band burst into the strains of the opening dance.
Invariably Lady Vayne opened the ball; invariably also the opening dance, the tune and the assignment of partners were the same each year. There was, however, one notable absentee. Truelove, a devout Plymouth Brother, disapproved of dancing, and when the ceremony of leading in Mrs. Campbell was complete, he would retire from the scene. In his absence, therefore, Lady Vayne was partnered by Ruggles, the coachman, Sir Thomas with Mrs. Campbell, Lettice, Hilda and Phyllis with the bailiff, head gardener and the clerk of the works; Richard with the bailiff’s wife. Piers took Pont for his partner, and the others danced with whom they pleased.
Haste to the wedding
A little aigrette with a diamond star in her hair, a malmaison in her corsage, her train sweeping after her, down the double line of dancers sailed Lady Vayne with the fat Ruggles, very conscious of his importance as master of ceremonies, bounding light as a feather by her side, in perfect time to the music. Up the middle and down again, hands round with the next couple, then up the middle again, followed, this time, by Mrs. Campbell with Sir Thomas wearing his embarrassed schoolboy air.
Rumpty tumptity, tumptity, tumpty tum went the reiterated rhythm of ‘Haste to the Wedding’ over and over again. Although they did it every year, nobody except Ruggles, Mrs. Campbell and Lady Vayne seemed to understand the procedure of the dance, and long before the band had had enough, there was complete confusion. After this time-honoured beginning people relaxed a little. The house party were expected to keep to their end of the room between dances. At the other end sat the wives of the head employees, usually rather soberly garbed in very high-collared dresses. There was Mrs. Ruggles of the stables, Mrs. Archer of the gardens, Mrs. Ardern of the kennels, Mrs. Hawkins, wife of the head carpenter or clerk of the works, and highest-ranking Mrs. Cotton of the Home Farm. Although some of them were only in the thirties and Mrs. Cotton had considerable claims to beauty, they did not much concern themselves with fashion and Mrs. Archer, a red-haired woman of very rugged appearance, habitually wore a man’s black billycock banded with light blue ribbon whenever she took the air. As they rarely joined in the dancing they were all the better able to observe every detail of the scene—whether her Ladyship and Miss Lettice were wearing new dresses or ones they had seen before, whether Miss Pont had made a success of her own dress or not, and how often Lord Belgrave’s valet (he was known to be a married man) danced with the prettiest of the laundry maids.
At last year’s ball a distinct sensation had been caused by one young lady who came in a very low-cut evening frock, which was quite unprecedented. Her appearance was, in fact, so exquisite, with her tall elegant figure and graceful queenly bearing, that it seemed almost a condescension on her part to have come. Mr. Blunt of course said he should ask her to dance and bring her to sit with the house party. Harry took him seriously and said he should ask her first, and Piers too was much intrigued. What was more, the lady had brought with her a brother as good-looking as herself, and he too was in faultless evening dress, perfectly cut tail-coat and white waistcoat.
Who was responsible for introducing this pair of swans among the more homely geese was never divulged. Truelove was suspected by some, for though he disapproved of dancing, he oddly enough had no objection to asking his friends to the ball. One thing, however, was certain—he would not allow it to occur again. They had committed a solecism in coming to the ball dressed exactly as the gentry. It was as bad as if Mr. Blunt had appeared in a lounge suit.
In the days of Sir Thomas’s father, when there had not only been family prayers in the hall but Sunday afternoon service in the chapel and no games on Sunday (the late Lady Vayne had been very pious), the Servants’ Balls were much more full-blooded affairs and had included exhibitions of clog dancing by the keepers. But, coincident perhaps with the reign of Truelove, they had become more sedate and genteel. Now only the head keeper attended, and instead of clog dancing there was the military two-step, during which the gentlemen, though of course hatless, had to give their partners a military salute. There was also the Valeta, and of course the Lancers. From time to time the house party would visit the dining-room, where refreshments were laid out (needless to say there was an equally lavish supply of good things to eat and drink below stairs), and all too quickly the time fled, till it was nearly midnight. Then Truelove would reappear for the singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ which was done in the usual way, everybody linked in a large circle, during which procedure Sir Thomas’s face was a study in martyrdom. As the singing ended, the first strokes of midnight would sound from the clock on the front of the house. Then came a chorus of “Happy New Year,” and “Bonne Année” from Pérez and Madame Pérez; and the house party would retire to bed, leaving a clear field for the others to dance till five in the morning. This they never failed to do; and the housemaids would leave the ballroom after ‘God Save the King’ only to take off their ball dresses and put on their print frocks without going to bed at all. They thought it well worth while, though all looked pale as ghosts throughout New Year’s Day.
Phyllis was bent on a stolen visit to the scenes of the forthcoming revels. It rejoiced her heart to see those rooms, which for many months of the year remained shrouded and unused, come at last into their own. Once the gong had sounded she knew there was little danger of meeting anyone who was likely to challenge her right to be still up and about, punctuality at meals being one of the things about which Sir Thomas was really fussy; and everybody respected his wishes.
Down the back stairs she sped, through the door into the first floor corridor, turned right, then left, and down the short flight of stairs which brought her to the hall.
Some of the lights were already on and two card tables were set out in the central space under the chandelier. Two large Chippendale sofas faced each other at right angles to the fire. Behind one of them was the grand piano, and behind that the tall la
cquer screen covered with fire birds and dragons.
She stood between two of the giant pillars and recollections of last Christmas crowded upon her as she surveyed the scene—boisterous fooling, small drolleries, trivial actions expressive of light-hearted joy, all contributing to form the dazzling pattern of delight which the word Christmas conveyed to her mind. Several brands of humour helped to compose this pattern. Piers’s—rather concerned with the ‘usual offices’; Mr. Blunt’s more subtle and sophisticated; Uncle William’s—rollicking, child-like and obvious.
Last New Year’s Eve she had stood here, with Hilda and Alethea, the boys and Uncle Andrew, examining the cleared floor just before the ball, standing under the chandelier joking about the absence of mistletoe. Truelove would not, of course, allow such a vulgarism. Suddenly someone behind her, she did not know who, but probably Richard, had lifted her up till her face was on a level with Uncle Andrew’s, who of course kissed her. Undoubtedly the peak of enjoyment was reached on New Year’s Eve. Thereafter there would be the three glorious evenings of the theatricals, but they were overshadowed by the impending break up of the house party and the return to normal routine.
She wondered what games they would play to-night. Perhaps they would not play games and instead Cousin Amy would give them a little music. She played music of the lighter kind charmingly, Strauss and Lehar, bits out of Véronique and Offenbach’s ‘Barcarolle’ which Lettice loved, but not much Beethoven or Brahms.
All music sounded well in the hall, even the most mediocre, but when on rare occasions beauty of composition was matched by its performance the sensitive listener might fancy a strange quickening of the atmosphere, as if the figures in the tapestries stirred with life, the very flowers in their vases trembled with yearning and delight. On the whole, however, the inmates of Vyne were not very sophisticated in their musical tastes, preferring Offenbach to Bach, Verdi to Beethoven or Brahms, and Strauss or Sullivan to any of these.
Yes, thought Phyllis, it all looked lovely; now she would have just one peep at her favourite room and then she must really be off to bed.
Leaving the hall by the opposite side from which she had entered, she mounted the corresponding short flight of stairs which led to the drawing-room.
Cautiously she opened the door in case by chance Grandmamma should already be installed there; but no, there was nobody in the room, which was lit only by firelight. It leapt over the bosses of the ceiling and threw inky shadows from the high reliefs of the plaster frieze, drew gleams of gold from the baskets of fruit on the heads of the caryatides flanking the chimney-piece and the Chippendale mirrors on the wall. It lit the polished shoulders of the Chinese goddesses, but the stained glass windows showed only as dim oblongs in the darkness of the bay.
The room was lit by firelight only
As she crossed the room to the fireplace a shadowy reflection of herself crossed the room in the mirrors between the windows on the front of the house. She wanted to sit for just a little while in this room which she loved so well, this rich old treasure-house of a room, with its spicy aromatic smell, the leaping firelight and darting black shadows. She was a child who suffered from night fears. Stories of ghosts and witches so delightful in cheerful company returned to trouble her when alone in the dark. It was impossible ever to feel fear in the drawing-room—there could surely never be a room more conducive to peace of mind—but the Long Gallery, so enchanting a playground, could be a little frightening at night, and generally Phyllis avoided going there alone after dark. One night last summer holidays, however, resentful and unhappy from what she considered an unjust rebuke by her parents, she had run there, and flinging herself on one of the deep window seats, burst into tears of self-pity. The full moon was flooding into the gallery and the floor was barred with long rectangles of light cast from each uncurtained window. They lay in diminishing perspective down the whole great length of the room, completely changing its familiar aspect, and the effect, though beautiful, was weird and unearthly. But for once Phyllis’s sense of woe was stronger than her fears of the supernatural. She sat in the full flood of the moonlight and wept with that complete abandonment to grief out of all proportion to the cause, of which only children are capable. Nobody loved her, her parents misjudged her, they expected too much, her most innocent words, devoid of any intention to offend, were taken the wrong way. She was misunderstood, lonely, desolate and oppressed.
But almost at once, breaking in upon her grief with a gentle but increasing pressure, she seemed to detect a sympathy in the surrounding atmosphere as if unseen presences thronging about her were offering their love and consolation. She thought there were many present, but felt neither surprise nor fear. Why else had she come, to be alone and apart in this dark mysterious old room if not to seek and find comfort? After only a little while, grateful and happy again, she went to her room and to sleep.
In the full flood of the moonlight
Meantime, of course, she must not sit too long in the drawing-room. Withers, whose duty it was, would soon be coming to turn on the lights and see that everything was in order, and then Grandmamma after her little dinner in her room would come in on the arm of her maid to take up her place on the sofa by the fire.
Grandmamma too suffered from nervous fears, not of the supernatural but of flesh-and-blood burglars. She could hardly be left a moment alone on account of this. One morning last holidays Phyllis, forgetting that Grandmamma had been allotted the room usually given to Cousin Amy, had rapped loudly on the door and rattled the doorhandle. She was coming to fetch Cousin Amy for a walk. But the door was locked, and instead of the cheerful voice she expected, to her dismay, Grandmamma and her mother had replied, calling to whoever it might be to come round to the dressing-room next door where the maid slept and state his or her business. Instead of doing so, Phyllis took to her heels. Go round and explain her foolish mistake at length, not she, and later at luncheon she listened in guilty silence as her mother recounted the episode.
“Poor dear Mamma! She really is quite obsessed by this fear of burglars. Just now while I was sitting with her someone knocked on the door, but didn’t come round to the dressing-room though we told them to. Then I noticed Mamma was feverishly keeping me in conversation till Wright should be back from her lunch, and at last she confessed she was afraid that the person who had knocked was a burglar. ‘But the door’s well locked, they can’t get in,’ she said.” Sir Thomas remarked caustically that he didn’t know burglars were in the habit of knocking loudly on bedroom doors before entering to do their burgling; and there, to Phyllis’s great relief, the matter ended.
It was very still in the drawing-room. The clock ticked, the coals stirred in the grate, but no sound came from the nearby dining-room where by now they must be in the middle of dinner, but there were two closed doors and the intervening anteroom between. Sitting looking up at the arms of Elizabeth over the chimney-piece with the golden lion and the brown griffin (her mother had told her about the unicorn only coming in with the Stuarts), Phyllis thought: “How wonderful that in all the wide world there should be a ‘me,’ a person called Phyllis Vayne!” She could never get used to the wonder of personal identity. It was even more wonderful than having Vyne for a home. But supposing her father’s prophecies were fulfilled. If a day should come when they would have to abandon Vyne? Oh, if that should happen how could she bear it? It would be like abandoning a helpless, loving fellow-creature—like leaving Lady to starve.
But these unwelcome thoughts and fears were only fleeting. Fear of the future, remote possibilities could not long trouble her, secure and unassailable in her glorious golden present.
The present was so full and vital it was impossible to imagine that it would not endure for ever. She jumped up, flinging her arms into the air for joy.
The fire leapt and crackled, the needlework-covered chairs drawn up round it waited for their occupants. There was such an air of happy expectancy about the old room that it stirred Phyllis’s heart. Did it r
ejoice in being used, she wondered—just as it had been used by all those people, now long gone, her forbears, who had made it what it was?
“Oh,” thought Phyllis, giving a last look round, “how I love you!” and fancied she caught a soundless response:
“Love me, love me, for I love you too!”
As she turned to go the old English clock on the table by the door struck the half-hour, then started to chime a Jacobite air.
Rapt with happiness, pleasure in the present beauty of the scene, anticipation of the joy which the morning would bring, the child waited till the tiny melody was over, then lifted her hand, half in farewell, half in unconscious benediction: “Lovely, beautiful room, goodnight.”
Returning along the passage from the drawing-room, sure enough she encountered Withers, on his way there. He gave her a sardonic look in passing and pursed his lips, conveying wordlessly that she had no right to be there at that hour.
Withers was rather pleased with himself; but small wonder, for with the face and figure of Apollo, he was the idol of the women servants.
Louisa, who was waiting for Phyllis in her room, looked rather fierce and began at once to grumble.
“Miss Phyllis! You naughty girl, whatever have you been doing? Here have I been waiting about ever since Miss Lettice went down to dinner. Look at the time! Long after half past eight, and you ought to be in bed by quarter past. And what about my supper?”
A Country House Christmas Page 7