Like Fräulein, Louisa was remarkable in that she spoke English just as well as her native tongue; but unlike Fräulein, though she was supposed to speak nothing else with Phyllis, not a word of French ever passed her lips.
“Oh, Louisa, you can’t be cross to-night. I only went to have a look at the drawing-room; it looks so nice when it’s ready for visitors”—a deliberate understatement. “Besides, if we hurry you won’t be late for your supper.”
“Come along, then, do.” Louisa pounced on her and began to untie her sash.
“What a sight you must have looked with your sash tied like this!”
Quickly she divested Phyllis of her muslin frock and hustled her into her dressing-gown, then pushed her on to the dressing-stool and began to brush her hair.
Alas, it was not merely a question of brushing. Laid out on the dressing-table were layers of thin paper, more than a dozen of them, into which poor Phyllis’s hair would have to be tightly screwed. Lucky Alethea! She could sleep all night in her loose curls and in the morning they only needed brushing and combing to look entrancing. It never occurred to anybody to leave Phyllis’s hair in its natural state. Little girls must have curls, if not natural, then manufactured ones.
Overflowing with spirits and despite the coming ordeal, Phyllis broke into a catchy music-hall song: “Teasing, teasing, I was only teasing you.”
Last year it had been: “I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you!” They had all sung it standing round the piano whilst Cousin Amy played the accompaniment. A ‘glee’ Cousin Amy had called it. They would be certain to sing more glees this Christmas.
Teasing, teasing! to find out if your love is true—
Don’t be angree, I was only, only teasing you.
“Do be quiet and let me brush your hair,” Louisa snapped. “How can I do it if you keep throwing your head about like that?”
Only slightly dashed, Phyllis stopped singing and began to prattle. Generally she read a book whilst the tedious hair-drill was going on, but to-night she wanted to talk about all the wonderful things now only so short a distance removed in time; to question Louisa about her dress for the ball and about the other maids’ dresses, for she took a keen interest in this and sometimes proffered her advice. What a pity Truelove disapproved of dancing! He would make such a perfect master of ceremonies and would be certain to dance beautifully.
Truelove revolving slowly with the charmer in the décolleté dress would have been a sight worth seeing.
But nobody thought of questioning his decisions. Everyone, including Sir Thomas, but with the possible exception of Mrs. Campbell, was a little afraid of him.
It was impossible to imagine anything disturbing his serene calm and rather awful dignity; unthinkable that he should ever lose his temper. Nevertheless, if anything had displeased him the whole house knew it; equally, if the reverse had happened, everyone benefited, George not the least.
In genial condescension, smiling benignly on those beneath him, his mental as well as social inferiors, he might be said to find his true expression. Would Phyllis ever forget that day when, her parents being away, they had all sallied forth after lunch to play golf, six or eight of them driving off almost simultaneously from the first tee, Truelove in a long, elegant tweed overcoat and cap a little on one side. He was not playing himself but presiding over and directing the efforts of the others.
“Miss Phyllis, your ball’s in the rushes; you’d better have another.” And out he pulled a beautiful new ‘Colonel.’ “Yes, Miss Pont, you missed the globe, but you need not count that. Mr. Withers, I don’t think you’ll carry the rough with that cleek. No, Mr. Swan, I don’t play myself.” They were all striking out wildly when and how they pleased—it was a wonder nobody got hurt. In fact, poor Lady was a casualty, as Phyllis, taking a swipe at her ball, actually got under and hit it fair and square, catching Lady, who was standing about thirty feet in front of the tee, broadside on.
“Do you think Papa will like his tie?” Phyllis, whose head was now half-surrounded by curl-papers, next asked Louisa.
“Of course he will. You’ve knitted it very well too,” said Louisa, giving one more screw to a curler. Certainly thought Phyllis, her father did seem to like the presents one gave him, though he said less at the time than her mother. Once she had given him what she now knew to be a terrible little gilt rack like a toast-rack, intended for holding letters. It had a crimson glass blob on it, and her father had admired this in particular, saying it was like an eye. The little monstrosity still stood on his writing-table. It was odd, thought Phyllis, how quickly one’s ideas of what was beautiful and desirable changed as one acquired a little more knowledge.
Much of this kind of education, often unconsciously given, she received from her mother.
Only the other day she and Mrs. Campbell had been waiting in one of the visitors’ bedrooms for Lady Vayne to come and pass judgment on a number of eiderdown quilts sent down from London for her approval.
The housekeeper and the little girl had spent the time of waiting in admiring inspection of the quilts. What lovely colours! What beautiful glossy satin! They vied with each other in delighted approbation. It would be hard to decide, thought Phyllis—were one lucky enough to have the chance—whether to choose the scarlet satin piped with gold braid or the turquoise blue patterned with lilies and roses.
Then, suddenly entering with her quick, assured step, Lady Vayne completely changed the situation: “What appalling, vulgar things! What frightful colours! I couldn’t possibly keep any of these! Mrs. Campbell, you must send them all back, at once.”
Instantly, Phyllis perceived that her mother was right and she and Mrs. Campbell had been wrong. She saw the quilts with fresh eyes. They were vulgar and would have appeared so even in an hotel bedroom; how much more, then, in these dignified old rooms!
But poor Mrs. Campbell’s discomfiture was complete. Though not actually chosen by herself, it was she who had instructed the London shop, telling them to be sure and send their very best. And now they would all have to go back.
Perhaps realising how things were, Lady Vayne tempered the disappointment with a graceful gesture. “Mrs. Campbell, you need a new eiderdown for your bedroom. Choose one now, any one you like.”
Stepping forward and selecting the least flamboyant from among the gaudy pile, Mrs. Campbell said: “This one please, m’Lady.” And the incident was closed.
Then, too, one learnt gradually not to use phrases one had used in the nursery—like the time when idly leafing through the Graphic she had remarked aloud: “The Duchess of D—— She’s the grand dame of society, isn’t she?” The words appearing below a photograph of a rather haughty-looking elderly lady in Home Chat, which Nana (since departed this life) always bought, had caught her eye. “Twice a duchess—the ‘grande dame’ of society,” ran the caption in Home Chat. Now, seeing the photograph again in the Graphic, she remembered the phrase and repeated it, her own anglicised version giving it an added absurdity. She thought it sounded very grown-up. Only Lettice’s slightly scornful smile and her father’s amused expression told her she had said something odd.
Lettice was the person whose taste could always be relied upon. She invariably knew what people would like in the way of presents. The only trouble was the money difficulty. There was rather a lack of balance in the Vyne household—Sir Thomas with his insistence on simplicity throwing his weight on one side of the scale, Lady Vayne, powerfully supported by Truelove, on the other.
The family never travelled between Vyne and London without a special saloon, two compartments of four seats, and the servants had reserved carriages. In London Sir Thomas rarely used the carriage, leaving it at his wife’s disposal, but he hardly ever took a cab. On Sunday afternoons after a visit to the Zoo, where they spent much time trailing round the aviaries, he would often make Hilda and Phyllis walk a part of the way home before hailing a hansom. Pocket money was rather hard to come by, yet if cash were needed for an expedition to Ha
mpton Court or the Tower of London, Fräulein had only to send down word by George the hallboy and back he would come with a little pile of change. No sum was specified; Truelove sent what he thought they should have, and it never erred on the side of parsimony!
They had a friend who owned an oyster bed on his property and sometimes, in return for the lavish hospitality of Vyne, sent a present of a barrel of oysters. Phyllis, who acquired an instant liking for them the very first time of tasting one, asked naïvely why they only had oysters when they had been sent as a present. Sir Thomas said one ought not to waste money on one’s stomach; yet even Phyllis could see that Pérez’s catering was not done on the cheap.
It irked her terribly that all her clothes except party frocks (and they were plain enough) should be made at home, and she had long decided what to do when she grew up and married. All her clothes would come from Madame Hayward in Bond Street, where her mother only went for her best dresses, and she would buy oysters to eat whenever she fancied them. She would always give money in the street to anybody who begged from her, and send cheques to individuals in distress, not to charitable institutions where you never knew who got what. That the money for all this should always be forthcoming she took for granted, as also that other people’s house-holds were run on the same lines as at Vyne. Before lessons in the schoolroom had started seriously for her, she had been wont to spend the early part of the morning after her parents’ breakfast in her mother’s boudoir. Busy with her doll or a picture-book on the hearthrug, she was present at a succession of interviews, an invariable part of the day’s routine.
The first was with Truelove, and lasted a few minutes. Then came a short pause whilst Lady Vayne started to deal with her correspondence, dashing her quill pen across the paper at the rate which always amazed her children. Then Pérez would enter in his speckless white and proffer a large open exercise book with a low bow. There would follow a slight discussion in French while Lady Vayne inspected the proposed menus for the day. Generally she would run her pencil through one or two items which she considered redundant, then return the book to the chef, who took it with another low bow and left the room.
After him came Mrs. Campbell, and lastly Archer, the head gardener.
Phyllis in after years retained a clear impression of her mother being at each interview in complete control of the situation. Yet was this really so? Certainly not in the first case, however much appearances might indicate it. Truelove was unquestionably the ‘Éminence Grise,’ the power behind the throne, holding the reins of government; with the ear of the queen, the confidence and (albeit reluctant) admiration of the reigning monarch, and with both titular rulers dependent on him and knowing it. Considerably below him in stature, Pérez was certainly master of his particular department and in it carried on as he pleased.
The same to a lesser extent might be said of Mrs. Campbell, though the mere fact of her sex made Lady Vayne—perhaps unconsciously—rate her capabilities less highly than those of the other two.
The last of the morning visitors, Archer, ranked lowest in his mistress’s esteem. Throughout the year his task was to fill the house, either at Vyne or in London, with flowers, ranging from almost every variety of stove plant, lilies, orchids and great frilly malmaisons to the small bunch of violets, their stalks wrapped in silver paper, which every day Phyllis carried into her mother’s room and presented with her morning kiss. Out of doors, with soil and climate stubbornly uncooperative, he had to keep the herbaceous borders blazing with colour and full to overflowing (Lady Vayne did not like to see the earth) from mid July till October, provide a plentiful supply of bedding plants for the formal gardens and beds, keep the lawns and topiary work in perfect condition, and nurse and propagate the flowering trees and shrubs. In addition, he had to keep the huge household supplied with fruit and vegetables the whole year round. Though he had the assistance of an able foreman-gardener and about a dozen other underlings, it remained a difficult and exacting job, which on the whole he performed well.
In spite of this, however, he was subjected to constant interference as well as a good deal of criticism. Up and down the paths and terraces of Vyne he had to trudge beside his lightly tripping mistress, listening to her strictures and advice, though if called upon she could probably not have distinguished between a rose-sucker and a young healthy shoot.
In addition to this, a friend of the family who was a keen amateur gardener had been given carte blanche to come every summer to Vyne to lay down the law and generally interfere. If Sir Thomas or anybody, moved to pity for the luckless Archer, intervened on his behalf Lady Vayne would reply: “I must be allowed to wallop my own jackasses.”
Even Mrs. Campbell seemed to despise and flout him. Once strolling in the garden with Hilda and Phyllis, they met Archer on his way to the house with a basket of hothouse fruit. Pausing for a minute or two of friendly chat, Mrs. Campbell drew attention to one of the cranes which had strayed from its paradisal surroundings, the wood and water garden known as Kill-Time. Whilst Archer turned to observe the crane she deftly abstracted two of the best peaches from his basket and presented them to the children as soon as he had gone on his way. Most decidedly poor Archer’s lot was not a bed of roses.
Phyllis’s head was now completely surrounded by curl-papers.
“There,” said Louisa, and gave a final twist to each one in turn. “Now hurry up and get to bed, and don’t forget your teeth. You must be asleep, you know, before Santa Claus comes.”
“Don’t say that—Papa hates it.”
“Well, Father Christmas, then; but I’m sure I don’t know why.”
There were a few, though only a few, figures of speech to which Sir Thomas took violent exception. People who wrote, ‘Thanking you in anticipation.’ People who were rather consciously Irish in accent and idiom, and people who talked about ‘Santa Claus’ might ultimately win his approval, but they certainly started with the odds against them. Phyllis said the words ‘Santa Claus’ sounded extraordinarily ugly. “Yes,” said her father, “but can’t you see they’re all wrong? Santa means a woman.”
Yet he liked and felt at ease with people who thought and acted very differently from himself provided they were their own unaffected selves. Small absurdities and incongruities at which children laugh gave him innocent amusement also.
Lady Vayne possessed, together with a strong sense of the ridiculous, a rather dangerous gift of mimicry, in which her husband delighted.
A stout, middle-aged bachelor who lived in the village sometimes came up to lunch and play golf, accompanied by two Clumber spaniels which occasionally retrieved the balls that Phyllis with her newly acquired slice often sent into the rough.
Lady Vayne, having reproduced with the exact tone, voice and almost the look, one of his rather incongruous utterances, when another visit was pending: “You’ve got to make Brett say he’s ‘faddy,’” ordered her husband, sounding the ‘a’ in the North Country fashion.
But when the time came and the attempt seemed to fail, suddenly from behind the cover of his newspaper and quite inconsequently, “Are you faddy, Brett?” asked Sir Thomas, and then gave a smothered guffaw, for which he was afterwards scolded.
Being quite devoid of malice, he was also incapable of flattery or even diplomatic evasion. He said outright what other people only thought, and sometimes what they did not think if they were self-deceivers.
Once when they were discussing a new acquaintance, Sir Thomas asked if he were married.
Lady Vayne said she did not know but had seen him at the play one night with a large fat woman.
“Then that settles it,” said Sir Thomas. “Of course he’s married. Nobody takes a large fat woman to the play for pleasure.”
Yet speeches such as this belied an innate chivalry, so shy of expression that it could only show itself in the least obvious ways: in his objection to calling any of the women servants by their surnames unless with the prefix ‘Mrs.’, in his manner when speaking to them, which he r
arely did, just as he would to his wife’s women friends.
He would praise their skill and industry and never complain about them, though he sometimes did of the men; on the contrary, if Lady Vayne were doing so, he always took up their defence even if he knew nothing about them. The supply of house, kitchen and laundry maids was still plentiful. He knew they would find it harder to get another good place than Mrs. Campbell would to find substitutes. This tenderness towards women of the humbler kind extended also to females of the bird and animal world—in his feeling for Lady compared with Mike and for hen pheasants at a shoot.
“Listen to that unfortunate bird,” he said once when the mate of one of the cranes had died and the plaintive calls of the bereaved one were echoing through Kill-Time. No one had noticed it till then, but it was clear that the grief of the poor widow bird calling and calling for her vanished mate wrung his heart.
Sir Thomas was perfectly consistent. All display was vulgar—the display of one’s own goodness of heart most vulgar of all. So only the recipients knew of his many acts of charity. His light did not shine before men that they might see his good works. He did good by stealth and hid his light under a bushel.
After Louisa had left her, Phyllis sat for a while in the old plush-covered armchair by the fire thinking her Christmas thoughts.
Her red-curtained bed waited invitingly with the sheet turned down. She had placed it along the wall so that the curtains spread over head and foot gave it a tent-like appearance. Her stocking hung at the bed-foot, but it was now little more than a symbol, a traditional rite to be observed, and it was never filled with anything more exciting than nuts, almonds and raisins, sweets and tangerines. Last year though wide awake she had lain quietly feigning sleep whilst Father Christmas in the guise of Mrs. Campbell entered rather noisily, breathing rather heavily and groping about in the dark, spilling several nuts in the process, filled her stocking and retired again.
A Country House Christmas Page 8