The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Sit down and let me look at it,’ said Mrs Brandon, who knew perfectly well what the contents were, but wanted to give Miss Morris time. ‘It seems quite clear to me. Aunt Sissie has left you ten thousand pounds, and I must say it does her the greatest credit, or did, or is it does?’

  ‘But it’s not fair,’ said Miss Morris with unusual vehemence. ‘Francis and Delia have two hundred pounds each and you have nothing, and I have all this money.’

  ‘No, please don’t look at it like that,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘As a matter of fact it is a very good thing for the children not to have any more, because they will both be really very comfortably off, and as for me I shouldn’t know what to do with it, and besides, I have my diamond. Please, please do believe me that it is the nicest and best thing Aunt Sissie could have done, and let me say for us all how very pleased we are.’

  With which words Mrs Brandon got up and kissed Miss Morris warmly.

  ‘I can’t believe it. You are too generous,’ said Miss Morris, in a voice which threatened tears.

  ‘Drink this at once,’ said Mrs Brandon, unscrewing the top of the little flask of brandy that she kept in the top drawer of her bureau in case, and thrusting it into Miss Morris’s hand. Miss Morris, hypnotised by her hostess’s firm attitude, tilted the flask, drank more of the contents than she expected and coughed so violently that emotion was for the time being dispelled.

  ‘I’m not really a bit generous,’ said Mrs Brandon, voicing as usual the first muddled thoughts that came into her head, ‘because I didn’t make the will, but I’m sure if Aunt Sissie had asked me I’d have said twenty thousand.’

  ‘I can’t take it,’ said Miss Morris.

  ‘You could subscribe to ever so many charities,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘and do good secretly, but I do hope you’ll spend some on clothes and let me help you, because I know that’s what Aunt Sissie would have liked.’

  ‘Miss Brandon would have liked you to have pretty clothes. She wouldn’t have approved of them for me,’ said Miss Morris with ruthless realism. ‘But if I could help anyone who is in need —’

  She paused and looked with a rapt expression into the distance.

  ‘Of course you could,’ said Mrs Brandon, seizing her opportunity. ‘Pomfret Madrigal is simply full of people in need and then there is our division of Barsetshire, and the whole county, and Zenana missions, whatever they are, and heaps of charities. Mr Miller is coming to see me after tea and I could ask him about deserving cases in the village to start with if you like.’

  ‘That would be true kindness,’ said Miss Morris, ‘and so like you. I think, if you don’t mind, I had better go upstairs to my room and be quiet for a little. If only my dear father could see —’

  She broke off, too moved for further speech.

  ‘He can see everything,’ said Mrs Brandon firmly, for though she had no particular conviction herself that the Rev. and late Justin Morris, who seemed to have been as selfish as they make them, was looking down from his particular brand of heaven upon his daughter with a benevolent and approving eye, yet she felt that any idea to that effect in Miss Morris’s mind was eminently suitable for a clergyman’s daughter and should be encouraged.

  Miss Morris threw a grateful glance towards her hostess and escaped, to thank Heaven with grateful tears in her bedroom for making it possible for her to help the poor, and more especially the poor who were in Mr Miller’s flock.

  Mrs Brandon, left alone, amused herself by trying to calculate upon the blotting paper how much a year Miss Morris would have, but as she didn’t know how much per cent one was likely to get and had a vague though mistaken idea that Compound Interest, which she could never do at school, somehow came into it with some letters of the alphabet, not to speak of blotting paper being a very unfavourable medium for arithmetical computation, she had not got very far when Delia came into the room, carrying a vase of flowers.

  ‘I say, Mother,’ she said, ‘does Miss Morris know yet? I saw her going upstairs when I was bringing the flowers in, but I didn’t like to ask, so I did the dining-room vases and this one for her room, but I didn’t like to take it upstairs till I knew everything was all right.’

  ‘Yes, she opened her letters just after you had gone out,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘but I wouldn’t go up just yet. She is probably crying. Poor thing, how glad I am for her.’

  ‘So’m I,’ said Delia. ‘I say, Mother, what about Hilary? Do you suppose he comes in on this? If not Francis and I must do something about it. He was just as much Aunt Sissie’s cousin or whatever it is as we are.’

  The object of Delia’s interest had meant to get up at cockcrow to strike while the iron was hot, or in other words to continue his novel while the inspiration was upon him, but so soundly did he sleep that it was not till Hettie had knocked twice that he realised the precious early morning hours had flown. Having realised it he at once went to sleep again and did not wake till half-past nine. Full of shame he rushed through his bath and dressing and came downstairs three steps at a time only to find the dining-room empty. Hettie, coming in to ask rather grudgingly if he would like some fresh tea, said Mr Miller had been sent for to Starveacres Hatches and didn’t know when he would be back. Mr Grant looked miserably at the tepid, black infusion in the teapot and said it would do nicely, and Hettie retired. He poured himself out a cup, drank shudderingly of it, looked with distaste at a cold poached egg, and decided on milk and bread-and-butter. Over this blameless meal he began to read his letters, and by this time it will surprise no one to learn that the second letter he opened was from Miss Brandon’s solicitors, announcing a bequest of two hundred pounds.

  His first thought was of pure joy at having two hundred pounds of his own, for though his father had arranged an income for him, it was not to be his own till he was twenty-five, until which time he had to live on the allowance his mother gave him, an allowance which, though not ungenerous, did not allow for much saving. Two hundred pounds would be a godsend. One could buy books, go to Iceland, have really good seats at the Opera and in short indulge one’s fancy. His second thought was one of apprehension. Had his mother also received a legacy, and if not would she resent his having one? Her annoyance, if she had to be annoyed, would not last, but while it did last she was capable of flying into one of the scenes which, while part of calm everyday life to her beloved Calabrians, had the effect of volcanoes and geysers on the colder-blooded English and would put him to shame for ever in Pomfret Madrigal. With some annoyance he decided he had better neglect his classics and his novel and go down to the Cow before his mother went out. But on the way he passed the lane leading to Stories and could not resist the temptation of going up the drive to see if anyone was about. Catching sight of Delia through the morning-room window, he came in and found her with her mother.

  ‘Good morning, Hilary,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Have you come to congratulate Miss Morris?’

  ‘Because you can’t just now,’ Delia remarked antiphonally, ‘because she’s having a good howl in her room. Good old Miss Morris.’

  ‘I’d rather forgotten about that,’ said Mr Grant, feeling brutal, ‘but I’m awfully glad. She deserves it if anyone does. I really came to tell you something.’

  ‘But what is marvellous,’ said Delia, taking no notice of him, ‘is that Aunt Sissie has left me two hundred pounds for myself. Good old Aunt Sissie. I say, Hilary, have you got anything? If not I’ll give you half of mine.’

  Mr Grant suddenly felt so selfish that he could have sunk through the floor. All he had thought of was how to spend his own money, and now Delia, who must have as many secret wishes as he had, was offering him half her inheritance from sheer kindness. He tried to say something but stammered so badly that he had to stop. Mrs Brandon, feeling that the young people must really deal with their affairs themselves, resumed her letter writing with some ostentation.

  ‘All right, Hilary, no need to gobble,’ said Delia kindly. ‘Just as you like, only I’d awfully like to give you something. I
t might help your book along a bit.’

  ‘You do have the most marvellous ideas,’ said Mr Grant, at last recovering partial control of his speech.

  Delia looked pleased.

  ‘You will have it, won’t you?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s absolutely decent of you,’ said Mr Grant vehemently, ‘but as a matter of fact Aunt Sissie left me two hundred pounds too. I do hope you won’t mind.’

  ‘Delia darling,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘do take Hilary into the garden. I must finish writing to poor old Miss Heaton about the Fête and I have just written “hundred pounds” instead of “roundabout”.’

  Accordingly the young people went into the garden, where Mr Grant, now himself again, told Delia all about Mrs Morland’s suggestion. Delia showed as much interest and excitement about the proposed novel as any author could wish, and it was she who made the brilliant suggestion that in the extremely remote case of the publishing trade being blind and misguided enough not to accept the novel, Hilary should use some of his legacy in paying for a part of the expenses of publication, thus conferring a lasting benefit on the reading public. So pleasantly did the morning pass that it was too late for Hilary to go to the Cow, and he had to hurry back to the Vicarage where lunch was at one.

  ‘I really can’t say thank you enough,’ he said to Delia as he left. ‘You simply are the only person I can really talk to about my book. You really understand.’

  Pleased with her cousin’s praise, Delia went back to the house and let Nurse try on a camisole without a single murmur, which made Nurse look at her a little suspiciously.

  14

  Mrs Brandon at Home

  Mr Miller arrived punctually for his assignation with Mrs Brandon, who had given orders that she would see no one till the Vicar had gone.

  ‘Now, tell me all about everything,’ said Mrs Brandon, in her most comfortable voice.

  ‘I really hardly know how to begin what I want to say to you, Mrs Brandon, without a breach of confidence,’ said Mr Miller.

  ‘Tell me exactly what it is then,’ said Mrs Brandon.

  ‘You see, it concerns not only myself, but Mrs Grant,’ said the Vicar.

  ‘Mrs Grant?’ said Mrs Brandon, taken quite aback, and wondering whether Mrs Grant had come to tell Mr Miller that the Mafia were on her track, or alternatively whether he was going to propose to his pupil’s mother. Neither alternative seemed probable.

  ‘You see she came to the Vicarage on Saturday evening, after she had been at Stories, and told me something which perhaps I oughtn’t to know, but which has caused me very grave concern.’

  Mrs Brandon simply couldn’t think of anything at Stories which, repeated by Mrs Grant, could cause Mr Miller any concern, and looked at him in perplexity.

  ‘My only excuse,’ said Mr Miller, ‘is that I didn’t realise what she was talking about till it was too late.’

  ‘And I shan’t either,’ said Mrs Brandon, stung by his floundering to what was for her an unusually sharp retort. ‘What on earth did she say?’

  ‘She said, but doubtless I understood her wrongly, that Miss Brandon had left Miss Morris a sum of money in her will,’ said Mr Miller, looking appealingly at Mrs Brandon as if she might be able to reassure him.

  ‘That is quite true,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Ten thousand pounds. I don’t know how much a year that comes out to, because Delia interrupted me when I was doing the sum, but it was very nice of Aunt Sissie.’

  Mr Miller said nothing. Mrs Brandon, realising that as usual she would have to help him to express himself, took up her embroidery in a soothing way and asked if he wanted to see Miss Morris who was upstairs.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Miller, jibbing violently. ‘At least nothing would give me more pleasure, but I feel it would be better not to. I had hoped so much – she was so kind about the notices for the Fête – she helped in the tea-tent – you saw how she dealt with Jimmy Thatcher. And then she came to church with you yesterday. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have noticed that, but I couldn’t help seeing her in your pew. But of course this inheritance, about which no one can be more unfeignedly glad and thankful than I, puts her in a position where it is impossible for me to speak to her on a matter that is very near to my heart.’

  Mrs Brandon looked with great compassion on Mr Miller, whose halting words were obviously being forced from him with considerable anguish, while he industriously picked to pieces a rose, fallen from a vase.

  ‘Miss Morris is very anxious to use some of this legacy in helping the poor,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘She asked me particularly about the poor in your parish, and I promised her I would find out. Perhaps if you made a list of people who needed help you could talk it over with her, though really we aren’t a needy parish at all and no one is in the least grateful.’

  ‘I could do that,’ said Mr Miller, carefully picking up the rose petals and putting them on an ashtray. ‘It is just like her to think of such a use for the money. As a matter of fact a little judicious help would be welcome at Grumper’s End. Poor Mrs Thatcher does nothing but cry about Jimmy, who is in no danger at all, and Doris and Edna only think of clothes and lipstick, and the kitchen is worse than I’ve ever seen it, with the sink full of dirty dishes and all the children on the floor.’

  ‘That sounds just the thing for Miss Morris,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘I’m sure she’ll adore it.’

  Mr Miller tried to explain that while on the one hand he did not for a moment mean that Miss Morris herself should go to Grumper’s End, yet on the other hand the presence of anyone so helpful and kind would be of the utmost benefit to the Thatcher family, but he entangled himself so hopelessly in what he was saying that Mrs Brandon cut him short by saying that she would tell Miss Morris about the Thatchers at once.

  ‘I know she isn’t doing anything tomorrow,’ she said, ‘so I’ll tell her she might as well go down there about half-past eleven. No; Mrs Thatcher will be getting the children’s dinner then. Say about half-past three, and then she can be back here for tea. It was so nice of you to come.’

  This was so unmistakably a congé, though said in the kindest way, that Mr Miller rose. Mrs Brandon laid down her embroidery and accompanied him to the front door, where he turned and took both her hands in his. He was standing on a lower step and their eyes were on a level.

  ‘Thank you and God bless you,’ he said. ‘I can’t see my path clearly, but you have been kind beyond measure to me and I shall never forget it.’

  ‘How very nice of you,’ said Mrs Brandon, leaving her hands in his and vaguely noticing that someone was at the bottom of the steps. ‘And don’t forget; tomorrow at half-past three.’

  ‘Bless you again, with all my thanks and devotion,’ said Mr Miller. He did not kiss her hands, for this might have savoured of idolatry, but he pressed them respectfully and went down the steps, nearly cannoning into Sir Edmund, who acknowledged his greeting with a kind of grunt.

  ‘Came to see you about an investment, Lavinia,’ said Sir Edmund, ‘but now I’m here there’s another matter I might as well speak about. Where’s Delia? Don’t want her and Francis coming in all the time.’

  ‘Delia is out somewhere and Francis won’t be back till dinner-time,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘so we are quite safe. Do come in.’

  She led the way to the drawing-room and re-established herself with her embroidery. Sir Edmund let himself down into the armchair in which his vicar had been sitting and lit a cigarette. His feelings were at the moment in such a seething condition that he could hardly trust himself to speak. For some time he had had his suspicions of Mr Miller, and the scene he had just witnessed had fully confirmed them. With his own eyes he had seen Mrs Brandon and Mr Miller standing on the front door steps holding hands like lovers; with his own ears he had heard Mr Miller express undying devotion and Mrs Brandon making an assignation. Neither of the guilty couple had even had the grace to look ashamed. If one looked at the matter calmly, as he erroneously imagined himself to have done since Saturday, there was no reas
on why a wealthy, charming widow, with a grown-up son and daughter, should not marry to please herself; and though Miller was poor, his character was excellent, his learning uncontested, and his family quite as good as Mrs Brandon’s. But it didn’t seem right to Sir Edmund, and the more he thought of it the less he liked it. After a weekend of the honest but muddled mental process which Sir Edmund took for thinking, he had brought himself to the conclusion that Lavinia was on the verge of making a fool of herself and it must be stopped. After what he had just seen the folly was but too evident, and as for the manner of stopping it, Sir Edmund saw but one course open to him.

  ‘Bit lonely here sometimes, eh, Lavinia?’ he said, breaking the peaceful silence.

  Mrs Brandon said she never felt lonely. Francis was always back to dinner, and Delia was usually at home, and what with people coming to the house and one thing and another, she never seemed to have enough time.

  ‘Can’t keep Francis and Delia for ever,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Leave the nest and all that sort of thing, you know.’