Great-nephews and great-nieces suggested nephews and nieces. Resuming her scrutiny of the table she looked at Fancy, Marion, and Titus. They had grown up as surprisingly as trees since she first knew them, and yet it did not seem to her that they were so much changed as their elders. Titus, in particular, was easily recognizable. She caught his eye, and he smiled back at her, just as he had smiled back when he was a baby. Now he was long and slim, and his hay-colored hair was brushed smoothly back instead of standing up in a crest. But one lock had fallen forward when he laughed, and hung over his left eye, and this gave him a pleasing, rustic look. She was glad still to be friends with Titus. He might very usefully abet her, and though she felt in no need of allies, a little sympathy would do no harm. Certainly the rustic fore-lock made Titus look particularly congenial. And how greedily he was eating that apple, and with what disparagement of imported fruit he had waved away the Californian plums! It was nice to feel sure of his understanding and approval, since at this moment he was looking the greatest Willowes of them all.
Most of the family attention was focussed on Titus that evening. No sooner had coffee been served than Sibyl began about his career. Had Caroline ever heard of anything more ridiculous? Titus still declared that he meant to manage the family brewery. After all his success at Oxford and his popularity, could anything be more absurd than to bury himself in Somerset?
His own name was the first thing that Titus heard as he entered the drawing-room. He greeted it with an approving smile, and sat down by Laura, carefully crossing his long legs.
“She spurns at the brewery, and wants me to take a studio in Hampstead and model bustos,” he explained.
Titus had a soft voice. His speech was gentle and sedate. He chose his words with extreme care, but escaped the charge of affectation by pronouncing them in a hesitating manner.
“I’m sure sculpture is his métier,” said Sibyl. “Or perhaps poetry. Anyhow, not brewing. I wish you could have seen that little model he made for the grocer at Arcachon.”
Marion said: “I thought bustos always had wigs.”
“My dear, you’ve hit it. In fact, that is my objection to this plan for making me a sculptor. Revive the wig, and I object no more. The head is the noblest part of man’s anatomy. Therefore enlarge it with a wig.”
Henry thought the conversation was taking a foolish turn. But as host it was his duty to take part in it.
“What about the Elgin Marbles?” he inquired. “No wigs there.”
The Peruke and its Functions in Attic Drama, thought Titus, would be a pretty fancy. But it would not do for his uncle. Agreeably he admitted that there were no wigs in the Elgin Marbles.
They fell into silence. At an ordinary dinner party Caroline would have felt this silence to be a token that the dinner party was a failure. But this was a family affair, there was no disgrace in having nothing to say. They were all Willoweses and the silence was a seemly Willowes silence. She could even emphasize it by counting her stitches aloud.
All the chairs and sofas were comfortable. The fire burnt brightly, the curtains hung in solemn folds; they looked almost as solemn as organ pipes. Lolly had gone off into one of her day dreams, just her way, she would never trouble to give a party the least prod. Only Sibyl fidgeted, twisting her heel about in her satin slipper.
“What pretty buckles, Sibyl! Have I seen them before?”
Sibyl had bought them second-hand for next to nothing. They came from Arles, and the old lady who had sold them to her had been such a character. She repeated the characteristic remarks of the old lady in a very competent French accent. Her feet were as slim as ever, and she could stretch them out very prettily. Even in doing so she remembered to ask Caroline where they were going for the Easter holidays.
“Oh, to Blythe, I expect,” said Caroline. “We know it.”
“When I have evicted my tenants and brewed a large butt of family ale, I shall invite you all down to Lady Place,” said Titus.
“But before then,” said Laura, speaking rather fast, “I hope you will all come to visit me at Great Mop.”
Every one turned to stare at her in bewilderment.
“Of course, it won’t be as comfortable as Lady Place. And I don’t suppose there will be room for more than one of you at a time. But I’m sure you’ll think it delightful.”
“I don’t understand,” said Caroline. “What is this place, Lolly?”
“Great Mop. It’s not really Great. It’s in the Chilterns.”
“But why should we go there?”
“To visit me. I’m going to live there.”
“Live there? My dear Lolly!”
“Live there, Aunt Lolly?”
“This is very sudden. Is there really a place called . . . ?”
“Lolly, you are mystifying us.”
They all spoke at once, but Henry spoke loudest, so Laura replied to him.
“No, Henry, I’m not mystifying you. Great Mop is a village in the Chilterns, and I am going to live there, and perhaps keep a donkey. And you must all come on visits.”
“I’ve never even heard of the place!” said Henry conclusively.
“But you’ll love it. ‘A secluded hamlet in the heart of the Chilterns, Great Mop is situated twelve miles from Wickendon in a hilly district with many beech-woods. The parish church has a fine Norman tower and a squint. The population is 227.’ And quite close by on a hill there is a ruined windmill, and the nearest railway station is twelve miles off, and there is a farm called Scramble Through the Hedge . . .”
Henry thought it time to interrupt. “I suppose you don’t expect us to believe all this.”
“I know. It does seem almost too good to be true. But it is. I’ve read it in a guide-book, and seen it on a map.”
“Well, all I can say is . . .”
“Henry! Henry!” said Caroline warningly. Henry did not say it. He threw the cushion out of his chair, glared at Laura, and turned away his head.
For some time Titus’s attempts at speech had hovered above the tumult, like one holy appeasing dove loosed after the other. The last dove was luckier. It settled on Laura.
“How nice of you to have a donkey. Will it be a gray donkey, like Madam?”
“Do you remember dear Madam, then?”
“Of course I remember dear Madam. I can remember everything that happened to me when I was four. I rode in one pannier, and you, Marion, rode in the other. And we went to have tea in Potts’s Dingle.”
“With sponge cakes and raspberry jam, do you remember?”
“Yes. And milk surging in a whisky bottle. Will you have thatch or slate, Aunt Lolly? Slate is very practical.”
“Thatch is more motherly. Anyhow, I shall have a pump.”
“Will it be an indoor or an outdoor pump? I ask, for I hope to pump on it quite often.”
“You will come to stay with me, won’t you, Titus?”
Laura was a little cast-down. It did not look, just then, as if any one else wanted to come and stay with her at Great Mop. But Titus was as sympathetic as she had hoped. They spent the rest of the evening telling each other how she would live. By half-past ten their conjectures had become so fantastic that the rest of the family thought the whole scheme was nothing more than one of Lolly’s odd jokes that nobody was ever amused by. Henry took heart. He rallied Laura, supposing that when she lived at Great Mop she would start hunting for catnip again, and become the village witch.
“How lovely!” said Laura.
Henry was satisfied. Obviously Laura could not be in earnest.
When the guests had gone, and Henry had bolted and chained the door, and put out the hall light, Laura hung about a little, thinking that he or Caroline might wish to ask her more. But they asked nothing and went upstairs to bed. Soon after, Laura followed them. As she passed their bedroom door she heard their voices within, the comfortable fragmentary talk of a husband and wife with complete confidence in each other and nothing particular to say.
Laura decided
to tackle Henry on the morrow. She observed him during breakfast and saw with satisfaction that he seemed to be in a particularly benign mood. He had drunk three cups of coffee, and said “Ah! poor fellow!” when a wandering cornet-player began to play on the pavement opposite. Laura took heart from these good omens, and, breakfast being over, and her brother and the Times retired to the study, she followed them thither.
“Henry,” she said. “I have come for a talk with you.”
Henry looked up. “Talk away, Lolly,” he said, and smiled at her.
“A business talk,” she continued.
Henry folded the Times and laid it aside. He also (if the expression may be allowed) folded and laid aside his smile.
“Now, Lolly, what is it?”
His voice was kind, but business-like. Laura took a deep breath, twisted the garnet ring round her little finger, and began.
“It has just occurred to me, Henry, that I am forty-seven.”
She paused.
“Go on!” said Henry.
“And that both the girls are married. I don’t mean that that has just occurred to me too, but it’s part of it. You know, really I’m not much use to you now.”
“My dear Lolly!” remonstrated her brother. “You are extremely useful. Besides, I have never considered our relationship in that light.”
“So I have been thinking. And I have decided that I should like to go and live at Great Mop. You know, that place I was talking about last night.”
Henry was silent. His face was completely blank. Should she recall Great Mop to him by once more repeating the description out of the guide-book?
“In the Chilterns,” she murmured. “Pop. 227.”
Henry’s silence was unnerving her.
“Really, I think it would be a good plan. I should like to live alone in the country. And in my heart I think I have always meant to, one day. But one day is so like another, it’s almost impossible to throw salt on its tail. If I don’t go soon, I never shall. So if you don’t mind, I should like to start as soon as possible.”
There was another long pause. She could not make out Henry at all. It was not like him to say nothing when he was annoyed. She had expected thunders and tramplings, and those she could have weathered. But thus becalmed under a lowering sky she was beginning to lose her head.
At last he spoke.
“I hardly know what to say.”
“I’m sorry if the idea annoys you, Henry.”
“I am not annoyed. I am grieved. Grieved and astonished. For twenty years you have lived under my roof. I have always thought—I may be wrong, but I have always thought—that you were happy here.”
“Quite happy,” said Laura.
“Caroline and I have done all we could to make you so. The children—all the children—look on you as a second mother. We are all devoted to you. And now, without a word of warning, you propose to leave us and go and live at a place called Great Mop. Lolly! I must ask you to put this ridiculous idea out of your head.”
“I never expected you to be so upset, Henry. Perhaps I should have told you more gradually. I should be sorry to hurt you.”
“You have hurt me, I admit,” said he, firmly seizing on this advantage. “Still, let that pass. Say you won’t leave us, Lolly.”
“I’m afraid I can’t quite do that.”
“But Lolly, what you want is absurd.”
“It’s only my own way, Henry.”
“If you would like a change, take one by all means. Go away for a fortnight. Go away for a month! Take a little trip abroad if you like. But come back to us at the end of it.”
“No, Henry. I love you all, but I feel I have lived here long enough.”
“But why? But why? What has come over you?”
Laura shook her head.
“Surely you must have some reasons.”
“I have told you my reasons.”
“Lolly! I cannot allow this. You are my sister. I consider you my charge. I must ask you, once for all to drop this idea. It is not sensible. Or suitable.”
“I have reminded you that I am forty-seven. If I am not old enough now to know what is sensible and suitable, I never shall be.”
“Apparently not.”
This was more like Henry’s old form. But though he had scored her off, it did not seem to have encouraged him as much as scoring off generally did. He began again, almost as a suppliant.
“Be guided by me, Lolly. At least, take a few days to think it over.”
“No, Henry. I don’t feel inclined to; I’d much rather get it over now. Besides, if you are going to disapprove as violently as this, the sooner I pack up and start the better.”
“You are mad. You talk of packing up and starting when you have never even set eyes on the place.”
“I was thinking of going there today, to make arrangements.”
“Well, then, you will do nothing of the kind. I’m sorry to seem harsh, Lolly. But you must put all this out of your mind.”
“Why?”
“It is impracticable.”
“Nothing is impracticable for a single, middle-aged woman with an income of her own.”
Henry paled slightly, and said: “Your income is no longer what it was.”
“Oh, taxes!” said Laura contemptuously. “Never mind; even if it’s a little less, I can get along on it.”
“You know nothing of business, Lolly. I need not enter into explanations with you. It should be enough for me to say that for the last year your income has been practically non-existent.”
“But I can still cash checks.”
“I have placed a sum at the bank to your credit.”
Laura had grown rather pale too. Her eyes shone.
“I’m afraid you must enter into explanations with me, Henry. After all, it is my income, and I have a right to know what has happened to it.”
“Your capital has always been in my hands, Lolly, and I have administered it as I thought fit.”
“Go on,” said Laura.
“In 1920 I transferred the greater part of it to the Ethiopian Development Syndicate, a perfectly sound investment which will in time be as good as ever, if not better. Unfortunately, owing to this Government and all this socialistic talk the soundest investments have been badly hit. The Ethiopian Development Syndicate is one of them.”
“Go on, Henry. I have understood quite well so far. You have administered all my money into something that doesn’t pay. Now explain why you did this.”
“I had every reason for thinking that I should be able to sell out at a profit almost immediately. During November the shares had gone up from 5¾ to 8½. I bought in December at 8½. They went to 8¾ and since then have steadily sunk. They now stand at 4. Of course, my dear, you needn’t be alarmed. They will rise again the moment we have a Conservative Government, and that, thank Heaven, must come soon. But you see at present it is out of the question for you to think of leaving us.”
“But don’t these Ethiopians have dividends?”
“These,” said Henry with dignity, “are not the kind of shares that pay dividends. They are—that is to say, they were, and of course will be again—a sound speculative investment. But at present they pay no dividends worth mentioning. Now, Lolly, don’t become agitated. I assure you that it is all perfectly all right. But you must give up this idea of the country. Anyhow, I’m sure you wouldn’t find it suit you. You are rheumatic—”
Laura tried to interpose.
“—or will be. All the Willoweses are rheumatic. Buckinghamshire is damp. Those poetical beech-woods make it so. You see, trees draw rain. It is one of the principles of afforestation. The trees—that is to say, the rain—”
Laura stamped her foot with impatience. “Have done with your trumpery red herrings!” she cried.
She had never lost her temper like this before. It was a glorious sensation.
“Henry!” She could feel her voice crackle round his ears. “You say you bought those shares at eight and something,
and that they are now four. So if you sell out now you will get rather less than half what you gave for them.”
“Yes,” said Henry. Surely if Lolly were business woman enough to grasp that so clearly, she would in time see reason on other matters.
“Very well. You will sell them immediately—”
“Lolly!”
“—and reinvest the money in something quite un-speculative and unsound, like War Loan, that will pay a proper dividend. I shall still have enough to manage on. I shan’t be as comfortable as I thought I should be. I shan’t be able to afford the little house that I hoped for, nor the donkey. But I shan’t mind much. It will matter very little to me when I’m there.”
She stopped. She had forgotten Henry, and the unpleasant things she meant to say to him. She had come to the edge of the wood, and felt its cool breath in her face. It did not matter about the donkey, nor the house, nor the darkening orchard even. If she were not to pick fruit from her own trees, there were common herbs and berries in plenty for her, growing wherever she chose to wander. It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.
As she left the room she turned and looked at Henry. Such was her mood, she could have blessed him solemnly, as before an eternal departure. But he was sitting with his back to her, and did not look round. When she had gone he took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
Ten days later Laura arrived at Great Mop. After the interview with Henry she encountered no more opposition. Caroline knew better than to persist against an obstinacy which had worsted her husband, and the other members of the family, their surprise being evaporated, were indifferent. Titus was a little taken aback when he found that his aunt’s romantic proposals were seriously intended. He for his part was going to Corsica. “A banal mountainous spot,” he said politely, “compared with Buckinghamshire.”
The day of Laura’s arrival was wet and blusterous. She drove in a car from Wickendon. The car lurched and rattled, and the wind slapped the rain against the windows; Laura could scarcely see the rising undulations of the landscape. When the car drew up before her new home, she stood for a moment looking up the village street, but the prospect was intercepted by the umbrella under which Mrs. Leak hastened to conduct her to the porch. So had it rained, and so had the wind blown, on the day when she had come on her visit of inspection and had taken rooms in Mrs. Leak’s cottage. So, Henry and Caroline and their friends had assured her, did it rain and blow all through the winter in the Chilterns. No words of theirs, they said, could describe how dismal and bleak it would be among those unsheltered hills. To Laura, sitting by the fire in her parlour, the sound of wind and rain was pleasant. “Weather like this,” she thought, “would never be allowed in London.”
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