‘I didn’t know you were in town,’ said Laura.
‘I am looking up some things for Mr Knox at the British Museum. You know we are getting well into Queen Elizabeth.’
‘What fun,’ said Laura stupidly.
‘I am staying with old Mrs Knox in Rutland Gate,’ continued Miss Grey. ‘Won’t you come in and have some tea? I know she’d love to see you.’
As usual the gentle Laura was so flabbergasted by the Incubus’s aplomb that she said yes, without effort or resistance. It was surprising enough that old Mrs Knox, who was famous for ill-nature and senile crabbedness, should have her son’s secretary to stay with her at all, but that Miss Grey should be on terms which enabled her to ask anyone in to tea was incredible. In all the years that Laura had known Mrs Knox she had never felt really at ease with her, and here was the Incubus calmly assuming the airs of a daughter of the house. Wishing that Anne Todd were with her, Laura walked with Miss Grey across Knightsbridge and down Rutland Gate, doing her best to respond civilly to Miss Grey’s far too competent inquiries after the boys. But the day’s surprises were by no means over. As they went up the front-door steps, Miss Grey opened her bag and took out a latchkey. This was indeed daughter of the house with a vengeance. Laura felt herself deprived of all power of speech. It was quite obvious to her that Miss Grey was making the best use of an opportunity to show Mrs Morland how very much at home she was in Mrs Knox’s house. Laura had rather forgotten about the Incubus trouble, and was always inclined to take life as placidly as possible, but now the whole uncomfortable situation was to be forced upon her attention. She wildly thought of saying she felt sick, or faint, or had forgotten an engagement, but her invention was paralysed, and she followed Miss Grey upstairs, hearing, as in a dream, George Knox’s secretary encouraging George Knox’s old friend to come up to the drawing-room, as if she were a shy little girl at her first party.
Mrs Knox’s drawing-room was a splendid relic of the last century. When old Mr Knox committed the one unusual act of his extremely conventional career in marrying a Frenchwoman, he brought his bride home to the house where his father and mother had spent all their married life. Mrs Knox, who had a sublime disregard for exteriors, accepted the heavy Victorian furniture, the pier glasses, the dark curtains, the gas chandeliers, with complete equanimity, putting all her personality into her clothes and jewels. As years went on a few changes were introduced, but always ten years later than anywhere else. Electric light had finally replaced gas, a telephone was installed just before the War, but servants were still summoned by a cross-country system of wiring which ended in a row of bells hanging in the kitchen passage, heavy trays were still carried up and down the kitchen stairs, meals were still cooked on a great coal-burning range which also supplied intermittent hot water, and scuttles of coal were carried up to the drawing-room and bedrooms all through the winter. It was in the nature of a miracle that Mrs Knox was able to get or keep servants, but she always did.
Laura had been to many a frozen dinner-party in old days, when her husband and George Knox’s wife were still alive. George had married, as far as any of his friends knew, entirely to escape from his mother; willingly giving up the hideous house to her in exchange for his freedom. His wife had never made the faintest impression on her redoubtable mother-in-law except by dying, upon which occasion old Mrs Knox went into such deep mourning, and had such deep edges to her notepaper, that George took Sibyl abroad for six months. He was on good terms with his mother, and paid her an occasional duty visit. Sibyl, sweet-natured, and not clever enough to see how terrifying her grandmother was, was the only person who got on with her really well. She was apparently quite happy to spend a fortnight – provided none of the dogs were having distemper or expecting puppies – with old Mrs Knox, playing cards, going for little walks in the park, and talking French, which she and her father both spoke by nature.
When they came into the drawing-room old Mrs Knox was seated on a hideous sofa near the fire. Velvet curtains, lace curtains, half-drawn blinds darkened the room. Velvet curtains were draped over the tall mirrors opposite the fire, and over the arch between the front and back drawing-rooms. The familiar smell of stuffy, dusty materials greeted Laura, making her think for a moment of her unlamented husband with whom she had so often entered that depressing room. But thoughts which contain little affection or regret are only passing affairs.
Miss Grey approached Mrs Knox and said in the charming voice which it would have been so agreeable to hear more often, ‘I have brought a very old friend to see you, Mrs Knox.’
Laura felt that the very old was perhaps unnecessary, but with as good a grace as possible she shook hands with the old lady and sat down beside her.
‘Enchanted that my little friend has brought you here,’ said Mrs Knox. ‘Where did you find her, dear?’
Laura was not sure to which of them the dear was directed, but before she could answer, Miss Grey had taken it to herself.
‘In the park, Mrs Knox, looking at horses.’
‘Aha,’ remarked Mrs Knox, who had a disconcerting way of using this interjection, leaving the hearer in complete doubt as to whether approval, interest, or condemnation were intended.
‘It was quite a surprise to see Miss Grey,’ said Laura, still feeling at a loss. ‘I didn’t know she was in town.’
‘She is staying with me and makes me laugh,’ said Mrs Knox. ‘You don’t make me laugh, Laura. Why not?’
‘I suppose I’m not funny,’ said the candid Laura. At this remark Mrs Knox burst into wild cackling, and Miss Grey shot a quick, angry look in Laura’s direction. Mrs Knox put out a wrinkled, bejewelled hand from the sofa and pulled the painted china bell-handle to the right of the fire, waking reverberations all over the house. While they waited for tea, Miss Grey entertained her hostess and Laura with an account of her day’s work at the Reading Room, using that faintly exaggerated brogue which is so attractive to an English ear when politics are not involved, and a very amusing story she made of it. If Laura had not suspected that the charm was being deliberately exercised, she would have fallen under it completely, but the remembrance of New Year’s Eve and the thought of the various indignities which Miss Grey had unwisely inflicted on her made her immune to the spell. It was very clever of Miss Grey, she thought, to make herself so delightful to old Mrs Knox, who might be a valuable ally. Mrs Knox had often openly deplored the fact that George showed no wish to marry again. She was probably too fond of Sibyl to want to give the child a step-mother so near her own age, but if Sibyl married Adrian, and George were alone, she might feel inclined to push him into Miss Grey’s arms. If she did, it might not make any particular difference to George, who was the kind of man who would hardly notice if he were married or not, but to George’s friends it would make a great deal of difference.
Tea was brought up by a butler and footman, with a staggering apparatus of heavy silver teapot and muffineer on a gigantic silver tray. Mrs Knox told Miss Grey to make the tea. Laura, sitting on the low sofa beside her hostess, had a feeling that Miss Grey, facing her across the tea-table, competently pouring out tea and handing cakes with maddening graciousness, looked much more like the mistress of the house than a paid secretary.
‘Tell me,’ said Mrs Knox, ‘all about your boys, Laura.’
Laura gave her, as succinctly as possible, biographies of the four boys since she had last seen Mrs Knox. In spite of Adrian’s remark about praising famous children, she really hated to talk about her sons except to a few friends, and was apt by her apologetic manner to make people feel that she was being rather dull.
‘You hadn’t so many children when I first knew you,’ said Mrs Knox. ‘Only two small sons when you and your husband used to dine with us here. You were much too good to that man, Laura. He was just nul, nothing at all. How you lived with him is quite beyond me. A good-looking worth-nothing, nearly as stupid as poor George’s wife. It was a pity those two didn’t marry each other, only then they would certainly have suck
led fools, whereas you have clever, intelligent children. As for George’s Sibyl, she inherits partly from her mother. She is not an intellect, but she is a good child. She will have all my jewels when I am dead. Why didn’t you marry George, Laura? Then I would give you some of the jewels. You could wear pearls very well. Diamonds, no. Sibyl should have the diamonds. Why not think of it? You and George would get on nicely.’
‘Well, he never asked me,’ said Laura, in her deep abstracted voice.
‘Bah!’ said old Mrs Knox, with great contempt. ‘Ask, indeed! You, Miss Grey,’ continued the old lady, turning with what Laura thought a shade of malicious pleasure to her other guest, ‘what do you think? Would not my dear Mrs Morland make a charming wife for my poor George?’
Miss Grey obviously found it very difficult to make any answer, which encouraged Mrs Knox to add, ‘Wouldn’t it be a charming ménage, hein? They would work together and make double fortune. Don’t you agree?’
Miss Grey was heard to mumble something unintelligible about its being very nice. Laura, distressed by her embarrassment, plunged into the breach.
‘You can’t marry people off like that, Mrs Knox,’ said she. ‘At least in France I believe marriages are arranged, but not here, whatever it may say in The Times. George would drive me mad in a month. We have both got other things to think about.’
‘Any fool could marry George,’ said the fond mother. ‘And some fool will, before long.’
‘Then it won’t be me,’ said Laura, conforming to English usage. ‘I have other fish to fry.’
‘What fish, my dear? The little publisher?’
Laura couldn’t help laughing.
‘No, not that kind of fish at all. Books, Mrs Knox. I’ve got to keep up my contracts if Tony is to stay at school. Let’s leave George alone now.’
‘Frankly, my dear, you disappoint me. I had quite a hope that you and George would marry. But I don’t blame you. He is a great unintelligent lump, isn’t he?’
Miss Grey at last found her tongue.
‘Oh, Mrs Knox, how can you say such things about Mr Knox? All those books he has written. You can’t write books without intelligence, can you, Mrs Morland?’
‘Well, I can,’ said Laura, ‘but then I’m just a good hack.’
‘But Mr Knox’s books are splendid. Sure, you were just joking, Mrs Knox.’
‘George can make books,’ conceded his mother, ‘but he has no genius. Laura has. But neither of their books will live. Laura at least spins her books out of her own entrails,’ said old Mrs Knox, glancing at Miss Grey to see if she was shocked, and finding considerable pleasure in the fact that she evidently was, ‘but George needs someone else’s entrails to help him. He has never written a book without a secretary.’
‘That’s quite true,’ said Laura, considering the statement impartially.
‘Oh, Mrs Knox, secretaries are nothing. I only look up things for him and make notes, but he dictates it all, and works frightfully hard,’ said Miss Grey indignantly.
‘Well, child, if you didn’t look them up, someone else would, and if nobody did, George wouldn’t take the trouble to write the book, that’s all. He’d better marry you and save the expense,’ said old Mrs Knox with the impertinence of the aged.
Much as Laura disliked Miss Grey, she could not bear this badgering. She got up and shook herself tidy.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Knox,’ she said in rather a loud voice, because old Mrs Knox hated to be thought deaf, and Laura felt she needed punishing. ‘I must go home now. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
Mrs Knox put out a hand ungraciously and said goodbye. Laura went downstairs, accompanied by Miss Grey. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and said very kindly, ‘Don’t take any notice of Mrs Knox. She is always like that, and loves making people uncomfortable. Don’t let her tease you.’
Miss Grey’s face softened for a moment, as if she were considering being grateful for Laura’s sympathy, but it quickly hardened again as she answered, ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Morland, but I know Mrs Knox so well that I quite understand her ways. And I can quite well take care of myself – against anyone,’ she added, with such meaning, such an undercurrent of venom, that Laura wished she hadn’t spoken.
‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,’ she said vaguely, and drifted out of the house. But as she walked home, she considered the situation again, and didn’t like it. Miss Grey dug in so firmly at Rutland Gate, boasting of her intimacy with old Mrs Knox, an intimacy which Laura had never achieved during many years’ acquaintance. If Mrs Knox did really get it into her head that George ought to marry Miss Grey, she was quite capable of arranging it all and marrying them out of hand. If Miss Grey really cared for George Knox, it was something to have his mother on her side, even if it was very uncomfortable. What was the most sinister part of all was Miss Grey’s too evident dislike of herself, a dislike which would not be lessened by Mrs Knox’s calculated remarks about George marrying her. The unconcealed hatred in Miss Grey’s face as they parted had been rather alarming. Laura wished she knew what George felt, but as he very rarely knew that himself, there didn’t seem to be much chance of finding out, and one couldn’t ask point blank. If only people would ever think about anything but being in love, it would be so much simpler, was Laura’s thought.
However, it was no good worrying, so she went back to the flat and had a bath and a small but excellent supper, and a gossip with Stoker. Then she devoted the evening to literary composition, forgetting all about George and his troubles.
10
Modern Love
Term came to an end all too soon, and Laura, with Stoker and Tony, went down to High Rising. A few days later Master Wesendonck arrived with a small suitcase of clothes and a large suitcase of railway lines and rolling-stock. It was a late Easter, the weather was fine, and Laura told the little boys that they might make the railway in the garden, which occupied them from morning to night. Laura wished that Tony were less overbearing, or Wesendonck more self-assertive, but as they didn’t quarrel she had no complaints to make.
Meanwhile at Low Rising all had been tumult and affright, because George Knox had had influenza. Like most healthy men he thought that any illness was death. For two days he had talked of nothing but his own symptoms. The family thermometer had refused to be shaken down, though Sibyl and Miss Grey had nearly dislocated their wrists over it, so Sibyl telephoned for Dr Ford, who sent George off to bed, saying that if he got any worse they must have a nurse. Against this Miss Grey and Sibyl had protested, so Dr Ford gave in for the time being.
‘That Incubus,’ said he to Anne Todd, whose mother he was visiting unprofessionally a day or two later, ‘is the most curious mixture I’ve ever seen. She is as jealous and neurotic as they make them, but she is a wonderful nurse. In fact, professional honour makes me admit that she is as good as you are. She is tidy and punctual, and she understands that when I say a measured table-spoonful every three hours, I don’t mean the patient is to have what she thinks is a tablespoonful whenever it occurs to her. Poor Sibyl is very little use except to read aloud, and I don’t see why the woman should be shut up with an infectious patient. They’ll all get it, and then they’ll have to have a nurse, so they might as well have one to start with.’
‘It will strengthen the Incubus’s position a good deal if she nurses Mr Knox through this,’ said Anne Todd.
‘I should think it would. With Knox’s sense of the dramatic, I wouldn’t put it past him to have a deathbed marriage.’ After a slight pause, he continued abruptly, ‘I’m not very pleased with your mother, Miss Todd. She isn’t responding to the warmer weather as I hoped she would. I knew you’d rather I told you.’
‘Can I do anything?’ asked Anne Todd.
‘I’m afraid not. It’s only a question of conserving her strength, and you do all that can be done in that direction. You poor child,’ said Dr Ford, and he held Anne’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Anne, not withdrawing it. ‘If it weren’t for you,
and for Mr Knox coming in, and looking forward to Mrs Morland, it would be too lonely to bear. But I’m all right really.’
‘I’m glad Knox has been visiting you. You need more change.’
‘I have enjoyed his visits very much,’ said Anne, quietly resuming possession of her hand. ‘Anyone so self-centred as Mr Knox is very bracing. He makes me feel how extremely unimportant my own troubles are. And I’m very fond of Sibyl.’
‘I’ve often wondered why Knox didn’t ask Mrs Morland to marry him,’ said Dr Ford, who liked nothing better than gossip. ‘Does she ever talk about him?’
‘Oh, yes, but not in that way. I can’t think of any couple more unsuited. Mrs Morland is as kind and gentle as can be, but she has made a life of her own, and I don’t think she would like at all to change it, or get on with anyone with such a boisterous personality as Mr Knox. And I don’t think he wants to marry. He would as soon think of marrying me as Mrs Morland.’
‘Perhaps he does think of marrying you. There could be stranger thoughts.’
Anne Todd laughed. ‘On the strength of a few calls lately, Dr Ford? Oh, no. Besides, I’m not that sort.’
‘Which sort?’
‘The sort people marry.’
‘Oh,’ said Dr Ford.
There was a silence. Then he got up, and gently kicking Mrs Todd’s revolting little dog away from its place on the hearthrug, he stood up with his back to the fire.
‘Anne Todd,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to say this just yet, but frankly this conversation has alarmed me. If Knox, with his delightful, overpowering personality, gets you into his clutches, it will be goodbye to all my chances.’
Anne Todd was looking at him, but said nothing.
‘I suppose,’ he went on, ‘you haven’t thought much about me, except as the middle-aged G.P., but I’ve thought a good deal about you. I’ve seen you with that exasperating old lady, your mother, being kind and firm and considerate, putting yourself aside in every way. I know what perpetual attention to a rather peculiar old lady means. I’ve admired you more than I can say. I’ve thought of your future. How much money will you have, Anne Todd, when your mother dies?’
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