“What became of George Eliot?”
The table was round, and I was facing the Count, so I saw him well.
A servant was presenting a dish, but, because of this startling query, his master had no mind to spare and the man stood beside him unnoticed – except by everyone else.
Even at a literary luncheon, the question, so suddenly put, might well have disconcerted a wiser man: as it was, its striking irrelevance hit the Count over the heart.
He stared upon the Duchess, who had coolly returned to her plate, as though she had asked him whether his soul was saved: then he lifted his eyes to Virgil’s – to read an interpretation which brought the sweat on to his face.
He shot a glance round the table, and a hand went up to his mouth.
Old Harry looked up from her plate.
“‘What became of George Eliot?’ I said.”
Somehow the man made answer.
“‘George Eliot’, madam? Now let me see…”
The Duchess stared.
“‘George Eliot’. I think the edition we had—”
“Edition,” cried the Duchess. “Edition? What ever d’you mean?”
There was a painful silence.
The servant presenting the dish stood up and looked round for guidance: but Bertram, who had come to his help, was staring upon his master with saucer eyes. The latter wiped the sweat from his brow.
“My memory,” he said, “is uncertain. You have revived it, madam, to some extent, but—”
“You remember our visit to Palfrey, where the pictures were going to be sold. And your father saw one of George Eliot…”
Her victim leaped at the bait.
“Oh, now I have you, madam. The picture, you mean. For the moment—”
“Picture? Is one of us mad? I asked what became of George Eliot.” She threw a glance round.
“Is there nobody here to support me…when I say that that is something which Rudolph of Brief should know?” Her eyes came to rest upon Bertram. “Steward, I know your face. Were you here when I came?”
In some emotion, Bertram inclined his head.
“I was here, your Grace.”
“Who was George Eliot?”
“His lordship’s pet spaniel, your Grace.”
“By God, so he was,” mouthed the Count. “To think I’d forgotten—”
“So what was?” said the Duchess. Her victim clawed at the cloth.
“The dog, madam. The—”
“George Eliot was a bitch,” said the Duchess. And then, “What became of her… Brief? What became of Rudolph’s pet spaniel…that never would let her master out of her sight?”
I shall always remember that moment that held so much and shall always see the three faces of those concerned. Old Harry’s, keen and relentless, seemed cut out of painted stone: the Count’s was a mask of wet grey, with lines that give the impression of having been drawn with blue chalk: and Bertram’s was tense and bloodless – the face of a man who is waiting to hear some monstrous suspicion smothered at birth.
Twice the Count tried to answer, and twice he failed.
At the third attempt —
“Madam,” he croaked, “I have told you that my memory—”
“What became of George Eliot, steward?”
“His lordship shot her, your Grace, because she was going blind.”
“Himself? His favourite dog?”
“He would let no one else do it, your Grace. And no one, except his lordship, knows where she lies.”
The Duchess returned to the Count.
“D’you remember it now?”
Somehow the man made answer.
“I remember…that I shot her…myself.”
Old Harry lunged.
“In that case, you can tell me her colour.”
The silence which succeeded this challenge dragged at the nerves, and I was really quite thankful when Virgil, in desperation, put in his oar.
“Madam, you are dealing with matters which my uncle has fought to forget.”
Old Harry raised her eyebrows.
“That explanation is one which I am not prepared to accept. I’ll tell you why. It’s too easy. There’s something very wrong here – and I’m glad that I came.” She turned to survey the oarsman.
“Why are you here?”
“Madam,” said Virgil, “this was my father’s home.”
“I know that better than you. I asked you why you were here.”
“I have no other home, madam.”
“Indeed,” said Old Harry. “Where is your father now?”
“My father,” said Virgil, “is dead.”
“When did he die?”
“At least ten years ago, madam.”
“In that case, he’s been resurrected before his time. I must get into touch with him. I know he was living in London a year ago.”
The Count of Brief leaned forward.
“Madam,” he gasped, “this is very painful to me.”
“Then it shouldn’t be,” said Old Harry. “Mistakes have been made before now, and I’m not at all certain your brother wasn’t an innocent man.”
Virgil whipped into the breach, before the Count could reply.
“In that case, madam, there’s only one thing to be done. May I have my father’s address?”
“I’m afraid,” said Old Harry, “your filial affection must wait. I’ll deal with this matter myself. And when I have talked with your father, I’ll let you know. I expect he, too, has fought to forget the past. But he may have been – less successful… However, we’ll very soon know. I’ll write to my agent tonight.” She returned to the Count, whose head was shaking a little, as that of a very old man. “He will ask your brother two questions, and send his answers to me. The first will be this – What was George Eliot’s colour?”
The Count half-rose from his chair.
“Madam, I protest.”
“Protest and be damned,” said Old Harry. “Whelp is not Whelp for nothing, and I was a friend of your father’s before you were born.”
“But what can that prove?” cried the Count. “If he tells you George Eliot’s colour, what can that prove?” His voice rose into a scream, and he smacked the cloth. “That can prove nothing, madam…nothing at all – except that he can remember what I have contrived to forget,” and, with that, he sank back, breathing hard, with the air of a man who knows he has made a mistake and yet must needs go on, because he cannot retire.
“Quite so,” said the Duchess, “quite so. But the second question will be much harder than that. Where is George Eliot buried?” She set her arm on the table and dropped her chin to her palm. “If he answers that, I think that that will prove something…and prove it up to the hilt.” With that, she left the Count and sat back in her chair. “And now let’s change the subject. Richard, I beg your pardon for speaking in German till now. Elizabeth, dear, that’s a highly becoming frock. But then you’d distinguish sackcloth. What does John Herrick think?”
“Madam,” said Herrick, “she’d get away with linoleum, if you ask me. And I always thought that I was a Caroline poet: but now I’m Elizabethan. I’ve got a sonnet to her collar-bone half-done.”
“John,” said Elizabeth, firmly, “throws back to the cap and bells.”
Old Harry smiled.
“And Richard to some Crusader – that’s clear as paint – while you, of course, beyond to The Golden World. And now let’s return to the present. What do you do, Percy Virgil? Or are you just – decorative?”
His eyes like slits —
“Madam,” said Virgil, “I make the most of my time.”
“That,” said the Duchess, “is a very beautiful phrase. And I hope you know what it means, for I’m damned if I do.”
Percy Virgil swallowed.
“I have many interests, madam.”
“That sounds very well,” said Old Harry.
“What may they be? Do you visit the sick at all?”
“I travel,” said Virgil, t
hickly.
“What in?” said Old Harry. “Or don’t you earn any bread?”
“I – I can’t say I do,” said Virgil.
“Well, well,” said the Duchess, softly, “each to his taste. But I’d rather push button boots than batten upon a bounty that wasn’t mine.” She looked across at Herrick. “How’s that for alliteration?”
“Truly Virgilian, madam. And I’m glad you believe in ‘B’. It’s a valuable consonant.”
Old Harry leaned back and laughed, till the tears came into her eyes.
I glanced at the Count.
The man was sitting up straight and was staring directly before him, but not at me. It was plain that his eyes saw nothing that eyes can see, that Apprehension possessed him, body and soul. And this, I think, was natural, for the Duchess had hit very hard. She had publicly forced the cupboard in which his skeleton stood and had hung the sword of vengeance over his head. And this, after twenty-two years…
I glanced at Bertram, the steward.
He had returned to his place, four paces to the left of his master, from which he could watch the table and intercept the servants who moved to and fro. But he was not watching the table. His eyes were fast on the Count. And that, too, I think, was natural, for his father had been steward before him and he was the third generation to serve the house; and servants of standing like that are more jealous of seigniory’s rights than are the seigniors themselves. And now, after twenty-two years…
As I returned to the Count, he seemed to take hold of himself: a shiver ran through his limbs, and a hand went out to his wine: and then he was glancing about him, as though to take up his place. But the look on his face was haunted, and he might have been twenty years older than when he sat down.
Virgil was addressing Elizabeth, who sat between Herrick and me.
“You seem to know your neighbours remarkably well.”
My lady looked right and left.
“I’m glad of that,” she said. “I shouldn’t like people to think that we weren’t on good terms.”
“You need have no fear,” said Virgil, and fingered his chin. “And yet I remember a time when you found a far longer acquaintance not long enough to warrant the calling of Christian names.”
“So do I,” said Elizabeth, calmly. “The man was a friend of yours. He was also a rich, French Jew – entirely and utterly leprous, body and soul. He had to go in the end, because no woman-servant would enter his room.”
“Who invited him here?” said Old Harry.
“Madam,” said Virgil, “my cousin is prejudiced.”
“It seems with reason. I asked who invited him here.”
“My uncle was good enough, madam, to do as I wished.”
“In his daughter’s teeth? You might be the son of the house.”
“An impression, madam, I hope very soon to correct. If you’d give me my father’s address, I would ask your Grace to excuse me and leave tonight.”
“A very natural instinct – to fly to his side. But I fear you might exceed your instructions: whereas I can count on my agent—”
“To do as you say?”
“To the letter,” replied Old Harry. “And he’s such an efficient man. And now let’s return to the guest of whom we were speaking just now. Why did you wish such a charmer invited to Brief?”
“Madam,” said Virgil, “he was a friend of mine.”
“Does he still enjoy that honour?”
With goggling eyes —
“Where my friends are concerned,” said Virgil, “my cousin is hard to please.”
“That I can well believe.”
“Madam, I will be plain. I do not accept my cousin’s estimate. Porus Bureau had his faults, but—”
“So have we all,” said the Duchess. “But Porus Bureau doesn’t seem to be clean in the house. But that’s not the point, which is – that your cousin is the mistress of Brief. When she pronounced him repugnant, why did he stay?”
Virgil swallowed.
“She could have requested my uncle to ask him to leave.”
“I did,” said Elizabeth, quietly. “I asked you both, the morning after he came. I told you what had occurred – that during the night he had tried to get into my room.”
A frightful silence succeeded these moving words, and Herrick told me later that I went white to the lips.
Old Harry looked at the Count.
“Is that within your memory?”
The Count of Brief swallowed.
“We – I thought her mistaken, madam. I said so at once. I explained that one must be quite sure, before taking the serious step of asking a guest to leave.”
“What made you think she was mistaken?”
“I – I formed that impression, madam.”
“So you’ve said. I want to know why.”
The Count of Brief writhed in his chair.
“Her – her tale was incredible, madam. I decided that she had been dreaming. I – I think so still.”
Elizabeth lifted her voice.
“When I tried to shut it, the man put his foot in my door. But he couldn’t keep it there, because his slipper was soft: and when he withdrew it, he left his slipper behind. I showed it to you the next morning, to prove my case. If you wanted further proof, he was lame for three days.”
There was another silence – of great intensity.
Then —
“The explanation,” said Virgil, “was always perfectly clear. Bureau was strange to the house and mistook his room.”
“That’s – that’s right,” said the Count, somehow.
The Duchess surveyed them in turn.
Then —
“Quite so,” she said grimly. “In fact, what I don’t understand is why the Lady Elizabeth wasn’t put into the street. I mean, you were three to one – three swine to one pearl. Uncle and nephew and nephew’s paying guest…and she was only the daughter of this distinguished house.”
If the words were savage, Old Harry lent them the harshness of frozen iron. The winter wind whistled in her accents, her tongue was a sharp sword: and I was not surprised to see the Count cower before them and actually put up a hand, as a man who will ward off a blow. And though Virgil sat still as death, for the first time I saw the glint of fear in his eyes. And I did not find that surprising, for the Duchess had made it quite plain that she owed the Count no duty, because he was not her host.
Some sweet was served – in a silence which nobody cared to break.
Then Old Harry spoke in German.
“John Herrick, relieve the tension. You know how to tell a good tale.”
“Madam,” said Herrick, “command me.” He put a hand to his head. “A few minutes ago the conversation turned upon remembrance – a precious faculty. By that my story shall hang…”
(Here I should say that Herrick’s story was heard by every soul in that room, for the Duchess had taken her spoon, yet did not begin to eat; and while we, at table, sat waiting for her to begin, the servants had nothing to do, because the course had been served.)
“There was once an English vicar, a very forgetful man. Now all of us sometimes forget. I forgot my pistol on Friday afternoon. But he was much worse than that. He would set forth to keep an engagement and, while he was on his way, forget why he had gone out. He would frequently enter a shop and, ere he was served, forget what he came in to buy. And sometimes in winter, when the heaven was dark and he was rising early, as parsons do, he forgot he was getting up, but supposed he was going to bed, took off the clothes which he had that moment put on and then retired, as though it were night and not day. But, with it all, he was so gentle and charming and had a nature so sweet that his flock forgave his failing with ready hearts, smiled at his errors and said it was ‘Parson’s way’.
“Well, one beautiful summer morning, he could not resist the call of the countryside, and, after his early breakfast, he set out afoot to prove the lively beauty he loved so well and draw from it a sermon such as no books could give. For th
e following day was Sunday… As though upon air, he roamed for mile upon mile, and his heart was lifted up, because he had eyes to see and ears to hear. For him, the praise of larks fell down from heaven, the flower-starred fields were living tapestry, brooks ran with precious magic, and the greenwood was a shining chapter out of the Book of Dreams… Of course he forgot all else: and of such was his communion that he forgot all time. In fact, it was past two o’clock, and he had covered the best part of fifteen miles, when he climbed a stile in a hedgerow, to find a man in the road, with a watch in his hand. And the man was watching a chauffeur changing a tyre – or, rather, trying to change it, for the car had detachable rims, and, because of the heat of the day, the metal had expanded and the rim had seized on to the wheel.
“At once the Vicar perceived the state of the case. The man, who was wearing full dress, was clearly due at some function, for which he feared to be late: the chauffeur was needing assistance to pull off the rim: but the other dared not give it, because of his clothes.
“Without so much as a word, the Vicar went down on his knees in the dusty road – not to pray, but to add his strength to that of a fellow man. And after a moment or two, before their united endeavours, the rim gave way… The rest, of course, was easy, but the Vicar continued to help till the work was done. Then at last he straightened his back, to find the other beside him, silk hat in hand.
“‘Sir,’ said the man, ‘I never can thank you enough. And since you have done me a service which I can never repay, I beg you will do me the honour to be my guest. I am to be married this day at half-past two, and I should not now be happy if you were not there.’
“‘My very good friend,’ said the Vicar, inspecting his state, ‘you know very well that I am not fit to appear.’
“This was true: he was not even wearing clerical dress.
“‘Whose fault is that?’ said the other, and ushered him into his car.
“Now, though, for the moment, he did not know where he was, so soon as they moved, the Vicar got his bearings, only to find that they were approaching the village of which he was priest. At the sight of the distant spire, his memory suddenly stirred.
“‘Dear, dear,’ he cried. ‘I’d forgotten. I shan’t be able to come. You must set me down at that village. I’ve got a wedding myself.’
She Painted Her Face Page 17