*
Ding, dong, bell,
Fraülein goes to hell,
which Agnes had vainly endeavoured to erase. Sums, unkind remarks about brothers and sisters, ostentatious and incorrect Latin verses jostled each other. James had already begun to contribute with a very poor chalk drawing of Clarissa in her perambulator.
Martin, who had followed Mary up the ladder, now shut the trap-door with a bang, raising clouds of dust from the floor, causing whitewash to fall in flakes from the ceiling, and making the room even more unbearable than it had been. Pierre and Ursule were sitting on a wooden box and other boxes were lying about.
‘I suppose we must go through the formalities,’ said Jean-Claude to Martin, who nodded.
It may here be mentioned that except when Madame Boulle’s eye was on them, English was the invariable medium of communication between Martin and the young Boulles. To Pierre, Ursule and Jean-Claude it was almost a matter of indifference which language they spoke. To Martin it was a matter of great importance to his own mental comfort that he should speak French as little as possible. Alone with Pierre it was different, he made one feel clever and idiomatic. But to talk a halting, stuttering French to Ursule and Jean-Claude was not in Martin’s plan. It might even raise Jean-Claude from the position of inferiority in which his tennis had placed him, a state of things not to be encouraged. So Martin made no effort at all to practise the language which his mother was paying for him to learn, considering, if his conscience ever made itself felt, that by swotting away with Pierre for three hours every morning, and sitting through family lunch every day, he had amply fulfilled his mother’s wishes. At any other time Pierre, who though mild was conscientious, would have done his best to encourage a more general use of French among the young people, but his adoration for Mrs Graham and his unfinished sonnet lay heavy on his mind and prevented him from paying his usual attention to duty. While waiting for Mary, he had been trying his hand at literary composition on the wall.
Et pourtant son regard me trouble étrangement
he had written with a stump of pencil, and was then assailed by doubts as to whether someone else had not already written it. However, even a last line of a sonnet was worth clinging to; one might get the thirteen previous lines later on if the muse were propitious.
‘Alors, fais ton devoir, Ursule,’ said Jean-Claude.
Ursule, giggling wildly, approached Mary and ran her hands down her dress.
‘Just to see if you are a spy with concealed arms,’ she explained, giggling more than ever.
‘What on earth are you all doing up here and what is it all about?’ said Mary.
‘Sit down, Miss Preston,’ said Pierre. ‘We regret any inconvenience which we may have caused you, but it was necessary. If you are to help us, you must be of ourselves and share our secrets. We cannot be too cautious.’
‘Well, what is it? A treasure hunt?’
‘Oh, Pierre,’ said Martin, ‘may I tell her?’
‘But she must have guessed already,’ objected Pierre. ‘Did you not notice our password, Miss Preston?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did it convey nothing to you?’
‘No. I know Orléans is somewhere in France. I’ve never been there.’
‘Then, Martin, you may explain,’ said Pierre.
‘We are royalists,’ said Martin in an awed voice.
Pierre, Ursule and Jean-Claude immediately stood up.
‘A bas la république,’ said Ursule, giggling.
‘A bas la république,’ said the others and sat down again.
‘Mary,’ said Martin eagerly, ‘you don’t know how important this is. We can help enormously in England. All the Boulles are royalists and they are working to restore the monarchy. You would like to see a monarchy in France, wouldn’t you?’
‘Certainly. I always thought it must be silly to have a President who has to wear evening dress in the day-time.’
A pained expression on Pierre’s face warned her that though a royalist one was still French, and could not hear the matter of the President’s official clothes treated lightly.
‘Tell me some more,’ she said hastily.
‘Well, Pierre and Jean-Claude are camelots du roi,’ Martin went on, ‘and I can be one, too. You only have to sign a form. Pierre was once nearly arrested by a policeman for selling L’Action Française, that’s the royalist newspaper, you know. There is bound to be a great royalist reaction soon, and we are to help at the English end. Do you know why Jean-Claude has his name?’
‘No.’
‘The duc de Guise is Jean,’ said Martin impressively.
‘And what about the Claude?’ said Mary.
‘Oh, of course, if you’re going to laugh,’ said Martin sulkily.
‘I’m so sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to. Tell me what you are going to do here.’
The four royalists then all began to talk at once in two languages. Mary finally made out that the night of Martin’s dance had been chosen for a royalist demonstration. The satin which she had bought in town was being made into a flag by Ursule. They had meant, they explained, to use the royalist flag, tricolore with écusson fleurdelisé, but as this would take too long to make it had been decided to have golden fleurs-de-lis on a white standard. At a given moment Jean-Claude carrying the flag, followed by Martin and Ursule, was to advance into the ballroom. Pierre was to cry ‘Vive le roi’ from the balcony, thus lighting the candle which would run like wildfire from one end of England to the other, leap the Channel, snatch up the duc de Guise from his estates in Belgium, raise the barricades in Paris, sweep France at the elections, and restore the rightful heir to the throne of the Capets.
‘But where do I come in?’ asked Mary.
‘We want you to ask the band to stop for a few moments suddenly, in the middle of a dance. It will make much more effect like that,’ said Pierre.
‘What do your father and mother say?’
‘We haven’t told them,’ said Jean-Claude. ‘They do not understand the necessity for action. They will applaud afterwards, but we cannot expect them to risk their lives for a gesture as we shall.’
‘Besides,’ said Pierre, ‘maman might think this plan of ours rather too exalted. She is very practical. It was she who thought of the dustbin.’
Seeing that Mary looked puzzled, Martin volunteered an explanation. ‘Madame Boulle is frightfully practical,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘She has painted La République on her dustbin. Isn’t it splendid? So that every time she chucks anything dirty into it she is insulting the old republic.’
‘You will help us, Miss Preston, won’t you?’ said Pierre, his soft brown eyes alight with enthusiasm.
‘Well, if you are sure it won’t upset Aunt Emily. After all, it is her house. No, I don’t think I can join unless you let me tell her.’
Another bilingual discussion took place and it was decided that vu the improbability of Lady Emily ever noticing anything that was said to her, it would be quite safe for Mary to tell her that the Boulles and Martin wanted to have a sort of pageant halfway through the dance which would only take a few moments. Martin and Jean-Claude felt that this attitude was cowardly, but Pierre, older and more experienced, assured them that deception in a good cause was on the whole a virtue. This important affair having been settled, the conspirators separated, the three Boulles going back to the vicarage and Martin returning with Mary. On the way down he poured out a flood of information about the royalist movement, which Mary secretly found rather tedious. However, it was better than having to listen to cricket averages.
‘There’s one awful nuisance,’ said Martin gloomily. ‘That friend of David’s, whatever her name is, is coming down three days before the dance. We can’t let her in because we don’t know if she is sound or not, and it will be an awful nuisance having her about. I say, Mary, couldn’t you make friends with her and take her for walks or something?’
A wave of anger swept over Mary as the hateful Miss Stevenson w
as recalled to her mind.
‘I’m afraid I can’t, Martin,’ she said. ‘I shall be frightfully busy helping Aunt Emily. You’ll have to get Madame Boulle on to her.’
11
Indignation of a Toady
Three days before the dance Lady Emily came into lunch with a distracted expression.
‘A really frightful thing has happened,’ she announced. ‘Get me my bag from the drawing-room, Martin, and I will tell you all about it.’
Martin, who was having a day off from his French lessons to devote himself to details of the cricket match, got up and went in search of it.
‘It is a most extraordinary letter from Mr Holt,’ she went on. ‘It came this morning and I didn’t open it for some reason or other and when I got downstairs I took it out of my bag and read it and now I can’t find it anywhere. Oh, thank you, Martin, perhaps I did put it in my bag. Yes, here it is. He is so very peculiar. I am sure he asked me to invite Lady Norton here, didn’t he, Agnes?’
‘Yes, Mamma. At least, I remember your saying after Mr Holt had gone that you must ask Lady Norton to Rush-water. I remember it so well, because it was the day James got his tunic so wet trying to catch goldfish in the pond, poor darling. He had to have his tunic changed at once, but Nannie was very prompt and luckily he didn’t catch cold. Ever since I had him inoculated last winter he hasn’t caught half so many colds.’
‘Then why does he write in such a peculiar way?’ said her ladyship. ‘Where is that letter? I had it in my hand a minute ago.’
After considerable tumult the letter was discovered by Mary in Lady Emily’s table napkin, which was on the floor.
‘Thank you, Mary, I suppose I had it in my hand and then while I was talking I put it on my lap and then it fell on to the floor with my table napkin. They do slip so. I sometimes think of telling the laundry not to put starch in them, but they never have the same appearance without it. And now I am afraid I can’t see it without my spectacles. It is really astonishing how Conque can’t remember anything. So I must tell you about it. He is so much annoyed with me that I feel quite unhappy at the idea of having hurt him. Oh, here are my spectacles in my bag, after all. Conque must have put them in just before I came downstairs. David, darling, this is very nice. Where do you come from?’
For David was standing in the doorway looking pleasantly at his family. He walked round the table, dropping a kiss on Agnes’s head and touching his father and Martin on the shoulder. He greeted Mary and put himself in between her and his mother.
‘From London, Mother. I’m simply famished. Has Gudgeon any food for me? Oh, Gudgeon, I’ve some suitcases with me. I want them taken to my room. I’ve come to stay till after the dance, Mother, if that’s all right. How’s the bull, Father?’
‘He’s going to the Argentine at the end of the month.’
‘Splendid. How’s the French, Martin? Can you recite “Le Chêne et le Roseau” yet?’
‘Oh, shut up, David.’
‘David,’ said his mother, ‘you must help me. I have had such a peculiar letter from Mr Holt and I want all your advices. Henry, I want you to tell me what I ought to do.’
‘Can’t tell you, Emily, till I hear what it’s all about.’
‘Listen to what he says:
‘“Dear Lady Emily, I must confess that I have been much hurt at hearing from an old friend, Lady Norton, that you had invited her to Rushwater without asking me also. As it was through me that you met Lady Norton in the first place—”
‘Now that,’ said her ladyship, folding up the letter, putting it into her bag, and gazing into the past, ‘is perfectly true. He would introduce us at a flower show, at Chelsea, I think, or perhaps at Vincent Square, but I know it was the year the blue Meconopsis came out, and I found her insufferably dull. I would never have done anything about her if he hadn’t asked me to, and I must say I found her even duller than I had thought, though she knows a great deal about poppies and is going to send me some seed. Isn’t it peculiar?’
‘But you haven’t finished reading us the letter yet, Aunt Emily,’ said Mary, voicing the feeling of the party.
‘“As it was through me that you met Lady Norton in the first place, I should have thought you would naturally include me in any invitation to her. I regretted that I saw so little of you and the garden on my last visit, and hope Mrs Graham’s children, who absorb so much of her time, are well.” Then he is mine sincerely.’
‘What a horrid little man, Aunt Emily.’
‘Well, Emily,’ said Mr Leslie, ‘I really don’t know what advice you want. I always disliked the fellow, and now he has written you a very offensive letter.’
‘But I mean, what am I to do? I feel so sorry for him, feeling hurt like that. Of course, we didn’t see much of the garden and this time I must see that he does.’
‘This time? What are you talking about, Emily?’ said her husband.
Lady Emily’s face coloured slightly.
‘I know what you have done,’ said David, suddenly pointing an accusing finger at his mother. ‘You have asked the little toadstool here again.’
‘I didn’t mean to, David,’ said his mother deprecatingly. ‘But it is terrible to think of anyone feeling as hurt as that over such a trifle, especially anyone so universally disliked as Mr Holt, so I felt I must invite him.’
‘And what is more,’ said David, fixing her with his glance, ‘by the pricking of my thumbs I can tell you what else you have done. You have asked him to stay the night for Martin’s dance.’
‘My God, Emily, you haven’t?’ said Mr Leslie in alarm.
‘Henry, you mustn’t mind. It is really a kindness to have him.’
‘Well, I do mind, Emily,’ said Mr Leslie, getting up. ‘Kindness is one thing and your family is another. You treat this house as if it were the Ark, Emily, inviting everyone in.’
‘At least she doesn’t ask them in couples, sir,’ said David. ‘A female Holt would be appalling.’
‘That’s enough,’ said his father. ‘If Mr Holt comes into this house, I go out of it.’
He took a cigar from the sideboard and went out, almost slamming the door.
‘How very annoying,’ said Agnes peacefully. ‘It will mean quite a lot of work to soothe Papa down again. Mother, darling, I think I shall take the children to Southbridge tomorrow. They all want new shoes and I must get James’s hair cut. His hair always seems to grow so much faster in the country. I can’t think why unless it is that I don’t have it cut so often. Come and have your rest now.’
Agnes and her mother went off. Martin followed them, saying darkly to Mary:
‘Must go. Frightfully important. You know what.’
‘What the dickens has Martin got in his head now?’ asked David. ‘It’s always some queer idea in the holidays. Last summer he was a Socialist and at Christmas he was a United Irishman, or something of the sort. At least he would read Yeats aloud and feel melancholy about Deirdre.’
‘It’s something he and the Boulles are interested in. I don’t quite understand it,’ said Mary truthfully.
‘Well, boys will be bores. Tell me all about yourself, Mary. I’ve had a marvellous time over my novel. A man I know is really keen to film it, and I have a chance of getting a dramatic version broadcast. That’s why I’ve been away all the time. I was so busy.’
‘Is your novel really written, then?’ asked Mary.
‘Oh, no, that’s the whole point. I shall do the film version and the dramatic version, and then with that success behind me it will be as easy as anything to write the novel. People often do, you know. “The Story of the Play”. How is Martin’s party getting on?’
‘It is going to be lovely. Your father has given me a divine dress and Aunt Agnes gave me shoes and stockings. I am looking forward to it frightfully.’
‘Catch!’ said David, throwing a parcel at her. In her surprise she missed it. ‘Oh, butterfingers. You are as bad as Mamma.’ He picked the parcel off the floor and put it into her hand
s.
‘For me?’ said Mary, opening it without waiting for an answer. In the tissue paper was an evening bag of the finest embroidery with gay flowers and birds rioting on it.
‘Oh, David, how perfectly lovely. And it exactly goes with my frock. How perfectly divine. But really you oughtn’t to give—’
‘Now, don’t say your mother told you never to take presents from gentlemen unless they offered honourable matrimony, because that is quite out of date. Do you really like my parcel?’
‘Oh, I do, I do. Last time you gave me a parcel it was strawberries, and the time before that my own hand done up in a silk handkerchief. Do you remember?’
‘Your own hand? Oh, yes, of course, I remember. At Rushmere Abbey. I can’t give you anything as perfect as your own hand, but this will pass muster, I hope.’
‘I simply love it.’
‘Let me see if your hand is still perfect,’ said David. He took Mary’s hand and looked at it attentively.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Will you honour me by letting me claim it at Martin’s dance?’
‘Why, of course. Are you booking dances already? I don’t expect I’ll know many people except you and John and Martin and the Boulles.’
‘Not bad people those Boulles,’ said David, putting a rapid and business-like kiss into Mary’s palm, shutting her fingers on it, and apparently losing interest. ‘Madame Boulle is a bit garrulous and the girl is a giggling gawk. I like the Professor though and the elder son. The younger son isn’t as spotty as I hoped.’ He took a peach and began to peel it.
‘I didn’t know you knew the Boulles,’ said Mary. Her heart was beating so furiously at David’s kiss that she could hardly bear what her common sense told her was only a pretty gesture. She was not sure whether she wanted to press the palm so lately saluted to her own lips, or to smack David’s face with it.
Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 16