“But I was interested,” protested Dodo. “We don’t realize enough, in London, how much work’s done outside.”
The Vicar’s wife laughed.
“The best butter, my dear. You know, and I know, there’s very little we can do here, except put out incendiaries. If anything serious happens we have to telephone Wycombe, where they’ve an N.F.S. and rescue squads and things, to come to our aid. I’m on that telephone myself.”
“Good,” said Dodo.
The Vicar’s wife laughed again.
“What a rag-tag and bob-tail we must seem to you! But the boys have put out incendiaries, and if I weren’t there anyone except Miss Rose could manage the telephone—there are no incoming calls—or at a pinch the postman could go off on his bicycle. We can look after ourselves, you see.”
They shook hands with mutual respect, and Dodo invited her new friend, any time she was in London, to come and inspect the Post in Chester Street.
Richard had evidently spent the interval making good resolutions: he smiled at Dodo affectionately, and said he was an ass. “It’s just that I grudge you even for twenty minutes, darling. What’s the report?” “Highly favourable,” said Dodo; and they walked on towards the woods.
3
Beech woods in spring are made for lovers. Like lovers they wandered arm-in-arm, pausing now and then to kiss, rather seriously, recalling and re-examining (as lovers will) all the incidents of their brief acquaintance. “I’m glad we met in the Gardens,” said Richard; “it matches this.” Dodo said, “Anyway, I’m glad Piccadilly has a nice name,” and as usual he followed her thought immediately. They were in a mood to be benevolent to all lovers; they were glad that the boys and girls who picked each other up on that pavement had at least one touch of prettiness offered them. How much more was given Richard and Dodo! They had a beech wood to walk in, when they were tired of walking they found a rustic seat, when they were thirsty they found a cottage whose garden, like a loose nosegay, was also a tea-garden. “Did you know this place was here?” asked Dodo, fishing honeysuckle from her cup. “I don’t think it is, usually,” said Richard.
On the homeward journey they more often fell silent. The very fact that they were going home, together, subtly altered the character of the day. Thitherto, whatever the underrunning currents, its actual events had been those of any holiday: now the time was come to leave this familiar ground and explore the unknown territory of passion. The cottage waited for them very quietly; though it was full daylight, the small-windowed rooms were already gathering dusk. Richard moved uncertainly towards the lamp, then changed his mind and came back to sit and look out beside Dodo in the window-seat.
“Happy, my darling?”
“Perfectly happy,” said Dodo.
(Once, long ago, in a hansom cab, the same question and answer passed between Henry and Adelaide Lambert; and like Adelaide, Dodo was lying.)
4
At what moment it happened she could not tell; but suddenly her thoughts, her heart, her very soul, were in Britannia Mews. Or rather, hovering between the Mews and the Post, where her substitute was on call.… No, not till seven, Dodo corrected herself; I’m not on till seven.… The substitute was perfectly reliable, and lived in Bedford Street. The whole arrangement was perfectly normal and above-board; no one, even if it turned out a bad night, would reproach her, Dodo, for being absent. She had too good a record.
“It’s so peaceful here,” said Richard softly. “I wanted to give you a little peace.”
Dodo smiled, but could not speak. A sheerly physical uneasiness was coming over her, which she could only liken to the moment before fainting. There was the same struggle to keep a grasp on the present, the same effort to conceal one’s distress, the same certainty of failure. For a moment or two she did not hear a word Richard was saying: she was facing the possibility of an incident in Britannia Mews. The odds against it were thousands, probably millions, to one. The night might be perfectly quiet. “And why do I worry about the night?” Dodo demanded. “It’s not like the blitz. Something might have happened to-day—and I can’t telephone.”
Richard leaned towards her, and it was his movement that woke her to the fact that she had unconsciously drawn away from him. She had, however briefly, forgotten him. Nor could she now quite remember him again. Richard, beside her, was farther away from her spirit than the Mews or the Post.
“Because this is not quite real,” thought Dodo. “We are … making it up.”
At once she was conscious of an immense relief, like the blood returning to the brain. She knew now what was wrong. And she said:—
“I’m sorry, Dick; but I’m not going to stay.”
He drew back and looked at her; not really in surprise—not really in surprise!—but beseechingly. Dodo, as her vigour returned, felt a momentary impatience with his meekness; he should have laughed at her and kissed her, or kissed her and stormed at her, or in some way or other have kicked up the devil of a row. However, the fact that he did not strengthened her conviction that she was now right.
He said, very gently:—
“What is it, my dear? Getting mixed up with all these people?”
“No, no, no!”
“Are you worried about your aunt?”
“A little. I’ve a conscience about the Post.”
“I thought you’d got some one to go instead.”
“Naturally.” Again—how unfairly, when she could see what an effort he was making to forget himself and think only of her!—Dodo felt that flash of impatience; she jumped up and began to pace about the room: she had a subconscious desire to get some life into the scene—if she’d been watching a rehearsal at the Puppet, she’d have said, “That scene’s dead.” Richard followed her with anxious eyes, waiting for her to explain.
She did her best.
“It’s not only the Post, though that’s cleared my mind. I have the feeling—Dick, I can’t put it any better—I have the feeling that we’re both trying to behave as though we were younger than we are. We’re trying to be … reckless; and the truth is that we’re simply very fond of each other in a nice quiet way. Don’t you feel there’s something unreal about this?”
He shook his head.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I do. It’s my fault. Oh, dear!” cried Dodo ruefully, “I seem to leave everything too late! I left it too late to get married, and now I’ve left it too late to have a love-affair! Dick, I’m so fond of you!”
“I know you are, my dear, or you wouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
“But I can’t keep my mind on you,” went on Dodo, with perhaps unnecessary frankness. “I keep thinking suppose there’s an incident and I’m not there. I know I’ve a substitute, but there it is. If this were the real thing—you and I, being lovers—I shouldn’t care.”
Richard stood up. Against the light his tall figure loomed enormous, dominating the tiny room. For a moment Dodo thought he would step between her and the door; for a moment she almost wished he would. Only, being Richard, he didn’t.
“I can only tell you, my darling,” he said unhappily, “that it’s real to me. But you must choose.”
He waited a moment, and when she did not speak went quietly upstairs. When he came back he had her hat and bag.
“I’ll come with you to the station. There’s a train quite soon.”
“No, please don’t,” said Dodo. “Dear, please don’t.”
But he doggedly insisted. For the fourth time they walked down the village street, past the Institute, past the few cottages, past the few shops. Now and then they exchanged comments on the pleasantness of the evening, or the freshness of the country air. Dodo would have preferred an honest silence, but if such trivialities helped him she felt bound to play up. They had mercifully only a short while to wait, and the station was very gloomy, so that they could barely see each other’s faces.
“Good-bye, my dear,” said Dodo sadly.
“Good-bye, my love.”
“Am I
going to see you again?”
At that moment the train came in; he had not time, or did not wish for time, to answer, but opened the nearest carriage door and put her in. There was no other occupant, and so no need to keep up an appearance of composure; but Dodo, who used to cry quite easily, did not weep long. Her heart was heavy enough, but the day had been tiring; most of the way, she slept.
5
Adelaide, who was still up, showed no surprise at her niece’s reappearance.
“I didn’t go to the Post after all,” said Dodo. “What’s the day been like?”
“Quiet,” said Adelaide. “Have you had any supper?”
“Yes, thanks. And I’ve had a lovely day in the country, and inspected a village A.R.P.” Dodo began to laugh; the whole episode now seemed to her sad and funny in about equal parts; on the whole she was glad to be home again. She sat down by the hearth and cocked her toes on the fender and lit a cigarette, her mind already turning to next week’s programmes in the Theatre, next week’s duties at the Post, while from the other side of the fire Adelaide watched her very attentively for some minutes. At last Adelaide spoke. She said abruptly:—
“D’you want the Theatre?”
Dodo looked up in surprise.
“Want it? Want to go on running it? Of course.”
“That’s not exactly what I mean. Your uncle and I can’t last much longer,” went on Adelaide coolly. “If you want the Theatre, we’ll give it you. I imagine it’s chiefly a matter of licensing it in your name, and the puppets and fittings could be made over by deed of gift. Do you want it?”
Dodo threw her cigarette into the fire and gave the matter her full attention.
“You could leave it me,” she pointed out, “in your will.”
“Certainly. But I like to manage my affairs myself,” said Adelaide. “Gilbert and I would of course go on living here; there’s another five years’ lease of the premises, and that should see our time; after that you’ll have to renew, unless they pull the place down to build flats. But don’t try to launch out. The reason this place has been a success,” explained Adelaide dryly, “is not artistic merit, but the fact that we’ve never taken more than three pounds a week put of it. You won’t make a fortune; but then your people are well off.”
“I don’t mind that,” said Dodo slowly; “but you ought to think it over a bit longer.”
“I’ve been thinking it over for some time. Lately I’ve simply been waiting in case you had other plans.”
“I haven’t.”
“So I see.”
Dodo laughed. As once before, twenty-two years ago, her aunt’s complete awareness of a situation was extraordinarily grateful. There was no need to explain anything. Dodo, indeed, was now quite ready to give a serio-comic account of her whole romantic excursion, but it would have shown Richard as a bit of a muff. And he wasn’t a muff—not at all; he was simply extremely nice, and an architect in a cathedral town. If he couldn’t shake off the shadow of the Close, nor had Dodo been able to shake off the shadow of the A.R.P.…
“I believe,” said Dodo suddenly, “I’ve just discovered the secret of life.”
“And what is that?”
“Be your age.”
“Humph,” said Adelaide. “You’ve been long enough finding it out.”
“Be your age,” repeated Dodo peacefully. “Thank you very much, Aunt Adelaide, for the Theatre; it’s just what I wanted.”
CHAPTER V
1
Adelaide did not now very often leave the Mews, but she was still capable of a good long walk when she felt like it, and on the first Sunday in August, soon after the Theatre had been officially made over to Dodo, announced her intention of spending the afternoon in Kensington Gardens. It was about three o’clock; Gilbert snoozed on the balcony; Dodo, Treff, and Gerhardi had all brought deck-chairs out into the Mews; the last had a sketch-book open on his knee, and as Adelaide walked by she rather pointedly refrained from glancing at it. The sketches were for a new décor for the Molière scenes, and she considered them unnecessary. “Don’t walk too far, dear,” murmured Dodo sleepily, “it’s awfully hot …” “I shall walk as far as I see fit,” replied Adelaide. The heat was simply agreeable to her, she was very completely clad, hatted, and gloved; her umbrella was not for use against the sun. Thus equipped she proceeded slowly out of the Mews, leaving a slight sense of discomfort behind her.
“You see?” said Gerhardi.
Dodo sighed. When the transfer of the Theatre was first bruited Gerhardi alone had seen any objection: he said Mrs. Lambert would not find it easy to give up the habits of almost forty years. And so it had turned out: Adelaide, pointedly disclaiming all authority, was nevertheless constant with advice, and so used to having her advice taken that another opinion could not fail to annoy her.
“In any case,” said Treff—referring to the original backdrop—“it’s not Gilbert’s work. It’s very bad. I dare say Addie copied it herself from a toy theatre.”
His guess was partly correct, for the crude design of curtains and pillars had indeed been reproduced from a twopence coloured Cinderella; but not by Adelaide, and not even Adelaide could now remember by whom else. The Puppet Theatre, always attractive to amateurs, had in the course of time accumulated a whole body of such anonymous work, some good, some bad, most mediocre, and it was Dodo’s intention to sort everything out, scrap the worst, and put the salvaged three-ply to fresh use. Adelaide disapproved. Disclaiming (as has been said) all authority, repeating that the Theatre was Dodo’s to do as she liked with, Adelaide, and not in silence, disapproved.
“If it makes her really unhappy—” began Dodo.
“Any change will make her unhappy.” Gerhardi riffled the leaves of his sketch-book impatiently. “Gilbert Lambert had genius, that I admit—at least when he made the Molière figures. The rest are no more than competent. And Jackson’s are good too, though not so good as Barty’s. But only Barty had a feeling for the scene as a whole. We need new décors for the Molière, and for Music Hall, and for the Pastoral, and now we have the material, and it is for you to say whether I am to create them—though it will make Mrs. Lambert unhappy—or not.”
Dodo sighed again. In one way her character strongly resembled her aunt’s: they were neither of them artists, they were organizers. Dodo disliked the Molière set, for example, not so much because it was unfitting as because it was shabby; her taste for the immaculate, though it coincided so happily with the requirements of puppet art, was merely an extension of her personal habits. An almost equally strong habit was that of deference to her aunt; and the result was to put her in something of a quandary.
“We’ll see,” she temporized. “Finish the designs, and then we’ll see.”
Gerhardi shrugged. Treff, an ancient Panama hat tilted over his eyes, leaned back and observed that though Addie had ceased to pay the piper, she would evidently continue to call the tune. He added maliciously:—
“Gerhardi should make a puppet of her; then it would be our turn to pull the strings.…”
Neither Gerhardi nor Dodo answered, but the former took out a chalk and began to sketch. Out of the tail of her eye—the sun was making her sleepy—Dodo saw a figure take shape: long, thin, very straight, all black save for the profile and the crown of hair.… She meant to say, “No, don’t do that, it’s unlucky,” but the sun was making her sleepy. Presently Gerhardi’s hand slackened, the crayon rolled away; a light snore—was it from Treff, was it from Gerhardi?—roused Dodo for an instant, no more. A vague premonition of bad luck again crossed her mind; and then sleep took her too in the heat of the sun.
2
In Kensington Gardens the grass had begun to brown, and there was a smell of autumn under the chestnuts; but Adelaide, who liked autumn, sniffed appreciatively. She was enjoying her walk extremely; it was in its small way an independent enterprise, such as circumstances now rarely permitted her; away from Dodo’s fond solicitude, away, even, from Gilbert’s fond affection, she felt
peculiarly and enjoyably herself.
In this agreeable state of mind she reached the great central avenue, and there paused a moment: to her right lay the Pond, to her left the Serpentine; suddenly out of the past careered a big dog, an Airedale, running round and round in circles while three children stood transfixed with horror. Mad dog, mad dog! Of course, this is where we used to meet the Hambros, thought Adelaide, and Treff used to play with the Black Watch. The name of that famous regiment returned without the least difficulty: she could even remember a line or two of their rigmarole …
The Black Watch will go night and day …
The Black Watch never needs winding …
which she and Alice thought great nonsense, and so it was. What a nice little creature Alice had been—a trifle on the smug side, good as gold, but how loving and sweet-tempered! “Much nicer than I was,” thought Adelaide dispassionately. “But even then I had more backbone. It’s lucky Alice never had to stand on her own feet.…”
And something else had happened on the dog day: the visit to Belle Burnett. (Adelaide bounced gently down the Bayswater Road, wearing her best hat with the ermine’s head on it.) And something had come of that visit, if not in the way Mrs. Culver expected: Belle Burnett’s string of pearls was, in a sense, the foundation of the Puppet Theatre. And the spiny shell was still on the mantelpiece in the Mews, indestructible, having outlasted generations of china … having outlasted Belle Burnett. Adelaide had never seen or heard of her again; she was probably buried in Vienna, or perhaps in Italy, or somewhere on the Riviera, in one of the little Protestant graveyards made necessary by the nomadic habits of the English. It was strange to reflect that Mrs. Culver too lay in alien soil—that at long last the two women had something in common.
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