Westwood (Vintage Classics)

by Stella Gibbons

  Simpson’s Lane was a narrow ancient thoroughfare between the village and Archway Road, steep and unfrequented, with the wall which surrounded the spacious gardens of Westwood running its entire length on one side, and some old cottages and lofty trees on the other.

  Westwood, though partly hidden behind its wall, dominated the landscape because it stood upon the lane’s highest point.

  There was no one in sight as the two girls approached. The light was still clear, because there were no clouds in the sky, and the house appeared dark yet distinct against the glow; among the leafless trees and in the recesses of evergreen foliage lingered gem-like colours born of the winter mists and light.

  ‘Here we are –’ cried Zita, and pushed open the delicate iron gate of Westwood.

  The proportions of the house and the drive were so planned that, on the instant of stepping through the gate into the garden, the visitor experienced a sensation of privacy and solitude as if he stood before some mansion set deep in a park, though in fact the garden in front of the house was not large. Margaret was so conscious of this feeling of retirement that for the moment she could think of nothing else, and followed Zita, who was hastening along the path encircling the oval lawn of grass so ancient and close that it resembled moss, without looking at the house – whose outward appearance, indeed, she knew by heart.

  But as they approached the door, which was set in a porch supported by four Ionic columns and approached by three hollowed shallow stone steps, she glanced upwards at the bust of the goddess or amazon which stood above the portico, with lovely weather-worn countenance turned a little sideways as if she were listening, and a delicate happiness filled her heart. It was so different to look at Westwood from outside its gate, and to stand here, upon its steps, surrounded by lines and curves of lawn and wall and window which were all perfect, and all beautiful, no matter whence they were viewed! She was surprised, too, by the comparative smallness of the house: although it consisted of a tall building in the centre flanked on either side by two smaller wings and had eight long windows in the central façade, the impression produced upon the eye was neither overpowering nor stately; the prevailing impression was one of elegance; that quality which the contemporary world is forgetting as rapidly as it is losing the power to create it.

  ‘Ach! Here he is!’ exclaimed Zita, turning to smile and hold up the key, and she fitted it into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

  Square, low-ceiled and lovely was the hall, and again (thought Margaret, hesitating for a moment upon the threshold) unexpectedly small compared with the impression given by the exterior of the house. As her eyes wandered thirstily from detail to detail she became unable to attend to Zita’s chatter, and only wished that she would be quiet, so that the beauty of the white marble mantelpiece adorned with plumed scrolls and swags of fruit and flower supported by cupids might make its full effect upon her. Doors opened off from the hall, and there was a carpet in dim hues of rose and red and green: she saw chairs of fragile design adorned with harps, or bows, or loops of shining wood; mirrors reflecting their own gilt candle-holders; and many large brown branches and exotic striped leaves in white vases – and there, in the farthest corner, was something – oh, why was Zita hurrying her away, across the hall with its faint odour of cold marble and wood smoke, before she could gaze at the staircase?

  ‘It iss in here,’ said Zita anxiously, flinging open a door covered with green baize and revealing a narrow dark passage that smelled of cooking. ‘I go first, you come after. Be careful, Miss Steggles, pliss, there iss bump in the floor,’ and she turned on the light.

  There is a point at which age, in a house that is still occupied, ceases to exert a spell and becomes faintly disgusting. This phenomenon is usually accompanied by dirt, which may serve to explain it, but sometimes it occurs when an ancient house is clean, and then there is no rational explanation. Margaret experienced a revulsion of feeling as violent as her first delight as she hurried after Zita through the corridor, and although the walls were white-washed and there was drugget upon the floor, the unevenness of the latter and certain cells and caverns which they passed upon their way, with the concavities of worm-eaten wooden staircases above them, made her long for the open air.

  ‘Here are der fuses,’ said Zita, stopping in front of a row of boxes along the wall and switching on another light.

  Margaret opened the nearest box and cautiously took out the first fuse container, hoping to find that the trouble would not be anything more complicated than a burnt-out wire, which she knew how to replace.

  ‘Have you any fuse wire, five amp?’ she demanded in a brisk professional voice.

  ‘I haf no idea,’ said Zita gaily, ‘I do not know what dot is, but I will go and look.’

  At this moment, as if attracted by the sound of their voices, a figure appeared at an open door at the end of the passage. Margaret glanced up and perceived with some dismay that it was Grantey.

  ‘Zita? Is that you down there?’ she called, peering at them. The light from a hidden window shone coldly upon her white apron and some shelves of green and gold plates. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We mend der fuse!’ Zita called back. ‘It iss Miss Steggles. You remember her? (Podden me that I say her, Miss Steggles, I wish to improve always my colloquial English.) She says she knows you and Mrs Niland.’

  Grantey, to Margaret’s increasing dismay, said nothing to this but at once advanced briskly down the passage. Margaret took out a third container and carefully examined it.

  ‘So it’s you,’ exclaimed Grantey, halting beside them and grimly surveying Margaret. ‘Where did Zita pick you up?’

  Her tone was so suspicious as to be insulting, but Margaret refused to be flustered, for it struck her that here was an opportunity to put a slight but necessary barrier between herself and the old servant. Zita, Margaret was sure, could now provide the entrée to Westwood.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Grant,’ she said pleasantly, glancing up and smiling, but going on with her work. ‘Yes, I met Miss Mandelbaum in Hudson’s, and as I know how to mend a fuse she asked me to come along and look at the trouble here. I hope I can put it right for you; Mr Hudson seems very doubtful whether he can get a man down here this evening, and I understand you have a party to-night.’

  There was just enough easy authority in her voice to irritate Grantey, and yet to ‘put her in her place’; that place which had been chosen for her by her own nature. She answered more tartly than ever, ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure. My brother would have done it in no time if he’d been at home, but he isn’t.’

  ‘Then I’m glad I happened to come along,’ said Margaret cheerfully, taking out the fifth container and examining it. ‘Ah!’ She held it towards them and tapped the broken wire.

  ‘Here we are. This is where the trouble is. Have you a screwdriver, Mrs Grant? – a small one?’

  ‘You haf der mind for machinery,’ said Zita solemnly, peering at the wire. ‘It iss a gift. Me, I haf it not. But I do not care. I haf der artist-soul; it iss better.’

  ‘I don’t understand electricity, and don’t want to,’ said Grantey. Margaret could see that she was reluctantly impressed. ‘You don’t mean to say you can mend that, Miss Steggles?’

  ‘Certainly I can – if you can let me have a piece of wire. Have you any fuse wire, five amp? If you haven’t, any thin little bit of wire will do, but the proper wire is better.’

  ‘My brother may have a bit in his tool-box; I’ll go and see,’ and Grantey hurried off, her suspicions lost in relief that Miss Hebe’s party was to go forward without mishap.

  Zita winked at Margaret, who smiled brilliantly. She was elated with triumph.

  ‘Zo! Zat is better, when you smile. Your face go alight,’ said Zita approvingly. ‘She is an old –’ She jerked her head after Grantey and giggled; then her face suddenly became funereal with remorse. ‘No, I do not say so. She iss kind. But she iss old too and she does not like der new peoples. I like you, Miss
Steggles.’

  ‘Thank you. I like you too,’ said Margaret, who in her present mood would have liked anyone.

  ‘Good. Den we are friends,’ announced Zita, putting out her hand while her eyes overflowed. Margaret took it and they exchanged a solemn clasp. ‘Oh, Miss Steggles – what iss your name?’ she demanded, interrupting herself.

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Zo. I shall call you Margaret. You will call me Zita?’

  ‘I’d love to, Zita.’

  ‘Margaret, I haf a many sadness. I tell you about it.’

  Margaret was so inexperienced as a confidante that no feeling of dismay overcame her on hearing this threat; indeed she hardly heard what Zita said, so overjoyed was she at the prospect of frequent visits to Westwood as Zita’s friend.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d love to help,’ she answered.

  ‘Und you shall tell me your sadnesses too,’ said Zita, gazing at her with a sentimental expression, ‘und sometimes we shall be happy und laugh much, no?’

  ‘Oh – yes – rather.’

  ‘Here’s the wire, Miss Steggles, and the screwdriver; I’m sure I don’t know if it’s what you want, but it’s all I can find,’ said Grantey, bustling up with her ill-humour apparently forgotten; and she and Zita watched curiously while Margaret loosened the screws and deftly inserted the wire (which fortunately was the correct sort), then re-tightened the screws and replaced the container.

  ‘There!’ she said, dusting her hands. ‘Pray heaven it’ll be all right. Zita, would you like to go and test it?’

  ‘How do you mean, Margaret?’

  ‘Switch the lights on in the hall and the drawing-room to see if they work.’

  ‘I am afraid,’ said Zita, violently shaking her head.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Sometimes zere is a blue light und he go bang!’

  ‘Oh, that’s when it blows out. I hope it won’t do that this time, but I’ll come with you if you like. Mrs Grant, will you stay here and watch to see if anything happens?’

  ‘How do you mean, Miss Steggles – happens?’

  ‘Blows out or makes a blue spark or anything. Come along, Zita,’ and she hurried down the passage with Zita after her.

  ‘Nice thing if I’m blown up, I must say, I’ve got cooking to do to-night,’ called Grantey after them.

  ‘She iss not cross any more,’ said Zita confidently.

  When they came out of the passage into the hall, twilight had fallen, and the rose and green carpet had almost lost its colour in the dimness; the long windows were dark blue, and at the further end of the hall glimmered the staircase, a broad weir of white marble with a balustrade of scrolled iron whose delicacy contrasted with the solid richness of the stone. Margaret stared at it, entranced, while Zita hurried to the electric switch.

  ‘Ah! Goot!’ she exclaimed, as the hall was suddenly filled with the subdued glow of concealed lighting, and all its colours were deep again and the windows became black.

  ‘Der drawing-room – der drawing-room!’ she cried, hurrying through an open door. Suddenly a huge chandelier sprang out of the dimness; all its myriad crystal pendants glittering with bluish rainbow fires.

  ‘Oh – beautiful!’ cried Margaret.

  ‘You sink so? Ach, zo do I! It is goot to see him shine again. We like der same sings, Margaret; we shall surely be friends.’

  The front door slammed, and both girls started as a tall figure strode forward into the hall.

  ‘Zita? What on earth are you doing? The blackout!’ exclaimed the gentleman who had entered, in annoyed authoritative tones, flinging his hat and brief-case on a chair and striding to the window. ‘I could see the light as I came down the hill,’ and he jerked the curtains across.

  Margaret had followed Zita to the other window and was ineffectually pulling at the draperies. Her heart was beating fast, for here was Gerard Challis himself!

  ‘I am zo sorry, Mr Challis,’ said Zita abjectly, turning away from the window, ‘we haf been mending der fuses, Cortway iss from home to-night and dey could not send a man from Hudson’s, und so Miss Steggles came und mended dem, und we were chust trying dem to zee if dey would work,’ and she drew Margaret forward.

  Mr Challis’s manner when he met a new young woman was of course different from his manner when he met a new young man. Now, despite his irritation, he drew himself up and turned upon Margaret, from his imposing height, his full grave regard. She looked up at him in awe, and as her gaze wandered for the first time over the faint lines and worn contours of that beautiful face, there came into her memory a phrase from some half-forgotten old novel – ‘the deep blue meditative eyes that were like the eyes of the Roman Augustus.’

  ‘Mr Challis, may I introduce to you Miss Margaret Steggles; she iss my friendt,’ said Zita.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Gerard Challis, and slowly, slightly bowed, while his eyes never left Margaret’s face.

  ‘How do you do?’ she murmured.

  ‘And so you have been mending fuses together?’ said Mr Challis, his interest a little aroused by her voice and the expression in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘Are you an electrician by profession, Miss Steggles?’ He allowed amusement to creep into his voice.

  Margaret could only smile and shake her head, but Zita laughed delightedly.

  ‘Mr Challis iss choking! No, no, but it iss Miss Steggles who bring back Mrs Niland’s ration book.’

  ‘Indeed. Then we have double cause to be grateful to her’ – and for the first time he smiled – ‘although I do not quite see the connection.’

  ‘We meet in der ironmonger.’

  Mr Challis nodded sympathetically, but Margaret was colouring, for she could see, which Zita could not, that he was amused.

  ‘It wasn’t anything; it was easy, really,’ she muttered.

  ‘You found it easy, no doubt. There are few things that your sex cannot achieve nowadays. I admire you but – shall I confess it? – I am also a little afraid of you. I know that I could not mend a fuse.’

  ‘You –’ Margaret began, then had not the courage to continue. She had been going to say that he could do so much more!

  At this moment a door opened, and Grantey appeared at the end of the hall. Zita turned at the sound and Grantey beckoned imperiously.

  ‘I must go, she want me,’ said Zita, and sighed. ‘Margaret, I ring you up on der telephone. What your number iss?’

  ‘Cranway 9696.’

  ‘Goot. Perhaps I ring you up to-night after der party?’

  ‘Oh, do!’ murmured Margaret, and Zita smilingly pressed her hand. Mr Challis was refastening his coat, which he had loosened, and turned away to take his hat from the chair where he had cast it down, while Margaret watched him in incredulous hope.

  ‘I will see Miss Steggles to the gate,’ he said, dismissing Zita with a smile. ‘It is not easy to avoid walking into the shrubbery in the darkness, especially if this is your first visit,’ to Margaret.

  ‘Sank you, sank you; it iss so kindt of you, Mr Challis; goot-bye, Margaret,’ and Zita hurried away.

  Margaret’s nervousness was as keen as her delight as they walked together across the great faded carpet to the door. As he opened it, he turned to her once more with his grave searching look, and she experienced a delicious tremor. He paused, and glanced leisurely back over the silent hall, where purple and red hyacinths were grouped upon a white metal stand and the sprays of yellow and bronze leaves displayed their symmetry against white marble.

  ‘There is a helpless quality, don’t you agree, about a room that is prepared for a party,’ he observed. ‘The silence and flowers are like victims, awaiting the noise of conversation and the cigarette-smoke and dissonant jar of conflicting personalities that shall presently destroy them.’

  Margaret had been thinking that the hall looked perfectly lovely and wishing with all her heart that she were going to the party too, but she hastily readjusted her point of view, and answered solemnly, ‘Yes, I know just what you mean.�
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  He said no more, but pushed the door open and put his hand lightly beneath her elbow as he guided her down the steps. It was not yet completely dark, and the air was scented with the cold bitter odour of laurels and other evergreen shrubs; Margaret could hear the rising wind rushing through their heavy leaves. The stars were shining. Mr Challis turned to the right, along the path which curved past the lawn and under a wall with an arched door of wrought-iron. Margaret could just discern a dusky garden beyond this door, sloping down to dark trees. She wished that she could think of something to say, and suddenly, yielding to the impulse in her heart, she exclaimed, ‘Please forgive me for saying it, but I do want you to know that this is the greatest moment of my life.’

  ‘Thank you, my child,’ replied Mr Challis, promptly and with grace, ‘I am really happy to know it, and you need not ask forgiveness for expressing any pleasure that my work may have given you.’

  ‘Oh, you have,’ she assured him incoherently as they reached the gate, standing still and looking up at him. ‘Ever since I was at school, I mean, I’ve always adored your plays; I think they’re absolutely wonderful, I mean. They’ve helped me such a lot, too, if you know what I mean –’

  ‘I hope I do. I think that I do,’ he answered. ‘Allow me –’ and he reached past her to open the gate; then stood still, with one slender gloved hand resting upon the wrought-iron, looking down with a faint smile into the eager face, just visible in the dusk, uplifted to his own.