‘Well now,’ said Lord Bond, as the gentlemen came in from the dining-room where, owing to the blessed absence of the ladies, they had all got on very well, ‘what about our little concert? Let’s go into the next room.’
He led the way to the drawing-room at whose grace and beauty in the level sunset light Denis marvelled anew.
‘You see I’ve had the bronzes moved,’ Lord Bond said proudly as he went up to the piano. ‘Oh dear! Spencer has forgotten the key. Stonor, would you mind ringing. Or no, I’ll ring myself.’
With a feeling that he could not assert himself too strongly Lord Bond went over to the fireplace and pulled one of the bell ropes that were part of the original decoration. While the vibration travelled over several hundred yards of bell wire to ring one of the seventy-two bells in the basement and summon a footman to tell Spencer that it was the drawing-room, Lord Bond fussed uneasily over his guests, pressing various chairs, ottomans and sofas upon their notice.
‘Did you ring, my lord?’ asked Spencer, standing majestically in the doorway.
‘The piano key,’ snapped his lordship. ‘I told you this morning I wanted it.’
‘I am sorry, my lord,’ said Spencer, which convinced nobody and was not meant to. ‘I did not understand that it was for this evening that your lordship was requiring it. It is in its usual place of safety in My Pantry. Shall I get it, my lord?’
Lord Bond angrily assented and Spencer presently came back with the key. Walking, as Denis subsequently averred, straight through his employer, he unlocked the piano, raised the lid from the keyboard and made as though to retire.
‘You can leave the key,’ said Lord Bond, staking all on one throw.
‘I understood that the key was to be in My Charge, my lord,’ said Spencer.
The whole room was mute in admiration of the battle now joined.
‘Hi!’ said Daphne. ‘You’d better let me have the key, Spencer. I’ll want to lock up when we’ve finished.’
It was part of Spencer’s code that though employers could hardly be in the right, it was almost impossible for guests to be in the wrong. He therefore handed the key to Daphne, for whom he had acquired an unwilling admiration, and withdrew.
‘Good girl!’ said Lord Bond, patting Daphne on the arm. ‘Now, Stonor, we are all ready. I am really looking forward to this little treat. What shall we have first?’
‘Anything you like, sir,’ said Denis.
‘Let’s have a good chorus to start with then,’ said his lordship, pulling a chair close up to the piano the better to enjoy himself.
‘There’s a very nice tune in the Gondoliers. Something about a fandango – you’ll know what I mean.’
Denis, exchanging a satisfied glance with Daphne, began to play. Lord Bond, his eyes closed in ecstasy, conducted with a paper-knife, tapped the measure with his feet on the floor, and sang all the words he could remember in a tuneless baritone, assisted by Daphne who had a pleasant voice and no illusions about it and sang soprano, alto, tenor or bass or all four with equal abandon. The years fell from Lord Bond as he demanded tune after tune, and when Daphne sang ‘Poor Wondering One’ tears stood in his eyes. Apart from an occasional brief pause while Lord Bond spoke of the glories of the Savoy in his young days, the concert went on without interruption till nearly eleven, when Lord Bond suddenly remembered that he had been neglecting Mrs Stonor for more than an hour and a half.
‘Bless my soul!’ he exclaimed as he looked at his watch. ‘What will your stepmother think of me. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening so much. Made me feel quite young again. You must come again, Denis, and you too, Miss Stonor.’
‘I wish you’d say Daphne,’ said that young lady. ‘I never know who people mean when they say Miss Stonor.’
‘Daphne is a very pretty name and couldn’t suit you better,’ said Lord Bond. ‘Now I must really go and talk to Mrs Stonor. Nicest evening I’ve had for a long time.’
‘I suppose I’d better lock the piano again,’ said Daphne. ‘Suppose I put the key in the drawer of that writing-table, Lord Bond. Isn’t that where it ought to be?’
‘It really ought,’ said Lord Bond, ‘but Spencer won’t leave it there.’
‘All right,’ said Daphne. ‘I’ll lock the drawer. You keep the key of the drawer and then you can get the piano key whenever you like. Tell Spencer I’ve got it if he gets fresh.’
With profound admiration for Daphne’s courage and strategy Lord Bond pocketed the key of the bureau and went over to Mrs Stonor, with many apologies.
‘But I liked the music,’ said Mrs Stonor. ‘It always seems so peculiar to have musical children, though of course people don’t call Gilbert and Sullivan music nowadays, because I’m not in the least musical myself, but of course being only my stepchildren does make a difference. And I had a talk with your son, Lord Bond. How nice he is. He told me a lot about himself.’
Lord Bond, gratified, said that C.W. was a good boy, and observed with pleasure that his son was approaching Daphne, doubtless to compliment her on her performance. He then fell into chat with Mrs Stonor.
Young Mr Bond, accompanied by Mr Cameron, came up to Denis and Daphne.
‘I say, Daphne, I did like your singing,’ said young Mr Bond. ‘I don’t like Gilbert and Sullivan as a rule, but you made it sound quite different.’
Daphne said in an unpleasant voice that she adored Gilbert and Sullivan more than anything in the world and if she made it sound different she must have been singing very badly. She then begged Mr Cameron to tell her all about the pictures in the room, because he was an architect and they always knew.
Mr Cameron felt far from comfortable at being asked to do cicerone in front of the son of the house and was just beginning to say that pictures weren’t exactly his line and here was Mr Bond who would know all about them, when Daphne, taking his arm in a flattering way, walked him off with determination to the other end of the room where a large painting of the Campagna, entirely in tones of brown varnish and attributed on no particular grounds to Wilson, claimed her attention.
Young Mr Bond looked so stunned that Denis felt very sorry for him. What exactly was happening he did not yet know, but Daphne had been surprisingly rude to one of her hosts, with no visible grounds, and Denis felt he ought to make up for it. So he offered young Mr Bond a cigarette.
‘It’s a bit stuffy in here,’ said young Mr Bond. ‘Suppose we go outside.’
Accordingly the two young men slipped out of the drawing-room and went into the garden. In the deepening light of late evening Ed could be seen, his head in the bonnet of the car.
‘Hullo, Ed, anything wrong?’ asked young Mr Bond.
Ed said he was only waiting to take Them, by which and a jerk of his thumb he indicated Lord Bond’s guests, back to Laverings, and the engine was running that sweet it was a treat to look at her.
‘What about that song of old Margett’s, Ed?’ said Denis, sitting on a stone balustrade. ‘Do you know anything of old Margett, Cedric? He seems to have a song that is his peculiar property and I rather wanted to find if it is worth collecting. Ed says he knows it and I want him to sing it.’
Young Mr Bond said that Margett had a wonderful memory for old country songs, mostly quite unprintable, but he thought they had all been collected by a society with a gramophone and put into a collection with slightly chastened words.
‘Old Mr Margett he didn’t sing her to no gramophone,’ said Ed firmly.
‘Then it’s probably even less printable than the rest and that’s saying a good deal,’ said young Mr Bond. ‘I heard some of them at the Fleece and I can assure you that I didn’t know which way to look, though it’s just possible that old Margett exaggerated a bit that evening because the curate was there exuding fellowship. Let’s have it, Ed.’
Ed grinned sheepishly.
‘Come on, Ed,’ said Denis. ‘Remember you get my mouth organ if you sing me that song. What’s it called?’
‘Old Mr Margett, he calls her �
�The Old Man’s Darling”,’ said Ed.
‘Good God!’ said Denis. ‘We have probably struck the juiciest folk song on the market. Fire away, Ed.’
Ed twisted his body about and said his mother didn’t like him singing it.
‘I expect you are right then,’ said young Mr Bond to Denis. ‘Mrs Pollett isn’t at all particular. That’s why Ed is a bit queer. They say it was one of Lord Pomfret’s under keepers who had to be discharged for selling pheasants, but no one ever knew. If she objects to the song I’d very much like to hear it. Come on, Ed.’
After a little more persuasion Ed with an expressionless face suddenly uplifted a tuneful tenor into the following refrain, in rollicking waltz time:
‘She was a dear little pussycat, pussycat,
Soft little velvet paws,
But now all my money is gone, little kittycat
Shows me that kitties have claws.’
On hearing this interesting fragment Ed’s auditors were struck dumb and then laughed so much that they couldn’t stop. Young Mr Bond was the first to recover himself.
‘Good eighteen-ninety vintage, I should say,’ he remarked to Denis.
‘I would even put it a little earlier,’ said Denis as seriously as he could. ‘It has to me the definite ring of the Lion Comique, which would place it a little further back.’
‘Don’t you like her?’ said Ed, puzzled.
‘We like her very, very much,’ said Denis.
‘Thanks, Ed,’ said young Mr Bond. ‘She’s a winner.’
‘When I had my mouth organ,’ said Ed mournfully, ‘I did used to play a bit of a worlse like at the end.’
‘Well, if you are driving us back I’ll give you the mouth organ to-night,’ said Denis, ‘and you can play waltzes all over the place.’
Ed grinned seraphically and returned to his loving inspection of the car. The two young men went back towards the house.
‘I don’t know what has come over Daphne,’ said Denis. ‘But one often feels a bit queer and excited after doing music.’
‘I expect I was butting in at the wrong moment,’ said young Mr Bond. ‘I ought to be getting back to town. Look here, Denis, will you tell father I had to hurry, and say good night to Mrs Stonor for me. I’ll be down again sometime soon.’
So saying he got into his car and drove away.
Denis went back to the drawing-room and gave the messages. Lord Bond and Mrs Stonor were sorry not to have said good-bye and continued their conversation which was about Miss Starter’s family and very dull. Denis thought that Daphne must be tired by all her singing, for the life had suddenly gone out of her and she returned stupid answers to Mr Cameron’s remarks. Very soon Mrs Stonor said they must go. Lord Bond saw them to the car, repeating that he hadn’t had such a nice concert for years.
‘You must come again, you and your sister, Denis,’ he said as they went down the steps. ‘I do like to hear a girl sing without any fuss. When that niece of Palmer’s comes down to Worsted we must have her over. You’d like her, Daphne. You’d get on very well.’
As they drove away Daphne surprised her family and Mr Cameron by bursting into loud unrefined sobs and saying she hated Staple Park and never wanted to go there again. Her stepmother, who had been anxiously observing her all the evening and had heard her being rude to young Mr Bond about Gilbert and Sullivan, saw that the trouble she anticipated was coming upon them. What to do about it she couldn’t yet say, so she applied herself to comforting Daphne, ably seconded by Denis who was also beginning to guess the reason of his sister’s peculiar behaviour. She had behaved very badly to Cedric, but she was his own Daphne and he was going to take her side whatever she did.
As for Mr Cameron he was disappointed that the evening, so pleasantly begun, was for no visible reason ending in disaster. Daphne’s tears moved him deeply, yet he felt at the same time that her abandon was perhaps excessive and admired her stepmother’s calm handling of the situation. At the gate of the White House he took leave of the Stonors.
‘I do hope Daphne will be all right to-morrow,’ he said to Mrs Stonor. ‘I expect so much music was too much for her. She is rather sensitive.’
‘I shall put her to bed at once and she will be quite all right to-morrow,’ said Mrs Stonor.
‘One couldn’t help being all right with you,’ said Mr Cameron, and went into the Laverings gate. As he undressed he suddenly thought that Mrs Stonor had looked tired. However he had settled it in his mind that it was Daphne who was sensitive, so he dismissed the thought, which then kept him company until he went to sleep.
Denis found the mouth organ and gave it to Ed with a parting injunction not to play any waltzes till he was safely in the garage. Ed smiled mysteriously, mumbled a few words of heartfelt thanks and drove the car back to Staple Park, hardly using his right hand at all.
9
Mr Cameron is Warned
Next day Daphne had quite recovered and no allusion was made to her outburst. Mr Cameron went to Oxbridge about the new college and was to be away for ten days or so. Lady Bond came back at the end of the week and as she was not particularly interested in her husband’s doings she did not enquire closely how he had spent his time, and the dinner party remained a secret from her. Not that Lord Bond would have denied it, but in his opinion when Lucasta was quiet it was as well to let sleeping dogs lie. Then Miss Starter came back for the rest of her visit with a new diet which she had collected at Tunbridge Wells and there was the usual excitement about the Skeynes Agricultural Show on Bank Holiday, for which Lord Bond was entering some livestock, and Lady Bond was full of fresh plans about a public meeting to save Pooker’s Piece, and the wheels of life went on.
Denis went up to town several times about his ballet. His stepmother thought London in the heat a bad plan, but as he came back none the worse and indeed in very good spirits except for the permanent difficulty of getting any backers for the company, she stopped worrying. Daphne was over at Staple Park every day, so Mrs Stonor spent a good deal of time with her sister-in-law.
The friendship, the growing intimacy between Mrs Middleton and Mrs Stonor, was of a very gentlemanly kind. Each had an immense respect for the other, unexpressed; each deliberately refrained from looking closely into the life of the other. Mrs Middleton’s silences, Mrs Stonor’s vague talk, were in their essence the same, a screen for personal feelings, a shrinking from any betrayal of deep emotion. Mr Middleton, with one of his occasional alarming flashes of insight, said he did not know which was the more significant in moments of stress, Catherine’s agony of silence or Lilian’s agony of speech.
Mrs Middleton, who rarely made intimate friends, was finding in Mrs Stonor what she had always hoped to find, an intimacy untouched by sentiment. She knew that whatever she did she would find Lilian exactly the same, anxious and changing on the surface, absolutely dependable in herself. Apart from their affection from different angles for Mr Middleton, neither woman with many illusions about her husband or brother, each ready to protect him, they had a further bond in their affection, again of quite different degrees, for Alister Cameron and Denis. But each of them saw something the other couldn’t or wouldn’t see and each had a hidden anxiety for her friend.
If Mrs Middleton had been asked by the right person what she felt about Alister Cameron she would probably have said without any particular emphasis that she was devoted to him, or that she loved him, which would have been true enough. His association with her husband, their constant meetings, a silence of nature that agreed with hers, a tacit understanding that Mr Middleton must have life made smooth for him, had created a very strong bond. She and Alister were perfectly at their ease with one another, often met, often corresponded, trusted each other and would have felt very deeply any crack in their friendship. She had grown so used to his companionship, together or apart, that it would be impossible for her not to feel an emptiness when another door opened and he went forward without her. She had long ago made up her mind to have no sentimentalizing when t
hat moment came, but now the moment seemed to be near she found it difficult to be entirely happy. That Alister should care for Daphne did not pain her at all; that was natural, perhaps inevitable. But if Alister were going to break his late flowering affection against Daphne’s young indifference, that would be hard to watch. And she wondered, never even putting her wonder consciously into words, whether Alister were not overlooking his true happiness in his pursuit. But of this she could not speak to Lilian, nor indeed to anyone else. To Denis, who was so genuinely devoted to his stepmother, she might have spoken, but the oftener Denis came to Laverings the less there was to say. Denis would play to her and there had been long peaceful silences; at least she supposed he had found them peaceful, for if he wasn’t playing he would sit quietly in the sun, looking better every day. She found them peaceful, as she thought, but there was a disconcerting quality in them as well. Sometimes she raised her eyes from a book or some work and looked at Denis; sometimes as she read and sewed she was conscious that he had looked at her. But the occasions when their eyes met were rare. A sudden, answering look, gone before she was fully aware of it.
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