Now that Lucy was actually in the presence of her audience, standing above them on the step, all trace of boredom vanished from her manner. She believed, as she had said, in doing things well if you did them at all; moreover, she was not insensible to the favour she was conferring, or to the dramatic quality of her own appearance, backed by the shining tree that cast an aureole of light round her fair head and sparkled on the diamonds at her breast. She paused for a moment, surveying the mob of children, while the last murmurs and shufflings quieted down; then she spoke. Her clear voice rang out, in the formula she had used for the past five-and-twenty years: “Well, children, I hope you have all had a nice tea?”
More murmurs; here and there one could distinguish a “Yes, thank you, your Grace.”
Lucy pursued, after rewarding them all with a bright smile, “And now I expect you all want your presents?”
Here Mrs. Wickenden came forward; she had been hovering in the background, waiting for Lucy to give this signal. The estate children’s treat was always a great day in Mrs. Wickenden’s calendar. She came forward now with a long list in her hand.
“Should I read out the names, your Grace?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Wickenden, would you?”
For five-and-twenty years the list had been read out by the housekeeper, whether Mrs. Wickenden or her predecessor, but that little ceremony was never omitted. Mrs. Wickenden would not have believed her ears had she heard Lucy say, “No, I’ll read it myself.” So now, clearing her throat and carefully settling her spectacles, she advanced to the edge of the step and began calling up the children one by one. They were listed in families, from the eldest to the youngest, and the families were arranged in strict order, the butler’s children coming first, then the head-carpenter’s, then the head-gardener’s, and so down to the children of the man who swept up the leaves in the park. Each child detached itself from the rows and came up to the step as its name was called out; the little boys wore thick suits of dark tweed, the little girls wore frocks of pink, mauve, blue, or green, voile. An elder sister sometimes had a younger brother by the hand. Lucy, stooping very graciously to bestow the present into eager hands, had a kind word for all. “Why, Doris, what a big girl you are growing! . . . Now, Jacky, if I give you this lovely knife, you must promise not to cut your mother’s furniture. . . . And so this is the new baby, Mrs. Hodder?”—Lucy was very quick at picking up the names—“let me see, how old is he now? seven months? only four months! well, he is a fine boy, you must be very proud of him, and here is a lovely rattle for him. He must wait a few years before he gets a knife, mustn’t he?”—this was a joke that, however often repeated, never failed to arouse laughter. Mrs. Wickenden stood by, beaming; yet she kept a sharp watch on the children’s manners:
“Say thank you to her Grace, Maggie; Bob, you’ve forgotten your salute; now touch your forehead nicely to her Grace,” and Lucy herself in the midst of her benevolence could preserve discipline too, saying, “Well, if you won’t say thank you for your knife, Jacky, I shall have to take it away from you.” Sebastian, listening, was slightly embarrassed to hear the children reproved in this way; he tried to tell himself that his mother and Mrs. Wickenden were probably quite right; his discomfort would have been lessened, however, had he been able to convince himself that his mother did not really enjoy doing it. He and Viola had their share in the ceremony; they presented an apple, an orange, and a cracker to each child after Lucy had given the toy. Here, again, Mrs. Wickenden supervised and intervened, taking the forgetful child by the shoulders and turning it round; “Look, Stanley, his Grace and Lady Viola have something for you, too.”
But every now and then there was no response to the name called out, and after a suitable hesitation there would come a murmur from amongst the mothers round the fire, and Mrs. Wickenden would say, “Not here?” and would turn with the explanation to Lucy, “Mumps, your Grace,” or else, “They live too far out, your Grace, to get here through the snow.”
Teresa was spellbound. She stood modestly to one side, fascinated by the lights, by the great hall, by the rows and rows of faces, by this list of names that never seemed to come to an end. She noticed, too, how many families there were of the same name, Hodders and Goddens and Bassetts and Reynolds. “Feudal!” she kept saying to herself; “really feudal!” It was a source of enormous satisfaction to her to be standing on the dais with Lucy, Sebastian and Viola; she felt privileged and elevated; though had she overheard the whispers round the fire her vainglory might have received a check. The mothers had been so anxious to know who the stranger was, for her Grace was not usually accompanied by a guest, and they had enquired of the Chevron housemaids, who stood amongst them in their quality of part-hostesses, dandling the babies in their arms. But the housemaids had sniffed. “A Mrs. Spedding,” they said; “wife of a doctor,” and poor Teresa had unwittingly provided a disappointment.
The last present had been given, the last apple, the last orange, and the last cracker: Lucy was preparing to make her little farewell speech. A threat of rowdiness had to be suppressed, for the impatient children had already begun to pull their crackers, hob-nailed boots clattered on the stone floor, and one or two of the little boys had loosed off a pistol with deafening caps; so “Hush, children!” cried Mrs. Wickenden, holding up her hand, and the noise subsided. “Well, children,” Lucy began again, “I hope you all like your presents, and now I hope you will all have a good game, and so I’ll say good-bye till next year. Good-bye, children, good night, good-bye to you all.”
Vigeon rose very stately in the body of the hall. “Three cheers for her Grace, children!” he cried. “Now lift the roof! Hip, hip . . .”
“Hooray!” they shouted, lifting the roof.
“And again for his Grace. Hip, hip . . .”
“Hooray!”
“And for Lady Viola. Hip, hip . . .”
Teresa blinked the tears back from her eyes.
How beautiful it was! How young, how handsome, how patrician were Viola and Sebastian! How the children must adore them!
“Hooray!”
Bang went a cracker. Lucy made her escape. Sebastian slipped round the tree to his sister. “Shall we stay and play games with them, Viola?”
“But what about Mrs. Spedding?”
“Oh, she can stay too.”
They all stayed. Vigeon had already wound up the gramophone, and its enormous trumpet brayed forth, but the children were in no mood to listen even to Dan Lena. They wanted to make as much noise as possible themselves. If they were to be controlled at all, regular games must be organised. Sebastian and Viola knew all about this, for they had always been allowed to stay behind with the children, and Sebastian indeed had always been puzzled as a little boy by “Nuts in May,” because, as he explained to his nurse, nuts grew in September, not in May.
The housemaids were admirable hostesses. They wore their best black dresses; enjoyed their role thoroughly; knew all the children by name; were inventive and competent; could produce enough chairs for “Musical Chairs,” or a clean handkerchief for “I wrote-a-letter-to-my-love,” or a thick honest scarf for “Blindman’s Buff”; in fact, anything that was wanted. Mr. Vigeon was a terrible Blindman. He had to be saved a dozen times from falling into the fire. He plunged about, his arms whirling, so that one scarcely dared to creep up and poke him in the back or tweak his coattails, he was so quick on his feet and could nip round so fast. He caught his Grace, who was too daring—he had always been too daring, even as a little boy—and everyone stood round breathlessly while he felt his Grace’s head and nose, and finally gave the pronouncement right. There were shrieks of laughter when his Grace blundered into the panelling and caught one of the heraldic leopards; felt its tail very carefully, right up to the tip; and then said, “Mrs. Wickenden.” Then they wanted to play “Hunt the Slipper,” but Mrs. Vigeon said it was too cold for the children to sit on the stone flo
or. So they played “Musical Chairs” instead, with Mr. Vigeon working the gramophone very ingeniously; his Grace and Mrs. Spedding were left in last, and had an exciting scramble over the last chair, which ended in their both sitting down on it together and trying to crowd each other off. By now everyone was in very high spirits, and even Mrs. Wickenden forgot to reprove the children for lacking in respect to his Grace. They played “Nuts in May,” swaying in two long lines up and down the hall after the invidious business of picking sides had been completed; Mr. Vigeon had picked one side and Mrs. Wickenden the other, as befitted their dignity. Mr. Vigeon had very gallantly picked Mrs. Spedding, and Mrs. Wickenden had retaliated by picking his Grace. So Teresa and Sebastian were ranged opposite to one another, each with their hands clasped by the hot little hands of two excited children. Teresa was conscious of a strange agitation, which in her innocence she ascribed to the general ferment of the evening; Sebastian, just as much troubled but less innocent, watched her closely; this intimacy with her, in the midst of their apparent frivolity, was of the very nature that whipped his taste. Ever since they fetched the shovels out of the bothy, ever since they made the snow-lady, he had been wooing Teresa, not very openly as yet, but still more openly than he had hitherto dared. Now he laughed at her gaily, as his enemy on the opposite side; she saw his laughing face across the gap that separated them. And, since such humours are contagious, the line of children and servants rocked backwards and forwards, taking Sebastian and Teresa as on a tide with them, and as they rocked they sang:
“Who will you have for nuts in May? nuts in May? nuts in May?”
“We’ll have Mrs. Spedding for nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May. We’ll have Mrs. Spedding for nuts in May, all on a frosty morning.”
“And who will you send to fetch her away? fetch her away? fetch her away?”
“We’ll send his Grace to fetch her away, fetch her away, fetch her away. We’ll send his Grace to fetch her away, all on a frosty morning.”
A handkerchief was laid down in the middle, and Sebastian and Teresa advanced amidst much laughter to pit their strength.
“It isn’t fair!” cried Teresa, resisting the many hands that pushed her forward.
“Nonsense,” said Sebastian firmly; “all’s fair . . .” and he looked at her, but did not complete the sentence.
They joined hands across the handkerchief; there was a brief struggle, and Sebastian pulled her easily over to his side. She came, panting, laughing, submissive; looking at her captor while everybody applauded. For the first time in their acquaintance she was frightened of him; for the first time in their acquaintance he was sure of her. Viola observed them; she sized up the situation; she felt sorry for Teresa, sorrier for John Spedding. But, of course, it was no good trying to interfere with Sebastian.
Sebastian himself was well aware of this. He had been circumspect, he had been forbearing, but now he was bent on hunting Teresa down, and nothing could stop him. He turned everything into a circumstance that drew her closer to him, and he did it with a certainty and a recklessness that swept her along with him on his crazy course. The control was entirely in his hands. All through the maze of children he seemed to be chasing her, so that she found him always behind her, or beside her, or facing her, where she least expected him, mocking her lightly, or alternating his gaiety with a smouldering look that disturbed her to some unexplored region of her soul. Everything piled up for Teresa: the new experience of Chevron, the lights of the Christmas tree, the shouting of the children, the fantasy, the improbability, the sense of this young man burning his way towards her, a remorseless young man who would spare her nothing—all this turned Sebastian from the most unhoped toy that she had ever had into an urgent but still undefinable terror. He saw the fright in her eyes, and, skilled in reading the signs, exulted. How ludicrously he was misled, he had yet to learn.
Meanwhile they played. They played the childish games, with the adult game lying behind them. They played “Oranges and Lemons,” with Sebastian and Viola making the arch; they let a dozen children pass, but snatched Teresa, as she tried to slip past them, and for the first time Sebastian felt Teresa’s small body imprisoned in his arms. He could feel her heart beating against his ribs. She, for her part, clipped between brother and sister, turned laughing and dizzy in her imprisonment from one to the other, seeing Viola’s grave brows bent inquiringly towards her, and Sebastian’s eyes dark with a question that exacted an answer. “Oranges?” said Sebastian. “Lemons?” said Viola, and Teresa knew that she must take her place in the string of children behind one or the other. “Lemons,” she said, casting Viola a glance that was an appeal. It was as though she had said, “Save me from him!” divining that in this cold, secretive girl she might hope for some masonic, feminine support; but at the same time the oranges that Sebastian offered her seemed luscious and warm, opposed to the sour lemons of Viola’s following. The very colour of the fruits, which in her sensitive state she visualised, seemed symbolic: the reddish fire of the orange, the unripe yellow of the lemon. Yet “Lemons!” she said, and took her place behind Viola, in a gesture that repudiated all that Sebastian had to offer.
Still he would not let her go, for her defiance had only served to stimulate him; he persecuted her, softly, stealthily, even when the Christmas tree caught fire and the hall was suddenly filled with the acrid scent of burning fir. One of the candles had burnt out, and the little candle-clip had tipped over; the hall-boy, who had been left in charge with a damp sponge on the end of a pole, had been tempted by the games to desert his post, thinking that no one would notice—he was only fourteen, so there was some excuse for him—a flare resulted; everyone rushed to help; fire buckets were brought and the water flung sizzling over the conflagration; this happened nearly every year, but still for some reason Vigeon’s theory of discipline refused to accept the fact that a hall-boy aged fourteen was not a suitable person to be left in charge of a Christmas tree whilst other fun was in progress. No harm was done, only a little excitement added to the general excitement; and Sebastian’s hand had caught Teresa’s wrist and had pulled it away from a blazing patch of cotton-wool. No further harm. But somehow the incident broke up the games. The guilty hall-boy ran off to lay the table for the servants’ hall supper; a baby by the fire woke up and began to squall; Mrs. Wickenden realised that she was tired; mothers remembered that they were faced with a long trudge home through the snow; a sudden weariness descended upon the children; the housemaids bethought themselves of the hot water cans they must fill; it occurred to Sebastian that it was time to dress for dinner; and Vigeon finally put an end to the jollity by calling upon everybody to sing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Sebastian stood on the step between Viola and Teresa while they sang it. He did not enjoy it as his mother would have enjoyed it, but he endured it as inevitable. Teresa was again compelled to blink the tears back from her eyes.
“Mrs. Spedding, do come and talk to me. You don’t play Bridge, neither do I—at least, not when I can do anything better. Let’s go and wander through the house. We’ll take a candle. Look—they’re all settled down. No one will notice. Let’s creep away. Shall you be cold?” Impetuous, he caught up a cloak thrown down on the back of a sofa.
“But that is your mother’s cloak.”
“Never mind.” He put it round her shoulders. It was of gold tissue lined with sable. Teresa’s feminine eye had appraised it already, earlier in the evening. The soft fur caressed her bare shoulders. It seemed fitting that Sebastian should swathe her in such a garment; but still she cast a glance at John, conscientiously sorting the cards in his hand. John had let drop a hint to her that he was a little alarmed by the high stakes they played for. He hoped that he would not lose more than he could afford. Poor John, who had given her fifty pounds to spend on clothes, in anticipation of this party! Poor John. But the sable was warm and soft to her bare skin; she had never felt just such a caress before; Sebastian opened the
door for her, and she passed through it into the dark galleries, hoping that the other women had seen them go, hoping that John had not looked up.
Sebastian carried a three-branched candlestick in his hand; it lit up his face, but left the rooms in shadow. He proved to be in a mellow mood, neither sarcastic, nor excited, nor scoffing; but dreamy, as though he had plenty of time before him, and were disposed to betray something of himself as he had never done to Teresa before. They sauntered down the long gallery, talking softly, and every now and then Sebastian would pause before a picture, and, holding up the candlestick, would make some comment or recount some anecdote, while the three little spears of light flickered over the stomacher of a lady or the beard of a king. Then the gilding of the frame came to life, and the face looked gravely down at them, until, moving on, they left the portrait to re-enter the darkness, and woke some other image out of its painted sleep. There was now no friction between them, as there had been in the morning, when Sebastian was irritable and Teresa cautious. They talked naturally but softly, lowering their voices almost to a murmur out of respect for the hushed and sleeping rooms, where the moonlight spread in chequered lakes across the boards and the muting hand of the centuries seemed to have laid itself gently over the clamour of life. They breathed the air of a world that was completely withdrawn from reality—a world of which Sebastian was a natural inhabitant and to which he had admitted Teresa as by the unlocking of a door. She felt that with a princely generosity he had now shown her all his jewels. He had shown her his friends—and, though Sebastian might not value his friends, Teresa valued them extremely—he had shown her his boyishness and simplicity; now by leading her into this enchantment he had revealed another aspect of himself, the most secret, the most romantic of all. For it goes without saying that Sebastian was the essence of romance in Teresa’s eyes. Whether he came to tea with her in the Cromwell Road out of the mysterious background of his London life, or sat at the head of his table half-hidden by the plate and the orchids, or laughed as he tossed the snow, or murmured in the moonlit rooms, it appeared to her in turn that he could play no other part. And now, seeing him in the crowning magic of the moon and the ancient rooms, she thought that she at last saw him in the round. She could put all the pieces together; he was, triumphantly, a unity. Out of the jumble of her impressions emerged a perfectly clear figure. She had her moment of revelation; she experienced the ecstatic shock of truly apprehending a work of art.
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