“It’s awfully nice that David is coming to-morrow,” said Sylvia. “He said he’d show me the inside of the Temple, where he and Lady Graham used to play when they were small.
If so wicked a passion as jealousy could have lodged in Anne’s very kind heart, now was the moment. But being a humble creature, who realised her friend’s beauty and her forthcomingness, she only said how nice that would be and tried hard to feel it. Lines from her favourite poet, Lord Tennyson, floated into her mind. “We were two sisters of one race, She was the fairer in the face,” she said aloud to herself, if we make ourselves clear. Not that she and Sylvia were sisters or in any way connected, but it somehow seemed fitting. And if David did fall in love with Sylvia and Sylvia died, it would be rather nice to marry David and then stab him three times through and through, though she did not propose to go so far as to wrap him in his winding-sheet and lay him at Lady Emily’s feet. But some kind of revenge on one who was base enough to be nice to Sylvia and herself while toying with the horrible Rose Bingham, was clearly indicated. If only Robin were there, he would understand.
Through the dusk Mrs. Siddon approached.
“I am very sorry to inconvenience you, Miss Halliday,” she said, “but that stupid girl Diana dropped a pot of tea just freshly made on her foot, and she’s screaming the kitchen down. I’ve done what I could, miss, and rung up the doctor, but he’s out. Could you kindly come and have a look? I’ve got Miss Emmy’s first-aid cupboard in my room.”
Sylvia rose with joyful alacrity and went hurriedly into the house with Mrs. Siddon. Anne was left alone on the terrace in the gathering dusk, her legs severely assailed by midges, her mind assailed with almost equal gravity by sad reflections on her complete uselessness. A cow broke a fence and got into the kitchen garden; Martin was fetched. A hen was mangled by a large stone falling on it; Emmy was sent for. A servant dropped a teapot on her foot; Sylvia was summoned. Looking at things dispassionately, Anne could not imagine a single thing in which she would be of any use. If Robin were there she could put this distressing moral problem before him and he would understand, sympathise and comfort. But Robin was not there. She was also alone with several millions of midges. So far they had only attacked her legs, but she feared that if she lingered outside they might attack her face and make her all blotchy next day, so she went disconsolately into the morning room and sat down in a large chair, not daring to turn on a light and read, for the curtains were not drawn and midges would come rushing in to the light, and she was afraid of offending Bertha if she drew the curtains herself.
Eternity passed. When it had been going on for about ten minutes, Martin came into the room, turned on the lights, and seeing Anne, naturally asked why she was sitting in the dark. Anne said she was afraid the midges would come in. Martin laughed, quite kindly, drew the heavy curtains and sat down.
“Did you catch the cow?” said Anne.
“Oh, we got her almost at once,” said Martin, “and before she’d done too much damage. But I had to go over to Hacker’s Corner. There’s an old man there who is dying, at least he has been dying to my certain knowledge for fifteen months, but he doesn’t seem to get on with the job. And whenever he feels a bit dull he sends for me to receive his last breath. He was head cowman here in my grandfather’s time and one has to do something about it, but he is a plaguey nuisance. And what’s more, he doesn’t even know who I am. He always calls me Master Henry because that’s what the men used to call my grandfather while his father was still alive. Well, well. Where’s everybody and why are you alone?”
Anne explained that Emmy had been sent for to kill a maimed hen and how Siddon had fetched Sylvia to attend to the kitchen maid’s foot.
“Kitchenmaids aren’t usually called Diana, are they?” said Anne. “Is it one of your family’s name?”
“Oh, that girl. It isn’t Diana, it’s Deanna—after the film star. Well, Sylvia, how is your patient?”
Sylvia, who had come in while he was speaking, said the burn wasn’t bad and the girl ought to be quite fit for work in a day or two and could get about on Sunday if she rested her foot as much as possible. She then sat down and began to look at Country Life. Martin at the same moment took up the Times, which he had not yet had time to look at, and a thought flashed into Anne’s mind of how like a married couple they were; like mummy and daddy at home, reading or writing quietly, in the enjoyment of one another’s company. But this domestic scene did not last long, for Emmy came clumping in to announce that she had wrung the hen’s neck, plucked her and hung her up by the legs, and there was no reason why her owners shouldn’t eat her, though she would take a lot of boiling.
“Isn’t it very difficult to pluck a hen?” Anne asked.
Emmy, picking up a library book, said not if you did it while they were warm. If you left it till they were cold the best way was to plunge them into boiling water and the feathers came off like onion skins. She then enquired briefly about the cow, said Deanna was a fool and wouldn’t wear her glasses and she would speak to her, and relapsed into desultory reading. But she yawned so much and so uncontrollably that her cousin Martin sent her to bed, which seemed to Sylvia and Anne a good moment to go to bed themselves.
“I’ll lock up. Good-night,” said Martin to the three girls.
“Aren’t you coming up?” said Emmy between her yawns.
Martin said not yet. The cow and old Herdman had taken too much of his time and he must do some work in the Estate Office, as Sunday would be a busy day.
“Wake me if the Jersey calves,” said Emmy, from the depths of a final, jaw-rending yawn.
“She won’t,” said Martin. “Get along to bed.”
Sylvia was soon asleep. Anne, next door, lay awake for some time, considering the peace and quiet of country life. To her town-bred mind it was almost terrifying. Beauty, trees, water, hills, sun, scents, all conspired to make a haunt of ancient peace. Then parish meetings, cows, hens, kitchenmaids, old men at Hacker’s Corner, all came tumbling in with ceaseless demands on the judgment, skill, patience, time of the landowners, upon whom every person and every animal and every piece of work on the place seemed to depend. How far more peaceful was life in the Close, even if one’s parents were very busy people. How much more peaceful was life at Southbridge School, where everything had its appointed hour. It was all very interesting, very difficult to understand, and she thought gratefully that to-morrow she would be able to talk to Robin about it. And to-morrow David would come. And on David’s name she slid into oblivion.
CHAPTER 8
THE Jersey did not calve that night. So all the people who had said they knew she was going to calve said they had really known all along that she wouldn’t; which all came to much the same thing. Deanna’s foot was doing nicely and she sat at the back door with her bandaged leg on a stool and shelled peas and beans and washed the new potatoes and did a great many other odd jobs for cook, who was her aunt and stood no nonsense. Word came up from the village via the cowman’s lad that a new broody had been found to replace yesterday’s victim. Word came over from Hacker’s Corner to say that old Cruncher had drunk a quart of cider at eleven o’clock last night and said he’d cheat the sexton yet. No one was permanently disfigured by midges. Emmy went to early service and ate a very large breakfast afterwards to prepare herself for all emergencies. Martin, Sylvia and Anne went in a more trustful spirit to the eleven o’clock service, visited Mr. Leslie’s grave and Miss Bunting’s memorial tablet, and took the vicar to see Rushwater Romany, who was looking over the half-door of his house and wondering how a ring had got into his nose, and deciding that it was on the whole a mark of glory, given to him as tribute by his subjects, Martin and the cowman, and denied to the cows, who were only women.
The vicar, who though unused to cattle was almost too eager to learn, put out his hand to pat Rushwater Romany’s forehead, but the bull tossed his head and then puffed violently through his nostrils, which made the vicar withdraw his intended caress. Martin and S
ylvia, who were tolerant of human frailty, thought the vicar had had enough for the present, but Emmy, who had no use for shirkers, insisted on taking him round the cowsheds, so the others went onto the terrace to wait for the party from Holdings.
At about ten minutes to one a car was seen coming through the park. It drew up near the house and Lady Graham got out, followed by Clarissa. Then came David. He did not at once come to greet his relations, for he was helping a female figure to alight from the car; a figure who, Anne knew, must be the horrible Rose Bingham; a figure from whom she would have liked to avert her eyes in scorn, but whom curiosity compelled her to consider with breathless interest and anxiety. Another young man, whom Anne could not quite see, followed them.
“Darling Martin, how lovely this is,” said Lady Graham. “And Sylvia and Anne, how lovely to see you both. Mother didn’t come, Martin. She was a little tired, so I left her with Merry and brought Clarissa instead. And now I am longing to hear all about what you have been doing. And where is Emmy?”
Emmy then came round the corner of the house leading the vicar rather as if he were a bull who had only got a second prize, and seeing her mother, flung herself violently upon her.
“Darling Emmy,” said Lady Graham, melting in the most loving way from her stalwart daughter’s embrace. “And the vicar, too. I was so dreadfully sorry not to be able to come to your service, Mr. Bostock, but I simply have to go to the service at Hatch End or our vicar would be quite annoyed. Martin must tell me all about it. Was it a lovely sermon, Martin? I am sure it was.”
The vicar, who had not been long at Rushwater and was not yet used to Lady Graham’s incursions into religious matters and life in general, stammered dreadfully in his efforts to explain that one could but do one’s best, but was too often but too sadly conscious that one was not giving of one’s best; and then became so depressed about the way the words ‘too’ and ‘but’ and ‘best’ seemed to have got the better of him, that he became quite unintelligible and knew that Lady Graham would despise him for ever.
Meanwhile the three other occupants of the car were slowly approaching and Sylvia with a yelp of pleasure recognised in the unknown young man her brother George.
“Hullo, George, I didn’t know you were coming,” she said.
“I wasn’t,” said George, “But I had to go to church with the parents and Lady Graham was there and she said would I like to come over with her and see you, so I said of course I would. It’s just like her to think of a thing like that. Who’s that she’s talking to?”
This remark, accompanied by a baleful glance at the vicar, showed Sylvia that her brother was still romantically devoted to Lady Graham, so to make things easier she said it was no one; only the vicar, she added.
“What’s his name?” said George, adding in a grudging way, “I suppose I’ll have to call him something.”
“George,” said Lady Graham, “this is our vicar who gives us such wonderful services at Rushwater. And this is George,” she added, turning to Mr. Bostock, “who was so kind and came with us because darling mother was so tired and we had a spare seat in the car because Clarissa doesn’t take up much room. You must know George’s people at Hatch House.”
Having performed which highly inadequate introduction, she left them to dislike each other as much as one can dislike a man whose name one doesn’t know and who is obviously on more friendly terms with a goddess than oneself. And now David was at Anne’s side, saying, “Anne, you must know Rose. She is dying to meet you.”
Flight was useless. Anne was not without courage. She held out her hand to the horrible Rose Bingham and said how do you do. She could not look her in the eyes, for Rose was tall, just the right height for David, Anne thought bitterly. She was elegant, her dark sleek hair was perfectly arranged, her eyebrows had a perfect arch, her dark eyes were luminous, her nose what one could only call, even if it sounded like a bad novel, aristocratic, her mouth an exquisite shape, her camellia complexion ravishing. Her figure was perfect, her stockings silk, her shoes just right. And just right were the linen coat and skirt she wore, the thin woollen lace jumper, the single string of pearls, the diamond clip. Anne suddenly felt like a cottage child and despair descended upon her soul, making her colour very prettily.
Rose extended a hand of exquisite softness with polished nails of a discreet pink suitable for a day in the country and said in a slightly husky voice which Anne, against her own will, could not but find very attractive, “How do you do. You are Anne Fielding, aren’t you? David is mad about you. We must have a long talk about him.”
“Oh—thank you,” said Anne.
The whole universe was whirling about her. She had liked the feeling of Rose’s hand; it felt strong and safe. She liked her voice, she admired her face, her figure, her clothes, everything about her. She felt that she was friendly, that this was a prelude to a new kind of grown-up-ness; that a talk from which David was to be excluded would be the most grown-up thing that had ever happened to her.
“How old are you?” said Rose.
Anne said nineteen.
“I wish I had looked as nice as you do when I was nineteen,” said the horrible Rose Bingham. “David, do you remember how awful I looked at Martin’s seventeener? Mother would make Hermione and me have our frocks from that awful Madame Tessé and we looked like plum-puddings. Martin dear, how nice to see you and Emmy again.”
Martin introduced Sylvia.
“I want to have a talk with you about Eve Philpott,” said Rose. “She was in the W.A.A.F.s with you, wasn’t she? I hate that woman like hell. And talking of hell, what is the vicar’s name? He’s new here and I never can remember it.”
Sylvia said it was Bostock.
“It couldn’t be anything else,” said Rose, lighting a cigarette with the most elegant and expensive lighter Anne had ever seen. “And George is your brother, isn’t he? He is frightfully in love with Agnes. They all are. We must have a terrific talk about Philpott after lunch.”
The gong, once the favourite instrument of the old butler Gudgeon, but now only used on ceremonial occasions, sounded from the hall and the whole party went in to lunch. Emmy had wanted to arrange the seating, but when Martin had pointed out that her mother, who was in many ways increasingly like Lady Emily, would insist on re-arranging it to suit her own taste, Emmy had recognised the justice of his criticism and given up her plan. The result was a huddle of guests near the door who showed considerable reluctance to choose seats for themselves; all but Lady Graham, who having seated herself said she must having darling Emmy on one side of her because she never saw her now and the vicar on the other, at which Mr. Bostock, giving George what that young officer thought to be a look of malicious triumph though it was really only short-sightedness, said that miracles did happen even nowadays. George said it depended on what you called miracles, but as he didn’t really know what he was saying himself, it was just as well that the discussion could not continue, and he sat down in a determined way next to Emmy, where he was only removed one place from the adored being and could show contempt for Mr. Bostock across the table. Rose and Clarissa, lovingly arm-in-arm, came next to George; Martin sat between Clarissa and Sylvia, then came David, while Anne with mingled feelings found herself between David and the vicar.
“And now, Mr. Bostock,” said Lady Graham, “we must have a delightful talk about the vicarage. My mother will be so interested to hear about it.”
The vicar, who had found the vicarage useful to live in but had not otherwise much considered it, said it was very nice.
“That is so like you,” said Lady Graham, turning her lovely eyes full on the vicar without really meaning anything at all, for as she hardly knew him she could hardly be expected to know what was like him. “I expect you always think of other people.”
The vicar would have liked to say, “I always think of you,” but as he had only met her twice, he thought it might sound untruthful.
“But what my mother really wants to know,” said La
dy Graham, “is whether that little room on the top floor with a skylight is still used for a servant’s bedroom. She wanted Mr. Banister, who was our dear vicar until he became a canon and that delightful Bishop Joram came, to keep apples there, but he only had two small apple trees in the garden, not enough to devote a whole room to them, so nothing happened.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Lady Graham,” said Mr. Bostock, “but I haven’t any servants. Mrs. Poulter sometimes comes in the morning and cleans things and cooks my lunch and I do the rest myself. And the days she doesn’t come I can get a really excellent meal at the Bull’s Head.”
“Oh dear,” said Lady Graham, much affected by these domestic arrangements. “Emmy,” she said, turning to her eldest daughter, “Mr. Bostock needs someone to look after him.”
George Halliday, who was also of this opinion though on different grounds, smiled sardonically, or at any rate made a face which was intended to that effect.
“I say, you’re going to choke,” said Emmy, pouring water into his glass with such goodwill that it splashed all over his plate. “That’s all right, mummy. Ted Poulter’s got to marry Lily Brown as soon as possible—”
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Bostock, distressed that the shame of one of his flock should be so suddenly sprung upon him and in a public place.
“—because it’ll stop him always going off to Barchester after his work and wasting his money. He and Lily had better live with you, Mr. Bostock. I can’t think why I didn’t think of that before. Lily can do the house and Ted can give a hand in the garden. Only mind, you mustn’t give them man and wife wages. Ted is earning good money and they’ll have a house for nothing and all their food. I’ll speak to Lily’s mother about it.”
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