Clarissa looked up at her cousin Rose.
“Never mind how,” said Rose. “You shall know quite soon. I will not have him teasing that nice little Anne Fielding, or anybody else.”
“I like Anne,” said Clarissa. “I really did like her the whole time, only David was so beastly. And she knows Mr. Adams at Hogglestock, the one that has the engineering works.”
“The man who is standing against her father?” said Rose. “What queer people other people do know. It’s high time you went to school, Clarissa.”
“I’m going to,” said Clarissa. “Merry agrees with me. She says I’ve had enough governessing. I can get round Daddy. It’s mummy and Gran.”
“I shall be on your side,” said Rose. “Don’t worry. Now we will go and say good-bye to the boys.”
So they went onto the terrace, where several of the party were sitting.
“I hope the boys haven’t gone,” said Rose.
“They went to say good-bye to Rushwater Romany,” said Anne, “so Robin had to go and hurry them up.”
“Let’s walk and meet them,” said Rose, an offer which Anne found very flattering. “Clarissa likes you very much.”
Anne blushed with pleasure.
“I like her too, terrifically,” she said. “I nearly didn’t like her, because David—”
She stopped, afraid of offending her companion.
“Because David was making mischief, I suppose,” said Rose negligently. “He is the most charming man I know and the most careless about hurting people. Don’t worry about him, Anne.”
“I don’t really,” said Anne. “Only he does say things I can’t understand. He said he could only marry someone who was as funny as hell all the time and I didn’t like it. And he was really horrid to Clarissa,” she added, with what for her was considerable violence. “He tried to make us not like each other on purpose. At least I thought he did.”
“I shan’t let him do it again,” said Rose. “When things are a bit easier you and Clarissa must come to Paris and stay with me in my flat.”
To this Anne could only say Oh! in a very schoolgirlish way, and then Robin appeared with his pupils and they all went to the front of the house.
“Come again soon,” said Martin to Robin. “There’ll be some shooting later if you feel like it.”
Robin thanked his host who looked, he thought, thoroughly worn out by his Sunday entertainment, told Leslie major he certainly was not going to drive and got into the car.
“I say, sir,” said Leslie minor to George Halliday, “could you come to Southbridge ever? It’s fairly mouldy, but no one has managed to climb the chapel roof yet.”
George, although he thought it improbable that a complete stranger, in broad daylight, would have much chance of Alpine work, said he would love to come when he got leave again, or he might be demobilised fairly soon.
“He said not to call him ‘sir,’ you idiot,” said Leslie major. “Thanks awfully for coming on the roof, sir.”
“Oh, Mr. Dale,” said Lady Graham, suddenly wafting herself out of the hall door onto the steps. “I told Siddon to put some eggs and fruit in the car. I know you must need them with your foot. And do come to Holdings one Sunday. Robert would love to meet you.”
No one had ever yet discovered whether General Sir Robert Graham, K.C.M.G., was pleased to see any guest, but if his wife said so, so it must be. Robin thanked her, the Leslie boys waved and shouted and the car disappeared down the drive.
“Now,” said Lady Graham, “we must be going too. Mr. Bostock, I do so want you to come to Holdings. Mamma would love to see you. I know Sunday is a quite dreadful day for you, but it is the only day my husband is ever at home.”
Overhearing these words George Halliday felt much sympathy with King Henry II, except that Mr. Bostock was not an Archbishop; but reflecting that he would drive back with Lady Graham while Mr. Bostock was taking Evening Service, he relented slightly.
Mr. Bostock, in a very dashing way, said it would be quite possible for him to drive over to Holdings one Sunday and how much he would like it, upon which George Halliday’s brow became dark.
Then the Holdings car went away, leaving the world to Double Summer Time and Mr. Bostock, who soon went over to the church for Evening Service in a highly addled frame of mind.
Everything felt rather flat. Anne and Sylvia’s happy visit would be over next day; the lovely idyll of a hot July would come to an end. Anne would be very glad to see her father and mother and to help them bear the success or defeat that would be announced in a few days, but she liked Martin and Emmy and the farm life and Mrs. Siddon and even Rushwater Romany. But having been taught by Miss Bunting that one should always be considerate of others, she had noticed how low-spirited Martin had become during the afternoon, though always kind, and thought perhaps two visitors on the top of all his work had been bad for his leg.
Sylvia also would as a matter of course be glad to see her people but she did not at all wish to leave Rushwater. The Jersey had not yet calved, there was a good deal to be done in the kitchen garden where they were shorthanded, the question of the central heating for the church to be seriously gone into with the vicar, the Milk Marketing Board to be dealt with, and a thousand things about the place that needed her helping hand; although, had she paused to reflect, she would have had to confess that things had gone on in their own way at Rushwater before she came, and would probably go on after she had gone.
Supper was very quiet except for Emmy, who splendidly immune to social atmosphere talked about the farm in general and the Jersey in particular till even Sylvia was rather bored. As the sun set a breeze had sprung up and watery mists were veiling the sky.
“Too cold to sit out,” said Martin. “It will rain to-night. Old Herdman has got lumbago again, and that always means bad weather coming.”
“He simply can’t have lumbago if the Jersey—” Emmy began, when her kind, good-tempered cousin suddenly damned the Jersey quite ferociously, said he didn’t care if she calved or not and he was going to light a fire in the morning-room. This he did and sat not reading the Stock Breeders’ Gazette, while the girls chattered.
“I’m going to sit up all night,” said Emmy. “I told Herdman to come and shout under my window if he needed help. I’m going to bed now to get some sleep. What shall we call the calf, Martin? I thought of Ruritania. Rushwater Ruritania would do for a bull or a heifer.”
“All right, anything you like,” said her cousin Martin.
“Mind you wake me, Emmy,” said Sylvia, “if there’s any fun. It’s my last chance.”
“No,” said Martin. “I will not have Sylvia in the cowshed at two in the morning. I’ll hear Herdman if he comes.”
“What on earth’s the matter?” Sylvia asked, who had never seen Martin out of temper or even out of patience before.
Martin said nothing was the matter, and he wished people wouldn’t ask him silly questions.
“I’ll sit up with Emmy,” said Sylvia firmly. “Oh, and Martin, don’t forget about the Temple. David said those cracks were really serious.”
Martin got up, folded the Stock Breeders’ Gazette neatly, put it in the paper-rack, said Good-night inclusively without looking at anyone, adding, “Damn the Temple,” and limped out of the room.
There was a horrified silence as his step was heard going down the long kitchen passage.
“He’s gone to the Estate Office,” said Emmy. “He often does in the evenings. If the Jersey calves—”
On this Sylvia suddenly burst into tears, said she hated Jerseys and calves and wished she had never been born and rushed upstairs.
“She needn’t get so excited,” said Emmy to Anne. “It’s awfully interesting really. Would you like to come?”
Anne hastened to protest that she wouldn’t like to come at all and hoped she wouldn’t wake in the night because she would feel so frightened. Emmy, with friendly scorn, said Anne had better go to bed and she was going herself now, but would not undre
ss. Anne went up to her room and tapped at Sylvia’s door. A muffled voice said Come in, and she found Sylvia in a dressing-gown with red eyes and impeded utterance. Anne begged to know what the matter was, to which her friend replied that it was Martin and he was a beast. Anne said perhaps his leg was hurting him.
“That’s no reason for being beastly,” said Sylvia. And then bursting into tears again said she was a beast too, and if Martin’s leg was hurting it was all her fault because he had come all the way up to the Temple to find her for squash.
“Please, Sylvia, do stop,” said Anne. “Emmy’s next door, and if she hears you she’ll come in and tell us awful things about cows. Please, please, Sylvia.”
Sylvia, thus appealed to, checked her sobs and said she would be all right now and Anne must go to bed. So Anne went back to her own room and undressed. When she was in bed she sleepily thought over the long happy day; happy till the very end when poor Martin’s leg had made him so cross. Robin, she reflected, was never cross, though an artificial foot must sometimes be worse than a limping leg. Then suddenly she remembered that Robin had been going to tell her a very special secret. Somehow the talk had changed and the special secret had not been told. She wondered what it could be and wondering fell asleep.
The Holdings party were soon back. Lady Graham asked George to stay to supper, but he suddenly felt unworthy and mumbled something about his people expecting him.
“Then you must come another Sunday,” said Lady Graham, who appeared to George to have a halo and very soft white wings. “Perhaps that would be better, because this is just the one Sunday that Robert couldn’t get down and he would like so much to see you. Come to lunch one Sunday, when that nice Mr. Bostock comes.”
No longer had Lady Graham a halo or wings; but though a fallen angel, George’s heart was torn with pity for one who could so far forget herself as to make a gross social gaffe. So he went home and was rather short with his parents.
Lady Graham at once became absorbed by her family, so Rose and David strolled down the garden to where a lawn skirted the Rising and there was a seat. The breeze had not yet become unpleasant, dragonflies were darting about over the water, everything was green and quiet.
“Well?” said Rose.
“What do you mean exactly?” said David.
“You know quite well,” said Rose in her slow husky voice. “You have behaved abominably to-day.”
“I haven’t,” said David, like a cross child.
“You have,” said Rose. “You have been showing off all day and we are all ashamed of you. Even Clarissa.”
“Clarissa is a little devil,” said her uncle.
“Possibly,” said Rose, looking at her beautiful, well-groomed hands. “But why raise her devil? And why make Martin unhappy? A gammy leg and Rushwater and no money are quite enough.”
“I didn’t do anything to Martin,” said David. “I swear I didn’t. I only took Sylvia’s hand up at the Temple. Lord! one always takes pretty girls’ hands.”
“You have been taking pretty girls’ hands up and down town on and off for about twenty years,” said Rose coldly. “It doesn’t look so funny now you are getting a bit bald on the top.”
“Not twenty years,” said David appealingly.
“You were certainly doing it at seventeen,” said Rose. “I was a beastly little girl in the schoolroom then with very sharp eyes. And you made that nice little Anne Fielding extremely uncomfortable.”
“Good God! Rose, what right have you got to lecture me?” said David. “You have made lots of people uncomfortable.”
“Not schoolboys,” said Rose. “Only grown-up men who were asking for it. But that is neither here nor there. You have got to stop it, David.”
“But I can’t,” said David.
“You’ll have to when we are married,” said Rose.
David stared at her.
“I think you have asked me about seven times,” said Rose, without raising her voice or hastening her speech. “The last time you asked me was after Lettice turned you down, just before she married Captain Barclay. This time I am going to say yes.”
“But I haven’t asked you,” said David, alarmed.
“That again is neither here nor there,” said Rose. “We are going to be married. It is all most suitable and we will do all sorts of amusing things when this foul peace is over. I believe you told Anne Fielding that you wanted a wife who would be as funny as hell all the time.”
“Do you mean it seriously?” said David, getting up in his agitation.
“I do,” said Rose. “Wait a moment till I put my bag down.”
She laid her bag on the seat and stood up. Miss Merriman, who had been to Evening Service and was walking back by the river path, observed with interest an embrace which left Glamora Tudor and Hash Gobbet in “Burning Flesh” nowhere at all.
“May I be the first to congratulate you?” said Miss Merriman, who had never been known to lose her composure. “Nothing could be nicer. Lady Emily will be delighted and so, I am sure, will Lady Dorothy.”
“I’d forgotten about mother,” said Rose. “But she’s not much trouble. And I shan’t let her come and stay with me for my babies. She’s practically been turned out of Tadpole Hall. Tadpole wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Nor will I,” said David with prompt gallantry, determined not to show surprise at anything.
The next person they met was Clarissa, taking her dog for a walk.
“Would you like to be a bridesmaid, Clarissa?” said Rose.
Clarissa asked whose.
“Mine,” said Rose. “Rose Leslie sounds prettier than Rose Bingham so I’m going to marry David.”
“Was that what you meant?” said Clarissa.” Oh, lovely, lovely,” and she hugged her cousin Rose violently. “I say, David,” she added, “I’m awfully sorry I was beastly this afternoon.”
“So am I,” said David. “Rose told me off so odiously that I had to say I’d marry her.”
Clarissa put her arm affectionately through her uncle’s and they all walked on to the house, agreeing to keep the engagement till after dinner, because if Lady Emily and Agnes knew, the servants would never be able to get at the table to clear away.
After dinner Lady Emily was installed as usual in her large chair, with a table on each side of her covered with books, painting materials, flowers, letters, knitting, in which last art she made no progress at all since she had taken it up in the second year of the war and had nearly exhausted Miss Merriman’s inexhaustible patience. Lady Graham reclined elegantly on a sofa with her embroidery, and Clarissa sat at her feet, mending some house-linen with exquisite stitches.
“Darling mamma,” said David, sitting down as near his mother as the tables, footstools and shawls would allow, “would you like to hear some good news about me?”
Lady Emily looked up at her son, her kind falcon’s eyes shining with anticipation, her beautiful thin lips ready to smile.
“I am going to be married,” said David.
“Wait a minute,” said Lady Emily, shutting her eyes to assist her memory. “Not that woman whose name I can’t remember, darling,” she said anxiously.
“Good God, mamma, not Frances Harvey,” said David, at once guessing his mother’s meaning. “And anyway she is in Athens now, being an infernal nuisance, I gather, at the Embassy. Mamma, darling, I hate to disappoint you, but it’s someone much nicer.”
Lady Graham had stopped embroidering. Clarissa went on darning her linen with bent head, while Miss Merriman, knitting, looked on at another scene in the history of the family she had tended so well.
“Do help me, Rose,” said David.
Then Lady Emily knew at once and Rose, getting as near her future mother-in-law as she could, kissed the fragile, handsome face very lovingly.
“Dear Rose,” said Lady Emily. “Welcome. How pleased your uncle would have been. Darling David, this is perfect. Thank you both. Bless you both.”
The bright falcon eyes were a little d
immed, but it was with sheer joy. Lady Graham, who by now had realised what was happening, came and kissed Rose and David in her own soft way and beamed approval.
“There is only one thing that isn’t perfect,” she said, “and that is Robert not being here. But I shall ring him up and he will be delighted. He had better give you away, Rose,” for Rose’s father had died meekly and uncomplainingly a good many years ago, not much missed by his masterful fox-hunting wife.
“That would be lovely,” said Rose. “I did think of flying over and being married at the Embassy in Paris, but perhaps it would be better at home. I must ring mother up to-night.”
“Give dear Dodo my love,” said Lady Graham, “and say how pleased we all are. We had better have the wedding here, mamma, don’t you think?”
“Wouldn’t Rushwater be better?” said Lady Emily. “Martin wouldn’t mind and there are more bedrooms empty.”
Lady Emily and her daughter then discussed the wedding as if David and Rose were not there and Lady Dorothy Bingham did not exist, till Rose said she thought St. George’s, Hanover Square, would be the best, because everyone was coming back to London. And then, said Lady Graham, they could have the reception at the Grantchester, who always managed to get food and some drinks somehow.”
Lady Emily looked sad.
“Listen, mamma darling,” said Lady Graham. “I will ask Robert. He always knows what to do. And he knows a lot of people on the board of the Grantchester and he shall get a couple of suites and you and Conque can drive up and be quite comfortable and you will see a lot of friends.”
“Whose wedding is it, Rose?” said David to his affianced. “Yours, or mine, or your mother’s, or my mother’s, or Agnes’s?”
“I don’t mind in the least so long as it is your wedding and mine, said Rose. “David.”
“I never thought anyone could make my name sound so attractive,” said David. “Yes, Clarissa, I shall have to give you a present if you are a bridesmaid. What would you like? Two turtle doves, or a partridge in a pear tree?”
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