“They’re making a mess of it,” said Mr. Thornbury. He had reached the second column of the report, a spasmodic column, for the Irish members had been brawling three weeks ago at Westminster over a question of naval efficiency. After a disturbed paragraph or two, the column of print once more ran smoothly.
“You have read it?” Mrs. Thornbury asked Miss Allan.
“No, I am ashamed to say I have only read about the discoveries in Crete,” said Miss Allan.
“Oh, but I would give so much to realise the ancient world!” cried Mrs. Thornbury. “Now that we old people are alone—we’re on our second honeymoon—I am really going to put myself to school again. After all we are founded on the past, aren’t we, Mr. Hewet? My soldier son says that there is still a great deal to be learnt from Hannibal. One ought to know so much more than one does. Somehow when I read the paper, I begin with the debates first, and, before I’ve done, the door always opens—we’re a very large party at home—and so one never does think enough about the ancients and all they’ve done for us. But you begin at the beginning, Miss Allan.”
“When I think of the Greeks I think of them as naked black men,” said Miss Allan, “which is quite incorrect, I’m sure.”
“And you, Mr. Hirst?” said Mrs. Thornbury, perceiving that the gaunt young man was near. “I’m sure you read everything.”
“I confine myself to cricket and crime,” said Hirst. “The worst of coming from the upper classes,” he continued, “is that one’s friends are never killed in railway accidents.”
Mr. Thornbury threw down the paper, and emphatically dropped his eyeglasses. The sheets fell in the middle of the group, and were eyed by them all.
“It’s not gone well?” asked his wife solicitously.
Hewet picked up one sheet and read, “A lady was walking yesterday in the streets of Westminster when she perceived a cat in the window of a deserted house. The famished animal—”
“I shall be out of it anyway,” Mr. Thornbury interrupted peevishly.
“Cats are often forgotten,” Miss Allan remarked.
“Remember, William, the Prime Minister has reserved his answer,” said Mrs. Thornbury.
“At the age of eighty, Mr. Joshua Harris of Eeles Park, Brondesbury, has had a son,” said Hirst.
“… The famished animal, which had been noticed by workmen for some days, was rescued, but—by Jove! it bit the man’s hand to pieces!”
“Wild with hunger, I suppose,” commented Miss Allan.
“You’re all neglecting the chief advantage of being abroad,” said Mr. Hughling Elliot, who had joined the group. “You might read your news in French, which is equivalent to reading no news at all.”
Mr. Elliot had a profound knowledge of Coptic, which he concealed as far as possible, and quoted French phrases so exquisitely that it was hard to believe that he could also speak the ordinary tongue. He had an immense respect for the French.
“Coming?” he asked the two young men. “We ought to start before it’s really hot.”
“I beg of you not to walk in the heat, Hugh,” his wife pleaded, giving him an angular parcel enclosing half a chicken and some raisins.
“Hewet will be our barometer,” said Mr. Elliot. “He will melt before I shall.” Indeed, if so much as a drop had melted off his spare ribs, the bones would have lain bare. The ladies were left alone now, surrounding The Times which lay upon the floor. Miss Allan looked at her father’s watch.
“Ten minutes to eleven,” she observed.
“Work?” asked Mrs. Thornbury.
“Work,” replied Miss Allan.
“What a fine creature she is!” murmured Mrs. Thornbury, as the square figure in its manly coat withdrew.
“And I’m sure she has a hard life,” sighed Mrs. Elliot.
“Oh, it is a hard life,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “Unmarried women—earning their livings—it’s the hardest life of all.”
“Yet she seems pretty cheerful,” said Mrs. Elliot.
“It must be very interesting,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “I envy her her knowledge.”
“But that isn’t what women want,” said Mrs. Elliot.
“I’m afraid it’s all a great many can hope to have,” sighed Mrs. Thornbury. “I believe that there are more of us than ever now. Sir Harley Lethbridge was telling me only the other day how difficult it is to find boys for the navy—partly because of their teeth, it is true. And I have heard young women talk quite openly of—”
“Dreadful, dreadful!” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot. “The crown, as one may call it, of a woman’s life. I, who know what it is to be childless—” she sighed and ceased.
“But we must not be hard,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “The conditions are so much changed since I was a young woman.”
“Surely maternity does not change,” said Mrs. Elliot.
“In some ways we can learn a great deal from the young,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “I learn so much from my own daughters.”
“I believe that Hughling really doesn’t mind,” said Mrs. Elliot. “But then he has his work.”
“Women without children can do so much for the children of others,” observed Mrs. Thornbury gently.
“I sketch a great deal,” said Mrs. Elliot, “but that isn’t really an occupation. It’s so disconcerting to find girls just beginning doing better than one does oneself! And nature’s difficult—very difficult!”
“Are there not institutions—clubs—that you could help?” asked Mrs. Thornbury.
“They are so exhausting,” said Mrs. Elliot. “I look strong, because of my colour; but I’m not; the youngest of eleven never is.”
“If the mother is careful before,” said Mrs. Thornbury judicially, “there is no reason why the size of the family should make any difference. And there is no training like the training that brothers and sisters give each other. I am sure of that. I have seen it with my own children. My eldest boy Ralph, for instance—”
But Mrs. Elliot was inattentive to the elder lady’s experience, and her eyes wandered about the hall.
“My mother had two miscarriages, I know,” she said suddenly. “The first because she met one of those great dancing bears—they shouldn’t be allowed; the other—it was a horrid story—our cook had a child and there was a dinner party. So I put my dyspepsia down to that.”
“And a miscarriage is so much worse than a confinement,” Mrs. Thornbury murmured absentmindedly, adjusting her spectacles and picking up The Times. Mrs. Elliot rose and fluttered away.
When she had heard what one of the million voices speaking in the paper had to say, and noticed that a cousin of hers had married a clergyman at Minehead—ignoring the drunken women, the golden animals of Crete, the movements of battalions, the dinners, the reforms, the fires, the indignant, the learned and benevolent, Mrs. Thornbury went upstairs to write a letter for the mail.
The paper lay directly beneath the clock, the two together seeming to represent stability in a changing world. Mr. Perrott passed through; Mr. Venning poised for a second on the edge of a table. Mrs. Paley was wheeled past. Susan followed. Mr. Venning strolled after her. Portuguese military families, their clothes suggesting late rising in untidy bedrooms, trailed across, attended by confidential nurses carrying noisy children. As midday drew on, and the sun beat straight upon the roof, an eddy of great flies droned in a circle; iced drinks were served under the palms; the long blinds were pulled down with a shriek, turning all the light yellow. The clock now had a silent hall to tick in, and an audience of four or five somnolent merchants. By degrees white figures with shady hats came in at the door, admitting a wedge of the hot summer day, and shutting it out again. After resting in the dimness for a minute, they went upstairs. Simultaneously, the clock wheezed one, and the gong sounded, beginning softly, working itself into a frenzy, and ceasing. There was a pause. Then all those who had gone upstairs came down; cripples came, planting both feet on the same step lest they should slip; prim little girls came, holding the nurse’s finger; fat
old men came still buttoning waistcoats. The gong had been sounded in the garden, and by degrees recumbent figures rose and strolled in to eat, since the time had come for them to feed again. There were pools and bars of shade in the garden even at midday, where two or three visitors could lie working or talking at their ease.
Owing to the heat of the day, luncheon was generally a silent meal, when people observed their neighbors and took stock of any new faces there might be, hazarding guesses as to who they were and what they did. Mrs. Paley, although well over seventy and crippled in the legs, enjoyed her food and the peculiarities of her fellow-beings. She was seated at a small table with Susan.
“I shouldn’t like to say what she is!” she chuckled, surveying a tall woman dressed conspicuously in white, with paint in the hollows of her cheeks, who was always late, and always attended by a shabby female follower, at which remark Susan blushed, and wondered why her aunt said such things.
Lunch went on methodically, until each of the seven courses was left in fragments and the fruit was merely a toy, to be peeled and sliced as a child destroys a daisy, petal by petal. The food served as an extinguisher upon any faint flame of the human spirit that might survive the midday heat, but Susan sat in her room afterwards, turning over and over the delightful fact that Mr. Venning had come to her in the garden, and had sat there quite half an hour while she read aloud to her aunt. Men and women sought different corners where they could lie unobserved, and from two to four it might be said without exaggeration that the hotel was inhabited by bodies without souls. Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours. Towards four o’clock the human spirit again began to lick the body, as a flame licks a black promontory of coal. Mrs. Paley felt it unseemly to open her toothless jaw so widely, though there was no one near, and Mrs. Elliot surveyed her found flushed face anxiously in the looking-glass.
Half an hour later, having removed the traces of sleep, they met each other in the hall, and Mrs. Paley observed that she was going to have her tea.
“You like your tea too, don’t you?” she said, and invited Mrs. Elliot, whose husband was still out, to join her at a special table which she had placed for her under a tree.
“A little silver goes a long way in this country,” she chuckled.
She sent Susan back to fetch another cup.
“They have such excellent biscuits here,” she said, contemplating a plateful. “Not sweet biscuits, which I don’t like—dry biscuits … Have you been sketching?”
“Oh, I’ve done two or three little daubs,” said Mrs. Elliot, speaking rather louder than usual. “But it’s so difficult after Oxfordshire, where there are so many trees. The light’s so strong here. Some people admire it, I know, but I find it very fatiguing.”
“I really don’t need cooking, Susan,” said Mrs. Paley, when her niece returned. “I must trouble you to move me.” Everything had to be moved. Finally the old lady was placed so that the light wavered over her, as though she were a fish in a net. Susan poured out tea, and was just remarking that they were having hot weather in Wiltshire too, when Mr. Venning asked whether he might join them.
“It’s so nice to find a young man who doesn’t despise tea,” said Mrs. Paley, regaining her good humour. “One of my nephews the other day asked for a glass of sherry—at five o’clock! I told him he could get it at the public house round the corner, but not in my drawing room.”
“I’d rather go without lunch than tea,” said Mr. Venning. “That’s not strictly true. I want both.”
Mr. Venning was a dark young man, about thirty-two years of age, very slapdash and confident in his manner, although at this moment obviously a little excited. His friend Mr. Perrott was a barrister, and as Mr. Perrott refused to go anywhere without Mr. Venning it was necessary, when Mr. Perrott came to Santa Marina about a Company, for Mr. Venning to come too. He was a barrister also, but he loathed a profession which kept him indoors over books, and directly his widowed mother died he was going, so he confided to Susan, to take up flying seriously, and become partner in a large business for making aeroplanes. The talk rambled on. It dealt, of course, with the beauties and singularities of the place, the streets, the people, and the quantities of unowned yellow dogs.
“Don’t you think it dreadfully cruel the way they treat dogs in this country?” asked Mrs. Paley.
“I’d have ’em all shot,” said Mr. Venning.
“Oh, but the darling puppies,” said Susan.
“Jolly little chaps,” said Mr. Venning. “Look here, you’ve got nothing to eat.” A great wedge of cake was handed Susan on the point of a trembling knife. Her hand trembled too as she took it.
“I have such a dear dog at home,” said Mrs. Elliot.
“My parrot can’t stand dogs,” said Mrs. Paley, with the air of one making a confidence. “I always suspect that he (or she) was teased by a dog when I was abroad.”
“You didn’t get far this morning, Miss Warrington,” said Mr. Venning.
“It was hot,” she answered. Their conversation became private, owing to Mrs. Paley’s deafness and the long sad history which Mrs. Elliot had embarked upon of a wire-haired terrier, white with just one black spot, belonging to an uncle of hers, which had committed suicide. “Animals do commit suicide,” she sighed, as if she asserted a painful fact.
“Couldn’t we explore the town this evening?” Mr. Venning suggested.
“My aunt—” Susan began.
“You deserve a holiday,” he said. “You’re always doing things for other people.”
“But that’s my life,” she said, under cover of refilling the teapot.
“That’s no one’s life,” he returned, “no young person’s. You’ll come?”
“I should like to come,” she murmured.
At this moment Mrs. Elliot looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, Hugh! He’s bringing someone,” she added.
“He would like some tea,” said Mrs. Paley. “Susan, run and get some cups—there are the two young men.”
“We’re thirsting for tea,” said Mr. Elliot. “You know Mr. Ambrose, Hilda? We met on the hill.”
“He dragged me in,” said Ridley, “or I should have been ashamed. I’m dusty and dirty and disagreeable.” He pointed to his boots which were white with dust, while a dejected flower drooping in his buttonhole, like an exhausted animal over a gate, added to the effect of length and untidiness. He was introduced to the others. Mr. Hewet and Mr. Hirst brought chairs, and tea began again, Susan pouring cascades of water from pot to pot, always cheerfully, and with the competence of long use.
“My wife’s brother,” Ridley explained to Hilda, whom he failed to remember, “has a house here, which he has lent us. I was sitting on a rock thinking of nothing at all when Elliot started up like a fairy in a pantomime.”
“Our chicken got into the salt,” Hewet said dolefully to Susan. “Nor is it true that bananas include moisture as well as sustenance.”
Hirst was already drinking.
“We’ve been cursing you,” said Ridley in answer to Mrs. Elliot’s kind enquiries about his wife. “You tourists eat up all the eggs, Helen tells me. That’s an eye-sore too”—he nodded his head at the hotel. “Disgusting luxury, I call it. We live with pigs in the drawing-room.”
“The food is not at all what it ought to be, considering the price,” said Mrs. Paley seriously. “But unless one goes to a hotel where is one to go to?”
“Stay at home,” said Ridley. “I often wish I had! Everyone ought to stay at home. But, of course, they won’t.”
Mrs. Paley conceived a certain grudge against Ridley, who seemed to be criticising her habits after an acquaintance of five minutes.
“I believe in foreign travel myself,” she stated, “if one knows one’s native land, which I think I can honestly say I do. I should not allow anyone to travel until they had visited Kent and Dorsetshire—Kent for the hops, and Dorsetshire for its
old stone cottages. There is nothing to compare with them here.”
“Yes—I always think that some people like the flat and other people like the downs,” said Mrs. Elliot rather vaguely.
Hirst, who had been eating and drinking without interruption, now lit a cigarette, and observed, “Oh, but we’re all agreed by this time that nature’s a mistake. She’s either very ugly, appallingly uncomfortable, or absolutely terrifying. I don’t know which alarms me most—a cow or a tree. I once met a cow in a field by night. The creature looked at me. I assure you it turned my hair grey. It’s a disgrace that the animals should be allowed to go at large.”
“And what did the cow think of him?” Venning mumbled to Susan, who immediately decided in her own mind that Mr. Hirst was a dreadful young man, and that although he had such an air of being clever he probably wasn’t as clever as Arthur, in the ways that really matter.
“Wasn’t it Wilde who discovered the fact that nature makes no allowance for hip-bones?” enquired Hughling Elliot. He knew by this time exactly what scholarships and distinction Hirst enjoyed, and had formed a very high opinion of his capacities.
But Hirst merely drew his lips together very tightly and made no reply.
Ridley conjectured that it was now permissible for him to take his leave. Politeness required him to thank Mrs. Elliot for his tea, and to add, with a wave of his hand, “You must come up and see us.”
The wave included both Hirst and Hewet, and Hewet answered, “I should like it immensely.”
The party broke up, and Susan, who had never felt so happy in her life, was just about to start for her walk in the town with Arthur, when Mrs. Paley beckoned her back. She could not understand from the book how Double Demon patience is played; and suggested that if they sat down and worked it out together it would fill up the time nicely before dinner.
CHAPTER X
Among the promises which Mrs. Ambrose had made her niece should she stay was a room cut off from the rest of the house, large, private—a room in which she could play, read, think, defy the world, a fortress as well as a sanctuary. Rooms, she knew, became more like worlds than rooms at the age of twenty-four. Her judgment was correct, and when she shut the door Rachel entered an enchanted place, where the poets sang and things fell into their right proportions. Some days after the vision of the hotel by night she was sitting alone, sunk in an armchair, reading a brightly-covered red volume lettered on the back Works of Henrik Ibsen. Music was open on the piano, and books of music rose in two jagged pillars on the floor; but for the moment music was deserted.
Classic Works from Women Writers Page 78