Ladies of Lyndon

by Margaret Kennedy

  As the guests passed through the doors into the hall, Sir Thomas dropped behind and whispered to his wife:

  ‘What was the matter at lunch? What did I say wrong, eh?’

  Cynthia shrugged her shoulders and replied coldly:

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’

  She walked into the hall and left him to his perplexities.

  They entered under a minstrels’ gallery, hung with purple velvet, and passed solemnly over the polished floor into the centre of the chamber. A row of windows in the north wall gave a fine view of the Berkshire Downs. Upon the wall opposite the frescoes unfolded themselves in three tremendous panels, so complex, so strangely glowing, so crowded with swift life, as to smite the perceptions with a sense of absolute shock. Behind the dais at the further end, where the banqueting table was set, a fourth and still more violent panel suffered slightly from the oblique light, but became clearer as they approached the dais step.

  They all looked at the paintings for a very short time, and then hastily removed their eyes and concentrated their attention upon the furniture and fittings of the room. Even Lois had not the courage to study the Bacchanal for long. There was something in the piece which abashed her profoundly, but whether it was the incongruity of these shameless gods of an older world in so modern a shrine as Braxhall she could not tell. Anyhow, she was not equal to looking at them under the pained eye of her mother, and she decided to come again when she could be by herself.

  The furniture was scanty. Upon the dais stood the table, its sable surface still innocent of the goblets and trophies which Sir Thomas meant to put there. High carved chairs with cushioned seats stood round it. But the rest of the hall was splendidly bare. Electric candelabra hung at intervals from the richly moulded ceiling, and the windows were draped, like the gallery, in purple velvet, blazoned with armorial devices in gold thread. This gave the place something of the solemnity of a ritualistic church in Lent. A gilded grating, about a foot high, skirted the base of the walls round the entire room: this was part of Sir Thomas’s dry-heating apparatus, whereby warm-air shafts were run up behind the walls on which the frescoes were painted.

  ‘We mean to keep it empty, like this,’ explained Cynthia. ‘The table on the dais will seat as many as we shall want in any ordinary way. We can put up trestle tables in the rest of the hall on special occasions like Thursday. But generally we shall keep the floor clear for dancing.’

  ‘We’ve a first-rate Victrola up in the minstrels’ gallery,’ added Sir Thomas.

  Lois glanced up and saw the top of it just visible over the purple hangings. In the effort to stifle a sudden paroxysm of laughter, she moved to one of the long windows and looked out on Berkshire. Sir Thomas sighed, his eyes following her wistfully. He said with regret:

  ‘I wanted stained glass, but Clewer wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘We got a killing letter from Dolly when we were at Monte Carlo,’ said Cynthia. ‘She said she felt she ought to let us know that James was home again, because a man had come here to see about the windows. Whereupon James threw up the work and went home to Bramfield, saying he couldn’t paint frescoes in rooms with stained-glass windows.’

  ‘I’d half a mind to tell him he needn’t come back,’ observed Sir Thomas. ‘I wanted those windows. I’d an idea that I’d like a series, allegorical, you know, showing the advances science has made during the reign of Queen Victoria. Railroad, and telegraph, and photography, and so on. But, as he was obdurate, I had to give it up. I was determined to have the frescoes, so I had to let him have his way. Anyone can have stained glass.’

  ‘That wasn’t the only thing he was tiresome about,’ said Cynthia. ‘He would put that wall into three panels when we wanted two.’

  ‘Yes, we wanted two, with a plain division in between for Cynthia’s portrait to hang on – that picture that’s hanging outside the door. I had it specially painted to hang in this hall. But no! He wouldn’t hear of it! Said he wouldn’t leave any space for the portrait anywhere.’

  ‘It really might have been his house from the way he talked,’ continued Cynthia. ‘He had the portrait moved out of the corridor while he was here, so that he shouldn’t have to see it when he came in and out of the hall. He said something or other very violent about it … I forget what.’

  ‘Jealous! That’s what it was,’ chuckled Sir Thomas. ‘All these artists, y’know! They all hate each other like poison.’

  ‘It’s a great pity to have that lovely picture hanging outside in the dark corridor,’ said Marian regretfully. ‘But there isn’t room left for it here that I can see, not in a good light. He’s filled up every inch of space. But couldn’t you bring it in and put it on an easel, just at the corner of the dais? I think pictures look rather nice on easels like that. You could drape it or ornament it in some way.’

  ‘Oh, no, Mother! That would be quite impossible,’ expostulated Lois. ‘It would be absolutely out of keeping with the frescoes and the whole hall. It would look very foolish.’

  ‘Well, perhaps …’ said Marian. ‘But it seems a great pity. How stupid of James not to have left any room for it! That’s just the reason why it’s nice to employ relations, that you can ask them for those little accommodations which you wouldn’t demand of strangers.’

  She glanced once more, disapprovingly, at the riotous walls, with revolt in her honest soul. She could not bear the frescoes; upon no panel could she rest her eyes without meeting something which made her feel uncomfortable. Nor was it the prevailing nudity which overset her, but a kind of elusive familiarity which pervaded all these fleeing nymphs and pursuing satyrs. They were very much more convincing than any Bacchantes she had ever encountered before and their orgy was therefore more embarrassing. They discomposed her as much as if they had been personal acquaintances.

  Cynthia was faintly aware of this too, but it did not distress her. On the contrary she felt that the whole thing was rather daring, and, in her indolent way, she liked to be daring. She savoured in advance the faces of the County dames when asked to sit beneath these unhallowed walls. Though persistently disclaiming any interest in the paintings, she secretly found them diverting.

  Sir Thomas was bewildered by a number of sensations, but clung with determination to the most gratifying. He had a unique dining-room. Already in his mind’s eye he saw Braxhall and its frescoes as one of the glories of England, a Mecca for American tourists. Of course, he thought the paintings very indecent, but he understood that this did not signify if the subject were classical. He had been similarly scandalized by Botticelli’s ‘Birth of Venus,’ when he first met it, and had lived to learn that there was nothing the matter with it. He was always seeing it in the most chaste interiors.

  Lois was flustered. She contemplated these flaming manifestations of the mind of James, and admitted to herself, in a spasm of honesty, that she did not know what to make of them. She could not really tell whether they were good or bad until she had heard what Hubert had to say. Hubert had been away on a fishing holiday in Norway, and was not expected at Braxhall until the evening before the party.

  The clock in the tower above the hall struck four and they were all amazed. Luncheon at Braxhall was always a lengthy meal, and today they had been late. In half an hour tea would be administered to them among the orchids in the drawing-room. For this occasion a change of dress was necessary and they all dispersed.

  Later in the evening Sir Thomas sought his lady in her bower and testily began:

  ‘Now perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me what was the matter with your mother at lunch. You’ve been sitting with her long enough to find out, I should hope. Is there anything serious wrong with Clewer’s heart?’

  Cynthia, who was rubbing orange stick on her nails, replied: ‘Yes. A good deal is wrong according to Mother. She seems to be quite upset about it. He may die at any moment, or something like that. Anyhow the specialist took a very gloomy view of him. But mind you don’t talk about it, for nobody is supposed to know.’r />
  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Sir Thomas in deep concern. ‘You don’t say so! Is it his heart?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It leaks or does something. I’ve really forgotten what. But you’d better ask Mother, if you want to know. She’s bursting with details. I never can remember that sort of thing.’

  ‘But can nothing be done?’

  ‘Well, of course he ought to be taking great care of himself. Only she says he won’t. Can you reach me those little curved scissors on the end of the dressing-table? Only you must be careful not to show you know about it when he comes. He hates any fuss. He only told Mother in the deepest secrecy because he wanted her to help him put his affairs in order.’

  ‘Dear! Dear!’ murmured Sir Thomas, appalled by the practical bearings of this detail. ‘That sounds bad.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but Mother says that the specialist thinks he can’t last more than a few months in any case. But she’s apt to exaggerate. Of course, she went off and told everybody she could think of, by way of keeping it a secret. Lois and Hubert have heard all about it. But that’s neither here nor there. John mustn’t know that we know.’

  ‘Can’t last more than a few months!’ cried Sir Thomas. ‘Is that a certainty, Cynthie, or is it merely a scare? He looks ill, but not as ill as that. How much chance is there of his improving? Is it the effect of the gas poisoning?’

  ‘I really don’t know. You know what Mother is like; she’s very mysterious and won’t tell you anything until you’ve asked a lot of questions, and then she pours it all out. It always annoys me so much that I don’t ask.’

  ‘Well! Well! What specialist did he see?’

  Cynthia reflected and then said:

  ‘Mother did tell me, but I’ve forgotten. She said he was a very good man.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just a scare,’ said Sir Thomas hopefully.

  ‘It might be,’ replied his wife, without emotion. ‘You never know. But Mother seems to take it pretty seriously.’

  ‘You’re a cold-blooded little woman, Cynthie! You don’t seem a bit upset about it.’

  ‘I am very much upset. I think it’s most harrowing and all that.’

  ‘Rough on his wife,’ he continued after a pause. ‘How worried …’

  Cynthia laughed.

  ‘She doesn’t know anything about it, my dear Tom.’

  ‘She doesn’t know?’

  ‘No, indeed. And she mustn’t be told, what’s more. John is quite determined about it. You should hear Mother on the subject! He says that nothing will induce him to trade on his wife’s pity.’

  ‘What the deuce does he mean by that?’

  ‘How should I know? Only … if they don’t get on well …’

  ‘Oh! Don’t they get on well?’

  ‘Mother seems to think they don’t. And, by the way, you have dropped a brick about asking that Mr Blair down here.’

  ‘Blair? Oh, yes! Now what’s the matter with him?’

  ‘You’re generally more up in the family gossip.’

  ‘Family gossip? What family gossip? Oh, there’s nothing in that old tale about him and Agatha, surely?’

  ‘I’m only going by what Mother says. I’ve not seen them together personally; at least, not for ages. So I can’t pretend to have an opinion. But she got the wind up that time in the middle of the war when he was back in town after he’d had pneumonia or something. She says that he and Agatha were never to be seen apart, and people began to think there was too much of it altogether, considering John was away, don’t you know.’

  ‘But nobody seriously suggested that there was anything in it, did they?’

  ‘Don’t ask me what people suggested. You know perfectly well what they’d be most likely to suggest. Anyhow, Mother was greatly relieved when he went off to the Balkans, and she says she’s noticed that they seemed to be avoiding each other when he came back. She thinks it’s a good thing and is very furious that he is coming down here.’

  ‘But … Cynthie … you don’t think …?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know. I’m not in their confidence.’

  ‘But they are bound to meet sometimes,’ he argued. ‘And I should have thought this was as safe a place as any, with your mother and hers in charge, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t object to his coming. It’s Mother who’s afraid he’ll break up the happy home. I’m sure I don’t mind one way or the other. Though he’ll be a boring guest. I never could see anything in him myself.’

  Sir Thomas thought it out and then said decisively: ‘She’s got too much sense. She’ll never compromise herself. Not she!’

  ‘I’ve always thought her too good to be true,’ said Cynthia, ‘but I’m inclined to think she’ll manage her affairs quietly.’

  ‘Still, I don’t want any scandals, open or otherwise, in this house.’

  ‘You can’t help it very well, now he’s accepted your invitation. I expect it will be all right. I’m sure I hope so.’

  ‘I’m not surprised at him, not at all. Poor chap! He isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last, not by a long chalk. But she’s always been so uncommonly discreet. He’ll be the first …’

  He paused. Cynthia said nothing but looked disagreeable. ‘How do you know?’ she inquired at last.

  ‘Oh, well, I should imagine so,’ he replied lamely.

  2.

  ‘My dear, what a place!’ commented Mrs Cocks. ‘Did you ever see anything like it?’

  She turned from her sitting-room window to a renewed contemplation of the magnificence within.

  ‘Yes,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s rather like the home of a rich man on the films. There is the same prevalence of orchids and little statuettes.’

  ‘I never go to the horrid things, so the comparison doesn’t strike me.’

  ‘You should see my lodging! John and I have a bridal suite, the grandest you ever saw. All done in lavender silk with great bunches of lilac and lilies of the valley. The bed in my room is as large as Dolly’s parlour at Bramfield. I’m sure it is. Louis Quatorze, so Cynthia tells me. They were spacious days. Four people could easily sleep in it without discommoding each other.’

  ‘They often did,’ said Mrs Cocks in an interested voice. ‘This notion that even two are something of a crowd is quite a modern idea. I was reading the life of Mdme de Montespan the other day and it struck me forcibly what much more sociable habits they had. You should read that book, Agatha; it would amuse you. Tell me, have you pictures of highland cattle in your sitting-room?’

  ‘No. We have a Greuze and two Brangwyns. The highland cattle are only temporary. The furniture shop supplies them with the suite and they are put up until Sir Thomas has collected some genuine works of art to replace them. Your rooms can’t be quite finished yet.’

  ‘Oh, I see! Well, I’m glad they begin with creature comforts. I can do very well with the cattle, and I appreciate all this luxury.’

  ‘Do you? It surfeits me. I shall return to Lyndon singing “Be it never so humble …”’

  ‘Ah! You care very much for Lyndon, don’t you?’ said Mrs Cocks quickly.

  Lately she had felt in need of reassurance concerning her daughter’s happiness. She liked to hear Agatha speak of her possessions with an inflection of pride or joy. Agatha nodded an assent and stared out of the window, her fingers drumming restlessly on the sill. Mrs Cocks remarked with irritation that her hands were growing a little thin.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Agatha. ‘My wedding ring has had to be made smaller.’

  After a pause she added:

  ‘I do love Lyndon. Living in this house makes me realize how much I love it. When I’m at Lyndon I have a feeling sometimes that it doesn’t matter what follies we perpetrate because it will survive us. It was made by more sensible people than we are. And sensible people will live there again some day.’

  ‘Dolly and James, or their descendants, will live there some day,’ said Mrs Cocks significantly.

  ‘Well, they are the most s
ensible people I know,’ returned Agatha. ‘By the way, I’m going over to see them tomorrow.; I must say good-bye to them before I go to Scotland. Will you come?’

  ‘I positively must write letters the whole of tomorrow,’ said Mrs Cocks, shaking her head. ‘Otherwise I should love to see their household. I can’t picture it at all.’

  ‘Oh, it’s funny, but exactly what you would expect. Dolly has a girl in to help her with the Monday washing, and does all the rest of the housework herself. And there is an army hut in the garden, with glass panels in the roof, which James uses as a studio. Dolly tells me she’s only been inside it once in three months, and that was when she thought Henry had swallowed a button and wanted the doctor fetched in a hurry.’

  ‘But what does he do when he isn’t painting?’

  ‘Oh, he digs in the garden in the evening, in his shirt-sleeves, and he gets a bath on Saturday night, so I understand. And on Sunday he puts on his best suit and takes Dolly to chapel.’

  ‘Aren’t you touching it up a little, Agatha?’

  ‘Indeed I’m not. Come and see for yourself. And he never paints on Saturday afternoons, or Sundays, or bank holidays.’

  ‘Then the ménage is entirely run by Dolly?’

  ‘Absolutely. The house is Dolly’s house. He has accepted her ideas of domesticity en bloc. I gather that the only thing they ever fell out over was a dispute about a hat. She wanted him to go to chapel in a bowler, like any other Christian, and he flatly refused. He said a bowler hurt his head. They became very acrimonious about it until Dolly realized that no bowler on earth would fit so large a skull. So she got him a Trilby hat, which perches very oddly on the top of his head, and all was peace.’

  ‘But one would have thought that his artistic temperament must have rebelled in some way against this life. It’s so humdrum!’

  ‘It seems to suit him. They’ve got the usual little sitting-room with lace curtains, and an aspidistra and a horse-hair couch, and “The Soul’s Awakening,” and a plush tablecloth, and china children in gilt swings on the mantelpiece. I don’t think he regards them as ornaments at all. He simply sees the whole as an expression of Dolly. And, as he’s devoted to her, he doesn’t object to it.’