Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “Well, I’d prefer you hit me,” said Jack, “than that you should hit anyone who can’t hit back.”

  “Can’t you see that I have determined not to hit feather beds,” said Dodo in a low tone. “Really, Jack, you do me an injustice.”

  Jack looked up at her quickly.

  “Do you say that already?” he asked.

  “Oh, if you are going to whisper, I shall whisper too,” remarked Miss Grantham calmly. “Lord Ledgers, I want to tell you a secret.”

  “I was only telling. Jack he was stupid,” said Dodo. “I thought I would spare him before you all, but I see I have to explain. Have you seen Bertie yet, Jack? He’s in the smoking-room, I think. Edith Staines is probably there too. She always smokes after tea, and Chesterford doesn’t like it in the drawing-room. You know her, don’t you? She’s writing a symphony or something, and she’s no use except at meal-times. I expect she will play it us afterwards. We must make Bertie sing too. There’s the dressing-bell. I’m going to be gorgeous to-night in honour of you, Jack.”

  Jack found himself making a quantity of reflections, when he retired to his room that night. He became aware that he had enjoyed himself more that evening than he had done for a very long time. He questioned himself as to when he had enjoyed himself so much, and he was distinctly perturbed to find that the answer was, when he had last spent an evening with Dodo. He had formed an excellent habit of being exactly honest with himself, and he concluded that Dodo’s presence had been the cause of it. It was a very unpleasant blow to him. He had accepted her refusal with an honest determination to get over it. He had not moped, nor pined, nor striven, nor cried. He had no intentions of dying of a broken heart, but the stubborn fact remained that Dodo exercised an unpleasantly strong influence over him. He could have repeated without effort all she had said that night. She had not said anything particularly remarkable, but somehow he felt that the most striking utterances of other men and women would not have produced any such effect on him. It really was very inconvenient. Dodo had married a man who adored her, for whom she did not care two pins’ heads, and this man was one of his oldest friends. Decidedly there was something left-handed about this particular disposition of destiny. And the worst of it was that Chesterford was being hopelessly duped. About that he felt no doubt. Dodo’s acting was so remarkably life-like, that he mistook it at present for reality. But the play must end some time, and the sequel was too dark and involved to be lightly followed out. He could not conceive why this elaborate drama on Dodo’s part did not disgust him more. He wished he had been deceived by it himself, but having been behind the scenes, he had seen Dodo, as it were, in the green-room, putting on the rouge and powder. But failing that, he wished that a wholesome impulse of disgust and contempt had superseded his previous feelings with regard to her. But he believed with her that under the circumstances it was the best thing to do. The marriage was a grand mistake, true, but given that, was not this simply so many weeks of unhappiness saved? Then he had an immense pity for Dodo’s original mistake. She had told him once that she was no more responsible for her philosophy than for the fact that she happened to be five foot eight in height, and had black eyes and black hair. “It was Nature’s doing,” she had said; “go and quarrel with her, but don’t blame me. If I had made myself, I should have given myself a high ideal; I should have had something to live up to. Now, I have no ideal. The whole system of things seems to me such an immense puzzle, that I have given up trying to find a solution. I know what I like, and what I dislike. Can you blame me for choosing the one, and avoiding the other? I like wealth and success, and society and admiration. In a degree I have secured them, and the more I secure them the more reason I have to be satisfied. To do otherwise would be like putting on boots that were too large for me — they are excellent for other people, but not for me. I cannot accept ideals that I don’t feel. I can understand them, and I can sympathise with them, and I can and do wish they were mine; but, as Nature has denied me them, I must make the best of what I have.”

  Jack felt hopeless against this kind of reasoning, and angry with himself for letting this woman have such dominion over him. In a measure he felt himself capable of views bounded by a horizon not so selfishly fatalistic, and the idea of the smoking chimney in the cottage did not seem to matter, provided that Dodo was sitting on the other side of the hearthrug. He would willingly have sacrificed anything else, to allow himself to give full reins to his thought on this point. But the grand barrier which stood between him and Dodo, was not so much her refusal of him, but the existence of her husband. At this Jack pulled himself up sharp. There are certain feelings of loyalty that still rank above all other emotions. Miss Grantham would certainly have classed such among the litany things. There was nothing heroic about it. It simply consisted in a sturdy refusal to transgress, even in vaguest thought, a code which deals with the most ordinary and commonplace virtues and vices. There is nothing heroic in a street boy passing by the baker’s cart without a grab at the loaves, and it sounds almost puritanical to forbid him to cast a glance at them, or inhale a sniff of their warm fragrance. “Certainly this side of morality is remarkably dull,” thought Jack; and the worst of it is, that it is not only dull but difficult. With practice most of us could become a Simeon Stylites, provided we are gifted with a steady head, and a constitution that defies showers. It is these commonplace acts of loyalty, the ordinary and rational demands of friendship and society, that are so dreadfully taxing to most of us who have the misfortune not to be born saints. Then Jack began to feel ill-used. “Why the deuce should Chesterford be born a marquis and not I? What has he done to have a title and fortune and Dodo that I have been given the chance to do?” It struck him that his reflections were deplorably commonplace, and that his position ought to be made much more of. He wondered whether this sort of situation was always so flat. In novels there is always a touch of the heroic in the faithful friend who is loyal to his cousin, and steadily avoids his cousin’s wife; but here he is in identically the same situation, feeling not at all heroic, but only discontented and quarrelsome with this ill-managed world. Decidedly he would go to bed.

  Owing to a certain habit that he had formed early in life he slept soundly, and morning found him not only alive, but remarkably well and hearty, and with a certain eagerness to follow up what he had thought out on the previous night. He was in an excellently managed household, which imposed no rules on its inhabitants except that they should do what they felt most inclined to do; he was in congenial company, and his digestion was good. It is distressing how important those material matters are to us. The deeper emotions do but form a kind of background to our coarser needs. We come down in the morning feeling rather miserable, but we eat an excellent breakfast, and, in spite of ourselves, we are obliged to confess that we feel distinctly better.

  As Jack crossed the hall, he met a footman carrying a breakfast tray into the drawing-room. The door was half open, and there came from within the sounds of vigorous piano-playing, and now and then a bar or two of music sung in a rich, alto voice. These tokens seemed to indicate that Miss Edith Staines was taking her breakfast at the piano. Jack found himself smiling at the thought; it was a great treat to find anyone so uniformly in character as Miss Staines evidently was. He turned into the dining-room, where he found Miss Grantham sitting at the table alone. Dodo was lolling in a great chair by the fire, and there were signs that Lord Chesterford had already breakfasted. Dodo was nursing a little Persian kitten with immense tenderness. Apparently she had been disagreeing with Miss Grantham on some point, and had made the kitten into a sort of arbitrator.

  “Oh, you dear kitten,” she was saying, “you must agree with me, if you think it over. Now, supposing you were very fond of a tom-cat that had only the woodshed to lie in, and another very presentable torn belonging to the Queen came — Ah, Jack, here you are. Chesterford’s breakfasted, and there’s going to be a shoot to-day over the home covers. Edith is composing and breakfasting. She s
ays she has — an idea. So Grantie and I are going to bring you lunch to the keeper’s cottage at half-past one.”

  “And Bertie?” asked Jack.

  “Oh, you must get Edith to tell you what Bertie’s going to do. Perhaps she’ll want him to turn over the pages for her, or give her spoonfuls of egg and bacon, while she does her music. He’s in the drawing-room now. Edith’s appropriated him. She usually does appropriate somebody. We told Chesterford to get Bertie to come if possible, but Edith’s leave is necessary. Maud is going to meet Mrs. Vivian, who comes this afternoon, and, as she has some shopping to do, she will lunch in Harchester, and drive out afterwards; Ledgers has had a telegram, and has made a blasphemous departure for town. He comes back this evening.”

  “Well, Dodo,” remarked Miss Grantham, “now let’s go on with what we were discussing. Mr. Broxton will make a much better umpire than the kitten.”

  “Oh, shut up, Grantie,” said Dodo, with fine candour, “Jack agrees with neither of us.”

  “Tell me what it is,” said Jack, “and then I’ll promise to agree with somebody.”

  “I don’t care about your agreeing with me,” said Miss Grantham. “I know I’m right, so it doesn’t signify what anybody else thinks.”

  Miss Grantham, it may be noticed, showed some signs of being ruffled:

  “Oh, now, Grantie’s angry,” said Dodo. “Grantie, do be amiable. Call her Grantie, Jack,” she added with feeling.

  “Dodo, darling,” said Miss Grantham, “you’re really foolish, now and then. I’m perfectly amiable. But, you know, if you don’t care for a man at all, and he does care for you a great deal, it’s sure to be a failure. I can’t think of any instance just now, but I know I’m right.”

  Dodo looked up and caught Jack’s eye for a moment. Then she turned to Miss Grantham.

  “Dear Grantie, please shut up. It’s no use trying to convince me. I know a case in point just the other way, but I am not at liberty to mention it. Am I, Jack?”

  “If you mean the same as the case I’m thinking of, certainly not,” said Jack.

  “Well, I’m sure this is very pleasant for me,” said Miss Grantham, in high, cool tones.

  At this moment a shrill voice called Dodo from the drawing-room.

  “Dodo, Dodo,” it cried, “the man brought me two tepid poached eggs! Do send me something else. Is there such a thing as a grilled bone?”

  These remarks were speedily followed up by the appearance of Miss Staines at the dining-room door. In one hand she held the despised eggs, in the other a quire of music paper. Behind her followed a footman with her breakfast-tray, in excusable ignorance as to what was required of him.

  “Dear Dodo,” she went on, “you know when I’m composing a symphony I want something more exciting than two poached eggs. Mr. Broxton, I know, will take my side. You couldn’t eat poached eggs at a ball — could you? They might do very well for a funeral march or a nocturne, but they won’t do for a symphony, especially for the scherzo. A brandy-and-soda and a grilled bone is what one really wants for a scherzo, only that would be quite out of the question.”

  Edith Staines talked in a loud, determined voice, and emphasised her points with little dashes and nourishes of the dish of poached eggs. At this moment one of them flew on to the floor and exploded. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and at any rate this relieved the footman from his state of indecision. His immediate mission was clearly to remove it.

  Dodo threw herself back in her chair with a peal of laughter.

  “Go on, go on,” she cried, “you are too splendid. Tell us what you write the presto on.”

  “I can’t waste another moment,” said Edith. “I’m in the middle of the most entrancing motif, which is working out beautifully. Do you mind my smoking in the drawing-room? I am awfully sorry, but it makes all the difference to my work. Burn a little incense there afterwards. Do send me a bone, Dodo. Come and hear me play the scherzo later on. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Oh, by the way, I telegraphed to Herr Truffen to come to-morrow — he’s my conductor, you know. You can put him up in the village or the coal-hole, if you like. He’s quite happy if he gets enough beer. He’s my German conductor, you know. I made him entirely. I took him to the Princess the other day when I was at Aix, and we all had beer together in the verandah of the Beau Site. You’ll be amused with him.”

  “Oh, rather,” said Dodo; “that will be all right. He can sleep in the house. Will he come early to-morrow? Let’s see — to-morrow’s Sunday. Edith, I’ve got an idea. We’ll have a dear little service in the house — we can’t go to church if it snows — and you shall play your Mass, and Herr What’s-his-name shall conduct, and Bertie, and Grantie, and you and I will sing. Won’t it be lovely? You and I will settle all that this afternoon. Telegraph to Truffler, or whatever his name is, to come by the eight-twenty. Then he’ll be here by twelve, and we’ll have the service at a quarter past.”

  “Dodo, that will be grand,” said Edith. “I can’t wait now. Good-bye. Hurry up my breakfast — I’m awfully sharp-set.”

  Edith went back to the drawing-room, whistling in a particularly shrill manner.

  “Oh, did you ever!” said Dodo, who was laughing feebly in her chair. “Edith really is splendid. She is so dreadfully sure of herself, and she tells you so. And she does talk so loud — it goes right through your head like a chirping canary. Chesterford can’t bear her.”

  Jack laughed.

  “She was giving him advice about the management of his kennels at dinner last night,” he said. “I heard her say to him impressively, as she left the room, ‘Try brimstone.’ It took Chesterford at least five minutes to recover. He was dreadfully depressed.”

  “He must take Mrs. Vivian in to-night,” said Dodo. “You’ll hear them talking about slums, and over-crowding, and marriage among minors, and the best cure for dipsomaniacs. The other night they were talking about someone called ‘Charlie,’ affectionately but gravely, and I supposed they meant your brother, Jack, but it was the second laundress’s young man. Oh, they shook their heads over him.”

  “I don’t think common people are at all interesting,” said Miss Grantham. “They only think about things to eat, and heaven, and three aces, and funerals.”

  She had by this time finished her breakfast, and stood warming her back in a gentlemanly manner by the fire.

  The door opened and Lord Chesterford came in.

  “Morning, Jack,” he said, “what a lazy chap you are. It’s half-past ten, and you’re still breakfasting. Dodo, what a beastly smell of smoke.”

  “Oh, it’s Edith,” remarked Dodo. “You mustn’t mind her, dear. You know she’s doing a symphony, and she has to smoke to keep the inspiration going. Dear old boy, you are so sweet about these things; you’ve never made a fuss since I knew you first. You look very nice this morning. I wish I could dress in a homespun Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers. Grantie and I are going to bring you lunch. What should you like? You’d better have some champagne. Don’t step in that egg, dear; it will make your nice brown boots all beastly. It’s awfully cold. You’d better have two bottles. Tell Raikes to send you two. Chesterford, I wish you’d tell Raikes to cut off the end of his nose. I’m always afraid he’ll hit me with it when he hands things. He might have it grafted into his chin, you know; he hasn’t got any chin. Jack, have you finished? Yes, you’d better start. We’ll meet you at the bothy. I’ll go and ask Edith if she can spare Bertie.”

  “What does she want Bertie for?” said Chesterford.

  “Oh, I expect she’ll let him come,” remarked Dodo; “she’s really busy this morning. She’s been composing since a quarter past eight.”

  Dodo went across the hall and opened the drawing-room door. Edith was completely absorbed in her work. The grilled bone lay untouched on a small table by the piano. Bertie was sitting before the fire.

  “Bertie,” said Dodo, “are you coming shooting?”

  This woke Edith up.

  “Oh, it
’s splendid,” she said. “Dodo, listen to this.”

  She ran her hands over the piano, and then broke out into a quick, rippling scherzo. The music flew on, as if all the winds of heaven were blowing it; then it slowed down, halted a moment, and repeated itself till Dodo burst out: “Oh, Edith, it’s lovely! I want to dance.” She wheeled a table out of the way, kicked a chair across the room, and began turning and twisting with breathless rapidity. Her graceful figure looked admirable in the quick movements of her impromptu dance. Bertie thought he had never seen anything so deliciously fresh. Dodo danced with peculiar abandon. Every inch of her moved in perfect time and harmony to the music.

  She had caught up a thin, Indian shawl from one of the sofas, and passed it behind her back, round her head, this way and that, bending, till at one moment it swept the ground in front of her, at another flew in beautiful curves high above her head, till at last the music stopped, and she threw herself down exhausted in an arm-chair.

  “Oh, that was glorious,” she panted. “Edith, you are a genius. I never felt like that before. I didn’t dance at all, it was the music that danced, and pulled me along with it.”

  “That was the best compliment my music has ever received,” said Edith. “That scherzo was meant to make you want to dance. Now, Dodo, could I have done that after eating two poached eggs?”

  “You may have grilled bones seven times a day,” said Dodo, “if you’ll compose another scherzo.”

  “I wanted a name for the symphony,” said Edith, “and I shall call it the ‘Dodo.’ That’s a great honour, Dodo. Now, if you only feel miserable during the ‘Andante,’ I shall be satisfied. But you came about something else, I forget what.”

  “Oh, about Bertie. Is he coming shooting?”.

  “I wish it was right for women to shoot,” said Edith. “I do shoot when I’m at home, and there’s no one there. Anyhow I couldn’t to-day. I must finish this. Dodo, if you are going to take lunch with them, I’ll come with you, if you don’t go too early. You know this music makes me perfectly wild, but it can’t be done on poached eggs. Now set me down at the Handel Festival, and I’ll be content with high, tea — cold meat and muffins, you know. Handel always reminds me of high tea, particularly the muffins. He must have written the ‘Messiah’ between tea and dinner on Sunday evening, after an afternoon service in summer. I’ve often thought of taking the Salvation Army hymn-book and working the tunes up into fugual choruses, and publishing them as a lost work of Handel’s, Noah, or Zebedee’s children, or the Five Foolish Virgins. I don’t believe anyone would know the difference.”