by E. F. Benson
“How stupid of me!” he said. “I had quite forgotten in the multitude of your gifts that you were providing with such generosity for our children. Of course you do that instead of giving money to Edith. I think that is a delightful plan. Why, they will all be heirs and heiresses by the time they grow up. And the lunches and drives for Edith, too; she will never be lonely while I am away in town. And the croquet and everything. I never heard so many nice plans.”
He knew he was being weak, was yielding on points on which he really had no business to yield, in order to avoid a scene. It was quite ridiculous — and he was aware of that fact — to treat this middle-aged and wideawake woman as if she was a child, to give her anything to prevent her howling, but the morality of the matter did not trouble him at all. She was like a child; he saw the resemblance; but no less striking was the resemblance to a selfish child, or to a very miserly grown-up person. He did not really doubt that some part of her brain, carefully walled up and sequestered, knew that she was acting in a thoroughly miserly manner, but she entirely refused to attend to that, treating it as we treat some involuntary suggestion of a disobedient mind, putting it from her even as she put away secular reflections when in church, and indulging instead and painting in tender but vivid colours the image of the beloved old granny — not so old, either — incessantly signing the most sumptuous cheques for the benefit of her beloved chicks, or looking from the drawing-room window on to the velvet-napped croquet-lawn where Edward stood with brimming whisky and soda, while Edith, a child tugging at her skirts, went through hoop after hoop. She loved to see everybody happy round her, all enjoying the fruits of her bounty, and if, incidentally, she herself gained a companion in her daily drives, at any rate Edith would not sit solitary over her expensive lunch while Edward was in town. And if, in reality, she was a somewhat selfish person, and one somewhat insincere, how much more comfortable that she should think that she was brimming with kind plans for other people, when as a matter of fact she was only making the most pleasing schemes for herself. It was not possible entirely to agree with her in her estimate of herself, but there was certainly no use in distressing her by letting her know that he saw through her. She had hypnotized herself — by excessive gazing — into her creed about herself, and any dissension from it was only likely to make her think that the dissentient was unkind, not shake her belief in her own tender benevolence. She started from that even as Euclid starts his amazing propositions from certain postulates; if you did not accept the postulates you could not proceed any further in her company.
Normal human vanity renders complete self-knowledge impossible, but complete self-blindness is almost equally uncommon, and at the very back of her mind Mrs. Hancock knew very well that she was acting in a manner which, if occurring in anybody else, she would have unhesitatingly labelled mean. But she never indulged in such thoughts about herself; she turned a deliberate back upon them, for they were rankly inconsistent with the spirit of cheerful selfishness which was the key to her character. She shut the door on them as she shut it on tales of misery and crime, ignoring and, if necessary, denying their existence. And if it was easy to spoil her childlike pleasures, it was easy also to restore them in all their integrity, and Edward’s assurance that he had never heard so many nice plans was amply sufficient for her. Again her well-favoured face beamed with delighted smiles.
“I thought you would like them,” she said, shutting the door not only on her knowledge of her meanness, but on his also, “and you have no idea what a pleasure it was to me to make them. So, since you approve, we will regard my share of the arrangements as settled. And now for your part. I am certain I shall be as satisfied with what you intend to do as you are with my intentions. But before we go on you must tell me what I have to do. Must I have a deed drawn up? Is it a deed they call it?”
He was careful not to spoil pleasure this time.
“I think that is scarcely necessary,” he said. “You see you are — are making no settlements on Edith. You have promised to do certain things for our children, but for the present, anyhow — —”
She interrupted.
“I see,” she said, “but you must be certain to tell me whenever it is necessary for me to have a deed drawn up. I shall be always ready to do it, and to thank you for reminding me. Well, then.”
She settled herself in her chair with an air of pleased expectation, and, it must be confessed, a secret gratification that she had not got to “put her name” to anything at all.
“I shall draw up a will,” he said, “settling the whole of my property on Edith in trust for her children, if she has any, and, if not, for her use during her lifetime. In other words, she will enjoy the interest on my money, though the property itself will be in the hands of trustees. It amounts at present to about thirty thousand pounds.”
Edward paused, for it was clear that Mrs. Hancock was pondering some point.
“Let me thoroughly understand,” she said. “In case of your death, Edward, without children (though it really is quite horrid to think about such a thing), if she wanted to build herself a little house, shall we say, would she not be able to put her hand on three or four thousand pounds?”
“No. She would have the income from my money for life.”
Mrs. Hancock was almost as eager to secure financial advantages for Edith, as she was to retain her own herself — almost, not quite.
“But she would find it difficult to live in a suitable house, the sort of house to which she has been accustomed, on the interest of thirty thousand pounds,” said she.
“Do you think so? It means about fifteen hundred a year.”
“Yes, I know, my dear, a very nice pleasant little income. But you must think what she has been accustomed to, for I must say that, though, as you know, I live very simply, yet I have never grudged Edith anything. Think if she was ill! A long illness is so terribly expensive. Would it not be better to insure your life, and settle that on her, so that she could have a little fund for a rainy day? I know my husband insured his life long before he married me.”
Edward stiffened a little.
“I think, then, she might look to you for assistance,” he said.
“Ah, how pleased I should be to make any economies for her sake,” she said, with feeling. “But what if I am no longer here to help her?”
“In that case she will have all your money in her complete command,” he remarked.
This was undoubtedly the case, and it was not possible to pursue that particular line of grabbing any further. She smiled at him not quite so tenderly.
“My dear, how sharp the City makes you business men,” she observed.
Heathmoor seemed to have done pretty well in that line for her, but he did not draw attention to that.
“I don’t think I feel inclined to make any further provision over that,” he said. “Edith is coming to me, I must remind you, quite portionless.”
A sudden resentment at her attitude seized him.
“Or how would it be if you and I both insured our lives for, let us say, ten thousand pounds,” he suggested, “and settled it on her?”
Mrs. Hancock became dignified.
“At my death,” she said, “she already comes into a considerable fortune.”
“Very well. I quite agree with you that no further provision is necessary.”
Mrs. Hancock had not much liked the reminder that Edith came portionless to him, and did not want that section of the argument — for it really was becoming an argument — pursued further. She retreated into her stronghold of satisfaction again.
“And now about the allowance you will make her?” she asked genially.
“I was proposing to give her two hundred and fifty a year for her private and personal expenses,” he said.
Mrs. Hancock’s smile completely faded.
“Yes,” she said, “yes.”
“I gather from your tone that you are not satisfied?” said he.
There was a short, rather unplea
sant pause. Then she assumed an air of confiding candour.
“I did expect, dear Edward,” she said, “that you would make a rather larger allowance than that for her. It is no use my denying it. And would you mind not smoking another cigarette just yet? The air is getting quite thick. Now, just as you have told me quite frankly what you think of my provision for Edith, so I will tell you. There is nothing like a perfectly frank talk for getting over difficulties. All her life dear Edith has had a very handsome allowance from me, with really nothing to spend it on except a dress or a pair of boots. I don’t deny that I have often stinted myself so as not to stint her, but what her mother has done, that, I think, her husband should do. I don’t think you consider how many more calls a married woman has on her purse than a girl living at home — all the running up to London to get household necessities for you, all the greater expenditure on dress that a married woman must make beyond what a girl requires. Indeed, I don’t see how Edith can manage it on the sum you mention.”
Edward’s sympathy with Mrs. Hancock’s childlike pleasure evaporated. He did not believe for a moment that the “very handsome allowance” given her by her mother amounted to anything like the sum he proposed. He knew also that the sum he proposed was a very reasonable one.
“If you would tell me how much she has hitherto spent,” he said, “I should have some guide.”
This Mrs. Hancock did not in the least wish to do.
“I do not mean to say that dear Edith is extravagant,” said she, “but there is a great deal of difference between extravagance and counting every penny. There has been no need for her to do that; she is not accustomed to it.”
It was impossible for him to ask her point blank what Edith’s allowance had been; it was impossible also to ask the girl herself. He could not do such things; they were contrary to his average politeness of behaviour.
“It is true that when I settled to give Edith this allowance,” he said, “I supposed that you would also give her something. I did not know what your intentions might be.”
Mrs. Hancock brightened.
“But you do now, dear Edward,” she said, “and you said you quite appreciate them. Dear me, what was the expression you used which warmed my heart so? Oh, yes; you had never heard so many nice plans. I am going to provide — and I assure you the more it costs me the better shall I be pleased — for your children when I give Edith, oh, so gaily, into your care. That shall be my part; you were pleased with that. I dare say it had never occurred to you, and you thought it very likely, that I should give Edith a hundred or a hundred and fifty a year, so that she would have three hundred and fifty or four hundred pounds of her own a year. Then, indeed, she would be well off; she would be as comfortable as she had ever been.”
Suddenly the intolerable sordidness of the discussion struck him. Justly he told himself that it was none of his making, but he could at any rate decline to let it continue. He did not hug himself over his generosity, for he knew that in his comfortable circumstances it made no real difference whether he gave Edith four hundred a year or not; merely he could not possibly go on bargaining and disputing. He got up.
“She shall have four hundred a year,” he said.
Mrs. Hancock gave a little cry of delight.
“Exactly what I thought that your generosity would insist on giving her,” she said. “It is nice to find how well we agree. I was sure we should. And what a delicious sunny morning!”
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER VI
ELIZABETH ENTERS
Elizabeth was sitting with her cousin in the garden-house at the end of the croquet-lawn, waiting for the sound of the gong which should announce to her that the motor was round to take her for a drive with Aunt Julia. She had arrived the evening before, after spending a week at Paris with some relations of her mother, and had, at Mrs. Hancock’s special desire, breakfasted in her room that morning, this being the correct after-cure for any journey that implied a night in the train or a crossing of the Channel, for had Mrs. Hancock started at midday from Calais and come to her journey’s end at Dover she would certainly have had breakfast in her room next day. Elizabeth, as a matter of fact, feeling extremely vigorous when she woke this morning at six, had let herself discreetly out of the house, and much enjoyed a two hours’ ramble, returning in time to steal back unobserved to her room, where she ate her breakfast with remarkable heartiness at nine. Soon after, she had come out with Edith, while her aunt read small paragraphs in the paper and saw the cook. The usual schedule for the day had been altered so that Elizabeth might have a good long drive that morning, and the motor had been ordered for half-past eleven, instead of twelve; she could then get a good long rest in the afternoon, which should complete the journey-cure inaugurated by breakfasting in bed. But this dislocation of hours had proved too serious to face, and Lind had come out half an hour ago to say that if it suited Miss Elizabeth equally well, the car would come round at twelve — or a few minutes before — as usual.
Elizabeth, as has previously been mentioned, had not looked forward to this summer in England with her aunt, nor had she considered that the well-remembered comfort of the house was an advantage. But on this glittering summer morning, after the dust of trains and the roar of towns, she found herself in a singularly contented, amused and eager frame of mind. There was, for the present, a charm for her in the warm airy house, the exquisitely kept garden, the cheerful serenity of her aunt. As is the way of youth, she delighted in new impressions, and she found that in her two years’ absence from England, for she had spent the last summer in the Hills, she had forgotten the aroma of home life. She was recording those new impressions to Edith with remarkable volubility.
“But the most beautiful bath!” she said. “All white tiles, and roses at the window, and silver handles for everything. You should see our Indian bathroom, Edith! There is a horrible little brown shed opening from your bedroom, and a large tin pan in a corner, and if you are lucky a tap for the water. Usually you are unlucky, and there are only tin jugs of water. In the hot weather the first thing you have to do is to look carefully about to see that a cobra hasn’t come to share it with you. Then there are no bells; nobody knows why, but there aren’t; and if you want your ayah you shout. If she doesn’t want to come she doesn’t appear for a quarter of an hour or so, and explains that she didn’t hear you shout.”
“Then how did she know you shouted?” said Edith brightly.
“That is what you ask her, and she explains at such length that you wish you were dead. Oh, look at the grass — real grass, and there’s still dew on it in the shadow. I long to take off my shoes and stockings and walk about on it. May I?”
“Oh, Elizabeth, I think not!” said Edith, slightly alarmed. “Ellis would think it so odd.”
“Ellis? Oh, the gardener! He looks like a clergyman, with his side-whiskers. But does it matter much what he thinks? Servants must think such a lot of awful things about us. However, I don’t mind. I wanted my bath tremendously this morning, if you’ll promise not to tell, because it wasn’t exactly what Aunt Julia meant. You see, she thought I was tired, and really I wasn’t, so I got up at six and had a delicious ramble. I went on to a quiet common covered with heath, and there was nobody there but a sort of lunatic with a butterfly net, running madly about. He caught his foot in a root of heather and fell flat down at my feet. Of course I howled with laughter.”
“Mr. Beaumont,” remarked Edith in a tone of inspiration.
“So he told me, because we sat and talked after that. I rather liked him, and he gave me a cigarette.”
“A cigarette?” asked Edith. “You don’t mean — —”
Elizabeth laughed.
“Oh, dear, have I done anything improper?” she asked. “But, anyhow, Ellis wasn’t there. He is rather mad, I suppose, isn’t he — Mr. Beaumont, I mean? Then while we were sitting there an awful woman came along the path, like a witch in spectacles and the most enormous boots I ever saw.”
“Yes?�
� said Edith, rather apprehensively.
“You would never guess; it was his sister. After I had said she was like a witch. Then she became like a policeman and took him in charge, and I was left smoking my cigarette all alone. The heather smelt so good, better than the cigarette. But everything smells good in England, and reminds you of being clean and happy and cool. But oh, Edith, the Indian smell, the old tired wicked smell! There’s always a little bit of it smouldering in my heart like a joss-stick. It’s made of incense and hot sand and brown naked people and the filth of the streets and the water-cart; it’s savage and eternal, and it reeks of — it doesn’t matter.... Oh look! Ellis is brushing the grass’s hair! Docs he comb it as well?”
Edith had but little chance of saying anything at all while these remarkable statements were being poured out by her cousin, but as a matter of fact she was well content to listen. Two years ago, when she had seen Elizabeth last, the latter was a tall, thin, sallow girl, with bursts of high spirits and long intervals of languid silences, and now, with the strength of two years added and the flow of her adolescent womanhood tingling in her veins, she was a very different creature. Her sallow face was tinged with warm blood, giving her the warm brown complexion that goes with black hair and soft dark eyes; it was as impossible not to feel the kindly effect of her superb vitality as to be insensible to the glow of a frosty-burning fire. She was taut and poised, and full of vigour as a curled spring of steel or the strained wings of a hovering hawk, with the immobile balance that implies so intense an energy. Edith, with a rather unaccustomed flight of imagination, compared herself to a sparrow hopping cheerfully about a lawn, with a nest in the ivy, and an appetite for bread-crumbs.... But apparently the sparrow had to chirrup.