Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  As soon as he had gone out, she spoke swiftly and eagerly.

  “It’s my mistake,” she said. “I didn’t tell Bernard you were coming. I forgot that you might let out that I had asked you. But it’s all right.”

  Not till then did he realize the footing which she had given him, a perch, so to speak, in her cage. That defined it best....

  “Quite so,” he said. “Lord! Your parlourmaid said I could come! That was quick of you: I lumbered after you. And then you made it Bernard who asked me. I jibbed at that: it was a little too runaway. But your lightness over it! Adorable!”

  There was a new element in this: he saw the perch that she had pointed out to him, and sat there. She hardly knew if she had meant to give so obvious a right. But she had quite surely admitted him into a secret, small though it might be, which was to be kept from Bernard, and he, already on his perch, preened himself on the admission.

  “Been having a good time?” he asked.

  Celia tugged at herself, but was dragged along by an exterior force.

  “Oh, my dear!” she said. “By the way, come to lunch to-morrow.”

  Bernard came in again.

  “But I’m sure I brought the cigarettes in,” he said. “I’ve been ringing bells, but nothing happens. I suppose they’ve gone to bed. Where are the cigarettes?”

  He paused, pointing.

  “Why, they are straight in front of you all the time,” he said. “And straight in front of me, if it comes to that. Darling, do go to bed. It’s after eleven, and it was to have been half-past ten.”

  “Tyrant,” said Celia. “Never marry, Vincent. One bullies, the other is bullied.”

  Bernard went with her to the door.

  “You mustn’t read when you get to bed,” he said. “I shall come in and put your light out.”

  “And which of us is the bully?” asked she.

  CHAPTER V

  PHILIP had been experiencing an extremely disconcerting autumn at Merriby. He had gone back there after his stay at Stonepitts in August, full of bright plans and princesses and countesses, and sons-in-law, meaning to devastate all opponents at the lawn-tennis tournament, and to establish himself on a higher social pinnacle than ever. As regards the lawn tennis, he had once again been partnered with the explosive Mrs. Muskett, but all her kippered activity had been unable to save them from defeat in the very first round of that inconspicuous contest. She drove him from the court as resolutely as before, but on such occasions as he had been compelled to be there for purposes of serving or being served to, his inefficiency was more than a match for her skill, and at this early period of the event he had been forced to take the place of umpire instead of being triumphantly umpired. The golf tournament that followed was productive of no more satisfactory results, and when, on evenings in the assembly-rooms, he made a vain stand against Jazz, which he declared to be no dance at all, and took refuge in the card-room, where he found that his desire to join a table caused that table to take refuge in Jazz, he began to foresee a certain Gotterdammerung, or dusk of the gods, ahead him. Phantom hands twitched at his sceptre: his views began to carry less weight, and when he threatened to resign from the committee of the golf club if they insisted on lengthening the course, his threat failed to produce its usual consternation, and it was odiously evident that the course was to be lengthened whether he remained on the committee or not. Soon after, it appeared that the programme he had drawn up for the November ball had been deliberately tampered with, and Jazz substituted for other dances. Finally, in this mere sketch of untoward menaces, Priscilla Lamington, who with her son had taken a house in Merriby for a couple of months, had with equal deliberation issued invitations for an evening party after she had received his bidding to one of the soirées d’ennui. Of that he made a test case and ordered a full complement of cold suppers. Merriby should see who would live for the next few days on galantine and disconsolate jelly. Merriby saw.

  Philip had but few joints in his armour of conceit, but this succession of little wounds made itself felt. Evan Lamington, whom in moments of depression Philip had conceived of as the scribe who should write his doom on the wall, was certainly doing so now, aided and abetted by the odious Priscilla. Philip needed no Daniel to interpret that legend for him: any one, prophet or not, could see that his kingdom was being divided, and unless he made a serious and successful effort it would undoubtedly pass from him.

  There were other disagreeable concomitants to this failure in athletic prowess and in authority. He used to pride himself, among his many other remarkable gifts, on his infallible memory, but during this autumn he began with increasing frequency not only to forget what engagements lay in front of him, but to be vague as to his recollection of quite recent events in the past. Sometimes he thought he had done some particular thing when he had not, sometimes he thought he had not when he had. Thus one day between breakfast and dinner-time, he wrote two letters to Celia asking in identical language why she had not answered a letter that he had never written at all. In case it had gone astray in the post, he repeated his invitation to her to come down and spend a week-end with him early in December.... His habit of repeating stories gained on him, and he would tell the same agreeable anecdote not twice only in the course of an evening (which might happen to anybody), but three times. These repetitions were prefaced by “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you....” on which, without waiting for more, an intelligent listener would assure him that he had.

  In spite, however, of this blurring of the edges of memory, a good deal of which, like the repetition of his stories, was only an accentuation of a very long-standing habit, one interest, with its cognate schemes and operations, namely, his supremacy at Merriby, became more vivid than ever. Philip’s head was uneasy at the thought of not wearing a crown, and between the study of a bridge-manual, which should give him a more welcome advent into the card-room, and a great deal of garden practice at golf, and (very secretly) lessons on Jazz steps, he was even busier than usual Those Jazz lessons were the basis of a tremendous manœuvre in avoidance of the revolution that menaced him: he was going to learn to Jazz quite perfectly, having said that it constituted no dance at all. Then, master of Jazz, he was meaning to appear one evening at the Pump-room, where every one was Jazzing, and ask the great Priscilla to teach him the steps. That could not fail to please her genius for patronizing, and, since he knew all the steps already, she could not fail to be gratified at the effect of her instructions on so apt a pupil.... It would swiftly go the round that Mr. Philip had picked up Jazz in no time at all, and, very nobly, he would confess that he had judged Jazz too hastily, and that it had great charm, and thenceforth, convert to Jazz, he would lead the revel again. It was a concession such as he had never thought to make, but it was better to concede than suffer dethronement. So every evening to the sound of a gramophone Philip used to stride and slide and hop and step and jump up and down his studio in the embrace of M. Doutrowski who, in an inconspicuous byway in Merriby, proclaimed on his door-plate that he was a dancing-master to the nobility and gentry. Jazz was coming: Philip had to meet Jazz half-way, rather than that Jazz should, so to speak, dance at the Court ball without ever having been presented. The invitation to Celia to spend a Sunday was, of course, another buttressing of his throne. Merriby must be taught to recollect that he was the father of Lady Matcham. But all the time, as he studied bridge, as he putted about the garden, as he practised steps in the studio, Philip felt as if some curtain of cotton-wool had been let down between the world and his brain. There was a sense of unreality....

  Often that cleared completely away, and his vivacity was unimpaired. He forgot his forgetfulness, he remembered quite clearly the sort of hand on which you were justified in doubling no trumps, if your partner had originally declared a suit in which you were weak; he reproduced to perfection as he fished a golf-ball out of a flower-bed that little shuffle of the feet which M. Doutrowski assured him was the last word in Jazz, and felt that the world was still in f
ront of him, and that he would still cut an amazing figure as Lord Courthope, with that stately house in Wiltshire, within easy motoring distance of Merriby. It would be fine work to come in like that to this petty little town, full of gout and anæmia, to look in for a moment at the Pump-room, to recognize, just recognize, Priscilla, and cut, just cut Evan Lamington, who now, more pansylike than ever, waved a languid hand to him, and if words were exchanged converted that hand into a screen for a yawn. Then there was Mrs. Charlton, who a year ago only had used him merely as a ladder in Merriby. She had appeared agreeable: she had had a decent sense of his actual importance here, and his potential importance at Courthope. Nowadays, in alliance with the fell Priscilla, she alluded to “poor old Philip: I am so fond of him.” They should all see: the disaster of the disconsolate jellies was nothing in comparison of the time when he would drive in from Courthope and faintly remember them all.

  Celia had accepted his invitation, and was coming down this afternoon. Odious Priscilla had chucked him a bidding to come in after dinner that night, and with the politeness that walks so pleasantly with revenge, he had replied that he infinitely regretted his inability to come, since his daughter was passing the week-end with him and he could not very well leave her. Odious Priscilla had of course instantly replied how stupid she was, and she had meant dinner. Would not dear Mr. Philip and Lady Matcham dine with her that night? And was it true that Lord Matcham had arranged things so marvellously in Greece? How interesting to hear about that. Philip, in his best style, had replied that, with regrets even greater than the infinite, Celia was very tired with the tremendous rush of London, but would (odious) Priscilla look in for half an hour on Sunday afternoon? The pansy too, sans dire.... Then, and not till then, did he write some twenty cards of soirée d’ennui for Saturday, putting in “The Countess of Matcham and” — above his own name. Naturally he addressed none to odious Priscilla, because she was already entertaining at her own house.

  All this was wonderfully, triumphantly vivid to Philip as he marched out to the station to meet Celia on that memorable Saturday afternoon. He preferred to walk, though his motor was following in time for the reception of the train, because it was a popular hour in the High Street, and he would stop for a moment to tell every one he met that — excusez — he was in a hurry, as he was meeting Celia. The only bar to his satisfaction was that, for some reason, his left foot was not behaving with its usual briskness. Instead of lifting itself up for its step, it occasionally dragged. Also, when on his delightful progress, he had the good fortune to meet Evan Lamington, he could not, just for a half-second, remember Celia’s name. He had to say “my daughter,” when he meant to say “Celia.” There was a certain buzzing in his head, as if going through a tunnel, but that cleared again, as he remembered Celia’s name.

  He found when he got to the station that the train from town arrived not at 3.25, as he was sure Celia had told him, but at 3.52: this gave him a half-hour of waiting. It exasperated him very much, and he found himself telling the stationmaster that he should give her ladyship a good scolding.

  “Annoying when one is so busy,” he gabbled, stumbling over his words more than usual. “There are some friends coming in this evening, you understand, for one of my soirées d’ennui, and half an hour more would have completed my preparations. Or I could have had more golf-practice: I don’t know if you play golf. By the way, I am thinking of having a little motor tour in France; would there be any difficulty about the transportation of my car to Southampton? I will come and have a chat with you about it some time. War work; I need hardly tell you one does not go joy-riding, as they call it, these days. The nature of it, bien entendu, is not to be spoken of. Ha, I see some friends. Excuse me!”

  Philip gave his military salute to the astonished stationmaster and marched away. He knew quite well that he had no intention of making any motor tour in France. This announcement, like that of the scolding of her ladyship, and that of his party this evening, were all part of his grandeur, which all Merriby from Priscilla to the stationmaster must be taught to recognize. Every thought of his was connected with himself: he could never meet a short man in the road without drawing himself up and showing how much taller he was: he could not see a woman coming without unbuttoning his coat, so that the superb elegance of his figure might dazzle her. All this megalomania, chronic with him, had been vastly accentuated during these last few months, whether from the challenging of his sovereignty here, or from some more intimate cause. Merriby was the frame of his effulgence: Merriby was also the frame of certain fits of depression with which these grandeurs alternated. They usually began from some small cause, like missing a short putt, but spread over his entire outlook.

  He would not wait while Celia’s maid collected her luggage, but drove off with her, saying the motor could come back for their impedimenta.

  “I am not in the habit of waiting about,” he said, “though I’ve had plenty of that this afternoon.

  You told me your train was 3.25. I’ll carry your jewel-case for you.”

  “Darling Daddy! I haven’t brought my jewels,” said Celia, “and surely I didn’t say 3.25.”

  “We shall see. I’ve kept your note. You’ve got something to wear, I hope. There are some people coming in this evening: un petit soirée. And how is my grandson?”

  “Very flourishing. Is it one of your soirées d’ennui?”

  “Yes, I sent your name out — hostess with me. Surely I told you, didn’t I? No: perhaps I didn’t. There’s that Lamington woman.”

  Philip made a bow of superb disdain.

  “I shall like to see her again,” said Celia.

  “I told her she could look in to-morrow afternoon. The airs she gives herself! She asked me to come in after dinner to-night! Mere impertinence. I only took any notice of her at all as being a friend of your mother’s. But Merriby shall see whether Philip Courthope is done with yet.”

  They went into his room next the studio, where tea was ready.

  “Now for your note,” he said. “I’ll prove to you that you said 3.25. Here it is.... Ha! Well it seems to be my mistake.... Hullo, what’s this?” There in the medley of papers on his writing-table, from which he had drawn out Celia’s note to him, were the cards of invitation for this evening’s soirée. He had written them, and then evidently had forgotten all about them.

  “Look!” he said. “I’ve never sent out the invitations for this evening. The fact is, I’ve got too much to do. You busy people in town get away for your week-ends, but here there’s no cessation. I shall have to get a secretary: anybody else in my position would have had a secretary long ago. I remember now: I wrote them before lunch a couple of days ago, and then went out for a turn in the garden. When I came back, the post had come in, and then there was my golf, and I came back here to find that my dancing-master who is teaching me Jazz had arrived. A very decent fellow, who knows his place, and always comes in by the back door, until I told him to present himself like any other of my friends. What’s to be done about these cards now? I have a very good mind to send them out now, though the invitation is for this evening, and see how many people come here in spite of their having promised to go to the Lamingtons’. I don’t know if I told you that she asked me to come in after dinner. Mere impertinence. And what’s this? Oh, that’s your note which I was looking for. Yes: you do seem to say 3.52, so pardon, Contesse. A secretary would put these things down for me. I cannot attend to everything. Now about to-night.” Celia had been watching her father as he rummaged about in the moraine of old papers on his table and poured out this inconsecutive harangue. The manner of it was quite unlike her mother’s swift changes of topic, for Mrs. Courthope’s attention was always being attracted by fresh and fascinating interests, and darted to them, whereas Philip slipped from one imperfect grasping to another. She listened to his slipshod speech with a frown, that expressed a puzzled terror. His mind could not anchor itself anywhere: it slid about like quicksilver.

  “Come, Dadd
y, give me my tea,” she said. “And about this evening, just throw all those cards away, and we will have a nice cosy time together. After all, I came down to see you, not to see all the Priscillas.”

  “Bon Dieu: one Priscilla is enough,” said he angrily. “Merriby isn’t what it was, Celia. There was a time, as you know very well, when if Philip Courthope expressed a wish, it was just a question of who could get it done quickest. Pour yourself out your tea. These cards now: I don’t like throwing them away. It took me half an hour to write them. Shall we drive round and leave them after tea? No, we can’t do that: it’ll be dark, and these infernal regulations only allow me to use my motor for station-work, though I should like to see the official in Merriby who would feel himself equal to stopping me, wherever I chose to drive. And then there’s the studio all cleared, and the galantine and the beer. It needs some management, I can tell you, for me to live in a way befitting my station in these days. Why didn’t Bernard come with you?”

  “My dear, you never asked him, did you?” said Celia.

  “Naturally I took it for granted that he would accompany you. Your ménage hasn’t become like that of your wretched father yet, I hope. A man less chivalrous than your humble servant would have got a divorce years ago, and had an establishment of his own again, instead of slaving out his life here. What reason did Bernard give for not coming with you? I hoped he was coming.” Celia’s fear and bewilderment had vastly increased as her father gabbled on. It needed little perception to see that there was something wrong, and she was terrified at the thought of spending this evening and to-morrow alone with him. But this mention of Bernard supplied her with a chance of deliverance. Could she not telegraph to him in some way that would surely bring him? It would not be enough just for her father to send his invitation: she must telegraph herself, hinting at this nature of her need.... Then, with momentary hesitation, she remembered that she had said laughingly to Vincent, “Do come down on Sunday and see Merriby: it is priceless. Only an hour from town,” and he had half-promised to come down in the morning.... But where was the harm of that? It mattered nothing compared to the prospective terror of this evening.