Aline Gurtner had been more than pleased when she received Lady Grote’s
telegram proposing a visit: she was entranced, for this was precisely
the sort of person whom she most wanted in her house just now. During
the past fortnight she had been trying to secure a gentle, cheerful
trickle of visitors there, but refusals had come in rather disconcerting
numbers. She could not get the tap to run. It was quite true, of course,
that everyone was very busy, and that such an allegation as reason for
regret might very likely be true, but she had begun to be vaguely uneasy
that it was not going to be reserved for her to declare her sympathies
and show an adoring England how intensely pro-English she was, but that
her English friends were proceeding to demonstrate their own sympathies
by omitting to flock to her biddings. As a matter of fact, her
apprehensions were entirely ill-founded; such people as she had
asked--they included members of the Government who really were not
completely at leisure just now--had merely been too much occupied to
spend perfectly idle days in the country. But the sequence of regrets
had made her a little nervous. It was also unkind of people, who should
have realized how beautifully she was behaving and how she felt the
war, not to crowd round her and comfort her and praise her and admire
her.
She ran to announce to her husband this gratifying intelligence that
Helen Grote proposed herself. Sir Hermann had successfully concluded the
financial operations which he had planned on the night of Aline’s great
party, when he gnawed his nails, while the drowsy world still slept to
the imminence of war, and had netted even more than the half-million he
had anticipated. Now, in the economical _bouleversement_ that had
occurred, when good businesses were tottering and sound credits upset,
he was content to look serenely on, and wonder, as so often before, how
it was that so many people seemed to make a point of being just too late
when they decided on action. So many of his acquaintances, heads of
firms in the city, had, on that Saturday when he was so busy, taken the
day off as usual, put on knickerbockers and played golf. Now it was his
turn for the knickerbockers, while they slaved all day in their offices
trying to avert shipwreck, or if, as in so many cases, shipwreck had
occurred, to pick up such bits of their cargoes as the storm washed
ashore. Meantime the options in colliery shares and shipping which he
had bought in England were maturing very satisfactorily, and he was
quite happy to wait and observe this mellowing process with the same
sense of well-earned leisure with which he had been strolling round the
kitchen garden that morning, and observing the pears ripening on the
red-brick walls. Some were ripe already, and he was eating one that he
had picked when Aline came in.
“My dear, Helen Grote has proposed to come and stay with us,” she cried.
“Is not that delightful of her?”
He did not care two straws whether Lady Grote came or not, for when he
was not at work he knew of no better mode of life than to be with Aline
and the children. But the news evidently pleased Aline: she had not
looked so radiant since the day when he had playfully come into her
bedroom with all the sables on, and asked her if she liked his new suit.
What a good joke that had been!
“I am very well satisfied to have my Aline and my imps,” said he, “but I
am pleased that your friend will come.”
“Of course you are, darling,” said she. “It is just what I want. I will
take care to send a little paragraph to the _Morning Post_. And I was
writing only this morning to Mr. Boyton: I think I will telegraph
instead, and ask him to come for the Sunday anyhow. I hope he will stop
longer, and then you must take him out shooting. There is shooting in
September, isn’t there?”
“And do you forget the fat partridges your Jaeger shot for you
yesterday?” he asked.
As a matter of fact the keeper had shot them, but Sir Hermann had been
out shooting, though without the success he so easily attained into
other lines. He was dressed now in homespun and knickerbockers and
stockings with a sort of frill round the tops which reminded the
observer of the decoration of crackers.
“Are you going to shoot to-day?” she asked.
“No; cannot you see that I have my golfing clothes on? I have gaiters on
when I shoot, and thick boots. I am going to see the bailiff now and
after lunch I shall play golf. Upon my word, this English country life
with plenty of exercise and good fruit like this from my own garden is
just as beneficial to me as Marienbad. There is no longer a trace of
acidity in all me! I am your sweet Hermann.”
Mr. Boyton, whether or no owing to the information that Lady Grote would
be a fellow-guest, was delighted to reply favourably on the prepaid form
his hostess provided him with, and the two arrived that evening, in an
express that Sir Hermann had stopped for them at Ashmore Fen station.
This was a privilege appertaining to the owner of Ashmore House, and it
gave him considerable pleasure to exercise it, for it conveyed a sense
of territorial rights. Aline went to the station to meet them (in the
negligent country costume of a cotton dress and a tam-o’-shanter in
which she occasionally hit the turf with a golf club), with the sables
lying handy to put on in case she was chilly. True to her English
policy, she was very voluble about the war, and her sympathies with
regard to it.
“Dearest Helen,” she said, “it was too sweet of you to propose yourself;
how-d’ye-do, Mr. Boyton, very pleased you were able to come. Have you
brought a gun with you? No? Hermann will lend you one. And have you
brought us the evening papers, Helen? We are so terribly out of the
world here, just when one wants every moment to hear the latest possible
news. I wish you had been able to bring Robin with you, but of course he
is with his regiment now. How proud you must be of him. Sure you’ve got
all your luggage out? because it will be whirled away to Lincoln if you
haven’t, for the train doesn’t stop here unless Hermann sends an order.
Oh, I must speak to the station master a moment. He had news yesterday
that his son was killed, and I must tell him how sorry I am. Poor
fellow, he was only eighteen! Is it not heart-breaking, though of course
it’s wonderful to be young and fighting for your country.”
She bound up the broken-hearted with a few bright words, promised to
send a brace of partridges to his wife, thought how wonderful she was,
and rejoined the others.
“Prepare yourself for a humdrum life, Helen,” she said--“oh, yes, just
give me my fur coat, Mr. Boyton, for I have only got a cotton frock on;
yes, nice aren’t they? Hermann gave me them the other day--for there’s
no one here but Hermann and the children, and yet somehow I’m as busy as
ever I was in town. One has to read every word of the papers now-a-days,
and the news is a little more encouraging, isn’t it? You never saw
anyone so depressed as Hermann and I were during the retreat: how
thankful you must have been that Robin was not in that. Yes, now we’re
in the avenue: there’s the house at the end. I declare I feel as if I
had been born here, there’s such a sense of home about it. I long for
the war to be over: do you think we shall all be happy again by
Christmas? It was touch and go, was it not, whether Paris fell?”
This was not precisely the kind of diversion for which Helen Grote had
sought refuge in the country, and she tried to stem this flow of
patriotism.
“My dear, what wonderful sables!” she said. “You do have the most
beautiful things. They’re Russian, I suppose.”
“Yes, and is it not wonderful the way the Russians are getting on?
They’re pouring into Galicia, aren’t they? I see the papers call them
the steam-roller pounding along to Berlin. Fancy seeing the Russian
troops marching down the Unter den Linden. And what is your war-work
being, Mr. Boyton?”
Mr. Boyton was, for the time being, much in the same state as Lady
Grote, desiring merely, with such powers of purpose as were left in a
stunned mind, to escape, as far as possible, from all thoughts and
mention of the war. All his autumn plans had been upset: his carefully
arranged September and October with their succession of country-house
parties had collapsed like a card-house, and instead he was obliged to
spend those months at home in Hampstead.
London, it is true, was very full, but all his friends were busy, like
Lady Massingberd, over funds and associations and societies for purposes
of providing luxuries or necessities for soldiers and sailors, and were
not thinking of him at all, or giving him those little luncheon-parties
and dinner-parties which were the light and decoration of his life. His
engagement-book, and therefore his existence, was empty, and this
eternal monotony of war-talk was bringing him sensibly nearer
melancholia. He had accepted this invitation to Lady Gurtner’s with
enthusiasm, thinking that this house, with its conflicting interests of
blood, would at least be an oasis in the sea of windy patriots, and here
was his hostess quite unable to get off the subject of the war, and
expecting him to go out shooting with her husband. He hated and
distrusted fire-arms, never knowing what they would do next; but Lady
Gurtner, more English than the English, was expecting every man to be
employed in war-work, and if he was too old to shoot Germans at the
front, to occupy his leisure in shooting birds in the turnips. He
answered her as with a playful touch of a cat’s velvet paw, in which the
claws are conjectured though not quite visible.
“Dear lady,” he said, “my war-work at the moment is to keep an English
citizen sane, that citizen being myself. I thought it would be the best
possible treatment for me to come down to your delicious and sequestered
glades. May we forget for a little that there is anything in the world
beyond this adorable domain of yours? I even shrink from the thought of
shooting: there is a hint of destruction and death connected with it. I
should be exceedingly unlikely to destroy anything except perhaps a
beater or two, but when, as I gather, we need men so badly, I should be
sorry to do even that. Peace and plenty! Let us take that for our text.”
Oddly enough, the moment that he uttered sentiments which were so
completely in accord with Helen Grote’s purpose in coming here, she felt
herself disowning them as regards her own part, and disdaining them as
regards his. It was really awful that a man should speak like that.
Imagine Robin or her husband, who worked all day in the censor’s office,
uttering these bloodless, boudoir sentiments! On the other hand, Aline’s
war-talk was not a whit preferable, and it had been Aline’s war-talk
that had provoked this polished little tirade. But whatever its
demerits, it had the one merit of sincerity, whereas she had experienced
a slight difficulty in accepting the complete genuineness of Aline’s
rapture at the thought of the Russians marching down the avenues of
Berlin. But there was no need for the moment of steering a fresh course,
for they drew up at the great red-brick portico of the house. A big
climbing-rose sprawled over it: bees hummed in the flower-beds, it
basked in the serene afternoon sun.
The place, when the mortgage was foreclosed by Sir Hermann, had belonged
to some cousins of Helen’s: there were early memories connected with its
shabby distinction: the fragrance of long-forgotten things was wafted
out of its cool portals.
“Ah, how delicious,” she said. “I quite share your feeling of being at
home here, Aline. And here is Sir Hermann.”
He came out of the hall to meet them, dressed in his golfing clothes
which Aline had so mistakenly supposed to be a shooting-suit. He carried
a golf club over his shoulder in the manner of a gun, and his homespun
pockets bulged with balls. He looked like a biting caricature of an
English squire as seen on the stage of a Parisian music-hall. From the
hall inside came the cries and laughter of the children, who were seated
on a rug which Freddy pulled across the slippery marble floor. Bertie,
who when excited always talked German, was starting him with an “_Ein,
zwei, drei_”....
“Come and say how-do-you-do at once to Lady Grote,” called their mother,
and the three jolly little boys ran out into the porch.
“Ah, my chicks,” said Lady Gurtner, “have you been having a nice game?
And did I hear you talking German? For shame! Yes, the right hand,
Jackie, and shake hands with Mr. Boyton, too. Let us go straight out
through the house, Helen, and have tea in the garden, where it will be
ready.”
“And you have brought fresh news and good, I hope, Lady Grote?” asked
Sir Hermann, who was ignorant of Mr. Boyton’s pursuit of sanity. “What
was the report from France this morning?”
Aline took his arm in hers.
“Now, Hermann,” she said, “we’ve settled to leave the war alone and
pretend there’s nothing going on. Won’t that be nice? Look, Helen, I
told you we had made an Italian hall. Does it not look deliciously cool
on this hot day?”
“Cool, yes: cooling room,” said Boyton below his breath. The powerful
resemblance to a Turkish bath could scarcely be missed.
Helen looked round, was stunned, and recovered.
“How perfectly gorgeous, dear Aline,” she said. “Perfectly gorgeous! I
never saw anything so magnificent.”
This was quite true, it also convinced, and as it was no good getting
anyone to sit down on the cunning hot-water pipes, since the central
heating was not on, they went on past the cunning lift and through the
most velvety drawing-room on to the lawn, where in a tent that flew a
flag emblazoned with the Gurtner arms lately discovered by the Heralds’
College, tea was waiting.
There was a good deal of admiration that must be expended over the
tidiness with which Freddy ate his bread and jam, and the neatness with
which Bertie tucked his napkin in, and the propriety with which Jackie
said his grace, but anyhow these were subjects right away from the
war-zone. Gradually, thanks to the unconscious youth of the children,
and the mellow stability of the house, the three hundred years old lawn,
the ordered and secure serenity of trees and stretch of sun-hazed
pastures, something of the peaceful outlook made feint of returning, and
Mr. Boyton felt that the treatment suited the British citizen of whom he
was in charge....
“And you will shoot with me to-morrow?” asked Sir Hermann suddenly, not
knowing that sport as well as war was abhorrent to his guest’s mind. “I
can show you some good sport among my turnips.”
For a moment Aline forgot her Englishness and spoke in German.
“Dearest, Mr. Boyton does not care for sport,” she said. “We will eat
your partridges when you have killed them.”
For no very sound reason the “language of song” came as a slight shock
to Helen Grote. She was perfectly well aware that the Gurtners spoke
German to each other as often as English, but she did not expect to
hear it just now. It rather altered the values of the setting. She
covered it up, not too hurriedly, but did not fail to see the frown of
admonition which Sir Hermann gave his wife.
“Yes, Mr. Boyton is one of those who does not want to kill something
just because it is a fine day,” she said.
That would not do: there was the mention of killing again.
“And how are your partridges doing, Sir Hermann?” she added.
* * * * *
The two men presently strolled away, for though Mr. Boyton would not
shoot, Sir Hermann was quite determined that he should appreciate the
pursuits of an English country gentleman like himself to the extent at
any rate of looking at his Jersey cows and poking a pig in the back, and
when he was gone, Aline supposed that the embargo on war-talk was
removed and began again.
“It seems so odd to me,” she said, “that any Englishman can bear to be
doing nothing at a time like this. I am delighted that Mr. Boyton could
come, of course, but I fully expected to find that he was immersed in
work of some sort. Hermann has been splendid. He gave fifty thousand
pounds only yesterday to the Red Cross, and his subscriptions to the
county funds--well, there is simply no counting them. I tell him he will
reduce us all to beggary, but he says, ‘Well, so much the better. Who
wants to be rich, when there is so great a need for money?’ And he’s
going to change our name to Gardner, which is so English, is it not, and
so much better represents all we feel!”
Somehow to Helen Grote these very proper sentiments were worse than the
war-talk she had come here to avoid. It was not exactly that she doubted
the sincerity of Aline’s protestations, though she certainly protested
rather too much; indeed she more felt the callousness of Aline, so
largely German both by birth and association, being able to cut clean
away from German sympathies. She could have understood her being torn in
two by conflicting strains, she could have felt for her in a situation
which surely must have been almost intolerable, but what she could not
comprehend was the apparent absence of any such situation at all. She
_ought_ to have been miserable: instead she was a happy savage John
Bull.
Aline’s big blue eyes filled with the tears that lay less deep even than
her words.
“And to think how happy and secure we all felt such a few weeks ago,”
she said. “Do you remember that little party I gave with the German and
French Ambassadors and Princess Eleanor, when Saalfeld conducted and
Kuhlmann sang? How little any of us dreamed of the trouble that was
coming.”
At that moment there suddenly leaped into Helen Grote’s mind, with a
sense of significance, the sentence in Kuhlmann’s letter, “I need but
say that I trust the hospitable Sir Gurtner’s judgment more than that of
the German Ambassador.” It had never before occurred to her to correlate
it, to feel any curiosity as to its place. But when Aline, referring to
the night of the party so few hours before Kuhlmann’s departure, said
that no one had dreamed of coming trouble she wondered to what this
referred. Kuhlmann had certainly learned Sir Hermann’s view of the
situation before he wrote that letter.
“But your husband guessed what was coming, didn’t he?” she asked. “He
took a different view from that abominable old Ambassador, who thought
we were going to let treaties be torn up, just as Germany chose, without
stirring a finger?”
Aline remembered the interview she had had with her husband late that
night, and his general injunction as to secrecy. By his private
information with the aid of his own foresight he had sown a golden
harvest while the world still slept, but surely it was impossible that
this was matter of common knowledge. She saw she must be careful, a
precaution that usually ends in being too careful.
“Ah, no, it came like a thunderclap to Hermann,” she said. “He was
simply knocked down by it.”
Helen had not the slightest reason to make a mystery of her information.
“Yes, dear Aline,” she said. “All I meant was, when did the thunderclap
come? Your party--how well I remember it--was on a Thursday, and
Kuhlmann left for Germany on the Saturday, while we were still all
drowsy and comfortable. But he left me a little note of adieu, and said
in it that he had gone because he trusted Sir Hermann’s judgment more
than the Ambassador’s.”
Aline in her desire to be careful was full of protestations.
“I had no idea of it at all,” she said volubly. “Hermann hadn’t given me
the slightest clue that he was uneasy till we all knew that war was
inevitable. How proud I was of being English when that splendid
ultimatum went out that England would not tolerate the breaking of the
treaty. But are you sure he said anything to Kuhlmann? I expect somebody
else spoke to him: probably he got it mixed up and meant to say that he
trusted the German Ambassador’s judgment more than Hermann’s.”
Instantly she saw that would not do, since now everyone was aware that
the Ambassador had clung to the belief that England would not intervene,
and from carefulness made things a shade worse.
“I remember he talked to us that night,” she said, “and was terribly
pessimistic about the whole situation.”
Helen could not help remembering that only just now Aline had said that
on that night nobody dreamed of trouble. There was clearly some little
confusion somewhere, though not probably Kuhlmann’s, and she had not the
smallest desire to investigate it. People get muddled over dates--she
always did herself--and she attempted to slide off the topic. Little as
she wanted to talk about the war at all, she thought she would make some
violently anti-German remark, such as Aline would appreciate, in order
to put the muddle away.
“It’s odd how little Germans can appreciate the psychology of honourable
and civilized people,” she said. “The Ambassador, for instance, as I
said, thought we were going to see a treaty torn up and not stir a
finger.”
Now Aline was quite capable in the pursuit of her Englishness of making
that identical remark herself, but when she heard it made by an
Englishwoman she revolted against it.
“But it was life and death to Germany,” she said. “She had to invade
Belgium! Her promise couldn’t be held to bind her. And they say that
France really invaded Belgium first.”
The two were now thoroughly at cross-purposes. Helen Grote, in her
private reflections that morning, had been equally loose in her
conception of a promise, seeing therein only a temporary obligation to
suit certain circumstances. But now when she heard that doctrine stated
she saw its abominable falsity. Even though the outcome of that for her
intimately was that Robin must soon go out to uphold the sacredness of a
promise, she repudiated with scorning her own conclusion of the morning.
She got up.
“My dear Aline,” she said, “that is the sort of thing one is tempted to
think, and is ashamed of having thought. Why the whole English case,
which you and I feel in our bones, is based on the negative of that. As
for people saying that France invaded Belgium first, that is what Berlin
says to Potsdam, and Potsdam to Berlin. And how unspeakable those
accounts of German atrocities in Belgium are. But don’t let us talk
about it: I so longed in London to get away from it all. May we have a
stroll round your delicious garden? How well I remember it.”
In spite of Helen Grote’s expressed desire to get away from the thought
of the war, Aline could not let that remark about German atrocities pass
unchallenged. Once again, as on the Sunday at Cambridge with Robin, she
spoke before she knew she had spoken.
“Oh, those infamous lies,” she said. “The Germans are incapable of such
brutality. It is wicked of the English papers to publish such things.”
“Anyhow, do not let us think about them,” said Helen. “Surely we can
forget it all for a little in this home of peace. The rose-garden: do
let me see your new rose-garden.”
The rose-garden served its purpose for a while, but as they came back,
in the gathering dusk across the lawn, once again the topic intruded
itself.
“I must go up and see the children,” said Aline, “before they go to bed.
Every night they all sing a verse of ‘God save the King.’ Isn’t that
darling of them?”
She omitted to state that this was a very recent practice, and perhaps
she had better not have alluded to it at all, for the nursery windows
were thrown wide open just above them, and, on the moment, the first few
bars of the “Watch by the Rhine” came floating out in shrill childish
trebles. It stopped quite suddenly and howls succeeded.
“I must run in,” said Aline. “Yes, darlings, Mummie is coming to you
now,” she called out.
She hurried off; presently the howlings ceased, and the more orthodox
strains were uplifted. It was ludicrous enough, but Helen felt it was
just a shade uncomfortable also. She would have liked a clearer view of
what was going on in poor Aline’s breast. She could have understood so
well the frank admission of torn and shredded sympathies: what was
harder to comprehend was this intense desire to appear wholly English.
And Aline’s subsequent appearance and explanation did not really
elucidate matters. As usual, when everything was not going precisely as
she wished it, her eyes were bright and brimming.
“I must really get rid of the children’s nurse,” she said. “She scolded
them for singing the ‘Watch by the Rhine,’ and called them horrid little
Huns. You cannot expect children to know all that is going on.”
But again Helen found herself in some little perplexity of mind. Was
Aline’s indignation with her children’s nurse entirely due to the fact
of her having called them Huns? Or did the fact that she had, by
implication, called the Germans “horrid Huns” have anything to do with
it? She began to feel rather more interested in the analysis of Aline’s
state of mind.
* * * * *
Though the party at dinner only consisted of the four of them, with the
addition of the clergyman of the parish and his wife, who walked across
the Park from the Rectory (Mrs. Tempest carrying her evening shoes in a
whitey-brown paper parcel), there was a very elaborate menu, and both
Sir Hermann and Aline continually showed their appreciation of the
duties of territorial magnates.
Before the arrival of the guests Aline had explained to Lady Grote that
the invitation had been sent and accepted before her telegram had
arrived, and had further told her that Mrs. Tempest was a very
well-connected woman, much as if Lady Grote was likely to consider it as
a very extraordinary thing that she should be expected to sit next a
mere parson. He was asked to shoot with Sir Hermann next day in place of
Mr. Boyton, and Aline exhibited a great interest in the church
decorations for the approaching harvest festival, promising fruit and
flowers and, if she could find time, her own personal embellishment of
the altar. She also repeatedly pressed on them both second helpings of
the dishes, urging them to make a good dinner, and implying, as was
perfectly true, that they did not usually find themselves in a position
to eat so largely of rich and expensive food. Kind no doubt these
intentions were, but there was mixed up in them a self-conscious
knowledge of the kindness, and a condescension in bestowing it at all.
Sir Hermann’s attitude was not less perfectly appropriate than hers, and
after dinner, when his guest had been practically obliged to drink at
least two more glasses of port than he wished, he insisted on his taking
home with him another cigar, which he would be glad of to-morrow. The
price of it was also mentioned.
A bridge-table was laid out in the drawing-room with two new packs of
cards and sharpened pencils, and on the entry of the men Aline got up.
“Mrs. Tempest has been telling me,” she said, “that she much prefers to
look on at Bridge than to play it, and that Mr. Tempest never plays for
money. So shall the other four of us have a rubber? You sit and watch
Lady Grote’s play, Mrs. Tempest, and you will, I am sure, learn
something. And there’s a very comfortable chair for Mr. Tempest, and I
daresay he hasn’t seen the evening paper yet. Shall we cut, Helen?”
Helen would have been as incapable of sitting down to play Bridge in her
own house, while leaving two guests, the one to look at the evening
paper, the other to observe her own play, as of suggesting that she
herself should go to bed and leave the others to amuse themselves. She
made a disclaimer as regards playing Bridge at all. But instantly her
hostess’s face clouded.
“Oh, but Mr. Boyton likes his Bridge so much,” she said, “and so does
Hermann. Hermann said this afternoon that we should be able to have a
rubber after dinner, didn’t you, Hermann? And Mrs. Tempest will enjoy
seeing you play so much.”
There was no possibility of making further indications, so thought Helen
Grote, for if Aline had no inkling of the ill-breeding of such a scheme
it was no use making hints. Besides, primarily she was here as a guest,
and it was no part of a guest’s duties to teach her hostess manners. So
with more directions from Aline to Mr. Tempest as to where he would find
the _Sketch_ and the _Graphic_ when he had finished the evening paper
the rubber began. But Mrs. Tempest was not long allowed the pleasure and
instruction of watching Helen play, for almost at once Aline summoned
her to another chair where she could watch the brilliant manœuvres of
herself. Then Mr. Tempest was called from his perusal of the evening
paper.
“Sit here by me, Mr. Tempest,” she said, “and see how I play this hand.
Mr. Boyton has gone two no-trumps, you see, and I have doubled. That is
where I shall defeat him. Look, too, Mrs. Tempest: was I not right to
double? Now watch!”
Aline was now quite happy. There were two people completely engaged in
looking at her skill, and naturally admiring it, while her opponents
were sitting paralysed under her long suit. She fined them, she made
them bow down to her cleverness, and while she was yet in the heyday of
her triumph, her husband, who with Mr. Boyton was playing against her,
suddenly spoke in German.
“Then you have revoked, my dearest,” he said, as she was gathering up a
trick.
“No, I haven’t,” said she; “and besides, Hermann, you had no right to
say that, for you are dummy.”
She, too, had replied in German: he recovered the sense of locality
first.
“Ah, that is so,” he said. “I am sorry, Mr. Boyton. But she did revoke.”
Her voice grew shrill and querulous.
“You have no right to say that,” she said. “I have followed in every
trick. Have I not, Helen?”
Helen laughed.
“No, my dear, of course you have revoked,” she said. “Are we not lucky
to have escaped the penalty by dummy pointing it out? That sort of luck
never happens to me.”
“Everyone is against me,” said Aline.
“_Ach_, do not be a child, Aline,” said her husband. “Go on: we are all
waiting for another revoke, which I shall leave to Mr. Boyton to
discover.”
At once all Aline’s pleasure was spoiled. She knew perfectly well that
she had revoked, and all the delight of having two people to look at
her beautiful play, and two opponents to writhe under it, was instantly
gone. She gathered up the cards at the end of the deal, and looked at
her next hand, which she dealed herself in dead silence. She felt that
she, at any rate, knew how to behave like a lady. Luckily Helen, on this
occasion, knew how to behave like a lady too, and put down a magnificent
hand in response to her own unchallenged spade.
About half way through Mrs. Tempest got up.
“I think my husband and I ought to be going,” she said.
Aline turned a convalescent face to her, and held out her left hand,
without getting up.
“Good-night, then, Mrs. Tempest,” she said. “So pleased you were able to
come. Good-night, Mr. Tempest. You are shooting with my husband
to-morrow, aren’t you? Let us see, where were we? Good-night. Let me see
the last trick, Hermann.”
“_Nein_: it is quitted.”
He pressed the electric button that was let into the edge of the table.
“Good-night,” he said. “It is your play, Aline. _Auf Wiedersehen_, Mr.
Tempest. My servants will be in the hall.”
Helen and Mr. Boyton both rose to shake hands and the two guests left
the room.
Aline gave a little sigh of relief.
“Such dear good people,” she said. “I felt sure you would not dislike
meeting them, Helen, so I did not put them off. It will have been such a
treat for them to come here and hear a talk of things outside their
little Rectory. Let me see....”
* * * * *
Aline had announced that they kept country hours here, and consequently
when a rubber came to an end, about half-past twelve she swept the cards
together and gave a great country yawn. She accompanied Helen up to her
room, alluded to the Napoleon bed on the foot board of which was a
cluster of golden bees, reminded her that in her bath-room next door was
hot water perpetually on tap, as the hot-water furnace burned day and
night, like the fire of the Vestal Virgins, and told her that there was
always a manicurist in the house, in case she wanted his services, and a
telephone to her maid’s room. That was a device of Hermann’s; he had
gone into it himself, most carefully, and had arranged that each
bed-room communicated by telephone with the corresponding number in the
servants’ rooms, so that No. 3 in the guests’ part of the house rang up
No. 3 in that part of the servants’ quarters which was reserved for the
valets and maids of visitors. Mr. Boyton, so she had ascertained from
her own maid, had not brought a man with him--was not that odd, but she
supposed that Mr. Boyton only had parlour-maids--so the first footman
had been sent to sleep in No. 5 (servants’ quarters) in case Mr. Boyton
wanted anything. If your friends were kind enough to come and stay with
you in the country, the least you could do was to make them comfortable.
“So, good-night.... It was sweet of you to come.”
Helen began to wonder, when she was left alone, just how comfortable she
had been all evening. She knew now that she could have a hot bath or a
manicurist or her maid at a moment’s notice, but she had somehow taken
all that sort of thing for granted. If you wanted anything of the sort,
you had it; it happened. But she found that she had not taken for
granted a quantity of things that had actually occurred. It had not
seemed to her really possible that you could be rude to your guests, or
that you should take Bridge as anything else but a game, or that your
children should sing the Watch by the Rhine as they were going to bed.
These were all rather remarkable proceedings....
She did not trouble herself to disentangle them, when, after ringing for
No. 3 servants’ quarters, her maid came in to brush her hair. But she
had a general impression left on her mind that there was a great
difference between friends and those who really were no more than
acquaintances. Acquaintances gave you surprises--there was the root of
it--friends never did. These surprises might in their very nature be
pleasant or unpleasant; if they were pleasant, it was likely that the
acquaintances, should they be equally satisfied with you, were on the
high road towards friendship. But if these surprises were unpleasant....
She declined to pursue the subject, and spoke to her maid, who was being
rather severe in her handling. Simpson had been her nursery-maid when
she was a child, and now, austere and grey-haired, was as devoted to her
still. At home there was another French young thing to supplement
Simpson, but when Helen went on a quiet visit like this, it was always
Simpson who attended her.
“What’s the matter, Sim?” she asked. “Why are you being so cross with my
hair?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Simpson darkly.
“Well, then, I don’t give it you. What’s the matter? Don’t you like
coming back to Ashmore again? Or have I kept you up too late?”
Simpson’s severe touch melted into its usual softness.
“Eh, now, Miss Helen,” she said, “don’t talk such nonsense, my dear. As
if I wasn’t pleased to sit up all night for you. But things have changed
since you were here as a young lady: that’s what it is.”
“I suppose you haven’t got any nice young man to flirt with, Sim.
There’s the butler: what’s the matter with him?”
“You and your jokes,” said Simpson, beaming.
“Well, there are worse things than jokes,” said she.
Simpson went on brushing in silence a little.
“I can’t think why you come to a house of Huns, Miss Helen,” she said at
length. “That’s what they say about them down stairs. There’s the butler
whom you joked about just now. And there’s the children’s nurse who’s
been dismissed this very evening----”
Helen interrupted and got up.
“Stuff and nonsense, you old darling,” she said. “There, give me a kiss,
and don’t listen to such rubbish.”
“Rubbish?” began Simpson.
“Yes, rubbish. A pack of rubbish like when you and I used to play
‘Beggar my Neighbour’ in the nursery. And will you call me at half-past
eight? Sleep well.”
Helen did not follow her own advice to Simpson, and for a long time that
night she did not sleep at all. On getting into the Napoleon bed, she
reminded herself by way of suggestion towards sleep, that she was now
far away from London, away out in the peaceful, somnolent fen-country,
and that for miles upon miles round her stretched quiet pastures dotted
over with farm-houses to which the news of the war had scarcely more
significance than the report of a storm at sea. Here and there, as in
the case of the station-master at Ashmore, someone might have suffered
an intimate bereavement, but for the most part crops and cattle
remained paramount as the topics of life. She had left the uneasy city
where at every turn she was confronted by something that reminded her of
all that she wished to forget and drew an insincere sigh of relief to
think how far she was away from it all.
To-morrow, after a long night, she would spend the day as she would have
done in autumns of other years: perhaps Aline would drive her into
Cambridge: she would visit curiosity shops, she would read, she would
walk, she would sit and discuss the endless topics that sprang up so
plentifully when you talked. Aline had hoped that she would stay here
for at least a week: that she would certainly do, and after that,
instead of going back to town, she would go down to Grote and spend
October there.
It would be easy to collect Mr. Boyton and a few people of that sort who
disliked the war as much as she did. She would make a Hermitage, a
Boccaccio-refuge for those who had the sense to avoid the plague. The
busier sort of folk should come down for week-ends, to refresh
themselves with the sense that the old pleasures and interests of life
still existed. They were still there unimpaired; it was only necessary
to put yourself back in the old atmosphere, and shut the window against
the poisonous gases that blew in from those infernal furnaces....
October mornings at Grote, with the hoar-frost on the lawns, and the
mist which the sun would soon disperse, lying thin over the beech-woods,
so that their smouldering gold showed through it, mornings with the
clean, odourless odour of the cold night still lingering.... The days
would be beginning to close in: by tea-time the house would be curtained
and lit, and the sparkle of wood-fire prosper on the open hearths....
Yet, though she could enumerate the details, as she might have
enumerated the pieces of furniture in a room, she could not visualize
them in her imagination, or from them construct a living and coherent
whole. Still very wide awake and assuring herself how delicious it was
to revel in this sense of remoteness and peace, she travelled back to
the evening she had just spent.
It occurred to her with added force how little she knew of her hostess,
and what she was like when she was not one of a crowd. Hitherto they had
met but in the great world where everyone to some extent wears a mask.
But, to-night, had Aline taken off her mask only to put on another, or
was it the real Aline who was more English than the English, and
delighted in harvest festivals, and was rude to her guests? Perhaps she
would show more of herself in the days to come, and even be glad to know
of the sympathy of a friend for one who at heart must be torn by the
strife of two nations to both of which she belonged.... And thus she was
back at the very subject which she had come here to escape.
Robin....
* * * * *
Probably Sir Hermann had received some hint that Helen had hoped for a
ventilation of the war-impregnated atmosphere of London, for when she
came down to breakfast next morning he let the daily paper, from which
he had been reading aloud to Aline, slip on to the floor as he rose to
greet her, and did not recover it. He was dressed, in view of to-day’s
programme, in a brand new homespun suit of Norfolk jacket, with a
leather pad on the shoulder and knickerbockers, and there was a marked
air of high elation both about him and Aline. Giggles and slight
connubialities took place between them as they assisted each other in
giving Helen some kedjeree; Aline put her face on to Hermann’s shoulder,
and said how good the homespun smelt, and he kissed her ear and said it
smelt of him. This was slightly embarrassing for a third party, and
Helen was glad at this moment to welcome the appearance of Mr. Boyton.
But the astonishing high spirits of their hosts continued. Sir Hermann,
usually rather silent, bubbled with small talk, and they be-dearested
each other in every sentence. It could hardly be that the prospect of
sport for the one and harvest decorations for the other could account
for this sparkle, and, adopting a more probable conjecture, Helen asked
if there was good news in the paper.
“Very little from France,” said Sir Hermann, “and on the East front the
Russians have suffered a severe defeat.”
Aline beamed over her bacon.
“Yes, poor things,” she said. “It does not look much like a victorious
march down the Unter den Linden.”
“No: the steam-roller is skidding a little,” said Sir Hermann. “I hope
you slept well, Mr. Boyton? You will not change your mind and pick some
partridges for these ladies?”
Aline laughed.
“Listen at his ‘Pick some partridges!’” she said. “And I must go and
shoot some flowers for the harvest festival. Will you be back to lunch,
dearest? Do come home for lunch. I hate your being away all day.”
“That will not be possible,” said he. “We are going to motor out to the
very edge of my property, and at half-two Mr. Tempest and I will be
eating a sandwich six miles away.”
“Do not catch cold, dearest. Will you not keep the motor, and then you
and Mr. Tempest can lunch comfortably inside it?”
“No, it is not necessary. Yes: here is the paper, Mr. Boyton, though I
am afraid you will find nothing very cheerful in it. There is the
_Times_, too, and the _Telegraph_. I do not like the Russian news at
all.”
“No, it is terrible: we will not think of it,” said Aline. “Dearest
Helen, what shall we stay-at-homes do? I must just go down to the church
and take some flowers, but after that I am quite at your disposal. Is it
not a divine morning? Such a morning makes me feel twenty years old
again. I have to remind myself that I am a staid old matron, with three
great boys and a bear of a husband who will not take his lunch with me.”
The sun was warm along the south side of the house, and while Aline went
to see her husband and Mr. Tempest start, the two others strolled out on
the flagged walk. Mr. Boyton, as usual, was a little acid in the
morning: what is called “a good night’s rest” always disturbed his
temper.
“Our charming hosts seem in the most extravagant spirits to-day,” he
said. “Personally, I have to break myself to myself every morning, and
that depresses me. When on the top of that I come down and find little
smiles and pinches and intimacies going on, and in the escape from them
into the daily papers am confronted with this appalling disaster to our
Allies, I merely descend into the pit from which I was digged. Then
there was the renewal of the odious proposition that I should wade
through turnips all day.”
Helen made a desperate attempt to be consistent with her object in
coming into the country.
“Ah, don’t remind me of the paper and anything it may contain,” she
said. “Let us spend one of those idle days, when we were all so
engrossingly busy from morning till night. All the resources of
civilization are at our disposal; how shall we use them to the best
advantage?”
“Let me fly to the lift, and spend the morning going up and down,
listening to German chorales,” suggested he. “What I dread is the
invasion of the children, and the long acts of homage and admiration
that that will entail. I think we should be safe in the lift.”
Once again she tried to imagine herself all October at Grote with Mr.
Boyton, and one or two other unoccupied people in rotation. Would it be
as difficult to plan the occupation of those days as to plan the hours
of this? She longed to take the paper from his hand, and just give one
glance at it, to see how serious the Russian defeat was. But she put
that away from her.
Mr. Boyton, like a lemon-squeezer, continued to drip with acid
expressions.
“I envy the superb vitality of our hostess,” he said. “Yesterday evening
I felt that she in her own delightful person embodied the whole spirit
of the Entente, and yet this morning, in spite of the bad news, she has
attained to heights of elation rarely witnessed. What a superb thing it
is to be able to dissociate yourself entirely from such disasters. Let
us do the same, my dear lady, and sing chorales in the lift. Or shall we
tranquillize ourselves in the cooling-room?”
Helen found herself suddenly disliking Mr. Boyton. He was offending
against the obligations implied by the acceptance of hospitality in
these reflections, and she could no more go on listening to them than
she could last night have encouraged Simpson to develop her ideas about
the house of Huns.
“Oh, it’s a waste of time to go indoors,” she said. “When I am in the
country I like to be out. I wonder if Aline would take me into
Cambridge. Ah, there she is.”
Mr. Boyton had a sense of having been snubbed; he had made humorous
though sub-acid remarks about sitting in the lift or the cooling-room
which had been received without appreciation, and he had spoken in
praise of his hostess’s vitality and power of self-detachment from
disagreeable events. No one could have accused him of a double meaning,
unless the second of the meanings was not floating about in his mind
ready to crystallize. He felt, no doubt, that there was some such
crystallization in Lady Grote’s mind: otherwise she would have endorsed
his praise of Aline’s vitality. But if there was, why did she not
respond, and let their private suspicions rub noses together? Instead,
she failed to see humour in his fun, and professed by her silence a
blank ignorance of crystals. A failure in these little social successes
was always bitter to him, since they constituted the joy of life to him,
and with the ill-breeding that always jumped out if he was scratched, he
proceeded to be petulant and embarrassing.
“Dear lady,” he said to Aline, “your two guests were singing a hymn of
praise in honour of your vitality and control. Never, we decided, were
you inspired with a more charming animation than this morning, though
you, like us, must have been so terribly depressed by the bad news. What
is your secret for this magnificent power of isolation? We come as
despondent neophytes to you.”
It was craftily done: he had put Lady Grote in a difficult position, for
she could scarcely dissociate herself from these compliments or from the
innuendo that underlay them. That was his method of “punishing” those
who appeared to snub him. He had not had occasion to punish Lady Grote
before, and was rather surprised at his own audacity. He was punishing
his hostess as well for being allied by birth to the nation which had
spoiled his autumn plans, and for having high spirits in the morning.
His calculation miscarried. Helen Grote merely stepped forward between
him and Aline, and took Aline’s arm.
“Take me up to the nursery to see the children, Aline,” she said. “I’ve
fallen in love with Freddy. Let’s go at once, may we? And while you’re
doing your flowers, I have some letters to write.”
Mr. Boyton remained planted on the flagged path....
The inauspicious days went by, days flooded with summer sun, refreshed
by the calmest breath of autumn, cushioned by all that wealth could
supply of material comfort, and curtained from the blasts of war by the
miles of sleepy country. But never had Helen passed hours so uneasy, nor
made a scheme of which the execution so frustrated the design.
Instead of finding peace in this withdrawn corner, she had been finding
only an infinitely greater dreariness than even in the work-rooms of
Gracie Massingberd; instead of capturing forgetfulness, she was seized
with an unremitting restlessness that would not allow her placidly to
enjoy. Whether she read or talked, it was as if some remote telephone
kept sounding that she knew brought a summons to her. Twenty times a day
she resolved to devote herself entirely to anything that amused or
interested her; but no sooner had she tried to fix her mind on it, than
the penetrating tinkle diverted her attention again. And would her
projected retirement to Grote, she asked herself, be productive of any
better results than this? Would Mr. Boyton and his perennial flow of
slightly ill-natured comment be any more amusing there than here? She
began to wonder whether she would spend October at Grote after all. She
could not see herself there, and yet in her present mood she could see
herself nowhere.
She longed to taste the sharp, sweet savour of life again, and had
thought it would return to her palate if only she could shut out the
things that in London reminded her every moment of the war. She was
eager to be alive again, but her eagerness found nothing on which it
could fasten. She longed to get her teeth into life, but the old topics,
the old interests, were like dust or like cotton-wool in her mouth.
A great chasm seemed to have opened in the world, and she found herself
clinging to the edge of it. It had opened at her very feet, and she was
clutching the precipitous margin of it. Far away across the abyss were
the memories of past years, and if she turned her head to look at them
there was no clearness about them. They were unreal and unsubstantial,
covered with wreaths of mist. Barren and bleak was the edge she was
clinging to, hideous was the desolated prospect that lay beyond it. But
the edge seemed firm enough; it bore her weight....