Mrs. Massington was lying on an extremely comfortable and elaborately
padded wicker couch under a conveniently shady tree. The time was after
lunch, the day an excessively hot Sunday in July, and the place the
lawn of Lord Bolton's present residence on the hills above Winchester.
His big country place at Molesworth was let, and had been for some
years, since he could not afford to live in it; but in the interval he
made himself fairly at home in the houses of other people in equally
impecunious circumstances. As he truly said, one must live somewhere,
and he very much preferred not to live at Molesworth. The plan partook
of the nature of that of those ingenious islanders who lived entirely
by taking in each other's washing, but, though theoretically unsound,
it seemed to succeed well enough in practice.
For himself he really preferred Haworth, the place he had taken for the
last four years; for Molesworth was unmanageably immense, remote from
London, and really lonely, except when there was a regiment of guests
in the house. Haworth, on the other hand, was small, exquisite in its
way, and within an hour or so of London.
From the lawn the ground sloped sharply down to the water-meadows
of the Itchen, where in the driest summer the grass was green, and
streams of a translucent excellence wove their ropes of living crystal
from bank to bank of their courses. A few admirable trees grew on the
lawn, and all down the south front of the Tudor house a deep riband
of flower-bed, all colour, gleamed and glowed in the summer sun.
Sweet-peas were there in huge fragrant groups, stately hollyhocks, with
flowers looking as if they had been cut out of thin paper by a master
hand, played chaperon from the back; carnations were in a swoon of
languid fragrance, love-lies-bleeding drooped its velvety spires, and
a border of pansies wagged their silly faces as the wind passed over
them. Behind, round the windows of the lower story, great clusters
of clematis, like large purple sponges, blossomed, miraculously fed
through their thin, dry stalks. At some distance off, in Winmester
probably, which pricked the blue haze of heat with dim spires, a church
bell came muffled and languid, and at the sound Mrs. Massington smiled.
'That is what I like,' she said. 'I like hearing a railway-whistle when
I am not going in the train; I like hearing a church bell when I am
not going to church; I like seeing somebody looking very hot when I am
quite cool; I like hearing somebody sneeze when I haven't got a cold; I
like--oh, I like almost everything,' she concluded broadly.
'I wonder if you, I, we shall like America,' said a voice, which
apparently came from two shins and a knee in a basket-chair.
'America?' said Sybil. 'Of course you, I, we will. It is absurd to go
there unless one means to like it, and it is simply weak not to like
it, if one means to. Bertie, sit up!'
'I don't see why,' said Bertie.
'Because I want to talk to you, and I can't talk to a tennis-shoe.'
The tennis-shoe descended, and the chair creaked.
'Well,' said he.
'You and I are going on business,' she said. 'That makes one feel so
like a commercial traveller. The worst of it is neither you nor I have
got any wares to offer except ourselves. Dear me! I'm glad Judy can't
hear me. Oh, there's Ginger! Ginger, come here!'
Ginger came (probably because he had red hair). He wore a Panama hat,
and looked tired. He might have been eighteen or thirty, and was
twenty-four, and Bertie's younger brother, his less-used name being
Lord Henry Scarton. He sat down suddenly on the grass, took off the
Panama hat, and prepared himself to be agreeable.
'There is a Sabbath peace about,' said he; 'that always makes me feel
energetic. The feeling of energy passes completely away on Monday
morning, and it and I are strangers till the ensuing Sunday. Then we
meet. But now it is here, I think I shall go to church. There is a
church, isn't there? Come to church, Bertie.'
'No,' said Bertie.
'That is always the way,' remarked Ginger; 'and it is the same with me.
I never want to do what anybody else proposes; so don't propose to me,
Sybil.'
'Ginger, why don't you do something?' asked Sybil.
'I will go to church,' said Ginger.
'No, you won't. I want you to tell Bertie and me about America. You
haven't been there, have you?'
'No. The capital is New York,' said Ginger; 'and you are sick before
you get there. When you get there, you are sick again. Then you come
back. That is why I haven't been. Next question, please.'
'Why is Bertie going, then?' she asked.
'Because--because he is Bertie instead of me.'
'And why am I going, then?'
'Because you are not Judy. And you are both going there because you are
both progressive English people.'
Ginger got up, and stood in front of them.
'All people who on earth do dwell,' said he, 'go to America if they
want to dwell--really dwell--on earth. If you want to have all material
things at your command, you will, if you are going to get them at
all, get them quicker there than anywhere else. But if you attain
your ambition, you will come back like cast iron. Everything that was
a pleasure to you will be a business; you will play bridge with a
cast-iron face, and ask for your winnings; you will study the nature
of your soil before you plant a daisy in it; you will always get your
money's worth out of everybody. You will be cast iron.'
'No, I won't,' said Sybil. 'You are quite wrong. I will come back in
nature as I went.'
'You can't. If you were strong enough for that, you wouldn't go; your
going is a sign of weakness.'
Sybil laughed, and stretched herself more at ease on her couch.
'I am not weak,' she said.
Ginger sat down again.
'I am not sure that to do anything is not a sign of weakness,' he said.
'It isn't so easy to loaf as you imagine. Lots of people try to loaf,
and take to sheer hard work as a rest from it. I don't suppose anybody
in America loafs, and that I expect you will find is the vital and
essential difference between them and us. It implies a lot.'
'Go on, Ginger,' said Sybil, as he paused.
'Yes, I think I will. Now, take Mrs. Palmer. She works at pleasure in a
way few people in this island work at business. It is her life's work
to be gay. She doesn't like gaiety really; it isn't natural to her.
But she, by the laws of her nature, which prevent her loafing, works
at gaiety just as her husband works at amassing millions. They can
neither of them stop. They don't enjoy it any more than a person with
St. Vitus's dance enjoys twitching; simply they have lost control of
their power to sit still. Now, in England we have lost a good deal; we
are falling behind, I am told, in most things, but we still have that
power--the power of tranquillity. I am inclined to think it is worth
something. But you will go to America, and come back and tell me.'
Ginger lay back on the grass and tilted his straw hat over his eyes
after this address.
'Ginger, I've never heard you say so much on end,' remarked Sybil;
'have you been getting it up?'
'I never get things up, but I scent danger,' replied Ginger. 'I am
afraid you and Bertie will come back quite different. You will always
be wanting to do something; that is a weakness.'
'I don't agree with you,' said Sybil.
'That's all right. If people say they agree with me, I always think I
must have said something stupid. What don't you agree with me about?'
'About our power of sitting still. Look at the season in London. All
the time we are doing exactly what you say Americans, as opposed to us,
do. We make a business of pleasure; we rush about after gaiety, when we
are not naturally gay; we----'
'Sybil, you are talking about three or four thousand people among whom
you live. I hope you don't think that a few hundred people like that
mean England.'
'They include almost all well-known English people.'
'Well known to whom? To themselves. No, that sleepy little misty town
down there is just as important a part of England as the parish of
St. James's. The parish of St. James's is the office of the company.
The people there do the talking, and see after the affairs of the
shareholders, and play a very foolish game called politics. They are
mere clerks and officials.'
'Well, but as regards the pursuit of gaiety,' said Sybil, 'nobody can
be more senseless than you or I, Ginger.'
'Oh, I know we are absurd; you are more absurd than I, though, because
you are going to America.'
'You seem to resent it.'
'Not in the least. It is ridiculous to resent what anybody else chooses
to do, so long as it is not a personal attack on one's self. That is
the first maxim in my philosophy of life.'
'Published? I shall get it.'
'No; it will be some day. It begins with a short history of the world
from the days of Adam, and then the bulk of the book draws lessons from
the survey. But that is the first lesson. Let everybody go to the devil
in his own way. Your way is by the White Star Line.'
'I don't think you know what you are talking about, Ginger,' said his
brother.
'I'm sure I don't,' said Ginger cheerfully.
'Why desecrate the Sabbath stillness, then?'
Ginger was silent a moment.
'That is a personal assault,' he said at length, 'and I resent it. It
is unjust, too, because meaningless conversation is utterly in harmony
with Sabbath stillness. It completes the sense of repose. It is no tax
on the brain. Besides, I do really know what I was talking about; I
said I didn't because I don't like arguing.'
'You have been doing nothing else.'
'No. I have been reeling out strings of assertions, which Sybil has
languidly contradicted from time to time. You can't call that argument.
Look! there's Charlie. Why didn't you marry him, Sybil, and stop in
England? Who is that with him? Oh, Judy, isn't it? Are they coming
here? What a bore!'
Charlie and Judy strolled across the lawn towards them with extreme
slowness. To walk across a lawn for tea and walk back again afterwards
was the utmost exercise that Judy ever took.
'I am taking my walk,' she observed as she got near them. 'I am now
exactly half way, so I shall rest. Sybil, you look as if you were
resting too.'
'We are all resting, and we are making the most of it, because Ginger
tells us we shall never rest again.'
'Do you want a chair, Judy?' asked Ginger.
Bertie got up.
'Sit there,' he said.
'I am rather tired,' said Judy; 'but pray don't let me turn you out.'
And she sat down.
'I'm so glad your father's party broke down,' she went on to Bertie.
'It is so very much nicer to have nobody here, except just ourselves,
who needn't make any efforts.'
Ginger gently applauded, his face still hidden by his straw hat.
'The voice of my country,' he remarked.
'Ah, somebody agrees with you,' said Sybil; 'so you are wrong. I am
glad; I was beginning to be afraid you were right.'
'Has Ginger been sparkling?' asked Judy.
'Yes, sparkling Ginger-beer. Very tasty,' remarked Ginger fatuously.
'They swallowed it all. If you only talk enough, some of it is sure to
be swallowed--not to stick. But it's finished now.'
Charlie had sat down on the bank beside Sybil's couch.
'This is the last Sunday, then,' he said; 'you go to Scotland next
week, don't you?'
'Yes,' said she--' just for a fortnight. Then Aix with Judy, and I sail
on September 1st.'
'That is earlier than you planned originally.'
'I know; but we get a big boat instead of a small one. I thought it
worth while.'
'Do you feel inclined to stroll a bit till tea?'
'By all means.'
'They are going to desecrate the Sabbath stillness by strolling,'
remarked Ginger. 'It ought not to be allowed, like public-houses.'
'Ah, we are genuine travellers,' said Sybil. 'Come, too, Ginger.'
'Do I look like it?'
'No; but one never knows with you. Judy dear, would not a good brisk
walk do you good?'
'I shouldn't wonder,' said Judy; 'but I shall never know.'
Sybil put up her parasol.
'Come, Charlie,' she said.
They walked off together in the shadow of the big elm avenue that
led down to the village. The huge boskage of the trees allowed no
inter-penetrating ray of sun to reach them, and in the silence and
sleep of the hot summer afternoon they seemed to Charlie to be very
specially alone. This feeling was emphasized, no doubt, to his mind by
the refusal of the others to accompany them.
'Really, Gallio always succeeds in making himself comfortable,' said
she. 'What more can anyone want than a charming house like this? It is
so absurd to desire more than you can use. It is a mistake the whole
world makes, except, perhaps, Judy.'
'I don't think Ginger does,' said Charlie.
'Oh yes; he desires, at least, to say more than he means. Consequently
people attach no importance to what he says.'
Charlie laughed.
'Which, being interpreted, means that Ginger has been saying something
which you are afraid is correct.'
Sybil Massington stopped.
'Charlie, for a man you have a good deal of intuition. That is partly
what makes me never think of you as a man. You are so like a woman in
many ways.'
'I am wanting to have a last word.'
'Last word! What last word?'
'A last word with you, Sybil,' he said; 'I shall never bother you
again.'
'Dear Charlie, it is no use. Please don't!' she said.
'I am sorry to disobey you,' said he; 'but I mean to. It is quite
short--just this: if ever you change your mind, you will find me
waiting for you. That is all.'
Sybil frowned.
'I can't accept that,' she said. 'You have no business to put the
responsibility on me like that.'
'There is no responsibility.'
'Yes, there is; you practically threaten me. It is like writing a
letter to say you will commit suicide unless I do something. You
threaten, anyhow, to commit celibacy unless I marry you.'
'No, I don't threaten,' said he; 'so far from threatening, I only
leave the door open in case of Hope wanting to come in. That is badly
expressed; a woman would have said it better.'
Sybil was suddenly touched by his gentleness.
'No one could have said it better,' she said. 'Charlie, believe me,
I am sorry, but--here is the truth of it: I don't believe I can love
anybody. This also: if I did not like you so much, I think I would
marry you.'
'Ah, spare me that,' he said.
'I do spare it you. I will not willingly make you very unhappy. Do you
believe that?'
He stopped, and came close to her.
'Sybil, if you pointed to the sky and said it was night, I should
believe you,' he said.
She made no reply to that, and they walked on in silence. Everywhere
over the broad expanse of swelling downs, looking huge behind the
heat-haze, and over the green restfulness of the water-meadows beneath
them, even over the blue immensity of the sky, there was spread a
sense of quiet and leisure. To Sybil, thinking of the after-lunch
conversation, it seemed of value; to her at the moment this contented
security was a big factor in life. Economically, no doubt, she was
wrong; a score of dynamos utilizing the waste power of the streams
below that so hurryingly sought the sea would have contributed much
to the utility of the scene, and the noble timber which surrounded
them could certainly have been far better employed in some factory
than to have merely formed a most wasteful handle, as it were, for the
great parasol of leaves which screened them and the idle, cud-chewing
cattle. Here, as always, there was that silent deadly war going on
between utility and beauty; soon, without a doubt, in a score of years,
or a score of days, or a score of centuries, principles of economy
would prevail, and the world of men would live in cast-iron mood in
extremely sanitary cast-iron dwellings. Already, it seemed to her, the
death-knell of beauty was vibrating in the air. The rural heart of the
country was bleeding into the towns; instead of beating the swords
into sickles, the way of the world now was to beat the elm-trees into
faggots and the rivers into electric light. For the faggots would give
warmth and the electricity would give light; these things were useful.
And in the distance, like a cuttle-fish with tentacles waving and
growing every moment nearer, New York, and all that New York stood for,
was sucking in whatever came within its reach. She was already sucked
in.
All this passed very quickly through her mind, for it seemed to her
that there had been no appreciable pause when Charlie spoke again.
'Yes, the world is going westwards,' he said. 'I heard a few days ago
that Mrs. Emsworth was going to act in New York this autumn. Is it
true?'
'I believe so. Why?'
'Mere curiosity. Is she going on her own?'
Sybil laughed.
'Her own! There isn't any. I don't suppose she could pay for a steerage
passage for her company. Bilton is taking her,' She paused a moment.
'Do you know Bilton?' she asked.
'The impresario? No,'
'He is a splendid type,' she said, 'of what we are coming to.'
'Cad, I should think,' said Charlie.
'Cad--oh yes. Why not? But a cad with a head. So many cads haven't one.
I met him the other night.'
'Where?' asked Charlie, with the vague jealousy of everybody
characteristic of a man in love.
'I forget. At the house of some other cad. It is rather odd, Charlie;
he is the image of you to look at. When I first saw him, I thought
it was you. He is just about the same height, he has the same--don't
blush--the same extremely handsome face. Also he moves like you, rather
slowly; but he gets there.'
'You mean I don't,' said Charlie.
'I didn't mean it that moment. Your remark again was exactly like an
Englishman. But I liked him; he has force. I respect that enormously.'
On the top of Charlie's tongue was 'You mean I have none,' but he was
not English enough for that.
'Is he going with her?' he asked.
'No; he has gone. He has three theatres in New York, and he is going to
instal Dorothy Emsworth in one of them. Is it true, by the way----'
She stopped in the middle of her sentence.
'Probably not,' said Charlie, rather too quickly.
'You mean it is,' she said--'about Bertie.'
Charlie made the noise usually written 'Pshaw!'
'Oh, my dear Sybil,' he said, 'Queen Anne is dead, the prophets are
dead. There are heaps of old histories.'
Sybil Massington stopped.
'Now, I am going to ask you a question,' she said. 'You inquired a few
minutes ago whether Dorothy Emsworth was going to act in New York. Why
did you ask? You said it was from mere curiosity; is that true? You can
say yes again, if you wish.'
'I don't wish,' said he. 'It wasn't true then, and I don't suppose it
will be by now. You mean that Bertie saw a good deal of her at one
time, but how much neither you nor I know.'
Sybil turned, and began walking home again rather quickly.
'How disgusting!' she said.
'Your fault,' he said--' entirely your fault.'
'But won't it be rather awkward for him?' she asked, walking rather
more slowly.
'I asked him that the other night,' said Charlie; 'he said he didn't
know.'
Again for a time they walked in silence. But the alertness of Mrs.
Massington's face went bail for the fact that she was not silent
because she had nothing to say. Then it is to be supposed that she
followed out the train of her thought to her own satisfaction.
'How lovely the shadows are!' she remarked; 'shadows are so much more
attractive than lights.'
'Searchlights?' asked he.
'No; shadows and searchlights belong to the same plane. I hope it is
tea-time; I am so hungry.'
This was irrelevant enough; irrelevance, therefore, was no longer a
social crime.
'And I should like to see my double,' said Charlie.
The only drawback to the charming situation of the house was that a
curve of a branch railway-line to Winchester passed not far from the
garden. Trains were infrequent on it on weekdays, even more infrequent
on Sundays. But at this moment the thump of an approaching train was
heard, climbing up the incline of the line.
'Brut-al-it-é, brut-al-it-é, brut-al-it-é,' said the labouring engine.
She turned to him.
'Even here,' she said--'even here is an elbow, a sharp elbow. "Utility,
utility!" Did you not hear the engine say that?'
'Something of this sort,' said he.