A few weeks later, with Verschoyle and a poor relation of his, a Miss
Vibart Withers, for chaperone, Clara left London in a 60 h.p. Fiat,
which voraciously ate up the Bath Road at the rate of a mile every
minute and a half.... It was good to be out of the thick heat of
London, invaded by foreigners and provincials and turned into a city of
pleasure and summer-frocks, so that its normal life was submerged, its
character hidden. The town became as lazy and drowsy a spectacle as a
field of poppies over which danced gay and brilliant butterflies. Very
sweet was it then to turn away from it, and all that was happening in
it, to the sweet air and to fly along between green fields and
orchards, through little towns, at intervals to cross the Thames and to
feel that with each crossing London lay so much farther away. Henley,
Oxford, Lechlade, and the Cotswolds--that was the first day, and,
breathing the clover-scented air, gazing over the blue plains to the
humpy hills of Malvern, Clara flung back her head and laughed in
glee.... How wonderful in one day to shake free of everything, to
leave behind all trammels!
'No one need have any troubles now,' she said, with the bewitching
smile that made all her discoveries so entrancing. 'When people get
tied up in knots, they can just get into a car and go away. The world
is big enough for everybody.'
'But people love their troubles,' replied Verschoyle. 'I have been
looking for trouble all my life, but I can't find it. That's my
trouble.'
'Everybody ought to be happy,' she said.
'In their own way. Most people are very happy with their troubles.
They will take far more trouble over them than they will over their
pleasures or making other people happy.'
'Do you remember the birds and fishes?'
'Do I not? It was the birds and fishes who introduced you to me.'
'I think this was what Charles meant by them--escape, irrelevance,
holiday.'
'That's quite true. Nothing ought to be as serious as it is, for
nothing is so serious as it looks when you really come to grips with
it. Life always looks like a blank wall until you come up to it and
then there is a little door which was invisible at a distance.... I
found that out when I met you.'
'And did you go through it?'
'Straight through and out to the other side.'
Clara took his hand affectionately, and their eyes met in a happy
smile. They were friends for ever, the relationship most perfectly
suited to his temperament, most needed by hers.
From that she passed on to a frank discussion of her own situation with
regard to Charles, and the hole he was in through the absconding Mr
Clott.
'I knew that fellow was a scoundrel,' said Verschoyle. 'He tried to
borrow money from me, and to pump me about the form of my horses. How
on earth did he ever become secretary to a committee for the
furtherance of dramatic art?'
'He turned up. Everything in Charles's life turns up. _I_ turned up.'
'And is your name really Day?'
'It was my grandfather's name.... I never had any one else. I
remember no one else except an Italian nurse, with a very brown face
and very white teeth. He died in Paris four years ago. My people were
in India.'
'Ah! Families get lost sometimes in the different parts of the British
Empire. It is so big, you know. I'm sure the English will lose
themselves in it one of these fine days.'
He passed over without a word her position as wife and no wife, but
became only the kinder and more considerate. It had eased and relieved
her to talk of it. Every impediment to their friendship was removed,
but sometimes as they walked through fields he would grip his stick
very tight and lash out at a hemlock or a dog-daisy, and sometimes when
he was driving he would jam his foot down on the accelerator and send
the car whirling along. If they had met Charles walking along the road
it would have gone ill with him.
They were six days on their journey up through Shropshire, Cheshire,
and the murk of South Lancashire. They stayed in pleasant inns, and
made many strange acquaintances, bagmen, tourists, young men with
knapsacks on their backs escaping from the big towns, and sometimes
they helped these young men over dreary stretches of road.
'The happiest six days of my life,' said Verschoyle, as they approached
the mountains. 'I haven't toured in England before. Somehow in London
one knows nothing of England. One is bored and one goes over to
Homburg or Aix-les-bains. How narrow life is even with a car and a
yacht!'
How narrow life could be Clara soon discovered at the Butchers', where
London life was simply continued in a lovely valley at the bottom of
which lay a little lake shining like a mirror and vividly reflecting
the hills above it.
The Butchers had a long, low house in an exquisite garden, theatrically
arranged so that the flowers looked as if they were painted and the
trees had no roots, but were as though clamped and ironed to the earth.
From their garden the very hills had the semblance of a back-cloth.
The house was full of the elegant young men and women who ran in and
out of the theatre and had no compunction about interrupting even
rehearsals. They chaffed Sir Henry, and fed Lady Butcher with scandal
for the pleasure of hearing her say witty biting things, which, as she
had no mercy, came easily to her lips. She studiously treated Clara as
though she were part and parcel of Verschoyle, and to be accommodated
like his car or his chauffeur.... Except as a social asset, Lady
Butcher detested the theatre, and she loathed actresses.
As the days floated by--for once in a way the weather in Westmoreland
was delicious--it became apparent to Clara that Lady Butcher hated the
project of Charles's production of _The Tempest_. She never missed an
opportunity of stabbing at him with her tongue. She regarded him as a
vagabond.
Living herself in a very close and narrow set, she respected cliques
more than persons. Verschoyle was rich enough to live outside a
clique, but that a man with a career to make should live and work alone
was in her eyes a kind of blasphemy. As for Clara--Lady Butcher
thought of her as a minx, a designing actress, one of the many who had
attempted to divert Sir Henry from the social to the professional
aspect of the theatre, which, in few words, Lady Butcher regarded as
her own, a kind of salon which gave her a unique advantage over her
rivals in the competition of London's hostessry.
It was the more annoying to Lady Butcher that Clara and Verschoyle
should turn up when they did as two Cabinet Ministers were due to motor
over to lunch one day, and a famous editor was to stay for a couple of
nights, while her dear friends the Bracebridges (Earl and Countess),
with their son and daughter, were due for their annual visit.
Distressed by this atmosphere of social calculation, Clara spent most
of her time with Verschoyle, walking about the hills or rowing on the
lake; but unfortunately she roused the boyish jealousy in Sir Henry,
who, as he had 'discovered' her, regarded her as his property, and
considered that any romance she might desire should be through him....
He infuriated his wife by preferring Clara to all the other young
ladies, and one night when, after dinner, he took her for a moon-light
walk, she created a gust of laughter by saying,--
'Henry can no more resist the smell of grease-paint than a dog can
resist that of a grilled bone.'
This was amusing but unjust, for Sir Henry regarded his desire for
Clara's society as a healthy impulse towards higher things--at least,
he told her so as he led her out through the orchard and up the stony
path, down which trickled a little stream, to the crag that dominated
the house and garden. It was covered with heather and winberries, and
just below the summit grew two rowan-trees. So bright was the moon
that the colour of the berries was almost perceptible. Sir Henry stood
moon-gazing and presently heaved a great sigh,--
'A-a-ah!'
'What a perfect night!' said Clara.
'On such a night as this----'
'On such a night----'
'I've forgotten,' said Sir Henry. 'It is in the _Merchant of Venice_.
Something about moonlight when Lorenzo and Jessica eloped. You would
make a perfect Jessica.... I played Lorenzo once.'
Clara wanted to laugh. It was one of the most delightful elements in
Sir Henry's character that he could never see himself as old, or as
anything but romantically heroic.
'Yes,' he said; 'you have made all the difference in the world. It was
remarkable how you shone out among the players in my theatre.... It is
even more remarkable among all these other masqueraders in that house
down there. All the world's a stage----'
'Oh, no,' said Clara. 'It is beautiful. I didn't know England was so
lovely. As we came north in the car I thought each county better than
the last--and I forgot London altogether.'
'It is some years since I toured,' said Sir Henry. 'My wife does not
approve of it, but there is nothing like it for keeping you up to the
mark. The real audiences are out of London. A couple of years'
touring would do you a world of good. You shall make your name
first.... There aren't any actors and actresses now simply because
they won't tour. They want money in London--money in New York--the
pity of it is that they get it.'
Clara scrambled up to the highest point of the crag and stood with the
gentle wind playing through her thick hair, caressing her parted lips,
her white neck, liquefying her light frock about her limbs.
'Oh, my God!' cried Sir Henry, gazing at her enraptured. 'Ariel!'
As she stood there she was caught up in the wonder of the night, became
one with it, a beam in the moonlight, a sigh in the wind, a star
winking, a little tiny cloud floating over the tops of the mountains.
So lightly poised was she that it seemed miraculous that she did not
take to flight, almost against nature that she could stand so still.
Her lips parted, and she sang as she used to sing when she was a
child,--
Come unto these yellow sands
And then take hands.'
A little young voice she had, sweet and low, a boyish voice, nothing of
woman in it at all.
She leaned forward and gazed over the edge of the crag, and Sir Henry,
who was so deeply moved that all his ordinary mental processes were
dislocated, thought with a horrid alarm that she was going to throw
herself down. Such perfection might rightly end in tragedy, and he
thought with anguish of Mann and Verschoyle, thought that they had
besmirched and dishonoured this loveliness, thought that this sudden
exaltation and abstraction must come from the anguish that was betrayed
in her eyes so often and so frequently.
'Take care! Take care!' called Sir Henry.