Dear Simon let his hair grow comparatively long to be married to Ariadne
in, to please me. I was chief bridesmaid, and stood next Almeria; Jane
Emerson Tree was third bridesmaid, and behaved fairly well, though I am
told she did bite off and eat the heads of the best flowers in her
bouquet while the service was going on, and Jessie Hitchings, who stood
next her, couldn't prevent it, for she hadn't a single pin on her she
could get at. I expect Jane Emerson was very ill after all that
stephanotis! I treated her with studied contempt, and only asked her
what she thought of Ariadne's "waist" this time, and didn't she wish she
could have one as above reproach when she was married, if she ever found
time to get married between her great actings? Why, Ariadne's dress was
made by Camille! I was as intimate as possible with Jessie Hitchings,
the coal-agent's daughter from Isleworth. That did Jane Emerson good.
Ariadne asked her to be one of her bridesmaids just to please Ben, who
adores her, and doesn't see that she is a bit common. Men in love never
do. Still, she is our only childhood's friend, so Simon and even Almeria
didn't make the least objection to have her included in the procession.
They are not snobs, and if they were, are high up enough to be able to
afford to stoop, and know everybody. As for Almeria, she came out
wonderfully, and I really don't mind her at all. As the bridesmaids' hat
wouldn't set without a bank of hair or something on the forehead for it
to rest on, she was sensible enough to buy a pin-curl at the Stores and
stick it on under the brim for the occasion. Ariadne was very much
softened towards her by that, and I promised to go and stay with her at
Highsam later on and learn to ride.
George gave Ariadne his usual present, only more so--a set of his own
works beautifully bound, and some of the old jewellery she has always
had given out to her to wear, to take away for her very own. Mother gave
her all her household linen, marked and embroidered by herself. Peter
Ball gave her a gramophone, Christina a type-writer. The Squire gave her
his mother's best salad-bowl. Lord Scilly gave her a great gold cup or
beaker. I believe he was trying to atone for the low joke he had
practised on her at the picnic. It was awfully good and valuable, Simon
said. Lady Scilly gave her a Shakespeare bound in calf. I believe she
meant a hint about calf love, just the kind of thing she would call a
joke, and that _Punch_ wouldn't put in; but Ariadne never noticed and
was grateful, for she happens to like Shakespeare for himself. To Simon,
I heard, Lady Scilly gave a queer sort of scarf or thumb ring, with the
Latin word _Donec_ engraved on it. I did not know what that meant, and
Simon said he was blest if he did, and he hung it on his dog's collar
afterwards.
Simon and Ariadne went to Venice for their honeymoon. She took
note-books, etc., but could not write any poetry in Venice somehow, so
shopped all the time, especially bead necklaces. She didn't care for her
own hair any more when she came back, she said every other girl in
Venice had it. She had put back her fringe, and wets it every morning to
make it keep flat, to please Sir Frederick Hermyre and Simon, who owned,
_after_ marriage, to a weakness for smooth hair.
They are to live in Yorkshire at one of his father's six places. He has
given it to Simon, and Simon is now the youngest J.P. on the bench, and
is going to breed shorthorns. I am to go and stay there after Christmas.
George detests Christmas so much that he ignores it, and forces us all
to do the same. We may not put up holly or mistletoe, or make a
plum-pudding or mince-pies. We have mince-pies always at Midsummer, and
plum-pudding on May Day, so one does not miss them altogether, but all
the same, I have a sort of Christmas feeling come over me at the right
time, and could enjoy a Christmas stocking or Santa Claus as much as any
ordinary Philistine child. So could Mother. Elizabeth says it is all she
can do not to give warning than stay in such a God-forgotten house over
the time, and she makes a small plum-pudding for the kitchen and gets
us all down, except George, to stir it on the sly. Up-stairs no one
dares to mention Christmas. If we do, we are fined sixpence. We have all
of us to pay a whole shilling if a pipe bursts? I don't know if George
would insist on money down, if it happened, but it is an odd
circumstance, that though of course if they do burst, it is nobody's
fault but the plumber's, who came to put them right last time and
carefully left something wrong ready for the next, now that this rule
has been made the pipes contain themselves, and don't burst at all.
When Ariadne was here, she always contrived to send away a few parcels,
and we received some, of course. We cannot help people, who respect
Christmas, being kind to us then. George came in once while we were
undoing a few, and damned "this whirling season of string and brown
paper!"
"I resent the maddening appeals of an over-wrought post-office to post
early. Why should I post early? Why should I post at all? I forbid all
mention of the egregious subject!"
And he went out, and we asked Elizabeth to bring our parcels up to our
bedrooms in future.
The Christmas after Ariadne left us, we didn't mind obeying him, we were
so sad without her. I missed having some one to bully. George missed
having two to bully instead of one. He has always sworn, but now he took
to swearing as if he meant it, and saying bitter things to Mother, and
poor Ben's chances of school are farther off than ever. He got quite
desperate, did poor Ben, and asked Mother to make some arrangement by
which she could give him less to eat and put what she could save aside
for his schooling. He said he was willing to live on skilly if only he
might go to school, and from what he heard, he wouldn't get much better
there, so he might as well get used to it. Mother cried, and said no,
she couldn't save off his keep, that she must make a man of him at any
rate, and would try to save money some other way, or even make it? She
would think till she thought of a plan. Meantime she would buy him some
books, and Mr. Aix would look over his exercises if Ben went regularly
to his rooms in Pump Court. Ben tried, but it is so awkward for him,
since he started valeting George at Whitby. George can't do without him,
and calls for him at all sorts of times, and Ben must be at call. George
swears at his sulky expression while folding up coats, stretching
trousers, etc., but I am afraid Ben will have the melancholia soon if he
doesn't get what he has set his heart on. If Mother could only raise the
money, she says she would go straight to George with it, and tell him
that she meant to pay the cost of Ben's education, for it is money, she
is sure, and nothing but money, which prevents his making up his mind
which school? Gracious me! Schools are all alike, all beastly, and a
necessary evil for the sons of men.
I often wonder if the people he goes among, and stays with--"he is the
devil for country houses!" Mr. Aix says, "he has got them in the
blood,"--I wonder if when they see him come smiling down to
breakfast--he has to come down to breakfast in some houses, never at
home--they realize that he has a wife and children and a secretary, and
three cats depending on him? For I believe he is the kind of useful
guest who has small talk for breakfast, which reminds me of those houses
where the cook gets up early to bake the little hot cakes people like,
and what it means to her, no one imagines! George stokes and talks at
the same time, and that is one reason why they all love him and ask him
madly for Saturdays to Mondays or longer.
George is not well just now, his voice is all in his throat, and husky.
His hair is getting very grey, and suits him; his eyes are large, like a
sad deer's. He is still as graceful. Mr. Aix says he has taken to
wearing stays. I don't believe this. I am the only one in the house who
sticks up for George. Ben hates him, so does Aunt Gerty. Ben will go on
hating him till he is allowed to go to school. Mother never speaks of
him, so I don't know how she feels about him. In cold weather he is
always much nicer to her. He feels the cold of England. He has written
about Italy till he is half Italian. He has got a new secretary, a
"singularly colourless personage," whom Mother likes very much. She
isn't half so amusing as Christina, but Lady Scilly says she is far more
suitable.
After Christmas was over, George left us and went to "The Hutch," Lady
Scilly's place in Wiltshire. Her novel is nearly finished, and Ben says
she has piped all hands on deck--I mean all the people who are helping
her have to be ready with their help. There is a lawyer and a doctor
among the crew, but George is master-skipper. I believe that she will
drop them all when once the book is done? George too, perhaps. Though I
am not sure she likes him only for the sake of the novel? He can be
fascinating when he likes, and he does like with her. It's such a good
old title.
I think I am right, for he was away a long time, indeed he has never
stayed so long at "The Hutch" before. He has his own suite there, and
all the other rooms are called after the names of his novels or
characters in them. Could any one pay an author a greater compliment?
Mrs. Ptomaine was not staying there--Never no more!--but she has a lady
friend who was, and the friend says Lord Scilly is beginning to get
"restive."
Mrs. Ptomaine comes to see us, at least to see Aunt Gerty, a good deal;
she is no longer all in all with Lady Scilly since the Mr. Pawky
episode.
"And I didn't make much of him, after all!" she told Mother and Aunt
Gerty. "Lady Scilly had squeezed him nearly dry. He didn't trust women
any more, always imagined they wanted money. And then dangled an empty
purse at them, metaphorically. Poor old man, it is a shame to destroy
any one--even a millionaire's--confidence in human nature. She borrows
of every one, even the masseuse and the charwoman, my dear, it's quite
awful! That poor, pretty young Hermyre! I was quite pleased when your
sweet innocent daughter rescued him from the wiles of Scilly, and
perhaps Charybdis--who knows? He looked weak!"
"And so secured a weak child to look after him and strengthen his
hands!" said Mother. It is no use minding Mrs. Tommy, she isn't "quite
eighteen carat," Aunt Gerty says, or else she would surely not discuss a
woman's own son-in-law to her face. But, she is a journalist, and
journalists know no laws of consanguinity or decency even. If one is to
get any good whatever out of the press, one must accept it with all its
inconveniences, and Aunt Gerty and Mother think everything of the press
in these days. They ask Mrs. Ptomaine to dinner continually, and Mr.
Freddy Cook to meet her. And Mr. Aix as a standing dish, and Aunt Gerty
of course. Then they make a lot of noise and smoke all over the house
except the study. Mother won't let them go in there at all while George
is away. I hear them talking between the puffs--
"You can engage to work so and so, eh?" or "Have you got thingumbob?"
Mr. Aix is writing a play. He brings the acts over here as he writes
them, and gets Mother to speak the woman's part for him, so that he sees
how it goes. He says Mother is a great dear, and he tells her
continually how she helps him, how she puts the right interpretation on
him at every turn. I never should have thought Mr. Aix difficult to
understand, but then a man has to be very modest to realize that he
takes no understanding and is as plain as a pike-staff. And as Mr. Aix
always speaks the brutal truth--he can't wrap anything up--he is as
"crude as the day," so George often says--I don't see Mother's
cleverness.
They talk of The Play as if it was a baby. "Mustn't christen it before
it is brought into the world," and "One thing you can confidently
predict about it, it can't be born prematurely!" and so on. They use the
study in the mornings, and Mr. Aix sits in George's swivel-chair, and
Mother takes the floor in front of him. She reads the woman's part out
aloud and he criticises her. She must do it pretty well, for he often
calls out, "Oh, you darling!" when she has said a particular piece.
"What a divine accent you give it!" "That will knock them!" "Wicked to
hide such a talent!" and praise like that. He never asks Aunt Gerty to
read any, though she is a real actress and sits there and criticises
Mother all the time.
"Pooh, pooh!" says Mr. Aix, "leave her to her intuitions! You battered
professionals don't know the value of a new note."
So I see that Mother never was a Professional, even before George
married her. And a good thing too!
Mr. Aix worked very hard at the play, and promised that it should be
finished one day next week. When George came home, he would want his
study of course, but we hadn't the remotest idea of his arriving when he
did, late one afternoon just before dinner-time.
We were all hard at it in the study. Aunt Gerty was making a pink surah
blouse all over the study table and being prompter as well. Mr. Aix was
in George's swivel-chair, and Mother standing in front of him. George
was on us in a moment, just as Mr. Aix had closed the manuscript with a
slap.
"Our child comes on bravely!" he was just saying to Mother, as George
appeared in the doorway with his cigarette in his mouth.
Aunt Gerty whispered to Mother, "I'll bet you Lord Scilly has had him
kicked out of the house. Go on that tack!" and bolted into the hall,
forgetting her pink surah spread all over the desk.
"Welcome back, old fellow!" said Mr. Aix, turning round in the
swivel-chair and putting a protecting paw over Aunt Gerty's blouseries.
They would be sure to irritate George, he knew; so they did. George
turned quite white with temper and flung his coat off, and Mother caught
it across her arm as if she had been a servant. There seemed to be a
great noise in the hall, and Polly came in looking disgusted, as
servants always do when it is a question of not paying one's just debts.
She began "If you please, sir, the cabman----" but her voice was quite
drowned between the cabman relieving his mind in the hall outside and
George inside. He seemed bewildered, but able to swear all the time.
"Won't you pay your cab, George?" said Mother gently, "and then you can
abuse me at your leisure!"
Mr. Aix went to pay the man, and I thought I had better get out of the
room with him. George was sitting bolt upright in his chair, and Mother
like a little school-girl before him. I don't know what they said to
each other, but George wouldn't come out to dinner, but had a plate sent
in.
Mother didn't alter her habits, but went to the theatre with Mr Aix.
George's plate of dinner came out untouched. After all it was my own
father, and he had come all the way from Wiltshire, and perhaps had been
kicked out of "The Hutch" as Aunt Gerty said. I knew enough of Lady
Scilly to know how changeable she is, and perhaps it was only her novel
she cared for. I went to him, as bold as a lion.
He was sitting still where he had been before dinner, only his head was
on his hands among Aunt Gerty's blouse trimmings.
"Shall I take these away?" I asked. "Don't they make you angry?"
"I haven't noticed."
I saw he was ill, not to mind all Aunt Gerty's horrid pink shape all
over his papers! I sat down on the edge of the table and he didn't even
scold me.
"Where is Lucy--my wife?" he asked me presently.
"My Mother?" said I. "She's gone to the theatre."
"Is that usual?"
"Quite usual. She generally goes with Mr. Aix, but to-night Aunt Gerty
has gone with them."
"Chaperons them, eh?"
I didn't like to hear him call Mother and Mr. Aix _them_ in that
insulting bracketting way, so I said--
"Mother has stayed in all her life. She wanted a change."
"Aix?" said he, "for a change! God!"
"She's collaborating with Mr. Aix."
"Damn him and his play too."
"Oh, not his play, George. Mother would be _so_ grieved."
Then George suddenly pulled a paper out of his pocket and said, "Read
that aloud, child."
"Is it a bit of your new novel?"
"Yes, it is a bit of my new novel. Read."
I did.
"_We talk and talk, and never act. Oh, this curse of civilization! You
make excuses for S----, for your bitter enemy. Magnanimous, but effete!
He is behaving well, but so unpicturesquely. He offers a woman no excuse
for staying with him. Oh, Italy! Italy! You, magician, have made me long
for the life of Italy, the silver incandescent sands, the passionate
brown of the olives--but why should I try to outdo you in your own
imitable manner?_"
"_In_imitable, you mean, don't you, child? But no, we will not trust
this white devil of Italy. Go and fetch me a plateful of cold meat. And
here are the keys; go down to the cellar and get a bottle of Burgundy.
Corton eighty-eight. You'll see the label. We will carouse."
I was delighted. George and I finished the bottle between us, and he
ate a good supper, and said no more of Mr. Aix, or Mother either.
I almost liked George just then. I saw why Lady Scilly liked him. He is
funny and gentle. I asked him to choose a school for Ben, and he said he
would think about it. It is the oddest feeling to suddenly become "pals"
with one's own father. I had never known it before. There is some good
in George, and his eyes are very bright.