GALVIN HOUSE AFTER THE RAID
The next day and for many days Galvin House abandoned itself to the
raid. The air was full of rumours of the appalling casualties
resulting from the bomb that had been dropped in the next street. No
one knew anything, everyone had heard something. The horrors confided
to each other by the residents at Galvin House would have kept the
Grand Guignol in realism for a generation.
Silent herself, Patricia watched with interest the ferment around her.
With the exception of Mrs. Craske-Morton, all seemed to desire most of
all to emphasize their own attitude of splendid intellectual calm
during the raid. They spoke scornfully of acquaintances who had flown
from London because of the danger from bomb-dropping Gothas, they
derided the Thames Valley aliens, they talked heroically and
patriotically about "standing their bit of bombing." In short Galvin
House had become a harbour of heroism.
Mrs. Craske-Morton, who had shown a calmness and courage that none of
the others seemed to recognise, had nothing to say except about her
broken glass; on this subject, however, she was eloquent. Miss Wangle
managed to convey to those who would listen that her own safety, and in
fact that of Galvin House, was directly due to the intercession of the
bishop, who when alive was particularly noted for the power and
sustained eloquence of his prayers.
Mr. Bolton was frankly sceptical. If the august prelate was out to
save Galvin House, he suggested, it wasn't quite cricket to let them
drop a bomb in the next street.
Everyone was extremely critical of everyone else. Mr. Bolton said
things about Mrs. Barnes and her clothes that made Miss Sikkum blush,
particularly about the nose, where, with her, emotion always first
manifested itself. Mr. Sefton had permanently returned to the "women
and children first" phase and, as two cigarettes were missing from his
case, he was convinced that he had acquitted himself with that air of
reckless bravado that endeared a man to women. He talked pityingly and
tolerantly of Gustave's obvious terror.
Mr. Bolton saw in the adventure material for jokes for months to come.
He laboured at the subject with such misguided industry that Patricia
felt she almost hated him. Some of his allusions, particularly to the
state of sartorial indecision in which the maids had sought cover, were
"not quite nice," as Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe expressed it to Mrs.
Hamilton, who returned from a visit the day following.
At breakfast everyone had talked, and in consequence everyone who
worked was late for work; the general opinion being, what was the use
of a raid unless you could be late for work? Punctuality on such
occasions being regarded as the waste of an opportunity, and a direct
rebuke to Providence who had placed it there.
Patricia did not take part in the general babel, beyond pointing out,
when Gustave was coming under discussion, that it was he who had gone
to the top of the house to call her. She looked meaningly at Mr.
Bolton and Mr. Sefton, who had the grace to appear a little ashamed of
themselves.
When Patricia returned in the evening, she found Lady Tanagra awaiting
her in the lounge, literally bombarded with different accounts of what
had happened--all narrated in the best "eye-witness" manner of the
alarmist press. Following the precept of Charles Lamb, Galvin House
had apparently striven to correct the bad impression made through
lateness in beginning work by leaving early.
It was obvious that Lady Tanagra had made herself extremely popular.
Everyone was striving to gain her ear for his or her story of personal
experiences.
"Ah, here you are!" cried Lady Tanagra as Patricia entered. "I hear
you behaved like a heroine last night."
Mrs. Craske-Morton nodded her head with conviction.
"Mrs. Morton was the real heroine," said Patricia. "She was splendid!"
Mrs. Craske-Morton flushed. To be praised before so distinguished a
caller was almost embarrassing, especially as no one had felt it
necessary to comment upon her share in the evening's excitement.
"Come up with me while I take off my things," said Patricia, as she
moved towards the door. She saw that any private talk between herself
and Lady Tanagra would be impossible in the lounge with Galvin House in
its present state of ferment.
In Patricia's room Lady Tanagra subsided into a chair with a sigh. "I
feel as if I were a celebrity arriving at New York," she laughed.
"They're rather excited," smiled Patricia, "but then we live such a
humdrum life here--the expression is Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's--and much
should be forgiven them. A book could be written on the boarding-house
mind, I think. It moves in a vicious circle. If someone would only
break out and give the poor dears something to talk about."
"Didn't you do that?" enquired Lady Tanagra slily.
Patricia smiled wearily. "I take second place now to the raid. Think
of living here for the next few weeks. They will think raid, read
raid, talk raid and dream raid." She shuddered. "Thank heavens I'm
off to-morrow."
"Off to-morrow?" Lady Tanagra raised her eyes in interrogation.
"Yes, to Eastbourne for a fortnight's holiday as provided for in the
arrangement existing between one Patricia Brent and Arthur Bonsor,
Esquire, M.P. It's part of the wages of the sin of secretaryship."
Patricia sighed.
"I hope you'll enjoy----"
"Please don't be conventional," interrupted Patricia. "I shall not
enjoy it in the least. Within twenty-four hours I shall long to be
back again. I shall get up in the morning and I shall go to bed at
night. In between I shall walk a bit, read a bit, get my nose red
(thank heavens it doesn't peel) and become bored to extinction. One
thing I won't do, that is wear openwork frocks. The sun shall not
print cheap insertion kisses upon Patricia Brent."
"You're quite sure that it is a holiday," Lady Tanagra looked up
quizzically at Patricia as she stood gazing out of the window.
"A holiday!" repeated Patricia, looking round.
"It sounded just a little depressing," said Lady Tanagra.
"It will be exactly what it sounds," Patricia retorted; "only
depressing is not quite the right word, it's too polite. You don't
know what it is to be lonely, Tanagra, and live at Galvin House, and
try to haul or push a politician into a rising posture. It reminds me
of Carlyle on the Dutch." There was a note of fierce protest in her
voice. "You have all the things that I want, and I wonder I don't
scratch your face and tear your hair out. We are all primitive in our
instincts really." Then she laughed. "Well! I had to cry out to
someone, and I shall feel better. It's rather a beastly world for some
of us, you know; but I suppose I ought to be spanked for being
ungrateful."
"Do you know why I've come?" enquired Lady Tanagra, thinking it wise to
change the subject.
Patricia shook her head. "A more conceited person might have suggested
that it was to see me," she said demurely.
"To apologise for Peter," said Lady Tanagra. "He disobeyed orders and
I am very angry with him."
Patricia flushed at the memory of their good-night. For a few seconds
she stood silent, looking out of the window.
"I think it was rather sweet of him," she said without looking round.
Lady Tanagra smiled slightly. "Then I may forgive him, you think?" she
enquired.
Patricia turned and looked at her. Lady Tanagra met the gaze
innocently.
"He wanted to write to you and send some flowers and chocolates; but I
absolutely forbade it. We almost had our first quarrel," she added
mendaciously.
For the space of a second Patricia hated Lady Tanagra. She would have
liked to turn and rend her for interfering in a matter that could not
possibly be regarded as any concern of hers. The feeling, however, was
only momentary and, when Lady Tanagra rose to go, Patricia was as
cordial as ever.
From Galvin House Lady Tanagra drove to the Quadrant.
"Peter!" she cried as she entered the room and threw herself into an
easy chair, "if ever I again endeavour to divert true love from its
normal----"
"How is she?"' interrupted Bowen.
"Now you've spoiled it," cried Lady Tanagra, "and it was----"
"Spoiled what?" demanded Bowen.
"My beautiful phrase about true love and its normal channel, and I have
been saying it over to myself all the way from Galvin House." She
looked reproachfully at her brother.
"How's Patricia?" demanded Bowen eagerly.
"Fair to moderately fair, rain later, I should describe her," replied
Lady Tanagra, helping herself to a cigarette which Bowen lighted.
"She's going away."
"Good heavens! Where?" cried Bowen.
"Eastbourne."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
"Damn!"
"My dear Peter," remarked Lady Tanagra lazily, "this primitive
profanity ill becomes----"
"Please don't rot me, Tan," he pleaded. "I've had a rotten time
lately."
There was helpless and hopeless pain in Bowen's voice that caused Lady
Tanagra to spring up from her chair and go over to him.
"Carry on, old boy," she cried softly, as she caressed his coat-sleeve.
"It's your only chance. You're going to win."
"I must see her!" blurted out Bowen.
"If you do you'll spoil everything," announced Lady Tanagra with
conviction.
"But, last night," began Bowen and paused.
"Last night, I think," said Lady Tanagra, "was a master-stroke. She is
touched; it's taken us forward at least a week."
"But look here, Tan," said Bowen gloomily, "you told me to leave it all
in your hands and you make me treat her rottenly, then you say----"
"That you know about as much of how to make a woman like Patricia fall
in love with you as an ostrich does of geology," said Lady Tanagra
calmly.
"But what will she think?" demanded Bowen.
"At present she is thinking that Eastbourne will be a nightmare of
loneliness."
"I'll run down and see her," announced Bowen.
"If you do, Peter!" There was a note of warning in Lady Tanagra's
voice.
"All right," he conceded gloomily. "I'll give you another week, and
then I'll go my own way."
"Peter, if you were smaller and I were bigger I think I should spank
you," laughed Lady Tanagra. Then with great seriousness she said, "I
want you to marry her, and I'm going the only way to work to make her
let you. Do try and trust me, Peter."
Bowen looked down at her with a smile, touched by the look in her eyes.
For a moment his arm rested across her shoulders. Then he pushed her
towards the door. "Clear out, Tan. I'm not fit for a bear-pit
to-night."
The Bowens were never demonstrative with one another.
For half an hour Bowen sat smoking one cigarette after another until he
was interrupted by the entrance of Peel, who, after a comprehensive
glance round the room, proceeded to administer here and there those
deft touches that emphasize a patient and orderly mind. Bowen watched
him as he moved about on the balls of his feet.
"Have you ever been to Eastbourne, Peel?" enquired Bowen presently.
Just why he asked the question he could not have said.
"Only once, my lord," replied Peel as he replaced the full ash-tray on
the table by Bowen with a clean one. There was a note in his voice
implying that nothing would ever tempt him to go there again.
"You don't like it?" suggested Bowen.
"I dislike it intensely, my lord," replied Peel as he refolded a copy
of _The Times_.
"Why?"
"It has unpleasant associations, my lord," was the reply.
Bowen smiled. After a moment's silence he continued:
"Been sowing wild oats there?"
"No, my lord, not exactly."
"Well, if it's not too private," said Bowen, "tell me what happened.
At the moment I'm particularly interested in the place."
Peel gazed reproachfully at a copy of _The Sphere_, which had managed
in some strange way to get its leaves dog-eared. As he proceeded to
smooth them out he continued:
"It was when I was young, my lord. I was engaged to be married. I
thought her a most excellent young woman, in every way suitable. She
went down to Eastbourne for a holiday." He paused.
"Well, there doesn't seem much wrong in that," said Bowen.
"From Eastbourne she wrote, saying that she had changed her mind,"
proceeded Peel.
"The devil she did!" exclaimed Bowen. "And what did you do?"
"I went down to reason with her, my lord," said Peel.
"Does one reason with a woman, Peel?" enquired Bowen with a smile.
"I was very young then, my lord, not more than thirty-two." Peel's
tone was apologetic. "I discovered that she had received an offer of
marriage from another."
"Hard luck!" murmured Bowen.
"Not at all, my lord, really," said Peel philosophically. "I
discovered that she had re-engaged herself to a butcher, a most
offensive fellow. His language when I expostulated with him was
incredibly coarse, and I am sure he used marrow for his hair."
"And what did you do?" enquired Bowen.
"I had taken a return ticket, my lord. I came back to London."
Bowen laughed. "I'm afraid you couldn't have been very badly hit,
Peel, or you would not have been able to take it quite so
philosophically."
"I have never allowed my private affairs to interfere with my
professional duties, my lord," replied Peel unctuously.
For five minutes Bowen smoked in silence. "So you do not believe in
marriage," he said at length.
"I would not say that, my lord; but I do not think it suitable for a
man of temperament such as myself. I have known marriages quite
successful where too much was not required of the contracting parties."
"But don't you believe in love?" enquired Bowen.
"Love, my lord, is like a disease. If you are on the look out for it
you catch it, if you ignore it, it does not trouble you. I was once
with a gentleman who was very nervous about microbes. He would never
eat anything that had not been cooked, and he had everything about him
disinfected. He even disinfected me," he added as if in proof of the
extreme eccentricity of his late employer.
"So I suppose you despise me for having fallen in love and
contemplating marriage," said Bowen with a smile.
"There are always exceptions, my lord," responded Peel tactfully. "I
have prepared the bath."
"Peel," remarked Bowen as he rose and stretched himself, "disinfected
or not disinfected, you are safe from the microbe of romance."
"I hope so, my lord," responded Peel as he opened the door.
"I wonder if history will repeat itself," murmured Bowen as he walked
through his bedroom into the bathroom. "I, too, hate Eastbourne."