II
Miss Trant Takes a Holiday
I
Once more we look down upon English hills, lit by the same September sun. But it is another England; the dark Pennines have been left far behind; the grim heights of ling and peat and black rock, the reeking cauldrons that were the valleys, all have vanished. Here are pleasant green mounds, heights of grass forever stirring to the tune of the southwest winds; clear valleys, each with its gleam of water; grey stone villages, their walls flushing to a delicate pink in the sunlight; parish churches that have rung in and rung out Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian kings; manor houses that have waited for news from Naseby and Blenheim and Waterloo and Inkerman and Ypres, then have let their windows blaze through the night or have suddenly grown still and dark, but have kept their stones unchanged; and here and there, in the wider valleys, little woods where you could play A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and gardens shaped and coloured, to the last inch of lawn cross-gartered with stone paths, from the tallest hollyhock to the smallest rosebush, for the music and happy folly of Twelfth Night. This is, indeed, another England, this green and windy outpost of Arden. Over to the west, beyond the deep channels of the rivers, is the Welsh Border country, a Celtic place, with hills as dark and mysterious as a fragment of Arthurian legend. But here, in the Cotswolds, all is open and pleasant, a Saxon tale of grass and grey stone, wind and clear running water. We have quitted the long war of the north. Here is a place of compromise, for Nature has planed off her sharp summits and laid down green carpets in place of bog and heather and rock, and man has forsworn his mad industrial antics, has settled himself modestly and snugly in the valleys and along the hillsides, has trotted out his sheep and put up a few tiny mills, and has been content. Yes, these two signed a peace here, and it has lasted a thousand years.
Chipping Campden is to the north of us, Cirencester to the south, Burford to the east, and Cheltenham to the west. This grey cluster of roofs, with the square church tower in the middle, is almost equidistant from all those four admirable townships. It is the village of Hitherton-on-the-Wole. Sometimes motorists, hurrying from lunch at Oxford to tea at Broadway or Chipping Campden, lose their way and find themselves at Hitherton, and the little books prepared for their use tell them at once that Hitherton has 855 inhabitants, closes early on Wednesday, empties its letter-box at 5:30¬Ýp.m., boasts an hotel, The Shepherd‚Äôs Hall (three bedrooms) and a garage, J. Hurley¬Ý& Son, and has at least one thing worth looking at, for the account closes with the command‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSee Church. Very few of them do stay to see the church, though the rector, the Rev. Thomas J. S. Chillingford, has not only written a short history of it but has also published this history as a pamphlet: ‚ÄúReprinted from the ‚ÄòTransactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù; and any visitor who appreciates an extraordinarily fine rood-screen when he sees one (to say nothing of two possible leper-windows on the north side) cannot fail to obtain a copy of this pamphlet. But away they go, these motorists, and never once turn their heads to remark, with Mr.¬ÝChillingford, that the church ‚Äúfrom a distance suggests a brooding-mother-bird with head erect.‚Äù Thus when any strange and expensive-looking motorcar stops there, everybody in Hitherton, with the exception of Mrs.¬ÝFarley of The Shepherd‚Äôs Hall and J. Hurley¬Ý& Son, who are always hopeful, prepares at once to point the way to other and more important places.
There are some days, however, when people do not lose their way and find themselves in Hitherton but deliberately go there and stay there. This is one of the days. For the last three weeks the countryside has been plastered with notices saying that Messrs. Medworth, Higgs, and Medworth would sell by auction and without reserve the remaining effects of the Old Hall, Hitherton-on-the-Wole. Well-informed people‚ÅÝ‚Äîand almost everybody in Hitherton is well-informed‚ÅÝ‚Äîhave been telling one another ever since old Colonel Trant died, several months ago, that there was sure to be a sale. It was known for certain that the Trants were not so well-off as they used to be. It was known too that Miss Elizabeth Trant, who had looked after her father ever since her mother‚Äôs death, fifteen years ago, would not live on at the Hall but at the Cottage. Miss Elizabeth had been left everything, it was said, though she was the youngest of the Colonel‚Äôs three children. But then she well deserved everything the Colonel could leave her‚ÅÝ‚Äîindeed, deserved more than that‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor had she not stayed in Hitherton and looked after him in his old age? And in the last years he must have been a trial, too. He had had to miss the last two Flower Shows and could not even hobble to church, the poor old gentleman. It was a blessing when he found his way in the end to the churchyard. And Miss Trant, who must be about thirty-seven, though being so straight and slim and fair she does not look it, had taken care of him year after year and had hardly left the village for more than a night this long time; whereas her brother, who was some sort of judge in India, and her sister, who had married well and lived in London, rarely came near the place. Everybody knew that what with the Colonel‚Äôs retired pay going and debts to be paid off and one thing and another, Miss Trant would have less than ¬£200 a year for herself. That was why she intended to live at the Cottage, to which all the things she wanted had already been removed, and why all that remained at the Old Hall, now to be let, was being sold by auction.
It is a long time since Medworth, Higgs, and Medworth last descended upon Hitherton. This is a great day. Any number of cars have gone up to the Old Hall, already Mrs.¬ÝFarley has had to open another bottle of whisky, and J. Hurley¬Ý& Son have had to mend two punctures and see what they could do with a very queer magneto. People, quite ordinary people, not dealers, have come from as far as Bourton-on-the-Water and Winchcombe and Great Barrington. As for dealers, they have come from the ends of the earth. There are at least two from Cheltenham and three from Oxford and one from Gloucester, all proper antique dealers and not merely grocers and drapers who keep a room upstairs filled with secondhand furniture. Not that there are not any of them here, for of course there are quite a number. And it is said that there is one man, the one with eyeglasses and a pointed beard, who represents some big London firm. He did not come down specially, for it is his business to tour the country, but here he is. Then for every one of these professional buyers there must be at least twenty amateurs, local people who have come to see if they can pick up a bit of china or a bedstead. Last of all, there are people who have not come to buy anything, but to see what the Old Hall looks like inside, to walk round the garden, to turn things over and over, and get in the way, to enjoy themselves. These visitors, many of whom have brought all their children, easily outnumber the others, and just as they were the first to arrive, so they will be the last to go. ‚ÄúAlways the same, always the same!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝJames Medworth to the protesting Miss Trant. ‚ÄúThey will come, and there‚Äôs no stopping ‚Äôem.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMedworth has spent years pushing his way through rooms crowded and overheated with these people, and now regards their presence as something inevitable. Still, they laugh at his little jokes, and Mr.¬ÝMedworth has a stock of little jokes. He is a middle-aged man with a very wide mouth and a glitter of large protruding teeth, so that he looks like a jovial shark. Miss Trant does not like him, but is quite willing to believe her solicitor, Mr.¬ÝTruby of Cheltenham, who says: ‚ÄúSmart man, Medworth. Smart man. Keen people.‚Äù
She was there at the Hall this morning, when people began to arrive and look round, but did not stay very long. She is not very sentimental and all her own cherished possessions have been removed to the Cottage, but nevertheless she discovered that the sudden disintegration of a home, however desolating that home might have been sometimes, into a mere jumble of objects, gave her no pleasure. All the things now looked so naked, so helpless. “Awful lot o’ junk here,” she heard one man say to another, dealers every inch of them; and she hurried round the corner, only to run into that familiar steel engraving of Lord Raglan, now Lot 117, and to find that his lordship was glaring into vacancy, cutting her dead. But all the things were like that, either indignant or wistful. She retired, wishing she had taken more of them to the Cottage, though she knew very well that the Cottage was too full already.
She found Mrs.¬ÝPurton putting the Cottage in order, and spent the next hour or two helping her. Mrs.¬ÝPurton had been cook at the Hall, and her husband‚ÅÝ‚Äîand his father before him‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad been gardener, and now they had both been transferred, for the time being, to the Cottage. Mrs.¬ÝPurton ‚Äúdidn‚Äôt ‚Äôold with auctioneering,‚Äù apparently regarding it as a frivolous pastime, and so she had stayed at home all day. But Purton was up at the Hall, partly because he was a sociable man and had no intention of missing such an event, and partly because he was also very loyal and believed that his presence would put a stop to any thieving, particularly in the kitchen garden. So in order that no vegetables should be taken, he was spending his time following the auctioneer round from room to room, apparently convinced that it was Mr.¬ÝMedworth, his clerks, and the dealers, who would want watching. It was Purton who brought news of the sale.
‚ÄúIs it all over, Purton?‚Äù cried Miss Trant, as soon as she saw him coming down the garden. He came up, touched his cap, then, putting his hands in his trousers pockets, he began swaying back from the hips. This was his favourite attitude when he had anything important to say, so that Miss Trant, who knew her man, realized at once that he was bursting with news. Not that he looked excited. You cannot expect a gardener who for the past six years has won the first prize for onions (Ailsa Craigs)‚ÅÝ‚Äîto say nothing of any number of minor events‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the Hitherton and District Show, to betray his feelings.
‚ÄúNo, Miss, rightly speaking, it isn‚Äôt over,‚Äù he replied. ‚ÄúBut what‚Äôs left don‚Äôt amount to much. A lot o‚Äô people goin‚Äô now. But that thar bit of a sideboard that stood in the ‚Äôall, that old un‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he stopped talking only to sway more violently.
“You mean the Tudor one. I know. I couldn’t find a place for it here, Purton, and they say it’s very valuable. What happened to it?”
“A ’undred and forty pound,” announced Purton, staring at her solemnly. “A ’undred and forty pound, that’s just fetched.”
“Isn’t that splendid, Purton!” Miss Trant looked at him with shining eyes, and did not seem a day older than twenty.
He stopped swaying, removed one hand from its pocket, and held up three fingers very impressively. ‚ÄúThree of ‚Äôem after it at the finish, that‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äîthree! Dealers they was. An Oxford feller, and a Cheltenham feller, and a little chap with a beard that‚Äôs come from London. Three of ‚Äôem! And they ‚Äôardly says a word, ‚Äôardly a word. Never see anything like it!‚Äù
“What did they do then?”
‚ÄúWinks. Just winks.‚Äù And Purton produced three of them too, very slow and solemn affairs, to show her how it was done, and then stared at her while she tried hard not to giggle. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝMedworth, ‚Äôe says ‚ÄòGoin‚Äô at ninety‚Äô and then one of ‚Äôem winks, and Mr.¬ÝMedworth says ‚ÄòNinety-five‚Äô and looks at another of ‚Äôem, gets a wink and ‚Äôas it up to a hundred. ‚ÄòAnd five‚Äô says the chap with a beard, and then they starts winkin‚Äô again, and then it‚Äôs winked right up to one ‚Äôundred and forty pounds. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs done well, ‚Äôas that thar sideboard.‚Äù
“I never thought it was worth as much as that, Purton.”
‚ÄúYou wouldn‚Äôt think so, Miss, would you‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust a bit of an old sideboard,‚Äù said Purton, speaking very confidentially. ‚ÄúIt wouldn‚Äôt surprise me if it woren‚Äôt. It‚Äôs this ‚Äôere competition that does it. Carries you away. You think you must ‚Äôave it. I once found meself landed with ten runner ducks that I no more wanted nor thought o‚Äô buying when I went up and ‚Äôad a look at the chap selling ‚Äôem than I thought o‚Äô buying a ring-tailed monkey. Got carried away. Plenty ‚Äôas been carried away this afternoon up at that thar auctioning. Mr.¬ÝMedworth says it‚Äôs a good sale. I‚Äôll be back thar, Miss, as soon as I‚Äôve had a bit to eat. I‚Äôll ‚Äôelp to clear up. There‚Äôll be a nasty mess when they‚Äôve done, I know.‚Äù
For the first time that day, Miss Trant began to feel excited about the sale. Mr.¬ÝMedworth had told her that it was impossible for him to say beforehand what the things would fetch; it all depended on the number of people who came, the sort of people and the mood they were in; and the whole lot might go for less than five hundred pounds, but on the other hand it might realize something like a thousand. It was impossible to doubt anything that Mr.¬ÝMedworth said about such matters. Miss Trant had tried, with some measure of success, to regard the whole proceeding as so much dull routine‚ÅÝ‚Äîone of the innumerable dreary things that had had to be done since her father died‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut now she realized that this was a gigantic gamble, a homely Monte Carlo, got up for her benefit. The difference between a good sale and a bad one might mean a difference of several hundred pounds, which in their turn could add a pound or two a month to her income. You could work it out in grades of China tea or silk stockings, that difference. And now it was being decided. She walked up and down the little Cottage garden, her head humming with addition and subtraction as it had done many a time these last few years, when she had had to pay all the bills and keep the accounts for her father. She was poorer now but she did not feel poorer. Actually she felt vaguely rich. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs because I‚Äôve heard so much talk about money,‚Äù she told herself, thinking of the discussions she had had with Mr.¬ÝTruby in his Dickens-ish little office, and then, more recently, with Mr.¬ÝMedworth, who was at once too teethy and jovial to be a gentleman.
She saw Purton return to the Hall, but did not follow him. After a restless half-hour or so in the Cottage, mostly spent in picking things up, walking about with them, and then putting them down again, she went to the bottom of the garden. The village below seemed to be full of cars, hooting through the main street and then roaring away to the Oxford or Cheltenham roads. The sale must be all over now. She would walk across and see.
When she approached the Hall, picking her way through a smelly muddle of people and cars and vans, the glorious September afternoon seemed to change at once. Its ripe gold became hot and dusty gilt. The Hall itself seemed smaller in this strange atmosphere, made up of straw and string and petrol and stares and silly jokes and perspiring bargainers. The place gaped vacantly, like a once handsome old idiot. As she skirted the crowd in front and made her way to a side door, she had a glimpse of certain familiar tables and chairs and pictures now being lifted into vans and carts, and that glimpse made her feel, as nothing that had happened before during these last few months had made her feel, that her life indeed was changed, beginning all over again. Those things had seemed more fixed and inevitable than the constellations, and now they were being hurried through the dust. They too were beginning all over again. And before she had reached the side door, she found herself choking a little, close to tears. She brushed past the men who were sweeping up the litter in the passages and made for the hall itself, the glory of the house. There she disturbed the rector, Mr.¬ÝChillingford, who was peering at the woodwork through a large reading glass.
He looked up, startled. “Hello! I had to have a look at this panelling at the back, now that I can see it properly. I knew it was different from the rest. I told my wife it was only this morning. Not that she said it wasn’t, of course, because she’s not interested in this sort of thing.” Then he brought his round red innocent face closer to hers, and said, more gently: “You look worried, Elizabeth. All this hasn’t been very pleasant for you, has it? You shouldn’t have come here; you should have kept out of the way, my dear.”
“I suppose I ought,” she replied vaguely. “But I have kept out of the way most of the time. And I’m not feeling what you think I’m feeling. It’s not sentiment about this place that’s worrying me.” She stopped, then smiled at him rather wanly.
“You’re like Dorothy and all the other young people I know nowadays,” he said. He always thought of Elizabeth Trant as a contemporary of his daughter and her friend, though actually she was ten years older. He saw her as a tall brisk schoolgirl who would one day become a woman. It was something undeveloped, immature, sexless, in her that fostered such conceptions. “Yes, you’re like the rest,” he continued. “You think there’s something to be ashamed of in sentiment. That’s why it seems to be dying out, leaving the world. But I don’t see myself that the world will be a better place without it. Not a bit, not a bit! It’ll be a worse place. So don’t you be ashamed of your feelings, my dear.” And he gave her a little pat or two on the shoulder.
“I’m not. I’m only trying to be honest about them. And it really is something quite different.”
“What is it then?” he inquired indulgently.
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite. It‚Äôs too complicated.‚Äù But she did know, though she had neither the will nor the words at her command to tell him. It was not because something had ended for her but because she had just seen how it ended that she was so troubled, so close to tears. It seemed as if her father‚Äôs life had not come to its end in the churchyard there, but here and now, in the dust and straw and shouting, had been bargained and frittered away into oblivion this very afternoon. She seemed to have had a sudden terrible glimpse of life as it really was, and was ready to weep at the thought of its strange dusty littleness.
‚ÄúAll the things you really want, of course, have been removed to the Cottage?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝChillingford knew very well they had, but the question seemed to him to have a certain consolatory value.
“Yes, everything,” she told him, and stared at the fantastically empty hall, into which the heavy sunlight came oozing.
“And I’m told it’s been a splendid sale, a splendid sale,” he added cheerfully, as they walked together to the front door.
Just outside, Mr.¬ÝMedworth himself was glittering and booming and mopping his brow. At the sight of Miss Trant, he triumphantly raised a hand. ‚ÄúA very successful afternoon, I‚Äôm told,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝChillingford, opening the subject for him.
‚ÄúCouldn‚Äôt be better, couldn‚Äôt be better,‚Äù he cried, and then looked so businesslike that Mr.¬ÝChillingford hurried away at once. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre just finishing off now, Miss Trant, the figures, y‚Äôknow. Over a thousand, I‚Äôm confident of that. Yes, over a thousand.‚Äù
“Why, that’s even more than you thought it would come to, even at the best, isn’t it?” Miss Trant felt rich again, in spite of her sober acquaintance with figures.
‚ÄúWell, I wouldn‚Äôt say that because I‚Äôm never surprised, never,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMedworth said, very judicially. ‚ÄúBut we‚Äôve been lucky today, very lucky. Some keen men here, real competition. And‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere he lowered his voice and hid his teeth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúit was lucky you took my advice about the walnut pieces and left them in. Worth far more to these fellows than they are to you. All a fashion!‚Äù
“Did they sell very well, then?”
‚ÄúFetched ridiculous prices, ridiculous! Knew they would, if we got the right people here. That little bureau went up to thirty-five. Three of ‚Äôem after every piece.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝMedworth continued in this strain for the next ten minutes, at the end of which he had to break off because he found a mass of documents thrust under his nose.
‚ÄúWe‚Äôve got it now,‚Äù he announced, five minutes later. ‚ÄúOne thousand and sixty-five pounds, fourteen shillings, and sixpence, that‚Äôs what we make it. That‚Äôs less our commission, y‚Äôknow. All your own, Miss Trant, eh? Yes, all your own. Shall we settle up with Mr.¬ÝTruby? Ah yes, I‚Äôll settle with Mr.¬ÝTruby tomorrow. Good!‚Äù He turned away as if to depart and swept round again so quickly that he made Miss Trant feel dizzy. ‚ÄúThe house,‚Äù he cried, lifting a long fat forefinger. ‚ÄúWe mustn‚Äôt forget that. They‚Äôre cleaning it up now, and tomorrow, Miss Trant, perhaps you could get a woman or two in to finish it off. And a gardener to tidy up. You could, eh? I‚Äôll tell you why. We‚Äôre going to get rid of the house sooner than I thought. Inquiry came in yesterday, and I‚Äôll send ‚Äôem over day after tomorrow. How‚Äôs that for you? Send someone with ‚Äôem, of course, but thought you might like to show ‚Äôem round a bit yourself. Sure you don‚Äôt want to sell? No. Quite right, quite right. Well, we‚Äôll stick at a hundred and fifty, not a penny less. Get it easily, best house in the district. Day after tomorrow then, morning if possible. And settle with Mr.¬ÝTruby. Good afternoon, Miss Trant. Go‚Äëod afternoon. Here, where‚Äôs Charlie?‚Äù But this last shout was not intended for Miss Trant, and now we have finished with Mr.¬ÝMedworth.
Miss Trant returned to the Cottage, richer by the sum of one thousand and sixty-five pounds, fourteen shillings, and sixpence. She walked quickly and erectly down the lane, then tidied up the Cottage and tidied up herself, dealt justly with an excellent cold supper, wrote a few letters and read a chapter or two before going, rather earlier than usual, to bed; and nobody who saw her could have guessed what she was feeling. Here was the trim, the brisk, the efficient Miss Trant that everybody knew, with not a single hair of that light-brown and unbobbed mass disturbed. Nevertheless, she felt as if she were lost. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs weak and silly to feel like this,‚Äù she told herself firmly. ‚ÄúIn the morning, I must begin all over again.‚Äù Before she could do more than turn over a few vague plans, she was asleep, dreaming perhaps of the long-deferred payment of life to her youth, that youth which the calendar, lying to her bright face, said had slipped by. And now Hitherton was itself again, quiet under the glimmer of stars. There were no cars parked in the main street. The last van had shaken itself from the Hall long ago. J. Hurley¬Ý& Son had closed the garage and were celebrating their victory over the queer magneto by eating a large late supper of cold potato pie. In the taproom of The Shepherd‚Äôs Hall, Purton was finishing his final half-pint and also the whole question of dealers‚Äô winks. The dealers themselves, the little buyers, the sightseers, had long dispersed, and with them all the chairs and tables and chests of drawers and china and guns and books and steel engravings and Indian screens and Burmese gongs, all gone out to strange places; leaving their Colonel resting in the churchyard, and his daughter sleeping under this roof of her own, still in familiar Hitherton and yet perhaps really in a new world.
II
The next morning, Miss Trant, looking through her window at the radiant vapour, decided that the day would be fine and that it should be honoured by her golden-brown jumper suit, a recent and triumphant find in Cheltenham. In the little dining-room, polished and trim and full of sunlight, she found a picture postcard awaiting her. On one side were the Glastonbury ruins. On the other was some equally ruinous and picturesque handwriting: “Isn’t this appalling? Must have been invented for Americans. Can I descend upon you sometime tomorrow, dinner-ish? Love, Hilary.” This was her nephew, the only son of the Indian Judge. He had recently come down from Oxford. Miss Trant looked very thoughtful over this card. She was not sure whether she wanted to entertain Hilary or not.
Before she could make up her mind whether Hilary would be a pleasure or a nuisance, Mrs.¬ÝPurton waddled in, set down a boiled egg, a toast-rack, and a teapot, and then proceeded in a very leisurely fashion to explode a bomb.
‚ÄúThey do say, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝPurton began, and then stopped, holding, as it were the smoking bomb in her hand. Miss Trant smiled at her. ‚ÄúWell, what are they saying now? Don‚Äôt frighten me, Mrs.¬ÝPurton.‚Äù
‚ÄúThey do say‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she stopped again. Then it came‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang! ‚ÄúMiss Chillingford, Miss Dorothy, ‚Äôas just got herself engaged to be married.‚Äù
“What!” Miss Trant nearly shrieked. “It can’t be true. I’ve never heard anything about it.”
‚ÄúIt come this morning in a letter,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝPurton, enjoying herself. ‚ÄúMrs.¬ÝChillingford she tells it to Agnes, and Agnes tells it to young Cripps as brings the milk, and young Cripps tells it to me. And she‚Äôll ‚Äôave to be married very soon and then go out to Asia or India or Jamaikie or one o‚Äô them places, ‚Äôcos it‚Äôs a young gentleman as works there.‚Äù
‚ÄúI wonder who it is?‚Äù Miss Trant stared at Mrs.¬ÝPurton‚Äôs plump red face as if she might find the name written there.
‚ÄúThat I don‚Äôt know, Miss.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝPurton took her tray and turned to go. ‚ÄúAnd one o‚Äô them cars as come for furniture last night got stuck in a ditch on the Cheltenham road. Drunk, I‚Äôll be bound!‚Äù And she made her favourite exit, nodding her head like a minor prophet.
Miss Trant cared nothing about the fate of cars on the Cheltenham road, but the news of Dorothy Chillingford‚Äôs engagement, totally unexpected, left her a little dazed. Her plans, vague as they were, had counted upon Dorothy‚Äôs companionship or, at least, neighbouring high spirits. She felt hurt, too, at not being told, that is, not being told properly. She debated whether to look in at the Chillingfords‚Äô, but decided against it. ‚ÄúIf Mrs.¬ÝChillingford doesn‚Äôt arrive within an hour,‚Äù she told herself, ‚ÄúI shall know there‚Äôs nothing in it, just village gossip.‚Äù Purton was up at the Hall, restoring order in the big garden, and so she took his place for the morning among the Cottage flowerbeds.
She had not very long to wait. As soon as she saw Mrs.¬ÝChillingford‚Äôs agile little figure between the grenadier lines of hollyhocks, she knew that she had heard no mere idle rumour. ‚ÄúGood morning, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝChillingford gasped, ‚ÄúI came round to ask you over to tea this afternoon.‚Äù Dorothy‚Äôs engagement was written all over her.
This was a moment worthy of Mrs.¬ÝChillingford. She was a small stringy woman, with no shoulders and rheumatic joints but with a fighting face, hooked nose and snapping eyes, and an indomitable spirit. The rector himself, so long as such subjects as leper-windows, the University Commission, and Anglo-Catholicism were avoided, was one of the most placid of mortals, and there are few quieter places in this island than Hitherton. Yet Mrs.¬ÝChillingford had contrived to turn her life there into a saga. From Monday morning to Saturday night she flung out ultimatums, mobilized, gave battle, and then shot into church on Sunday to hymn her victories and send glances like bayonets to right and left of her while her husband in the pulpit murmured of peace. Visitors newly arrived from the Northwestern Frontier of the Central American republics found themselves hastily revising their notions of English country life after an hour in her company, and soon returned to London for a rest. There was just one period, lasting about six months, when she lost all her zest for conflict and was very quiet indeed, perhaps because she found it so difficult to understand John Chillingford was in future to be only a name on the village War memorial; and then the good people of Hitherton and neighbourhood discovered a peace that made the subsequent Armistice a mere anticlimax. But it was a disquieting sort of peace, and perhaps they were not altogether sorry when their rector‚Äôs wife became herself again. When she did come to the end of those six months, buried away that strangely acquiescent little woman in black, there was no holding her at all. Commissioners, recruiting officers, great ladies, even Bishops and Lords Lieutenant, were sent reeling back. And that mild and not unwise man, the Rev. Thomas Chillingford, never uttered a word of reproof but even gently suggested new adversaries and hinted from time to time, he who had never an enemy, that he was in great need of her help, almost at bay. But for a year or two now Mrs.¬ÝChillingford had had to carry on her saga almost unaided by circumstance, doing what she could with Flower Show Committee meetings and the like; here at last was an event, and it found her worthy.
‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs true, and I was to tell you at once. His name‚Äôs Atkinson, Gerald Atkinson‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou may have met him; he was down here once, staying with the Horrocks. Dorothy has been seeing him in town, of course, but even then it‚Äôs rather sudden, but no worse for that, of course, not at all. He has an estate‚ÅÝ‚Äîcoffee or something‚ÅÝ‚Äîin Kenya, and they‚Äôre to be married almost at once because he must go back there very soon. And he‚Äôs nearly two years younger than Dorothy‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that that matters, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîand apparently his people, who still command the purse-strings, don‚Äôt approve‚ÅÝ‚Äîdid you ever hear of such a thing!‚Äù
Now that Mrs.¬ÝChillingford stopped for breath, Miss Trant had time to wonder whether Dorothy had not invented this opposition on the part of his family, the slightest mention of which instantly made her mother heart and soul for the match. If she had been told that the Atkinsons approved, she would probably have commanded Dorothy to come home at once. But all Miss Trant said was: ‚ÄúYes, I think I remember him. Tall, and fair, wasn‚Äôt he? He didn‚Äôt seem at all too young for Dorothy.‚Äù As a matter of fact, if it was the youth she was thinking of, he didn‚Äôt seem too young for anybody. He was a very old youth indeed.
‚ÄúOf course not!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝChillingford. ‚ÄúBut then, I don‚Äôt expect to hear any nonsense of that kind. I don‚Äôt know what I do expect to hear, but I‚Äôm going up to town in the morning and shall see for myself. Dorothy can count upon me, if there are fifty thousand Atkinsons there. Some of these people seem to imagine they can keep their children in leading-strings all their lives. They‚Äôve bought this boy an estate out there‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe poor boy has to do something and apparently he‚Äôs been very successful‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe first year‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now they think they can dictate to him about his marriage. Leading-strings!‚Äù
“And what has Dorothy decided to do about everything?” Miss Trant asked meekly.
“You mean about the date of the wedding, place, clothes, going out there, and so on? I don’t know what the child has decided because she knows better than to announce decisions on such a matter as this to me. I shall go up myself and do the deciding tomorrow. This is a mother’s business. There’ll be a great deal to do, a great deal, and very little time to do it in, unless of course I decide that the whole thing ought to be postponed. I shan’t do that, I think. What are you smiling at, Elizabeth?”
Miss Trant bent down to remove a trowel. “I was just thinking,” she answered, not altogether truthfully, “how you’re going to enjoy yourself.”
‚ÄúEnjoy myself with all this fuss!‚Äù Then Mrs.¬ÝChillingford met her friend‚Äôs amused gaze, and laughed. ‚ÄúWell, perhaps I shall. She‚Äôs in love with him, I can see that. Don‚Äôt forget tea.‚Äù
Miss Trant sighed as she turned again to her flowerbeds. It was not a sentimental sigh. She was certainly not conscious of any desire to be engaged herself. She did not envy her friend, Dorothy; indeed, she felt rather compassionate and at the same time a little irritated, because she remembered Gerald Atkinson now and thought Dorothy was throwing herself away upon him. But then she did not pretend to know a great deal about these affairs of the heart, and really found them rather uninteresting. Her own life had never been disturbed by grand passions, and such relations as she had had with young men had been cool and friendly. There was one exception. It had happened twelve years ago, when she and her father had returned from Malta all the way by boat. She had not been well, and the ship’s doctor, a tall bony young Scot, had been called in to examine her. He was gruff and shy at first, with an honesty as plain as daylight, but they soon became friends, trod the upper deck together every morning and quietly explored one another’s mind and heart every night. The last two days it had become quite exciting; every glance, every word, became electrical, significant; and then, with the land in sight, he had suddenly changed, turned gruff and shy again, and he had let her go without saying anything, had just given her a handshake that hurt and backed away with a ghastly sort of grin. His name was Hugh McFarlane; his voice was very deep and very Scotch, one of those that bring out huge vowels and smashing consonants; and when he turned his face towards the light there was a fascinating glint of hair about his cheekbones. There was nothing about him she had forgotten, and though she rarely thought of him, perhaps he served as a secret standard in her judgement of young men. Thus, it suddenly occurred to her that he was worth at least six Gerald Atkinsons.
But the sigh was not for him, nor was it for Dorothy. It was just a breath coming from a kind of emptiness. She was beginning to feel a little lost again. The feeling had not gone when she crossed to the Chillingfords’ for tea.
‚ÄúElizabeth, you need a change,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝChillingford, wagging a finger at her. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been keeping my eye on you lately, and you need a change.‚Äù
‚ÄúTake my advice, my dear,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝChillingford, ‚Äúand leave this place as soon as you can. We shall miss you, of course, but you ought to go.‚Äù
“Where?”
‚ÄúAnywhere. Cheltenham. Oxford. London. It doesn‚Äôt matter. Sell everything you have‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean stocks and shares and things‚ÅÝ‚Äîand start in business. That‚Äôs what I should do in your place. Never hesitate a moment. Go slap into business.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝChillingford said this with immense gusto, then went slap into a piece of sandwich cake.
“I’ve thought of it, you know,” said Miss Trant. “But what could I do? I don’t know anything.”
“Of course you do. Try this cake. You could open a shop and sell hats or gowns, like Betty Waltham.”
“Yes, but I’ve always been told that I haven’t very good taste.” This sounded very feeble, she thought, but Miss Trant was nothing if not honest. Nevertheless, she believed in her heart of hearts that she had very good taste.
‚ÄúNonsense! You‚Äôve splendid taste,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝChillingford, who very notoriously had none at all. She went on to discuss other shops and girls who had marched out of the most aristocratic country houses to open them.
‚ÄúSo far as I can see, my dear,‚Äù remarked her husband, lighting his pipe, ‚Äúit‚Äôs only myself and this parish and perhaps‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîa certain lack of capital that are preventing you from becoming a second Selfridge or Woolworth.‚Äù And he chuckled.
‚ÄúPerhaps it is,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝChillingford, briskly. ‚ÄúI know I wish I had Elizabeth‚Äôs opportunities.‚Äù
“Now for my part,” he added, turning to Miss Trant, “I think the only opportunity you ought to trouble yourself about just now is that of going away for a little rest and change. A little travel, now. What about Italy?”
“Somehow I haven’t the slightest desire to go to Italy,” said Miss Trant.
‚ÄúI should hope not.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝChillingford was very emphatic. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt, for goodness‚Äô sake, Elizabeth, turn yourself into one of those terrible unmarried females who spend their time in Italy. Look at Agatha Spinthorpe and her sister. And the Murrells. No, anything but that.‚Äù
‚ÄúItaly then is condemned. We obliterate the whole peninsula,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝChillingford, with mild irony. He puffed away dreamily for a few moments, then went on: ‚ÄúNow if I were in your place, I should do something I‚Äôve always wanted to do. I should have a little tour‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, perhaps not so very little, when you think of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîvisiting all our English cathedrals. You may not be very interested in ecclesiastic architecture‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I don’t think I am, you know,” Miss Trant murmured.
‚ÄúPossibly not.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝChillingford was unperturbed. ‚ÄúBut think what a wonderful picture of England you would have. Canterbury, Ely, Norwich, Lincoln, York, supposing you begin at that corner. A wonderful picture! You cross over to this side. Hereford, Gloucester, Wells, Salisbury, and so forth. Wonderful!‚Äù His plump face was alight with enthusiasm.
Miss Trant found herself faintly kindled. “It does sound rather exciting when you think of it like that. And I’ve hardly seen any of those places.”
“It’s been a favourite project of mine for years,” he said gravely.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the first I‚Äôve ever heard of it,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝChillingford. ‚ÄúAnd I must say it sounds very dull to me. If there‚Äôs one kind of town more like another, it‚Äôs a cathedral town. Don‚Äôt take any notice of him, my dear.‚Äù
They juggled with cathedrals and shops a few minutes longer, and then Miss Trant went back to the Cottage and spent the next hour and a half with Redgauntlet, which she was reading for the fourth time. She had a passion for historical romances, not silly sentimental stories passing themselves off under cover of a few cloaks and daggers and “halidoms” or “Odds-fish,” but real full-blooded historical tales. These she preferred to any other kind of fiction, and for the last twenty years they had been first her delight and then her solace. She loved to carry a secret message from Louis the Eleventh of France to Charles, Duke of Burgundy; to journey to Blois in foul weather crying vengeance on the Guises; to peep out of a haystack at Ireton’s troopers; to hide in the heather after Prince Charlie had taken ship to France; to go thundering over the Rhine with Napoleon and his marshals. To exchange passwords, to rally the Horse on the left, to clatter down the Great North Road, to hammer upon inn doors on nights of wind and sleet, these were the pleasures, strangely boyish, of her imagination. Few people who came upon Miss Trant sitting erectly with a book ever imagined for a moment that she was happily engaged in drinking confusion to the League or firing a matchlock. But such was her taste. Neither the laborious satire nor the luscious sentiment of our present fiction gave her any pleasure. She liked a tale to open at once, in the very first chapter, a little door through which she could escape and have bright sexless adventures. Novels about unmarried women who lived in the country, looking after aged parents or making do in genteel cottages, depressed her so much that she took pains to avoid them.
She had to dine with Redgauntlet, and it was after nine when she heard Hilary’s car wandering uneasily about the village. It was nearly ten by the time they had put away the two-seater in the Hall garage, walked back to the Cottage, and settled themselves in the little drawing-room.
“Well, Hilary, now you must tell me all the news.” But before he could reply, she went on: “You know, I think you frighten me.”
“Do I really? How splendid!” cried Hilary, in his high clear voice. He did not ask why he frightened her because he could see innumerable reasons himself.
She replied, however, without being asked. ‚ÄúNow don‚Äôt be flattered,‚Äù she continued. ‚ÄúIt isn‚Äôt exactly because you‚Äôre an important young man from Oxford, though that has something to do with it. It‚Äôs because I‚Äôve seen you change so quickly, from a little boy‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh, it’s that!” Hilary was disgusted.
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s that. It’s like a terrible sort of conjuring trick. I’ve been here, year after year, going on in the same old way, but almost every time I’ve seen you, you’ve been something quite different, nursery, prep school, public school, Oxford.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I assure you I’ve stopped now,” he said, a trifle loftily.
‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôm sure you haven‚Äôt. You‚Äôll be getting married or growing a moustache‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Heaven forbid!” Hilary shrieked. “This comes of living in the country, my dear. It’s a morbid life. Look at all this rural fiction.”
She looked at him instead. He was now a slim and elegant young man, with a clear-cut and vaguely impertinent profile. Probably he had the most outrageous opinions about everything. His father and her brother, the Indian Judge, who had not seen him for years, would have a surprise when he did see him. The thought gave her pleasure, for it seemed to her that the Judge had never had his share of unpleasant surprises. “Let me see,” she murmured, “you’re being called to the Bar, aren’t you?”
“I’m supposed to be,” he told her. “That’s father’s idea, and I’m eating dinners and that sort of thing. But I don’t intend to go on with it. Very few fellows do, you know. Most of these barristers-in-embryo, who spend all their time when they’re up preparing little speeches for the Union, end as sporting journalists or music-hall agents or something of that sort.” For the next quarter of an hour, she listened to him proving that he was entirely unfitted for the Bar, a contemptible profession to a man of real intellect, and, remembering her somewhat pompous and overbearing brother, she listened with a certain malicious pleasure. When the Bar had been finally demolished, she asked him what his own plans were.
“Well, you’ve heard, of course, of The Oxford Static?” he began.
“No, I haven’t. What is it?” And then, noticing his look of pained surprise, she went on: “I’m sorry. But we never hear about anything down here.”
He brightened. ‚ÄúNo, of course not. You‚Äôre out of touch, and then Grandfather and everything. The Oxford Static was a review we ran. Three of us, Carrera-Brown‚ÅÝ‚Äîmost brilliant man up, wonderful brain‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Sturge‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a poet, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand me. It had a tremendous influence, simply tremendous. After a time, all the people who counted up there daren‚Äôt move without it, simply daren‚Äôt move.‚Äù
“What was it all about?”
‚ÄúA review of all the arts, yes, all the arts, even dancing and films. We had a new point of view, you see.‚Äù He was so excited now that he rose from his chair and began pacing the room, and his voice got higher and higher. ‚ÄúWe Statics‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what we call ourselves‚ÅÝ‚Äîawfully good name, isn‚Äôt it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbelieve that Art has got to be beyond emotion. Life and Art have got absolutely choked up with filthy emotion, and we say the time has come for them to be‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat shall I say?‚ÅÝ‚Äîfeelingless, all calm and clear. Get rid of the feelings, first, we say. We saw the whole thing about two years ago, one night when we were talking in Carrera-Brown‚Äôs rooms, and we talked and talked until we had settled it. What a night that was!‚Äù
“It must have been,” his aunt murmured.
He paced up and down the room, waving his cigarette. ‚ÄúThen we found the name, and very soon we brought out this review. Now we‚Äôre thinking of transferring the thing to town, calling it simply The Static. A monthly, we think. Lots of important people are interested‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCarrera-Brown knows everybody, simply everybody, and Lady Bullard has promised help‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now we‚Äôre each trying to raise some money to begin. I shall do the Drama and Films and French Literature. Cynthia Grumm, you know, who lives in Paris and has abolished the sentence altogether and makes new words all the time, has promised to write for us. But we‚Äôve decided that there shan‚Äôt be any names of contributors in the review, just numbers. I‚Äôm to be Static Three. That‚Äôs a magnificent idea, isn‚Äôt it? And Oppelworth is going to do some drawings for us, and be Static Six. We soon made a convert of him. He‚Äôd been going in for nonrepresentational art‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, no representation of natural objects but just drawings suggesting the artist‚Äôs emotions, but now he sees that this won‚Äôt do and so he‚Äôs cutting out the emotions and becoming a Static. We‚Äôre even having music too. Pure form, you know.‚Äù
“I’m not so sure that I do know, Hilary,” said Miss Trant, who had enjoyed herself but was beginning to feel very sleepy.
“Well, of course, I simply haven’t begun to explain,” he said excitedly. Then he caught sight of her stifling a yawn, and being a well-mannered youth, instantly checked his ardour: “But look here, you must be awfully tired. I suppose you go to bed about nine, don’t you as a rule? Don’t let me keep you up. We’ll talk about all that in the morning. Are there any books I can read?”
“I shouldn’t think so. There are books, but I don’t suppose you can read them.”
“Well, I have one or two with me, and I’ll scout about, if I may. I shan’t be able to sleep for hours yet, hours and hours. And now that I’ve begun to talk about The Static, I feel more wakeful than ever.”
“I can see that it excites you,” said his aunt gravely.
‚ÄúYes, doesn‚Äôt it?‚Äù replied the youth innocently. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm tremendously excited about the whole thing. Wouldn‚Äôt you be? Think of the possibilities and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, everything!‚Äù
She left him to make himself calm and clear as best he could, and went to bed feeling more cheerful than she had done all day. The fact that any month now The Static might arrive to revolutionize the aesthetic doctrines of the world, the fact that she knew nothing whatever about Cynthia Grumm or Oppelworth, to say nothing of Carrera-Brown and Sturge‚ÅÝ‚Äîsuch matters did not keep her from sleep five minutes. An aunt has her compensations.
III
There was only one letter by Miss Trant’s plate the following morning, but it was a very important letter indeed. It ran as follows:
My dear Elizabeth,
Did you know that your father owed me ¬£600? He did, and he gave instructions to Truby that it should be repaid out of his estate. But when Truby settled the debt, he also explained who would be losing the money. If it had been either your brother or sister‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho are both well off, or were when I last heard of them‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI should have taken it like a shot, but I have no intention of taking it from you, and so have returned the ¬£600 to Truby. Now don‚Äôt be silly about this. I have as much as I want, and I know what your position is. I feel sure you are sensible enough not to refuse the money. What are you going to do? Twenty years ago, or even ten, I should have advised you to come out here, but the East isn‚Äôt what it was, ruined by these damned silly student politics. If you can guarantee me something that remotely resembles a summer, I‚Äôll pay you a visit, but not before, for the last time I did nothing but shiver and wrap up.
She had read this once, in a rather dazed fashion, and was beginning again, when Hilary arrived, looking rather more Static than he had done the night before.
“That’s my great-uncle, is it, the tea-planter man?” he said, after she had told him the news. “I saw him once, when I was still at school. He looked like Mark Twain. You’ll take the money, of course?”
“I think so,” said Miss Trant, rather slowly and dubiously.
“Why shouldn’t you?” Hilary stared. “As a matter of fact, it’s yours, and anyhow you’ve jolly well earned it. You haven’t much money, have you?”
“No, I shall probably have about three hundred a year when I’ve let the Hall. By the way, some people are coming to look at it today. And I’ve about a thousand pounds over, from the sale.”
“Then you’ll have a spare sixteen hundred roughly, with this windfall.” Hilary delicately chipped at his egg, then looked across at her with raised eyebrows. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to put some money into The Static, would you?”
“I don’t think I would, Hilary,” she replied briskly.
‚ÄúNo,‚Äù he said, rather gloomily. ‚ÄúI thought you wouldn‚Äôt. It‚Äôs a pity, though, because you‚Äôd enjoy the thing so much‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean really being in it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course you would probably make something out of it. You didn‚Äôt mind my asking, did you?‚Äù
‚ÄúNot at all.‚Äù She smiled at him, and decided at once not to tell him the real reason why she had refused, which was that she was not going to encourage him to waste his time. ‚ÄúYou see, there may be a family row if you go on with this business‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Sure to be,” he put in calmly. “I haven’t written to India yet, but I told Aunt Hilda the other day and she was frightfully down on it. But then she would be, you know. She’s not like you. Her life’s one long orgy of emotionalism, don’t you think?”
“And you see,” Miss Trant continued, after an amused glance of the mind at her sister Hilda confronted by the Statics, “I don’t want to be mixed up in it, and I should be at once if I helped you.”
“Couldn’t you put the money in anonymously.”
“It would soon come out, I mean my part in it. You know how things do get about.” She herself did not know at all how such things got about, but it sounded convincing.
“Rather,” said Hilary, who knew even less. They looked at one another knowingly, and enjoyed themselves.
“I’ve got about a hundred that I can spare,” he said, after he had lit the first cigarette. “But I want about two hundred and fifty. I think I shall sell that two-seater of mine. It’s useless in town, anyhow. Only eats its head off. Do you know anybody here who wants a two-seater? It’s a Mercia, last year’s?”
“No, I don’t think I do,” she said slowly, staring at him.
“What’s the matter?”
She laughed. “Nothing. Shall we go out?” But she was still thinking about that two-seater.
He strolled over to the window. “What shall we do?”
“Anything you like. You’re not interested in gardens, are you?”
“Not in the least,” he replied heartily. “I don’t mind sitting in them on warm afternoons, but I simply can’t dig them up or talk about them or anything of that kind. We might run round in the car.”
“I should like that. But stop, we can’t go until I’ve shown those people the Hall. They’re coming some time today to look at it, and I promised to be here.”
“I think I shall stroll up there myself. I’ll have a look at the car, and then if those people come, I shall have a look at them too. I’ve never seen anybody examine a house.”
“Why, do you want to?” asked Miss Trant, with raised eyebrows.
‚ÄúI want to see people doing all kinds of things,‚Äù he replied very gravely. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm an observer. I want to see but not to feel. That‚Äôs my duty now, to watch and record. There‚Äôs rhythm in all these activities and I want to be able to‚ÅÝ‚Äîto detach it. Think of the new films.‚Äù After making these enigmatic observations, Static Three looked at her very solemnly, then, with a gesture of farewell, sauntered out of the room.
Miss Trant reached the bottom of the garden in time to see Hurley‚Äôs ancient and gigantic Daimler, the vehicle for all entrances and exits in Hitherton, come slowly down the lane. Mrs.¬ÝChillingford was inside, on her way to the station, and she waved as she passed. As the car disappeared, Hitherton and the bright morning seemed to shrink. Mrs.¬ÝChillingford was on her way to Paddington, to Dorothy, to the embattled Atkinsons, to adventures with the Army and Navy Stores and the shipping offices. ‚ÄúWhat are you going to do, to do, to do?‚Äù the car seemed to roar back at her as it gathered speed down the hill. And she had no answer ready. She thought of the windfall of the morning, six hundred pounds out of the blue, and felt a little quiver of excitement. You could do all manner of things with six hundred pounds, perhaps go all round the world. But she did not want to go all round the world by herself. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know what I want, that‚Äôs the trouble,‚Äù she told the great staring nodding dahlias. She found, however, that Mrs.¬ÝPurton knew what she wanted, namely, some orders for lunch and dinner, and after consulting with her, Miss Trant went out to shop.
On her way back, she met Purton standing at the entrance to the Hall. “I was looking for you, Miss,” he said, touching his cap, and then instantly ramming his hands in his pockets. “They’ve just come with a young feller from Medworth’s. Look like these ’ere profiteers. Come in a car as big as a cottage.”
She had no time to reply because at this moment the young fellow from Medworth’s himself suddenly appeared round the corner, raised his hat, and began, in a dramatic whisper: “We’re trying for two hundred.”
He got no further, however, because now another man, very tall, very pale, and with a long drooping moustache, suddenly came round the corner, stared at everybody, took off his hat and forgot to replace it, and mumbled: ‚ÄúMiss Trant? Yes? Rathbury. Come to look‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Sorry to trouble‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Beautiful morning.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù
By this time the familiar entrance to the drive seemed to Miss Trant to have turned itself into a comic stage. She wanted to giggle at everything, but retained sufficient control over herself to tell Mr.¬ÝRathbury that she hoped he would like the house and that really it was rather charming.
‚ÄúJust had a glance,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRathbury murmured. ‚ÄúVery delightful. Yes, certainly. Just what we‚Äôre looking for. The very thing, I should think. Most charming.‚Äù
“Of course, as you’ll see, it’s not very big,” said Miss Trant brightly, feeling that she must say something.
“Not very big, no,” the long moustache agreed. “No worse for that, though. Not at all. Not these days. Just the thing, I fancy.”
“So you’re here.”
Everybody jumped. The voice was very loud and stern, and it came from a square woman, with a purplish fat face and two prominent staring grey eyes.
‚ÄúMy wife,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRathbury muttered, fading out.
‚ÄúOh, this is the owner, is it?‚Äù shouted Mrs.¬ÝRathbury, staring away. ‚ÄúMiss Trant, isn‚Äôt it? How d‚Äôyou do?‚Äù
“Do you want me to show you round?” Miss Trant felt as if she were addressing a battleship.
“Quite unnecessary, I think, quite unnecessary. We’ll just look round ourselves for a few minutes. I don’t expect we shall take the house. It’s very small, isn’t it? We think it will be too small, don’t we?” She switched the stare on to her husband for a second.
“Yes, of course, rather small, certainly,” he mumbled, carefully looking at nobody. “Drawback of course, being small.”
“And then it’s not really the type of house we’re looking for, not the style, as my husband has probably told you already.”
“No, not the style.” Mournfully he fingered the long moustache. “Not quite, certainly. Perhaps hardly at all.”
‚ÄúNot at all,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury shouted, giving them everyone in turn a stare. ‚ÄúHowever, we might as well see it.‚Äù Immediately she wheeled about and marched off, and her husband and the young estate agent hurried after her.
Miss Trant and Purton each drew a long breath, and looked at one another. “You’ll be wantin’ them thar pars down at the Cottage, Miss,” said Purton very slowly. “I’ll go and get ’em.”
Miss Trant returned to the Cottage with her purchases, talked to Mrs.¬ÝPurton, dusted the drawing-room, then walked back, slowly, very slowly, to the Hall. As she sauntered up the drive, she thought she saw Hilary disappearing into the garden at the back of the house. A moment later the Rathburys emerged from the front door.
‚ÄúYes, we‚Äôll take it. But not a penny more than two hundred,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury was shouting to the agent. Then she saw Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm just saying that we shall take it at two hundred. It‚Äôs quite charming, quite charming, the sort of place that wants proper looking after. Several things to be done, of course.‚Äù She stared at Miss Trant, then through her, it seemed, at all the other Trants, as if to accuse them all of neglecting the place. ‚ÄúWe were fortunate in finding that young architect there to make suggestions.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝRathbury‚Äôs moustache made some vague sound that implied it was in entire agreement with her. It was now Miss Trant‚Äôs turn to stare. She caught the eye of Mr.¬ÝMedworth‚Äôs assistant, who looked both triumphant and puzzled. Turning to Mrs.¬ÝRathbury again, she saw with astonishment that that lady was actually smiling at her. True, the eyes had no part in the smile, but the rest of her face was amiably creasing.
‚ÄúYou never told us it was such a show place,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury shouted in great good-humour. ‚ÄúI saw at once, of course, that it must be, and could be more of one, properly cared for. It was the young architect who told us all about it. Did he tell you he had come a hundred miles to see it?‚Äù
“I don’t know,” Miss Trant stammered. “I don’t quite understand. Who is this?”
‚ÄúWhat was the name?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury stared all about her as if the name must be written up somewhere. ‚ÄúOh yes, of course‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝStatic.‚Äù
There was no help for it. Miss Trant gave a little shriek of laughter. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry,‚Äù she gurgled. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs such a silly name, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
‚ÄúYes, rather; it is, certainly,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRathbury mumbled, evidently under the impression that he had been appealed to.
‚ÄúIndeed!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury looked from one to the other in obvious disapproval. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a name of some importance, I understand, in‚ÅÝ‚Äîin architectural circles. What was it Mr.¬ÝStatic said he was an authority on?‚Äù
“Seventeenth-century panelled interiors,” replied the young estate agent, in what seemed to Miss Trant a rather queer tone of voice.
“Exactly! I ought to have remembered because I knew the name well. Seventeenth-century panelled interiors. This is a very good specimen, he said. But of course they want proper attention. A house of this kind is a responsibility, of course. Perhaps you’re not interested in these things, Miss Trant. Tell Johnson we’re ready to go back now.”
Miss Trant was fighting an impulse to tell her that she could not have the house after all. With this woman settled in the Hall, Hitherton would be impossible, even though it meant that Mrs.¬ÝChillingford could begin a new saga. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs strange,‚Äù she told herself, ‚Äúthat I don‚Äôt care more than I do. Perhaps it shows that I really am tired of living here.‚Äù And she answered Mrs.¬ÝRathbury‚Äôs questions meekly enough, said nothing about Hilary (which served her right), then referred her to Mr.¬ÝMedworth.
After lunch, during which Hilary was divided between the glee of the mischievous small boy and the natural shame of a solemn young intellect who has indulged his lower self, they drove to Cheltenham in Hilary‚Äôs car. There she saw Mr.¬ÝTruby, who congratulated her on the result of the sale, the gift of six hundred pounds, and the letting of the house, then told her that she ought to go away and enjoy herself. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre comfortably off now,‚Äù he added. ‚ÄúMuch better than we expected. I‚Äôll keep this sixteen hundred pounds in a deposit account for you until you decide what to do with it. Don‚Äôt worry about money. What you want now is a change,‚Äù he concluded, with the air of a man who knew what a change was, even though he had never had one.
Miss Trant walked out of the dim office into the bright sunshine, feeling vaguely exhilarated. ‚ÄúHow queer and old-fashioned solicitors‚Äô offices are!‚Äù she cried to Hilary. ‚ÄúGoing to see Mr.¬ÝTruby is like walking into a Dickens novel.‚Äù
“How ghastly for you!” The Static shuddered. Then, as they found a tea shop, he observed mournfully: “When you were in there, I took the car round to a garage to see what sort of price I should get for it. About seventy-five pounds, they said. That’s about half of what it’s worth. Isn’t it a swindle? These garage people hate to pay cash for a car. They’ll allow you anything nearly if they are selling you another.” And having thus descended to this ordinary low level of thought and feeling, he remained there throughout tea and his aunt smiled upon him. About halfway home, on a quiet stretch of road, she asked him to pull up. “Do you think I might try to drive now?” she asked rather breathlessly. “I have a licence because I’ve tried before, when Dorothy Chillingford had a car. Will you explain about this one?”
“Nothing in it. The thing practically drives itself. Why do you want to bother, though?” He jumped out and walked round the car.
‚ÄúBecause‚ÅÝ‚Äîif I can drive it, I‚Äôll buy it from you, Hilary; that is, if you really want to sell it.‚Äù
“You will!” cried the Static joyfully. “Of course I want to sell it.”
“And I’ll give you what you say it’s worth, a hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Oh! I say! Will you really? But are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure,” she said, firmly. “That is, so long as I can drive it.”
“Of course you can drive it,” he cried, with mounting enthusiasm. “Nothing easier! Let me show you where everything is. It really is a good little car, you know.”
And he did show her where everything was, and for the next hour she sat at the wheel under his tuition. So rapidly did she gain confidence that at last she drove them both home, passing two very large buses, a steam-wagon, and several jumpy rattling lorries, without slowing down to less than fifteen miles an hour, and finally sailing up the Hall drive, flushed and triumphant. Then followed ten minutes’ further instruction on getting it in and out of the garage (which was not a proper garage at all but an old stable) and Miss Trant discovered once again the terrors and dangers of reversing, but was assured by Hilary that all was well with her.
“I’ll give you a cheque in the morning,” she told him, as they sat at dinner.
‚ÄúNo hurry at all, you know,‚Äù he explained, though his face had brightened. ‚ÄúStill, it would be rather useful. If we spent all tomorrow morning with the car‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough you don‚Äôt really need any more instruction from me, I can tell you‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI could catch the afternoon train up to town. I hope you don‚Äôt mind my running away at once, but the fact is, I must get hold of Carrera-Brown as soon as I can.‚Äù
“I don’t mind,” she told him. “I shall probably go away myself very soon, perhaps the day after tomorrow.” She was rather astonished when she heard herself announcing this departure. It was, so to speak, as much news to her as it was to him. Indeed, she was the more surprised of the two.
“Splendid!” he said, in an abstracted fashion, looking through her. She could see he was already busy meeting the other Statics.
That night she finished Redgauntlet yet once more, but this time she put it down without the smallest sigh. The dark mysterious hours found her guiding a little blue Mercia down roads that nobody knew, roads that wound through the shining hills of a dream.
IV
‚ÄúDo you know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Hilary, began, looking down upon her from the carriage window.
“Well! Do I know what?” She smiled up at him.
That pitiless observer of the human race hesitated a moment. Then he continued: “There’s something different about you today. It must be the car.”
“Perhaps it is,” she assented. “I’m beginning to feel reckless, Hilary. Do you know what number I shall be among the Statics?” The train began to move.
“Not less than the fifty-second millionth!” she called, and waved him goodbye.
On the way home she pulled up beside a black figure plodding up the dusty hill.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this? What‚Äôs this?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝChillingford.
“Come in and see,” she told him, and before they had climbed the hill he had accepted an invitation to tea and learned all about the car.
“I feel like going away in it at once,” she confided, over the first cups.
Mr.¬ÝChillingford lowered his spectacles and raised his eyebrows. ‚ÄúBy yourself?‚Äù
“Why not?”
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know. No, of course. Why not?‚Äù He laughed and then they both laughed, and felt very friendly. Immediately afterwards, however, Mr.¬ÝChillingford fell into such a profound reverie that he crumbled walnut cake all over his clothes.
“Well?” she asked, at length.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry. Dear me, what a mess I‚Äôve made! I was thinking you ought to begin with Ely. Just think of it! You would go down from these hills into the Midland plain, getting lower and lower the further east you went, until at last you would find yourself‚ÅÝ‚Äîas it were‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the bottom of the basin. Then you would see that colossal tower shooting up‚ÅÝ‚Äîa sublime spectacle, my dear Elizabeth. You‚Äôve not seen Ely, of course? No, I thought not. That miraculous octagon. There‚Äôs a kind of barbaric splendour about the whole place! You must begin with Ely!‚Äù He was so excited now that he deposited his cup and saucer on the plate of sandwiches.
Miss Trant, who had been staring at him in amazement, suddenly remembered, and cried: “Of course! You’re talking about a tour of the cathedrals.”
“Indeed I am. Wasn’t that the idea? Of course it wasn’t, though. How absurd of me! That was my idea, wasn’t it? I said something about it the other day. I thought that was what you were going to do. What an old egoist I’m becoming! I was thinking you might call on my old friend Canon Fothergill at Lincoln. That is, if you began at Ely. And, mind you, that’s the place to begin at. But then, of course, you are not beginning anywhere, so to speak. Just my foolishness!” And he laughed a little.
“Yes, I am,” said Miss Trant stoutly. “I’m beginning at Ely, just as you suggest. And I will call on Canon Fothergill at Lincoln, if he’ll let me. And you shall tell me where to go.”
Mr.¬ÝChillingford scrambled to his feet, spreading walnut cake in all directions. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll slip over to the rectory for my old map. It will be as good as a holiday to take a look at it again. I‚Äôve done all this, every inch, in my time, on a pushbike, you know.‚Äù
But Miss Trant brought out a map and for the next quarter of an hour their two heads were bent over it. Mr.¬ÝChillingford showered roads, towns, inns, naves, transepts, upon her, and in his excitement upset the milk jug. He brought out pencil and paper, covered two sheets with directions, crammed them into his pocket, then searched the room and declared they were lost. Miss Trant wanted to rush upstairs at once and hurl all her things into bags. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll start tomorrow morning,‚Äù she announced.
“I shouldn’t,” he warned her. “It’s Sunday tomorrow. Don’t mistake me. I’m no Sabbatarian. Besides, there’s more worship in going to look at Ely than in listening to me. But Sunday’s a bad day to begin a journey. Wait a day. Start on Monday. There never was a Monday morning yet when I didn’t want to be going somewhere.”
And it was on Monday morning that she did set out, after a tremendous Sunday of packing and instructions to the Purtons and letters to all manner of people. She had a last five minutes‚Äô talk with Mr.¬ÝChillingford, turned perilously to wave to him nearly at the corner, and then went rolling down the hill, eastward out of Hitherton. The valley lay all golden in the deep sunshine; the morning was as crisp as a nut; the roads scrawled invitations, the very wires above hummed faint calls, to the misty blue beyond; and every turn of the wheel brought her a sense of mastery, and every milestone passed, bringing nearer the unknown and the gloriously irresponsible, gave her a new little thrill. Was she going across country to Ely? She was going anywhere, anywhere, wherever she pleased. This was the road to the first of the cathedrals, but it was also the road to‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat? She didn‚Äôt know, and delightedly she hugged her ignorance, vague and shining, a mist brightening with golden shapes, just like the morning itself.
In her bag were thirty pounds and a cheque book that would call at once on fifteen hundred more. And, snugly tucked away behind were all the nicest things she had, a dressing case she had only used once before, and four glorious historical novels, crowds of archers, Jacobites, conspirators, dragoons, crying to be let loose at the first hour of lamplight. They were all running away from Hitherton, into the adventurous blue, together. In a tangle of traffic at narrow Northleach she had to pull up beside a huge car that had come from the opposite direction. From this car a familiar long drooping moustache cautiously emerged.
“Miss Trant, isn’t it? Thought it was,” it mumbled at her. “Lovely morning. Not going far, eh?”
‚ÄúOh, good morning, Mr.¬ÝRathbury,‚Äù she called out, loudly and clearly. ‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs absolutely wonderful, isn‚Äôt it? And I am going far, hundreds and hundreds of miles until I am lost.‚Äù And she smiled, and did not stop smiling when she found herself confronted by a purple square of face and a grey stare.
‚ÄúI beg your pardon,‚Äù shouted Mrs.¬ÝRathbury, now purpler than ever from bending so far forward. ‚ÄúWhere did you say you where going? We were coming over to look at the Hall again. We may want to see you.‚Äù
“I’m going to be invisible.” Yes, she actually heard herself saying it. And then she turned her attention to the clutch and gears, for everybody was moving again.
“What address?” came the scream, now from behind.
“No address. No‑o a‑a‑dre‑esss.” She shouted it at the top of her voice. Not for years had she made such a noise. It was splendid.
Now the road emptied itself and broadened before her. A wind from the southwest caught up to her and coloured her cheeks. (It went on and on until at last it found the smoke from Higden‚Äôs mill, where Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was spending his very last day.) She shot forward and upward, then skimmed along one of England‚Äôs little green roofs, this Miss Trant that nobody at Hitherton had ever seen and perhaps would never see.