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.