Works of e f benson, p.217
Works of E F Benson, page 217
“I imagine you didn’t like her much,” said Ted.
“No, I can’t say that I did. I don’t think she is genuine.”
“Oh, you can’t tell,” said Ted. “I know several people like that, and they are just the same as we are, just as genuine certainly, but they say whatever comes into their heads.”
“Well, that’s not genuine,” objected May.
“I don’t see why.”
“Because what you say ought to represent what you are. If you say anything that comes into your head, you make the big things and the little things all equal Pull round, will you? — there’s the luncheon-bell.”
CHAPTER III.
MR. CARLINGFORD lived in an ugly but comfortable house among the broad-backed Surrey Downs, generally alone, for a life of sixty-eight years had convinced him that he found his own society less tedious than that of his friends. He made, however, one exception in favour of Tom, for whom he had a considerable liking. He had married late, had been a widower for twenty-one years — since Tom’s birth — and had no other children. He seldom spoke of his wife, so that we have no means of finding out whether he included her in the verdict he mentally passed on his friends, but there is no reason to suppose that he did not His house, Applethorpe Manor, he rented from the owner, who was in straitened circumstances; he refused to buy it, for, as he said, he would probably not live much longer, and it was more than possible that Tom would not want to keep it, and would very likely sell it for much under its value. But Tom might have been well content to keep such a place; it stood admirably, surrounded by its own grounds, and a park of some six hundred acres stretched away from halfway up the gentle slope in front of the house to the top of the down.
Behind, the hill-slope declined rapidly away to the bottom of the valley, in which lay the little red-roofed village, overlooked by a church, in which a nineteenth-century architect had accomplished his wicked will, dealing death to early Norman work. On the other side of the village another down rose in gentle slopes of yellowing autumn fields, planted here and there with beech and oak woods. At intervals, the chalky sub-soil came to the surface like the bleached bones of the world, but for the most part a thick loamy earth hid the underlying barrenness.
South of the house lay a level lawn, dominated by a large cedar-tree, the horizontal fans of whose branches formed an effectual protection against sun, and even against rain; flower-beds arrayed in fantastic patterns, having for the centre of their system an Italian stone vase, stretched out to one side of this tree, while to the other the lawn lay steeped in summer suns, or grew rank and mossy under autumn rains. A terrace festooned with virginia-creeper and low-growing monthly roses bounded the lawn to the south, below which lay a long strip of flower-bed, and beyond, a broad hayfield, stretching down as far as the village.
But on the 1st of September, two days after the arrival of Tom and Markham, there were other guests in the house. Mr. Carlingford’s sister had married a peer, who privately considered his wife’s brother rather low, but tolerated him for the sake of his partridge-shooting, about which the most fastidious could not possibly be depreciatory. Lady Ramsden was a tall, sallow, and fretful woman, who literally enjoyed rather bad health, though not so bad as she imagined. In fact, her bad health only manifested itself in intermittent medicine-taking, stopping in bed for breakfast, and not going to church on Sunday. She was one of those women about whom people say, when they are yet in their teens, that they are sweetly pretty, but very delicate-looking; when they are about thirty, that they will not wear well; and when they are thirty-five, “Poor dear.” Lady Ramsden was forty, and her cup of ineffectiveness was full.
Her husband was clearly English, almost brutally English. The name of his nationality was, as it were, written in red ink all over his body and his mind, and he dressed, so to speak, in Union Jack. He was tall, well set up, had once represented his native borough in the House of Commons in his youth, and now in middle age, having repeatedly failed to get into the Lower House, had been awarded the Consolation Stakes, and sat in the Upper. He was fond of shooting, but shot badly, had several shelves in his library full of parliamentary blue-books, which he sent periodically to be bound up, but which were never looked at either before or after that operation, spent five months every year in London, and half the day in all those five months in the bow-window of his club, and the other seven months in the country, and told rather long-winded stories. The point of these stories was always well defined, because he himself always began to laugh just before he got to it, which was a very convenient habit.
The other two guests were Miss Wrexham, who had been staying near the Markhams a fortnight ago, and her brother Bob, who was in every respect like a young gentleman from Woolwich. He had been at Eton with Tom, and they had kept up a sort of acquaintance since: Tom had stayed with him, and he with Tom. In the intervals they never wrote to one another, but were extremely glad to see each other again. Tom had, to a superlative degree, the power of picking up a friendship at the point where it had stopped, and of carrying it forward as if there had been no interruption.
The shooters, consisting of Tom, Bob Wrexham, and Lord Ramsden, started soon after breakfast on the first; Markham had claimed the fulfilment of Tom’s promise, and had taken himself off to the smoking-room when they went out, and presumably spent a profitable though solitary morning there. The two ladies, Mr. Carlingford and he were going to walk out about half-past twelve, to a cottage some mile and a half off, and join the shooters at lunch. Lady Ramsden established herself at a writing-table in the drawing-room, wrote several unnecessary letters in a tall, angular hand, and Miss Wrexham, who always made a point of doing the paying thing, went out for a short ride with her host, and took an intelligent interest in all he said.
The shooting-party had already arrived at the luncheon-place when the others came, and were clamouring for food. Lord Ramsden, it was noticed sat a little apart, and was smoking a cigarette with an isolated and reserved air.
“Oh, what a sweet little cottage!” said Maud Wrexham, as they entered. “Mr. Carlingford, if I were you, I should come and live here. Why, there’s a warming-pan! Do you know, I don’t think I ever saw a warming-pan before. How clever it was of me to know it was one, wasn’t it? That’s what they call intuitive cerebration. I shall write to the Physical Research about it.”
Tom considered.
“Is it intuitive cerebration when one crosses the Channel for the first time, and sees the coast, to know that it is France? You have never seen it before, you know.”
Lady Ramsden gave a thin monosyllabic laugh.
“No, that’s only remembering what you have seen on an atlas,” said Maud. “I never saw a map of this cottage with ‘warming-pan’ marked on it.”
“The Physical Research Society are a company of amiable and intelligent lunatics,” remarked Mr. Carlingford. “Don’t have anything to do with them, Miss Wrexham. Are you ready for your lunch, Ramsden? What sort of sport have you had?”
Lord Ramsden threw away the end of his cigarette, which he had been smoking at the door, and came in.
“Birds very wild,” he said. “It’s no use walking them up.”
“Oh, we’ve got twelve brace,” said Tom, cheerfully. “It’s not so bad. However, we can drive after lunch; there are lots of them in the stubble, and we can’t get near them any other way.”
“Tom’s been talking art all the morning,” remarked Bob Wrexham; “I draw the line at talking art when you’re shooting.”
“You can’t do two things at once,” growled his lordship, who had not pursued the subject of the birds being wild.
“Tom never does less than two things at once,” said his father; “he says there isn’t time.”
“I can eat and talk at once,” said Tom, with his mouth full.
“Yes, old chap, and you can shoot more than one bird at once,” said Bob. “It was the most disgraceful thing I ever saw. Tom fired into the middle of a covey which ought to have been out of shot. The worst of it was that he killed a brace. However, it’s good for the bag.”
Mr. Carlingford was sitting next Tom, and murmured gently to him, “How odd it is that the only way to keep up your bags is to destroy your braces!”
Lord Ramsden was reviving a little under the influence of food. “I never can shoot in the morning,” he confessed; “it was always the way with me. Once at Ramsden I told them to have lunch ready at half-past eleven, so that we could have a long afternoon. And, by Jove, I didn’t miss the rest of the day. They were very much amused at it all.”
Mr. Carlingford regretted to himself that he was not a friend of Peter Magnus, but received his lordship’s remarks with cordiality, and after a quick lunch Tom got up.
“Well, we’d better be off again as soon as we can,” he said. “Teddy, you must come with us, and if you won’t shoot, you’ll see me do it. Miss Wrexham, I’m sure you want a walk.”
“I should love to come,” said she, “if I shan’t be in the way. But aren’t women a fearful nuisance when you are shooting? Bob always sends me home after lunch.”
“Yes,” said Bob, “Tom only asked you out of politeness. He meant you to refuse.”
“I don’t believe you did,” said she. “Anyhow, if you did, you may say so, and I’ll go home. I will, really; I shan’t be offended. I don’t know how.”
“May I be permitted to express a hope,” said Lord Ramsden, “that Miss Wrexham will grace — ah, exactly, will come with us? You’d better be getting home, dear,” he said to his wife. “You don’t want to trudge over ploughed fields.”
“Gracious, no!” said Lady Ramsden. “I’m sure I shall be tired out as it is.”
Miss Wrexham paired off with Markham, who had an ample opportunity of testing his sister’s judgment of her.
“It was so delicious, that little peep I had of your sister,” she said; “I long for that sort of life myself. She must be so happy with her dear little everyday duties. I’m sure that’s why there used to be saints, and why there are none now. People used to live like that in the country, just doing their duty; and then, when men began to herd into towns, they saw at once how beautiful the lives of those others must have been, so of course they canonized them.”
“I don’t know,” said Markham, who treated all subjects gravely; “I expect there is just as much opportunity for becoming a saint if you live in a town. Of course, it’s harder. After all, saints were only very good people with the power of making their goodness felt, and it’s harder to make yourself felt in London, because every one is in such a hurry.”
“Oh dear me, yes, it’s fearful to think of!” said Maud. “One is busy the whole day, and yet one gets nothing done — nothing worth doing, at least I can’t imagine a saint living in London — that’s to say, doing what we naturally do in London. But if I lived in the country, it would be just as natural to do what your sister does. I’m always supposed to be frivolous, and I don’t know what; but it’s a great shame. Of course, I talk thirteen to the dozen, but that is no proof of frivolity. I’m sure your sister thought me frivolous, and I thought her so sweet It’s not a bit fair.”
Ted did not reply, and after a moment Miss Wrexham continued ——
“You can’t deny it, you see. Do you know, I think some of the saints must have been rather trying. It was St. Elizabeth, wasn’t it, who told her husband she’d only got some roses in her apron, when it was bread really? Poor dear! You see he knew it was bread, and she knew it was; and then, when she opened her apron, there was nothing but roses. I hope they pricked her — it really was mean. You know, if I was reading a novel on Sunday, and they asked me what book it was, I should say a novel. St. Elizabeth would have said a Septuagint. I hate her.”
Ted laughed.
“I wonder if you really care what my sister thought of you. Why should you care? You’ve only just seen her.”
“Ah, but what does that matter?” asked Maud, “Of course I care. I always make a point of being nice to people in railway carriages and ‘buses — I always go in ‘buses in London, don’t you? — even though I only see them for two minutes. I want to be nice to everybody. I care immensely what every one thinks of me.”
“But how can it matter?” said Ted. “Those people whom you meet just for two minutes have no opportunity of judging you. They form their impressions on perfectly superficial things.”
“Ah, I see! Your sister formed an unfavourable impression of me, and you excuse her by saying it was superficial.”
“I’ve got a great mind to tell you what she said,” remarked Ted.
Maud stopped for a moment, and turned to him.
“Ah, do tell me!”
“She said she thought you weren’t genuine.”
Maud stared for a moment in deep perplexity.
“Not genuine? Why — why, that is exactly what I am! Why did she think that?”
“I just remember her saying that you talked about early celebrations, and covering books for the parish library, as if they were one and the same thing.”
Maud stood still for a moment longer, recalling the scene, and then broke out into a light laugh.
“Oh, I see, I see!” she cried. “Oh dear me, how funny! She had every excuse for thinking that, but she was so wrong. She hasn’t got a picturesque mind, I’m afraid. But I saw the whole picture of her in her life there so clearly. You can talk of a Madonna and the little Italian landscape behind her chair in one breath, can’t you? She thought I regarded them as equally essential. I’m so glad you told me that. I never take offence; I only profit by such things if they are true, and forget them if they are not. There is an atom of truth in this, although, as I say, she was wrong.”
The shooters were waiting, when they got up to them, for a long narrow valley of stubble to be driven down, and Ted and Maud got under shelter of the same tall hedge, which separated the fields, and waited with them.
Markham went up to where Tom was standing The latter at once began talking in a whisper about the artistic beauty of a drive.
“If you shoot, you are called a barbarian,” he explained. “That’s so silly. Why, a drive is the most beautiful thing there is! First you wait, hearing nothing — and then you hear little far-away sounds, and you know they are off. Then there comes that flight of stupid sparrows and small birds, and then silence again. Then there’s a sudden rush through the hedge, perhaps, and out comes a hare. And then — and then—’ Mark over!’ and you hear the whistling of wings, which sound as if they wanted oiling. And, best of all, that extraordinary ceasing of voluntary motion. The bird’s wings clap down to his sides, you know, but he still goes on as if he was alive. I killed a bird once that was coming towards me, and it fell slap on me and knocked me down. You needn’t believe me unless you like. There! They’ve started! Keep quiet, Teddy; it will all happen just as I said.”
Tom stepped a little way back from the hedge, in order to get a longer view, almost trembling with excitement as “Mark over!” sounded from higher up the valley. The covey came over Lord Ramsden, and he missed solemnly with both barrels.
“Those birds went on just as if they were alive,” remarked Ted in an undertone to Tom, who grinned maliciously.
“He missed eight birds this morning in succession,” he whispered; and then he said to Bob Wrexham, “You should see me play lawn-tennis. Look out, there’s another covey coming!”
A big lot approached the tall hedge like a stream, caught sight of Tom, and wheeled rapidly to the centre. Two, however, turned a little somersault in the air, and fell thirty yards behind him in the stubble.
“There, did you see?” asked Tom, reloading. “That’s another of those things like dropping matches in the Cam. They came blazing over, then there’s a little pause, and a thud. I’m afraid my poor uncle has missed again.”
Markham meditated.
“Yes, I see. That really was rather nice. There must be some satisfaction in doing that.”
“Of course, half the pleasure lies in not being certain whether you are going to hit or not. If I always hit I don’t think I should care about it — not so much, at any rate. It’s like gambling with an enormous proportion of chances in your favour if you play well.”
Miss Wrexham took almost as much interest in the proceedings as the shooters themselves, and she showed no wish to go back until they all went home. Lord Ramsden met with greater success towards the end of the afternoon, and they all returned in excellent spirits.
Tom and Miss Wrexham were walking a little in front of the others, and in answer to some questions of hers, he was saying what he was going to do when he left Cambridge.
“It must be such a blessing,” she said, “ to know for certain, as you do, exactly what you want to be, and to be able to be it. Most people never know what they want to be. Bob is going into the army simply because he can’t think of anything else.”
“The worst of most professions is that they are only ways of making money,” said Tom. “Artists and clergymen are the only people who do what they have a passion for. No one can have a passion for cross-examining witnesses.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” objected Maud. “My mother — do you know my mother? — has a passion, literally a passion, for making arrangements. Really her chief joy in life is arranging things quite irrespective of what the arrangements are; but I think people like her are mostly women.”
