Works of e f benson, p.470
Works of E F Benson, page 470
Jack felt horribly annoyed with himself in not having seen to this.
“My dear,” he said, “it was awfully thoughtless of me. Of course, it shall go. It was stupid, but, Dodo, I was so happy all this last month, that I have thought of nothing except myself.”
Dodo turned away from the picture to him.
“And all the time I thought you were thinking about me!” she said. “Jack, what a deceiver!”
He shook his head.
“No: it is that you don’t understand. You are me.
“Am I? I should be a much nicer fellow if I was. Jack, don’t have that picture moved. It only hurt for a moment: it was a ghost that startled me merely because I did not expect it. It is a dear ghost: it is not jealous, it will not spoil things or come between us. It — it wants us to be happy, for he told me, you know, it was the last thing he said — that I was to marry you. It is a long time ago, oh, how long ago, though I say it to my shame. Besides, if you are to pull down or put away all that reminds me of that dreadful young woman” — Dodo put out her tongue and made a face at her own picture— “you will have to pull down the house and drink up the lake and cut down the trees. Ah, how lovely the garden looks! I was never here in the summer before: we only came for the shooting and hunting and the garden invariably consisted of rows of blackened salvias and decaying dahlias. But it is summer now, Jack.”
There was no mistaking the figurative sense in which she meant him to understand the word “summer.” It had been winter, winter of discontent — so the glance she gave him inevitably implied — when she was here before, and she rejoiced in and admired this excellent glory of summer-time. And yet but a moment before the picture in the hall had “hurt” her, until she remembered that even on his death-bed her first husband had bidden her marry the man who had brought her back here to-day. She had neglected to do as she was told for about a quarter of a century, and had married somebody else instead, and yet this amazing variety of topics that concerned her heart, any one of which, you would have expected, was of sufficient import to fill her mind to the exclusion of all else, but bowled across it, as the shadows of clouds bowl across the fields on a day of spring winds, leaving the untarnished sunshine after their passage. It was not because she was heartless that she touched on this series of somewhat tremendous topics: it was rather that her vitality instantly reasserted itself: it was undeterred, impervious to discouraging or disturbing reflections.
Dodo ate what may be termed a good tea, and smoked several cigarettes. Then noticing that a small golf links had been laid out in the fields below the garden, she rushed indoors to change her dress, and play a game with her husband.
“It won’t be much fun for you, darling,” she said, “because my golf is a species of landscape gardening, and I dig immense hollows with my club and alter the lie of the country generally. Also I sometimes cheat, if nobody is looking, so admire the beauties of nature if you hear me say that I have a bad lie, because if you looked you would see me pushing the ball into a pleasanter place, and that would give you a low opinion of me. But a little exercise would be so good for us both after being married: the Abbey was terribly stuffy.”
The fifth hole brought them near the memorial chapel in the Park, where her first husband was buried.
“Darling, that puts you five up,” she said, “and would you mind waiting here a minute, while I go in alone? I don’t want even you with me: I want to go alone and kneel for a minute by his grave, and say my prayers, and tell him I have come back again with you. Will you wait for a minute, Jack? I shan’t be long.”
Dodo wasn’t long: she said her prayers with remarkable celerity, and came out again wiping her eyes.
“Oh, Jack,” she said, “what a beautiful monument: it wasn’t finished, you know, when I went away and I hadn’t seen it. And it’s so touching to have just those three words, ‘Lead, kindly Light’: the dear old boy was so fond of that hymn. It’s all so lovely and peaceful, and if ever there was a saint in the nineteenth century, it was he. Somehow I felt as if he knew about us and approved, and I remember we had ‘Lead, kindly Light’ on the very last Sunday evening of all. I am so glad I went in.”
Dodo gave a little sigh.
“Where are we?” she said. “Am I one hole up or two? Two, isn’t it? Do let it be two. And what a lovely piece of marble. It looks like the most wonderful cold cream turned to stone. It must be Carrara. Oh, Jack, what a beautiful drive! It went much faster than the legal limit.”
The flames of the summer-sunset were beginning to fade in the sky when they got back to the house, and it was near dinner-time. Dodo’s spirits and appetite were both of the most excellent order, and all the memories that this house brought back to her, so far from causing any aching resuscitation of past years, were, owing to the incomparable alchemy of her mind, but transformed into a soft and suitable background for the present. Afterwards, they sat on the terrace in the warm dusk.
“I must telegraph to Nadine to-morrow,” she said, “and tell her how happy I am. Jack, sometimes Nadine seems to me exactly what I should expect a very attractive aunt to be. Do you know what I mean? I feel she could have warned me of all the mistakes I have made in my life, before they happened, if she had been born. And she approves of you and me; isn’t it lucky? I wonder why I feel so young on the very day on which I should most naturally be thinking what a lot of life has passed. Jack, I don’t want any more events. Some people reckon life by events, and that is so unreasonable. Events are thrust upon you; what counts is what you feel.”
He moved his chair a little nearer to hers.
“I am satisfied with what I feel,” he said. “And though I have felt it for very many years, it has never lost its freshness. I have always wanted, and now I have got.”
Suddenly Dodo’s mood changed.
“Oh, you take a great risk,” she said. “Who is to assure you that I shan’t disappoint you, disappoint you horribly? I can’t assure you of that, Jack. It is easy to understand other people, but the silly proverb that tells you to know yourself, makes a far more difficult demand. If I disappoint you, what are we to do?”
“You can’t disappoint me if you are yourself,” he said.
“You say that! To me, too, who have outraged every sort of decency with regard to you?”
He was silent a moment.
“Yes, I say that to you,” he said.
Dodo gave a little bubbling laugh.
“You are not very polite,” she said. “I say that I have outraged every sort of decency and you don’t even contradict me.”
“No. What you say is — is perfectly true. But the comment of you and me sitting here on our bridal night is sufficient, is it not? Dodo, there is no use in your calling yourself names. Leave it all alone: we are here, you and I. And it is getting late, my darling.”
The same night Lady Ayr was giving one of her awful dinner-parties. Her family, John, Esther and Seymour were always bidden to them, and went in to dinner in exactly their proper places as sons and daughters of a marquis. Before now it had happened that Seymour had to take Esther in to dinner, and it was so to-night. But in the general way they saw so little of each other, that they did not very much object. They usually quarreled before long, but made their differences up again by their unanimity of opinion about their mother. That had already happened this evening.
“Mother is bursting with curiosity about Aunt Dodo’s wedding,” said Esther. “She wasn’t asked. I told her it was a very pretty wedding.”
“I went,” said Seymour, “and I am going to write an account of it for The Lady. If you will tell me how you were dressed, I will put it in, that is supposing you were decently dressed. Mother asked me about it, too, and I think I said the bridesmaids looked lovely.”
“But there weren’t any,” said Esther.
“Of course there weren’t, but it enraged her. By the way, there is some awful stained glass put up in the staircase since I was here last. A ruby crown has apparently had twins, one of which is a sapphire crown and the other a diamond crown. I shouldn’t mind that sort of thing happening, if it wasn’t so badly done. I shall try to break it by accident after dinner. Did you design it? My dear, I forgot: we had finished quarreling. Let us talk about something else. Nadine came to see me the other day, and if you will not tell anybody, I think it quite likely that I shall marry her. She likes jade. And she looks quite pretty to-night, doesn’t she?”
Esther had already alluded to Nadine, who was sitting opposite, as the dream of dreams, and further appreciation was unnecessary.
“You don’t happen to have asked her yet?” she said, with marked neutrality.
“No, one doesn’t ask that sort of thing until one knows the answer,” said he. “That is, unless you are one of the ridiculous people who ask for information. I hate the information I get by asking, unless I know it already.”
“And then you don’t get it.”
“No. Esther, that is a charming emerald you are wearing but it is atrociously set. If you will send it round to-morrow, I will draw a decent setting for it. Do look at Mother. She has got the family lace on, which is made of string. I think it is Saxon. Oh, of course the coronets are about her. How foolish of me not to have guessed.”
“It is more foolish of you to think that Nadine would look at you,” said Esther.
“I didn’t ask her to look at me, and I shan’t ask her to look at me. I shall recommend her not to look at me. But I shall marry her or Antoinette. I don’t see why you are so stuffy about it. Or perhaps you would prefer Antoinette for a sister-in-law.”
“If she is to be your wife, dear, I think I should,” said Esther.
Seymour laid his hand on hers. His smelt vaguely of wall-flowers.
“How disagreeable you are,” he said. “I don’t think I shall say anything about your dress in The Lady. I shall simply say that Lady Esther Sturgis was there looking very plain and tired. I shall describe my own dress instead. I had an emerald pin, properly set, instead of its being set like that sort of cheese cake you are wearing. No, it’s not exactly a cheese cake: it is as if you had spilt some crème-de-menthe and put a little palisade of broken glass round it to prevent it spreading. What a disgusting dinner we are having, aren’t we? I never know what to do before I dine with Mama, whether to eat so much lunch that I don’t want any dinner, or to eat none at all so that I can manage to swallow this sort of garbage. To-night I am rather hungry: won’t you come away early with me and have some supper at home? Perhaps Nadine will come too.”
“If Nadine will come, I will,” said Esther. “I suppose we can chaperone each other.”
“Certainly, if it amuses you. Shall we ask anybody else? I see hardly anybody here whom I know by sight. I think they must all be earls and countesses. It’s funny how few of one’s own class are worth speaking to. Look at Mama! I know I keep telling you to look at Mama, but she is so remarkable. She said ‘sir’ just now to the man next her. He must be a Saxon king. I wish she was responsible for the wine instead of father: teetotalers usually give one excellent wine, because they don’t imagine they know anything about it, and tell the wine merchants just to send round some champagne and hock. So of course they send the most expensive.”
“I think we ought to talk to our neighbors,” said Esther. “Mama is making faces.”
“That is because she has eaten some of this entrée, I expect. I make no face because I haven’t. But I can’t talk to my neighbor. I tried, but she is unspeakable-to. I wish my nose would bleed, because then I should go away.”
One of the frequent pauses that occurred at Lady Ayr’s dinners was taking place at the moment, and Seymour’s rather shrill voice was widely audible. A buzz of vacant conversation succeeded, and he continued.
“That was heard,” he said, “and really I didn’t mean it to be heard. I am sorry. I shall make myself agreeable. But tell Nadine we shall go away soon after dinner. If you will be ready, I shall not go up into the drawing-room at all.”
Seymour turned brightly to the woman seated on his right.
“Have you been to ‘The Follies’?” he asked. “I hope you haven’t, because then we can’t talk about them, since I haven’t either. There are enough follies going about, without going to them.”
“How amusin’ you are,” said his neighbor.
Seymour felt exasperated.
“I know I am,” he said. “Do be amusing too; then we shall be delighted with each other.”
“But I don’t know who you are,” said his neighbor.
“Well, that is the case with me,” said he. “But my mother—”
His neighbor’s face instantly changed from a chilly neutrality to a welcoming warmth.
“Oh, are you Lord Seymour?” she asked.
“I should find it very uncomfortable to be anybody else,” said he. “I should not know what to do.”
“Then do tell me, because of course you know all about these things: Are we all going to wear slabs of jade next year? And did you see me at Princess Waldenech’s wedding this morning? And who manicures you? I hear you have got a marvelous person.” Seymour really wished to atone for the unfortunate remark that had broken the silence and exerted himself.
“But of course,” he said. “It is Antoinette. She cooks for me and calls me: she dusts my rooms, and brushes my boots. She stirs the soup with one hand and manicures me with the other. Fancy not knowing Antoinette! She is fifty-two: by the time you are fifty-two you ought to be known anywhere. If she marries I shall die: if I marry, she will still live I hope. Now do tell me: do you recommend me to marry?”
“Doesn’t it depend upon whom you marry?”
“Not much, do you think? But perhaps you are married, and so know. Are you married? And would you mind telling me who you are, as I have told you?”
“You never told me: I guessed. Guess who I am.”
Seymour looked at her attentively. She was a woman of about fifty, with a shrewd face, like a handsome monkey, and his millinerish eyes saw that she was dressed without the slightest regard to expense.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said. “But please don’t tell me, if you have any private reason for not wishing it to be known. I can readily understand you would not like people to be able to say that you were seen dining with Mama. Of course you are not English.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you talk it so well. English people always talk it abominably. But—”
He looked at her again, and a vague resemblance both in speech and in the shape of her head struck him.
“I will guess,” he said, “you are a relation of Nadine’s.”
“Quite right: go on.”
Seymour was suddenly agitated and upset a glass of champagne that had just been filled. He took not the slightest notice of this.
“Is it too much to hope that you are the aunt who — who had so many snuff-boxes?” he asked. “I mean the one to whom the Emperor gave all those lovely snuff-boxes? Or is it too good to be true?”
“Just good enough,” she said.
“How wildly exciting! Will you come back to my flat as soon as we can escape from this purgatory and Antoinette shall manicure you. Do tell me about the snuff-boxes; I am sure they were beauties, or you would not — I mean the Emperor would not have given you them.”
“Of course not. But I am afraid I can’t come to your flat to-night, as I am going to a dance. Ask me another day. I hear you have got some lovely jade and are going to make it the fashion. Then I suppose you will sell it.”
Seymour determined to insure his jade before Countess Eleanor entered his rooms, for fear of its subsequently appearing that the Austrian Emperor had followed up his present of snuff-boxes with a present of jade. But he let no suspicion mar the cordiality of his tone.
“Yes, that’s the idea,” he said. “You see no younger son can possibly live in the way he has been brought up unless he has done something honest and commercial like that, or cheats at bridge. But that is so difficult I am told. You have to learn bridge first, and then go to a conjurer, during which time you probably forget bridge again. But otherwise you can’t live at all unless you marry and the only thing left to do is to take to drink and die.”
“My brother took to it and lives,” said she.
“I know, but you are a very remarkable family.”
A footman had wiped up the greater part of the champagne Seymour had spilt and now stood waiting till he could speak to him.
“Her ladyship told me to tell you that you seemed to have had enough champagne, my lord,” he said.
Seymour paused for a moment, and his face turned white with indignation.
“Tell her ladyship she is quite right,” he said, “and that the first sip I took of it was more than enough.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“And tell her that the fish was stale,” said Seymour shrilly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And tell her—” began Seymour again.
Countess Eleanor interrupted him.
“You have sent enough pleasant messages for one time,” she said. “You can talk to your mother afterwards: at present talk to me. Did you go to the wedding this morning?”
“Yes.”
Seymour rather frequently allowed himself to be ruffled, but he always calmed down again quickly. “It is so like Mama to send a servant in the middle of dinner to say I am drunk,” he said, “but she will be sorry now. Look, she is receiving my message, and is turning purple. That is satisfactory. She looks unusually plain when she is purple. Yes: I am describing the wedding for a lady’s paper. I shall get four guineas for it.”
“You do not look as if that would do you much good.”
“If you take four guineas often enough they — they purify the blood,” said he, “though certainly the dose is homeopathic. It is called the gold cure. About the wedding. I thought it was very vulgar. And it was frightfully bourgeois in spirit. It is very early Victorian to marry a man who has waited for you since about 1820.”
