Young Mrs. Savage, page 12
“The flowers are beautiful,” said Dinah, after a little pause.
“My aunt likes flowers,” said Miss Grover.
“I couldn’t live without flowers,” said Lady Armstrong complacently.
There was another pause—somewhat longer this time. Dinah thought of several things to say, but rejected them as being unsuitable. She might mention the children and say how much they were enjoying their holiday, but she did not think Lady Armstrong would be interested to hear about the children; besides, Dinah was aware that if she began to talk, about the children she was liable to go on talking about them, and people who talked about their children and told anecdotes about their cute remarks were terrible bores. It was difficult not to, of course, but one had to be firm with oneself. Dinah had decided to be firm. In fact she had made a vow that she would not mention the children unless somebody asked for information about them.
“What a lovely place Seatown is!” said Dinah at last.
“Do you think so?” said Miss Grover, with a disagreeable little laugh.
“I never feel well here,” added Lady Armstrong complainingly.
“Oh, what a pity!” said Dinah, trying her best to make it sound as if she were exceedingly sorry for this unfortunate circumstance.
“It’s so dull,” explained Lady Armstrong.
Dinah did not find it dull. She wondered what Lady Armstrong would have thought of Nettleham. She said, doubtfully: “I suppose it depends on what sort of things amuse you.”
“My aunt is fond of music,” said Miss Grover.
“There are very good concerts in Edinburgh,” suggested Dinah.
“In Edinburgh—yes,” agreed Lady Armstrong.
“It doesn’t take long to go up to Edinburgh,” Dinah pointed out.
“But it’s such a bore,” declared Miss Grover.
“We’re quite sick of that long, dull road,” said Lady Armstrong. “It would be much more convenient to live in town.”
“But you wouldn’t leave Abbot’s End!” exclaimed Dinah, in surprise.
“No, of course not,” agreed Miss Grover hastily, glancing at her aunt as she spoke.
“Certainly not. We wouldn’t dream of it,” affirmed Lady Armstrong.
There was another silence. Dinah was sure that they had thought of leaving Abbot’s End; she was certain that they had discussed it between themselves but had not intended to mention it. Personally she did not care whether they went to Timbuctoo; the farther the better, thought Dinah . . . The whole thing was rather mysterious (for why should they mind talking about their plans) but Dinah had no time to elucidate mysteries; she had to try to make conversation and this was becoming increasingly difficult. Why didn’t Dan help? Dan had not uttered one word since their arrival. Dinah glanced at him appealingly, but he was gazing straight in front of him (looking from him, as Nannie would have put it) with an expression of abject misery upon his face. What on earth was the matter with Dan? Could he have been seized with a sudden and violent pain? What had he eaten for lunch? Nothing that could possibly upset him, thought Dinah as she reviewed in detail the plain, excellent fare which Nannie had provided.
“What lovely weather we are having?” said Dinah in desperation. “It’s a real summer, isn’t it?”
“Too dry,” said Lady Armstrong.
“Oh, do you think so?” asked Dinah. “I like it dry and warm—and it’s so lovely for the—” she stopped.
“It’s much too dry for the marrows,” said Lady Armstrong.
“The flowers don’t last any time at all,” added Miss Grover.
“But it’s nice for people having their holidays,” Dinah pointed out.
“Visitors!” exclaimed Miss Grover, with the disgusted expression of one who rated visitors a little lower than earwigs.
Dinah was annoyed. After all she and her family were visitors to Seatown—in company with many other worthy and hard-working citizens who looked forward to their summer-holiday for months and months—she opened her mouth to defend the rights of visitors and then decided not to defend them. What did it matter, anyhow?
“We need three days’ solid rain,” said Lady Armstrong.
This was too much. The prospect of three days’ solid rain with the children cooped up in the house was more than Dinah could bear. “Oh, no!” cried Dinah. “Oh, no, surely not! Not three days—”
“We need it for the marrows,” said Lady Armstrong firmly.
“People are more important than marrows,” declared Dinah, recklessly abandoning all idea of tact. “We need fine weather—especially for children, so that they can play on the sands and enjoy themselves and lay up a store of health and energy for the winter. We need sunshine even more nowadays when food is so scarce—”
“What a fatuous argument!” exclaimed Miss Grover, with an unpleasant little smile. “I never heard anything so ridiculous. Either the weather will be fine or else it will be wet. It doesn’t matter in the least what any one wants.”
Dinah felt herself blushing, partly with rage and partly because of course it was perfectly true. It was a fatuous argument, but she had been led into it by her hostess who was (Dinah decided) a fatuous person, utterly selfish and smug, and yet at the same time discontented. It was difficult to know what to say without being openly rude but fortunately at this moment the door opened and Malcolm appeared.
Malcolm was wearing a grey flannel suit; he looked cheerful and happy and his friendly manner and cordial greetings changed the atmosphere completely.
“So awfully sorry I’m late,” declared Malcolm. “I was going through some papers and never noticed the time. What about drinks?”
“I didn’t know you wanted drinks,” said Miss Grover.
“Not want drinks?” asked Malcolm in surprise. “Why did you think we had suddenly gone on the water-wagon? Sherry is one of the few nice things left to us in this uncomfortable world.”
He went out of the room and returned immediately with a tray of bottles and glasses. “Here, Dan,” he said; “give me a hand, will you? I want this table cleared.”
Dan was already there, clearing the table. With the advent of his host Dan’s mood had changed completely and he was smiling and cheerful. He helped to pour out the drinks and then he went and sat near Lady Armstrong and began to talk to her.
Malcolm brought Dinah a glass of sherry and sat down beside her on the sofa.
“Here’s to the old days!” he said, raising his own glass and smiling. “Here’s to the days when you were a little girl with pigtails and I was a giant!”
Dinah smiled back at him. She was reminded suddenly—and for no very good reason—of Margy saying “Bung ho!” to Mr. Monk. It would be rather fun to tell Malcolm about it and she was pretty certain Malcolm would appreciate the joke but she resisted the temptation.
“Here’s to the old days!” said Dinah. “They were happy, weren’t they?”
“In some ways,” agreed Malcolm.
“They were very happy for me. I had Dan all the time and no worries.”
“Would you go back if you could?”
She hesitated. Would she go back? “Not for good,” she said slowly. “I’d like a month of it—a whole month of being eight years old—but after that I think one would miss one’s responsibilities.”
Talking to Malcolm was pleasant and easy. It would have been even more so if Edith Grover had not been sitting unnecessarily close to them and listening to every word. Miss Grover wore a supercilious expression (she was a little like a camel, thought Dinah unkindly) and the lines round her mouth had been marked by discontent. Now that there was no need to search feverishly for conversation Dinah was able to look at the two women objectively, and even to feel a little sorry for them. They were well-dressed and well-fed; they seemed to have everything they could desire and yet they were discontented with their lot. They created discordant music in this lovely harmonious house.
15
The dining-room at Abbot’s End matched the rest of the house. It was a light, airy room with lovely old furniture and a few good pictures on the panelled walls. There were no flowers here (except a small bowl of roses on the round, polished table) and Dinah was glad, for, although she was fond of flowers, she realised it was possible to have too many.
Conversation was general now, which meant that there was no real conversation at all, for Lady Armstrong seemed to have an uncanny knack of wet-blanketing any interesting subject that happened to crop up and of putting a stop to all attempts at argument or discussion. Her mind was so narrow that nothing interested her except people and she could speak of nothing except people—preferably titled people—of her acquaintance. The Dees knew none of Lady Armstrong’s friends, so they were unable to respond. It was noticeable that, while Malcolm did his best to change the subject to one of more general appeal, Miss Grover encouraged her aunt and continually brought the conversation back to the level of Lady Armstrong’s intelligence.
“I heard rather a good story the other day,” said Malcolm, falling back upon anecdotes as a last resort. “An elder of the Free Kirk happened to be going up to London on business and was asked to order a new sign to be hung outside the kirk. It was to be a large wooden board with a text on it, and the elders had some difficulty in deciding what the text was to be. They all had their own ideas on the subject of course. When the elder arrived in London he lost the sheet of paper upon which he had written the text and the dimensions of the board, so he wired to his wife, ‘Please send text and dimensions.’ Some time later a girl in the telegraph office was seen to fall off her stool in a dead faint. The elder’s wife had complied with her husband’s request, and the message read: ‘Unto us a child is born six feet long and four feet wide.’”
Malcolm’s guests laughed long and loud.
Miss Grover smiled in a tepid manner.
Lady Armstrong looked down her nose.
When they had all recovered a little Miss Grover said: “I expect Mrs. Savage knows Sir Abraham Welshman.”
“No,” said Dinah.
“But they live in Kent!” exclaimed Miss Grover in surprise.
“Quite a number of people live in Kent,” said Malcolm.
“But Lady Welshman is so well-known,” explained Miss Grover. “She takes such an active part in social life.”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve never met her,” said Dinah, shaking her head. “I don’t go out much, of course.”
“How strange!” said Lady Armstrong with a sigh. “I suppose you don’t know the Whitticombes either?”
“No,” said Dinah.
“Commander Bell is sure to know Admiral Frigate,” declared Miss Grover, making a brave attempt to find some point of contact with her aunt’s guests.
Dan admitted that he had heard of the admiral, but added that he had never seen nor spoken to him in his life.
“Such a dear!” exclaimed Miss Grover. “One of my aunt’s oldest friends.”
“His daughter married a Pygge,” said Lady Armstrong.
Dinah, by this time, was in such a condition of nerves that she giggled feebly.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a swan?” asked Malcolm, with a perfectly grave face.
“No, Malcolm,” said Lady Armstrong. “You’re thinking of General Gunn’s daughter.”
“Oh, she was a goose,” declared Malcolm.
In spite of Malcolm’s efforts to entertain the company, dinner (or supper) was definitely a failure. The food was good and well-served—it was the diners who were at fault. There were moments of uncomfortable silence followed by sudden bursts of speech as everybody started talking at once. Nothing in the nature of conversation was possible and there was no exchange of ideas. The meal seemed to last an extraordinarily long time but at last it came to an end and Dinah received a look from her hostess bidding her rise. She rose at once. Everybody rose. Malcolm opened the door and Lady Armstrong and Miss Grover waited for Dinah to precede them. It was obvious that the conventions were observed at Abbot’s End and that the ladies would retire to the drawing-room leaving the gentlemen to their wine. Dinah was appalled at the prospect of half-an-hour—or perhaps longer—in the company of her hostess and Miss Grover. She had not been to a formal dinner party for years and she had almost forgotten that this was the normal procedure in days gone by. She looked back from the door and caught a glance from her brother—a commiserating glance.
The drawing-room was stuffy with the scent of flowers. Lady Armstrong and Miss Grover spent several minutes discussing whether or not to open one of the windows.
“Better not risk it, perhaps,” said Miss Grover, turning away from the window and sitting down.
It seemed ridiculous that Dinah could not ask for the window to be opened, but she could not. I shall have to bear it, she decided as she sought for something to say. It was all the more difficult to find something to say because she had made a fool of herself once by saying something “fatuous” and she had no wish to incur Miss Grover’s scorn, yet what subject was there of common interest to herself and her hostess? Dinah could find none. Did Lady Armstrong like reading?
“My aunt has very little time for reading,” said Miss Grover, before her aunt could reply.
Lady Armstrong had said she was fond of music, suggested Dinah.
“Not modern music,” said Lady Armstrong.
“Bach?” asked Dinah, hopefully.
“My aunt finds Bach too heavy,” said Miss Grover firmly.
“Perhaps you like Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas?”
There was a faint glimmer in Lady Armstrong’s fishy eyes. She leant forward and was about to speak, but Miss Grover was before her.
“So hackneyed, aren’t they?” said Miss Grover. “One gets dreadfully tired of Sullivan’s music, don’t you agree?”
Miss Grover was no help at all; in fact, Dinah would have got on so much better without Miss Grover’s interference that she began to suspect Miss Grover of interfering on purpose and making conversation as difficult as possible (in that case she was more clever than she looked, thought Dinah, glancing at the camel-face and wondering what sort of person lived within). And why should she bother, wondered Dinah. Why should Miss Grover take pains to prevent any sort of rapprochement between her aunt and their guest? Why should she wish the aforesaid guest to make a bad impression?
There was no doubt that a bad impression was being made. Everything that Dinah said was wrong or, if not wrong, absolutely and completely uninteresting. Lady Armstrong was bored to death. She yawned several times without bothering to conceal the spasm; she wondered aloud what Malcolm was doing; she glanced at the clock and commented with surprise that it was earlier than she had thought. Dinah had exactly the same reactions as her hostess. She had been struggling with yawns; she had been wondering if the clock had stopped; she had been wishing—not for the first time, of course—that she was of the sex which remains drinking wine in the dining-room when the ladies withdraw.
It seemed ages before Malcolm and Dan appeared but they came in at last looking very pleased with themselves—looking as if they had enjoyed their conversation enormously.
Malcolm went straight over to the window and opened it. “We must have some air,” he said.
“Oh, Malcolm, it’s such a draught!” exclaimed Lady Armstrong.
“A draught! There’s scarcely a breath of wind,” objected Malcolm. “This room is exactly like a greenhouse.”
“Aunt Edith’s rheumatism,” murmured Miss Grover.
Malcolm shut the window at once. “We’ll go out, shall we?” he suggested. “You’d like to go out, wouldn’t you, Dinah?”
Dinah rose at once saying quite truthfully that there was nothing she would like better.
“It’s too cold,” objected Miss Grover. “And anyhow it’s almost time for the news. I expect Mrs. Savage would like to hear it.”
“What do you say, Dinah?” asked Malcolm, smiling at her.
Dinah was about to say she would rather go out, but Lady Armstrong got a word in first.
“It’s much too cold for the girls to go out in their evening frocks,” declared Lady Armstrong.
“But Dinah isn’t wearing an evening frock,” said Malcolm, good-humouredly. “I’m not wearing my evening frock, either, and it seems a pity to stay indoors when it’s so lovely outside.” He crossed the room as he spoke and opened a side door which led on to the terrace. Dinah went out and Dan followed closely—perhaps Dan was afraid he might be expected to remain and chat to his hostess and her niece.
It was not cold—just fresh and clear after the stuffy room. Dinah drew in deep breaths of air. She was a little worried about the way in which she had ignored the wishes of her hostess, but what joy it was to escape . . . and after all she had done what Malcolm wanted and Malcolm was her host, it was he who had asked her to come.
“I hope Lady Armstrong won’t be annoyed,” said Dinah.
“She is annoyed,” replied Malcolm. “But don’t worry. So many things annoy Lady Armstrong that the only way is not to worry. Edith will take care of her.”
Dinah did not reply. She was surprised at the implication in Malcolm’s words for it had seemed to her that Edith Grover was much more likely to fan the flame of Lady Armstrong’s annoyance than to damp it. Edith Grover was the villain of the piece—or so Dinah thought.
They strolled along the terrace together and sat down on a wooden seat in the shelter of a wall. In front of them was a wild garden sloping down to the golf course, an undulating carpet of short green turf, smooth as velvet. Beyond the golf course were shaggy sand-dunes and beyond the dunes lay the sea, like a peaceful lake of dull silver. The islands were dark, their shadows from the setting sun spread out upon the water; away in the distance was the faint outline of the coast of Fife.
“How lovely!” said Dinah, softly.
“It is lovely,” agreed Malcolm. “I often sit here in the evening and watch the sun go down.” He laughed a little, and added: “I said that to the old gardener the other day, and he replied in reproachful tones: ‘But Mister Mawlcolm, it’s the airth that tips up, ye ken!’”
