THERE ARE FOUR SEASONS, page 15
“No, I’m not worrying. . . .” she said.
She was, in fact, dully surprised to realise how little the news meant to her. It seemed to come from a dim remote region of the past, a world of ghosts. Papa . . . Mama . . . Celia. . . . They were little mechanical figures moving against a painted background far away. Absurd to think that once they had been real . . . that once she had longed and prayed and hungered for Papa’s love. And there swept over her a rush of gratitude to Philip, who had rescued her from that world of shadows and opened to her this new world, bathed in golden radiance.
And suddenly a cold breath of fear seemed to chill the warmth of her heart. She clung to him.
“Philip, you’ll love me always, won’t you? I couldn’t bear it if you ever stopped.”
He protested his love and she clung to him more passionately, her lips against his. Then gently she disengaged herself. The picture of her home had become clearer, less dreamlike—the red brick house, mellow with age, against its background of trees, the gravelled terrace with its grey stone balusters with the steps sweeping down to the lawn, Andrew bending over the herbaceous border, busy among the tall bushy plants.
“Where shall we live, Philip?” she said again.
“Wherever you like, darling.”
“In the country, of course.”
He was kissing the nape of her neck where little golden tendrils curled and twined.
“Of course,” he agreed absently.
“We must have lots of greenhouses. Andrew loves greenhouses.”
“Andrew?” said Philip. “Who on earth is Andrew?”
She looked at him in surprise. It seemed odd that Philip shouldn’t know who Andrew was.
“Andrew? He’s the gardener, of course.”
“What gardener? Your father’s?”
“Yes . . . I suppose so.”
“Well, what’s he got to do with it?”
“But . . . but, of course, he’ll come to us when we get the house.”
She felt slightly bewildered. She couldn’t imagine an existence in which Andrew wasn’t there in the background, bending over the flowers, moving to and fro with spade and fork. It was vitally important—she didn’t know why—that he should be there. She had taken for granted always that he would be. . . .
“We can’t walk off with your people’s servants like that,” protested Philip. “Besides, I don’t know that I want to. I think I’d far rather start fresh with our own.”
She stared at him, aghast.
“Oh, but we must have Andrew,” she said breathlessly. “We must. He’s always been there. You don’t understand.”
His mood hovered between irritation and amusement, but her loveliness—blue eyes fixed on him in childish appeal—turned the scale and he laughed delightedly.
“Have a hundred Andrews, have a thousand,” he said, “as long as you’ll go on looking like that. You mustn’t ever change, Vicky, will you?”
“I shall grow old,” she said dreamily.
He shivered.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “You mustn’t. I couldn’t bear it. We won’t grow old ever, either of us, will we?”
“No,” she agreed, humouring his mood, “we won’t. Ever. . . . But it’s time to dress for dinner.”
Mrs. Carothers had wanted Vicky to take a maid away with her, but Philip had objected. He would have no aliens in their Eden, and he loved to play the lady’s maid to Vicky. He helped her to dress now—or rather hindered her—taking down the shining strands of her hair and burying his face in it, kissing the smooth whiteness of her arms.
“Philip,” she said suddenly, “would you like me at all if I were ugly?”
“No,” he laughed. “I hate ugly things.”
She tried to hold him away from her.
“Do you only love me because I’m pretty?” she persisted.
“Don’t ask silly questions,” he said, and drew her into his arms again.
She surrendered once more with a little fluttering sigh. After all, what did it matter? She was pretty, so it was silly to worry about whether he’d love her if she weren’t.
After dinner he sat in the armchair by the fireplace reading a book of travels that an acquaintance in the hotel had lent him. He seldom read and Vicky was always glad when he did, as it stilled temporarily the demon of unrest that drove him.
She stood at the window looking down at the darkening trees in the Pincio gardens. She was picturing the home they would have when they returned to England—trees, flowers, quiet lawns . . . Andrew moving about amongst it all in his leggings and shirt-sleeves with his queer lolloping gait. It was odd how Andrew seemed to intrude himself into every picture of a home that her mind framed.
“We are going to Ravenna to-morrow, aren’t we, Philip?” she said.
“Yes,” he said absently. “Ravenna or somewhere else.”
She sighed, thinking how nice it would be to know just where they were going and when. Beneath her eager careless young womanhood was still the methodical little girl who had lived by routine and put her things away so carefully under Miss Thompson’s rule.
“I’ll start packing, then,” she said.
She went into the bedroom, took off her evening dress of white satin and gauze, put on her dressing-gown, and began to pack the big leather trunks.
“I’ll help you if you’ll wait a minute, darling,” Philip murmured, but she knew that he wouldn’t.
If a book interested him he went on reading it till he’d finished it, and everything else had to wait.
At the end of an hour she had packed almost everything, and came back to sit on the arm of his chair, leaning her cheek on his head. He put up his hand—a long thin nervous hand—to stroke her cheek.
“Let’s go to bed now, Philip,” she said. “I’m so tired.”
He murmured, “Poor darling,” but did not stir. She knew he wouldn’t move till he’d finished the book.
At last he closed it, saying, “What did you say, dear?”
She kissed his hair.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said. “I’ve finished packing.”
“You shouldn’t have done it alone,” he remonstrated. “You should have let me help.”
“What’s Ravenna like?”
“Ravenna?” he said vaguely. “Oh, I expect it’s quite ordinary. Let’s not go to Ravenna. Let’s go to Egypt. Let’s go there to-morrow. The desert, the temples, the Nile. . . . It’s the most wonderful country in the world.”
“But, Philip,” she said, dismayed, “isn’t it a long way?”
“What does that matter?” he said. “Let’s never go home. Let’s go to Japan, China, India. . . . What’s the use of stagnating for the rest of our lives in some beastly little village? What a way to spend one’s life! Let’s go on and on and on and never stop anywhere.” He got up and paced about the room. “That’s what life ought to be. Movement, movement . . . always movement.”
“Well, let’s go to bed now, anyway,” yawned Vicky.
About two o’clock he woke her. He was sitting up in bed looking at the window, where a silver moon rode high among the clouds.
“Isn’t she lovely, Vicky?” he said. “Look at her.” He sprang out of bed. “Come on. Put your clothes on and let’s go out. It’s too marvellous to waste. It’s like being born again.”
As usual his excitement communicated itself to her and she too sprang eagerly out of bed and dressed as quickly as she could, putting a long white cloak over her dress and leaving her head bare.
They crept softly down the stairs, rousing the sleepy night porter, who felt little astonishment, as he had decided long ago that Philip was mad. The empty streets echoed to their footsteps. The whole world about them was silvered with enchantment.
“Vicky,” said Philip, “I know what was wrong with that sketch. I’ll go there again directly after breakfast and I’ll do it again.”
Vicky stood still and looked at him.
“But—we’re going to-morrow,” she said.
“Going? Going where?”
“To Egypt . . . Ravenna.”
“Nonsense! We can’t leave a place like this after only five days. It’s ridiculous.”
“But you said we were going to-morrow,” said Vicky. He frowned.
“My dear,” he said impatiently, “I do wish you wouldn’t try to tie me down to every casual suggestion I make. I may have vaguely mentioned it, but I wouldn’t dream of leaving a place like this after only five days. The very idea’s absurd.”
His irritation, as always, frightened her, giving her a sudden terrifying glimpse of a dark world in which she wandered desolate, alone, bereft of his love.
“Very well,” she said quickly. “I’d as soon stay as go on.”
“Of course we’ll stay,” he laughed, his serenity restored by her acquiescence.
They reached the hotel about four o’clock. Philip was still in high spirits, but Vicky felt tired and depressed. She looked at the leather trunks standing packed at the foot of the bed and wondered whether she would be unpacking them in the morning, or whether Philip would have changed his mind during the night.
But in the morning she received a telegram, asking her to come home at once as Mr. Carothers had died the day before.
Chapter Thirteen
CELIA, wearing a dress of black serge hurriedly put together by Miss Salter and plentifully trimmed with crêpe, was standing at the front door as the carriage drew up. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, for she had been crying all afternoon, less from sorrow than from remorse at feeling so little sorrow. There had been a certain element of excitement about Papa’s death that had not been without its enjoyable side. It had raised her to unaccustomed heights of importance. The servants treated her with a new deference, furtive glances of interest were cast at her when she went into the village, her friends wrote her letters of sympathy in large copperplate handwriting and formal phraseology, dictated by their parents, and the mourning clothes, with their trimming of crêpe, gave her a thrilling sense of belonging to the grown-up world. Moreover, the sudden cessation of lessons and relaxing of schoolroom discipline lent an inevitable air of holiday-making to the occasion.
Celia was now promoted, as it were, into Mama’s immediate circle, urged to be “Mama’s comfort,” reminded that she was “all Mama had left.” Mama, it was true, did little to support this view. She went about, white and tight-lipped, ignoring Celia and everyone else, but Celia took advantage of her preoccupation to join the grown-up routine of the house—to bring her needle-work down to the drawing-room, and to take her meals in the dining-room. She felt little personal sense of loss. She was aware that Papa had loved her, but it had been a remote impersonal love, a love that made little difference to her ordinary life. He had been stiff and unapproachable, with no skill in winning her confidence, no art in sharing her childish interests. He had now gone to Heaven, but, to Celia, he had always been there—remote, aloof, God-like.
Then—most exciting of all—his death was bringing Vicky home—Vicky, the beloved, whom Celia had missed so terribly since her marriage. She had written long letters to her every day, telling her all the news of the schoolroom—how Miss Standish had gone and another governess, called Miss Boniface, had arrived, who was aesthetic and wore strange clothes and wrote poetry and filled the schoolroom with Japanese fans and painted milking-stools.
In reply she had only received hastily written postcards from Venice, Rome, Florence. . . . And now she was coming home, travelling post-haste across Europe—Vicky, with her golden hair and blue eyes and sudden lovely smile. No one in the whole world mattered as much as Vicky.
She had lain awake all last night, unable to sleep with excitement at the prospect of Vicky’s homecoming, and to-day after lunch a sudden reaction had set in, and she had felt aghast at Her own depravity. Why, she had enjoyed Papa’s death. Actually enjoyed it. . . .
The thought overwhelmed her with horror, and she went to her room to lie on her bed and sob convulsively, working herself up into an agony of self-loathing and despair. Then, her emotion spent, she surveyed her swollen, tear-stained face in the mirror. The sight comforted her and she began to take a complacent pride in it. She looked so exactly as a little girl should look whose papa has just died. She wanted Vicky to see her like that, because it made her seem so much more interesting than she did ordinarily, so she rubbed her eyes surreptitiously every now and then to keep them red during the hour or so before Vicky’s arrival.
As the carriage drew up at the door, Philip, tall and agile, sprang out and gave his hand to Vicky. The heavy black draperies (Vicky had spent a hurried few hours in Paris buying mourning on the way home) emphasised her grace and slenderness, and her face looked lovelier than ever beneath the filmy black veil.
Philip’s handsome boyish face wore its blackest scowl. He had sulked all the way home, furious at having his honeymoon interrupted, and at being forced to surrender Vicky so soon to the claims of her own people.
“I’ve not had you to myself a month even,” he kept grumbling. “It isn’t fair. . . .”
He greeted Celia ungraciously. He had always been jealous of her affection for Vicky, and the sight of her standing there in the clumsy unbecoming black frock, her cheeks sallow, her eyes swollen with crying, infuriated him.
Vicky kissed Celia, then went into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Carothers sat upright by the fire, hung with crêpe and jet, looking majestic and unfamiliar. Mrs. Carothers had been greatly attached to her husband, and his death had left her life empty and meaningless, but her placidity concealed deep forces of pride and self-control, and she had given no outward signs of her sorrow, even to Celia.
She kissed Vicky, shook hands with Philip, who did not offer to kiss her, and rang for tea. Then she began to ask Vicky about her travels, speaking mechanically and obviously not listening to the answers.
Celia sat on a footstool at Vicky’s feet, gazing up at her adoringly, and Philip sat glowering sulkily at everyone, especially Celia, for whom he was conceiving a quite irrational dislike.
Then Mrs. Carothers sent Celia to the schoolroom, where Miss Boniface, in a trailing sack-like gown, voluminously gathered at the neck and waist, read Tennyson to her, and Celia sniffled disconsolately, crying really because she had been banished from the drawing-room, but pretending to herself that she was crying because Papa was dead.
Downstairs, her departure removed something of the constraint.
“Your father died quite peacefully, Vicky,” said Mrs. Carothers. “There was no hope from the beginning of the attack, but mercifully he had very little pain.”
“Did he—did he mention me?” said Vicky.
“No,” said Mrs. Carothers.
Vicky was silent, surprised once more to find how little it mattered, how remote it all seemed. . . .
“I shall move into a smaller house as soon as the business is settled,” went on Mrs. Carothers. “I shall not go away from this neighbourhood as all my friends are here. I may build a small house if I can’t find anything suitable, but, of course, I’ve made no definite plans yet.”
Vicky felt a sudden pang of pity for her. She was majestic and controlled, as ever, but she was like some automaton going on being majestic and controlled after the mainspring had broken. She was an unconvincing copy of her old self. She must have loved him terribly, thought Vicky, with something of wonder.
Then pity was swallowed in a sudden blaze of terror as she put Philip into Papa’s place. . . . Suppose Philip died and she was left alone. She caught her breath with a little gasp of anguish. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t go on living. . . . But at once reassurance came to her. It couldn’t happen to her. Other women’s husbands might die, but that was different, because they weren’t Philip and Vicky. They were shadows, dim and unreal, their grief meaningless and vapid. . . .
“I expect you’d like to come upstairs to your room, dear,” said Mrs. Carothers, rising. “I’ll take you.”
“Don’t bother to come, Mama,” said Vicky.
But Mrs. Carothers insisted. She took them up and stayed for a few minutes with them, straightening various things about the room and explaining the hours of meals, though, of course, Vicky knew them quite well, telling them several times to ring for anything they wanted.
Then she went downstairs to the drawing-room, took up her work-basket (the one whose contents Vicky had once flung into the fire) and, sitting by the fireplace, began to sew at a piece of embroidery with calm regular movement.
But she saw that despite her efforts her hands were trembling, so put it aside and went to her desk to check her household books again, though she had done it only that morning. Life was so long, and one must do something. . . .
Upstairs Vicky looked round the room. It was the best spare room, the same shape as Papa’s and Mama’s, with a big bay window in the corner overlooking the garden. She had sat on that broad window-seat when she was a little girl and watched the workmen papering the walls and putting in the marble mantelpiece, seeing herself as “Papa’s darling,” driving out in the carriage with him and the new mama. . . .
Philip was striding angrily up and down the room.
“It’s damnable,” he exploded. “Why need we have come back to this ghoulish place? I hate your sister. I hate your stepmother. We’d hardly begun our honeymoon. . . .”
“Darling,” murmured Vicky absently.
She went to the window and looked down at the sunlit garden, where the trees stood motionless, each in the still pool of its own shadow. Andrew was mowing the lawn, moving backwards and forwards behind the large cumbersome machine. He was strong, despite his puny appearance.
She suddenly thought of him lying on the gravelled drive with Harold Frensham standing over him. That episode seemed faintly ridiculous now. How exactly like the handsome villain of melodrama Harold Frensham had been, with his fine dark eyes and curling moustache! She was glad that no one knew about it but Andrew.
She must remember to ask Mama about taking Andrew to their new house. They wouldn’t go far away. They——
