The Climber/Chapter 13

by Edward Frederic Benson

CHAPTER XIII

Aunt Cathie had arrived, and was resting in her bedroom at Brayton before dressing for dinner. Lucia was coming up for a chat later, but Aunt Cathie was glad to be alone for a little, and recover from the excitement and strangeness of it all. It was bewildering; things happened as they did in books where money is obviously no object. Three or four motors had been waiting at the little wayside station (the train by which Aunt Cathie was to travel had been sent her on a postcard by Lucia, who was having it stopped on purpose), and out of it poured a perfect mob of people who all knew each other so intimately that she heard nothing but nicknames or Christian names. There was a Duchess among them, for Aunt Cathie heard an extremely smart female in a very rustling dress, who carried a little scarlet leather jewel-case, speak to her as "Your Grace," while everybody else called her Mouse. And slowly the awful certainty dawned on Cathie that this resplendent female was Mouse's maid. For the servants there was an enormous omnibus, and for the luggage several large carts, into which Arbuthnot, who stood looking like a tall grey monument of despair, was watching her mistress's trunks being put. Then Cathie observed that she was led away to the omnibus, which she entered with the air of one who took her place in the tumbril that was to carry her to instant execution. Then an enormous footman touched his hat to her, called her "my lady," which somehow was gratifying to Cathie, and found her a place in a motor with two strange men and the Duchess. They were all most polite and friendly, though Cathie was tongue-tied with shyness, and Mouse pushed a footstool to her, hoped she had got plenty of room, remarked how early it got dark, and wondered why the motor crawled so. To Cathie it appeared that they were going at the most dangerous pace, and it was a great relief to her when they reached the house without accident.

Lord Brayton welcomed them, and there was Lucia, looking more radiantly beautiful than ever, who gave her a charming little butterfly kiss, a cup of tea, hoped Aunt Elizabeth was better, and then began talking to a dozen people all at once in a language which, though certainly English, conveyed nothing whatever to Cathie. She felt stranger than would some survival of the glacial period if it was suddenly brought into a menagerie full of animals evolved a million years later. And the Christian names and nicknames confused her so horribly; the moment she thought that somebody was certainly Tom, he turned out to be the Babe. And Lord Mallington was Harry and also Tubs, so that in a couple of minutes she had forgotten that he was Lord Mallington at all, while there was another Harry whose surname never penetrated her memory. Edgar did all that could be done. He and Lucia introduced her to everybody, so that her own name positively rang in her ears; but beyond that (which she knew already) she had grasped little else, except that Mouse was the Duchess of Wiltshire. Ladies' Dress, with its full-page illustration of the gown she wore at the drawing-room, fixed that in her memory, and Cathie wondered whether she would wear it again here. How interesting if she wore it the same night as she herself was wearing the puce silk, which it so much resembled!

Then somebody—the Babe, she believed—told her that they were going to have a drive to-morrow, and Cathie, putting all her courage on the conversational altar, said loudly and distinctly that she would enjoy that very much. But the drive turned out to be partridges, and even the knowledge that the old speckledy, which had been marvellously renovated by the ironing, was so like to the dress worn by the lady with the small head when walking with the shooters, did not entirely console her for this dreadful mistake. But how could she know that drive meant partridges? She hoped the Babe did not think that she shot, as she had read some ladies did.

All these things went to form the groundwork of Aunt Cathie's reflections, which, though slightly alarming in certain aspects, had a pleasing terror about them. Not for a moment, even when they came into the drawing-room and its brilliant illumination after the dark of the drive, and a tide of guests, already arrived, rose to meet the other tide with which Cathie had come, and they all began talking loudly and simultaneously, did she falter. She gathered, also, that the house was not full even yet, and that a fresh contingent was arriving in time for dinner. Well, so much the better; it was all homage to Lucia, and had Cathie only grasped a few of their names, she would have been scarcely at all terrified. But it was the conversing with a crowd of anonymous folk that was a little agitating; no doubt, however, she would learn their names in time.

Then came a sound outside as if several people were running races down the corridor of polished oak, which Cathie had found so very slippery to walk on at all, followed by a loud bang, as if somebody had fallen down, and peals of laughter, in which she thought she detected Lucia's merriment. Then came Lucia's voice.

Oh, did you ever see anything so funny? The whole house shook, Tom. I'm sure you must weigh twenty stone. Yes, Mouse, that's your room at the end of the passage—left-hand side, you know, not the right. That's where the Babe's cradle is. But do see he's dressed in time, and help him to brush his hair, if he needs assistance. Half-past eight dinner; but really half-past, because Edgar always dies at twenty minutes to nine, if he hasn't begun to eat by then. So please be punctual, all of you. I hope you'll all find your rooms. I don't know where they all are."

"Where are you going, Lucia?" said a man's voice.

Cathie could not hear the reply; there were a few whispered words, and a stifled laugh, that suddenly made her feel a little uncomfortable. Then Lucia tapped, and said:

"Darling Aunt Cathie, may I come in?"

Aunt Cathie was sitting by the fire with only one candle, and the room was nearly dark in consequence. She had thought it strange that there should only be one candle, for at Fair View Cottage they always gave their guests two on the dressing-table and two on the writing-table. But no doubt they would bring a lamp soon. Then Lucia entered and spoke.

"But it's absolutely pitch-dark, like Egypt," she said. "Where are you, Aunt Cathie? I can't see anything."

A sound clicked in the gloom, and half a dozen electric lights flared out by the bed, by the dressing-table, by the writing-table.

"Or did you find the light too strong?" asked Lucia. "Shall I put them out again?"

Aunt Cathie rose to greet her.

"Not for worlds," she said. "Never thought of electric light. Why, it's quite an illumination. Beautiful!"

Lucia produced a small cigarette-case, and suddenly broke out laughing again.

"You never saw anything so funny," she said. "Harry was racing Mouse down to the end of the corridor, and he went over exactly like a shot rabbit. Yes, don't be shocked, dear Aunt Cathie, but I do occasionally smoke, on—on alternate Tuesdays, you know, like your garden-parties at Brixham. Only Edgar doesn't like me to smoke in my bedroom—why, I can't imagine—so I have to smoke in other people's. Oh, and Maud and her Chubby come this evening. You will like to see Maud again, won't you?"

"And—was it Chubby?" asked Aunt Cathie.

"Yes, mixture of Charlie and husband, you see; also, it rather describes him. At least, he isn't chubby, you know, that's why. Let's see. To-night Harry takes you down. He's great fun; but don't talk to him about the Underground, or he'll go into peals of laughter. You see, his aunt was killed there in a dreadful railway accident; she fell on the electric rail and was literally roasted, and left Harry all her money. She——"

"Oh, how shocking!" said Aunt Cathie. "But why does he laugh?"

Lucia's eyes suddenly fell on the puce-coloured silk that was laid out on her aunt's bed. The light shone very distinctly on to it, and she rapidly grasped the manner of it. For one moment she looked almost annoyed, the next she nearly laughed, and the third she spoke lightly and good-humouredly.

"Dearest Aunt Cathie," she said, "is that for to-night? It's almost too grand, isn't it? It's the kind of thing that the wives of South African millionaires go to the drawing-room in. You will find us all in scrubby country frocks, you know."

A gleam of heavenly triumph came into Aunt Cathie's face. The puce-coloured silk was smart; there was no denying it. Lucia herself said it was like a millionairess's drawing-room dress.

"You mustn't put us all in the shade," Lucia went on. "Pray wear something less magnificent, or we shall all be green with jealousy."

Aunt Cathie gave a little bubbling sound of pleasure, half laugh, half purr. She would tell Elizabeth about this, and Elizabeth's sarcasm would be mute for ever on the subject.

"Oh, I have brought other dinner-gowns," she said. "There's the grey with the lace; perhaps you remember it."

"Ah! then I'm sure that would be far more suitable for a higgledy-piggledy party like this," said Lucia. "Do wear that instead."

Lucia sat down near the fire and poked it into a blaze. She felt she had been very diplomatic over this, for she had both gratified Aunt Cathie by her reception of the splendour of the puce-coloured silk, and she had averted the horror of seeing her appear in that terrific garment. No detail had escaped her; she had seen its sleevelessness, its wedges of lace, its Watteau sacque.

"And now I'm going to sit and talk to you for half an hour," she said—"or, rather, you must talk to me. Tell me about all that's going on in Brixham—how your garden is getting on, who has been giving parties, and how the servants are; and that nice old parlourmaid, who always had a cough—Fanny, wasn't it? No, not Fanny—Jane."

Cathie could not resist a little harmless misrepresentation.

"I brought Arbuthnot, of course, with me," she said. "She is my maid now, Lucia. It is the same one. She was Jane."

Lucia gave a little giggle of laughter.

"I must ask Harry if he is any relation," she said. "He is Arbuthnot, you know. What a glorious name for a maid! It sounds too grand for words. And I must certainly see her. Dear me, what funny dear old days those were, weren't they? Some time later on, Aunt Cathie, you must let me come and stay with you for a day or two, if it was only to see the Dean's wife. I must have my old room, and I shan't bring a maid at all—not so grand as you; and I must grub in the garden, and look at Aunt Elizabeth playing patience after dinner, and go to bed at ten, and have breakfast at half-past eight. Breakfast here? Oh, it's any time; it's ready when you are. I never come down myself, but there are things to eat, and you can have it in your room."

Lucia was quite admirable at this sort of fluent tenderness, which meant nothing at all to her, but so much to Aunt Cathie. She was delighted to come and sit with her for half an hour, and make her feel at home; for since, against her own better judgment, Aunt Cathie had not been put off, she must certainly try to make her visit agreeable. Besides, she herself saw how her aunt loved to see her shining, as Edgar put it, and Lucia never had enough of that kind of homage. In consequence, the feeling of strangeness which Aunt Cathie had so markedly felt at tea had quite evaporated before Lucia found it necessary to "fly" to receive the last contingent of her guests who would be now arriving. As she flew, she cast one more glance at the famous puce-coloured silk, and warmly congratulated herself. She had done it so neatly, too—had hurt nobody's feelings.

Aunt Cathie sat and looked at her fire when Lucia had gone for some pleasant retrospective minutes. It was all too wonderful to think that all this was Lucia's; that this great houseful of people was being entertained by her niece. She did it all, too, as if she had been borne to it; she shrieked with laughter when a peer of the realm fell down on the corridor, and shouted chaffing remarks to a Duchess. Indeed, it had been worth a week's anxiety about dresses to see this. And everybody was so young, and in such childishly high spirits, and the women were so beautiful, and the house was so splendid. And yet Lucia was just the same, and, in spite of all the duchesses and lords, came and chatted to her aunt in her bedroom. But Aunt Cathie wished she would not smoke; if she could find an opportunity, she would speak to her about it.

Her clock—rather a shocking clock, with a bronze lady with hardly any clothes on talking to a bronze gentleman in an equally insufficient costume—chimed eight, and Aunt Cathie, who had not known it was so late, rang the bell for her maid, with a little thrill at the novel dignity. Arbuthnot appeared with hot water, looking a little dazed.

"Well" said Aunt Cathie, "this is a grand house, isn't it, Arbuthnot? And her ladyship remembered you, and said she must speak to you."

Arbuthnot gave a little choking sigh.

"And to think that dinner's over by now at home, miss," she said.

For one moment, at the thought of the crowd of laughing, jesting people who knew each other so well, and of whom she did not even know the names, a little pang of home-sickness came over Aunt Cathie at the image suggested by Arbuthnot of Elizabeth sitting down to her patience in the drawing-room at home, but she instantly shook it off.

"Well, I'm glad dinner isn't over here," she said, "becaus I'm as hungry as I am at Littlestone. Oh, and her ladyship thinks the puce silk, perhaps, is too grand. So I will wear——"

At that moment critical Cathie's eye fell on its shimmering folds, its sleeveless splendour, its lace insertions, and the temptation was irresistible. To be grander than duchesses! To make them all feel that they had scrubby country frocks on, so that they were green and envious! Aunt Cathie was but mortal and a woman.

"I think I will wear the puce silk, after all," she said. "It would be a pity to have brought it, and not wear it at all. And I will wear my amethysts with it—bracelets, brooch, and necklace. Get them out, Arbuthnot."

Cathie spent a memorable evening, and a most delightful one, though there were one or two awkward moments. Lucia, for instance, had clearly told her that Harry was Lord Arbuthnot, and as such she addressed him, just to show she knew. But it appeared that it was the other Harry who was Lord Arbuthnot, and this one was only Mr. Symes. But he had been quite delightful, and he seemed to enjoy immensely her account of a dreadful disturbance there had been in Brixham society a year ago, over the precedence to be taken by the Mayor's daughter, and she overheard him afterwards repeating the history of the crisis to the Duchess, who was as much amused as he had been. Equally agreeable—perhaps even more agreeable—was the reception (it was not less than that) accorded to the puce-coloured silk and the amethysts. She had come down rather late, and conversation ceased altogether for a moment in the drawing-room as she made her shining entrance. But she could not, though conscious of her own splendour, agree with Lucia that the others were scrubby. Lucia herself, for instance, was dazzling in orange chiffon, though it was true she had no lace insertions, but Jiminy (whoever she was) had lace on her pin satin, which Cathie saw at once was quite as fine as hers; and though the Duchess's gown was of the simplest, Aunt Cathie, with her eye acute from recent study of Ladies' Dress, saw that the simplicity of it was somehow different from that of the old speckledy. Her pearls, too, were quite as large as those of Elizabeth's Roman set, though there were only two rows of them, but awe seized Cathie at the thought that perhaps these were real. But a little embarrassing, again, was the discovery at the conclusion of the story about the Mayor's daughter, which she told at some length to Harry, who was on her left, that while she had been talking three of her wine-glasses had been filled to the brim with sherry, hock, and champagne respectively. For the moment it made her quite hot; it looked so greedy.

"Oh, see what they've done while I have been talking," she said reproachfully to Mr. Symes.

Dinner was laid at four or five small tables, holding eight each, and when towards the end of it everybody began talking to everybody else across the tables, speaking again the strange language which, though English, meant nothing to Aunt Cathie, she was quite glad to sit back and rest, and watch the stir and animation of young life. Pleasant it was again after dinner to find herself sought out by Maud, who introduced Chubby to her, and sat with her, and talked about Littlestone. Then suggestions were made about bridge, a game Aunt Cathie did not know, though when she was asked by Edgar if she would play, she professed her entire willingness to learn if she was wanted to make up a table. That again made Mouse laugh—they all laughed so easily—who said it would be trespassing too much on her good-nature, and they all laughed again. So she looked on instead, and found it appeared to be very easy—like dummy whist, in fact—which she had played often and often for cowrie-shells, and she almost repented of her confession that she did not know it, since she was sure she would have picked jt up in no time. But when she discovered that at the end of two rubbers, at another table, Lucia had lost nine pounds, she felt she had had a lucky escape. How foolish of Lucia! She could not be much of a player. Indeed, at Brixham she had often said that she did not care to play at cards.

The only thing, in fact, that at all marred her evening—for the affair of the wine-glasses was momentary only, since Harry very kindly had them instantly removed—was Lucia herself. She had seemed almost to avoid her aunt, and did not even kiss her when she said good-night, or come to her room afterwards, as Cathie rather expected her to do. But very likely she was upset at losing so much money; also, perhaps, she was vexed that her aunt had worn the puce silk after all, and reduced them all to green envy. But its wearer had enjoyed it so enormously that she could not regret the risk she had taken of making the others look scrubby.

Breakfast, as Lucia had told her aunt, was at any time that she happened to come down, and Cathie, not wishing to keep other people waiting while she breakfasted, had come down at a quarter-past nine, to find herself quite alone. A quantity of hot dishes with burning spirit-lamps underneath them were on the sideboard, and there were signs, in the form of used plates and scattered newspapers, that breakfasts had already been going on. She was therefore in quite a dilemma; it seemed so strange to sit down and have breakfast all alone in another house; but the alternative to that was to wait, with the risk that everybody who intended to breakfast downstairs had already done so, so that any moment the servants might come in and begin to clear away. If that happened, Cathie felt quite sure she would not have the audacity to tell them that she had not yet breakfasted. It seemed odd to her, too, that when you had so many servants, there should not be four or five anyhow in the dining-room at breakfast time; their absence inclined her to think that breakfast was indeed over. Yet, peeping under the silver covers of the dishes on the side-table, she found that tremendous quantities of food still remained. There were kidneys, bacon, poached eggs, fish—enough to give everybody breakfast twice over. She felt that Elizabeth would be shocked at such extravagance. Personally, she secretly gloated over it; it was Lucia's house where this opulence reigned.

A middle way solved her difficulty, for a staid and elderly man looking casually in, asked her with great respect, Aunt Cathie thought, if she would have tea or coffee, and a moment after receiving her orders, brought in a little tray for her with a silver teapot and hot-water jug. She could not help asking him if she was right in beginning alone, and his assurance on that point comforted her. He also rearranged the pages of a Morning Post for her, and laid it suggestively by her, and as soon as he was gone, Cathie turned eagerly to the personal paragraphs. Yes, that was what she sought: "Lord and Lady Brayton are entertaining a large shooting-party." And then followed a string of names—Duchess of Wiltshire, Marquis of Kempsholt, Lord Arbuthnot, Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay.…

Cathie could hardly believe her eyes. But there it was—Miss Catherine Grimson.

Other people began to straggle in, and she hastily folded up the paper, feeling that she could not bear to think that other people should read that paragraph and see her name there. It was as if she had suddenly seen in the paper that Elizabeth had planted a polyanthus in the garden of Fair View Cottage. All her life she had read these paragraphs about the doings of people she had never seen, and in many cases never heard of except in such paragraphs, and here was she, recorded and printed among them! Somebody had set up her name in type, had corrected the paragraph perhaps, had sent it broadcast over England.

There was but little conversation at breakfast, and indeed she was the only woman present. Men in shooting-clothes came in, nodded to each other, and just said good-morning to her, and then sat about on scattered islands, each seeming to avoid proximity to anybody else, and got through their meal before Aunt Cathie had finished the sole which she had taken. Then outside the noise of a motor crunching the gravel was heard, followed by a second and a third, and before she had finished she was quite alone again.

The house that had seemed so full the evening before was strangely silent and deserted, and after breakfast she went into the drawing-room, where they had sat last night after dinner. There the windows were open, the fires were unlit; visitors were clearly not expected to sit there. The shooters had started. Three motor-cars full of men had left the door, while it had not been suggested even that she, who had put on the old speckledy, with the amber beads and the silver pig, should walk with the shooters. Meantime, what was to be done? Where was she to go? Fancy having a party in the house and not coming down to breakfast! Probably Lucia knew what was the right thing, but it seemed very odd to Aunt Cathie. It was true that they had been up late the night before, but it was after ten now, and Lucia had not come downstairs. Nor, indeed, apparently, had any woman except herself.

It was a deliciously warm and sunny morning, and though Cathie would have liked to go back into the dining-room and read that amazing paragraph in the Morning Post again, she was not equal to so audacious a feat, for fear some other servant might come and ask her whether she would have tea or coffee, thinking she had only just come down, which would be too dreadful a suspicion, since it was half-past ten. But the fineness of the day was, so she thought to herself, a temptation, especially sine the drawing-room, with its empty grates and open windows, was far from being so; and, still a little desirous of a comfortable chair, a fire, and a paper, she told herself it would be far moi wholesome to have a good walk.

Her bedroom, where she had gone to fetch her hat, looked inviting, too. It was already garnished, and though the windows were open the fire was laid ready for a match. But Cathie did not know if it was the "thing" to sit in your bedroom, and it would be so dreadful not to do the "thing" in Lucia's house. Besides, she hankered after walking with the shooters, and if that amusement was to be indulged in it would be dreadful to be out of the way when the others started, for it was still possible that walking with the shooters did not necessarily begin when the shooters began walking. Indeed, she remembered having seen that ladies "joined the shooters at lunch." That might easily be intended.

At last there were signs that the house was not left unto her desolate. In the hall below was Maud, looking among letters for possible property of her own. She hailed her with delightful cordiality.

"Dear Aunt Cathie," she said, "are you going out already? How energetic! I was going to be lazy till lunch; it is the nicest house to be lazy in that I know."

Aunt Cathie gave a great sigh of relief.

"Oh, how nice to see somebody," she said. "I didn't know where to go, or where anybody was. Went into the drawing-room—windows open. Supposed everybody had gone out or was still in their rooms."

Maud laughed.

"You are too grand for words," she said, "wanting to sit in the drawing-room in the morning. There's the library, and the morning-room, and Lucia's sitting-room, and the loggia, all at your disposal. Do wait for me, anyhow, till I've had breakfast. Isn't it dreadful? Half-past ten, and I've not breakfasted. Or come and sit with me, will you, and give me countenance. Lucia wanted me to ride with her at eight, but I absolutely declined, and sent Chubby instead. They'll be in soon, I expect. But probably we shan't see Lucia till lunch. I hear there's a rehearsal of 'Salome,' and she is certain to be there. So let's spend a quiet morning, you and I. Or what would you like to do? We might motor out and have lunch with the shooters."

Aunt Cathie glowed at this. Certainly it would be very pleasant to spend a quiet morning, but she felt like a child at a fair, who must see and do all there is to be seen and done.

"I should like that," she said. "But if we don't see Lucia, how can we go out in a motor?"

Maud laughed again.

"Oh, I drove down in mine yesterday," she said, "and we'll go in that. Or if Chubby takes that, we'll take another. It's a grab-house, you know; we all grab what we want. I grab you."

Maud still spoke slowly, evidently meaning all she said, and Aunt Cathie somehow felt much more at home with her than she did with Lucia, even when the latter came and sat and smoked in her bedroom before dinner the night before. Maud was in no way different from what she had been when she stayed with them at Littlestone, whereas—the feeling was instinctive only—Lucia seemed now to have sat with her last night instead of doing something else. Maud gave the impression of having nothing else to do, or at least as if to grab Aunt Cathie was to do what she liked best. But as she opened the dining-room door, a sudden sound of laughter and voices came from within. Lucia was there, in riding habit, having breakfast with Charlie, while Mouse stood by the fireplace, with the Morning Post in her hand, smoking a cigarette. And instantly Cathie felt herself shy and self-conscious again. Lucia apparently did not.

"Morning, Maud," she said. "Not breakfasted yet? What a lazy! Charlie and I started out at eight, and rode for two hours. Ah, Aunt Cathie, you late too? What would Brixham say if they knew you came down to breakfast at a quarter to eleven?"

"Oh, I breakfasted long ago," said Cathie. "I breakfasted excellently."

"That's right—just what I'm doing," said Lucia. "No, Chubby, I understand Salome doing that perfectly. Imagine—oh, you can't, as you're a man. But, Mouse, imagine being desperately in love with a prophet who wouldn't look at you, and kept shouting out curses on you and your mother. He was very rude to Herodias, you know. Why, of course, you would say, 'Off with his head!' like the Queen in 'Alice in Wonderland.'"

Chubby was drinking tea, but put down his cup quickly in order to get a word in. It was necessary, he found, with Lucia to speak at once if you were going to speak at all. Otherwise she did.

"Yes you would, Lucia," he said. "We all know that you would, because you have a pagan and a barbaric nature. You are a throwback to some savage ancestor. Mouse isn't. She's—she's just a lady."

Mouse rustled her paper to command attention.

"Lucia, you are a snob also of the worst class," she said. "Why, oh, why, put your parties in the Morning Post? Listen: 'Lord and Lady Bray ton are entertaining a shooting-party,' etc. There we all are, in a row. I shall write to say I wasn't there, but that you asked me."

"Oh, that's Edgar," said Lucia. "I'm not a snob. Nor is he really, but he's a prig, if you don't misunderstand me. Not what you mean by a prig, but what I mean by a prig."

"What do you mean by a prig?" asked Charlie. "I mean the same, Edgar. I have often told him so."

Lucia put both her elbows on the table.

"I mean—what do I mean? I mean a man who thoroughly appreciates all that is beautiful and interesting and artistic and improving, and knows that he appreciates it. He likes other people to know it too; he never, for instance, appreciated you, Mouse, till you wrote that dreadful book about the slums, which bored me to tears; but, having appreciated that, he likes the world to know that you are staying with us. You give tone to our party—most of the party are full of tone. We are extremely alive and intellectual. In fact, there is hardly anyone here, except, perhaps, Maud and Chubby, who haven't done something. Oh, and you, darling Aunt Cathie. And Edgar likes the world to know there is plenty of tone in his house. I have tone, you know; you needn't think it, but I have. We never pause for a remark in our house—again I except Maud, who always does—something happens, somebody says something, whether the Dante Society are dining with us, or what Mouse calls the Amen Khyam Club."

"I never did," said Mouse.

"Perhaps not, but it would have been characteristic of you if you had."

"Then that would have been dull of her," said Charlie, "because if anybody says or does what is characteristic, it might as well never have been said or done at all. It was expected; it was only what you knew already."

Lucia looked at him quickly.

"Oh, Chubby, that's nearly a new idea," she said. "With a little care it might be made quite a new idea. It's quite true. Nobody is of the slightest interest as long as he behaves in the way you expect He's like a punctual train that gets to the stations when Bradshaw tells it to. Give me the South-Eastern, now. There's romance for you!"

Mouse looked scornful.

"We gave it you neatly written out when you came to us in July," she said, "and you motored instead."

"I suppose I was in a hurry," said Lucia. "You have to be at leisure to be romantic. Haven't you, Aunt Cathie? Brixham has heaps of leisure, and anything more romantic than the conduct of the Dean's wife when she was present at 'La Rouille' here I never saw. I love romance. You can only really get it in a country house and in the plays of Mr. Shaw. Neither bears the slightest resemblance to real life. That's what romance means. Heavens! It's eleven, and I told them not to begin the rehearsal without me."

Aunt Cathie was standing by the table when this stream of foreign language began; then she saw that that was awkward, and sat down. Upon which a footman offered her poached eggs, and brought her a little service of coffee. That was even more awkward, and she got up again. She was not precisely self-conscious, though she had acute moments of that distressing complaint. In general, it was mere bewilderment that she felt. And Brixham was romantic because it bore no relation to life—what did it all mean?

But Lucia got up at the end of the last inexplicable remark, and came across to her, drawing her away with an arm entwined in an arm toward the window. And the others went on talking, just as if it was a stage, and an aside had to be conducted.

"Dear Aunt Cathie," she said, "I do hope you are enjoying yourself, and of course you'll go out and have lunch with the shooters, and flirt with Charlie, or do anything you choose. Have you seen all our volumes of photographs that Edgar and I brought back from abroad? They are all in the library neatly labelled, and so numerous and large that you will see them at once. Or would you like to spend a quiet morning? Maud always does, and Mouse is going to ride, but you don't ride, do you? But to-night, you know, after dinner, we are going to have 'Salome.' It's an opera by Strauss, and I'm sure you'd think it dreadfully ugly unless you studied it first. So don't come, if you don't want to be bored. It's all screams and whistles and explosions, you know, like a railway accident. And perhaps you wouldn't quite like the story, if you hadn't been accustomed to it. Wasn't it dear of Edgar? He thought of that, and told me to tell you. But now I must fly; I must go to their last rehearsal. Lunch? No, if you go out to have lunch with the shooters, you won't see me. Till dinner, then; and pray don't come to the play, if you feel like that about it. But do go and look at the theatre; I made Edgar build the stage last year, and it opens out of the loggia by the drawing-room. They all say it's wonderful for sound. And to-night we shall dine in sort of tea-gown things. You really mustn't wear that beautiful puce silk again. What a nice dress you have on! So suitable for walking. Oh, what delicious amber beads! Don't we talk a dreadful lot of nonsense? Mind to look at the travel- volumes. All about Egypt and Japan, with lovely photographs. And Switzerland too—snow mountains."

There was no need for Aunt Cathie to reply, and, indeed, no opportunity. Lucia pressed her arm, just over a somewhat rheumatic place, but Lucia could not be expected to know that, and next moment was almost shaking Charlie from his chair to come to the last rehearsal of "Salome."

Lucia dragged her prey off with her, leaving the door wide open, and Mouse came across the room to Aunt Cathie.

"Darling Lucia lived with you for years, did she not?" she asked. "Do tell us what happened. It is quite too interesting for anything. Why didn't Brixham explode, burn with a blue flame, go up like a sky-rocket?"

Aunt Cathie knew she was being asked questions by a Duchess. It is idle to say that the knowledge did not gratify her, but she would have been even more gratified if she had known what to say. She wondered also if she ought to bring in the phrase "Your Grace," just once, to show that she knew. But she felt she would say it awkwardly; it was better left out.

"Lucia did just what we did," she said. "Played tennis sometimes."

Mouse drew her down on to a chair.

"It is too interesting," she said. "She just leaped, didn't she—sprang to the top of everything? Fancy coming straight out of that sort of——"

Mouse paused in momentary confusion. It was only momentary.

"But I want to know secret history," she said. "Did she lie perdue and pounce? Did she make her circle there? She came out so full-blown, didn't she? Like the beautiful lunch you have on a train, that comes out of—oh, well, out of a little sort of cupboard behind the door."

The language was still rather foreign, but Aunt Cathie got a sudden clearness about it. She became stiff, but not at all embarrassed.

"Lucia lived our quiet life," she said, "in our very little house. She always was very full of spirits. I think she did not find it disagreeable. She had her little duties in the house. We led a very simple life, as I and my sister lead now."

Maud suddenly turned her chair round towards the speakers, and laughed.

"Ah, well done, Aunt Cathie!" she said.

That was more puzzling. Cathie was not conscious of having done anything well. She simply knew that at one moment she was talking to a Duchess, no less, and at the very next that she was talking to a slightly impertinent person. She had talked, she hoped, quite suitably to each.

Mouse looked at her a moment, with her chin supported on her hand.

"Ah, how grande dame!" she said quietly. "Lucia isn't, you see. I beg your pardon."

She got up from her chair, made a little gesture of her head to preface her leaving the room, and—left it.

Aunt Cathie turned a wild eye to the moulded ceiling.

"Oh, what have I done?" she asked. "Have I been very rude? What does it mean? And she called me—what was it?—a grande dame. That must have been most sarcastic. But I don't see what cause I had given her for being sarcastic."

Maud got up.

"It wasn't in the least sarcastic," she said. "It was as straightforward and true as what you said to her. Now let us go out, Aunt Cathie."

Cathie gave a little wail of dismay, pressing her two long, bony hands together.

"I feel as if I had done something dreadful," she said. "But it's all so strange. One hardly feels to know what they are all talking about."

"Dear Aunt Cathie," said Maud, "you are not sorry you came, are you?"

Cathie turned a solemn face on her.

"I wouldn't have missed it for two rheumatic shoulders," she said, "or for a hundred pounds."

Later in the day Cathie again found herself in an empty house. She had had a long stroll with Maud in the morning, which was delightful, and they had lunch with the shooters at a farm some mile or two from the house. But after lunch the splendour of the morning had given place to a threatening sky, and Maud had recommended her to go home in her motor, instead of walking with the shooters and risking a wetting. This she had done, and, arriving back about four, had made her way to the library, where she found with difficulty the volumes of travels and photographs which Lucia had spoken of. But they were a little too heavy to hold, and she herself was inclined to be sleepy after her walk in the morning, her swift drive home in air which was becoming chill with imminent rain, and with the warmth of the room in which she sat. So, instead of following the travellers to Japan, she dozed in her chair, and from dozing passed into sleep.

The room where she sat was of gallery shape, seventy feet long, and broken up by big screens, so that groups could be formed round the piano in the centre, or by either of the fireplaces, which stood at the two ends of the place. At either end was a door, the one communicating with the hall, the other with the drawing-room. It was at this end, comfortably ensconced behind a screen, that Cathie had settled herself.

She slept for half an hour or so, and woke to find that it was growing dark. She was quite rested by her nap, but sat a moment longer without moving, looking at the firelight flickering on the bookcases and panelled walls. It was all Lucia's, too. Then a little distance off, on the other side of the screen which sheltered her, she heard a woman's laugh. Then somebody, a man, spoke.

"Anything diviner than the crisis about the Mayor's daughter I never heard," he said. "She told it all over again at lunch. It is really like a page of 'Cranford.'"

The voice was very distinct: it was Harry's. She hardly grasped the meaning at once.

Then a woman spoke.

"Dear Lucia is quite furious," she said. "She told me she did all she could to put her off, but Edgar wouldn't. Oh, and she tried to be diplomatic about the puce silk, and thought she had succeeded. Not a bit of it, though. She thought of telling a footman to spill something on it—something moist and green—so that it could not appear again. How heavenly that people should have aunts like that!"

She recognized the voice: it was Mouse's.

"Yes, most heavenly; but it is important that other people should have them, and not oneself."

"Quite so. Harry, I must get the story of the Mayor's daughter once more, and I do hope she will wear the puce again. It killed Jiminy's pink quite, quite dead. The pink gave one sigh, and never moved again. And Raikes tells me she has the most wonderful maid, about eighty, who appeared in the room last night in white braces and an apron like the parlourmaid in a play. And the bridge! Didn't you hear? She said she didn't know it, but would like to learn. All the same, I was rather inquisitive to her this morning, and she 'upped' answered me back."

The whole thing had only lasted a moment. Then Cathie quietly up, bitterly blaming herself, poor dear! for not having done so sooner. The door into the drawing-room by which she had come in was close to her, and she could escape through that, provided she could open it noiselessly without betraying her presence. She had heard more than enough: she could not bear to hear more.

She went quickly up to her bedroom, and found it comfortably prepared for evening. The curtains were drawn, the fire prospered in the grate, and she sat quite quiet a moment, but that her hands trembled a little. Sentence after sentence of what she had heard repeated itself in her brain. They were going to get her to tell the tale of the Mayor's daughter again; Lucia was furious; Lucia had not wanted her to come; it was good that other people should have such aunts; Lucia had thought of getting something green spilled on her dress. It was not that the dress outshone them all; it was that the dress was ridiculous, that she was ridiculous. There was no question about that.

Cathie did not cry easily, but a couple of small difficult tears rolled down her cheeks. She had—in spite of the strangeness—been enjoying herself so much: it was so exciting and wonderful, and, as she had said, she would not have missed it for a hundred pounds. And she had thought that she and the dress and the story had been such a success. But it was all a mistake; Lucia was furious, and had never wanted her to come at all.

But what was to be done? One thing she knew was quite impossible: she could not meet Lucia and her guests again. Cathie had her share of courage, but that ordeal was unfaceable; she could not consider the possibility of it. Nor could she even tell Lucia she must go away; somehow she had to get out of the house without Lucia's knowing it. Perhaps she might write a note to her, which should be delivered after she had gone. Then gradually a plan began to form itself.

Before very long she rang her bell for Arbuthnot. She, too, it seemed, was as curious a figure in the room as her mistress was upstairs, though the braces and apron were quite new. She appeared in them now.

"Jane," said Cathie, "I find I must get home at once. I am going to put on my things, and I shall walk to the station. We seemed to come up in a minute or two last night: it cannot be very far, and the walk will do me good. Then I shall send a cab back for you and the luggage. You will begin packing at once, and when the cab comes get somebody to put the boxes on to it. Whoever it is, give him half a crown, and give the butler five shillings from me, saying I have been called home suddenly. And give him the note I am going to write, and ask him to let Lady Brayton have it an hour after you have gone."

For a moment Jane's face brightened; that was on her own account. Then she thought of her mistress.

"It's begun to rain, miss," she said.

"I am sorry for that," said Aunt Cathie.

The note was rather hard to write. Lucia received it when she went up to dress, for dinner was earlier to-night in view of the play. It ran as follows:

"My dearest Lucia,
"I think I made a mistake in coming to see you when you had a big party with you. I am not much accustomed to big parties, and it made me feel strange. I am sure they all thought me a little strange, too, and so you must forgive my rudeness, for I think I have done the best I could in going home, as it would have been the same thing over and over again. Dearest girl, it was such a pleasure to see you in your beautiful house with all your grand guests. Pray forgive me, and make some excuse for me; you will easily think of one. And you promised, do you remember, to come and stay with us sometimes, and I shall take it as a sign that you forgive me, for I do not think I could bear to talk about it.

"The sooner you come and the longer you stop, the better Elizabeth and I will be pleased.

"Your affectionate aunt,

"Cathie."

Lucia hurried to Aunt Cathie's room. The fire had burned low, drawers were open and empty. She rang the bell furiously. After a long pause (it was only Aunt Cathie's bell that rang, not her own), a supercilious housemaid appeared. She ceased to be supercilious when she saw Lucia.

"What does it all mean?" she asked. "Where is Miss Grimson? Has she actually left the house?"

"I don't know, my lady."

"Well, don't stand staring like that. Go and find out what has happened, and come to my room."

The Lord hardened Lucia's heart, even as of old He hardened Pharaoh's. She was angry, not sorry, and that of her which was not angry felt justified. She had known all along that it would be the greatest mistake to ask her to the house with a big party.

Soon the same housemaid, scared, but not supercilious, gave the news. She had left nearly two hours ago.

Lucia felt thoroughly annoyed. Edgar—it was one of his ridiculous plans—had announced his intention of taking Aunt Cathie in to dinner to-night. Pompously, so said Lucia to herself, he had remarked that it would please her. So the tables must be arranged all over again. That, however, she did not propose to do herself.

She took a sheet of notepaper.

"Edgar"(she wrote),
"Aunt Cathie left the house two hours ago, because she didn't like it, as far as I can gather. I send you the letter she left to be given me. I had arranged, as you desired, that you should take her in. Will you please settle whom you will take in now, and make all necessary alterations in the tables?

"Yours,

"L."

But no compassion, no sense of pathos or pity, touched her. What had occasioned this she did not trouble to think. She felt, indeed, outraged and ill-used. She had made herself charming to her aunt, and this was the result. However—at this moment Lucia's eye fell on the emeralds she was going to wear that evening—however, any difficulty about "Salome" was solved. And the last rehearsal had gone excellently. Perhaps it was all for the best: and she almost repented of the tartness of the note she had sent to her husband. She dismissed Aunt Cathie completely from her mind.

It was at about the same hour that a cab drew up at Fair View Cottage. At the moment from within there was the sound of the Indian gong, which announced dinner. The door was opened, and Cathie and Elizabeth met in the hall.

"Good-evening, Elizabeth," said Cathie. "I have come back. Please don't ask me about it. My fault, nobody else's. I have got rather wet. Shall be down in a quarter of an hour. Don't wait for me."