Barbara Abbott’s gigantic tea party was over and she and Sarah were left alone in the disordered drawing room.
“It looks as if there had been a battle,” Barbara remarked.
“It feels like it, too,” replied Sarah, sinking into a chair.
“Everyone enjoyed themselves,” said Barbara with a sigh. “There wasn’t enough food but that didn’t seem to matter.”
“It didn’t matter in the least.”
“You were splendid, Sarah. I wish I could talk to people like that.”
Sarah was about to disclaim any part in the success of the entertainment when the door opened and Mr. Chevis-Cobbe walked in.
“Oh, Archie!” cried Barbara. “I’d forgotten all about you. I’m afraid there isn’t anything to eat.”
“I didn’t come to eat,” replied Mr. Chevis-Cobbe with a smile.
“You came to see Arthur,” said Barbara. “I’ll go and find Arthur and tell him you’re here.”
Sarah was quite pleased to renew her acquaintance with Jerry’s brother, for the few words they had exchanged over the broken vases had given them a good start; and Sarah was anxious to explain the whole matter of the vases and the picture to the young man so that he should understand why she had felt at liberty to take such a very strong line. She explained, and Archie understood at once—which showed that she had not been mistaken in him—he examined the picture and congratulated Sarah on her find.
“Try it with a mount and a narrow white frame,” suggested Archie, screwing up his eyes and looking at it in a knowledgeable way.
Having settled the fate of the picture they spoke of other matters. “What did you think of Miss Walters?” Archie wanted to know.
“I was surprised,” replied Sarah. “I thought she was most attractive.”
“Why were you surprised?”
“She was different from what I had expected.”
Archie hesitated for a moment and then he laughed. “I went and bought all her books—all that I could get hold of—I suppose it was rather silly.”
“Hadn’t you read them before?”
“No, I haven’t much time for reading.”
“I’m afraid you may be a little disappointed,” said Sarah thoughtfully.
There was no chance to say any more for Barbara returned with her husband and the children (who had been waiting in the nursery until the tea party was over and they could have their usual romp) but Sarah was so interested in her new acquaintance that, after he had gone, she asked Barbara to tell her more about him, and Barbara was only too ready to comply with the request.
Archie Chevis-Cobbe was a little older than Jerry—about thirty-two, Barbara thought. They were tremendous friends, and were really devoted to one another but sometimes they were very rude to one another and quarreled with a ferocity that was a trifle alarming.
(“You never had any brothers or sisters, Barbara,” put in Sarah.)
When Archie was very young he had been a gay spark and had gone the pace but now he had mended his ways and settled down. The change in Archie dated from the death of his aunt, Lady Chevis. She left him Chevis Place on condition that he took the name of Chevis—he had been Archie Cobbe before—and from that moment Archie had become a different person. It was not because he had changed his name, of course, it was because he had inherited the property and with it a great deal of money. Archie had always wanted Chevis Place and now he had got what he wanted. He was one of those people who are improved by responsibility. “He’s nice, now,” said Barbara, using her favorite word of praise, and she added, “Arthur likes him,” which was the highest praise of all.
“Wasn’t he nice before?” asked Sarah with interest.
“He was rather a nuisance,” replied Barbara. “Jerry used to worry about him a good deal…but young men are often wild. There was nothing really bad about him, you know.”
“Go on,” said Sarah.
Barbara continued her tale. She explained that Archie was a bachelor. Barbara had done her best to marry Archie—not to marry him herself, of course, for she had a perfectly good husband already—to marry Archie to a really nice girl.
She had trotted out every girl she could lay her hands on, but it was no use. Archie was wedded to Chevis Place; it absorbed all his attention, so he had no time for a wife. It was a pity, of course, for Chevis Place needed a mistress—but what could you do?
“Nothing,” said Sarah, smiling. “I mean if you couldn’t find Archie a wife nobody could. You paired off everybody of marriageable age in Silverstream.”
Chevis Place was well worth the care and thought lavished upon it by its new master. It was a stately mansion in the early Tudor style, surrounded by fine old trees. Queen Elizabeth had spent a few days at Chevis Place during one of her royal progressions. Her visit was authenticated by an old account book that showed Sir Godfrey Chevis had spent a good deal of money in furbishing up his house and laying in stocks of food to entertain the royal lady and her train. Since those far-off days the house had undergone alterations. It had been endowed with bathrooms and electricity, and although this detracted from its interest it had added considerably to its comfort…And after all (said Barbara) if you happen to be the person living in the house, convenience is more important than history.
There was a great deal of land attached to Chevis Place, land that had belonged to the Chevis family for hundreds of years, and when Archie inherited the property he discovered that most of the land was leased to neighboring farmers. This might have been quite satisfactory if the land had been properly cared for by the tenants, but it had been neglected and misused and was rapidly becoming derelict. Archie could not bear to see his precious inheritance in such a condition so he decided to farm the land himself, and to farm it in the latest and most scientific manner, and gradually, as the leases expired, he took over one farm after another and got it into trim. Tractors and ploughs and reapers of the latest pattern made their appearance at Chevis Place; hedges were mended and ground that had been allowed to become a wilderness of thistles was ploughed up and made to yield crops. All this had cost money, of course, and for a time there was little return, but, after some years of fostering care, the farms began to thrive.
“Clever of him,” said Sarah thoughtfully.
“More than clever,” declared Barbara. “It’s been terribly hard work and he’s had all sorts of disappointments and setbacks, but he’s never lost heart.”
This was Barbara’s tale, and although it was all true, it was not quite complete, for there were certain aspects of Archie’s life Barbara did not know, which nobody knew except Archie himself. Only he knew of the hundred and one mistakes he had made—due to lack of experience—and of how he had taken them to heart and labored to rectify them. Only he knew how near disaster he had been, how the money had rolled out and none had rolled in until he was on the verge of bankruptcy…and then, quite suddenly, the tide had turned and he realized that he was safe. The farms began to pay and the fine herd of Jerseys that grazed in the meadow near the stream grew larger and more productive.
He was safe, but he was by no means satisfied, for there was always more to do, more improvements to be made in the working of the farms, more improvements on the land. There was the bog, for instance, fifteen acres of unproductive land in the very middle of his property—it had always been an eyesore to Archie, but he had been too busy with other matters to do anything about it. Now that he was safe he could tackle the bog; he could drain it. Archie was about halfway through his ambitious scheme when Hitler marched into Poland.
“War!” said Archie to himself. “Good Lord, what a mess! What am I to do? I must go, of course…but how can I go? Good Lord, this is awful!”
He spent several very uncomfortable days and sleepless nights worrying about the war and the farms and the bog…two people seemed to be quarrelling inside him, he was swayed first one way and then the other. At last he could bear it no longer and he decided to consult someone else, some unprejudiced person who could see both sides of the question and settle it once and for all. I shall ask Arthur Abbott, thought Archie. He’s thoroughly sound. I shall leave it to him and do whatever he says is right.
Archie rode over to Wandlebury the same day—it was a Sunday—and, finding Arthur alone in his study he explained the whole thing. “Am I to go or not?” inquired Archie. “Is it my duty to go or to stay and get on with the work?”
“Stay where you are,” replied Arthur without a moment’s hesitation.
“But look here.”
“You’re a specialist,” said Arthur. “You’re a valuable person.”
“No.”
“Oh, I don’t mean valuable in yourself, but valuable to the country. You’re getting twice as much out of the land as an ordinary farmer, aren’t you?”
“A third more, perhaps.”
“We shall need it.”
“But look here, I’m perfectly fit.”
“I tell you we need our farmers. Just wait till the U boats get into their stride. We shall need every ounce of food that this country is capable of producing.”
“I hoped you’d say I should go,” said Archie, who had just discovered this interesting fact.
“Well, I don’t say anything of the kind,” replied Arthur flatly.
Arthur had been right, of course—time had proved him right—but it had not been easy for Archie to take his advice and stay at home. All his friends had joined the forces; many of them had been killed. There had been a certain amount of unpleasantness to bear—hints and innuendos that had found their way to Archie’s ears—but the fields had been his comfort for they had burgeoned and filled his barns to overflowing.
As for the house, Archie shut up the best part of it and retired to the gun room with his personal belongings. The house was unsuitable for a hospital or for evacuees so he was left to his own devices…he cooked his own breakfast and made his own bed and the wife of his head cowman came in daily and “did” for him. He was perfectly satisfied with Mrs. Frith and with her arrangements for his comfort, nor did he mind being alone at night for if there were ghosts at Chevis Place they did not show themselves to Archie.
The following morning, when Barbara was listening to the American news, which she always found extremely interesting, she was interrupted by the entrance of Lancreste Marvell. It was a pity Sarah was not here to talk to Lancreste, for Sarah was so good at talking to people, but Sarah had gone to Wandlebury to do some shopping and could not be expected back for some little time. Barbara turned off the wireless regretfully and welcomed Lancreste as warmly as she could.
“I don’t know if you really meant me to come,” said Lancreste doubtfully. “I mean sometimes people say ‘come’ and they don’t really want you to come at all.”
“Of course I wanted you to come,” declared Barbara.
She disliked telling lies—even very white ones like this—but Lancreste looked so dejected.
“I meant to bring Pearl, of course,” added Lancreste, who seemed to have got hold of the erroneous idea that he would have been more welcome if he had brought her.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Barbara hastily—and, before he could say any more upon the subject, she changed it by inquiring how he had got on at the bazaar.
“The bazaar?” said Lancreste, looking at his feet.
“You were going to have tea with Miss Walters, weren’t you?” Barbara inquired.
“Yes,” said Lancreste.
“Didn’t you have tea with her?”
“Yes,” said Lancreste.
“How did you get on?” asked Barbara in encouraging tones.
Lancreste was silent.
“Did you talk to her about her books?” asked Barbara, pursuing the subject for the sole reason that she could think of nothing else to say.
“Ash did,” said Lancreste in a husky sort of voice.
“Ash?”
“He was there too. I asked him.”
“Oh, I see! You asked a friend to help you. That was a splendid idea.”
Lancreste said nothing.
“A splendid idea,” repeated Barbara desperately. “I’m sure you must have entertained Miss Walters beautifully—you and your friend.”
Lancreste was completely dumb. He was staring at his boots as if he had never seen them before and did not like the look of them.
Oh dear, I wish Sarah was here, thought Barbara. Aloud she said politely, “How is your mother, Lancreste?”
“She’s all right,” said Lancreste.
“Splendid,” said Barbara. “I’m so glad…and your father?”
“He’s all right.”
Barbara was about to express her delight at this excellent piece of news when Lancreste suddenly came to life.
“Pearl’s ill,” he said.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Barbara, changing her expression rapidly to suit the case. “Oh dear, what a pity!”
“It’s frightful,” declared Lancreste. “It isn’t only her being ill, though that’s bad enough. Everything has gone wrong. You liked her, didn’t you?”
“I only saw her for a few moments,” Barbara reminded him.
“But you liked her—I could see that at once. Mother doesn’t like her.”
Barbara was not as surprised as Lancreste seemed to expect. She murmured, “What a pity!” and left it at that.
“And Father doesn’t like her either.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No, he was frightfully rude to her,” said Lancreste miserably.
Barbara was just going to say what a pity, but she remembered she had said that before so she said, “How very unfortunate!”
“But I can’t help that,” declared Lancreste. “I mean I can’t help whether they like her or not, I’m going to marry her.”
“But Lancreste.”
“I must marry her,” said Lancreste more miserably still. “There’s nothing else for it. I suppose once we’re married she’ll be different.”
“Different!” echoed Barbara, for she could not understand the matter at all. If Lancreste did not think Miss Besserton quite perfect why did he want to marry her?
“Once we’re married she’ll settle down, won’t she?” said Lancreste hopefully.
“Settle down!”
“And I won’t love her so much.”
“You won’t love her so much,” repeated Barbara in amazement. She knew she was behaving like a parrot but she could not help it—and Lancreste was too upset to notice.
“I know it sounds odd,” admitted Lancreste, “but as a matter of fact I couldn’t go on loving Pearl like I do now. I’m miserable when I’m with her and I’m miserable when I’m away from her. I’m miserable all the time. I’m sure I shall go mad. I’m mad now, of course. It’s mad to come and talk to you like this but there’s nobody else. Nobody understands or cares.”
“Oh, Lancreste.”
“Nobody,” repeated Lancreste. “Nobody cares a hoot. Even Pearl doesn’t care. She thinks I’m silly—I expect she’s right but I can’t help it. Perhaps we’d get on better if we were married.”
“I don’t think so,” said Barbara.
Lancreste paid no attention. “She says she’ll marry me if I like,” he declared. “At least that’s what she said this morning. She may have changed her mind again by tomorrow—she keeps on changing her mind and it’s driving me mad. I don’t know where I am with her…”
“Look here, Lancreste,” began Barbara.
“No,” he said, interrupting her. “No, it’s no use. I’ll just have to marry her and hope for the best. She’s ill—I told you that, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, ill in bed—and the rooms are awful. They didn’t look so bad when we took them and of course we thought she’d be out most of the time. I thought Mother would ask her—but Mother won’t—and there she is in bed. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She won’t let me get the doctor.”
“I’ll go and see her, Lancreste,” Barbara said. It seemed the only thing to say.
“Oh, Mrs. Abbott!” cried Lancreste. “Oh, if only you would!”
“I’ll get my hat,” said Barbara.
As they walked along the street together toward Miss Besserton’s rooms Lancreste continued to talk about her, and (although his tale was extremely incoherent) a sort of composite picture of the unfortunate affair formed itself bit by bit in Barbara’s mind. He had met Pearl at a party in London and had fallen for her suddenly and completely. One moment she had meant nothing to him at all (she was just an ordinary girl that he had been introduced to at a party) and the next moment he was a slave. The odd thing was he appeared to have very few illusions about her; he seemed to realize she was as hard as nails and completely selfish, but still he was her slave, bound to her chariot wheels by chains of steel.
Barbara listened. She did not understand the affair in the least, but that was not her fault. She did her best for Lancreste by listening intently…and as a matter of fact she was so unselfconscious by nature that it was easy to tell her things, so Lancreste found.
Miss Besserton was lying in bed. She looked ill, but not very ill, and she had not omitted to paint her face, which was a good sign, Barbara thought. The room was awful—as Lancreste had said. It was untidy and sordid; the dressing table was covered with powder; garments lay about in confusion upon every available chair. Lancreste hovered around in an embarrassed manner, asking if he should open the window or light the gas fire or bring another pillow.
“Do go away, Lanky,” said Miss Besserton, waving her hand.
“I’ll wait in the hall,” said Lancreste humbly and he disappeared.
Barbara moved some stockings off a chair and sat down near the bed. “I’m so sorry you’re ill,” she said sympathetically.
“I’m miserable,” said Pearl. “Oh, it isn’t because I’m ill. There’s nothing much the matter with me—it’s just a chill or something. I’m miserable and I’m sick of everything—you know how you get sometimes.”
“Yes,” said Barbara, but she said it doubtfully for she could not remember feeling sick of everything. There was always so much to do and so many interesting people to see…but of course I’m lucky, thought Barbara.
“I get like that sometimes,” continued Pearl. “It’s my temperament. I’m very artistic, you see. I get so as I feel I want to scream at people. Lanky drives me mad.”
“He’s very fond of you.”
“Oh yes, I know. We’re going to get married soon.”
“Why?” asked Barbara.
Pearl laughed. “That’s a funny question! You got married yourself, didn’t you?”
“But if he drives you mad,” began Barbara patiently.
“Not all the time, he doesn’t. Lanky can be quite good company sometimes.”
Barbara was speechless.
“I’ve knocked about a lot,” continued Pearl. “I left home when I was seventeen. It was too dull. Me and another girl took a flat in town—two rooms and a kitchen. We were in business,” she added.
“What kind of business?” asked Barbara.
“Stockings,” replied Pearl, adding defiantly, “Lots of nice girls go into business nowadays.”
“Of course,” agreed Barbara.
“We had a good time,” continued Pearl, smiling reminiscently. “We went about a lot, but after a bit I got fed up with Joan. It would have taken a saint to live with Joan…always chipping at me, she was. Always on at me to keep the place tidy. I’d had enough of that sort of thing at home and I told her so.”
There was a little silence. Barbara looked around the room. She had a feeling that she could sympathize with Joan.
“After that I moved about,” continued Pearl. “Lodgings and hostels—there isn’t much to choose between them as far as I can see. In hostels the girls are so nosey you can’t call your soul your own. In lodgings there’s always a fuss about one thing or another.”
It sounded incredibly dreary and Barbara was sorry for her. “Why don’t you go home?” she asked.
“I should hate it,” Pearl replied. She humped herself about in the bed and added, “I don’t know why I’m so unlucky, I’m shore.”