Henry Wishart and his wife returned from London on a Tuesday evening. At six o’clock, when their train arrived, Frieda was sitting in Magnus’s flat yawning over a pamphlet on Scottish Nationalism. She was still unable to find any great interest in the subject, but partly out of curiosity, partly out of a desire to please Magnus, she had consented to read the views of some of the apostles. She was so far under his influence that she was now inclined to believe him when he spoke of its advantages, though when other people put forward the same opinions she was as sceptical of them as she had ever been. She turned over several pages and came to the conclusion that the author was making a great fuss about nothing and doing it in a very tiresome way. She threw the pamphlet down with a gesture of impatience.
Magnus, who was writing an article for Meiklejohn’s newspaper, looked up and said, ‘That’s an interesting little essay, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda, and, getting up, reached over the table to stroke his hair.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked.
Frieda looked at her watch. It was ten minutes past six. ‘My God!’ she said, ‘I had to meet Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Henry ten minutes ago! I’ve got to run. You’re taking me out to dinner tomorrow, aren’t you? Well, don’t be late.’
She hurriedly put on her hat, flourished a powder-puff over her nose and cheeks, pursed her mouth and with a lipstick drew on it two or three strokes that she rubbed to a smoother and more equal colour with a vigorous finger-tip, and fled with the noise and precipitation of children coming out of school on a summer afternoon. Without considering the uselessness of her errand she walked swiftly to the station, and having discovered from a porter that the train had arrived at its proper time, she was greatly astonished and much perturbed. She took a taxi back to Rothesay Crescent and found her aunt conversing with an elderly maid called Thomson, who, perhaps from having been in Mrs Wishart’s service for nearly twenty-three years, had acquired an expression of repressed irritation resembling that of her mistress.
Frieda ran to embrace her aunt and cried excitedly: ‘Gee, I’m sorry I was late! I got all balled-up over the time. I must be going nuts or something. But it feels like a million dollars to see you again, Aunt Elizabeth. Say, you’ve got a new suit! That’ll give ’em an eyeful on princes Street. Your girl-friends’ll need to go into a huddle to think up something to beat that one.’
Mrs Wishart was a lady of nearly sixty years, not so much dignified by nature as by ill-nature. She wore a sombre costume that scarcely merited Frieda’s praise, and was certainly of insufficient attraction to induce her elderly friends to go into a football-huddle to discuss it. She escaped with difficulty from Frieda’s affectionate arms, and patted herself into tidiness before she spoke.
‘Really, Frieda,’ she said at last, ‘I thought I had broken you of those disgusting American expressions, but apparently you were only waiting for me to go away to start using them again. I will not have you talking like that. Give Princes Street an eyeful, indeed! And in any case my costume isn’t new. I’ve had it for several years. I shouldn’t dream of travelling in a new costume.’
Frieda’s exhilaration collapsed. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘I was so excited at seeing you I just didn’t think what I was saying. But that suit …’
‘Costume!’
‘Well, that costume looks new, no matter how old it is. I guess you’d make anything you liked to wear look nice and new.’
‘There’s nothing to be gained by flattery, Frieda. I’ve told you that before. Perhaps in America you found that compliments were valuable, but here, among sensible people, truth and honesty will create a much more valuable opinion. Now what were you doing that prevented you from coming to the station in time to meet us?’
‘Oh, I was just having tea with someone. Where’s Uncle Henry? Did he win his case? And what did you do in London? Did you go to the theatre a lot?’
‘Your uncle is resting, because train-journeys tire him. He won his case, of course. We always knew he would. And if you have read my letters you must know that we went to the theatre on three occasions, and each time wished we had stayed at home. But you are evading my question: with whom were you having tea this afternoon?’
‘Oh, with a man I know. His name’s Magnus Merriman.’
‘Is he the young man who, so Thomson tells me, has called here several times during our absence?’
‘Yes, he’s been here once or twice. He’s a writer. He wrote a swell novel called The Great Beasts Walk Alone. He’s written poetry, too.’
‘I may have heard his name, but I don’t think so. Where and when did you meet him?’
‘The day I went fox-hunting with the Duke of Buccleugh.’
‘The Duke himself wasn’t out, Frieda. You know that perfectly well. You merely followed his hounds. And this Mr Merriman was there, was he? Does he hunt regularly?’
Frieda’s reply to the previous question had not been a premeditated attempt to give her aunt the impression that Magnus was a fox-hunter, and in consequence a person socially desirable. She had merely been unable to think of a better answer and had hoped with time to be able to improvise on her true but elliptical statement. But when she saw something like amiability, a relaxation of the facial muscles and a glance less frosty, in her aunt’s expression, she hastily decided that the hunting motif was too good to be discarded. She was unwilling to tell lies, but despite Mrs Wishart’s recommendation of the truth she knew that a truthful explanation would not be welcome. She therefore combined a little truth with a lot of tact, and answered: ‘No, I don’t think he hunts regularly. I guess he’s too busy. He’s writing a poem—a long poem—and he’s pretty interested in politics, too.’
Mrs Wishart moved about the room, nervously altered the arrangement of some flowers, and lifted a few ornaments to see whether the maids had been dusting with sufficient zeal during her absence. She made one or two little exclamations of dissatisfaction, and having taken a cushion from one chair to put it on another, sat down and began to speak in a voice whose natural severity was thinly overlaid with conscious forbearance.
‘I’m very tired,’ she said, ‘and I must go and lie down before dinner. One can get no proper rest on these long journeys. But I can’t go without saying that I have been very upset by what Thomson has told me. It appears that you have taken advantage of our absence, your uncle’s and mine, to behave without regard for the comfort of the servants or even for your own reputation. You have not helped with the housekeeping as you promised. You have constantly been late for meals, and often you have ordered dinner and then not come home at all: at any rate, not till very late at night. Naturally the servants are displeased. And I, knowing nothing of your movements, am very worried indeed. Is it this young man Merriman with whom you have been spending so much time?’
‘Yes, I’ve been seeing him a lot. He’s interesting. He’s different from the other men I’ve seen here.’
‘I’ve no doubt that he is an estimable young man, but I know nothing about him except what you have told me. Who are his people? Have you met them? No? Well, I must find out. He doesn’t belong to Edinburgh, of course, or I should have heard of him. But, quite apart from that, you have evidently been very indiscreet. You have spent a great deal of time in his company—I do not want to know exactly how much—and though in America you may have learnt to think carelessly of such matters, you are living in Edinburgh now, and your Uncle Henry’s house is not to be abused. I needn’t remind you of his generosity towards you, for I am sure you are not likely to forget it. Now I don’t know how serious your friendship for this young man is…’
‘I like him better than anyone I’ve ever known.’
‘I was going to say that you can hardly treat this friendship seriously until your uncle and I have met Mr Merriman. But if you care to invite him here we shall be very glad to see him.’
‘He’s coming round tomorrow night to take me out to dinner,’ said Frieda somewhat unhappily.
‘There is no need for you to go to a restaurant when there is plenty for you here. You can ask Mr Merriman to dine with us, and that will give your uncle and me a chance to talk to him. And now I shall go and lie down. But I must take some aspirin first. All this talking has given me a nervous headache.’
The following day Frieda made two unsuccessful attempts to telephone to Magnus to warn him of what he might expect when he called. She found him at last and spoke hurriedly to convey appropriate instructions before she was interrupted.
‘Oh, Magnus,’ she said, ‘do you know one end of a horse from another? Well, you’ve got to pretend to. And you first met me that day we were both fox-hunting with the Duke of Buccleugh: remember that. No, I haven’t time to explain. And you’d better wear a tuxedo tonight, because you’re dining here. Yes, that’s what I said: you’re eating a family dinner here, and you’re a hell of a guy for chasing foxes. Get a hold of that.’
While Magnus was impotently protesting and still asking vain questions, Frieda rang off in time to evade inopportune discussion with her aunt, who at this moment entered the room with a fretful expression and a paper-knife.
‘I’m reading a book,’ she said, ‘and I’ve lost it. I have the paper-knife all ready to cut the leaves, but the book itself has disappeared. I mislaid it while I was looking for the knife. Do try to find it, Frieda.’
When Magnus arrived he was shown into the drawing-room where, in a heavy silence, Uncle Henry was reading a volume of Lockhart’s Life of Sir Walter Scott, while Aunt Elizabeth and Frieda also sat with books in their hands. In obedience to Frieda’s request Magnus had put on a dinner-jacket, but the somewhat brusque manner with which he permitted himself to be introduced showed that he had not received her instructions with any great complaisance.
‘I believe you’re going to dine with us,’ said Mrs Wishart. ‘It’s very kind of you to accept such an informal invitation.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m entertaining a friend of mine and his wife tonight.’
‘Oh, what a pity! But perhaps you could put them off?’
‘He’s leaving for Paraguay tomorrow to investigate the Bolivian frontier question for the League of Nations, so this is my last chance to see him.’
‘How annoying! And is his wife going with him?’
‘Yes. Her father was Blasco Irigena, the authority on Indian dialects, and she is supposed to have, as far as a white person can, the confidence of the tribes.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Wishart thoughtfully. She sighed. ‘Well, perhaps you will come some other time.’
Henry Wishart was a lean and solemn man with reddish complexion, high cheek-bones, and thin sandy hair. He spoke little, but followed the conversation with quick glances and a disconcerting upward jerk of his eyebrows. He pronounced his words with deliberation and the trace of a Scots accent. Now he cleared his throat and said: ‘I believe you met my niece in the hunting-field, Mr Merriman?’
‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘It was a poor day. We didn’t kill.’
‘Do you hunt regularly?’ asked Mrs Wishart.
‘Not now. Unfortunately I’ve got a semi-lunar cartilage that isn’t very trustworthy.’
Uncle Henry’s eyebrows shot up alarmingly, and Magnus, who was by no means certain that his semi-lunar cartilages were of any importance in riding, hastily added, ‘I took a bad toss in India. I hunted with the Bombay Jackal Club for a couple of years. Very rough going, you know. Very rough indeed. It was quite a regular thing to take a toss and land in a cactus-bush and come out looking like a porcupine.’
Nobody laughed. Mrs Wishart said, ‘You don’t belong to Edinburgh, do you, Mr Merriman?’
‘No, my home’s in Orkney,’ Magnus answered.
‘Really—I suppose you know the So-and-so’s of Such-and-such, and the What’s-their-names of Such-a-place?’ asked Uncle Henry, mentioning the two families socially most eminent in the islands.
‘Oh, very well,’ said Magnus. ‘Do you know the Macafees of Harray and the Newlands of Wideford?’
‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘Charming people,’ said Magnus, and rose to go.
‘As you can’t stay tonight, perhaps you will come to lunch on Saturday?’ asked Mrs Wishart.
Magnus looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I had thought of asking Frieda to come to the Rugby International with me that afternoon,’ he said, having thought of no such thing.
‘Some of our party may be going there, too,’ said Mrs Wishart, ‘so that will be quite convenient.’
‘Have you got any tickets?’ Frieda asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Then you won’t be able to get any now,’ said Uncle Henry.
‘Stephen Lorimer can always get them,’ said Mrs Wishart, ‘and you’ll see him at the Club tomorrow. Ask him for two then: I’m sure Frieda would like to see the game.’
‘Why, that’s splendid,’ said Frieda. ‘Isn’t it, Magnus?’
Magnus, by no means pleased, said, ‘It’s very kind indeed of you,’ and hastened their departure. When he and Frieda were outside, he said, ‘What the hell do you mean by letting me in for that?’
‘I couldn’t help it, Magnus! Aunt Elizabeth just about gave me the third degree to find out who you were and what we’d been doing. Thomson, that damned snooping maid of hers, has been talking, and she was hopping like a flea on hot sand to know all the dirty details.’
‘But there was no need to drag me into it.’
‘But you were just splendid! She’s taken a liking to you. I know she has. All that stuff about hunting in India was grand. They swallowed it and asked for more. But say, who are these folk we’re meeting tonight: this guy that’s going out to Bolivia?’
‘We’re meeting nobody. I didn’t want to dine with your uncle and aunt, so I made a simple excuse to get away.’
Frieda stopped in the street, laughed aloud and, paying no attention to a passer-by, threw her arms round Magnus and kissed him heartily. ‘Well, it was a darned good story,’ she said. ‘I believed it myself.’
Mollified by the compliment, Magnus began to outline a theory of lying that depended for success on the addition of circumstantial details to an improbable premiss, and was still talking about it when they sat down to dine. It was with much diminished rancour that presently he recalled his embarrassing entrance into the Wishart family circle, but he was still annoyed and he explained to Frieda, very firmly, that he disliked interference, above all domestic interference, in his personal affairs, and that he had no desire to see the Wisharts again.
‘But everything will be so much easier if you get friendly with them,’ said Frieda. ‘You can come in whenever you like, and I won’t have to make excuses to get out and see you. Please, Magnus! It’s going to be very uncomfortable for me if you won’t be agreeable.’
Magnus argued in a contrary direction for some time longer, but Frieda so skilfully attacked his general propositions with personal and specific objection, not disdaining an occasional ad captandum plea, a feminine-unfair translation to him of responsibility for her happiness—these round-the-corner appeals, however, she interspersed with jest and good humour, so that compliance should not be squeezed out like a tear, but tickled to emergence like laughter—that Magnus at last consented to behave with due politeness to Uncle Henry and Aunt Elizabeth, to lunch with them on the following Saturday, and to take advantage of the tickets which Uncle Henry would obtain to escort Frieda to the Rugby match.
But when, late in the evening Magnus was alone—Frieda, tactfully early, had gone home shortly after ten o’clock—he felt ruefully that he had committed himself beyond the frontier of bachelor discretion, and that by accepting the Wishart’s hospitality he was regularizing his association with Frieda in a fashion he had never contemplated nor now thought desirable, but that she—an uncomfortable thought—quite clearly approved and most evidently desired. A sticky sensation, as of fly-paper, assailed his misogamous idiosyncrasy.
Meanwhile, in Rothesay Crescent, Uncle Henry and Aunt Elizabeth discussed his eligibility in guarded terms.
‘If Frieda were my daughter,’ said Mrs Wishart, ‘I should certainly discourage her friendship with him. I was not very favourably impressed by his manner.’
‘Too overbearing,’ said Uncle Henry.
‘And, of course, we don’t know who he is. His people may be anything. But Frieda—well, we can’t overlook the fact that she has lived, on her own admission, in a very curious way in America. I’ve sometimes wondered if she has told us the whole truth about her wanderings there.’
Uncle Henry cleared his throat. For the sake of his own peace of mind he had always refrained from speculating on Frieda’s past, and he greatly disliked any reference to it. In deliberate tones he said: ‘I want to hear no insinuations against Frieda. The girl is your own niece and you have no cause to suspect her of impropriety.’
‘I was suspecting nothing!’ said Mrs Wishart indignantly. ‘I was merely wondering. One can’t help wondering with a girl like that.’
For some minutes she made a pretence of reading. Then she said, apparently at random, ‘I suppose novelists are often quite well-to-do?’
‘I have never known any,’ said Uncle Henry.
There was another period of silence. Then Mrs Wishart said, ‘I think I shall write to Mrs So-and-so in Orkney. It would be interesting to hear if she knew anything of Mr Merriman’s people.’
Uncle Henry’s eyebrows rose violently and he was evidently about to expostulate when Mrs Wishart hurriedly explained: ‘Her daughter Kitty has been ill—I forget who told me, but I’m sure it was Kitty—and I have intended for several weeks to write and ask how she is. But our trip to London put it out of my mind. There can be no harm in my saying that we have met Mr Merriman, and then she is sure to tell me if she knows anything about him.’
Uncle Henry made no reply. With the air of one who turns his back upon an unpleasing spectacle he turned a page of Lockhart’s Life of Scott, and the conversation died.