Rolling Stone (5 page)

CHAPTER VII

Heathacres stands amidst pine and heather and looks across to Hindhead. It is modern enough to be comfortable, and old enough to have acquired a certain mellow charm and what house agents describe as well matured grounds. The pines stand round them. A long terrace faces south. Where the garden ends heather and bracken begin to clothe the slopes at first in green and then in a brightening glory of purple and gold.

Mr. James Cresswell is an ardent gardener. Rare shrubs, rare trees, rare plants, the things that other people haven't got, the museum pieces of the horticulturist—these are his fancy out of doors. Inside the house he has a second vice. The walls are hung with pictures of price. The English school—no foreigners here, though he will entertain them in the garden. A Lawrence, a Turner, a Gainsborough over which there has been some controversy, a Romney—the usual Lady Hamilton—and, imposing but certainly spurious, the portrait of a
Lady in Blue
which he maintains is a Sir Joshua.

In person Mr. Cresswell is one of those small, spare, grey men who make themselves felt. If it was not he who had founded the family fortunes, this is merely because his father had done so already. An atrocious portrait of Joshua Cresswell in Sunday broadcloth, with his hand on the family Bible, hangs over the dining-room mantelpiece and testifies to the obstinate filial piety of his son.

On the Saturday evening a party of eight was dining under the old gentleman's rather sardonic gaze. It rested upon the daughter-in-law whom he had invariably addressed as Mrs. James until the moment when, from a patriarchal death-bed, he had administered a parting blessing—“Goodbye, Emily. You're a good wife to James, but you'd be the better for plucking up a bit of spirit with him. God bless you.”

Emily sat at the foot of the table in the dress for which she had paid a great deal, and which looked, as her clothes invariably looked, as if she had plucked it from a bargain basement in Tooting. Her grey hair straggled a little, and inclined to the shedding of hairpins. Some lovely and valuable pearls showed up the lines on a thin, discoloured neck. She wore spectacles of the old-fashioned gold-rimmed kind, and talked in a flurried, nervous manner to Mr. Basil Ridgefield who had taken her in to dinner—tall, thin, point device, with distinguished grey hair, a monocle, and the easy manners of a man of the world.”

“You see, I like primroses, and—and things like that,” said Emily in a nervous whisper.

“My dear Mrs. Cresswell, why shouldn't you? I adore them myself. We're in good company, you know—there is Primrose Day. Don't take any notice of your husband. He's a collector, and they are not human, you know. Come now, you had better make a full confession. I am probably a fellow low-brow. What other pleasant common flowers would you like to have if your husband were just an ordinary human being?”

Emily looked nervously up the table, saw James engrossed with Pearla Yorke, and said in a hurried, uneven voice,

“Well, you know, I really do like hen-and-chicken daisies, but James says they seed all over the garden—and columbines—and marigolds—and sweet alyssum—and London pride—”

“And he won't let you have them? Too bad.”

“Oh, they wouldn't be at all suitable.” She tripped over the words. “Of course I know that. James is a collector, as you say.”

“Everyone collects something,” said Basil Ridgefield.

His monocle surveyed the table. On Mrs. Cresswell's other side was Mr. Joseph Applegarth, a tall, rotund person with a florid face and a jolly laugh. On his own left Miss Margesson in shiny blue sequins which twinkled with every movement of her thin body. Black hair, dark languishing eyes, a good deal of eye-shadow, a lavish use of cream, powder and lipstick, a blood-red mouth and blood-red nails. James Cresswell beyond her. Then Pearla Yorke ethereal in grey, Fabian Roxley, and his young ward Terry Clive.

Terry was looking well tonight. Her rather childishly round face, fresh colour, and curly brown hair were pleasant to look at. Norah Margesson had been a beauty, and Pearla Yorke was one. But he thought Terry looked very well tonight. Fabian Roxley obviously thought so too. His lazy eyes had a pleased look as he bent to Terry in her pink frock.

The monocle approved. Yes, that might be a very good thing—if it came off. There was no certainty—girls were incalculable creatures—

Terry caught his eyes and laughed.

“Oh, Uncle Basil—how intriguing! Do tell us what we all collect. Stamps for you, plants and pictures for Mr. Cresswell. But what about the rest of us? What about Fabian?”

Basil lifted a deprecating hand.

“Fabian? Oh, criminals of course—the political crook, the master spy, the international menace.”

Pearla Yorke leaned an elbow on the table, looked at him with her eyes of a dreaming angel, and said in her wistful voice,

“What do I collect, Mr. Ridgefield?”

“Oh hearts, Mrs. Yorke, without a doubt.”

She gave him a lovely smile.

“Dear Mr. Ridgefield, how charming.”

“And I?” said Norah Margesson.

Basil said, but not aloud, “Scalps, my dear Norah.” He would have liked to say it aloud, but a civilized dining-table is no place for home truths. He therefore smiled, lifted his glass, and said,

“Toasts, my dear Norah.”

She was not so pleased. She may have divined the word which he had not spoken. She threw him a dark glance and drank from her own glass.

“I'm sure I don't collect anything,” said Emily in a hurry.

James Cresswell laughed, not very pleasantly.

“Why, you're the worst collector of junk I've ever come across in my life.” He turned to Pearla again. “You wouldn't believe the stuff she keeps hoarded up—old clothes, old books, old letters.”

Emily's lip trembled. She flushed unbecomingly. The hand in her lap clenched upon itself. Yes, it was true. Old clothes—her wedding dress—baby clothes. Old letters—James's letters when he was courting her and all the world was young. No use keeping them—no use—

Terry's voice broke in. Terry's colour was high.

“And what do I collect, Uncle Basil? You mustn't leave me out.”

But it was Fabian Roxley who answered her in his slow, pleasant voice.

“Oh, you collect friends.”

“Well, I don't know that I've ever collected anything—not since I traded a job lot of silkworms for a pair of skates when I was ten years old,” said Joseph Applegarth.

Terry turned to Fabian Roxley. She had a pretty dimple.

“That was nice of you. I like my collection best of all. I like having lots, and lots, and lots of friends.”

Fabian smiled down at her.

“You pick them up in trains, and buses and places. It's not too safe, you know.”

Terry said, “Pooh!” A shadow went over her eyes. “Oh, Fabian, my old lady who I picked up in the bus is so unhappy. Her nephew is dead—Peter Talbot, who wrote books and wandered round on the Continent. Poor old pet, she'd got it all fixed up in her own mind that he would come home and fall passionately in love with me and live happily ever after, just round the corner so that we could come to supper on Sundays. But now he's gone and died suddenly in Brussels, and it's simply knocked her flat. Why should horrid things like that happen?”

Everyone else was talking. Fabian said in a slow, almost inaudible voice,

“What do you expect me to say—that I wanted him to survive and come home, and go out to supper with you on Sunday evenings for the rest of his life?”

Terry's grey eyes acquired a sparkle.

“And why not?”

“Do you really want me to tell you—here and now?”

The sparkle became an angry one. It threatened and commanded. Fabian met it mildly. He said,

“I will if you like. I don't mind who knows as far as I am concerned.”

Terry's chin came up. She opened her mouth to speak, but the movement of Emily Cresswell's chair checked whatever it was she had been going to say. Everyone stopped talking at once. Emily's fluttered voice was heard in an indistinguishable murmur, and eight people got to their feet.

“Just as well,” thought Terry to herself, as she followed the other three women out of the room. “Because it cramps one's style quite frightfully being under Uncle Basil's eye, and a host on one side and a hostess on the other. But just you wait!”

CHAPTER VIII

The drawing-room at Heathacres is a long room facing south with windows almost to the floor and a glass door opening upon the terrace. All were curtained now with heavy hand-woven linen. The deep couches and the many chairs were covered with the same weave. There was very little colour. The linen was of the palest shade of green, the carpet a pearly grey, the cushions faint blue, pale straw-colour and the shade which used to be called philamot—
feuille morte
—dead leaf.

The
Blue Lady
gazed down the length of the room at a quite authentic Lely on the opposite wall. Even a spurious Reynolds may look haughtily at a Restoration beauty. The
Blue Lady
had an extremely haughty look. In her heart of hearts Emily Cresswell sympathized with her. Over the light stone mantelpiece hung the Turner. It was a cherished belief that the picture had been painted from the very spot on which this room now stood—that here Turner had planted his easel and set thumb to palette. No evidence could be adduced to substantiate or deny the claim, since the painter had seen and transferred to his canvas not the earthly beauty of hill and sky, but some strange apocalypse of his own.

In this pale room, under this presentment of a burning glory, Emily Cresswell, faded and angular in black, had the air of an incongruous visitor. She drew Terry to the fire and cast a worried look at the other two. She ought perhaps to be talking to Pearla Yorke or to Norah Margesson, but Pearla always gazed past her as if she wasn't there, and Norah—no, she couldn't, she really couldn't think of anything safe to talk about. And Norah wouldn't want to either—She gave a sigh of relief, because they had crossed to the other side of the room and were talking to each other.

She turned with gratitude to Terry, whom she loved.

“Do you know Miss Margesson well?”

“Uncle Basil has known her a long time,” said Terry soberly.

Mrs. Cresswell's voice hesitated, and went on only just audibly.

“He doesn't like her very much, does he? I thought at dinner—oh, I am afraid he hurt her feelings.”

“What he said was a compliment.”

Emily shook her head.

“You didn't really think so, nor did she. And I am sure he did not mean it that way—you can always tell.”

Terry nodded.

“I know what you mean. He doesn't like her, I don't know why.”

“Oh dear,” said Emily—“and that does spoil a party so.”

Terry said, a little warmly. “He hasn't any business to spoil your party. I'll tell him so. But I think he was just teasing.”

Emily flushed.

“Oh, my dear, if you could. I mean, I'm so anxious that there shouldn't be anything to upset her, because—well, it doesn't matter what I say to you, does it?”

Terry dimpled.

“I don't know, darling.”

“Such a relief,” said Emily Cresswell. “Because you're everyone's friend and so it's quite safe, and there isn't anyone I can talk to about things, you know.”

“Oh, I'm safe,” said Terry. She didn't know about being Norah Margesson's friend. She was sorry for her, but friendship—

Emily dropped her voice still lower.

“She asked me to have her, you know—because of Joseph Applegarth. A little while ago I did think—because it is time he married if he is ever going to. He and James were at school together, you know. And there's all that money. But of course money isn't everything, and she must be quite twenty years younger—”

Terry thought privately that Mr. Applegarth deserved better of fate.

“He looks kind and jolly,” she said.

Emily Cresswell nodded.

“Oh, yes, he is. And oh, my dear, I'm afraid there's nothing in it—at least not on his side, because when he heard she was going to be here he said she would be a handsome girl if she had a little more flesh to cover her bones with. And do you think he would have talked like that if he had any idea of proposing?”

“I don't suppose he would, darling. But cheer up, she can't be in love with him. I mean, he's an uncle-ish sort of person. He couldn't inspire a fatal passion.”

“Oh, no, my dear. But I'm afraid—” She hesitated, and then said in a hurried whisper, “It's the money. It's dreadful not to be settled in life—I don't think she knows where to turn. Oh, I don't think I ought to have said that.”

Terry laid a hand on her arm.

“Has she been borrowing from you?”

The dull colour mounted to the roots of Emily's hair.

“Oh, my dear, you won't tell anyone, will you? Poor thing, she was so upset. But of course I couldn't, because James would have been dreadfully angry. You know I haven't any money of my own, and he's generous to me, but he always sees my pass-book, and I couldn't. She was dreadfully upset, so I am afraid it will be a great disappointment—about Joseph, I mean—” She broke off, looked at Terry with simplicity, and said, “Money doesn't make people happy, my dear.”

All at once Terry felt dreadfully sorry for her. She was a great deal sorrier than she could manage to feel for Norah Margesson, who borrowed from everyone she knew and had been running after one rich man after another for the last ten years by all accounts. She said,

“I know, darling.”

And with that Pearla Yorke came drifting over to the fire.

“What a marvelous room this is,” she said, in a voice whose sweetness matched her angel gaze. “If I could plan a room for myself, it would be just like this. It really is the most divine background.”