Something Light (7 page)

“How I shall miss you!” exclaimed Mrs. Anstruther—with the sudden vivacity of one who sees a guest look at the clock. “Of course I quite understand you must be off, but my dear,
how
I shall miss you!”

She might be going to miss Louisa, but she wasn't going to let her have the car. On Tuesday—really too tiresome, when she knew Freddy
wanted
to send Louisa up by car!—some very very old friends had invited them to lunch at Poole. Louisa had learned so much, she didn't even wonder where those friends had been all week; but recognized that a man's car is so much a man's appanage, any prospective wife is naturally jealous of its loan.

“I'd much rather go by train,” said Louisa.

“In this heat, how sensible! Karen shall pack you a nice lunch.”

But if Louisa had been staying much longer, it was doubtful whether she'd have got a sandwich.

She had stayed long enough. Whether as buffer or chaperone—and it was remarkable how completely the point of chaperonage had been dropped—Louisa had stayed long enough. She'd learned all Mrs. Anstruther had to teach; moreover, she was getting soft—and not only physically. (To Louisa, indeed, the discovery that she was susceptible to white tulle was almost as alarming as a discovery that she was susceptible to asthma.) Since there was no sense, as Rossy said, in leaving a poor impression, she wasn't going to beat it; but—“Roll on Tuesday!” thought Louisa.

She had stayed long enough. With Freddy, discussing her departure, she almost quarreled.

“Naturally you want to be off,” said Freddy sulkily, “but you needn't go like a bat out of hell. Ain't you comfortable here?”

“Of course I am!” cried Louisa impatiently. “I'm on velvet! I'm so on velvet it's making me soft—like the Romans at Capri.”

“Capua,” corrected Freddy disagreeably.

“I bet they got soft at Capri too,” snapped Louisa.—How absurd it was! It reminded her of the day of Enid's arrival, when they'd quarreled over mumps and pinkeye. As then, she pulled herself up. “I've never been so comfortable in my life,” said Louisa formally. “I'm very glad you persuaded me to come, and thank you for asking me.”

“And when you've nothing to do in town,” said Freddy, “you might read a bit of Roman history.”

Chapter Seven

1

The Monday was extremely hot. Bournemouth had already lived up to, and even beyond, its brochures: to the slight constraint that attends all interruptions was now added a heat positively oppressive. Freddy was crosser, Mrs. Anstruther wan, and Louisa so restive she early declared her intention of catching the 8:20 next morning.

“No one need get up,” added Louisa. “I'll have breakfast on the train.”

“I shall get up of course,” said Freddy irritably, “but it's an ungodly hour.”

“Louisa wants to avoid the heat,” said Mrs. Anstruther.

“Then she'd much better let me send her by car.”

Both Louisa and Mrs. Anstruther ignored this.

“And of course I'll be down too!” promised Enid kindly.

This was about ten: there were still twelve or so hours to be got through, and their usual program had mistakenly been abandoned—because it was Louisa's last day.

“I'm going for a swim,” said Louisa, “if it kills me.”

“I'll come with you,” said Freddy. “It'll probably give me rheumatism.”

After some discussion, it was agreed that they should all drive to the beach together, where Freddy and Mrs. Anstruther would watch Louisa from the shore. Even this mild scheme, however, failed; Louisa had scarcely entered the water before Freddy was calling urgently from the edge of the surf.

“What's up now?” called back Louisa.

“Too hot,” called Freddy. “Enid's got a headache.”

“Give her an aspirin!” called Louisa.

“She's had one. She wants to go home.”

“All right, take her!” called Louisa. “I'll walk.”

He mouthed something more, but Louisa swam further out.—Actually it was all she could do to stay in until the car moved off again; the sea was colder than it looked. Louisa emerged goose-pimpled and blue, with no other consolation than that she'd killed the morning.

Luncheon equally lacked
entrain
. Mrs. Anstruther, determined to make amends—for she really wouldn't be a wet blanket, on Louisa's last day!—chatted with resolute vivacity; but the effort it cost her was obvious, and their whole conversation as a consequence highly artificial.

“I believe they use 'em for smoke signals,” offered Freddy.

“Use what?” asked Louisa glumly.

“Wet blankets. Red Indians. Dip 'em up and down over a fire …”

“What a boy he is still!” cried Mrs. Anstruther.

The siesta killed the afternoon. Tacitly, they all agreed not to omit the siesta. Karen, sensitive to the prevailing atmosphere, brought up cups of tea all round, as in a hospital or nursing home; even this attention was distressing to Louisa. “I suppose I'll have to give her something,” thought Louisa uneasily.—She had never before stayed in a private house, and though pretty confident that a vail would be acceptable, and indeed expected, had no idea of any appropriate sum. “I wonder what's the
least?”
thought Louisa—heaven knew she wasn't mean, but Karen was undoubtedly the better fixed; and there was a ticket to buy in the morning. As she sipped her tea Louisa's calculations ranged from five bob up to a pound; then they ranged down again. It was a last minor irritation—not indeed unknown to many another parting guest, but in Louisa's case particularly poignant. She hadn't worried about money for a week …

“I'd better get back into the habit,” thought Louisa bleakly.

There were other habits she'd have to get back into: the habit of working, the habit of stretching meals. Whether at Capua or Capri, she'd stayed long enough to make the prospect bleak.

“I suppose it's got to be at least ten bob,” thought Louisa, and piled four half-crowns on the dressing table before she weakened. Paper would have looked better, but no doubt Karen could add.

Cocktails before dinner produced a slight fictitious cheerfulness, though only Freddy and Louisa partook of them. Dinner at least killed the next hour. Mrs. Anstruther made another effort. She was really looking ill, her headache was evidently genuine; gallant, fragile and animated, she nonetheless chatted on—displaying a touch of the professional entertainer Louisa was forced to admire. In her own way Enid was a good trouper: give her a dinner table and she'd animate it, even though her head split. “It's still lucky she's got Freddy,” thought Louisa. “There still has to
be
a dinner table …”

Freddy too was watching Enid solicitously. As they at last rose—

“Enid, my dear,” said Freddy, “go straight to bed.”

She looked at him uncertainly.

“I feel so dreadful about Louisa—!”

“Louisa will understand.”

“Of course I do!” cried Louisa, with genuine compassion.

Mrs. Anstruther still looked towards Freddy, but the quality of her gaze changed. It was now a wifely look—frank in submission to a husband's better judgment.

“If you really think so—” she began—and only then turned to Louisa. “Freddy always knows what's best for me!” confessed Mrs. Anstruther. “Wise old Freddy, and lucky me!—You can still give him,” she permitted, “a last game of chess …”

2

So after dinner Freddy and Louisa adjourned to the chessboard in the drawing room. The heat had scarcely abated, but like two old campaigners they made themselves comfortable: by leaving open all windows, and the door to the hall, achieved a good through draft, and saw there was plenty of ice. Freddy removed his dinner jacket; Louisa kicked off her shoes. Without Enid there, the atmosphere wasn't exactly public bar, but it was definitely smoking room.

“Give you queen and move,” said Freddy.

“Too much,” objected Louisa.

“It's your last night.”

“Okay,” said Louisa.

They played two games, and Louisa won both. She didn't suspect Freddy of deliberately letting her, but he wasn't concentrating. Louisa found it fairly hard to concentrate herself—there is a melancholy about anything final, even a final game of chess; she nonetheless won.

“What about another?” suggested Louisa. “As it's my last night?”

“Too hot,” said Freddy restlessly.

He pushed aside the board and got up. He was restless. Though the tray of drinks stood convenient to his elbow, he got up and walked about the room a bit before refilling their glasses. (They were drinking brandy on the rocks.)

“Steady on,” said Louisa. “Remember I've a train at 8:20.”

“I'll get you there.—You're quite sure you won't stay a bit longer?” asked Freddy abruptly.

“Of course I'd love to,” said Louisa, “but I've put off a kennel of dachshunds already.” (She wasn't going to be led into the Capua-Capri argument again.) “Otherwise I honestly couldn't be enjoying myself more. I don't know where you get your brandy—”

“I'll give you a couple of bottles to take back with you.”

“Thank you very much,” said Louisa warmly. “And if I'm too busy to come to the wedding, I'll drink your healths in it.”

There was a brief pause. Freddy walked once or twice again about the room before coming back to his seat.—The chessboard, between them, recording the last moves of an endgame …

“It's not actually settled, y'know.”

“The date? I don't suppose it is,” said Louisa. “But as Enid won't have to collect a trousseau—”

“I mean the whole thing,” said Freddy. “I haven't actually … popped, yet.”

“It's taken for granted,” said Louisa.

“I don't even know Enid'll have me.”

“You can take that for granted too,” said Louisa encouragingly. “My dear Freddy,” she added (it really seemed time to say something of the sort), “I hope you'll be very, very happy!”

“So do I,” said Freddy.

Louisa looked at him. There was a note in his voice she could only define as—unsuitable; not exactly a note of doubt, but rather of resignation. The expression on F. Pennon's face was also unsuitable; not exactly sulky, but certainly not as joyous as one would expect, on the face of a man at last about to wed the woman he'd worshiped for twenty years.

“We're going to miss you,” stated Freddy.

“Nonsense,” said Louisa.

“I know I am. At meals,” said Freddy. “It's been a real pleasure, Louisa, to see you eat.”

“That's because I've no chat,” said Louisa. “Give
me
a dinner table, and you'd hear nothing but munching.”

“We could always bring books,” suggested Freddy. “I know chaps say it's an insult, to decent food and wine, but we needn't bring anything heavy. With a couple of detective stories—”

He broke off, as well he might. The picture he had been painting was in the circumstances uncommonly odd. Where, for example, was Mrs. Anstruther in it? Evidently he realized this himself; though too old to blush, he looked uncommonly embarrassed.

He looked also, the moment after, suddenly relieved—as might a steeplechaser who finds himself over a first formidable fence before he has had time to think about it.

“It's happened before,” said F. Pennon hardily.

“What has?” asked Louisa.

“A chap due to marry one woman, and then finding, well, another who suits him better.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. He was now regarding her with a fixed, urgent appeal. He might be embarrassed, but he was determined—to give himself a chance. He was ready to undergo any amount of awkwardness, face any number of painful scenes, if only Louisa, not Mrs. Anstruther, would marry him.

As once before in Gladstone Mansions, Louisa sat perfectly still: taking it in.

There was so much to take.—Literally, so much! House and income (let alone a settlement), car and chauffeur, three square meals a day—so much, all at once, that though it was no more than she'd deliberately set out to bag, from the first moment of reading F. Pennon's letter, now that it was actually within her grasp Louisa needed a moment to draw breath.

As once before in Gladstone Mansions—

“Don't we get on uncommonly well?” suggested Freddy.

There was that too: she liked him. She didn't love him, as probably he didn't love her; but they liked each other, they got on, as he said, uncommonly well. Even their slight bickering adumbrated a free and easy, friendly companionship. To become genuinely fond of F. Pennon as a husband would be the easiest thing in the world. “A week ago, I'd have been a straight gold-digger,” thought Louisa, “but not now. Now, I'd almost marry him just for the company …”

He hadn't taken his eyes from her face. He put out his hand on the chessboard and let it lie there, palm up—spilling bounty. It wasn't a young man's hand, but it was hard and scrubbed, perfectly acceptable.

“What about it?” asked Freddy urgently.

He was too much absorbed to hear the very slight sound from the hall, but Louisa heard. She glanced across at the open door, and beyond perceived not Mrs. Anstruther, but Mrs. Anstruther's reflection. Enid Anstruther believed herself hidden, standing so close behind the jamb; only a big mirror opposite betrayed her.

3

Louisa could see her quite plainly; and quite plainly she had been eavesdropping. Now she stood with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth, and above it her eyes fixed in an expression of such helpless dismay, she looked like a frightened child.—Not like a bird, or a moth, or a butterfly; like a frightened child.

It took perhaps an instant, no more, for Louisa to fix the image in every detail; her eye photographed even the lace on the handkerchief, a wisp of hair fallen across one cheek, before she looked swiftly away from the tragic sight.