The Elderbrook Brothers (25 page)

She greeted him kindly, with that note of surprise, that air of happy momentary confusion, which was so like her and so intimately her own.

‘Oh? … Hullo! How nice of you to come!'

He had expected the door to be opened by Carter, the elderly maidservant, whose air of proprietorship had seemed to him so much at odds with her cap and apron.

‘Am I too early?'

‘Not a bit. You're exactly right.'

‘So are you,' he retorted dashingly, ‘if I may say so.' A trifle heavy, he admonished himself: I must do better than that.

‘Thank you, kind sir,' It was a stock answer, and she sketched him a stock curtsey. ‘It's Carter's day out, so we shall have to help ourselves. Do you mind?'

Helping themselves involved nothing more arduous than pouring hot water from a brass kettle into a ridiculously elegant teapot, everything else having been prepared and left ready by the absent one. It was a cosy occasion, or soon became so, and the ceremony of sitting down to afternoon tea did not for long keep them out of the two easy chairs that stood facing each other across the hearthrug. Guy was careful to secure the one on the window side of the room, so that, the light falling from behind him on his hostess, and his own face being in shadow, he could stare his fill without causing or feeling embarrassment. It was not altogether unlike seeing her across the footlights, yet the difference, and all it implied, added a sharp spice to his pleasure. Behind his adult, man-of-the-world confidence there was a raw child who stared in gaping wonderment at the transformation time had wrought for him, the contrast between now and then. That he, the village schoolboy, with no prospect but of becoming a mere farm-hand, should be sitting and talking, intimately, with a lovely young
actress
(the immortal magic of that word!), alone with her, within a hand's touch, free to feast his beglamoured eyes on the face so many thousands had helplessly admired from a distance!—when he paused to reflect and to remember, it was almost more than he could believe. And having savoured the wonder and irony of it, for the enrichment of this moment, it was more than he was willing to believe, the leap of exultation being followed by a small stab of fear, a sense of the danger of giving himself away, of losing his present in his past, of slipping back into a skin so triumphantly outgrown. Under the goad of this nervous dread he hastened to put on his new grandeur again, and to look at her with his new eyes.

And she was worth looking at, even so. Like an exquisite water-colour, he told himself, and was ingenuously pleased with the simile. Not that water-colours were much in his line, but he had learnt that they were the things to admire in certain quarters, and possibly collect. A man might do a lot worse, he reflected loftily, than begin his collecting here, but
… the
but
was as complicated as formidable. For one thing, it would be a mistake, a grave error in policy, to let that eager unsophisticated boy get the better of one. One could never tell where he might end. Moreover a collector, of either sort, must have money to burn; and though Guy had made a good deal of money, and recently inherited a tidy sum from poor Aunt Dolly, burning it was not his idea of its proper use. He was no hoarder; it was part of his flair that he knew when and how to take risks, and big ones; but miserliness was one thing and patient accumulation quite another. There was the future to think of: that above all. That he
had
a flair could be no longer in doubt. His partner and his bank manager could vouch for that. And incidentally Beryl herself had profited by it; he had made money for her and she was grateful to him; that was the all-but-forgotten origin of their easy, exciting friendship, a friendship which might at any moment, if one were not careful, change into something still more exciting.

If one were not careful.

‘What did you do with yourself, Beryl? Go riding in the Row?'

She made eyes of wonder at him. ‘But how marvellous! Have you second sight?'

‘I wouldn't say that,' said Guy modestly. ‘But I do have my little ideas.'

‘I believe you're bluffing, Guy. Did you see me? Or had I told you sometime or other?'

He smiled teasingly. ‘I certainly didn't see you. I was taking my well-earned rest. I'd like to see you on a horse.'

‘Would you?' She smiled benignly.

‘It would do these old eyes good.'

‘I'm sure it would, darling. Do
you
ride, Mr Elderbrook?'

The capricious forms of address did not disconcert him. It was all part of her unexpectedness.

‘I don't, dear Miss O'Sullivan. But I can.'

‘If you can, why don't you? I believe you're bluffing again.'

‘I find taxis more convenient, my dear,' he said, lightly
ponderous. ‘In the country it's another matter. There were always horses on my father's place.'

‘Where was that?'

There could be no harm, could there, in admitting to Mercestershire? He did so.

‘Did you do much hunting up there?' she asked enviously.

‘Not much,' he said. ‘I was only a boy, after all,' he added, in self-defence.

‘Yes, of course. I meant your people.'

‘Ah, my people!'

He left it at that, in the air. She means my people: she means Sir Joseph and Lady Elderbrook, and my uncle the Admiral. He smiled at these fictions, half satirically, half wistfully. They were too raw to be trotted out, but there was a kind of bitter comfort in their contemplation.

‘Did you have a happy childhood?' she asked him. ‘I did. Though it's nonsense to pretend that the life of a child is one glad sweet song. Still I did have a pretty gorgeous time, on the whole. My parents are absolute lambs. They spoilt us dreadfully, of course …'

‘Who wouldn't?' said Guy. ‘Though why you call it spoiling I don't know, considering the result.'

‘What about you? Did you have fun too?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Of course. But it wasn't … unmixed.' She waited to hear more, but he said: ‘Never mind about me. Tell me about you.'

As she talked, his envious imagination filled in the picture of her past: the large country house, the music, the tennis parties, the pony-riding, the easy manners, the unassailable social position. And suddenly he was seized with the notion that by possessing her he would at one stroke possess himself of these too. If one were not careful? But why be careful? He was sick of his everlasting self-restraint.

‘Do you know …' he began.

Something in his voice surprised her; and meeting her quick glance he got out of his chair and stood hovering, waiting for
events to shape themselves, waiting for the right words to come, the words that would magically transform this situation and commit him … to what? To what bliss, what folly, what dangerous hazard? He was past caring.

Beryl too was on her feet. ‘Must you go so soon?' The politely regretful hostess. ‘It's early yet.' She offered him her hand in farewell.

Taking it he said: ‘Beryl … how lovely you are!'

The words had a harsh, forced quality, and there was a stiffness in the gesture with which he tried to draw her into his arms. The spontaneity had gone out of his impulse: only resolution remained.

‘Sweet of you, Guy,' she said. Slipping her hand away she patted him gently, playfully, on both cheeks. ‘Sit down again and have another cigarette.'

Dissembling his confusion he took out his watch and studied it with a great show of thoughtfulness.

‘Well … five minutes perhaps.' He lighted a cigarette and sat back, aggressively at ease. ‘It's a wonderful world,' he said, with a sigh of false content. He had to say something.

‘Arthur will be along in a minute or two, I expect,' said Beryl. ‘He'll be so glad to meet you.'

‘Arthur?'

‘Arthur Tantrip. He said he'd drop in.'

‘Ah … yes. I don't think I know him, do I?' Lest the silence should lengthen unduly Guy asked: ‘What does he do?'

‘Do?'

‘Is he, I mean, on the stage?'

‘No. Oh no. He writes. Plays and things.'

‘Ah, yes!' said Guy again. He smiled what he hoped was a fatherly, quizzical, man-of-the-world smile. ‘He's writing one for you perhaps?'

‘How clever of you!' said Beryl. ‘Then you
have
got second sight, after all!'

Smiling still, he blew smoke rings into the air. He felt a
little better. He was revolving a new question. Should he go or should he stay? Should he stay and take Master Tantrip's measure? Or should he gracefully retire, with this worm of curiosity (and what else?) gnawing at his vitals?

A bell rang, cutting short his indecision.

‘Excuse me,' said Beryl, rising.

She went into the hall, leaving the door of the room ajar. He heard the front door opened, the mingled voices, the footsteps approaching. Primed with knowledge of his presence (so Guy guessed), Arthur Tantrip came into the room, casual and cordial. He shook hands before Beryl was halfway through her introductions. No awkwardness, no hiatus, everything as easy and friendly as you please. He was a big broad fellow, this Tantrip. Not at all Guy's idea of a literary man. Hair not unreasonably profuse, eyes candid and appraising rather than soulful, yet there was something shaggy and craggy about him.

‘Hullo,' said Tantrip. ‘How do you do?'

‘How do you do? I ‘m practically,' said Guy, smiling, ‘on my way out.'

‘Nonsense, Guy! Not till we've had a drink,' cried Beryl.

‘Well …' Guy hesitated. Diplomatically, he thought. If she pressed him to stay, and if at sight of that pressure Arthur Tantrip remained genial, he would know better where he stood.

He glanced warily at Tantrip, seeking a clue.

‘Drink!' said Tantrip strangely. ‘Very sound idea.'

Shaking himself like a dog, the extraordinary fellow turned on his heel and went out of the room. Guy looked at Beryl in surprise, not knowing what to make of this behaviour. Was he being dismissed, snubbed, derided by this rival? Or were these the normal manners of the literary man? But Beryl missed his unspoken questions, and the doubt was quickly resolved by the return of Tantrip bearing glasses and bottles on a tray. He set the things down on a small table and began dealing with them expeditiously.

One instant of gaping astonishment. Then the truth, like a
thunderclap, burst in Guy's mind. Tantrip was no rival suitor: he was, quite simply, the man in possession, and Guy's host.

Having handed Beryl a glass of sherry he said easily: ‘Short or long, Elderbrook?'

Guy did not understand this formula. And he had not yet collected his scattering wits.

‘I can recommend Beryl's sherry,' said Tantrip, decanter in hand. ‘But there's beer if you'd rather?'

Guy stayed with the happy pair for five minutes. Going down in the lift to street-level he became suddenly aware of Nora, stowed away in a corner of his mind. Dear little Nora: so pretty, so dependable, so artlessly happy in his company, so confident of his greatness. In her eyes he could see the man he really was, an inspiriting experience. He revelled for a moment in the warm comfort of Nora. Time I looked her up again. High time. But before he had got many yards down the street his mood had changed. Nora, having restored him to himself, had served her turn for the while. He would ring her up soon. Perhaps tomorrow. There was no particular hurry, however. Nora was always there. Nora would wait.

THE work of field and garden at Minsterbourne Priory was more than any one man could manage alone, even a farmer's son with a knack for it and half a liking. From the first Felix had had casual helpers, of varying zeal and usefulness, and in the high summer of 1914a new one was appointed to him, a young man whose name ‘in the world' (as he might have told you) had been Philip Yarty. Though ready to renounce that world in dedicating himself to the service of his Saviour, he had not been encouraged to do so by Hemner; and he accounted it not the least of the trials by which God was testing his vocation that in this place, contrary to his somewhat confused idea of monastic tradition, one was known by one's baptismal name instead of
by a holy pseudonym. He had kissed the rod of correction, recognizing for vanity or frivolity, or perhaps a mixture of both, his whim for being translated into, say, Brother Ambrosius; and he rejoiced, for his soul's sake, that every time his brethren addressed him as Philip was a reminder of that sin. He was eager for penance: too eager. His zeal for self-mortification had more than once had to be restrained. In person he was a slim, pasty-faced youngster of rather less than middle height, with dark intense eyes and a mouth sensitively sad. In self-forgetful moments, when cheerfulness broke in, he moved with a coltish grace; but his normal demeanour was of a sedulously cultivated gravity. It was an open question whether he was a saint in embryo or a soul consuming itself in its own fire.

On one of the warmest of August afternoons he came to Felix in the orchard, bearing portentous news.

‘Brother Felix,' he said softly, ‘we are at war.'

Felix, intent on the examination of his apple trees, did not pay much attention. He was seldom inclined to give the whole of his attention to Brother Philip's discourse, for the zeal of the neophyte was apt to run away with that young man, making him harp too diligently on religious themes.

‘Yes, Philip, we are indeed.' Felix reached up to pluck a crimped leaf from the nearest tree. ‘Look,' he said, unfolding the leaf flat on the palm of his hand. A minute black insect lay revealed. ‘That's the beginning of weevil-blight, my boy. There's work for us here.'

‘Did you know, then, Brother Felix?' Philip asked. In this moment he looked even younger than his years, at once eager and faintly disappointed. He had hoped to astonish his friend.

‘Know what?' said Felix. ‘About this little monster? Well, of course——'