Mrs. Gainsborough soon returned the hospitality of Susie’s motor by inviting her and Cyril to dinner. Her note was rambling and agitated like her manner, and ended with a postscript, “Please bring one of your daughters if she would care for it. Emma will be so pleased.”
Evangeline and Teresa refused to have anything to do with it when the letter came, but Cyril said with genuine terror to Teresa when his wife had gone out of the room, “Dicky, you must come—promise me quick—but don’t say anything about it——”
“All right, of course,” she assured him, “but why?”
“They’re all schoolmasters,” he explained in an undertone as Susie came back. Nothing more was said until breakfast was over and then Teresa plunged for her father’s sake.
“Can I go to the Gainsboroughs’, after all, Mother?”
“If you like, dear, but I thought you said just now——”
“I know,” she interrupted, “but—I should like to see the University. I think the Gainsborough girl would like it.”
Mrs. Fulton looked suspiciously at her husband. He was filling his cigarette case from a box on the mantelpiece, using unnecessary care to fit them in properly.
“Strickland should have done that for you, dear. Are you off now?”
“Yes, presently,” he answered. “I’m not sure I can come to the Gainsboroughs, Sue; we’ve some rather special business next week.”
“I think we ought to get to know everybody as much as possible, Cyril, if only for the sake of the girls. And the University are the most interesting of all. If you knew what a pleasure it is to me to talk about something besides wine and money now and then!”
Cyril instantly threw diplomacy to the winds and began to enjoy himself, standing with his back to the fire. “I don’t want to be a kill-joy,” he replied, “but I learned more about those two subjects from old Wacks at Cambridge than I ever have since from anybody. But he wasn’t married. I daresay the female dons understand the use of the globes and all that. By George! I remember their queer get-ups. Must have been some very deep thinking that led to most of those marriages; which, after all, proves your theory of the Higher mind. Let’s go, and take Dicky if she wants to come,” he added with the boldness that often came to him suddenly after hunting down one of his wife’s insincerities.
By this time she felt nothing but an irritable longing to get him out of the room. Through the whole of their married life he had amused himself by making a cockshy of the sentiments which she presented to the world as the expression of her thoughts. He often exaggerated her insincerity, for the sentiments were as much her own as any other jewellery she might have bought to adorn herself. She admired them quite as much as any she could have originated.
“One of the children will come, of course,” she said impatiently, “if Mrs. Gainsborough really wants some young people. It is very kind of her, for I don’t suppose you have the least idea how dull it is for them, seeing nothing but soldiers and business people who have nothing to talk about. The Gainsboroughs are probably teetotallers—in spite of the set you mixed with at Cambridge and who had probably nothing to do with the life there. Most clever people think very little about their food. But you had better have your wine at the club before you start or they will think there is something the matter with you. Isn’t the time getting on? That clock is a little slow.”
When the time for the party came it turned out to be less of a feast of intellect than had been hoped and feared by the Fultons. In the first place the Carpenters were there, because Mrs. Carpenter was as difficult to keep out of any social gathering as was King Charles’s head from Mr. Dick’s “Memorial.” If the festivity were a heavy duty for the cementing of business connections, Mrs. Carpenter was invited to lighten the dough of wealth with the ferment of culture. If it were a frivolous affair for the benefit of the young and thoughtless, she was there with her daughters. Hostesses included her as a precaution against any subsequent rumour that the scene had been one of unbridled licence. “Really, my dear—of course I wasn’t there so I can’t say, but I believe, etc.” If it were an ordinary mixed dinner, town and gown, she must be there to make things smooth between everybody; to interpose when Mrs. Alderman Snack was talking to Professor Cameo about rabbits, and see that the conversation was switched off at once on to his last book. She had read it of course and was so anxious to contradict him on one point, the condition of India before the mutiny. “My grandfather, you know, was there as a subaltern and he always said he was convinced, etc.” “A wonderful woman, Mrs. Carpenter,” everybody said. “She talks so well upon anything.”
Mrs. Gainsborough, being so very nervous as she was, of course had not settled on a day to ask the new general and his wife until she had made sure that the Carpenters would come. Mrs. Carpenter had therefore consulted her little note-book and had chosen a day when she had only one or two small committees and dear Amy’s dancing lesson to attend, so that she would be “nice and fresh for the evening.” Poor Mr. Carpenter, who was the overworked underwriter to an insurance company, was not likely to be at all nice and fresh, even if he had a good twenty minutes to dress after hurrying up from the office. He could be trusted to be punctual, though, and would be quite up to a little educated chaff with anyone of his own set—Mrs. Vachell or one of the Manleys—so long as he hadn’t to tackle a stranger. He was, as it turned out, very happily situated, as there were only the Vachells, and Mrs. Eric Manley and her unmarried brother-in-law and two young men for Emma Gainsborough and Teresa. One was David Varens, whose father, Sir Richard Varens, belonged to a family that had owned land round Millport for three or four hundred years. Sir Richard had given money and land to Millport University and his son David had just left Oxford. It would never have done if Mrs. Carpenter had not been there.
The third unmarried man was Mr. Joseph Price, the son of Mr. Manley’s partner. Eton and Cambridge had recently handed him back to the home nest, which he was prepared, with the backing of the Liberal Party and his father’s money, to re-line and generally bring up to date. The old birds were to be furbished up and taught new songs; the young lady birds from neighbouring nests were to be simply knocked off their perches, and Londoners coming to Millport were to understand that Millshire was young Mr. Price’s country seat and Millport was his little village where he went to post his letters and chat to the Mayor at election time. You could even buy things in the town now, he was told—quite fairly decent; of course not clothes and all that, but groceries and gloves and that sort of thing his mother found she could get there now. But the hotels were pretty scandalous sort of places. What? I should say so. Lots of churches though; some quite decent ones in the old part of the town if you’re interested in glass and all that kind of thing. And good music too; you ought to go to the concerts if music doesn’t bore you. There was a fellow there the other day—what’s his name—came all the way from Russia with a little handbag—he beat everyone else hollow—never heard anything like it—thought his arm would come off. Abs’lutely wond’f’l. You’ve heard him b’fur ’n town, ’f course? (I have burst into Mr. Price’s way of speaking for a moment, but I cannot reproduce it perfectly.)
This was to Teresa, whom, owing to her father’s military position and their having lived in London, he was treating with unusual effusiveness. He knew Emma Gainsborough slightly and had made an honest effort to talk to her. He always tried to keep close to the ideal manner at which he aimed, the manner of the particular social pen through whose doors he had been allowed to squeeze because of his politics and his father’s money. He was already getting on very well with the manner, a sort of mincingly polite way of speaking, with the vowels squeezed slowly out as if through a confectioner’s icing tube, and laid along the sentence, or else omitted altogether; the exact opposite to the broad flat tones of his native habit. The natural rudeness of vanity was sugared over in this way to just the “right” effect he sought; enthusiasm for this or that “discovery,” indifference to anything tainted with popularity unless some popular thing became discredited enough in time to make it discoverable as a new taste.
“Been doing very much lately?” he had asked Emma Gainsborough dutifully before turning his attention to Teresa who was really his object of the evening. “Seen anything new?”
“No, I don’t think I have,” the poor girl replied, instantly ill at ease. Mr. Price observed the effect he had made, and scored several marks of superiority to himself; it made him feel good-natured.
“Peewit’s brought out another book, I see,” he said, giving her another chance. “’ve you read it?”
“No,” said Emma, adding hurriedly, “I’m doing welfare just now and it takes such an awful lot of time. I’m too sleepy to read after I’ve been wading through statistics all day.”
“Welfare? Let’s see—what’s that now?” asked Mr. Price. It might possibly be something he ought to know about, though from the way Emma did her hair he thought it unlikely.
“Welfare? Oh, it is seeing about children—at least, my part is—finding out things about them and seeing what happens to them and all that; I can’t explain it, but I have been making records of imbeciles all afternoon.” Emma was reckoned a humorist in the family circle and many were the evenings when her father and mother went to bed exhausted by their laughter over things noted by her with a delicacy of perception few people would have suspected, Mr. Price less than any. His “Oh, I see. Splendid work, I’m sure, but don’t you get tired of it?” was followed by a minute’s horrid silence and then he devoted himself with a clear conscience to Teresa in the way that has been described.
Teresa’s attention was wandering to her father, who seemed to be doing very well with Mrs. Gainsborough. She wondered what they were laughing at. She caught up Mr. Price at his short pause after the Russian with the handbag.
“No, I didn’t see him,” she answered vaguely. “What was he doing? Was there anything in the bag?”
Mr. Price was not very pleased. “I don’t know. Pro’b’ly the last sponge in Russia, what? Don’t you take almonds? I shall eat them all if you don’t stop me. Oh, prihsless caat, what are you doing? come here and talk to me——” He broke off as Mrs. Gainsborough’s blue persian stood up beside him and, having pretended to extract three or four long thorns from his leg, withdrew.
“I don’t mind them one way or the other,” said Teresa, “but I want to know something. Who is the man—the last at the end opposite—by my mother?”
“Mr. Vachell do you mean? Don’t you really know him? No, that’s delightful. He’s simply won’f’l man—been digging, you know—Egypt—didn’t you read about it? You ought to read the paper, you know. He’s our show card. When I was up at Cambridge they were fairf’lly jealous that I knew him. I told my tutor that I’d seen him once act’lly in pyjamas and he became quite respectf’l and let me off a lot of lectures on the strength of it. And then you live here and ask who he is——! That’s really great, what? isn’t it? You’ve got to say something really brilliant now to make up or I shall think you’ve taken to good works like all the dear people here.”
“Do you know you make me feel awfully queer,” said Teresa, looking at him with puzzled interest. “What are you talking about really? I know you answered my question, but what has all the rest to do with it? Why should your tutor let you off lectures because you saw somebody who lives here in pyjamas? I don’t understand a bit?”
“Miss Fulton, it is quite time you left that silly boy and gave me a little attention,” said Mr. Manley, whom Mrs. Vachell had neglected so much that he had been keeping a friendly eye on Teresa. He liked the young and had understood that she was not enjoying herself. He included Mr. Price in what he said with a friendly smile and Teresa turned to him gratefully.
“I believe you are much more old-fashioned than you look,” he said to her. “You were not getting on at all well. You didn’t mind my rudeness?”
“No, I liked it,” she answered. “I have met Mrs. Manley heaps of times, but I’ve never seen you nor your brother to talk to. I have noticed since we came here that you may know people for quite a long time before you are even sure that they have a husband. One has nothing to go by sometimes except the hats in the hall.”
“We come back sometimes to claim them, believe me,” said the old gentleman. Teresa’s heart warmed towards him as the dinner went on. His kindliness was real, untainted by any wish to shine or obtain credit. He had the quick understanding of ideas half expressed, succeeding one another like colour in changing light, which alone makes conversation anything but a distorted image of what the mind sees. Questions come so often from a curiosity that wishes to compare others with itself to its own glorification. Each one that Mr. Price or Mrs. Carpenter asked had that end in view. Mr. Manley enjoyed his game of give-and-take without that ghostly referee to balance the score. Teresa began to understand dimly how it was that what Strickland called “our leading families” seemed to have been the pious founders of Millport in a way that no Londoner’s ancestors can claim to have built their city. Millport was the child of dead and gone Manleys; it was handed on by them to new generations of themselves and of trusted friends who had watched over the early days of its growth. Tutors, governors and servants were appointed for the precious thing with that personal care that Teresa found so puzzling in the words “duty to the city,” which recurred constantly in public and in private. Afterwards in the drawing-room Mr. Manley came to her again.
“If you don’t go away and forget all our conversation,” he said, “come to me and tell me what you want to do and I’ll show you how to set about it. You’ll find my office hat in the hall on Saturday and Sunday afternoons—and that’s the one I keep my ideas in. I’d like to show you some pictures I’ve got of the old town as it was in my great-great-grandfather’s time.”
I had meant to say a great deal about David Varens during this dinner party. But Millport has proved too strong for him. It always must have been and is now overpowering for the gentle, detached characters whose strength is in enjoyment of the immediate thing that circumstances have put in their way to be done as well as possible; people who accept inherited comfort and adventitious pain equally, as it comes; who love and hate by instinct without recognition of any outside interests to modify their decision and who never go back on a verdict given by this tribunal of taste. He is to be Teresa’s lover and therefore his first words to her should have been recorded, also his appearance, his manner and what they thought of each other. They should have begun at once with definite sensations of like or dislike. But the truth is they hardly exchanged a word. He sat on the other side of Emma Gainsborough and shared with Mr. Price the miasma of her longing for the whole evening to be over. He talked to her as well as he could, patiently and easily, in spite of her stumbles into pitfalls of silence that the least presence of mind should have taught her to avoid. He retrieved her each time without effort and set her on her legs again, wondering what was the matter with the poor girl, supposing she might feel the fire at her back. He did once suggest drawing a screen further along behind her and they talked for some minutes about the cold of Oxford Colleges, but she didn’t seem any better for it so he gave it up. It is no use giving Mr. Varens any more scope just now. He will turn up in his glory when the time comes.