Cold Pastoral (31 page)

“Shushhhhh,” hissed another voice. Perhaps the fond relations had been feasting their eyes on their sons and daughters, impervious to the row of Fitz Henrys. Recognition must have come, wafting a feeling of suddenly red faces. Intermittent whispers went on with a lowered sibilance. The first questioner pressed on. She appeared to be the type who would press for information, regardless of place. The family shamelessly lent an ear to fugitive comment. While Philip looked haughty and annoyed he had every appearance of listening.

“Look, there's my own Mary. Sweet, isn't she? It's a new dress, though it seems a waste under her gown. No, she didn't pass with distinction, but at least she's a human being and not afraid to dance with any of the students….” The whispers dropped, then became revivified. “Crazy about her…on his way home from a Canadian university…just scraped through last year…only good at the cultural subjects…popular in a queer way, romantic-looking…hipped on music. They had a year together. He went to everything, but never looked at another girl…would play for them until his hands dropped off, but no one could vamp him off the piano-stool…I wouldn't be surprised…stuck up…There's the valedictory….”

Through the men's valedictory the Fltz Henrys examined their hands with varying expressions. Not until long-shadowed events had taken place did they sort the whispers, placing them in their proper significance. When a gentle, gracious girl was delivering the valedictory they all felt Mary Immaculate had been defrauded. Through interminable speeches there was ample time for reflection. The seats were cramped, and David's and Philip's legs were long. During much advice to youth, and frequent references to
provehito in
altum
, David grew a little plaintive.

“Are the elders giving themselves a treat?”

“Of course,” she whispered.

“Why are the men so verbose?”

“Probably mute in their homes,” hissed his wife. “We'd better have a celebration for Mary after, to make up for the flowers.”

“There's nowhere to take her, darling. It will be closing time.”

Felice gave her husband a look of mute tolerance.

“The celebration is for Mary,” she said dryly; “non-alcoholic. You can have a pineapple-soda and look as if you liked it.”

“Must I, Phil?” he asked, leaning over to his brother.

“We could have it at home,” he answered conservatively.

“Not as nice as going out,” whispered Felice. “We'll go to a place with booths and ice-cream and pop. She's young enough to enjoy it.”

Time was getting on.

“My God,” said David with desperation, “if another person tells them to plunge into the deep I'll follow with pleasure. My knee is like a hot coal.”

“It's just a closing,'' said his wife soothingly. “There, somebody is creeping to the piano. It must mean God save the King! Gracious, no, a glee!…”

“God,” groaned her husband. But he listened attentively to glees grave and gay.

“Very nice! Why isn't she in it ? She has a nice voice.”

“Be quiet, David,” she ordered, seeing Philip shuffiing his legs.

At last they claimed her, released to cool night air. They found her at the main entrance in a loose white coat, with her arms laden with cap, gown, flowers and diploma. Philip relieved her of all impedimenta except the flowers.

“You looked charming, my dear.”

She laughed, walking beside him down a flight of stone steps.

“I wasn't there to look, Philip. I was there to get a diploma.”

Inside the car it took some time to get away. When they were out of the grounds he asked at once, “Who sent the flowers, Mary? I'm sorry they had to be from someone else, but I didn't seem to realise—”

“That I was graduating as far as I can go, and passed with distinction? It really is a college, you know, with an exacting standard.”

Was she piqued? Not by her voice, which remained cool without the smallest edge.

“Darling,” said David from the back seat, “
I've
been beating my breast ever since I saw you mounted aloft. You looked positively donnish. It would be wicked, positively wicked not to foster that expression. When you graduate from some famous university, we'll come in a body, won't we, Phil—”

“Who sent the flowers?” he asked, braking for a stop sign.

Half-turned to the back, they could see her face illumined by a street light.

“There was no card, nothing to say,” she said innocently. “Somebody must love me.”

“But you must have some idea, Mary,” persisted Philip.

Felice rescued her, brushing curiosity aside.

“Probably some classmate too shy to divulge his name or hers, maybe! My dear, it was quite an occasion. We all enjoyed it very much, and the speeches were particularly good.”

“Very,” said Philip enthusiastically. “So good of them to give us so much of their time. We were left in no doubt of your motto.”

“No,” she said blandly. “It's a good one to throw us out with.”

She was different, emanating a flavour of college life. They felt outside, aware of having patronised something deeply significant.

“Mary,” questioned Felice, “we'd like to do something, but it's too late for anything exciting. Would you like a drink or a sundae or something?”

The offer was tentative, making her husband endorse it with deferential persuasion.

“We feel we should strew roses and laurel, Mary, but limitations, hour…”

Her reply was satisfactory, dispelling some gathering fears.

“Well, David, I'd like a sundae with strawberries, marshmallows and whipped cream; the nuts spoil it.”

“Do they?” he said with great interest. “I once read the diary of a flapper's stomach, and it was full of superstructures just like that. Do you think after a graduation—”

“Maybe I'll eat two,” she said, sitting closer to Philip.

“You can have a dozen if you want them,” he said somewhat fatuously.

“Is Mary a prig ?” questioned Philip anxiously.

Back in the Place the door had closed on her slender back.

“Aren't we all ?” questioned his brother flippantly. “Felice dear, give me another drink. My palate is polluted with phosphate.”

“Felice?” questioned Philip, ignoring his needs. “Did you hear those comments behind us? Such effrontery—”

“Oh, I don't know,” she said with a smile. “I thought that was the best part of the show. Unrehearsed things always are. Snobbish and priggish! Poor Mary, it's quite a lot.”

“Well, my dear,” drawled David, “she's brilliant and beautiful! Two unforgivable sins! They might have been overlooked if she'd mixed well. Apparently she's been a poor little half-breed, something objectionable to her classmates—”

“I think she knows she's unpopular,” said Felice, “but it doesn't seem to bother her.”

“Pity,” said David, watching the bubbles in his glass. “She should bother. She needs to rub shoulders with her own age and to raise merry hell with the half-love of calf-love. Do you realise, Phil, that she's never had a friend of her own age? You're young enough, but you're old to her.”

“Too much perfection is always a suspicion to classmates,” said Felice pleasantly. “She'd be much more attractive if she could be finished off properly. None of this family ever considered education complete until three or four years had been spent abroad. Of course—”

“Of course what?” snapped Philip.

“Actually, she's not a Fitz Henry.”

“She is,” said Philip defiantly. “Hasn't she had the best education the town could offer?”

“Of course, Phil,” said David agreeably, “but you could hardly call this the cultural world. Have it your own way. If you want her to be a half-baked little prig…?”

“And so charming-looking, too; but a girl can't expect appearance to compensate for drawbacks.”

David and Felice seemed to be in collusion. Between them they painted a girl nobody could possibly love, honour or cherish. She was lightly discussed, weighed in the balance and found wanting, but they went on until Philip positively squirmed.

“I think she's quite perfect,” he said in strong defence of his idol; “but if you two find her so objectionable she'd better go across in September for a while.”

“Perhaps the completion of her Arts,” said David idly.

“That's what I meant,” he answered as if he had planned it himself. “I'll go to Vienna.”

He got up with determination, as if he had to catch a train to a new venture. “Good night,” he said briefly, “I have to operate early in the morning.”

“Felice,” said David, settling deeper in his chair, “I feel like a dog. It was positively painful to lambaste her like that, but I promised her a B.A. Poor darling, there was something about her tonight that made her look solitary. Who did send the flowers, Felice? I noticed you kept Phil from badgering her. I carefully examined the male element, but I couldn't light on one face I could connect with that virginal bouquet…”

“Maybe a girl—collar and tie—in thrall to her looks.”

“Gracious, Felice,” said her husband, “this is not the Isle of Lesbos.”

“It bloweth where it listeth,” she said vaguely. “Have a drink, darling, and come to bed.”

“Just a spot, dear, the phosphate seems to linger.”

“DRUNKEN, BUT NOT WITH WINE.”

F
rom the moment she woke up everything seemed dedicated to boundless delight. That it would crescendo, making a descent into bitter darkness was something she could not know. She did not have Josephine's faculty of seeing the event travelling along. The morning sun fell on her face, drawing all snow from her skin. Through the open window air breathed delicately, seeping through fresh, nascent leaves. A bed of lily of the valley sent up intoxicating fragrance, causing a vibration of the family nostril.

Tim's boat must be arriving! Royal weather for her vassal's return!

Why was everything so easy? Had she evoked the vigilance of Mary Magdalen too often? David and Felice had disappeared to the cottage for a few days by themselves. They had gone casually, with no attitude as to the suitability of the girl's residence with an eligible bachelor not of her blood. Hannah seemed an adequate sop to the conventions. More subtly they knew the girl had been demoted. Since Philip's capitulation to third year Arts, Mary Immaculate was again the cherished child of the house, and she followed him gladly for fear of causing significant action. Something would happen to show her the way. Philip had been impressed by her cap and gown and, while acknowledging capacity for academic life, it did not go hand in hand with emotional advance.

Summer had come with a blast. A most dramatic country, days were
assaults or calms. Nothing was done by halves. Meadows were lush
squares, with a light powder of bloom: feathery juniper made the
evergreens look tired; roads ran through banks of Rhodera, and veils
of blossom drifted uphill. Only a savage country could make such a
turn-about and blaze with fugitive splendour. Mary Immaculate
got up, feeling a flower-burst ecstasy spinning in her head. Tim was
coming home, and Philip was choosing that day to act as consultant for
another doctor. In lucid arrangement, the girl heard him on the
telephone, calling up hospitals and private cases, freeing himself for a
seventy-mile drive up one of the shores.

She was at breakfast first, sure that the wine-coloured carpet had
grown richer overnight. Philip ran down, greeting her with a pat as
he went to his place. Felice not being there, the girl had to pour;
but Hannah had arranged that she should not sit at the head of the
table, by placing the tea-service at the side.

Even Philip looked vitalised and content with his prospects. There
was abandon in the way he dug his spoon into his grapefruit.

“Mary, I'm going out of town as consultant.”

“All day?” she asked with interest.

“All day, my dear. And,” he said, quite gaily for him, “if there's
nothing too urgent, we're going to put in a couple of hours' fishing
before we return. There's a marvellous pond with some fine native
trout.”

“Nice,” she said enthusiastically. “Is it the same way as the cottage?”

“Yes, but I won't stop.” Some thought made him suspend his
spoon. “Would you like to go out for the day? I could pick you up on
the way back.”

“No, I don't think so,” she said, as if pondering. “I'll potter in the
conservatory. It's red-hot in there and I love it. Don't worry about me.
I haven't had a whole day to myself for years. It will be fun.”

“Nasty little thing,” he said with a friendly smile at her. “You're
never lonely, least of all for me.”

“Well,” she said in the same tone, “are you lonely for me when
you're seeing people's insides?”

“Not the same thing at all! However, we won't discuss that. Not
now.”

“Not now, when the wind calls,'' she quoted lightly. Nothing could have pleased her more than a day of not now. The minutes impelling her to Tim were enough for a one-day clock.

“No recklessness,”he admonished, caught by some quality in her voice. “You haven't been reckless for a long time. Ah, there's the paper. Do you want it, my dear? I haven't the time.”

“Yes,” she said, taking it from the maid and scanning the pages indifferently. It was unfortunate that people were doing violent things when Tim was coming home! As Philip went he leaned over her chair, tilting her face.

“Sure you won't mind being alone?” Impossible not to know he liked looking at her face.

“No, I won't mind a bit,” she said truthfully.

His arm made a circle round her head as he kissed her.