The Golden Virgin (45 page)

What magic, what splendour, what heights above the congested areas of surburban living did the presence of Georgiana Lady Dudley suggest to many of the temporary officers of the New Armies! The very name was a necklace of precious sparkling jewels to some who sat before her.

What did Georgiana Lady Dudley think of them? They were the half-and-half people, so very polite, poor dears, so formal, trying hard to appear above themselves; but all was forgiven them for being what they were. Had they not come out of their unknown places and answered the call, from their obscure streets and small houses, to replace, with their plain names in the casualty lists, those of the splendid young men who had fallen in 1914 and 1915?

This lady with the face of youth and the bright friendliness of age sat behind a desk, her floral hat nodding and moving but never jerking as she arranged the immediate future of captains of eighteen and subalterns of forty-five, in slacks and trews, kilts and breeches, pale cotton of Indian Army and double-breasted “maternity jacket” of Flying Corps; dear boys all—a tick against a long list, a name written down with a gold pencil set with diamonds, and one more was sped to Yorkshire or Cumberland, to Dorset or Flint, to a house by the sea or a lodge on the side of a strath, to have the time of his life.

From the watershed of the Somme, from charred wood and desolated valley, amidst the fragmentation of steel and flesh and the dust of detonated village hanging in the sun, was coming the thought that would bring not only the end of the old order, but the end of ideas that had endured a thousand years.

*

“Devon, or is it Devonshire, it’s so muddling,” said Georgiana Lady Dudley brightly, as she flipped a card index. “It’s Devonshire cream and cider, one supposes, and also the Devonshire Regiment, but no doubt you will know. Now let me see,” she went on briskly, as her eye ran down a list. “All the places in Devon appear to be filled. What have we here—Dorset? No? Derbyshire? No? Durham? No. I agree. Much too cold and smoky, and those everlasting east winds! Denbigh? Very rainy, and the south-west blows all the time. Flint? No? How about Gloucestershire?”

Discomposed by her bright, bird-like speed, Phillip tried to force
himself to ask if he might be allowed to go to his aunt’s cottage at Lynmouth, and have treatment from a local doctor. Willie, whom he had visited in St. George’s, had suggested this for both of them. He felt more uncomfortable when the amazingly alert Georgiana Lady Dudley looked at a gold watch hanging on a diamond and platinum brooch inside her jacket pocket. It was almost one o’clock, and he was the last to be seen.

“I would rather go to Devon, ma’m, if it isn’t giving you too much trouble. Perhaps I could come again, later on, when it is not so inconvenient?”

“Miss Catesby, have we any places in Devon, in this morning’s post? We have? How splendid!” Papers were put before her. “Here is the very thing, perhaps. Sir George Newnes’ Hollerday House, Lynton. Two beds will be vacant in a week’s time. I’ll mark you down for one of them. We drove through Lynton once, when I was a gal, from Lee Abbey. I expect you know it, high above the cliffs, with Wales just across the water? The hills were terrifying, and we all had to get down from the coach and walk. The wheels caught fire! What was the name of the spot! Watersmeet, was it? Of course. Very well, your Matron will be notified.”

Georgiana Lady Dudley gave him a brilliantly enamelled smile of dismissal.

“Thank you very much, ma’m. I am afraid I am rather a nuisance, but I have a great friend, a cousin, due to be b-boarded at Caxton Hall any day now. I wonder if it would be possible for him to have the other bed? He asked me to put in a word, I m-mean, to enquire for him.”

“What a close family yours must be, Mr. Maddison. How nice that you all want to be together. Where is your cousin? At St. George’s Hospital, Lancaster Gate. Very well, if you will give my secretary particulars, she will arrange it. Good morning!”

Georgiana Lady Dudley, a new light upon her face, cleared as it were for action—she was having luncheon with some friends who were planning a counter-attack on Mr. George, “the Little Welsh lawyer”, who was preparing one more of his low-down tricks against dear Henry Asquith—left without further thought of the young man whose face she no longer saw. Nor did she realise that he had sprung up to open the door for her: accustomed to footmen all her life, she no more thought about doors than Phillip had about those in his ward until he had learned to walk again, on crutches.

“I’ve got a week before I go,” Phillip told Mrs. Neville. “Nothing to do, really.”

“Have you been down to Freddy’s, dear?”

“Once, but it seemed so different. I don’t want to go again.”

“Ah, I expect you have outgrown your old haunts, Phillip. One does, you know, as one grows up. Must you go now? Well, come to tea tomorrow, will you?”

She was determined not to tell him that Lily had been to see her. The sooner the whole thing was forgotten the better, for the girl’s sake. The boys could look after themselves. It was Lily who had her sympathy now. That brute Keechey! If she ever came face to face with him, she would give him a piece of her mind—and her umbrella, too, and let
him sue her for assault and battery, if he dared! Anyway, Lily was safe from that beast now, for she had become a Roman Catholic, and was (Mrs. Neville thought) a changed woman. So Mrs. Neville was resolved not to mention Lily in any way at all.

This good resolution having been made, and what she thought of as her higher self having been satisfied, Mrs. Neville’s lower self began to feel curious. What
had
happened between her son and Lily? Was it as she had suspected, that Lily had been anybody’s—including Eugene’s—for the asking, before she met Phillip and fell in love with him? Such devotion as Lily had revealed, though the girl had tried to hide it, might have come from either of two things: from an attachment of the animal that was in every woman to her mate after he had satisfied all her feelings, or from a spiritual love that was based on the highest aspirations of the soul. Mrs. Neville liked to think that it was the soul of Lily that had been touched by the sweetness and gentleness in Phillip—oh yes, of course it was! What was she thinking of? Just because Lily worked in a laundry, did that mean that she was not capable of the highest aspirations of the soul? How was she herself any better than Lily? Hilda, my girl, watch your step, or you’ll be growing into what Maude Hudson’s husband used to call an intellectual snob!

Having come to the conclusion that she was no better or worse than anyone else, Mrs. Neville felt life to be serene. If only people
could know themselves properly, how much easier and simpler living would be!

She went into the kitchen to prepare her tray for tea: best teapot, early Georgian, the ivory knob to its lid yellow with age, the pawnbrokers’ scratches on its bottom adding to its history.

While she polished it, Mrs. Neville had the wild idea of asking Phillip, when he arrived, to take a note down to Lily’s house in Nightingale Grove, inviting her to call that evening. The idea so overpowered her that she had to sit down.

My God, she said to her image in the looking-glass, a few minutes later, as she powdered her nose and cheeks, whatever will you be thinking next? What part was she intending to play, that of a scheming
duenna
out of
The
Decameron
? Yes, Hilda my girl, you may well look like that! All you really want is to find out what happened, not by questioning, which is the refuge of the banal, as Mr. Hudson used to say, but by watching the two young things together. Hilda, you are a monster!

Ah well, aren’t we all? she said to herself as, having cut a plateful of thin cucumber sandwiches, and then another of Phillip’s favourite Old Sea Dog Bloater Paste (“Refuse all imitations”——how they had laughed over that on the label!—Phillip declaring that they were special bloaters because caught by the Old Sea Dog diving overboard and bringing them up in his mouth, like a seal) Mrs. Neville carried her tray to her sitting room, and put it on the table. Beside the Georgian teapot was the tortoiseshell tea-caddy that had been given to her husband for a wedding present by one of the Nottingham uncles. Then came milk jug, sugar bowl, and kettle pivoted above a spirit lamp.

Thus fortified by her
lares
et
penates
—the phrase, picked up at Highgate in the Hudson
salon,
gave her a pleasant feeling of culture—Mrs. Neville awaited the arrival of her guest.

The familiar exhaust beats of
Helena
came up the road. With a series of whistling hisses, as the valve was held up, it stopped. The tall figure in white flannels and Donegal tweed jacket got off and leaned the footrest on the kerb.

“Hullo, Mrs. Neville!”

“Let yourself in, will you, dear?” the creamy voice said from the open window, as the key fell on the lawn.

She listened as he climbed up the stairs: yes, as she had thought the day before, one foot did thump more than the other.

“Ah, just like old days, Mrs. Neville!” he said, seeing the tea tray.

“Help yourself if you’re hungry, Phillip. I’ll go and get the hot water.”

He got up at once, saying, “I’ll fetch it, Mrs, Neville.”

“But your leg, Phillip——”

“Oh, the stiffness is almost gone. In fact, I thought about playing tennis again, only——”

She waited until he returned, when he filled the silver kettle with steaming water, afterwards lighting the spirit lamp for her. Then he sat back in the armchair.

He looked tired and dejected, she thought.

“Only——? You must not try and do too much all at once, you know.”

“Oh, my leg’s all right. But I made such a fool of myself just now. I’d go back to France tomorrow if I could. Thank God I’ll be in Devon soon.”

“I expect it will take some while for you to re-adjust yourself, you know, Phillip.”

“Oh, it’s not that, Mrs. Neville. It’s my idiocy in trying to join St. Simon’s Tennis Club. It’s Mother’s fault, in a way, though I must blame myself.”

“Why shouldn’t you join the Tennis Club? I don’t understand, Phillip.”

In a satirical voice directed against himself he told her that he had gone round to see if Helena was playing; and not liking to be seen hanging about outside, had walked through the gate and watched through a gap in the trees. A set was in progress on the court, Helena and Milton, whom he had known at school, playing against two others. She had waved her racquet at him, and smiled. When the set was over, she had introduced him to the secretary, also the churchwarden, who had just come in, with his wife, carrying a basket of tea things, and kettle and teapot, from the parish hall.

“Then like a fool I asked if I might join, Mrs. Neville. The secretary said that membership was limited to parishioners of St. Simon’s church, and I must get someone in the club to propose me, and then someone to second me. Helena and Milton were standing by, and I think they were going to offer, when the secretary said, ‘I wonder if it is tennis that is entirely the attraction, Mr. Maddison? I notice a certain name painted on the tank of your machine.’ And Helena heard, Mrs. Neville, and turned away her head. I think she was laughing, as she went away with Milton. Damn! Damn! Damn! Why did I come home at all? What a
bounder they must think me, with that name ostentatiously in gold paint on the tank!”

Mrs. Neville had never seen him so upset. His eyes stared, the nose seemed thinner, the cheek-bones more prominent. He had a look of Uncle Hugh on his face. What she had regarded as a rather prolonged case of love’s young dream now seemed to be something much more serious. But
did
he love Helena? How could he
love
her, when he did not know her?

“‘A bounder,’ Phillip? My dear, you are anything but that. And surely you have proved yourself to the world now? Don’t you know it?”

“Oh, that business on July the First was nothing! I
mean
nothing! It
was
nothing! We had to go over, and that was all; hundreds of thousands like me. No proof of anything there, Mrs. Neville. The others, who had never been in action, were optimistic; those who had been, were pessimistic. That’s all. No, what I mean is that I seem to be two people, almost; one fairly serious and reliable, and the other a stupid sort of jack-in-the-box, doing things suddenly, thinking they might be a great joke, and then finding what a silly stupid fool I’ve been all the time! I’ve often wondered what made me set fire to Colonel Heycock’s newspaper on my first guest night with the Cantuvellaunians at Heathmarket. It was a bounderish thing to do. I may have had something to drink, but I wasn’t drunk; I just thought it would be damned funny. Whereas it was merely damned impertinent. And now this utter stupidity of mine, painting that name on the motorbike, and not realising how it would embarrass her!”

“I don’t suppose she thought of it at all, Phillip, in that way. Why, most girls would be proud of having their names on——”

She stopped. It occurred to her that Phillip was right: it was
not
quite the thing. She pretended to think of something else, knowing how perceptive he was. “Of course, in the old days, a man tilting at the jousts would wear his lady’s favour, wouldn’t he? It was usually a glove, if I remember rightly. Not that I was ever there!”

“Yes, Mrs. Neville, but even the strangers who came to the tournaments were knights. I mean, they belonged—they had status. They weren’t outsiders, like me.”

He must be low, after the loss of blood, and the shock, she thought. What he wanted was feeding up, and to get away from himself. Desmond had been just the same; there had been that strange scene, when he had shown her Phillip’s letter urging that
bygones be bygones, and Desmond had become so bitter about his father. He had even asked her if he had been born illegitimate! Where did these boys get all their ideas from? It was the war: it had upset everything in life.

“You’ll feel better after a week or two in Devon, Phillip. Mr. Hudson used to say that our physical condition had a lot to do with our thoughts, and that when a man had influenza was not the time to look at the Stock Exchange prices in the paper. That may sound banal, but there’s something in it. Anyway, dear, don’t you worry any more about the affair. What else did the secretary of the tennis club say?”

“I didn’t wait to hear, Mrs. Neville. I damn well left straight away! I must have looked a frightful fool, from first to last.”

“I am sure no one thought anything of it, beyond the fact that you had called to ask about joining, to make an enquiry. Oh dear, what the young have to go through. The more sensitive, particularly. You remember Lily, of course? Well, she came to see me, after suffering agonies, Phillip. What a sweet girl she is! I don’t think I’m breaking any confidences by saying that she told me what she told you, about her past life, I mean. That is all over, I am glad to say. Yes, Lily is now a Catholic, and making a fresh start. No more Freddy’s bar. No; Lily has a fine future, I think, if she can meet the right man. The trouble is, of course, that so many rogues look like the right man at first! Anyway, I hope that she won’t allow herself to be imposed upon, for she has a very sympathetic nature.”

Phillip was silent.

“Phillip, do you mind if I am very frank?”

“No, Mrs. Neville. I like it best when you are.”

“Very well, dear. You know Lily loves you, don’t you?”

“I didn’t really know, Mrs. Neville.”

“But can’t you tell, Phillip?”

“Well, you see, in a way I was frightened of her.”

“But why? Because she was in a public house?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“You think that makes a difference, then? Oh, of course I know what you mean! A loose woman?”

“Well——”

“Did you feel attracted to her?”

“In a way, yes.”

“But not as my son and Eugene felt—‘what the gods provided’?”

“No, not in that way.”

“What way then, dear?” said Mrs. Neville, very sympathetically.

“I was just very happy when I was with her. And knowing what had happened with Keechey, it didn’t seem fair to—well—to impose myself on her.”

“I see. Did the thought of Helena have anything to do with your attitude, Phillip?”

“No, I don’t think so. Once or twice I felt that I would like—well—to give way to Lily, only I expect that seems weak and silly.”

“Weak and silly? Oh, Phillip! Why, my dear, to be kind, to show tenderness, and to receive tenderness, is part of the love of God.”

“Well, anyway, Mrs. Neville, I’m always thinking, my brain never stops. And if I see the other person’s point of view, it kind of stops mine. If I have one. I just don’t know.”

“Do you want to see Lily again, Phillip?”

“I thought I would when I was in France, and again when I was in hospital; but now I’m home I don’t think I shall.”

“For her sake?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then is it Desmond that’s worrying you?”

“Oh no. If he wants to believe what he says he believes, he must continue to believe it, that’s all I can say.”

Mrs. Neville sighed. She was no nearer to understanding him; in fact the new personality he seemed to have developed baffled her thoughts. The silver tea kettle was steaming away. “Oh dear, while I’ve been talking, I’ve quite forgotten to give you your tea! It just shows how interesting a personality you are to me. Now do eat up everything you can see. You like China tea still, don’t you? I got some specially for your homecoming.”

After tea he asked her if she would like to hear his new gramophone records. “I’ve got some of Kreisler, and also some yellow and plum labels—Caruso, Galli-Curci, Scotti, some of Cortot playing Chopin, and Harry Tate’s
Motoring.
Which shall we have first?”

“Harry Tate!” She uttered the little shriek she gave when changing gear from the sublime to the comic. “It’s time we came back to earth!”

“You know, Mrs. Neville, I’ve been thinking that I ought to sell the motor-bike, before petrol becomes unobtainable. I must paint out that name on the tank first. I’ve sold the Swift already.
Private motoring will soon be a thing of the past. I see the laundry van has already got a big gas-bag on its roof, and I hear others are fitting vaporisers, to run on paraffin. I had a talk with a sergeant of the A.S.C., in the Tillings Omnibus Depôt near Cutler’s Pond. His name is Martin; he was a crack racing driver before the war.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me that he held records for a Singer motor car on Brooklands; also hill-climbs at Aston in Buckinghamshire. He’s got a huge bike with a twin-cylinder J.A.P. engine, with stub exhausts. It makes a noise like four machine-guns. My hat, it was fast—he told me it could do just under a hundred miles an hour.”