The Sundial (26 page)

“Of course we do,” said Mrs. Otis, and Mr. Straus nodded.

“I think you will have to concede,” Aunt Fanny went on, “that we in the big house have always treated you well. Even now—our only thought in having this expensive lawn party was for
your
pleasure. My father, I think, would be pleased.”

“I am sure he would,” Mrs. Otis said, and Mr. Straus nodded.

“Of course,” Aunt Fanny said, “and believe me, I am most reluctant to bring it up, but of course, you will see at once that, no matter how fond we have grown of all of you, we can hardly,
now
, persuade my father to include you. I am sure he will regret it as much as any of us; I am sure that losing you grieves him bitterly.”

“He was a fine man,” Mrs. Otis said, bewildered, and Mr. Straus nodded. “He was a man who liked a good roast of beef,” Mr. Straus said.

_____

“Miss Ogilvie?” said Essex politely, “Miss Ogilvie as a child was violated by a band of Comanche Indians in a lonely farmhouse on Little Wicked Bend River. It has left her taciturn.”

“Good heavens!” Miss Deborah turned her head slightly to give Miss Ogilvie a quick, fleeting look; “I’ve known Miss Ogilvie for years,” Miss Deborah said, “and she never breathed a word.”

“It’s not the sort of thing one mentions, you know,” Essex said. “
I
only learned it quite by accident.”

“Poor Miss Ogilvie; if we had only known, my sister and I, perhaps we could have done something. Ah . . . comforted her, perhaps. Do you think I might mention it to her?”

“Under no circumstances,” said Essex with some haste. “I believe it would be extremely harmful,
extremely
. After all, the memory has been successfully buried for so long . . .”

“But bringing these things out into the open air—sister!” Miss Deborah called, “I really
must
tell you; Mr. Essex has just given me the most
alarming
information. Poor Miss Ogilvie! And we never knew!”

_____

“I am doing all I can to make your party a success,” Essex said, coming up to Mrs. Halloran on the terrace.

“All it lacks, actually,” Mrs. Halloran said, “is the head of the Cheshire Cat looking down on us from the sky.” She looked from the terrace onto the sizable crowd now moving more freely on the lawn. The sundial stood out clearly, since no one went really close to it, and it stood by itself, a small island, in the moving people. From the terrace the sound of voices was a little distant, murmuring, with now and then the clear round bellow of Mrs. Willow, saying, “The little bubbles tickle your nose,” or, “The drink of angels, I promise you; fit for any king.”

“If we had a Cheshire Cat,” Essex said, pleased, “Mrs. Willow could be the Duchess.”

“As I recall, the Duchess was under sentence of execution for boxing the Queen’s ears.” Mrs. Halloran laughed. “Off with their heads!” she said.

Gloria came up behind Mrs. Halloran and said, not looking at Essex, “They sent me to tell you that the barbecue was ready, and everything is ready to be served in the barbecue tent.”

“Essex,” Mrs. Halloran said, “can you communicate with these people?”

Essex came from the terrace down into the crowd. “The food is ready,” he said to Mr. Straus. “Follow the path around to the left.”

“Righto,” Mr. Straus said. “Happen to know the quality of the meat.” He took Aunt Fanny on one arm and Mrs. Otis on the other arm and made purposefully for the barbecue; Essex moved on, urging the Misses Inverness into action, turning people toward the right path, nudging, stirring, like a sheep dog turning a flock of sheep toward the fold: “The barbecue is ready,” he said over and over, “follow the path to the left,” and obediently, the people standing with champagne cups in their hands listened, nodded, and moved slowly and talking toward the barbecue pit and the second tent. “The old lady has done herself proud,” Mr. Atkins from the hardware store said to the schoolteacher, and the schoolteacher, who had never tasted champagne before, nodded hazily and giggled.

“Now come on everybody,” came the great voice of Mrs. Willow, who had tasted champagne before, “fill up your cups, and then eat hearty—it may be the last meal you ever get.” People laughed, and asked one another what was in the salad dressing, and handed around plates; someone gave the schoolteacher a full plate of meat and salad and rolls and two little chocolate cupcakes and the schoolteacher, giggling and swaying, held it precariously for a minute or so and then set it down on a chair and went after more champagne.

“That’s a good piece of meat,” Mr. Straus said to Mrs. Willow, and Mrs. Willow slapped him on the shoulder and said richly, “You’ll never eat better again, so go at it, my boy.”

“Delicious,” said Miss Inverness, tasting delicately of her potato salad. She and her sister held identical plates, with tiny servings at which they were nibbling with tiny bites. “Everything always tastes so much better out of doors,” said Miss Deborah. She sighed, changing her plate from one hand to the other, and glanced longingly at the lighted windows of the big house.

It was growing darker; faces which had a few minutes ago been clearly visible were fading, so that only in the light of the great barbecue fire was an occasional countenance familiar, reddened and in many cases dirty. Mr. Straus hung lovingly over the man who, white-jacketed and sober, went on endlessly carving thin curling slices of meat onto a huge wooden platter; beyond him the fires flared and spattered when the barbecue sauce went onto the coals, and beyond the fires the silent darkness of the rose garden and the farther trees descended, hiding successfully the youngest Watkins boy and Julia Willow, who had taken a bottle of champagne and decided to skip dinner.

“Cuts like butter,” Mr. Straus said, watching the carver with splendid approval.

_____

On the terrace Mrs. Halloran stirred wearily, eyeing her untouched plate. “I have no appetite,” she said. “Being a queen is a very public penance.”

“Perhaps I could get you a little something from the kitchen?” Miss Ogilvie, hovering solicitously, made little futile dabs at her own plate, clearly unwilling to seem to be enjoying her food.

Mrs. Halloran sighed. “Run along and get yourself some champagne,” she said. “Dream of pressing your own grapes.”

When Miss Ogilvie had gone scurrying down toward the champagne tent, where some few revellers still lingered, Mrs. Halloran rose. She looked once down the long fine sweep of the lawn, where the sundial was still faintly visible, white against the dark grass, and glanced at the pale shape of the tent, where faint laughter persisted. From the barbecue pit she could hear voices raised, the sounds of fire, and the touching of forks against plates; over it all Mrs. Willow urging, “Eat hearty, friends, you’ll never see as good again.” Mrs. Halloran set down her plate and opened the great door; she had set her chair against it as though guarding the house. She went into the black and white tiled entrance hall; “When shall we live if not now?” she read over the staircase, and it seemed all at once an echo of Mrs. Willow. Moving quickly, Mrs. Halloran went into the right wing where Mr. Halloran sat before his fire. His dinner tray was on the small table near him, untouched; “Nurse?” Mr. Halloran said, not turning around, “Nurse, I have not had my dinner yet.”

“Good evening, Richard,” Mrs. Halloran said.

“Orianna?” said Mr. Halloran, peering uncertainly around the wing of his chair. “Orianna, I have not been given my dinner yet. Nurse has not given me my dinner.”

“She has probably been tempted by the party outside,” Mrs. Halloran said, “but do not distress yourself, Richard; I am perfectly able to give you your dinner, and we will let Nurse celebrate while she can.”

“I don’t want oatmeal,” Mr. Halloran said pettishly. “If it’s oatmeal you must send it back and have them make me something else.”

Mrs. Halloran lifted the silver cover from a bowl; “It’s two splendid soft-cooked eggs,” she said. “And I believe a nice hot broth, and a pretty little pudding.”

“But Nurse is not here to feed me,” Mr. Halloran said crossly.

“Then you will see how well
I
can do it.” Mrs. Halloran tied the napkin under his chin, and opened the eggs carefully. Then she moved the nurse’s low stool beside him, and sat down with the tray beside her. “Eggs first?” she asked.

“I want the broth,” Mr. Halloran said.

“I think the broth may be too warm, Richard.” Mrs. Halloran took up a little of the broth and blew on it to cool it. “Now,” she said, and put the spoon to her husband’s mouth. He accepted it obediently, and swallowed, and Mrs. Halloran took another spoonful and held it ready.

“It’s too hot,” Mr. Halloran said. “Nurse
always
gives me my eggs first.”

“Then we’ll try the eggs,” Mrs. Halloran said.

“I want the pudding,” Mr. Halloran said at once.

“Then we’ll try the pudding.”

“Why was I not sent oatmeal? They
knew
I wanted oatmeal tonight.”

“They sent up a very pleasant dinner, Richard. Eggs, and broth, and pudding.”

“Then
feed
it to me,” Mr. Halloran said. “Nurse is
never
this slow.”

“Open your mouth, then.”

“Are they having a party?” Mr. Halloran said, when he had finished his mouthful.

“A big party,” Mrs. Halloran said. “Ready with another spoonful.”

“Why am I not going to the party?”

“If you eat every bite of your dinner, Richard, I will tell you about it, what everyone is doing.”

“Are they going to ring the bells? Over the carriage house?”

“A splendid idea. Open your mouth, Richard. I think we must really ring the bells.”

“Who has come to this party?”

“All the people from the village. The party is for them, a treat. Right now they are around the barbecue pit, having their dinners just as you are having your dinner, and they are drinking champagne; later, after you finish all your dinner, I will bring you a glass of champagne as a treat for you, too.”

“No more egg,” Mr. Halloran said. “I want pudding.”

“Pudding, then. We have strung lanterns back and forth across the long lawn, little colored lights along the lawn. There is a corner of the terrace where we are going to put musicians, musicians I brought all the way from the city, and all the people will be dancing out on the grass under the lanterns.”

“And drinking champagne.”

“And drinking champagne. Since the night air is far too cool for you, I thought I would bring you into the drawing room and you may sit by the big window and watch. There, now, the pudding is gone; you ate your pudding very nicely, Richard.”

“It reminds me of when Lionel died, and we rang the bells all night.”

“More egg now? You will hear the bells, I promise you. And you will sit in the drawing room and drink a glass of champagne and watch the villagers dancing under the colored lights.”

“I think not.” Mr. Halloran sighed tiredly. “I would rather stay here. I can hear the bells, you know, and I think colored lights would be too bright for my eyes.” He hit his hand irritably against the arm of his chair. “I
wish
Nurse would come back,” he said. “Do you know, I have not had my dinner yet? Nurse went off without giving me my dinner, and I do not think that is in any way proper. You must find Nurse at once and tell her I want my dinner.”

_____

“Mr. Essex.” Miss Inverness bore down heavily, glass in hand. “Mr. Essex, I must really ask an explanation from you. This distressing story which my sister has repeated to me—”

“Distressing indeed, Miss Inverness. I cannot tell you how we all deplore it.”

“I think it most thoughtless and—yes, even
tasteless
—of Mrs. Halloran. One does not expect to meet, in nice houses, people of unsuitable background; I have permitted my sister to become intimate with Miss Ogilvie, even help her with small purchases in our little emporium. I think it very hard that we were not told of Miss Ogilvie’s character.”

“Surely not a story for general circulation,” Essex murmured.

“Certainly not. I assure you that I will be the last to repeat it. But, Mr. Essex,
ladies
should know. One assumes, all too frequently, that the mere presence of a woman in a respectable family is enough to ensure that her reputation is above reproach. It will be very difficult, now, to know how to speak to Mrs. Halloran.”

“It has
always
been difficult,” Essex said, “to know how to speak to Mrs. Halloran.”

“All I can say, Mr. Essex, is that Mrs. Halloran Senior would never have allowed a person of questionable character to enter her house. This is all very hard on her memory, and I shall tell Mrs. Halloran so when I say goodnight; naturally, my sister and I cannot remain at this delightful party. We stayed only long enough to take a little refreshment, in courtesy to our hosts.”

“I hope you will not find it necessary to say anything to Miss Ogilvie.”

“We were brought up ladies, Mr. Essex. My mother was not one to reproach an erring sister for her misfortunes. But further association will be, of course, out of the question.”

“I believe, on the whole, that it will,” Essex said.

“Good night, Mr. Essex.”

“Before you leave,” Essex said, lowering his voice, “there is something more I really
must
tell you. Since your association with this house is to be so irrevocably severed, you will want, I think, to hear the unsavory truth about Aunt Fanny? As you know, like Miss Ogilvie, she has never married.”

Miss Inverness gasped. “Not Miss Halloran
too?
”

“Similar, although the circumstances were different,” Essex said gravely. “I myself find Aunt Fanny’s story the more pitiable. Do you recall the year that Aunt Fanny spent abroad? It was given out that she was in Switzerland.”

“I remember,” said Miss Inverness faintly.

“In actuality,” Essex said, “she had been captured by pirates off the Mediterranean coast. It was upwards of seven months before a British man of war tracked them down and wrested Aunt Fanny from their clutches. A most horrible fate.”