CHAPTER XVIII AN AUNT—AND A FRIEND
Barslett: July 11.
My dear Sarah,—How I wish you were here! You would enjoy yourself, and I should like to see you doing it—indeed I should be amused. I never dare tell you face to face that you amuse me—you'd swell visibly, like the person in Pickwick—but I can write it quite safely. We are a family party—or at any rate we look forward to being one some day, and even now escape none of the characteristics of such gatherings. We all think that the Proper Thing will happen some day, and we tell one another so. Not for a long while, of course! First—and officially—because Mortimer feels things so deeply (this is a reference to the Improper Thing which so nearly happened—are you wincing, Sarah?); secondly—and entirely unofficially—because of a bad chaperon and a heavy pupil. You are a genius; you ought to have had seventeen daughters, all twins and all out together, and five eldest sons all immensely eligible! Nature is so limited. But me! I'm always there when I'm not wanted, and I do hate leaving a comfortable chair. But I try. Do I give you any clear idea when I say that a certain young person wants a deal of hoisting—and is very ponderous to hoist? And I'm not her mother, or I really wouldn't complain. But sometimes I could shake her, as they say. No, I couldn't shake her, but I should like to get some hydraulic machinery that could. However—it moves all the same! What's-his-name detected that in the world, which is certainly slow enough, and we all detect it in this interesting case—or say we do. And I've great faith in repeating things. It spreads confidence, whence comes, dear Sarah, action.
Mortimer is here a lot, but is somewhat fretful. The Trans-Euphratic, it seems, is fractious, or teething, or something, and Beaufort Chance has been nasty in the House—notably nasty and rather able. (Do you trace any private history?) However, I daresay you hear enough about the Trans-Euphratic at home. It buzzes about here, mingling soothingly with the approaching flower show and a calamity that has happened to a pedigree cow. Never mind details of any of them! Sir Stapleton was indiscreet to me, but it stops there, if you please. How sweet the country is in a real English home!
But sometimes we talk of the Past—and the P is large. There is a thank-heavenly atmosphere of pronounced density about Lady B.—quite sincere, I believe; she has realised that flightiness almost effected an entry into the family! Mortimer says little—deep feelings again. In my opinion it has done him some little good—which we and Audrey hope speedily to destroy. (Oh, that child! The perfection of English girlhood, Sarah; no less, believe me!) My lord is more communicative—to me. I believe he likes to talk about it. In fact Trix made some impression there; possibly there is a regret hidden somewhere in his circumference. He took me round the place yesterday, and showed me the scene of the flight. I should think going to Waterloo must give one something of the same feeling—if one could be conducted by a wounded hero of the fight. This was the conversation that passed—or something like it:—
Lord B.: She looked almost like a ghost.
Myself: Heavens, Lord B.!
Lord B. (inserting spud in ground): This was the very spot—the SPOT!
Myself: You surprise me!
Lord B.: I felt certain that something unusual was occurring.
Myself: Did that strike you at once?
Lord B.: Almost, Viola—I say, almost—at once. She came up. I remonstrated. My words do not remain in my memory.
Myself: Moments of excitement——
Lord B.: But I remonstrated, Viola.
Myself: And she pushed you away?
Lord B.: She did—and ran along the path here—following this path to that gate——
Myself (incredulously, however one's supposed to show that): That very gate, Lord B.?
Lord B.: It's been painted since, but that is the gate, Viola.
Myself: Fancy! (There isn't any other gate, you know; so, unless Trix had taken the fence in a flying leap, one doesn't see what she could have done.)
Lord B.: Yes, that gate. She ran through it and along that road——
Myself (distrustfully): That road, Lord B.?
Lord B. (firmly): That road, Viola. She twisted her veil about her face, caught up her skirts——
Myself: ! ! ! ! !
Lord B.: And ran away (impressively) towards the station, Viola!
Myself: Did you watch her?
Lord B.: Till she was out of sight—of sight, Viola!
Myself: I never realised it so clearly before, Lord B.
Lord B.: It is an experience I shall never forget.
Myself: I should think not, Lord B.
Then the excellent old dear said that he trusted he had no unchristian feelings towards Trix; he had been inclined to like her, and so on. But he failed to perceive how they could have treated her differently in any single particular. 'You could not depend on her word, Viola.' I remembered, Sarah, that in early youth, and under circumstances needless to specify exactly, you could not depend on mine—unless the evidence against me was hopelessly clear. I suppose that was Trix's mistake. She fibbed when she was bound to be found out, and saw it herself a minute later. Have you any personal objection to my dropping a tear?
I don't pretend to say I should go on writing if there was anything else to do, but it will open your mind to give you one more scrap.
Myself: What, Audrey dear, come in already? (It is 9.30 p.m.—evening fine—moon full.)
Audrey: Yes, it was rather chilly, Auntie, and there's a heavy dew.
Myself (sweetly): I thought it such a charming evening for a stroll.
Audrey: I was afraid of my new frock, Auntie.
Myself (very sweetly): You're so thoughtful, dear. Has Mortimer come in too?
Audrey: I knew he was busy, so I told him he mustn't leave his work for me. He went in directly then, Auntie.
Myself (most sweetly): How thoughtful of you, darling!
Audrey: He did suggest I should stay a little while, but the dew——
Myself (breaking down): Good gracious, Audrey, what in the world &c., &c., &c.
Audrey (pathetically): I'm so sorry, Auntie dear!
Now what would you do in such a case, Herr Professor Sarah?
No doubt things will turn out for the best in the end, and I suppose I shall be grateful to poor Trix. But for the moment I wish to goodness she'd never run away! Anyhow she has achieved immortality. Barmouths of future ages will hush their sons and daughters into good marriages by threatening them with Trix Trevalla. She stands for ever the Monument of Lawlessness—with locks bedraggled, and skirts high above the ankle! She has made this aristocratic family safe for a hundred years. She has not lived in vain. And tell me any news of her. Have you had the Frickers to dinner since my eye was off you? There, I must have my little joke. Forgive me, Sarah!
Affectionately,
V. B.
'Tut!' said Mrs. Bonfill, laying down the letter, extracts from which she had been reading to her friend Lord Glentorly.
'She's about right as to Chance, anyhow,' he remarked. 'I was in the House, and you couldn't mistake his venom.'
'He doesn't count any longer.' Mrs. Bonfill pronounced the sentence ruthlessly.
'No, not politically. And in every other way he's no more than a tool of Fricker's. Fricker must have him in the hollow of his hand. He knows how he stands; that's the meaning of his bitterness. But he can make poor Mortimer feel, all the same. Still, as you say, there's an end of him!'
'And of her too! She was an extraordinary young woman, George.'