‘Now, throw away your
preconceptions. Ladies fagged with walking in the heat — no, you don’t look it,
but I intuit it — always refresh themselves with an ice. I urge against it. An
ice is a deception: there is a momentary coolness in the mouth, but the
subsequent shock upon the stomach is anything but salutary to the system, and
the thing has no nourishment in it. You get up supposing you are restored, and
in a moment you are wilting again. I recommend instead a basin of Gill’s
excellent vermicelli — piping hot. Nature cries out in outrage: will this not
heat further? it will not. A friend of mine served three years with the East
India Company at Bombay, and there he saw — to his bewilderment at first — that
food in that fierce climate is commonly eaten raging with hot spices. He tried
it, and discovered that its effect on the system is actually cooling. The
vermicelli, besides, provides sustenance without apparent substance as it slips
down so easily. Now, try it, and tell me afterwards if I have not missed my
vocation.’
They tried it, and it
was just as Mr Hanley said — though he took none himself, pleading a late
breakfast. Lydia had a suspicion, from that rather full-lipped, soft-necked
handsomeness of his, that Hugh Hanley had to be watchful of his weight. But she
was pleased to see Phoebe looking less wan and weary and, above all, more like
Phoebe: prepared to be interested in everything that was new to her.
‘I suppose it is made of
the same thing as bread,’ she said wonderingly, ‘that is wheat, of course, but
— how curious that people around the world should think of such different
things to do with it. For my part, I doubt that I could ever have thought of
anything
to do with it — the way it just stands there in the field like stiff grass:
it scarcely looks as if you could eat it at all.’ She sucked in a thread
reflectively.
‘I am glad there is
someone else who thinks of these things,’ Mr Hanley said. ‘Observe that
carriage outside, bowling along — well, straining along as well as it can in Bath,
but nevertheless — I wonder, who first thought of those round things we call
wheels? He was certainly a benefactor to mankind, for the coaches must have
bumped horribly without them.’
‘Oh, but surely, if
there were coaches,’ Phoebe said, ‘then there cannot have been — oh.’ She
flushed, and smiled ruefully.
‘You do well to catch me
out in my nonsense, Miss Rae,’ he said, answering her smile, ‘for you have
surely divined that I am talking it as a diversion from what is really
occupying my mind. Very well: I must bore you with this again, because it
does
fret me — what is my uncle about?’ He turned to Lydia. ‘I make no apologies
for this question, because it is beyond apology — but really, is it all a piece
of flummery, designed to bring me to heel? Or does he have a lady in view?’
‘That is two questions,’
Lydia said, with an unaccountable feeling of sipping lemon or vinegar. ‘But I
can answer the one that is most troubling you, Mr Hanley, and assure you that
there is no lady, as you term it, in view.’
‘Oh, but, Lydia,
surely,’ put in Phoebe, coming out of wistful abstraction, ‘Mr Durrant is on
very friendly terms with Miss Allardyce.’
‘Friendly terms —
exactly,’ Lydia said, with prompt firmness. It was not that she particularly
wanted to relieve Hugh Hanky’s mind — not at all: but she was particular about
the truth. ‘Miss Allardyce is a mutual acquaintance of ours and Mr Durrant’s —
merely one of many.’ Not true, but never mind. ‘But come, Mr Hanley, you know
what Bath is like: if you wish to enquire into your uncle’s affairs, you have
only to open your ear to the latest gossip; a turn or two in the Pump Room
should do it.’
‘Precisely my thought,
and you are right to reprove me,’ he said, spreading his hands: though she could
see him storing up the name of Miss Allardyce. ‘I shall combine enjoyable
leisure with observation. I wonder if he will attend the Dress Ball. I should
so like to see Uncle Lewis dancing a cotillion.’
‘No cotillions at the
Dress Balls — only at the Fancy Balls on Fridays,’ Lydia said — with a little
plunge of the heart at the vacuous things that had been added to her knowledge.
‘In fact Mr Durrant dances quite capably, when he chooses.’
‘Well, if I am honest,
that does not surprise me: for there you have the conundrum of my uncle. I am
sure he can do many things when he chooses — but he does not choose! Now this,
candidly, I cannot understand. Miss Rae, I appeal to you. Isn’t life set before
us as a banquet to be tasted to the full? Or is it a fire to be shunned in case
it burns us? And if it is a fire — then should we not risk the burning, so that
we can warm ourselves at it, and mull wine at it, and — well, I’m trying to
think of something else to do with a fire that’s pleasant.’
‘See pictures in it,’
offered Phoebe, with a kind of sad brightening of expression.
‘Exactly. Miss Rae, I
hail a kindred spirit. Never fear, I’m done with being poetical. Takes it out
of you, rather. Now if only my uncle would see life in this way — and I speak
with respect — I’m sure he would be a good deal less unhappy.’
‘What makes you suppose
that Mr Durrant is unhappy?’ Lydia asked, with something of genuine curiosity,
and something of vague offence.
‘You are polite enough not
to refer to my own effect on him — the vexations I cause him: but these I
freely acknowledge, and I am not so vain as to claim that
I
am at the
root of it all. No: there is, it seems to me, a want of relish for life in Mr
Durrant, which is as melancholy as unaccountable.’
‘He relishes different
things from you, perhaps,’ Lydia said. ‘And I am certain that amongst all the
things he does
not
relish, being an object of pity would rank high.’
‘Really? Then there
indeed we differ: I will accept any kindly feeling on offer, from adoration
down to pity.’
‘If that were to be
taken seriously, it would suggest a man who has always been starved of kindly
feeling; and that, I am sure, Mr Hanley, cannot be the case.’
‘No: not at all,’ he
said, fixing her with a look at once jaunty and thoughtful. ‘And from what you
know of me, Miss Templeton, you may well conclude instead that I am the spoiled
child of fortune. Which I do not deny, to a certain degree. But consider: when
we met at the South Parade, you introduced me as Mr Durrant’s nephew. Apt, and
revealing: for that has long been the sum of my identity. A very tidy sum, I do
not quarrel with it: I only remark that being my bachelor uncle’s heir has
been, as it were, my place in life; and suddenly to face the prospect of losing
that place is a little disconcerting — as if a parson should find the church
door barred against him, and his congregation cutting him dead in the street.’
‘The parson might well
apply himself to the question of what he has done to deserve this fate.’
‘Oh, deserve — what do
any of us deserve?’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Probably a good deal less than we
get. I do not propose quarrelling with Providence. Nor, in truth, do I propose
quarrelling with my uncle: if he is really set upon this course, then I am the
last person in the world to be able to dissuade him. I only want to know
whether he is . . . serious.’ He shrugged, and beckoned for the bill. ‘An odd
word to hear from my lips, perhaps.’
‘And if you discover
that he
is
serious — what then?’
Mr Hanley paused,
sighed, and gave a smile of wry resignation. ‘Why, then I shan’t mind so much.
Which is not to say I shan’t mind at all.’
He paid the bill, tipped
the serving-man handsomely, apologised for the tedious subject, and on their
leaving the cook-shop talked pleasant nonsense until he parted from them at
Pulteney Bridge.
‘This will not be our
last meeting, of course: Bath does not allow of that. So permit me to say,
though you are surely despairing at the grim prospect, that I am glad of it. I
could go on — company of two ladies unequalled in elegance, grace, charm et
cetera — but you would not believe it, even though it is the truth, so I
won’t.’
Lydia, aware again of
the interested looks, the turn of bonneted heads, which followed the young
man’s departure, found her mind divided. She had looked forward to Hugh
Hanley’s arrival, simply as a stick with which to beat Mr Durrant’s
complacency: now she acknowledged that there was entertainment too, in his
company, especially after so much Bath staidness, and he seemed to have done
Phoebe good. Yet he made her uncomfortable. He was so far from awkwardness that
he could adapt himself to any position, as a cat can curl itself tidily on the
narrowest fence: she could not imagine finding anything he would disagree with,
at least on the surface. Nor did he lack perception; and though it went against
her nature to say so, Lydia felt he almost had too much of it: the effect was
like a handshake held too long.
Phoebe’s comment on the
famous Hugh Hanley was predictable. A very different character from Mr Durrant
— but thoroughly agreeable, she pronounced, as they crossed Pulteney Bridge.
Lydia felt that the time had come for Phoebe not to find people so agreeable,
even if it was not the time for her to say so.
‘Do
you
think Mr
Durrant is unhappy?’ Phoebe asked her.
‘Only about as much as
he likes to be. Mr Durrant would not be himself if he could not be perennially
at odds with the world. Being so hard to please is for him a sort of
cultivation — he is a connoisseur of dissatisfaction.’
‘Oh, I know that is how
he behaves — even perhaps how he thinks. But I do wonder how he feels — deep
down in his heart. There are such mysteries there — in everyone’s heart, I
mean; and the pity of it is they are so seldom brought to light.’
Lydia had a feeling it
was no longer Mr Durrant they were talking about. Phoebe’s eyes had misted
again, and Lydia felt she was not seeing the view of the glittering river
either. It was to be expected, of course, that she would keep sounding this melancholy
note. It had been a sad business this morning, though for the best; and Lydia
must look for everything that diversion and distraction could do, to prevent
Phoebe’s spirits relapsing. Here, tomorrow’s picnic expedition must do much:
not least as it would present Robert Allardyce before her — as contrast and
example. Not necessarily as anything so crude as the natural alternative: it
was to be hoped instead that Phoebe would now appreciate the ill-effects of
haste, bear in mind her youth and inexperience, and be in no rush to the altar.
Although if Mr Allardyce
should
bring himself to a declaration, that would be a very good thing
too; and Lydia could begin planning her packing with a feeling of satisfaction
— of vindication — of a job well done: feelings not usually associated with
intensity but that just now represented themselves to Lydia’s mind as the most
exquisite felicity.
‘There’s Mrs Vawser,’
Phoebe said, extinguishing happy thoughts with admirable economy.
There, or here, she was,
cooing at them from the seat of an open carriage being driven by her husband.
As he reined in the horses Lydia realised what sort of carriage it was.
‘Well, and how do you
like the barouche? Is it not the very thing? Such perfect weather for it — we
have been on the most delightful drive up to Claverton Down. I said to Mr
Vawser, “We must have a barouche — it is an absolute requirement with this
weather — country expeditions are the very thing.” You must be sadly in need of
an airing, Miss Rae, walled up in Bath in such weather!’
‘Oh, we are going on a
country expedition tomorrow,’ Phoebe said good-naturedly. ‘Just to—’
‘But how are you going?
Have you a barouche? There will be no pleasure in it without a barouche, I assure
you. And we were prodigious lucky to get this one. The livery-stable keeper had
nothing else left — nothing fit to be seen in.’
‘I think Mr Allardyce
spoke of hired chaises,’ Phoebe said, while Lydia groaned inside.
‘Lord! I wish you joy of
it, Miss Rae — stuffed up like that! A closed carriage!’ Mrs Vawser stared and
gasped as if they had proposed a pleasure-trip to a house of correction. ‘I
dare say you, Miss Templeton, will not mind it — you like being fugged up
indoors with your books, after all — but it is a shocking pity for you, Miss
Rae: youth and bloom locked up in a box! But never mind — you must come for a
drive with
us
as soon as you are at liberty. Just say the word — you
know where we are to be found. Now, promise you will: it will do you a great
deal of good; and you will not be at the mercy of strange coachmen. Mr Vawser
is an excellent driver, you know.’
‘Say it myself,’ uttered
Mr Vawser, ‘pretty good hand at the ribbons.’
How shapely life is
sometimes, thought Lydia. Her, her, her.
‘Thank you, that is very
kind of you,’ Phoebe said placidly. ‘I should not like to put you to any
trouble—’
‘Oh, my dear Miss Rae, I
see you must get to know me better, if you suppose me the sort of person who
sees a kindness as a trouble. My friends absolutely shake their heads over it.
“Penelope,” they say, “finds nothing a trouble.” Now, mind, I consider it a
promise.’
‘Well,’ Phoebe said,
when the Vawsers had paraded on their way, ‘one does not like to refuse
absolutely. I dare say she is a well-meaning woman after all.’