Twilight Sleep (20 page)

It was his usual note, but exaggerated, overemphasized, lacking the
Wyant touch—and he had gone on: "Though why the man who has
failed should offer advice to the man who has succeeded, I don't
know. Well, in this case it's about Jim… Yes, you're as fond
of Jim as I am, I know… Still, he's MY son, eh? Well, I'm not
satisfied that it's a good thing to take him away from his wife at
this particular moment. Know I'm old–fashioned, of course …
all the musty old traditions have been superseded. You and
your set have seen to that—introduced the breezy code of the
prairies… But my son's my son; he wasn't brought up in the new
way, and, damn it all, Manford, you understand; well, no—I suppose
there are some things you never WILL understand, no matter how
devilish clever you are, and how many millions you've made."

The apple–cart had been near upsetting; but if Manford didn't
understand poor Wyant's social code he did know how to keep his
temper when it was worth while, and how to talk to a weak
overexcited man who had been drinking too hard, and who took no
exercise.

"Worried about Jim, eh? Yes—I don't wonder. I am too. Fact is,
Jim's worked himself to a standstill, and I feel partly responsible
for it, for I put him onto that job at the bank, and he's been
doing it too well—overdoing it. That's the whole trouble, and
that's why I feel responsible to you all for getting him away as
soon as possible, and letting him have a complete holiday…
Jim's young—a fortnight off will straighten him out. But you're
the only person who can get him away from his wife and baby, and
wherever Lita is there'll be jazz and nonsense, and bills and
bothers; that's why his mother and I have offered to take the lady
on for a while, and give him his chance. As man to man, Wyant, I
think we two ought to stand together and see this thing through.
If we do, I guarantee everything will come out right. Do you good
too—being off like that with your boy, in a good climate, loafing
on the beach and watching Jim recuperate. Wish I could run down
and join you—and I don't say I won't make a dash for it, just for
a week–end, if I can break away from the family. A–1 fishing at
the island—and I know you used to be a great fisherman. As for
Lita, she'll be safe enough with Pauline and Nona."

The trick was done.

But why think of it as a trick, when at the time he had meant every
word he spoke? Jim WAS dead–beat—DID need a change—and yet could
only have been got away on the pretext of having to take his father
south. Queer, how in some inner fold of one's conscience a
collection of truths could suddenly seem to look like a tissue of
lies! … Lord, but what morbid rubbish! Manford was on his
honour to make the whole thing turn out as true as it sounded, and
he was going to. And there was an end of it. And here was
Cedarledge. The drive hadn't lasted a minute…

How lovely the place looked in the twilight, a haze of tender tints
melting into shadow, the long dark house–front already gemmed with
orange panes!

"You'll like it, won't you, Lita?" A purr of content at his elbow.

If only Pauline would have the sense to leave him alone, let him
enjoy it all in Lita's lazy inarticulate way, not cram him with
statistics and achievements, with expenditures and results. He was
so tired of her perpetual stock–taking, her perpetual rendering of
accounts and reckoning up of interest. He admired it all, of
course—he admired Pauline herself more than ever. But he longed
to let himself sink into the spring sweetness as a man might sink
on a woman's breast, and just feel her quiet hands in his hair.

"There's the dogwood! Look! Never seen it in bloom here before,
have you? It's one of our sights." He had counted a good deal on
the effect of the dogwood. "Well, here we are—Jove, but it's good
to be here! Why, child, I believe you've been asleep…" He
lifted her, still half–drowsing, from the motor—

And now, the illuminated threshold, Powder, the footmen, the
inevitable stack of letters—and Pauline.

But outside the spring dusk was secretly weaving its velvet spell.
He said to himself: "Shouldn't wonder if I slept ten hours at a
stretch tonight."

The last day before her husband's arrival had been exhausting to
Pauline; but she could not deny that the results were worth the
effort. When had she ever before heard Dexter say on such a full
note of satisfaction: "Jove, but it's good to be back! What have
you done to make the place look so jolly?", or seen his smiling
glance travel so observantly about the big hall with its lamps and
flowers and blazing hearth? "Well, Lita, this is better than town,
eh? You didn't know what a good place Cedarledge could be! Don't
rush off upstairs—they're bringing the baby down. Come over to
the fire and warm up; it's nipping here in the hills. Hullo, Nona,
you quiet mouse—didn't even see you, curled up there in your
corner…"

Yes; the arrival had been perfect. Even Lita's kiss had seemed
spontaneous. And Dexter had praised everything, noticed all the
improvements; had voluntarily announced that he meant to inspect
the new heating system and the model chicken hatchery the next
morning. "Wonderful, what a way you have of making things a
hundred per cent better when they seemed all right before! I
suppose even the eggs at breakfast tomorrow will be twice their
normal size."

One such comment paid his wife for all she had done, and roused her
inventive faculty to fresh endeavour. Wasn't there something else
she could devise to provoke his praise? And the beauty of it was
that it all looked as if it had been done so easily. The casual
observer would never have suspected that the simple life at
Cedarledge gave its smiling organizer more trouble than a season of
New York balls.

That also was part of Pauline's satisfaction. She even succeeded
in persuading herself, as she passed through the hall with its
piled–up golf clubs and tennis rackets, its motor coats and capes
and scarves stacked on the long table, and the muddy terriers
comfortably rolled up on chintz–cushioned settles, that it was
really all as primitive and impromptu as it looked, and that she
herself had always shared her husband's passion for stamping about
in the mud in tweed and homespun.

"One of these days," she thought, "we'll give up New York
altogether, and live here all the year round, like an old–fashioned
couple, and Dexter can farm while I run the poultry–yard and
dairy." Instantly her practical imagination outlined the plan of
an up–to–date chicken–farm on a big scale, and calculated the
revenues to be drawn from really scientific methods of cheese and
butter–making. Spring broilers, she knew, were in ever–increasing
demand, and there was a great call in restaurants and hotels for
the little foreign–looking cream–cheeses in silver paper…

"The Marchesa has rung up again, madam," Powder reminded her, the
second morning at breakfast. Everybody came down to breakfast at
Cedarledge; it was part of the simple life. But it generally ended
in Pauline's throning alone behind the tea–urn, for her husband and
daughter revelled in unpunctuality when they were on a holiday, and
Lita's inability to appear before luncheon was tacitly taken for
granted.

"The Marchesa?" Pauline was roused from the placid enjoyment of
her new–laid egg and dewy butter. Why was it that one could never
completely protect one's self against bores and bothers? They had
done everything they could for Amalasuntha, and were now
discovering that gratitude may take more troublesome forms than
neglect.

"The Marchesa would like to consult you about the date of the
Cardinal's reception."

Ah, then it was a fact—it was really settled! A glow of
satisfaction swept away Pauline's indifference, and her sense of
fairness obliged her to admit that, for such a service, Amalasuntha
had a right to a Sunday at Cedarledge. "It will bore her to death
to spend two days here alone with the family; but she will like to
be invited, and in the course of time she'll imagine it was a big
house–party," Pauline reflected.

"Very well, Powder. Please telephone that I shall expect the
Marchesa next Saturday."

That gave them, at any rate, the inside of a week to themselves.
After six days alone with his women–kind perhaps even Dexter would
not be sorry for a little society; and if so, Pauline, with the
Marchesa as a bait, could easily drum up a country–neighbour
dinner. The Toys, she happened to remember, were to be at the
Greystock Country Club over Easter. She smiled at the thought that
this might have made Dexter decide to give up California for
Cedarledge. She was not afraid of Mrs. Toy any longer, and even
recognized that her presence in the neighbourhood might be useful.
Pauline could never wholly believe—at least not for many hours
together—that people could be happy in the country without all
sorts of social alleviations; and six days of quiet seemed to her
measurable only in terms of prehistoric eras. When had her mind
ever had such a perspective to range over? Knowing it could be
shortened at will she sighed contentedly, and decided to devote the
morning to the study of a new refrigerating system she had recently
seen advertised.

Dexter had not yet made his tour of inspection with her; but that
was hardly surprising. The first morning he had slept late, and
lounged about on the terrace in the balmy sunshine. In the
afternoon they had all motored to Greystock for a round of golf;
and today, on coming down to breakfast, Pauline had learned with
surprise that her husband, Nona and Lita were already off for an
early canter, leaving word that they would breakfast on the road.
She did not know whether to marvel most at Lita's having been
coaxed out of bed before breakfast, or at Dexter's taking to the
saddle after so many years. Certainly the Cedarledge air was
wonderfully bracing and rejuvenating; she herself was feeling its
effects. And though she would have liked to show her husband all
the improvements she felt no impatience, but only a quiet
satisfaction in the success of her plans. If they could give Jim
back a contented Lita the object of their holiday would be
attained; and in a glow of optimism she sat down at her writing–
table and dashed off a joyful letter to her son.

"Dexter is wonderful; he has already coaxed Lita out for a ride
before breakfast… Isn't that a triumph? When you get back you
won't know her… I shouldn't have a worry left if I didn't
think Nona is looking too pale and drawn. I shall persuade her to
take a course of Inspirational treatment as soon as we get back to
town. By the way," her pen ran on, "have you heard the news about
Stan Heuston? People say he's gone to Europe with that dreadful
Merrick woman, and that now Aggie will really have to divorce
him… Nona, who has always been such a friend of Stan's, has of
course heard the report, but doesn't seem to know any more than the
rest of us…"

Nothing amused Arthur Wyant more than to be supplied with such tit–
bits of scandal before they became common property. Pauline
couldn't help feeling that father and son must find the evenings
long in their island bungalow; and in the overflow of her own
satisfaction she wanted to do what she could to cheer them.

In spite of her manifold occupations the day seemed long. She had
visited the baby, seen the cook, consulted with Powder about the
working of the new burglar–alarm, gone over the gardens, catalogues
in hand, with the head–gardener, walked down to the dairy and the
poultry yard to say that Mr. Manford would certainly inspect them
both the next day, and called up Maisie Bruss to ask news of her
mother, and tell her to prepare a careful list for the reception to
the Cardinal; yet an astonishing amount of time still remained. It
was delightful to be in the country, to study the working–out of
her improvements, and do her daily exercises with windows open on
the fresh hill breezes; but already her real self was projected
forward into complicated plans for the Cardinal's entertainment.
She wondered if it would not be wise to run up to town the next
morning and consult Amalasuntha; and reluctantly decided that a
talk on the telephone would do.

The talk was long, and on the whole satisfactory; but if Maisie had
been within reach the arrangements for the party would have made
more progress. It was most unlucky that the doctors thought Maisie
ought to stay with her mother till the latter could get a private
room at the hospital. ("A ROOM, of course, Maisie dear; I won't
have her in a ward. Not for the world! Just put it down on your
account, please. So glad to do it!") She really was glad to do
all she could; but it was unfortunate (and no one would feel it
more than Maisie) that Mrs. Bruss should have been taken ill just
then. To fill the time, Pauline decided to go for a walk with the
dogs.

When she returned she found Nona, still in her riding–habit,
settled in a sofa–corner in the library, and deep in a book.

"Why, child, where did you drop from? I didn't know you were
back."

"The others are not. Lita suddenly took it into her head that it
would be fun to motor over to Greenwich and dine at the Country
Club, and so father got a motor at Greystock and telephoned for one
of the grooms to fetch the horses. It sounded rather jolly, but I
was tired, so I came home. It's nearly full moon, and they'll have
a glorious run back." Nona smiled up at her mother, as if to say
that the moon made all the difference.

"Oh, but that means dancing, and getting home at all hours! And I
promised Jim to see that Lita kept quiet, and went to bed early.
What's the use of our having persuaded her to come here? Your
father ought to have refused to go."

"If he had, there were plenty of people lunching at Greystock who
would have taken her on. You know—the cocktail crowd. That's why
father sacrificed himself."

Pauline reflected. "I see. Your father always has to sacrifice
himself. I suppose there's no use trying to make Lita listen to
reason."

"Not unless one humours her a little. Father sees that. We
mustn't let her get bored here—she won't stay if we do."

Pauline felt a sudden weariness in all her bones. It was as if the
laboriously built–up edifice of the simple life at Cedarledge had
already crumbled into dust at a kick of Lita's little foot. The
engine–house, the poultry yard, the new burglar–alarm and the
heating of the swimming pool—when would Dexter ever have time to
inspect and admire them, if he was to waste his precious holiday in
scouring the country after Lita?

"Then I suppose you and I dine alone," Pauline said, turning a
pinched little smile on her daughter.