“Oh, darling, are you sure? There’s a kind of distinction about that. I do feel you’re wrong, somehow. Don’t you think they read Stonehenge On the Horse?”
“I daresay. I meant a real book. I can’t think how Vivian stands it here. I love Trevellin, and I always shall, but the absence of any form of culture in the house, and the paucity of ideas of everybody in it would drive me to desperation if I had to live here!”
“Darling, you don’t mean to imply, do you, that that afflictive woman you live with exudes culture as well as Attar of Roses?”
She darted a kindling look at him, and replied stiffly: “Leila has extremely advanced ideas, and is a most interesting woman. In any case, I don’t propose to discuss her.”
“You’re always so right, precious. Bricks without straw.”
She ignored this remark, and the silence remained unbroken for some time. At length, she said abruptly: “If Father hadn’t married again, I expect I should have stayed here all my life.”
“Do you say that in a complaining spirit, or are you acknowledging your indebtedness to Faith?” he inquired.
“I could never play second fiddle to anyone,” she said. “Oh, I wouldn’t choose to come back, now that I have experienced a fuller life!”
He looked amused, but refrained from making any reply. She was looking out of the window, and presently remarked in her urgent way: “All the same, this country has a hold over one! I shall tramp up to Rough Tor, and Brown Gilly. Oh, the smell of the peat!”
“Do you find scents nostalgic?” he asked languidly. “They don’t have that effect on me at all.”
“The peat-stacks on the Moor, and the wild blocks of granite, and the still pools!” she said, disregarding him. “The white bedstraw under one’s feet, and the sharp scent of the thyme! Oh, there is no place on earth quite the same!”
“Darling, ought you to be quite so sentimental?” he asked solicitously. “I mean, it makes one feel slightly ill-at-ease. Besides, one has such a different conception of you.”
She gave a reluctant laugh. “You needn’t worry!”
“I do hope you are right, but I have the gravest misgivings. Oh, not about you, sweetie! Eugene wrote that Father has developed a most oppressive desire to gather us all together under the parental roof, and to keep us there.”
“Thank God I’m independent of Father!” said Charmian.
“Yes, darling, I am sure that is a most gratifying reflection, but it fails entirely to bring any relief to me,” said Aubrey somewhat acidly. “In fact, I find it a most corroding thought that you, who are so unworthy (being uncreative, my pet, which is the most degrading thing to be), should find yourself divorced from monetary cares, while I, who have created such lovely things, am obliged to come into these wilds for the express purpose of cajoling Father into paying the more urgent of my debts.”
“Well, why don’t you write a book that will sell?”
“Darling, really you ought to abandon the fuller life, and take up residence at Trevellin again!” Aubrey told her. “I’m saying it for your own good: that remark could only be appreciated by the Philistines.”
“Oh, I’ve never pretended to be anything but practical!” she replied. “If you don’t want to prostitute your art — is that how you would put it? — you’d better sell your hunters, and give up racing.”
“No, darling, that is not how I should put it,” said Aubrey gently. “You may have noticed that I have quite a horror of the cliché. What an arid type you are, dear one! Do not let us talk any more! It is dreadfully bad for my nerves, and I find that I have stupidly left my vinaigrette behind.”
Charmian gave a snort of contempt. The rest of the journey was accomplished in silence, the limousine setting them down at Trevellin in time for them to join the family at tea, which had been spread in the Yellow drawing-room.
Neither of the twins was present, but Ingram had walked up from the Dower House, Eugene reclined on a brocade sofa, and Raymond had just come in from the stables. Clara was pouring out, as usual; Faith and Clay were sitting together by the window; and Vivian was perched on the arm of Eugene’s sofa.
The Penhallows expressed themselves characteristically on beholding two of their number, Ingram ejaculating in accents of strong disgust: “Oh lord, I’d forgotten you were turning up today!”; Raymond giving the returned couple a brief Hallo; and Eugene waving a languid hand at them. Clara said she was glad to see them; but it was left to Faith to rise from her seat, and to make them welcome.
Charmian shook hands in a very strong-minded way, pulled the severe felt hat from her head, and threw it on to a chair, giving her head a little toss. She then dug her hands into the pockets of her flannel jacket, took up a stance by the table, with her feet widely planted, and said briskly: “Well! How are you all? I see you’re down already, Clay. I suppose Eugene’s still fancying himself a hopeless invalid. How’s Father?”
“I’m afraid he hasn’t been quite so well lately,” Faith answered. “At least —— well, you’ll see for yourself. He’s had one of his restless moods on him.”
“Drinking, I suppose,” said Charmian. “If that’s Indian tea, Aunt Clara, none for me. I brought a packet of Lapsang down with me, and handed it to Reuben as I came in, with instructions to Sybilla to make it in a china pot, and not in a metal one.”
“Heaven bless you, darling!” said Aubrey. “I forgot the tea question. Oh, just look at Eugene, ruining his digestion with that dreadful stuff Eugene, how imprudent of you!”
“If you imagine that Sybilla’s likely to make two separate lots of tea, you’ve probably got another guess coming to you,” observed Raymond. “You’d better forget that kind of affectation while you’re here. We’ve always had Indian tea, and we’re not likely to change.”
“I have no patience with people who allow themselves to be tyrannised over by old servants,” Charmian said forcefully. “This house has been crying out for someone to manage it for years. Faith, of course, is hopelessly inefficient; and Clara isn’t the housewifely type; but I must say, Vivian, I did hope that you might have pulled things together. You can’t have anything else to do. That rug needs darning, and I should say no one has polished the fender since I was last here.”
“It is not my house, and I’ve no interest in it whatsoever,” said Vivian coldly.
“In saying that I fervently trust that your visit is not to be of long duration, dear Char, I feel that I speak as the mouthpiece of us all,” said Eugene, giving his cup-and-saucer to Vivian. “No, not any more, darling: my appetite — such as it ever was — has been destroyed. But I must add, in fairness to Char, that Aubrey’s socks had as much to do with that as her east-wind personality.”
Aubrey gave a little shriek. “Cruel wretch! My lovely socks! Poems in silk, no less! How can you, Eugene?”
“They — and you -’ said Eugene, closing his eyes, “make me feel as though perhaps I should go to bed before dinner.”
“My dear, how too interesting!” Aubrey said, quite unruffled. “Antipathies and inhibitions! They say antipathies are always reciprocated, but I don’t think they can be, because I haven’t the least antipathy towards you. I adore being with you. There’s a fundamental likeness between us which always makes me say to myself: "There, but for the grace of God, goes Aubrey Penhallow.”
“Damned young puppy!” growled Ingram. “You want kicking more than anyone I ever met!”
“Oh, no, really not!” Aubrey assured him earnestly. “I’ve got a perfectly charming nature. It’s just my manner that you object to. I do so sympathise with you! I find all of you more than a little trying, so I know exactly how you feel!”
Ingram immediately became alarmingly red in the face, and began to say that Aubrey had better be careful. Clara recommended them all not to quarrel; and Clay wondered bitterly why he was wholly unable to hold his own against his family as Aubrey so triumphantly could, and did.
Chapter Twelve