John Galsworthy - Maid In Waiting

“I’m coming round to you, Dinny; Boswell, you and Johnson can go now. We’ll look at the Portulaca this afternoon.” And she gazed up from under the tilted and enormous halo of her hat. “It’s Majorcan,” she said, “so shelterin’.”

“Boswell and Johnson, Auntie!”

“We had Boswell, and your uncle would look till we found Johnson. He makes them go about together. Do you believe in Doctor Johnson, Dinny?”

“I think he used the word ‘Sir’ too much.”

“Fleur’s got my gardenin’ scissors. What’s that, Dinny?”

“Hubert’s diary.”

“Depressin’?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been lookin’ at Professor Hallorsen—he wants takin’ in.”

“Begin with his cheek, Aunt Em.”

“I hope they’ll shoot some hares,” said Lady Mont; “hare soup is such a stand-by. Wilmet and Henrietta Bentworth have agreed to differ already.”

“What about?”

“Well, I couldn’t be bothered, but I think it was about the P.M., or was it Portulaca?—they differ about everything. Hen’s always been about Court, you know.”

“Is that fatal?”

“She’s a nice woman. I’m fond of Hen, but she does cluck. What are you doin’ with that diary?”

“I’m going to show it to Michael and ask his advice.”

“Don’t take it,” said Lady Mont; “he’s a dear boy, but don’t take it; he knows a lot of funny people—publishers and that.”

“That’s why I’m asking him.”

“Ask Fleur, she has a head. Have you got this zinnia at Condaford? D’you know, Dinny, I think Adrian’s goin’ potty.”

“Aunt Em!”

“He moons so; and I don’t believe there’s anywhere you could stick a pin into him. Of course I mustn’t say it to you, but I think he ought to have her.”

“So do I, Auntie.”

“Well, he won’t.”

“Or she won’t.”

“They neither of them will; so how it’s to be managed I don’t know. She’s forty.”

“How old is Uncle Adrian?”

“He’s the baby, all but Lionel. I’m fifty-nine,” said Lady Mont decisively. “I know I’m fifty-nine, and your father is sixty; your grandmother must have been in a great tear at that time, she kept on havin’ us. What do YOU think about this question of havin’ children?”

Dinny swallowed a bubble and said:

“Well, for married people, perhaps, in moderation.”

“Fleur’s going to have another in March; it’s a bad month—careless! When are you goin’ to get married, Dinny?”

“When my young affections are engaged, not before.”

“That’s very prudent. But not an American.”

Dinny flushed, smiled dangerously and said:

“Why on earth should I marry an American?”

“You never know,” said Lady Mont, twisting off a faded aster; “it depends on what there is about. When I married Lawrence, he was so about!”

“And still is, Aunt Em; wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be sharp!”

And Lady Mont seemed to go into a dream, so that her hat looked more enormous than ever.

“Talking of marriage, Aunt Em, I wish I knew of a girl for Hubert. He does so want distracting.”

“Your uncle,” said Lady Mont, “would say distract him with a dancer.”

“Perhaps Uncle Hilary knows one that he could highly recommend.”

“You’re naughty, Dinny. I always thought you were naughty. But let me think: there WAS a girl; no, she married.”

“Perhaps she’s divorced by now.”

“No. I think she’s divorcin’ him, but it takes time. Charmin’ little creature.”

“I’m sure. Do think again, Auntie.”

“These bees,” replied her aunt, “belong to Boswell. They’re Italian. Lawrence says they’re Fascists.”

“Black shirts and no after-thoughts. They certainly seem very active bees.”

“Yes; they fly a lot and sting you at once if you annoy them. Bees are nice to me.”

“You’ve got one on your hat, dear. Shall I take it off?”

“Stop!” said Lady Mont, tilting her hat back, with her mouth slightly open: “I’ve thought of one.”

“One what?”

“Jean Tasburgh, the daughter of our Rector here—very good family. No money, of course.”

“None at all?”

Lady Mont shook her head, and the hat wobbled. “No Jean never has money. She’s pretty. Rather like a leopardess.”

“Could I look her over, Auntie? I know fairly well what Hubert wouldn’t like.”

“I’ll ask her to dinner. They feed badly. We married a Tasburgh once. I think it was under James, so she’ll be a cousin, but terribly removed. There’s a son, too; in the Navy, all there, you know, and no moustache. I believe he’s stayin’ at the Rectory on furlong.”

“Furlough, Aunt Em.”

“I knew that word was wrong. Take that bee off my hat, there’s a dear.”

Dinny took the small bee off the large hat with her handkerchief, and put it to her ear.

“I still like to hear them buzz,” she said.

“I’ll ask him too,” answered her aunt; “his name’s Alan, a nice fellow.” And she looked at Dinny’s hair. “Medlar-coloured, I call it. I think he’s got prospects, but I don’t know what they are. Blown up in the war.”

“He came down again whole, I hope, Auntie?”

“Yes; they gave him something or other for it. He says it’s very stuffy in the Navy now. All angles, you know, and wheels, and smells. You must ask him.”

“About the girl, Aunt Em, how do you mean, a leopardess?”

“Well, she looks at you, and you expect to see a cub comin’ round the corner. Her mother’s dead. She runs the parish.”

“Would she run Hubert?”

“No; she’d run anybody who tried to run him.”

“That might do. Can I take a note for you to the Rectory?”

“I’ll send Boswell and Johnson,” Lady Mont looked at her wrist. “No, they’ll have gone to dinner. I always set my watch by them. We’ll go ourselves, Dinny; it’s only quarter of a mile. Does my hat matter?”

“On the contrary, dear.”

“Very well, then; we can get out this way,” and moving to the far end of the yew-treed garden, they descended some steps into a long grassy avenue, and, passing through a wicket gate, had soon arrived at the Rectory. Dinny stood in its creepered porch, behind her aunt’s hat. The door stood open, and a dim panelled hallway with a scent of pot-pourri and old wood, conveyed a kind of invitation. A female voice from within called:

“A—lan!”

A male voice answered: “Hal—lo!”

“D’you mind cold lunch?”

“There’s no bell,” said Lady Mont; “we’d better clap.” They clapped in unison.

“What the deuce?” A young man in grey flannels had appeared in a doorway. He had a broad brown face, dark hair, and grey eyes, deep and direct.

“Oh!” he said. “Lady Mont… Hi! Jean!” Then, meeting Dinny’s eyes round the edge of the hat, he smiled as they do in the Navy.

“Alan, can you and Jean dine to-night? Dinny, this is Alan Tasburgh. D’you like my hat?”

“It’s a topper, Lady Mont.”

A girl, made all of a piece and moving as if on steel springs, was coming towards them. She wore a fawn-coloured sleeveless jumper and skirt, and her arms and cheeks were fully as brown. Dinny saw what her aunt meant. The face, broad across the cheek-bones, tapered to the chin, the eyes were greenish grey and sunk right in under long black lashes; they looked straight out with a light in them; the nose was fine, the brow low and broad, the shingled hair dark brown. ‘I wonder!’ thought Dinny. Then, as the girl smiled, a little thrill went through her.

“This is Jean,” said her aunt: “my niece, Dinny Cherrell.”

A slim brown hand clasped Dinny’s firmly.

“Where’s your father?” continued Lady Mont.