Anthony Powell - A Buyers Market

Before this incident was at an end, the Walpole-Wilson chauffeur had already begun to move off, and, looking back, the last I saw of the actors was a glimpse of the absolutely impassive face of Sir Magnus, as he strode with easy steps once more across the gravel to where Widmerpool was climbing out of his car. The sun was still hot. Its rays caught the sweat glistening on Widmerpool’s features, and flashed on his spectacles, from which, as from a mirror, the light was reflected. There was just time to see him snatch these glasses from his nose as he groped for a handkerchief. We passed under the arch, reaching the portcullis, and crossing the causeway over the moat, before anyone spoke. Once more the car entered the lanes and byways of that romantic countryside.

“That was a near one,” said Pardoe.

“Ought we to have stopped?” asked Lady Walpole-Wilson, anxiously.

“I wonder who it was,” she continued a moment later.

“Why, didn’t you see?” said Eleanor. “It was Mr. Widmerpool. He arrived at Stourwater some time after luncheon. Is he staying there, do you think?”

This information threw her mother into one of her not uncommon states of confusion, though whether the nervous attack with which Lady Walpole-Wilson was now visited could be attributed to some version, no doubt by that time hopelessly garbled, having come to her ears regarding Barbara and the sugar incident, it was not possible to say. More probably she merely looked upon Widmerpool and his mother as creators of a social problem with which she was consciously unwilling to contend. Possibly she had hoped that, in subsequent summers, the Widmerpools would find somewhere else in England to rent a cottage; or, at least, that after a single invitation to dinner the whole matter of Widmerpool’s existence might be forgotten once and for all. Certainly she would not wish, over and above such strands as already existed, to be additionally linked to his mother. That was certain. Nor could there be any doubt that she would not greatly care for the idea of Widmerpool himself being in love with her niece. At the same time, nothing could be more positive than the supposition that Lady Walpole-Wilson would, if necessary, have shown the Widmerpools, mother and son, all the kindness and consideration that their presence in the locality — regarded, of course, in relation to his father’s former agricultural connection with her brother-in-law — might, in the circumstances, justly demand.

“Oh, I hardly think Mr. Widmerpool would be staying at Stourwater,” she said; adding almost immediately: “Though I don’t in the least know why I should declare that. Anyway … he seemed to be driving away from the castle when we last saw him.”

This last sentence was the product of instinctive kindness of heart, or fear that she might have sounded snobbish: the latter state of mind being particularly abhorrent to her at that moment because the attitude, if existent, might seem applied to an establishment which she could not perhaps wholly respect. She looked so despairing at the idea of Widmerpool possessing, as it were, an operational base in extension to the cottage from which he, and his mother, could already potentially molest Hinton, that I felt it my duty to explain with as little delay as possible that Widmerpool had recently taken a job at Donners-Brebner, and had merely come over that afternoon to see Sir Magnus on a matter of business. This statement seemed, for some reason, to put her mind at ease, at least for the moment.

“I was really wondering whether we should ask Mr. Widmerpool and his mother over to tea,” she said, as if the question of how to deal with the Widmerpools had now crystallised in her mind. “You know Aunt Janet likes an occasional talk with Mrs. Widmerpool — even though they don’t always see eye to eye.”

What followed gave me the impression that Lady Walpole-Wilson’s sudden relief may have been to some extent attributable to the fact that she had all at once arrived at a method by which the Widmerpools might be evaded, or a meeting with them at least postponed. If this was her plan — and, although in many ways one of the least disingenuous of women, I think she must quickly have devised a scheme on that occasion — the design worked effectively, because, at this suggestion of her mother’s, Eleanor at once clenched her teeth in a manner that always indicated disapproval.

“Oh, don’t let’s have them over when Aunt Janet is here,” she said. “You know I don’t really care for Mr. Widmerpool very much — and Aunt Janet has plenty of opportunity to have her gossips with his mother when they are both in London.”

Lady Walpole-Wilson made a little gesture indicating “So be it,” and there the matter seemed to rest, where, I suppose, she had intended it to rest. Disturbed by mixed feelings set in motion by benevolence and conscience, she had been no doubt momentarily thrown off her guard. Comparative equilibrium was now restored. We drove on; and, by that evening, Widmerpool was forgotten by the rest of the party at Hinton Hoo. However, although nothing further was said about Widmerpool, other aspects of the visit to Stourwater were widely discussed. The day had left Sir Gavin a prey to deep depression. The meeting with Prince Theodoric had provided, naturally enough, a reminder of former grandeurs, and the congenial nature of their reunion, by agreeable memories aroused, had no doubt at the same time equally called to mind the existence of old, unhealed wounds.

“Theodoric is a man of the middle of the road,” he said. “That, in itself, is sympathetic to me. In my own case, such an attitude has, of course, been to a large extent a professional necessity. All the same it is in men like Karolyi and Sforza that I sense a kind of fundamental reciprocity of thought.”

“He seems a simple young man,” said Miss Walpole-Wilson. “I find no particular fault in him. No doubt he will have a difficult time with that brother of his.”

“Really, the Prince could not have been more friendly,” said Lady Walpole-Wilson, “and Sir Magnus, too. He was so kind. I can’t think why he has never married. So nice to see the Huntercombes. Pretty little person, Mrs. Wentworth.”

“So your friend Charles Stringham is engaged again,” said Rosie Manasch, rather maliciously. “I wonder why it hasn’t been in the papers. Do you think his mother is holding up the announcement for some reason? Or the Bridgnorths? They sound rather a stuffy pair, so it may be them.”

“How long ought one to wait until one puts an engagement in print?” asked Pardoe.

“Are you secretly engaged, Johnny?” said Rosie. “I’m sure he is, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” said Pardoe. “To half a dozen girls, at least. It’s just a question of deciding which is to be the lucky one. Don’t want to make a mistake.”

“I’ve arranged to see the hound puppies on Tuesday,” said Eleanor. “What a pity you will all be gone by then.”

However, she spoke as if she could survive the disbandment of our party. I pondered some of the events of the day, especially the situations to which, by some inexorable fate, Widmerpool’s character seemed to commit him. This last misfortune had been, if anything, worse than the matter of Barbara and the sugar. And yet, like the phoenix, he rose habitually, so I concluded, recalling his other worries, from the ashes of his own humiliation. I could not help admiring the calm manner in which Sir Magnus had accepted damage of the most irritating kind to his property: violation which, to rich or poor, must always represent, to a greater or lesser degree, assault upon themselves and their feelings. From this incident, I began to understand at least one small aspect of Sir Magnus’s prescriptive right to have become in life what Uncle Giles would have called “a person of influence.” The point about Jean that had impressed me most, I thought, was that she was obviously more intelligent than I had previously supposed. In fact she was almost to be regarded as an entirely new person. If the chance arose again, it was in that capacity that she must be approached.