'I'm looking forward to seeing our new house, said Beste-Chetwynde as they drove out from the station. 'Mamma says it may be rather a surprise.
The lodges and gates had been left undisturbed, and the lodge‑keeper's wife, white‑aproned as Mrs Noah, bobbed at the car as it turned into the avenue. The temperate April sunlight fell through the budding chestnuts and revealed between their trunks green glimpses of parkland and the distant radiance of a lake. 'English spring, thought Paul. 'In the dreaming ancestral beauty of the English country. Surely, he thought, these great chestnuts in the morning sun stood for something enduring and serene in a world that had lost its reason and would so stand when the chaos and confusion were forgotten? And surely it was the spirit of William Morris that whispered to him in Margot Beste‑Chetwynde's motor car about seed‑time and harvest, the superb succession of the seasons, the harmonious interdependence of rich and poor, of dignity, innocence, and tradition? But at a turn in the drive the cadence of his thoughts was abruptly transected. They had come into sight of the house.
'Golly! said Beste‑Chetwynde. 'Mamma has done herself proud this time.
The car stopped. Paul and Beste‑Chetwynde got out, stretched themselves, and were led across a floor of bottle-green glass into the dining‑room, where Mrs Beste-Chetwynde was already seated at the vulcanite table beginning her luncheon.
'My dears, she cried, extending a hand to each of them, 'how divine to see you! I have been waiting for this to go straight to bed.
She was a thousand times more beautiful than all Paul's feverish recollections of her. He watched her, transported.
'Darling boy, how are you? she said. 'Do you know you're beginning to look rather lovely in a coltish kind of way. Don't you think so, Otto?
Paul had noticed nothing in the room except Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde; he now saw that there was a young man sitting beside her, with very fair hair and large glasses, behind which his eyes lay like slim fish in an aquarium; they woke from their slumber, flashed iridescent in the light, and darted towards little Beste-Chetwynde.
'His head is too big, and his hands are too small, said Professor Silenus. 'But his skin is pretty.
'How would it be if I made Mr Pennyfeather a cocktail? Beste‑Chetwynde asked.
'Yes, Peter, dear, do. He makes them rather well. You can't think what a week I've had, moving in and taking the neighbours round the house and the Press photographers. Otto's house doesn't seem to be a great success with the county, does it, Otto? What was it Lady Vanburgh said?
'Was that the woman like Napoleon the Great?
'Yes, darling.
'She said she understood that the drains were satisfactory, but that, of course, they were underground. I asked her if she wished to make use of them, and said that I did, and went away. But, as a matter of fact, she was quite right. They are the only tolerable part of the house. How glad I shall be when the mosaics are finished and I can go!
'Don't you like it? asked Peter Beste‑Chetwynde over the cocktail‑shaker. 'I think it's so good. It was rather Chokey's taste before.
'I hate and detest every bit of it, said Professor Silenus gravely. 'Nothing I have ever done has caused me so much disgust. With a deep sigh he rose from the table and walked from the room, the fork with which he had been eating still held in his hand.
'Otto has real genius, said Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde. 'You must be sweet to him, Peter. There's a whole lot of people coming down to‑morrow for the week‑end, and, my dear, that Maltravers has invited himself again. You wouldn't like him for a stepfather, would you, darling?
'No, said Peter. 'If you must marry again do choose someone young and quiet.
'Peter, you're an angel. I will. But now I'm going to bed. I had to wait to see you both. Show Mr Pennyfeather the way about, darling.
The aluminium lift shot up, and Paul came down to earth.
'That's an odd thing to ask me in a totally strange house, said Peter Beste‑Chetwynde. 'Anyway, let's have some luncheon.
It was three days before Paul next saw Mrs Beste-Chetwynde.
* * *
'Don't you think that she's the most wonderful woman in the world? said Paul.
'Wonderful? In what way?
He and Professor Silenus were standing on the terrace after dinner. The half‑finished mosaics at their feet were covered with planks and sacking; the great colonnade of black glass pillars shone in the moonlight; beyond the polished aluminium balustrade the park stretched silent and illimitable.
'The most beautiful and the most free. She almost seems like the creature of a different species. Don't you feel that?
'No, said the Professor after a few moments' consideration. 'I can't say that I do. If you compare her with other women of her age you will see that the particulars in which she differs from them are infinitesimal compared with the points of similarity. A few millimetres here and a few millimetres there, such variations are inevitable in the human reproductive system; but in all her essential functions ‑ her digestion, for example ‑ she conforms to type.
'You might say that about anybody.
'Yes, I do. But it's Margot's variations that I dislike so much. They are small, but obtrusive, like the teeth of a saw. Otherwise I might marry her.
'Why do you think she would marry you?
'Because, as I said, all her essential functions are normal. Anyway, she asked me to twice. The first time I said I would think it over, and the second time I refused. I'm sure I was right. She would interrupt me terribly. Besides, she's getting old. In ten years she will be almost worn out.
Professor Silenus looked at his watch ‑ a platinum disc from Cartier, the gift of Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde. 'Quarter to ten, he said. 'I must go to bed. He threw the end of his cigar clear of the terrace in a glowing parabola. 'What do you take to make you sleep?
'I sleep quite easily, said Paul, 'except on trains.
'You're lucky. Margot takes veronal. I haven't been to sleep for over a year. That's why I go to bed early. One needs more rest if one doesn't sleep.
That night as Paul marked his place in The Golden Bough, and, switching off his light, turned over to sleep he thought of the young man a few bedrooms away, lying motionless in the darkness, his hands at his sides, his legs stretched out, his eyes closed, and his brain turning and turning regularly all the night through, drawing in more and more power, storing it away like honey in its intricate cells and galleries, till the atmosphere about it became exhausted and vitiated and only the brain remained turning in the darkness.
So Margot Beste‑Chetwynde wanted to marry Otto Silenus, and in another corner of this extraordinary house she lay in a drugged trance, her lovely body cool and fragrant and scarcely stirring beneath the bedclothes; and outside in the park a thousand creatures were asleep, and beyond that, again, were Arthur Potts, and Mr Prendergast, and the Llanabba stationmaster. Quite soon Paul fell asleep. Downstairs Peter Beste‑Chetwynde mixed himself another brandy and soda and turned a page in Havelock Ellis, which, next to The Wind in the Willows, was his favourite book.
* * *
The aluminium blinds shot up, and the sun poured in through the vita‑glass, filling the room with beneficent rays. Another day had begun at King's Thursday.
From his bathroom window Paul looked down on to the terrace. The coverings had been removed, revealing the half‑finished pavement of silver and scarlet. Professor Silenus was already out there directing two workmen with the aid of a chart.
The week‑end party arrived at various times in the course of the day, but Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde kept to her room while Peter received them in the prettiest way possible. Paul never learned all their names, nor was he ever sure how many of them there were. He supposed about eight or nine, but as they all wore so many different clothes of identically the same kind, and spoke in the same voice, and appeared so irregularly at meals, there may have been several more or several less.
The first to come were The Hon. Miles Malpractice and David Lennox, the photographer. They emerged with little shrieks from an Edwardian electric brougham and made straight for the nearest looking‑glass.
In a minute the panotrope was playing, David and Miles were dancing, and Peter was making cocktails. The party had begun. Throughout the afternoon new guests arrived, drifting in vaguely or running in with cries of welcome just as they thought suited them best.
Pamela Popham, square‑jawed and resolute as a big-game huntress, stared round the room through her spectacles, drank three cocktails, said: 'My God! twice, cut two or three of her friends, and stalked off to bed.
'Tell Olivia I've arrived when she comes, she said to Peter.
After dinner they went to a whist drive and dance in the village hall. By half‑past two the house was quiet; at half‑past three Lord Parakeet arrived, slightly drunk and in evening clothes, having 'just escaped less than one second ago' from Alastair Trumpington's twenty‑first birthday party in London.
'Alastair was with me some of the way, he said, 'but I think he must have fallen out.
The party, or some of it, reassembled in pyjamas to welcome him. Parakeet walked round bird‑like and gay, pointing his thin white nose and making rude little jokes at everyone in turn in a shrill, emasculate voice. At four the house was again at rest.
* * *
Only one of the guests appeared to be at all ill at ease: Sir Humphrey Maltravers, the Minister of Transportation. He arrived early in the day with a very large car and two very small suitcases, and from the first showed himself as a discordant element in the gay little party by noticing the absence of their hostess.
'Margot? No, I haven't seen her at all. I don't believe she's terribly well, said one of them, 'or perhaps she's lost somewhere in the house. Peter will know.
Paul found him seated alone in the garden after luncheon, smoking a large cigar, his big red hands folded before him, a soft hat tilted over his eyes, his big red face both defiant and disconsolate. He bore a preternatural resemblance to his caricatures in the evening papers, Paul thought.
'Hullo, young man! he said. 'Where's everybody?
'I think Peter's taking them on a tour round the house. It's much more elaborate than it looks from outside. Would you care to join them?
'No, thank you, not for me. I came here for a rest. These young people tire me. I have enough of the House during the week. Paul laughed politely. 'It's the devil of a session. You keen on politics at all?
'Hardly at all, Paul said.
'Sensible fellow! I can't think why I keep on at it. It's a dog's life, and there's no money in it, either. If I'd stayed at the Bar I'd have been a rich man by now.
'Rest, rest and riches, he said ‑ 'it's only after forty one begins to value things of that kind. And half one's life, perhaps, is lived after forty. Solemn thought that. Bear it in mind, young man, and it will save you from most of the worst mistakes. If everyone at twenty realized that half his life was to be lived after forty…
'Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde's cooking and Mrs Beste-Chetwynde's garden, said Sir Humphrey meditatively. 'What could be desired more except our fair hostess herself? Have you known her long?
'Only a few weeks, said Paul.
'There's no one like her, said Sir Humphrey. He drew a deep breath of smoke. Beyond the yew hedges the panotrope could be faintly heard. 'What did she want to build this house for? he asked. 'It all comes of this set she's got into. It's not doing her any good. Damned awkward position to be in ‑ a rich woman without a husband! Bound to get herself talked about. What Margot ought to do is to marry — someone who would stabilize her position, someone, said Sir Humphrey, 'with a position in public life.
And then, without any apparent connexion of thought, he began talking about himself. "Aim high" has been my motto, said Sir Humphrey, 'all through my life. You probably won't get what you want, but you may get something; aim low, and you get nothing at all. It's like throwing a stone at a cat. When I was a kid that used to be great sport in our yard; I daresay you were throwing cricket‑balls when you were that age, but it's the same thing. If you throw straight at it, you fall short; aim above, and with luck you score. Every kid knows that. I'll tell you the story of my life.
Why was it, Paul wondered, that everyone he met seemed to specialize in this form of autobiography? He supposed he must have a sympathetic air. Sir Humphrey told of his early life: of a family of nine living in two rooms, of a father who drank and a mother who had fits, of a sister who went on the streets, of a brother who went to prison, of another brother who was born a deaf‑mute. He told of scholarships and polytechnics, of rebuffs and encouragements, of a University career of brilliant success and unexampled privations.
'I used to do proof‑reading for the Holywell Press, he said, 'then I learned shorthand and took down the University sermons for the local papers.
As he spoke the clipped yews seemed to grow grey with the soot of the slums, and the panotrope in the distance took on the gay regularity of a barrel‑organ heard up a tenement staircase.
'We were a pretty hot lot at Scone in my time, he said, naming several high officers of state with easy familiarity, 'but none of them had so far to go as I had.
Paul listened patiently, as was his habit. Sir Humphrey's words flowed easily, because, as a matter of fact, he was rehearsing a series of articles he had dictated the evening before for publication in a Sunday newspaper. He told Paul about his first briefs and his first general election, the historic Liberal campaign of 1906, and of the strenuous days just before the formation of the Coalition.
'I've nothing to be ashamed of, said Sir Humphrey. 'I've gone farther than most people. I suppose that, if I keep on, I may one day lead the party. But all this winter I've been feeling that I've got as far as I shall ever get. I've got to the time when I should like to go into the other House and give up work and perhaps keep a racehorse or two' ‑ and his eyes took on the far‑away look of a popular actress describing the cottage of her dreams ‑ 'and a yacht and a villa at Monte. The others can do that when they like, and they know it. It's not till you get to my age that you really feel the disadvantage of having been born poor.
On Sunday evening Sir Humphrey suggested a 'hand of cards'. The idea was received without enthusiasm.
'Wouldn't that be rather fast? said Miles. 'It is Sunday. I think cards are divine, particularly the kings. Such naughty old faces! But if I start playing for money, I always lose my temper and cry. Ask Pamela; she's so brave and manly.
'Let's all play billiards and make a Real House Party of it, said David, 'or shall we have a Country House Rag?
'Oh I to feel such a rip, said Miles when he was at last persuaded to play. Sir Humphrey won. Parakeet lost thirty pounds, and opening his pocket book, paid him in ten‑pound notes.
'How he did cheat! said Olivia on the way to bed.
'Did he, darling? Well, let's jolly well not pay him, said Miles.
'It never occurred to me to do such a thing. Why, I couldn't afford to possibly.
Peter tossed Sir Humphrey double or quits, and won.
'After all, I am host, he explained.
'When I was your age, said Sir Humphrey to Miles, 'we used to sit up all night sometimes playing poker. Heavy money, too.
'Oh, you wicked old thing! said Miles.
Early on Monday morning the Minister of Transportation's Daimler disappeared down the drive. 'I rather think he expected to see mamma, said Peter. 'I told him what was the matter with her.
'You shouldn't have done that, said Paul.
'No, it didn't go down awfully well. He said that he didn't know what things were coming to and that even in the slums such things were not spoken about by children of my age. What a lot he ate! I did my best to make him feel at home, too, by talking about trains.
'I thought he was a very sensible old man, said Professor Silenus. 'He was the only person who didn't think it necessary to say something polite about the house. Besides, he told me about a new method of concrete construction they're trying at one of the Govermnent Superannuation Homes.
Peter and Paul went back to their cylindrical study and began another spelling‑lesson.
* * *
As the last of the guests departed Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde reappeared from her little bout of veronal, fresh and exquisite as a seventeenth‑century lyric. The meadow of green glass seemed to burst into flower under her feet as she passed from the lift to the cocktail table.
'You poor angels! she said. 'Did you have the hell of a time with Maltravers? And all those people? I quite forget who asked to come this week‑end. I gave up inviting people long ago, she said, turning to Paul, 'but it didn't make a bit of difference. She gazed into the opalescent depths of her absinthe frappé. 'More and more I feel the need of a husband, but Peter is horribly fastidious.
'Well, your men are all so awfill, said Peter.
'I sometimes think of marrying old Maltravers, said Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde, 'just to get my own back, only "Margot Maltravers" does sound a little too much, don't you think? And if they give him a peerage, he's bound to choose something quite awful….
In the whole of Paul's life no one had ever been quite so sweet to him as Margot Beste‑Chetwynde was during the next few days. Up and down the shining lift shafts, in and out of the rooms, and along the labyrinthine corridors of the great house he moved in a golden mist. Each morning as he dressed a bird seemed to be singing in his heart, and as he lay down to sleep he would pillow his head against a hand about which still hung a delicate fragrance of Margot Beste‑Chetwynde's almost unprocurable scent.
'Paul, dear, she said one day as hand in hand, after a rather fearful encounter with a swan, they reached the shelter of the lake house, 'I can't bear to think of you going back to that awful school. Do, please, write and tell Dr Fagan that you won't.
The lake house was an eighteenth‑century pavilion, built on a little mound above the water. They stood there for a full minute still hand in hand on the crumbling steps.
'I don't quite see what else I could do, said Paul.
'Darling, I could find you a job.
'What sort of job, Margot? Paul's eyes followed the swan gliding serenely across the lake; he did not dare to look at her.
'Well, Paul, you might stay and protect me from swans, mightn't you? Margot paused and then, releasing her hand, took a cigarette case from her pocket. Paul struck a match. 'My dear, what an unsteady hand! I'm afraid you're drinking too many of Peter's cocktails. That child has a lot to learn yet about the use of vodka. But seriously I'm sure I can find you a better job. It's absurd your going back to Wales. I still manage a great deal of my father's business, you know, or perhaps you didn't. It was mostly in South America in ‑ in places of entertainment, cabarets and hotels and theatres, you know, and things like that. I'm sure I could find you a job helping in that, if you think you'd like it.
Paul thought of this gravely. 'Oughtn't I to know Spanish? he said. It seemed quite a sensible question, but Margot threw away her cigarette with a little laugh and said: 'It's time to go and change. You are being difficult this evening, aren't you?
Paul thought about this conversation as he lay in his bath ‑ a sunk bath of malachite ‑ and all the time while he dressed and as he tied his tie he trembled from head to foot like one of the wire toys which street vendors dangle from trays.
At dinner Margot talked about matters of daily interest, about some jewels she was having reset, and how they had come back all wrong; and how all the wiring of her London house was being overhauled because of the fear of fire; and how the man she had left in charge of her villa at Cannes had made a fortune at the Casino and given her notice, and she was afraid she might have to go out there to arrange about it; and how the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings was demanding a guarantee that she would not demolish her castle in Ireland; and how her cook seemed to be going off his head that night, the dinner was so dull; and how Bobby Pastmaster was trying to borrow money from her again, on the grounds that she had misled him when she bought his house and that if he had known she was going to pull it down he would have made her pay more. 'Which is not logical of Bobby, she said. 'The less I valued this house, the less I ought to have paid, surely? Still, I'd better send him something, otherwise he'll go and marry, and I think it may be nice for Peter to have the title when he grows up.
Later, when they were alone, she said: 'People talk a great deal of nonsense about being rich. Of course it is a bore in some ways, and it means endless work, but I wouldn't be poor, or even moderately well‑off, for all the ease in the world. Would you be happy if you were rich, do you think?
'Well, it depends how I got the money, said PauL
'I don't see how that comes in.
'No, I don't quite mean that. What I mean is that I think there's only one thing that could make me really happy, and if I got that I should be rich too, but it wouldn't matter being rich, you see, because, however rich I was, and I hadn't got what would make me happy, I shouldn't be happy, you see.
'My precious, that's rather obscure, said Margot, 'but I think it may mean something rather sweet. He looked up at her, and her eyes met his unfalteringly. 'If it does, I'm glad, she added.
'Margot, darling, beloved, please, will you marry me? Paul was on his knees by her chair, his hands on hers.
'Well, that's rather what I've been wanting to discuss with you all day. But surely there was a tremor in her voice?
'Does that mean that possibly you might, Margot? Is there a chance that you will?
'I don't see why not. Of course we must ask Peter about it, and there are other things we ought to discuss first, and then, quite suddenly, 'Paul, dear, dear creature, come here.
* * *
They found Peter in the dining‑room eating a peach at the sideboard.
'Hullo, you two! he said.
'Peter, we've something to tell you, said Margot. 'Paul says he wants me to marry him.
'Splendid! said Peter. 'I am glad. Is that what you've been doing in the library?
'Then you don't mind? said Paul.
'Mind? It's what I've been trying to arrange all this week. As a matter of fact, that's why I brought you here at all. I think it's altogether admirable, he said, taking another peach.
'You're the first man he's said that about, Paul. I think it's rather a good omen.
'Oh, Margot, let's get married at once.
'My dear, I haven't said that I'm going to yet. I'll tell you in the morning.
'No, tell me now, Margot. You do like me a little, don't you? Please marry me just terribly soon.
'I'll tell you in the morning. There're several things I must think about first. Let's go back to the library.
* * *
That night Paul found it unusually diflicult to sleep. Long after he had shut his book and turned out the light he lay awake, his eyes open, his thoughts racing uncontrollably. As in the first night of his visit, he felt the sleepless, involved genius of the house heavy about his head. He and Margot and Peter and Sir Humphrey Maltravers were just insignificant incidents in the life of the house: this new‑born monster to whose birth ageless and forgotten cultures had been in travail. For half an hour he lay looking into the darkness until gradually his thoughts began to separate themselves from himself, and he knew he was falling asleep. Suddenly he was roused to consciousness by the sound of his door opening gently. He could see nothing, but he heard the rustle of silk as someone came into the room. Then the door shut again.
'Paul, are you asleep?
'Margot!
'Hush, dear! Don't turn on the light. Where are you? The silk rustled again as though falling to the ground. 'It's best to make sure, isn't it, darling, before we decide anything? It may be just an idea of yours that you're in love with me. And, you see, Paul, I like you so very much, it would be a pity to make a mistake, wouldn't it?
But happily there was no mistake, and next day Paul and Margot announced their engagement.