Her thoughts went on deep down under the stream of conversation that flowed through her from Mrs. Jervis on her right hand to Mrs. Vereker and Mrs. Norris on her left.
Veronica was good. But she was not wrapped up in other people"s lives as Frances was wrapped up. She was wrapped up, not in herself, but in some life of her own that, as Frances made it out, had nothing in the world to do with anybody else"s.
And yet Veronica knew what you were feeling and what you were thinking, and what you were going to do, and what was happening to you. (She had really known, in Dresden, what was happening to Nicky when Desmond made him marry her.) It was as if in her the walls that divide every soul from every other soul were made of some thin and porous stuff that let things through. And in this life of yours, for the moments that she shared it, she lived intensely, with uncanny delight and pain that were her own and not her own.
And Frances wanted some hard, tight theory that would reconcile these extremes of penetration and detachment.
She remembered that Ferdinand Cameron had been like that. He saw things.
He was a creature of queer, sudden sympathies and insights. She supposed it was the Highland blood in both of them.
Mrs. Vereker on her right expressed the hope that Mr. Bartholomew was better. Frances said he never would be better till chemists were forbidden to advertise and the _British Medical Journal_ and _The Lancet_ were suppressed. Bartie would read them; and they supplied him with all sorts of extraordinary diseases.
She thought: Seeing things had not made poor Ferdie happy; and Veronica in her innermost life was happy. She had been happy when she came back from Germany, before she could have known that Nicky cared for her, before Nicky knew it himself.
Supposing she had known it all the time? But that, Frances said to herself, was nonsense. If she had known as much as all that, why should she have suffered so horribly that she had nearly died of it?
Unless--supposing--it had been his suffering that she had nearly died of?
Mrs. Norris on her left was saying that she was sorry to see Mr. Maurice looking so sadly; and Frances heard herself replying that Morrie hadn"t been fit for anything since he was in South Africa.
Between two pop-gun batteries of conversation the serious theme sustained itself. She thought: Then, Nicky had suffered. And Veronica was the only one who knew. She knew more about Nicky than Nicky"s mother. This thought was disagreeable to Frances.
It was all nonsense. She didn"t really believe that these things happened. Yet, why not? Michael said they happened. Even Dorothy, who didn"t believe in G.o.d and immortality or anything, believed that.
She gave it up; it was beyond her; it bothered her.
"Yes. Seventy-nine her last birthday."
Mrs. Norris had said that Mrs. Fleming was wonderful.
Frances thought: "It"s wonderful what Veronica does to them."
The sets had changed. Nicholas and a girl friend of Veronica"s played against George Vereker and Miss Lathom; John, with Mr. Jervis for his handicap, played against Anthony and Mr. Norris. The very young Norris fielded. All afternoon he had hoped to distinguish himself by catching some ball in full flight as it went "out." It was a pure and high ambition, for he knew he was so young and unimportant that only the eyes of G.o.d and of his mother watched him.
Michael had dropped out of it. He sat beside Dorothy under the tree of Heaven and watched Veronica.
"Veronica"s wonderful," he said. "Did you see that?"
Dorothy had seen.
Veronica had kept Aunt Emmeline quiet all afternoon. She bad made Bartie eat an ice under the impression that it would be good for him. And now she had gone with Morrie to the table where the drinks were, and had taken his third gla.s.s of champagne cup from him and made him drink lemonade instead.
"How does she do it?" said Michael.
"I don"t know. She doesn"t know herself. I used to think I could manage people, but I"m not in it with Ronny. She ought to be a wardress in a lunatic asylum."
"Now look at that!"
Veronica had returned to the group formed by Grannie and the Aunties and some strangers. The eyes of the four Fleming women had looked after her as she went from them; they looked towards her now as if some great need, some great longing were appeased by her return.
Grannie made a place by her side for the young girl; she took her arm, the young white arm, bare from the elbow in its short sleeve, and made it lie across her knees. From time to time Grannie"s yellow, withered hand stroked the smooth, warm white arm, or held it. Emmeline and Edith squatted on the gra.s.s at Veronica"s feet; their worn faces and the worn face of Louie looked at her. They hung on her, fascinated, curiously tranquillized, as if they drank from her youth.
"It"s funny," Dorothy said, "when you think how they used to hate her."
"It"s horrible," said Michael.
He got up and took Veronica away.
He was lying at her feet now on the gra.s.s in the far corner of the lawn under the terrace.
"Why do you go to them?" he said.
"Because they want me."
"You mustn"t go when they want you. You mustn"t let them get hold of you."
"They don"t get hold of me--nothing gets hold of me. I want to help them. They say it does them good to have me with them."
"I should think it did do them good! They feed on you, Ronny. I can see it by the way they look at you. You"ll die of them if you don"t give it up."
"Give what up?"
"Your game of keeping them going. That is your game, isn"t it?
Everybody"s saying how wonderful Grannie is. They mean she ought to have been dead years ago.
"They were all old, horribly old and done for, ages ago. I can remember them. But they know that if they can get a young virgin sacrificed to them they"ll go on. You"re the young virgin. You"re making them go on."
"If I could--it wouldn"t hurt me. Nothing hurts you, Michael, when you"re happy. It"s awful to think how they"ve lived without being happy, without loving.
"They used to hate me because I"m Vera"s daughter. They don"t hate me now."
"You don"t hate what you feed on. You love it. They"re vampires. They"ll suck your life out of you. I wonder you"re not afraid of them.
"I"m afraid of them. I always was afraid of them; when I was a kid and Mother used to send me with messages to that beastly spooky house they live in. I used to think it was poor old Grandpapa"s ghost I funked. But I know now it wasn"t. It was those four terrible women. They"re ghosts.
I thought you were afraid of ghosts."
"I"m much more afraid of you, when you"re cruel. Can"t you see how awful it must be for them to be ghosts? Ghosts among living people. Everybody afraid of them--not wanting them."
"Michael--it would be better to be dead!"
Towards the end of the afternoon Frances"s Day changed its appearance and its character. In the tennis courts Michael"s friends played singles with an incomparable fury, frankly rejecting the partners offered them and disdaining inferior antagonists; they played, Ellis against Mitch.e.l.l and Monier-Owen against Nicholas.
They had arrived late with Vera and Lawrence Stephen.
It had come to that. Anthony and Frances found that they could not go on for ever refusing the acquaintance of the man who had done so much for Michael. Stephen"s enthusiastic eulogy of Michael"s Poems had made an end of that old animosity a year ago. Practically, they had had to choose between Bartie and Lawrence Stephen as the turning point of honour. Michael had made them see that it was possible to overvalue Bartie; also that it was possible to pay too high a price for a consecrated moral att.i.tude. In all his life the wretched Bartie had never done a thing for any of them, whereas he, Michael, owed his rather extraordinary success absolutely to Lawrence Stephen. If the strike made his father bankrupt he would owe his very means of livelihood to Lawrence Stephen.