Frances thought: Was Grannie really stupid? Was she really innocent? Was she not, rather, clever, chock-full of the secret wisdom and the secret cruelty of s.e.x?
Frances was afraid of her thoughts. They came to her not like thoughts, but like quick rushes of her blood, partly confusing her. She did not like that.
She thought: Supposing Grannie knew all the time that Emmy was unhappy, and took a perverse pleasure in her knowledge? Supposing she was not really soft and gentle? She could be soft and gentle to her, because of her children and because of Anthony. She respected Anthony because he was well-off and efficient and successful, and had supported her ever since Grandpapa had gone bankrupt. She was proud of Frances because she was Anthony"s wife, who had had three sons and only one daughter.
Grannie behaved as if her grandchildren were her own children, as if she had borne three Sons and only one daughter, instead of four daughters and only one son. Still, Frances was the vehicle of flesh and blood that carried on her flesh and blood in Michael and Nicholas and John. She respected Frances.
But Frances could remember a time when she had been unmarried like her sisters, and when Grannie had turned on her, too, that look that was half contempt and half hostility or displeasure. Grannie had not wanted her to marry Anthony, any more than she would have wanted Louie or Emmeline or Edith to marry anybody, supposing anybody had wanted to marry them. And Frances and Anthony had defied her. They had insisted on marrying each other. Frances knew that if there had been no Anthony, her mother would have despised her in secret, as in secret she despised Emmeline and Edith. She despised them more than Louie, because, poor things, they wanted, palpably, to be married, whereas Louie didn"t, or said she didn"t. In her own way, Louie had defied her mother. She had bought a type-writer and a bicycle with her own earnings, and by partially supporting herself she had defied Anthony, the male benefactor, Louie"s manner intimated that there was nothing Frances had that she wanted. She had resources in herself, and Frances had none.
Frances persuaded herself that she admired and respected Louie. She knew that she, Frances, was only admired and respected because she had succeeded where her three sisters had failed. She was even afraid that, in moments of exasperation, Grannie used her and Anthony and the children to punish Emmy and Edie for their failure. The least she could do was to stand between them and Grannie.
It was possible that if Grannie had been allowed to ignore them and give her whole attention to Frances or Michael or Baby John, she could have contrived to be soft and gentle for an afternoon. But neither Louie nor Emmeline, nor even Edith, would consent to be ignored. They refused to knuckle under, to give in. Theirs was a perpetual struggle to achieve an individuality in the teeth of circ.u.mstances that had denied them any.
Frances acknowledged that they were right, that in the same circ.u.mstances she would have done the same.
In their different ways and by different methods they claimed attention.
They claimed it incessantly, Louie, the eldest, by an att.i.tude of a.s.surance and superiority so stiff and hard that it seemed invulnerable; Emmy by sudden jerky enthusiasms, exaltations, intensities; Edie by an exaggerated animation, a false excitement. Edie would drop from a childish merriment to a childish pathos, when she would call herself "Poor me," and demand pity for being tired, for missing a train, for cold feet, for hair coming down.
There would be still more animation, and still more enthusiasm when Anthony came home.
Frances prided herself on her power of foreseeing things. She foresaw that Anthony would come home early for his game. She foresaw the funny, nervous agony of his face when he appeared on the terrace and caught sight of Grannie and the three Aunties, and the elaborate and exquisite politeness with which he would conceal from them his emotion. She foresaw that she would say to Annie, "When the master comes tell him we"re having tea in the garden, under the tree of--under the ash-tree"
(for after all, he was the master, and discipline must be maintained).
She foresaw the very gestures of his entrance, the ironically solemn bow that he would make to her, far-off, from the terrace; she even foresaw the kind of joke that, for the life of him, he would not be able to help making. She was so made that she could live happily in this world of small, foreseen things.
III
And it all happened as she had foreseen.
Anthony came home early, because it was a fine afternoon. He made the kind of joke that calamity always forced from him, by some perversion of his instincts.
"When is an ash-tree not an ash-tree? When it"s a tree of Heaven."
He was exquisitely polite to Grannie and the Aunties, and his manner to Frances, which she openly complained of, was, he said, what a woman brought on herself when she reserved her pa.s.sion for her children, her sentiment for trees of Heaven, and her mockery for her devoted husband.
"I suppose we can have some tennis _now_," said Auntie Louie.
"Certainly," said Anthony, "we can, and we shall." He tried not to look at Frances.
And Auntie Edie became automatically animated.
"I can"t serve for nuts, but I can run. Who"s going to play with _me_?"
"I am," said Anthony. He was perfect.
The game of tennis had an unholy and terrible attraction for Auntie Louie and Auntie Edie. Neither of them could play. But, whereas Auntie Louie thought that she could play and took tennis seriously, Auntie Edie knew that she couldn"t and took it as a joke.
Auntie Louie stood tall and rigid and immovable. She planted herself, like a man, close up to the net, where Anthony wanted to be, and where he should have been; but Auntie Louie said she was no good if you put her to play back; she couldn"t be expected to take every ball he missed.
When Auntie Louie called out "Play!" she meant to send a nervous shudder through her opponents, shattering their morale. She went through all the gestures of an annihilating service that for some reason never happened.
She said the net was too low and that spoiled her eye. And when she missed her return it was because Anthony had looked at her and put her off. Still Aunt Louie"s att.i.tude had this advantage that it kept her quiet in one place where Anthony could dance round and round her.
But Auntie Edie played in little nervous runs and slides and rushes; she flung herself, with screams of excitement, against the ball, her partner and the net; and she brandished her racket in a dangerous manner. The oftener she missed the funnier it was to Auntie Edie. She had been pretty when she was young, and seventeen years ago her cries and tumbles and collisions had been judged amusing; and Auntie Edie thought they were amusing still. Anthony had never had the heart to undeceive her. So that when Anthony was there Auntie Edie still went about setting a standard of gaiety for other people to live up to; and still she was astonished that they never did, that other people had no sense of humour.
Therefore Frances was glad when Anthony told her that he had asked Mr.
Parsons, the children"s tutor, and young Norris and young Vereker from the office to come round for tennis at six, and that dinner must be put off till half-past eight.
All was well. The evening would be sacred to Anthony and the young men.
The illusion of worry pa.s.sed, and Frances"s real world of happiness stood firm.
And as Frances"s mind, being a thoroughly healthy mind, refused to entertain any dreary possibility for long together, so it was simply unable to foresee downright calamity, even when it had been pointed out to her. For instance, that Nicky should really have chosen the day of the party for an earache, the worst earache he had ever had.
He appeared at tea-time, carried in Mary-Nanna"s arms, and with his head tied up in one of Mr. Jervis"s cricket scarves. As he approached his family he tried hard not to look pathetic.
And at the sight of her little son her whole brilliant world of happiness was shattered around Frances.
"Nicky darling," she said, "why _didn"t_ you tell me it was really aching?"
"I didn"t know," said Nicky.
He never did know the precise degree of pain that distinguished the beginning of a genuine earache from that of a sham one, and he felt that to palm off a sham earache on his mother for a real one, was somehow a sneaky thing to do. And while his ear went on stabbing him, Nicky did his best to explain.
"You see, I never know whether it"s aching or whether it"s only going to ache. It began a little, teeny bit when the Funny Man made me laugh.
And I didn"t see the Magic Lantern, and I didn"t have any of Rosalind"s cake. It came on when I was biting the sugar off. And it was aching in both ears at once. It was," said Nicky, "a jolly sell for me."
At that moment Nicky"s earache jabbed upwards at his eyelids and cut them, and shook tears out of them. But Nicky"s mouth refused to take any part in the performance, though he let his father carry him upstairs.
And, as he lay on the big bed in his mother"s room, he said he thought he could bear it if he had Jane-p.u.s.s.y to lie beside him, and his steam-engine.
Anthony went back into the garden to fetch Jane. He spent an hour looking for her, wandering in utter misery through the house and through the courtyard and stables and the kitchen garden. He looked for Jane in the hothouse and the cuc.u.mber frames, and under the rhubarb, and on the scullery roof, and in the water b.u.t.t. It was just possible that on a day of complete calamity Jane should have slithered off the scullery roof into the water-b.u.t.t. The least he could do was to find Jane, since Nicky wanted her.
And in the end it turned out that Jane had been captured in her sleep, treacherously, by Auntie Emmy. And she had escaped, maddened with terror of the large, nervous, incessantly caressing hands. She had climbed into the highest branch of the tree of Heaven, and crouched there, glaring, unhappy.
"d.a.m.n the cat!" said Anthony to himself. (It was not Jane he meant.)
He was distressed, irritated, absurdly upset, because he would have to go back to Nicky without Jane, because he couldn"t get Nicky what he wanted.
In that moment Anthony loved Nicky more than any of them. He loved him almost more than Frances. Nicky"s earache ruined the fine day.
He confided in young Vereker. "I wouldn"t bother," he said, "if the little chap wasn"t so plucky about it."
"Quite so, sir," said young Vereker.
It was young Mr. Vereker who found Jane, who eventually recaptured her.
Young Mr. Vereker made himself glorious by climbing up, at the risk of his neck and in his new white flannels, into the high branches of the tree of Heaven, to bring Jane down.
And when Anthony thanked him he said, "Don"t mention it, sir. It"s only a trifle," though it was, as Mr. Norris said, palpable that the flannels were ruined. Still, if he hadn"t found that confounded cat, they would never, humanly speaking, have had their tennis.
The Aunties did not see Mr. Vereker climbing into the tree of Heaven.
They did not see him playing with Mr. Parsons and Anthony and Mr.