Mary Olivier: a Life Part 43

"Who _are_ the Sutcliffes?"

"Greffington Hall. The people who own the whole ghastly place. We were dining there. And Papa was funny."

"Funny? Funny what way?"

"Oh, I don't know.--Like Dan was at Mark's party.'

"Oh Roddy--" She was listening now.

"Not quite so awful; but that sort of thing. We had to come away."

"I didn't know he did."

"No more did I. Mamma always said it wasn't that. But it was this time.

And he chose that evening."

"Does Mamma mind frightfully?" she said.

"Yes. But she's angry with the Sutcliffes."

"Why?"

"Because they've _seen_ him."

"How many Sutcliffes are there?"

"Only him and Mrs. Sutcliffe. The son's in India.

"They'll never ask him again, and Mamma won't go without him. She says we can go if we like, but you can see she'll think us skunks if we do."

"Well--then we can't."

She had wanted something to happen, and something had happened, something that would bring unhappiness. Unhappiness. Her will rose up, hard and stubborn, pus.h.i.+ng it off.

"Will it matter so very much? Do the Sutcliffes matter?"

"They matter this much, that there won't be anything to do. They've got all the shooting and fis.h.i.+ng and the only decent tennis court in the place. You little know what you're in for."

"I don't care, Roddy. I don't care a bit as long as I have you."

"Me? Me?"

He had stopped on the steep of the road; her feet had been lagging to keep pace with him. He breathed hard through white-edged lips. She had seen him look like that before. The day they had walked to the Thames, to look at the s.h.i.+ps, over the windy Flats.

He looked at her. A look she hadn't seen before. A look of pa.s.sionate unbelief.

"I didn't think you cared about me. I thought it was Mark you cared about. Like Mamma."

"Can't you care about more than one person?"

"Mamma can't--"

"Oh Roddy--"

"What's the good of saying 'Oh Roddy' when you know it?"

They were sitting on a ledge of stone and turf. Roddy had ceased to struggle with the hill.

"We're all the same," he said. "I'd give you and Dan up any day for Mark.

Dan would give up you and me. Mark would give up all of us for Mamma. And Mamma would give up all of us for Mark."

Roddy had never said anything like that before.

"I'll stick to you, anyhow," she said.

"It's no use your sticking. I shan't be here. I shall have to clear out and do something," he said.

On his face there was a look of fear.

VI.

She was excited because they were going to the ivy house for tea. It looked so pretty and so happy with its green face s.h.i.+ning in the sun.

Nothing could take from her her belief in happiness hiding behind certain unknown doors. It hid behind the white doors of the ivy house. When you went in something wonderful would happen.

The ivy house belonged to Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin.

The photographs in Mamma's old alb.u.m showed how they looked when they and Mamma were young. Modest pose of dropped arms, holding mushroom hats in front of them as a protection, the narrow ribbons dangling innocently.

Ellen Frewin, small and upright, slender back curved in to the set of shawl and crinoline, prim head fixed in the composure of gentle disdain, small mouth saying always "Oh," Meta, the younger sister, very tall, head bent in tranquil meditation, her mantle slanting out from the fall of the thin shoulders.

They rose up in the small, green lighted drawing-room. Their heads bent forward to kiss.

Ellen Waugh: the photographed face still keeping its lifted posture of gentle disdain, the skin stretched like a pale tight glove, a slight downward swelling of the prim oval, like the last bulge of a sucked peppermint ball, the faded mouth still making its small "oh." She was the widow of a clergyman.

Meta, a beautiful nose leaping out at you in a high curve; narrow, delicate cheeks thinned away so that they seemed part of the nose; sweet rodent mouth smiling up under its tip; blurred violet eyes arching vaguely.

Princess gowns stiffened their shawl and crinoline gestures.

"So this is Mary. She's not like her mother, Caroline. Meta, can you see any likeness?"

Miss Frewin arched her eyes and smiled, without looking at you.

"I can't say I do."

Their heads made little nodding bows as they talked. Miss Frewin's bow was sidelong and slow, Mrs. Waugh's straight and decisive.

"She's not like Rodney," Mrs. Waugh said. "And she's not like Emilius.

Who is she like?"