Anna, Where Are You?

CHAPTER XIV

The Miss Tremletts were very proud of their converted stable. By knocking down partitions between the stalls a large living-room had been contrived, with a kitchenette and a bathroom beyond, whilst a staircase ran up with what they considered a most decorative effect to three bedrooms above.

“So nice to have room to give a party,” as Miss Elaine said. “Our cottage at Wyshmere was most picturesque, but so very small and so very dark. Leaded panes, you know-and quite authentic, so it would have been impossible to replace them, but they let in so very little light. And though, of course, candles or even rushlights would be more in character, we cannot help feeling most grateful for the supply of electricity from dear Peveril’s installation.”

Miss Silver found the room a little too suggestive of a barn. Its plain whitewashed walls did not appeal to her. What she admired was a nice wallpaper with a satin stripe or bunches of flowers. She did not think that the chairs looked as if they would be comfortable. They had angular archaic shapes and were entirely destitute of upholstery. Hand-made rugs strewed the floor. Miss Gwyneth’s loom stood by one of the windows.

Miss Elaine, small and thin in a pea-green smock, and Miss Gwyneth, larger and inclined to billow in a sacklike garment of peacock-blue, were both all that was welcoming and kind. That the welcome was more particularly directed towards Mr. Craddock did not at all surprise Miss Silver, since from the first moment of her arrival in Deep End it had been made perfectly plain to her that everything in Harmony revolved round him. The sisters were polite to her and affectionate to “dear Emily,” but their deference, their enthusiasms, their flutterings centred upon Peveril. They fluttered a good deal, assisted by a flowing of scarves and a jingle of beads. With her pea-green smock Miss Elaine wore a necklet of blue and silver beads from Venice and a long string of Chinese amber, whilst Miss Gwyneth’s peacock curves supported a short row of cornelians and two longer strings, one of pink coral and the other filagree silver and amethyst. Miss Elaine had fair, faded hair in a pre-Raphaelite knot on the nape of her neck. Miss Gwyneth wore hers, which was grey and rather sparse, in a long straight bob to the shoulder which gave her an odd resemblance to some French abbé of the eighteenth century.

Miss Silver’s hand was pressed by Miss Elaine.

“We hope you are going to like being here. We are a friendly Community.”

It was pressed by Miss Gwyneth.

“It is not the best time of year for the country, but each season has its beauty. Are you a nature-lover?”

It being her private opinion that the country was a cold and draughty place and only too apt to be lacking in modern conveniences, Miss Silver found it best to make a noncommittal reply. She was able to say with truth that she had spent a good deal of time in country places.

“And if one is interested in one’s work, surroundings are of secondary importance.”

Miss Elaine said vaguely, “Ah, yes-the children. They interest you?”

“Extremely.”

Miss Elaine fidgeted with her amber beads.

“They are a little uncontrolled, but of course as Peveril says, one can only guide, never thwart the expression of the ego. But if you are interested, that is the great thing. And such a privilege to work with him!”

A little later on it was Miss Gwyneth who, in a louder voice and with greater freedom of gesture, emphasized the privilege alluded to by Miss Elaine.

“I hope you appreciate it, but I am sure you do. Those two girls did not-Miss Ball and Miss Dally. Not the right type at all, either of them-Miss Dally so thoughtless, and Miss Ball so wrapped up in herself. The real teacher must be ready to give-my sister and I feel that so strongly. Now I am sure you- But let me introduce you to Miranda.”

Miss Silver’s hand was taken and held in a clasp which became oppressive.

“We have met!” said Miranda in her deepest voice. She drew Miss Silver aside. “We will not say where. It is not an auspicious spot. You have not brought the children? Perhaps it is as well. The harmony of a social gathering is so easily disturbed. I find Boys a disturbing element. They are crude and violent. But something might be made of Jennifer. There are points of interest, but she is in revolt against her circumstances. Even against Peveril. Strange! He is very patient, very forbearing. He will not thwart her. But his friends cannot help being indignant on his behalf. Such a marvellous opportunity for the child, and she does not appreciate it! Adolescence? Perhaps! It is a time of ferment and revolt! Very trying for poor Emily. The maternal instinct is strong in her, but she is devoted to Peveril.”

Under these rather odd phrases Miss Silver discerned a homely desire to gossip about the Craddocks. Encouraging this, she found herself on a comfortless oak settle with Miranda. The subject of Emily’s maternal instinct was pursued. It appeared that she had been in the habit of going upstairs to kiss her children good-night, and that Peveril had put a stop to it as likely to result in a mother-fixation.

“I do not know that I agree. These psychological terms! A little extreme! And Benjy is only four. It is at these times that a mother wins her children’s confidence.”

It was not in the least necessary for Miss Silver to reply, since Miranda was always ready to go on talking. This was fortunate, because she had no desire to be quoted as disapproving of Mr. Craddock. She listened with interest to a description of his aura, and to the assertion that he was intensely psychic.

“Had he given his mind to it he would have been a wonderful medium. But he resists. I have told him so plainly. I have said, ‘Peveril, you resist,’ and he has not denied it. His work lies in other directions-he has told me so. You know, of course, that he is engaged upon a Monumental Work. It was very good of him to come this afternoon. Most gratifying for Gwyneth and Elaine, but they should not expect him to waste his time at social functions. They adore him of course. Gwyneth wove the stuff of that white smock, and Elaine embroidered it with the Signs of the Zodiac. It is very becoming, but I do not know that Emily was pleased. She is no needlewoman, and does not rise above the mending-basket.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“There is a good deal of mending.”

Miranda was attired in a long black velvet robe. It was low in the neck, and the hanging sleeves disclosed a pair of strong white arms. Her red hair had been combed and was partially confined by a purple fillet. It threatened to break loose now as she made a vigorous gesture.

“There should not be so much. The children wear nothing but shorts and jerseys. Jennifer should do her own mending. Even Maurice could learn to use a darning-needle. Emily has the slave mentality. She allows herself to be Put On.” She contrived to invest this homely phrase with a gloomy significance which persisted through an enumeration of other weak points in Emily Craddock’s character.

“She cannot cook.” Miranda’s tone was tragic. “I have tasted lentils there which were not fit for human consumption. I will not say that I have eaten them. That was Impossible! The position was serious-we feared for Peveril’s health. But Mrs. Masters now prepares the meals before she leaves. She cannot, of course, do the housework as well, and since it is beyond Emily’s strength, I fear that much of it remains undone. Marriage makes more demands upon women than it did. They should learn to cook and to make use of labour-saving appliances. But when I suggested a vacuum-cleaner, Emily asserted that it would use too much current. Now I happen to know that the electric light installation is an extremely powerful one. I said to her, ‘Emily, you are being obstructive,’ and she could not deny it. She is one of those people who appear to yield but contrive to get their own way. In the matter of the electric current she does not know what she is talking about. I do not believe in concealing my opinion. I told her so.”

It was at this moment that a door opened at the head of the stairs and Thomasina Elliot appeared. She wore a grey dress which matched her eyes, and she had a most becoming colour in her cheeks. As it happened, she saw Miss Silver before Miss Silver saw her. Since she had known that they would meet, the sight did not surprise her. Her colour deepened a little, but she continued on her way down. She had in fact reached the seventh step, when Miranda exclaimed and Miss Silver looked up. She did not require the information contained in a contralto whisper, but she undoubtedly sustained a shock. Not only was she quite unprepared for the appearance of Thomasina Elliot, but nothing could have given her less pleasure. With commendable self-control she turned to Miranda.

“You said-?”

“Elaine and Gwyneth’s paying guest. They have one sometimes, but not generally so young. They knew this girl’s aunt in Wyshmere.”

Thomasina had reached the foot of the stairs. She was being introduced to Emily, to Peveril, to the little man in a blue blouse who was Augustus Remington, to Miranda, to Miss Silver herself.

“This is our young friend, Ina Elliot. We have delightful recollections of her aunt, Mrs. Brandon.

Miss Silver took her cue. Since Thomasina was being introduced as a stranger, strangers they would be. She said in a reserved tone,

“How do you do, Miss Elliot? Are you making a long stay?”

Thomasina was not insensitive. She was prepared for disapproval, but she had not known that it would affect her so unpleasantly. She had not felt so much in the wrong since her first year at school. It was most dreadfully undermining. She found herself tripping over her words.

“I d-don’t know. It d-depends.”

Miss Silver continued to look through her. She said,

“Town is, I think, preferable at this time of year, unless there is work that takes one into the country. But that would not be your case.”

Thomasina said, “N-no.” She had not stammered since she was ten years old. She was furious with herself and with Miss Silver.

Miss Elaine struck in.

“We hope that she will stay as long as she can. Such a pleasure. But she must not find it dull. Now I wonder-” she addressed Miss Silver-“if you and the children are walking tomorrow, whether she might join you. She is so very fond of children-are you not, my dear?”

“If I shouldn’t be in the way-” said Thomasina Elliot.

There was a pleading note in her voice, but Miss Silver’s look did not soften. She gave a grave assent and turned from Thomasina to meet Augustus Remington, brought up to her by Miss Gwyneth. He was a slender creature, pale and wispy like a plant that has grown in the dark-hair of the colour called lint-white in Scotland, soft and unsubstantial as a baby’s-slender hands, slender feet-rather indeterminate features. He wore blue corduroy trousers and a belted blouse of the same pattern as Mr. Craddock’s, but without embroidery. He had a whispering way of talking, and used his hands a good deal.

“Miranda has told me about you. She said you were psychic -or did she-I don’t know. Perhaps she said you were not psychic-I have a most distressing memory, and Miranda talks so much. Now are you, or are you not?”

“I have no claim to being psychic, Mr. Remington.”

He threw up his hands in horror.

“Not that formal name! The legacy of ancestors from whom one strives to free oneself! Besides, too, too suggestive of the typewriter! Could anything be more repugnant! What distasteful visions it calls up-rattle, rattle, rattle-click, click, click! Could anything describe me less! No-call me Augustus! It suggests the spacious peace of summer days-mellow pastures -the lap of water-the murmur of bees and of the homing dove. What is your name?”

In the interests of her profession Miss Silver was prepared for many sacrifices, but there were limits. She was not prepared to be called Maud by Augustus Remington. She said primly,

“I prefer to be addressed as Miss Silver.”