The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Read online

  It was by no means the end of George Goss, for immediately the dance was over, there he was again.

  “Could we please do what you said,” appealed Griselda to Kynaston, “and sit this one out?” It was to have been Mr. Coote’s second dance, and Griselda considered that even he would have been preferable to George Goss.

  “Let’s look for the refreshments,” said Kynaston. “I expect there are some.” He put his arm round her waist to lead her away. It was hard on George Goss and Griselda smiled at him as she departed. He stood looking after her, fixed like a toad.

  But it was not to be. Mrs. Hatch appeared.

  “As Mr. Coote has been taken away, I should like you to meet Lord Roller.” Mrs. Hatch’s memory for the details she herself had organized, was appalling.

  The great Lord Roller, whose revelations had just shaken the entire world and lay behind the present festivity, was tall and stout, though dignified and wearing the most perfectly cut clothes.

  “Melanie suggests that we should dance,” he said in an attractive cultivated voice. “But I should prefer to sit and talk for just the few minutes allotted to me.”

  Griselda consented with relief. Kynaston prowled away, presumably after liquor.

  “It’s not that I never dance. On the contrary, twenty years ago I used to be considered rather good. But I’ve been having a tiring time lately and this evening, as you know, is rather a strain on some of us.”

  Griselda said she could well understand. They sat. They had moved round the perimeter of the dance floor looking for two empty chairs and had reached the comparatively inaccessible and deserted window side of the room.

  “However, no more of that. Let us talk of something else. What do you do in the world?”

  “Very little. For various reasons it’s difficult for me to leave home.”

  “That’s bad. The days when women stayed at home are over. For better or for worse. But over, I assure you. What are the reasons, or ought I not to ask?”

  Griselda hesitated. But Lord Roller had achieved his position in the world by being under all circumstances unfailingly re­assuring.

  “My Mother, mainly.”

  “Illness?”

  “Not exactly. Though she suffers a lot.”

  “I won’t enquire further.” Changing the subject, he said kindly, pointing out a well-­known figure: “You know that’s George Goss the painter?”

  “Yes. He’s staying in the house.”

  “I’ve known him since we were at Winchester together. Then he was a splendid young chap. Full of life. Quite irresistible. He did a drawing of me a year or two ago and I must say I thought he’d become something of an ox. When I saw the drawing I realized that he thought the same of me.”

  “You’re not at all like him,” said Griselda.

  “Our lives have been different. Mine has been spent in the City, like the rest of my family. I haven’t been able to let myself go in the way a great painter can. Despite appearances, I suspect I’m very much the man I was when I was at school. I observe that the Prime Minister hasn’t been provided with a water bottle.” He pointed to the bare green table at the end of the room. “That’s bad. Later I’ll have to see that something is done about it.”

  The Duchess passed dancing with Edwin. Seeing Lord Roller, she smiled radiantly; then, observing that he was in conversation with Griselda, smiled again, a little ruefully.

  “I’ve been in love with Odile for twenty years,” said Lord Roller. “To attempt concealment would be quite unavailing.”

  “You know you said you wouldn’t enquire further?”

  “Yes. I said that. Do you want me to enquire further? If so, I shall.”

  “Am I a pest? I should like advice.”

  “I know very little about the world outside business and politics. For that reason I should be honoured to advise you. I have all the confidence of ignorance. What is it about?”

  It was the next dance and Griselda looked round for Kynaston, but there was no sign of him. She and Lord Roller went on talking.­

  “I have decided to leave home. My Mother will have to get on as best she can.”

  “I can see that this is an entirely new resolution. I hope it is not based on what I just said. You must not take an old man, ignorant of life, too literally.”

  “No, Lord Roller. It is a new resolution, but I made it before I met you. The question is what best to do afterwards.”

  “I hardly know you well enough to advise you upon that. In any case, it is the most useless thing it is possible to advise upon. If you have no clear and conscious vocation in life, I advise you to marry and have children as soon as possible. Of course, I speak as a bachelor.”

  “I want your advice on something much more definite. I have few claims to a job of any kind, and, of course, a job I must have. A friend of mine has offered me one in the Secretariat of Sociology. It sounds pretty dull, because all the good jobs go to people with degrees, and I have no degree; but I have to promise to stick to it for three years. I don’t want to do that unless the result amounts to something, however small my contribution. I am sure you know all about the Secretariat of Sociology. Does it amount to anything?”

  “To save a young woman from the Secretariat of Sociology,” replied Lord Roller, “I would offer her a job myself. With all the new regulations the coalition will introduce, we shall be able to carry more passengers in the business. I quite understand that you wish not to be a passenger, but that is unusual, and you can take over the work of someone on our staff who does. If you care to write to me, I’ll see what can be done. It will at least be somewhere near productive employment.”

  “But I have no capacity. I cannot even type.”

  “If typing is necessary and you do not learn to type within a month of our engaging you, we shall, of course, engage you no longer. You said you wanted to do work which amounted to something. That is the sort of obligation which work amounting to something involves.”

  Griselda said: “Naturally.”

  He rose.

  “I have enjoyed our talk. Now I must see that the Prime Minister is given his water-­bottle, because the speeches will be soon, I regret to say. Have you a partner for the next dance?”

  It was Mr. Mackintosh’s turn.

  “Please do not wait, Lord Roller, if time is getting on. I’ll find him myself.”

  “We may meet again.”

  “Thank you for your advice.”

  He bowed and departed. His gait was full of distinction, his expression of confidence. As he passed through the throng, he nodded affably from time to time.

  There was still no sign of Mr. Mackintosh, and Griselda, feeling isolated, and still fearing George Goss, began, faute de mieux, to look round for Kynaston. Almost at once, she saw him. He was dancing with Pamela. Where previously Griselda had resented his attaching himself so calmly and firmly to her, she now resented his having anything to do with Pamela. In both cases resentment was only one of many feelings jumping about in Griselda’s mind, most of them without rising to consciousness; and in both cases she felt that resentment was unreasonable.

  Not wishing Kynaston, or Pamela either, to see her sitting by herself, she removed to a less conspicuous chair in the back row near a window. She recalled the term “wallflower” and wished someone nice would speak to her. She still thought her appearance compared favourably with the appearance of the other women present, but all her immediate neighbours were dull look­ing people seated in small groups, indifferent to the dancing, but talking among themselves, sometimes acrimoniously. Griselda desperately wished that Louise could be there.

  She began to study the scene impersonally. Though there were some beautiful women and distinguished looking men, the majority impressed as rowdy but dreary. They had, of course, Griselda recalled, been largely assembled for political rather than social reasons. There had been no sign of Mr. Leech since the fun began and Mrs. Hatch had now also disappeared, after a sequence of strenuous dances, dou
btless in order to settle final details of the feast of rhetoric which impended. Mr. Minnit, on the other hand, was dancing energetically with, as Griselda supposed, his wife. The Duke was now partnering the ravishing Lady Wolverhampton; and the Duchess one of the better dressed among the new Cabinet Ministers. In one corner there had been a minor disturbance for some time. Griselda had been only vaguely aware of the turmoil; now she perceived that it arose from attempts to prevent one of the splinter parties from posting propaganda bills on the ballroom wall. Mercifully George Goss was not to be seen. Possibly he was gone for a drink.

  “Do you think it was wise of us to exclude the Communists?”

  One of the group around Griselda had dried up conversationally and a member on the outskirts of it addressed her. He was elderly in the extreme and resembled a distinguished nonconformist dignitary.

  Griselda considered the question.

  “I don’t see what else we could have done.”

  “I think our appeal should be to all groups in the nation: to forget the past and think only of the future.” The speaker’s voice and accents were great-­grandpaternal. “I’ve always been a radical; and what are the Communists but today’s radicals? I’d be a Communist myself if I were still a young man.”

  “Hardly Zec. Not with your collection of fine old stocks and shares,” said a hard-­faced woman in his group, almost Zec’s contemporary.

  “It’s Travis Raunds who’s responsible for their not being invited,” Zec grumbled on. “The man’s nothing but a despot. What do you think, young woman? Let us heed the voice of youth.”

  “I’d rather leave it,” replied Griselda prudently, “to whoever issued the invitations. But tell me about Sir Travis Raunds. Is he here?”

  “Over there,” said Zec stabbing a desiccated forefinger towards the opposite side of the room. “The old deathshead to the right of the centre mirror. Most reactionary man in the country. I’ve fought him all my life and he’s fought me.”

  “You flatter yourself,” said the hard-­faced woman.

  Griselda stared at the man mentioned by Louise, father of Louise’s friend, Hugo Raunds. Though obviously very old, Griselda found him the most striking-­looking man in the room. He had a considerable quantity of white hair, fine aristocratic bones, and a yellowish skin. Despite his years, he sat very upright and his expression was that of a censorious Buddha. His long mouth had finely shaped lips, his nose was magnificently powerful, he was clean shaven, and his eyes, Griselda, whose sight was excellent, could see across the room, were a clear yellow.

  “Is his son Hugo here too?” asked Griselda.

  The effect was unexpected. Zec stared into Griselda’s eyes, his own the colour of granite setts and as unyielding, then said: “Young woman, it is time you learned that to shock and insult your elders is never amusing.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Griselda calmly. “Hugo Raunds is only a name to me. I know nothing whatever about him.”

  “I think,” said the hard-­faced woman, “that you’d be well advised to leave it at the apology.” Clearly she supported Zec in aggression though in however little else.

  Griselda was about to rise from her chair and walk away when she became aware of tapping on the high French window behind her.

  “I told you Hugo was a very secret man,” said the voice of Louise.

  Griselda nearly fell off her chair with surprise.

  The window had been opened and stood slightly ajar. Louise’s pale face and large glasses were just visible through the gap.

  “Have you got a partner?”

  “No. I’m a wallflower.”

  “Come away.”

  Louise’s hand entered through the gap, took Griselda by the wrist, and with unexpected strength drew her outside into the garden before she had time to consider. Louise shut the window and fastened it as easily as she had opened it. The two of them looked through the glass at the disgusted faces of Zec and his friends. A few of the other guests had noticed the brief draught; and it was clear that already, seconds later, they had forgotten it. Even Zec did not consider the incident worth rising from his seat to investigate.

  “Louise, I’ll be cold.”

  “I think not. If you are, there’s a cloak.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Temple of Venus.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of the Duke of St. Helens’s follies. We’re going there.” Indeed it was one of those precocious spring days which anticipate or excel Midsummer. There were stars and a moon. How very wrong Mullet had been!

  Louise had changed into a simple but elegant black coat and skirt and a white silk shirt. The night was full of her perfume.

  “You can see the Temple of Venus at the end of the vista. But the Water of Circe lies between us and it; so, as we have to go round it, the walk’s longer than it looks.”

  “Circe lived on an island.”

  “There is an island. In the middle of the lake. It’s where she’s buried.”

  “Circe?”

  “No. Not Circe.”

  “Stephanie?” Griselda almost whispered.

  “Of course.”

  They set out. It was a broad grassy way, cut wonderfully short. In lines parallel with the grass were beds of flowers just coming into bloom, but drained of what colour was theirs by the moon.

  “What about the dew?” Griselda’s shoes were for dancing.

  “There is no dew. That means it will probably rain tomorrow. We must make the most of tonight.”

  “Yes, you can smell in the flowers that rain’s coming.”

  “This morning’s rain also.”

  “It would be nice if it sometimes stayed fine for longer on end,” said Griselda.

  “Nice. But, like most nice things, probably unnatural,” replied Louise. “What do you think of dancing?”

  “I’ve never danced before tonight—or rather today.”

  “I know.”

  “Was it so obvious?”

  “It came out. Never mind. How do you like it?”

  “I think that much depends on one’s partner.”

  “When does it not?”

  They walked in silence the few more steps which brought them to the edge of the lake.

  “Don’t look back till we’re round the other side and have the lake between us and the house,” said Louise; and Griselda never thought of disobeying.

  “Give me your hand,” continued Louise. “The path round the lake is wooded and much rougher. There are roots.” Griselda placed her warm right hand in Louise’s chilly left one.

  As soon as they had entered the trees the music from the house rapidly faded away.

  “The path twists,” said Griselda.

  “The Duke did not intend the shortest way between two points.”

  “But the trees grow very regularly.”

  “They do not grow. They were planted. This is called the Grove of the Hamamelids because every tree bears a fruit.”

  Griselda did not know what Hamamelids were or had been, but the new blossom was ubiquitous, claiming alike the senses of sight, smell, hearing, and touch.

  “It’s an orchard.”

  “No, Griselda, it’s a grove. It’s believed to be the only grove of its kind anywhere.”

  After many swift sinuosities the path reached and crossed a wooden bridge in what appeared to be the Chinese style. The blossom, the moon, and the bridge compounded a scene very like to the Orient before one got there, thought Griselda.

  “This is the stream which feeds the lake,” said Louise.

  “Where’s the path?” asked Griselda, looking round. Beyond the bridge it appeared simply to stop, although hitherto it had been wide enough for the two of them abreast.

  “The path ends here. After they crossed this bridge, the Duke and Stephanie had no need of it; nor were others desired to follow them.”

  Griselda and Louise found their way hand in hand among the trees along the edge of the lake until they rediscovered the vis
ta.

  “Now you can look back.”

  Across the water and up the other half of the vista the house, normally a trifle obvious in aspect, appeared unbelievably mysterious. The misty moonlight blurred all detail, but across the line of long lighted windows the keen eyes of Griselda could see the moving figures metamorphosed into beauty by night and distance. Looking at them as they danced, it was impossible to believe they were the people Griselda had just left. At that distance she could imagine herself longing to join them.

  “If it were all like that,” she said, “we would neither of us ever wish to leave.”

  Now they were out of the grove, the music just reached them.

  Turning their backs on the sound and once more retreating from the populous house, they continued towards the Temple of Venus, now black before them at the other end of the vista.

  “I want to see you again, Louise,” said Griselda. “After I leave Beams.”

  “We will talk about that when we get to the Temple. It may not be possible, Griselda.”

  If there was any doubt, Griselda did not want to talk about it. She changed the subject.

  “Do you often come to the Temple?”

  “Only at night, when I can’t be seen. I wear black and it is not difficult to remain unobserved.”

  “Did the Duke build the Temple for Stephanie?”

  “Yes. She lived in the house, but she was happiest in the Temple. She was seldom happy, poor Stephanie.”

  “Like you, poor Louise.”

  “Like us, poor Griselda.”

  “I’m happy tonight.”

  Louise did not reply.

  They walked the short distance remaining in silence.

  At first sight in the darkness the Temple seemed to consist of a portico, surprisingly lofty, and with Ionic columns. Up three broad steps was a chamber open to the garden and appearing semi-circular in the moonlight.

  “Before you enter,” said Louise, stopping Griselda at the foot of the steps, “I think you had better put on this mask.” She produced a black velvet domino from a pocket of her jacket. Griselda was about to demur or enquire further, but thought better of it, and consented without a word to Louise putting the mask round her eyes and tying it tightly at the back of her head. Louise knew how to do this so that the wearer had no uncomfortable sensation that the mask was about to slip.