“Don’t panic, Giles,” said Mary soothingly. “You’re not committed to anything. You can back out of the whole thing tomorrow if you want to, and go and serve in a tea shop, if you think your feet are equal to the strain. Now wash everything out of your mind except that we’re going for an agreeable outing with an agreeable man on a beautiful spring day. Let’s get ready.”
“But there’s another twenty minutes,” said Miss Giles.
“If it doesn’t take you twenty minutes to get ready to go out with a man then it ought to,” said Mary.
“Leaving Mr. Wentworth out of it, I don’t know that I think a great deal of men,” said Miss Giles. “In fact, I think nothing of them.”
“Oh, nor do I,” said Mary. “It’s women I think a great deal of. I think we’re wonderful, Giles, and I think it’s very important for the salvation of mankind that we should keep the ascendancy. There’ll never be peace in the world till we do. And if you can keep the ascendant with your skirt dropping at the back and your nose shining I can’t.”
“What nonsense you talk,” said Miss Giles, but she went laughing down the passage to her room. It struck Mary, as she shut her door, that today was the first time she had heard old Giles laugh. She had a pretty laugh.
Behind her own shut door Miss Giles had a look at her skirt in the long glass and pulled it up to hang evenly. Then she sat down before her dressing table and looked with terror at the rows of bottles upon it. She had had a birthday two days ago, and Mary had given her a complete set of all that was necessary for presenting to the world the sort of face that Mary thought should be presented to it. Miss Giles had not dared to use any of the bottles yet but she had read all the little booklets enclosed with them, had mastered their contents and now had a clear working hypothesis for future procedure. Yet she remained terrified. “I must, to please O’Hara,” she said to herself, took a deep breath and shook the first bottle.
Yet as she applied the contents with her fingertips apprehension was lost in a wave of sheer delight as she realized that there was more than liking, there was love, between herself and Mary. Until this moment she had not fully known it. She looked at her bed and remembered the day she had had migraine and Mary had brought her tea. It had begun that day. Half blind with pain as she had been then she had thought Mary’s curly hair looked like the feathers of a bird, and remembered the poem about patience.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.
“If we wait for it, in such simple ways,” she thought, “through a bird’s song, a cup of tea, a child with a bunch of flowers, through men and women of good will. Why did I despair? Could I not have emulated, just for a moment or two, the eternal patience?”
2
“The cottage is in Farthing Square,” said Mary. “The front door is in the square, not on the river walk.”
“I’ve always thought I’d give my ears to live in Farthing Square,” said John. “No, not my ears, for I couldn’t hear the birds, my tongue. The tongue is an unruly member.” He began to whistle under his breath as he spurred Rozinante from side to side of High Street. He was in high spirits. It was halcyon weather and everything seemed going right. He was aware, of course, that sooner or later things would go wrong once more, that was life, but meanwhile he could pray again, he and Daphne had achieved a new happiness together, Harriet’s arthritis was better, the children were delivered from Oaklands, and Michael, Mary and Miss Giles had all three a springlike air about them. Especially Miss Giles. He had not liked to stare too much as she got into the car but her face had had almost a look of youth about it; smoother and less sallow.
“I’ve never been in Farthing Square,” said Miss Giles a trifle breathlessly, for this was only her second outing in Rozinante and she was not yet adjusted to John’s driving and Rozinante’s springs.
“Giles!” cried Mary, who was sitting behind her. “It’s the loveliest thing in Silverbridge. You’ve been here all these years and you’ve never been to Farthing Square!”
“It’s right on the edge of the town,” said Miss Giles apologetically. “A long walk.”
Mary was silent. Poor old Giles. Farthing Square a long walk. How tired she must always have been.
Rozinante swerved madly to the right to avoid a cat, to the left again to avoid the old lady who had nearly been murdered through avoidance of the cat, leaped into the air and arrived in Farthing Square. John jammed on the brakes and she came to rest against the pillar-box.
“Just to have a look at the square before we find the house,” explained John.
“Why, it’s like a village green!” whispered Miss Giles.
Delightful little Regency houses, all of miniature size, were built about a square of bright green grass. They were not identical though they conformed to the same pattern and all were built of mellow red brick. Some had dormer windows in their tiled roofs, some had not. Some of the little front doors had fanlights over them, others had fluted columns upon either side, some had both, and just a few had lantern holders in their front railings. Each house had a narrow strip of garden between itself and the railings and the scent of hyacinths and wallflowers filled the square. There was not a sound to be heard except the singing of the birds in the gardens behind the houses and no one was about except one tortoise-shell cat.
“I suppose people do live here?” asked Miss Giles. She was still unable to raise her voice above a whisper. She had a feeling that if she spoke out loud she would wake them up out of their dream.
“They must all be lying down,” said Mary. “We must remember Giles, that an afternoon siesta is de rigeur in Farthing Square. We must keep the children quiet then.”
“It’s no place for a school,” whispered Miss Giles in anguish. “People come here who need peace.”
“And who needs peace more than the modern child?” enquired John. “I’m sorry Pat is going to boarding school. She might have quieted down in Farthing Square.”
“It’s all right, Giles,” said Mary soothingly. “It’s only at break that the children are really noisy and the old ladies can arrange to do their shopping then. It’s a Dames’ School we’re going to open, Giles. What could be more in keeping?”
Miss Giles glanced sideways out of the corner of her eye at the little house outside which the pillar-box stood. It had everything, the fluted pillars, the fanlight and the lantern holders. The door was painted green and had a brass knocker on it. There was a syringa bush in the garden and the paved stone path led to the front door through a tangle of deep-red wallflowers. She was afraid to look at it too much because of them all it was the one she liked best.
“Now we must find Number Ten,” said John, and pressed the self-starter. They crawled slowly round the square, examining the numbers on the gates. There seemed no plan in the numbering, it was all anyhow, but that was in keeping with the charm of the place. What disturbed them was that they could not find Number Ten. “There’s no such place,” thought Miss Giles. “I was right. This is a dream.”
“Well, now we’re back where we started from,” said John, bumping into the pillar-box again.
“And this is Number Ten,” said Mary.
“There’s no number,” said John.
Miss Giles could not bring herself to look at the little house.
“Yes, look,” said Mary. “Hidden under the syringa bush. But the house looks lived in.”
“The old man died but his housekeeper is still here,” said John. “The agent told me. Can you manage to get out, Miss Giles?”
Miss Giles abruptly came to life and led the way. “It’s not true that I’m walking up this path,” she thought. “It’s not true that I’m knocking at the door.”
A voluble old woman opened the door and was pleased to see them. She was anxious to s
ee the house sold, she said, for she wanted to get away and live with her married daughter. But she’d promised the old man’s son to stay till the house was sold. “An empty place gets cold and damp and gives a bad impression,” she explained. “This way, Madam, please.”
Miss Giles had never been called Madam before. She would be, if she became headmistress of her own school. The trades-people would call her Madam. She would be respected.
There were only two sitting rooms, but they were a good size and looked south into the walled garden behind the house. The kitchen was roomy and comfortable and Annie would like it, Mary thought. There were three bedrooms upstairs and the windows of two of them looked over the garden wall to the river, the swans, the meadows and the woods and hills beyond. The garden had a camellia tree in it, roses and lilacs and a small green lawn.
“A bit small for a school,” said John doubtfully.
“Two good classrooms,” said Mary. “And plenty of room in the hall for the children’s coats and hats. For the little children we’ll have, that’s all we’ll want.”
“But where are you and Miss Giles to sit in the evenings?” asked John.
“The desks can be folded up and stand at each end of the two rooms when the children have gone,” said Mary. We’ll make ourselves comfortable enough, won’t we, Giles? And we’ll have these enchanting little bedrooms. Will you have this one, Giles?”
Miss Giles turned bemusedly from the window. She had always longed for a bedroom like this, with a wide view and a south window. Hers? Nothing was ever hers. Quite suddenly she suffered from violent reaction. This was madness. As a general rule, she told herself, she was a practical woman, not addicted to dreaming, but she had been living in a dream ever since the day Mr. Wentworth had run into the greengrocery van, come back to Oaklands with her and made her feel herself a duchess. She was not a duchess and he was much to blame that he had made her feel that she was. These wild quixotic daydreamers were nothing but a danger to the community.
“Mr. Wentworth,” she said coldly, “it’s not possible, either financially or psychologically. I’ve no capital. I’m too old to incur debt when I’m also too old to change the sort of woman that I am, a woman who can win neither the love of children nor the respect of their parents. How can I hope to make a success of this school?”
“You must make a success of it,” said John, “both financially and psychologically. As I see it, you’ve got to.” She looked at him. He had spoken as coldly as she had and there was nothing quixotic about the sternness of his face. “Financially, it should not be difficult. I have been talking to other parents of the Oaklands children and I am not the only one who wants the school to continue. If you like this house it will be bought for you and you will pay rent as its tenant. As regards what you said about respect and love, it’s not true. You have my respect and Margary’s love. Can’t you, psychologically, make a start with that? What do you want, Miss Giles? Do you want to write yourself off a failure, or do you want to take up again this job of teaching that you have in some respects done badly and do it again well? The element of the miraculous has come into your life. You are being offered a second chance.”
Miss Giles sat down on the nearest chair. “I must think about it,” she said weakly.
“Of course,” said John. “Meanwhile we haven’t seen the garden.”
3
Driving back to Belmaray John knew she would take her second chance. In the garden, as she picked a bunch of white violets under the garden wall, Mary had said, “I wonder if Aunt Rose ever refused a second chance?” No one had answered her but he had seen a look of panic on Miss Giles’s face.
There was at the moment a look of panic on his own. Where was he to find the three thousand pounds for the little house? It was true that other parents to whom he had spoken were glad for the school to continue. It was the only one of its kind in Silverbridge and they were prepared to take John’s word for it that Miss Giles humanized by Mary O’Hara would be a good working team. But John did not suppose that a single one of them was prepared to contribute much, if anything, towards the buying of the house. He had done it again. He was always getting himself into these terrible fixes. A course of action likely to benefit some man or woman would leap to his mind’s eye and he would go baldheaded for it, and remember too late that the means to encompass their good was not within his power. Yet how often, some way or other, the means had been found. They must be found again. He could not fail Miss Giles. He must see the other parents. He must see his bank manager. How much were his beloved stamps worth? He believed a great deal, but Margary loved them too. There were still treasures left at the manor that might be sold, but Aunt Maria had had to part with so much over the years and was so attached to her china and silver. And so was Daphne attached to Queen Henrietta Maria’s day bed and the French mirror. The thought of asking her to part with them made him shake in his shoes. That was the worst of it; his wild actions always involved others rather than himself in the annoyance of material loss. Sacrifice for others, though it may be painful, is not annoying when it is your own idea, but when somebody else thinks of it for you it is annoying as well as painful. To his astonishment he found he was at home. He put Rozinante away in the garage and went in to tea.
He drank his tea in silent anguish and then asked Margary to come into the study with him. He must make a beginning somewhere and the only possible point at which to begin was with something that was really his own. Margary came with him, as Isaac must have gone with Abraham, not knowing what was to be asked of her.
“Sweetheart, I’m in such a mess,” he said, dropping into his armchair. He had no need to act distress of mind. Never before had he so sympathized with Abraham. “A dreadful mess.”
Margary went pink with pleasure. All her life her first reaction to another’s plight was to be one of pleasure, followed instantly by one of compunction; now one could do something, but how awful to be pleased even if you could do something. Her flush faded and she stood before her father in a state of grave and sorrowful anxiety.
“Whatever have you done?” she asked. She had several times overheard Daphne ask the same question and it came spontaneously.
“Promised to buy a house for Miss Giles and Miss O’Hara without having the money to buy it with,” said John. “Sit here and I’ll tell you about it.” She sat down on the arm of his chair, wide-eyed. “They want to start a school together and they can’t have Oaklands any more now that Mrs. Belling is dead. There is a nice little house in Farthing Square they would like to have. They would be my tenants if I bought it. I’ll explain what that means later. It has a garden with white violets in it and on the other side of the garden wall there is the river with swans on it. Would you like to go there to school?”
“Who would be headmistress?” asked Margary.
“Miss Giles. I don’t think she would scold you in that house, because it would be her own and she would be happy in it. Also it’s to be called Farthing Cottage and how could anyone scold anyone else in a house called Farthing Cottage? But you needn’t go to school there if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll go,” said Margary. “Only you haven’t bought it yet. Will it cost much?”
“Not a great deal as houses go,” said John. “Only we’ll have to sell things to get the money.”
Their eyes roved anxiously round the room. One of the stamp albums was lying on John’s desk, for he and Margary had been putting some stamps in last night.
“You could sell the other chair,” said Margary. “Only then what would the parish sit on? Is the clock worth much?”
“Nothing in this room is worth much except our stamps,” said John heavily. “And they’re worth a great deal.”
“But you like the stamps,” said Margary.
“So do you,” said John.
There was a silence, and then Margary said, “Do Miss Giles and Miss O’Hara want the lit
tle house very badly?”
“Yes,” said John. “Very badly.”
“All right,” said Margary. “I don’t mind about selling the stamps if you don’t.”
“Actually, I do mind,” said John. “Only I haven’t anything else to sell.”
“Will there be enough when you’ve sold the stamps?” she asked.
“Not quite enough,” said John truthfully.
“Then you’d better have my pearl brooch my godmother gave me,” said Margary. “There’d be heaps then, for there are real pearls in it.”
“But you like your pearl brooch,” said John.
“Yes, but I’d like Miss Giles and Miss O’Hara to have the little house.”
“All right,” said John. “We’ll sell your brooch as well as the stamps. Thank you. Margary, this is our secret. No one must know that we sold our stamps and your brooch to buy Farthing Cottage. Except, of course, Mummy. Later we’ll both tell Mummy.”
“I won’t tell anybody but Mummy, ever,” promised Margary.
He had faith in her word. With no other child could he have entered into this conspiracy, but with Margary he could. “I know a man who’ll buy the stamps,” he said. “He’ll come here to look at them, but we must know what we’ve got. We must make a list. It will be hard work. Shall we start now?”
She jumped up in delight. To have work to do with Father was almost worth the pain of parting with the stamps and the brooch. Five minutes later they were happily engrossed.
4
For the Wentworths it was a day for buying and selling. Up at the manor Miss Wentworth was sitting in her drawing room with Mr. Entwistle. She had her best boots on and her battered felt hat was skewered on with unusual firmness. There were fresh flowers in the vases and she wore her mother’s diamond ring. The boots, the flowers and the ring were not to make a good impression, for Miss Wentworth never cared two pins what impression she made, good or otherwise; she believed she had assembled them with some vague remembrance of the finery Rupert Wentworth had donned for the painting of his portrait, with the cause lost and his queen not for him.