Part 36 (1/2)

Trix sighed deeply. It was all terribly perplexing, and Tibby's letter was quite horribly pathetic. Anyhow she would go down to Woodleigh as soon as she possibly could.

She had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she had quite forgotten the pa.s.sing of time. It was with a start of surprise, therefore, that she heard the door open. At the selfsame moment the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. Trix got to her feet.

”My dearest,” exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, ”not gone to bed yet! And all the beauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. Not that you need it except in the way of preservation, dearest. For I always did tell you, regardless of making you conceited which I do not think I do do, that I have admired you from the time you were in your cradle. Well, food is the next best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. I am famished, positively famished. And I ate an excellent dinner, I know; but Bridge is always hungry work. Bring the tray to the fire, dearest. I see James has put it all ready. And ham, which I adore. It may be indigestible, though I never believe it with things I like. Not merely because I like to think so, but because it is true. Nature knows best, as she knew when I was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which always upset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are crying up tremendously nowadays.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. Trix brought the tray to a small table near her.

”And how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? Not dull, I hope? But the fire and a book are always the best of companions I think, to say nothing of one's own thoughts, though some people do consider day-dreaming waste of time. So narrow-minded. They read novels which are only other people's day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as saving library subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certain superiority in feeling they are your own. On the whole more satisfactory, too. Even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always be arranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. Though for my part it should always be happy. If you're happy you want it happy, and if you're not, you still want it to make you. If it weren't for the difficulty of dividing into chapters, I'd write my own day-dreams, and no doubt have a big sale. But publishers have an absurd prejudice in favour of chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty t.i.tles.

Quite brain-racking. A dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she always thought the t.i.tle the most difficult part of a book.”

She helped herself to a gla.s.s of sherry and two sandwiches as she concluded her speech.

”And did you really have a pleasant evening?” said Trix, politely interrogative.

Mrs. Arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively.

”Well, dearest, on the whole, yes. But unfortunately Mrs. Townsend was there. An excellent Bridge player, and I am always pleased to see her myself, but some people are so odd in their manner towards her. Quite embarra.s.sing really, in fact awkward at times. Absurd, too, with so good a player. And though her father was a grocer it was in the wholesale line, which is different from the retail. Besides, she married well, and doesn't drop her aitches.”

Trix's chin went up. ”I hate cla.s.s distinctions being made so horribly obvious,” said she with fine scorn.

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked thoughtful.

”Well, dearest, in Mrs. Townsend's case, perhaps. But not always. I remember a girl I knew married a farmer. Most foolish.”

”But why, if he was nice?” demanded Trix, exceedingly firmly.

”Oh, but dearest,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Arbuthnot, ”it was so unsuitable. He wasn't even a gentleman farmer. He had been a labourer.”

”He might have been a nice labourer,” contended Trix.

Mrs. Arbuthnot sighed. ”In himself, possibly. But it wouldn't do. The irritation afterwards. We are told to avoid occasions of sin, and it would not be avoiding occasions of ill-temper if you married a man like that. Beer and muddy boots, to say nothing of inferior tobacco. The glamour pa.s.sed, though for my part I cannot see how there ever would be any glamour, probably infatuation, the boots--you know the kind, dearest, great nails and smelling of leather--the beer and the tobacco would be so terribly obvious. No, dearest, it doesn't do.”

Trix was silent. After all wasn't she again arguing on a point regarding which she had had no real experience? Pia had tried the experiment, and declared it didn't work; and that, in the case of a man who _was_ of gentle birth, though posing as a labourer. In her own mind she felt it ought to work,--of course under certain circ.u.mstances. It was not the birth, but the mind that mattered. And, if there were the right kind of mind, there most certainly would not be the boots, the beer, and the tobacco. Trix was perfectly sure there wouldn't be. But it evidently was no atom of good trying to explain to other people what she meant, because they entirely failed to understand, and she was not certain that she could explain very well to herself even what she did mean.

It was not in the least that she had ever had the smallest desire to run counter to these conventions in any really important way, but she did hate hard and fast rules. Why should people lay down laws, as rigid as the laws of the Medes and Persians on matters that did not involve actual questions of right and wrong! There were enough of those to observe, without inventing others which were not in the least necessary.

It was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. She finished her sandwich and gla.s.s of sherry, swallowing a little lump in her throat at the same time. Then she spoke.

”Aunt Lilla,” she said impulsively, ”I want to go down to Woodleigh.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up.

”Woodleigh, dearest. You were there only a little time ago, weren't you?”

”It was in August,” said Trix. ”And, anyhow, I want to go again. You don't mind, do you?”

Mrs. Arbuthnot took another sandwich.

”That's the fifth,” she said. ”Disgraceful, but all the fault of Bridge.