Outbreak of Love (10 page)

“I would love it,” said Russell.

They went on into the ballroom where we had pushed the chairs against the wall, and had been dancing to Viennese waltzes played by Wolfie. Now there was a slight excitement, as Miss Rockingham was going to dance a tango with Lord Wendale. She was standing by the piano, explaining the rhythm of the tango to Wolfie.

“It goes like this,” she said, playing a few notes with one finger, “tum-tum-ti-tum.”

“Please again,” said Wolfie.

Miss Rockingham repeated the notes and Wolfie sat still for half a minute while the Spirit of the Tango hovered round his head. Then it touched his brain and quivered along his nerves to his finger-tips, and he began to drum out a passionate Argentine rhythm. Miss Rockingham nodded and turned into the waiting arms of Patrick Wendale. They came with solemn twirls down the room, but he was only an accessory to her splendid movements. Her heavy lids were lowered, her equine nostrils dilated, but a faint smile lightened her heavy jaw. Her two long ropes of large pearls swung out in an elaboration of the graceful lines of her own body. She looked sensual and yet dignified and above all extremely satisfied. Like Russell she had always wanted the best, and now she was exhibiting her own first-rate ability, which was to dance, and especially to dance the tango, with its undulating movements and genuflections.

Arthur said that she “looked like David dancing before the Ark”, but Russell standing with Diana at the door, watched her with the close attention he gave to any artistic performance. When she stopped he began the clapping, and she bowed to him. She then went over to talk to Elsie Radcliffe, and in a moment had turned herself back from an odalisque into an English gentlewoman.

Diana felt a touch of uneasiness at this performance. It was not exactly jealousy, as it was altogether away from her line of country, a little too exotic. Wolfie began again his Viennese waltzes and she danced with Russell. Anthea was dancing with Freddie Thorpe and Josie with John Wyckham. There were half-a-dozen other couples. Wolfie ogled the dancers with a mixture of paternal benevolence and concupiscence.

This seemed to us by far the best part of the evening, though it had all been lively and amusing. The influence of Elsie's house prevailed, and even this party to which many people had come with trepidation, thinking it would be too “cultured” for them, and which Wolfie had thought would advance his musical reputation, had turned out to be tremendous fun, with Wolfie doing most to provide it.

At last Cousin Sophie stopped discussing counterpoint with Lady Pringle, and told the twins that they must not keep the cab waiting any longer. Lady Wendale apologised to Elsie for staying so long, but added: “It was a wonderful party. The nicest we've been to since we came here.”

In the hall I waited for Anthea to implement her promise to drive me home, but she appeared to have forgotten it, and when I suggested to Cousin Sophie that they might drive round by Mildy's house, she said: “Oh no, it's much too late.”

I looked crestfallen and Miss Rockingham turned on me one of those rich amused smiles which she bestowed on the young.

“We can give him a lift, can't we Dolly?” she said.

To my surprise and delight I found myself driving home in the enormous Government House car, whereas the twins still used the horse cab to which they had gone to children's parties. This was the climax to a glorious evening. As I walked up Mildy's path I buried my face in a flowering shrub.

There was a light in Mildy's “living-room” as she called her drawing-room, thinking this smart and modern, though as Arthur pointed out, one lives in every room except a mortuary chapel. I imagined that she had left the light on for me, but when I came in I found her sitting before a few red cinders, being too dispirited even to put a log on the fire. She did not look up, but sat perfectly still, emanating a sense of ill-usage.

“I've had a marvellous evening,” I said. “I came back in the Government House car with the Wendales and everybody.”

Mildy appeared to find great difficulty in speaking. Still without looking up she said: “That was …” there was a long pause and then with a faint hiss she brought out the word “nice”.

To dispel the atmosphere of morbid depression I spoke loudly and cheerfully: “The twins didn't give me a lift after all. Cousin Sophie said it was too late, so Miss Rockingham said they would, which was a slap in the eye for the twins.”

This acted as a restorative to Mildy. “There,” she said, “you see they're absolutely selfish. Anthea stopped you coming with me in the nice car I hired for us, and then she would have left you to walk home. I hope you'll have nothing more to do with them, now you know what they are.”

“But that's absurd,” I exclaimed. “You can't part for ever from someone because they don't give you a lift in a cab.”

“It's not only that. They've always despised us, and its not very loyal of you to be friendly with them.”

“Loyal to what?”

“To—to us,” said Mildy. I did not know whether she meant to the peculiar bond which she pretended existed between herself and me, or to all of us who were not the descendants of her uncle Walter, whom her father had dubbed the Enemy. I did not know that she had extended the application of this word to include all girls and even young men of my generation, who might deprive her of my company. The twins therefore were doubly inimical.

“You spent the whole evening with them and you've learnt your lesson.”

“But I haven't,” I protested. She was much too upset to be restored to reason by a breezy manner.

“Now you're being rude,” she said.

“I'm sorry. But I don't see that it's rude to say that I won't stop knowing the only girls that I do know, except Josie, who's like a sister.” This was turning the sword in Mildy's wound.

“I'm sorry you don't find it entertaining here, but doubtless you can find somewhere more amusing. You might live with the twins.”

“Actually they did ask me tonight,” I said hotly, but added with honest weakness, “though I don't think they meant it.”

Mildy was in that neurotic state when her sensitivity responded only to the stings and ignored the assuagement.

“You'd better go then,” she said in a trembling voice. “I've tried to make you comfortable, but apparently I'm not rich or smart enough. You want someone who can drive you home in a horse cab.”

I was horrified at the implication of ingratitude, and also at the idea of leaving Mildy's house as the result of a quarrel, not only because my father would be annoyed, but because I was dimly aware that there was something ridiculous in sharing an emotional quarrel with my aunt, and that the twins would be very funny about it.

“You've made me wonderfully comfortable,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to enjoy myself.”

“So I do, but in a sensible way.”

“What have I done that's not sensible?”

She searched round for something other than not spending the whole evening between herself and Miss Bath. “You shut your eyes and put on an affected artistic manner when Wolfie was playing that horrible music.”

With her inverted reasoning, she did not understand that the last way to endear herself to a young man was to expose his adolescent absurdities.

“I'd better go to bed,” I said in a subdued voice. Mildy took this as an acceptance of her rebuke, and proferred her cheek, barely concealing the queenliness of the great courtesan of her fantasy, under the modest demeanour of an aunt, receiving the dutiful kiss of a nephew.

Afterwards she referred to this as “that horrid evening when we quarrelled”.

Although during my conversation with Mildy the visions, illuminated in my mind as I stepped from the Government House car, flickered and grew dim, becoming utterly black at the moment of our kiss, as I lay awake soothed by the luxury of the bed which she had bought for me, they began to glow again, and I saw before me brilliant routes into experience. As we have noted, the illuminations of young people, though dazzling, follow each other in quick succession, and are more in the nature of hallucinations. To older people they are more serious, and Diana felt that in some way the party had shown her the journey in life that she wished to make, but for which she had long ceased to hope. This was due to her conversation with Russell.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next day the evening paper gave an account of the party, but only mentioned that “during the evening Mr Von Flugel played the piano”. This was not exactly a public recognition of Wolfie's genius, but in Saturday's
Age
there was a long article by Lady Pringle on the importance of the music of Wolfgang von Flugel. He was so proud of this that in the evening he took it in to read to Mrs Montaubyn, who did not understand a word of it. He also gave her a description of the grand party given in his honour, which only filled her with resentment that she had not been invited. She was sure that Wolfie could, if he wanted to, introduce her into circles which she felt that her money and her name entitled her to enter. He was treating her as if she were a street woman, whereas she had not “gone with” anybody since she had met him, and so considered herself highly respectable, especially as she never took money from gentlemen, but was more apt to bestow it. A woman with a flat on the same floor, with whom she sometimes came up in the lift, had been amused and attracted by her, and a few days after Wolfie's visit, Mrs Montaubyn confided to her that she wanted to “get into society” but did not know how to set about it.

“Oh, you want to write your name at Government House,” said the woman, partly to avoid introducing Mrs Montaubyn to her own friends, and she explained how and where to do this.

Diana was not very hurt that Wolfie again went out for the evening and left her alone. She was expecting Russell to ring up and ask her to meet him at the tea-room. She was sure that a friendship would develop between them but had no clear idea of what its nature was to be. Certainly she had no idea of being unfaithful to Wolfie. Her upbringing was such that it would appear ridiculous to her that a woman already a grandmother, though barely forty years of age, should have an emotional relationship with a man not her husband.

All the same she did not see why she should not, now that the spade-work of her duty was nearly finished with the children grown up and going their own ways, enjoy some refreshment of her mind in new friendships. She had not before considered such a possibility, as she had not seen the direction from which it could come. But now she had met Russell.

She had been brought up amongst people whose chief pleasure had been in the use of their minds, in a perpetual flicker of wit, and in the consideration, though not at a deep level, of ideas. They were prepared to discuss intelligently, with what capacity they had, any idea that was presented to them. Wolfie hated to use his mind. It was painful and perhaps impossible for him to do so, except in transferring his emotions on to musical scores. He lived instinctively and he detested logic. When Diana used it to try and induce him to behave with responsibility he told her she was not womanly. At first, after the excessive cerebration of her relatives, she found him restful.

Now she longed for a little quick intelligence, and she believed that Russell could provide the exact variety she needed. At the party she felt she could have gone on talking to him for hours, and she wanted to meet him again soon, while that impulse was at its height. She expected him to ring up the next day, but she did not hear from him till the middle of the following week, and then not by telephone but by post. His letter came in the afternoon, at the same time that Mrs Montaubyn, with a toss of her head and a suspicious glance at the sentry, was entering the lodge in St Kilda Road to write her name in the Governor-General's book.

Diana felt nervous as she opened the letter. She knew it was from Russell, though she had not seen his handwriting, as far as she could remember, until now. He wrote formally inviting her and Wolfie to luncheon at Menzies on Friday. He apologized for the short notice, and began: “Dear Mrs von Flugel”.

Diana laughed, but she felt flat. She sat holding the letter and asking herself what she had expected. Had she expected that he would call her Diana? She wondered if he were afraid of her. Perhaps she should not have suggested their meeting alone in the tea-room. Then she felt impatient with his excessive formality and decided that she would not go. She went out so little that the party had gone to her head. He lived in that kind of atmosphere and probably talked to most women as he talked to her.

“I've nearly made a fool of myself—as usual,” she thought, and she went over to the writing table to refuse the invitation when Wolfie came in. She felt a sudden affection for him.

“Mr Lockwood has asked us to lunch at Menzies on Friday. You don't want to go, do you?”

“Who is Mr Lockwood?”

“We knew him as children. He was at the party.”

“Then we must go.”

“Why? I don't particularly want to.”

“There will be nice food, and it is good for me to eat in public,” said Wolfie.

They discussed it for a little longer, and Diana wrote accepting the invitation, beginning: “Dear Mr Lockwood”. Then she thought: “Why should I copy his ridiculous formality?” and she took another sheet of paper and began “Dear Russell”. Then she thought that he might think that she was trying to force an intimacy, and she finished her letter on the first piece of paper. She did not know that Russell had also used two sheets.

The other guests at the luncheon were Sir Dugald and Lady Pringle and Miss Rockingham, who in spite of her exalted associations was only a plain “Miss”, so that Russell put Lady Pringle on his right and Diana on his left, with the result that Miss Rockingham sat opposite him, making it appear that she was the hostess, and presumably his wife. The waiter evidently thought so, which did not disturb her in the least, either because she never allowed herself to show that anything disturbed her, or because she was so used to deference that she did not notice it, or because with that wickedness which had made her deliberately mention her likeness to a horse to embarrass her friends, it amused her to behave as if she were Russell's wife, but with a subtle air of unconsciousness which would prevent anyone from saying that she was doing so. Also like a hostess, for the first half of the meal she devoted her attention to Sir Dugald on her right, and for the second half to Wolfie on her left.