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Authors: Rebecca West
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Mary.
“Of course it will be all right,” I said. “Let’s go in.”
We three little girls ran along the paced path, and Mamma slowly followed us with Richard Quin. “How good the boy is,” she said heavily, and put the key into the lock. She turned it and stepped inside and at once became rigid, her mouth falling open as if she were a fish, not to the advantage of her appearance. One of the doors opening into the little hall was ajar, and from the room beyond there came a scraping noise. She thought, and so did we, that a burglar had got into the house. Only for a moment did she hesitate, then she ran into the room, and Cordelia and Mary and I followed. My father was standing beside the chimney-piece, scraping with a penknife at the wallpaper where it joined the marble. For a second he persisted in this occupation, then he put down the penknife, opened his arms to my mother, and kissed her on both cheeks, and we stood in a half-moon round them, Richard Quin crawling about our feet. Mamma glowed, we all felt safe, rescued from the abyss, because we had our dear Papa with us again.
“But, Piers, how did you get in without the key? They said there was only one,” said Mamma. “This is the last thing I thought of!”
“I know a dozen ways into the house,” said Papa in the mocking voice that people hated so much. “This time I came in by the coach-house roof.”
“You know this house? It is—it can’t be the house where you used to stay?”
“Yes,” said Papa. “It is indeed the very same house where I used to stay with Grand-Aunt Willoughby.” He stood back from the hearth, closed his knife, and slipped it back into his pocket. “Yes, it’s there,” he told us in parentheses. “There used to be a flat painted panel over this chimney-piece, and they’ve covered it over, I can’t think why. It was really good. We’ll get it clear later.” Fingering the closed knife in his pocket and giving one of his dark, oblique looks round the room, he went on, “Yes, this is Caroline Lodge, only nobody calls it that now. It was built for Grand-Aunt Willoughby by her rich son-in-law who lived in that big house behind the gates. It is a Theological College now. And this house belongs to my cousin Ralph. He has let me have it.”
“Oh, you and Ralph are friends again?” cried my mother.
“No, not noticeably,” said Papa. “But he has let me have it.”
“How good of him,” Mamma said, making the best of that. “But is it not very dear?”
“No, the place is falling to pieces, and nobody wants to live here now it is in the middle of a slum,” said Papa contemptuously. “But we are paying him something.”
“We must never be a day late with the rent,” said Mamma enthusiastically. My father made no response. “Oh,” she cried, looking about her, “it is pleasant to be here, and find you here, and now, children, let us go round the house and see where we are going to be so happy. Is there a nice room for your study?”
There was indeed. The little square room at the back of the house was Papa’s study, and the bigger room beside it was to be our sitting room. The removal men had set down most of the furniture there, but the grace of the room was still apparent. Here Mamma flung open the french windows, and we all stood by her on the top step of the broad iron stairs leading down into the garden, which was a square of lawn edged with flower-beds and ending in a grove of chestnuts, then brightened by their first gold and scarlet leaves. I remember those wild tints, for like my sisters I was looking at the scene with an exalted vision. We were experts in disillusion, we had learned to be cynical about fresh starts even before we had ourselves made our first start, but this house gave us hope. Indeed, it gave us back our childhood. Papa swung me up on his shoulder as he stood behind us, and I was proud, I was wrapped in delight, as if I knew no ill of him. It was not a warming pleasure, but it was
“Of course it will be all right,” I said. “Let’s go in.”
We three little girls ran along the paced path, and Mamma slowly followed us with Richard Quin. “How good the boy is,” she said heavily, and put the key into the lock. She turned it and stepped inside and at once became rigid, her mouth falling open as if she were a fish, not to the advantage of her appearance. One of the doors opening into the little hall was ajar, and from the room beyond there came a scraping noise. She thought, and so did we, that a burglar had got into the house. Only for a moment did she hesitate, then she ran into the room, and Cordelia and Mary and I followed. My father was standing beside the chimney-piece, scraping with a penknife at the wallpaper where it joined the marble. For a second he persisted in this occupation, then he put down the penknife, opened his arms to my mother, and kissed her on both cheeks, and we stood in a half-moon round them, Richard Quin crawling about our feet. Mamma glowed, we all felt safe, rescued from the abyss, because we had our dear Papa with us again.
“But, Piers, how did you get in without the key? They said there was only one,” said Mamma. “This is the last thing I thought of!”
“I know a dozen ways into the house,” said Papa in the mocking voice that people hated so much. “This time I came in by the coach-house roof.”
“You know this house? It is—it can’t be the house where you used to stay?”
“Yes,” said Papa. “It is indeed the very same house where I used to stay with Grand-Aunt Willoughby.” He stood back from the hearth, closed his knife, and slipped it back into his pocket. “Yes, it’s there,” he told us in parentheses. “There used to be a flat painted panel over this chimney-piece, and they’ve covered it over, I can’t think why. It was really good. We’ll get it clear later.” Fingering the closed knife in his pocket and giving one of his dark, oblique looks round the room, he went on, “Yes, this is Caroline Lodge, only nobody calls it that now. It was built for Grand-Aunt Willoughby by her rich son-in-law who lived in that big house behind the gates. It is a Theological College now. And this house belongs to my cousin Ralph. He has let me have it.”
“Oh, you and Ralph are friends again?” cried my mother.
“No, not noticeably,” said Papa. “But he has let me have it.”
“How good of him,” Mamma said, making the best of that. “But is it not very dear?”
“No, the place is falling to pieces, and nobody wants to live here now it is in the middle of a slum,” said Papa contemptuously. “But we are paying him something.”
“We must never be a day late with the rent,” said Mamma enthusiastically. My father made no response. “Oh,” she cried, looking about her, “it is pleasant to be here, and find you here, and now, children, let us go round the house and see where we are going to be so happy. Is there a nice room for your study?”
There was indeed. The little square room at the back of the house was Papa’s study, and the bigger room beside it was to be our sitting room. The removal men had set down most of the furniture there, but the grace of the room was still apparent. Here Mamma flung open the french windows, and we all stood by her on the top step of the broad iron stairs leading down into the garden, which was a square of lawn edged with flower-beds and ending in a grove of chestnuts, then brightened by their first gold and scarlet leaves. I remember those wild tints, for like my sisters I was looking at the scene with an exalted vision. We were experts in disillusion, we had learned to be cynical about fresh starts even before we had ourselves made our first start, but this house gave us hope. Indeed, it gave us back our childhood. Papa swung me up on his shoulder as he stood behind us, and I was proud, I was wrapped in delight, as if I knew no ill of him. It was not a warming pleasure, but it was
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