Chapter 18
By the middle of that
sparkling morning, Wilbur and his bride had not exchanged a syllable since the
day before. No sounds issued from the walnut room except routine noises of
people dressing, opening windows, or clearing their throats in preparation to
say something they decided against. Eleanor knew that her husband had no
intention of joining in the croquet tournament, and she had so little interest
in him at this point that she did not even consult him on his plans for the
day. For her part, she resolved to play croquet with all the enthusiasm she could
kindle, although on any other day she would have found this an excessively
athletic activity and beneath her dignity. Wilbur watched his wife pin her hair
and spray cologne around her regal neck as though she were alone in the room.
He straightened his cuffs and bent to wipe several flecks
of dust from his gleaming boots. He had to talk with her, but she was a stone
when she wanted to be.
“Look here, El,” he finally blurted, “you can’t go on
like this in company. People will notice. I can tolerate your ridiculous
silences when we are home, but in public this behavior is out of the question.”
Eleanor added some powder to her imposing nose.
“You won’t intimidate me like this, you know,” he
continued. “I do as I see fit. All you’ll accomplish with this infantile
display,” he warned, coming closer, “is to arouse suspicion about our manners
and our marriage. Is that what you want?”
With a last look at all sides of her perfected
countenance, Eleanor left the mirror and picked up her hat, arranging its dull
ribbon with perfect equanimity.
Unwilling to cede victory by losing his temper
completely, Wilbur tugged at his waistcoat, straightened his narrow frame, and
announced evenly that she could damn well do as she pleased, it was no concern
of his. He would be taking Empress and Napoleon out for a run—whom, he took
time to point out, she seemed to have forgotten all about in her self-indulgent
tantrum of the last two days.
At this she shot him a burning look and pursed her lips
tighter still. Her husband snatched up his hat and strode from the room,
concentrating all his will to keep his hand from slamming the heavy door behind
him. His long legs carried him quickly down the stairs, through the dining
room, and out onto the terrace, where he bristled at seeing Grandma Brown,
still sitting and watching the morning bustle. Seated beside her and looking
like a great, dark monument by contrast was Mrs. Rockwell, accompanied by her
insubstantial daughter. Wilbur did not hesitate but cut across the cool flagstones
toward the kennel.
“Wilbur!” called Grandma Brown with a stern ring.
Wilbur halted and turned stiffly.
“We need to talk. Today.”
“Of course, Grandma. I’ll look for you this afternoon,
eh?”
Mrs. Brown nodded without a smile and watched him scamper
away.
“Your grandson is very devoted to his dogs, isn’t he?”
ventured Mrs. Rockwell.
“My grandson is a fool.” The remark stood like a frozen
sheet between the ladies, stark and unwieldy. Mrs. Rockwell searched for a way
to continue the conversation around it, her daughter watching keenly to see
what her mother would manage.
“I’ve known many men who could wear that title,” she
offered after a moment. “My own Abram tries me to the very limit at
times—Sarah, you know this already—but he has a good heart. His problem is that
he cannot see ahead, not in the grand scheme. He is wonderful with business,
but there is much more to this world than business.” She sighed.
“Your Abram,” observed Mrs. Brown, “is a jewel. He has a
heart of gold, just as you say, and that outweighs most faults in a man.”
Sarah spoke up. “But courage is important, too, don’t you
think, Mrs. Brown? I can’t abide a man who is not brave.”
Both ladies looked at the young thing in surprise. “You
make a good point, my girl,” admitted her mother. “As long as you are not
referring to silliness like duels or hunting grizzly bears with short knives or
that sort of thing. But bravery of the soul, that is an admirable quality in a
man as well as a woman.”
“And harder and harder to find,” observed Mrs. Brown. “My
advice to you is, don’t hurry”—pointing a cautionary finger at the girl—“take
your time to find a worthy man. For it is true that kindness without bravery is
useless, and bravery without kindness brings disaster.”
The ladies watched Wilbur lead his dogs from the kennel
and, to their surprise, head straight back toward them. He stepped up on the
terrace, keeping the leashes short on his eager greyhounds, and smiled.
“I just want to ask your pardon, ladies, if I seemed rude
a moment ago. It was not intended.”
Grandma said nothing, so Mrs. Rockwell spoke up. “I am
sure that a man in your situation has a great deal on his mind.”
Wilbur’s contrite smile fell away. “What do you mean?” he
asked flatly, glancing at Grandma.
“Why,” Mrs. Rockwell
began uncertainly, “a gentleman of affairs such as yourself surely has much to
keep track of even while taking some time away as we are. I know my Abram can
never completely leave his work behind.”
Wilbur looked unconvinced. He pulled the dogs closer with
a short jerk and mumbled his appreciation for her understanding. With a short
bow, he left them.
Mrs. Rockwell leaned toward Mrs. Brown. “Did I say
something inconvenient?” she asked. She appealed to her daughter. “What did I
say to him?”
“You said nothing improper, Mrs. Rockwell,” Grandma
assured her. “Pay no attention to my grandson. He is a bundle of nerves, and
has every reason to be.”
Mrs. Rockwell, confused, chose to simply observe that it
was very decent of Wilbur to return and express his apology.
“You may think me an impossible old woman,” replied
Grandma, “but I can no longer abide illusions. Don’t think too well of my
grandson, please. He only came back because he wants something from me and
can’t afford to leave me irritated. However, since he is by nature and long
habit unavoidably irritating, he would do better to simply keep his distance.”
“Look,” cried Sarah, “I believe they are starting the
tournament! Are you coming, Mother?”
“Soon, my dear. I’ll come along with Mrs. Brown as soon
as we can convince ourselves to leave this pleasant spot.”
Sarah grabbed her parasol and nearly ran across the lawn,
her yellow hair bouncing in the bright sun.
“Oh,” observed her mother, watching the girl go, “What
truth in those words, ‘A youth of frolics, an old age of cards.’” *
Grandma
gave a soft snort of agreement, and the two women sat in silent reflection as
the rapidly rising sun warmed their backs and chased away the morning’s
shadows.
Chapter 19
A call went up from the
croquet course, summoning the guests to the field of battle. The players were
quickly converging to match skills and vie for the grand prize, a rendering of
the rose garden that Stella had agreed to paint for the occasion.
Fettles stood before the spirited congregation,
struggling to get their attention in the open air. The butler clapped his thin
hands together twice and launched into a thorough explanation. Players would
draw from matching numbers from a hat, and the winner of each of these pairs
would toss his number back into the hat to be paired with another winner, and
so the competitors would be winnowed down to the last two standing. Referees
were stationed along the course and would have the final word in all disputes.
Those not participating in the tournament were asked to please refrain from
entering the field of play or picking up any balls that went astray.
As he concluded, Mrs. Rockwell arrived helping Grandma to
the chairs on the shady edge of the neat, sunny course. Mrs. Bairnaught was
already seated and fanning herself, ready to cheer her husband to victory.
Agnes drew the same number as Eleanor, which she saw as a
mixed blessing. While Wilbur’s wife was the last person she would have chosen
to play against, she hoped to pick up some clues about yesterday’s conversation
as they made their way through the wickets. The coveted position of playing
against Phillip had gone to Mr. Schmidt, and Agnes told herself that she would
just have to stay in the game as long as possible on the chance that she and
the missionary might face each other eventually.
Eleanor’s studied elegance worked against her on the
croquet field, and Agnes surpassed her easily. Agnes slowed her progress at the
fourth wicket in an attempt to decrease her partner’s embarrassment. She had to
admire the woman’s concentration and honest effort at a game she clearly had
never played. Added to this handicap was the presence of her husband standing
silently in the shade, offering no encouragement, as the dogs panted on either
side of him. Nearby players, seeing Eleanor’s difficulty, offered comprehensive
advice as to stance, swing, and aim, but although she nodded and applied
herself with seemingly good intent, her ball moved only a few feet, and seldom
in the desired direction.
Halfway through the course, Agnes cheerfully lied, “I
think you are doing marvelously for your first time playing.”
Eleanor dabbed her face. “Well, at least I am making an
effort. Some people with no good excuse prefer to stand in the shade and
smirk.” She shot a narrow look to the sidelines.
“Wilbur, by chance?”
“Well, he’s never one to join in any activities of a
competitive nature when he’s not sure to excel.” She paused and seemed to
reconsider. “Well, for the most part.”
“He abstained from the hunt but made it clear that it was
on philosophical grounds,” Agnes recalled.
“Rubbish.” Eleanor took a swing in the air, tried again,
and sent her ball lolling just beside the wicket. “He didn’t want me to
participate in this game either, that was quite plain, but I know better how to
conduct myself in company.”
“I do appreciate your joining in, Eleanor,” Agnes
encouraged. “He does seem a bit more on edge than usual, if you don’t mind my
making an observation,” she added, taking aim to move her ball around a small
depression.
Eleanor glanced at her. “Does he? Well, he has always
been high strung. Very capable, you understand, but high strung. That is often
a trait among the elite, I understand, as in thoroughbreds. But you know,
Agnes, you have done very well for yourself without a husband. They are a
complication in life. Quite necessary if one is to really ascend through the
layers of society. Still,” she added in a low voice, “I do envy you sometimes.”
Agnes stood staring at this impossible woman, wondering
how to respond. A sudden commotion, however, removed all possibility of
continuing the conversation.
Tearing across the lawn came Empress and Napoleon, their
legs a blur, their necks outstretched, in single-minded pursuit of two rabbits
that bounded over the croquet field in a mad effort to reach the shelter of the
forsythia grove. In the pandemonium, Mrs. McMeed lost her balance and fell onto
Mr. Schmidt, bringing them both down in a heap. At the very same time, his back
to the chaos, Lord Phillip was in mid-swing, aiming to bring back his ball from
a nasty knock-away by his opponent. On the upswing, his mallet caught Napoleon,
who was just rounding Phillip in pursuit of his zigzagging prey. He struck the
dog squarely in the chest and sent him flying backward several feet to land on
his back. Phillip, thrown by the unexpected impact of his mallet upon the
racing dog, staggered backward and only barely kept his feet.
Wilbur and Eleanor ran shouting to the dog’s side and
sank down beside him. Alone, Empress followed the rabbit into the thicket.
Napoleon’s breath came in short gasps, and except for his labored breathing, he
lay completely still, his eyes wide open in surprise.
“What in God’s name were you doing?” demanded Wilbur,
glaring up at Phillip. He laid both hands on the dog’s ribcage as though
holding it together. The players formed a ring around the scene.
“I did not realize—” Phillip began. “I was not expecting
your dog to be on the course.”
“Everyone else saw what was happening! What’s wrong with
you, anyway, Your Lordship?” Wilbur sneered. “Not the sharpest knife,” he
muttered.
Agnes stepped forward, clutching her skirt. “Wilbur, how
dare you!”
“No, no,” said Phillip, putting a hand out, “it’s quite
all right, Agnes. Let me answer your cousin’s question. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
Well, let’s see—apparently I expect to play croquet on a croquet course. I
also, strange as it might seem, would not dream of bringing animals with me to
visit the relatives, uninvited. I feel a good deal of gratitude to my hostess
rather than an urge to embarrass her and condescend to decent people at every
opportunity. I’d say that is what’s wrong with me if you want to know.”
Wilbur had risen and stepped forward, hands clenched, but
Mr. Schmidt inserted himself. “Gentlemen, let us not try the patience
of these good people with a scene we will, none of us, wish to recall. Wilbur,
it’s natural to feel concern for Napoleon, but one can’t deny that Lord Phillip
is quite blameless in this accident.”
Meanwhile, Ned had been conducting his own examination of
the dog, who was by now sitting up and breathing better, although shallowly.
“Sir, your dog is well,” he pronounced matter-of -factly. Everyone turned to
look down at man and dog. “He’s just had the wind knocked out of him. Now, he
surely is bruised and will be hurting for a few days, but he’s not damaged for
long.”
By now Empress was trotting back from her adventure
holding one twitching rabbit in her pointed jaws, looking satisfied and quite
unaware of the dozens of burs caught in her coat. Wilbur grabbed her trailing
leash, handed it to Eleanor, and scooped up Napoleon. He stepped close to
Phillip and breathed, “I don’t know who you are really or what your game is—“
“I could say the same of you,” Phillip whispered back.
Wilber paused and squinted into Phillip’s eyes. “There is
no game,” he said, and hesitated again as though waiting for something. “I’m
willing to forget this for Agnes’s sake.”
“Then you should,” Phillip counseled. “And I’d keep those
hounds out of the way if I were you. For your sake.”
With that Wilbur and Eleanor headed for the kennel to
lavish their charges with tender care and a thorough grooming while Isaiah and
Ned set to work quickly to reestablish the course. Lunch appeared, and everyone
took a short break to calm their nerves over cold chicken, oysters, melon, and
other delicacies suitable to a summer afternoon that had suddenly grown very
hot indeed.
To be continued . . .
* Alexander Pope
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