the house of the spatts was large, imposing and variegated. it had turrets, balconies, and architectural nooks in such quantity that the unaided individual eye could not embrace it all at once. it overlooked, from a height, the grounds of the frinton sports club, and a new member of this club, upon first beholding the residence, had made the immortal remark: “it wants at least fourteen people to look at it.” the house stood in the middle of an unfinished garden, which promised ultimately to be as heterogeneous as itself, but which at present was merely an expanse of sorely wounded earth.
the time was early summer, and therefore the summer dining-room of the spatts was in use. this dining-room consisted of one white, windowed wall, a tiled floor, and a roof of wood. the windows gave into the winter dining-room, which was a white apartment, sparsely curtained and cushioned with chintz, and containing very few pieces of furniture or pictures. the spatts considered, rightly, that furniture and pictures were unhygienic and the secret lairs of noxious germs. had the spatts flourished twenty-five years earlier their dining-room would have been covered with brown paper upon which would have hung permanent photographs of european masterpieces of graphic art, and there would have been a multiplicity of draperies and specimens of battered antique furniture, with a warming-pan or so suspended here and there in place of sporting trophies. but the spatts had not begun to flourish twenty-five years ago. they flourished very few years ago and they still flourish.
as the summer dining-room had only one wall, it follows that it was open to the powers of the air. this result had been foreseen by the spatts—had indeed been expressly arranged, for they believed strongly in the powers of the air, as being beneficent powers. it is true that they generally had sniffling colds, but their argument was that these maladies had no connection whatever with the powers of the air, which, according to their theory, saved them from much worse.
they and their guests were now seated at dinner. twilight was almost lost in night. the table was illuminated by four candles at the corners, and flames of these candles flickered in the healthful evening breeze, dropping pink wax on the candlesticks. they were surrounded by the mortal remains of tiny moths, but other tiny moths would not heed the warning and continually shot themselves into the flames. on the outskirts of the table moved with silent stealth the forms of two middle-aged and ugly servants.
mrs. spatt was very tall and very thin, and the simplicity of her pale green dress—sole reminder of the brown-paper past—was calculated to draw attention to these attributes. she had an important reddish nose, and a mysterious look of secret confidence, which never left her even in the most trying crises. mr. spatt also was very tall and very thin. his head was several sizes too small, and part of his insignificant face, which one was apt to miss altogether in contemplating his body, was hidden under a short grey beard. siegfried spatt, the sole child of the union, though but seventeen, was as tall and as thin as his father and his mother; he had a pale face and red hands.
the guests were audrey, jane foley, and a young rubicund gentleman, beautifully clothed, and with fair curly locks, named ziegler. mr. ziegler was far more perfectly at ease than anybody else at the table, which indeed as a whole was rendered haggard and nervous by the precarious state of the conversation, expecting its total decease at any moment. at intervals someone lifted the limp dying body—it sank back—was lifted again—struggled feebly—relapsed. young siegfried was excessively tongue-tied and self-conscious, and his demeanour frankly admitted it. jane foley, acknowledged heroine in certain fields, sat like a schoolgirl at her first dinner-party. audrey maintained her widowhood, but scarcely with credit. mr. and mrs. spatt were as usual too deeply concerned about the awful condition of the universe to display that elasticity of mood which continuous chatter about nothing in particular demands. and they were too worshipful of the best london conventions not to regard silence at table as appalling. in the part of the country from which jane foley sprang, hosts will sit mute through a meal and think naught of it. but mr. and mrs. spatt were of different stuff. all these five appeared to be in serious need of conversation pills. only mr. ziegler beheld his companions with a satisfied equanimity that was insensible to spiritual suffering. happily at the most acute moments the gentle night wind, meandering slowly from the east across leagues of north sea, would induce in one or another a sneeze which gave some semblance of vitality and vigour to the scene.
after one of these sneezes it was that jane foley, conscience-stricken, tried to stimulate the exchanges by an effort of her own.
“and what are the folks like in frinton?” she demanded, blushing, and looking up. as she looked up young siegfried looked down, lest he might encounter her glance and be utterly discountenanced.
jane foley’s question was unfortunate.
“we know nothing of them,” said mrs. spatt, pained. “of course i have received and paid a few purely formal calls. but as regards friends and acquaintances, we prefer to import them from london. as for the holiday-makers, one sees them, naturally. they appear to lead an exclusively physical existence.”
“my dear,” put in mr. spatt stiffly. “the residents are no better. the women play golf all day on that appalling golf course, and then after tea they go into the town to change their library books. but i do not believe that they ever read their library books. the mentality of the town is truly remarkable. however, i am informed that there are many towns like it.”
“you bet!” murmured siegfried spatt, and then tried, vainly, to suck back the awful remark whence it had come.
mr. ziegler, speaking without passion or sorrow, added his views about frinton. he asserted that it was the worst example of stupid waste of opportunities he had ever encountered, even in england. he pointed out that there was no band, no pier, no casino, no shelters—and not even a tree; and that there were no rules to govern the place. he finished by remarking that no german state would tolerate such a pleasure resort. in this judgment he employed an excellent english accent, with a scarcely perceptible thickening of the t’s and thinning of the d’s.
mr. ziegler left nothing to be said.
then the conversation sighed and really did expire. it might have survived had not the spatts had a rule, explained previously to those whom it concerned, against talking shop. their attachment to this rule was heroic. in the present instance shop was suffragism. the spatts had developed into supporters of militancy in a very curious way. mrs. spatt’s sister, a widow, had been mixed up with the union for years. one day she was fined forty shillings or a week’s imprisonment for a political peccadillo involving a hatpin and a policeman. it was useless for her to remind the magistrate that she, like mrs. spatt, was the daughter of the celebrated statesman b——, who in the fifties had done so much for britain. (lo! the source of that mysterious confidence that always supported mrs. spatt!) the magistrate had no historic sense. she went to prison. at least she was on the way thither when mr. spatt paid the fine in spite of her. the same night mr. spatt wrote to his favourite evening paper to point out the despicable ingratitude of a country which would have imprisoned a daughter of the celebrated b——, and announced that henceforward he would be an active supporter of suffragism, which hitherto had interested him only academically. he was a wealthy man, and his money and his house and his pen were at the service of the union—but always with discretion.
audrey and jane foley had learnt all this privately from mrs. spatt on their arrival, after they had told such part of their tale as jane foley had deemed suitable, and they had further learnt that suffragism would not be a welcome topic at their table, partly on account of the servants and partly on account of mr. ziegler, whose opinions were quite clearly opposed to the movement, but whom they admired for true and rare culture. he was a cousin of german residents in first avenue and, visiting them often, had been discovered by mr. spatt in the afternoon-tea train.
and just as the ices came to compete with the night wind, the postman arrived like a deliverer. the postman had to pass the dining-room en route by the circuitous drive to the front door, and when dinner was afoot he would hand the letters to the parlourmaid, who would divide them into two portions, and, putting both on a salver, offer the salver first to mrs. and then to mr. spatt, while mr. or mrs. spatt begged guests, if there were any, to excuse the quaint and indeed unusual custom, pardonable only on the plea that any tidings from london ought to be savoured instantly in such a place as frinton.
after leaving his little pile untouched for some time, mr. spatt took advantage of the diversion caused by the brushing of the cloth and the distribution of finger-bowls to glance at the topmost letter, which was addressed in a woman’s hand.
“she’s coming!” he exclaimed, forgetting to apologise in the sudden excitement of news, “good heavens!” he looked at his watch. “she’s here. i heard the train several minutes ago! she must be here! the letter’s been delayed.”
“who, alroy?” demanded mrs. spatt earnestly. “not that miss nickall you mentioned?”
“yes, my dove.” and then in a grave tone to the parlourmaid: “give this letter to your mistress.”
mr. spatt, cheered by the new opportunity for conversation, and in his eagerness abrogating all rules, explained how he had been in london on the previous day for a performance of strauss’s elektra, and according to his custom had called at the offices of the suffragette union to see whether he could in any manner aid the cause. he had been told that a house in paget gardens lent to the union had been basely withdrawn from service by its owner on account of some embroilment with the supreme police authorities at scotland yard, and that one of the inmates, a miss nickall, the poor young lady who had had her arm broken and was scarcely convalescent, had need of quietude and sea air. mr. spatt had instantly offered the hospitality of his home to miss nickall, whom he had seen in a cab and who was very sweet. miss nickall had said that she must consult her companion. it now appeared that the companion was gone to the midlands. this episode had occurred immediately before the receipt of the telegram from head-quarters asking for shelter for miss jane foley and mrs. moncreiff.
mr. spatt’s excitement had now communicated itself to everybody except mr. ziegler and siegfried spatt. jane foley almost recovered her presence of mind, and mrs. spatt was extraordinarily interested to learn that miss nickall was an american painter who had lived long in paris, and that audrey had first made her acquaintance in paris, and knew paris well. audrey’s motor-car had produced a considerable impression on aurora spatt, and this impression was deepened by the touch about paris. after breathing mysterious orders into the ear of the parlourmaid mrs. spatt began to talk at large about music in paris, and mr. spatt made comparisons between the principal opera houses in europe. he proclaimed for the scala at milan; but mr. ziegler, who had methodically according to a fixed plan lived in all european capitals except paris—whither he was soon going, said that mr. spatt was quite wrong, and that milan could not hold a candle to munich. mrs. spatt inquired whether audrey had heard strauss’s elektra at the paris opera house. audrey replied that strauss’s elektra had not been given at the paris opera house.
“oh!” said mrs. spatt. “this prejudice against the greatest modern masterpieces because they are german is a very sad sign in paris. i have noticed it for a long time.”
audrey, who most irrationally had begun to be annoyed by the blandness of mr. ziegler’s smile, answered with a rival blandness:
“in paris they do not reproach strauss because he is german, but because he is vulgar.”
mrs. spatt had a martyrised expression. in her heart she felt a sick trembling of her religious belief that elektra was the greatest opera ever composed. for audrey had the prestige of paris and of the automobile. mrs. spatt, however, said not a word. mr. ziegler, on the other hand, after shuffling some seconds for utterance, ejaculated with sublime anger:
“vulgar!”
his rubicundity had increased and his blandness was dissolved. a terrible sequel might have occurred, had not the crunch of wheels on the drive been heard at that very instant. the huge, dim form of a coach drawn by a ghostly horse passed along towards the front door, just below the diners. almost simultaneously the electric light above the front door was turned on, casting a glare across a section of the inchoate garden, where no flower grew save the dandelion. everybody sprang up. host and hostess, urged by hospitality, spun first into the drive, and came level with the vehicle precisely as the vehicle opened its invisible interior. jane foley and audrey saw miss nickall emerge from it rather slowly and cautiously, with her white kind face and her arm all swathed in white.
“well, mr. spatt,” came the american benevolent voice of nick. “how glad i am to see you. and this is mrs. spatt? mrs. spatt! delighted. your husband is the kindest, sweetest man, mrs. spatt, that i’ve met in years. it is perfectly sweet of you to have me. i shouldn’t have inflicted myself on you—no, i shouldn’t—only you know we have to obey orders. i was told to come here, and here i’ve come, with a glad heart.”
audrey was touched by the sight and voice of grey-haired nick, with her trick of seeing nothing but the best in everybody, transforming everybody into saints, angels, and geniuses. her smiles and her tones were irresistible. they were like the wand of some magical princess come to break a sinister thrall. they nearly humanised the gaunt parlourmaid, who stood grimly and primly waiting until these tedious sentimental preliminaries should cease from interfering with her duties in regard to the luggage.
“we have friends of yours here, miss nickall,” simpered mrs. spatt, after she had given a welcome. she had seen jane foley and audrey standing expectant just behind mr. spatt, and outside the field of the electric beam.
nick glanced round, hesitated, and then with a sudden change of all her features rushed at the girls regardless of her arm. her joy was enchanting.
“i was afraid—i was afraid——” she murmured as she kissed them. her eyes softly glistened.
“oh!” she exclaimed, after a moment. “and i have got a surprise for you! i have just! you may say it’s some surprise.” she turned towards the cab. “musa, now do come out of that wagon.”
and from the blackness of the cab’s interior gingerly stepped musa, holding a violin case in his hand.
“mrs. spatt,” said nick. “let me introduce mr. musa. mr. musa is perhaps the greatest violinist in paris—or in europe. very old friend of ours. he came over to london unexpectedly just as i was starting for liverpool street station this afternoon. so i did the only thing i could do. i couldn’t leave him there—i brought him along, and we want mr. spatt to recommend us an hotel in frinton for him.” and while musa was shyly in his imperfect english greeting mr. and mrs. spatt, she whispered to audrey: “you don’t know. you’d never guess. a big concert agent in paris has taken him up at last. he’s going to play at a lot of concerts, and they actually paid him two thousand five hundred francs in advance. isn’t it a perfect dream?”
audrey, who had seen musa’s trustful glance at nick as he descended from the cab, was suddenly aware of a fierce pang of hate for the benignant nick, and a wave of fury against musa. the thing was very disconcerting.
after self-conscious greetings, musa almost dragged audrey away from the others.
“it’s you i came to london to see,” he muttered in an unusual voice.
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