 CHAPTER 37 THE VIEW FROM THE ADDIC We all arrived at St. John's Wood that afternoon, and my heart beat with apprehension as I flew across the courtyard and up the ladder to the studio door. I burst it open and ran in, falling as I did so over the elephant, who at once gave her a well-remembered scream. Another cry followed close upon it the joyful cry of the changeling who was sitting on the floor, helping a struggling pile of kittens to play with an ostrich feather, which as it afterwards transpired she had gleaned from Chloe's best summer hat. At the changeling lay little John, her fat short legs sticking straight out before her and a tube of oil-paint dangling from one corner of her mouth. I had not returned from France an instant too soon. Little John had only just succeeded in making a tiny hole in the tube. And beyond being violently sick with mingled emotion and paint almost as soon as she saw me, no harm was done. I sat down, also on the floor, and my family came crowding round me. Little John, her upheaval once over, as serene and stolid as of yore, the changeling somewhat hysterical and absolutely inarticulate. Joe at once began to get out the tea-things and discovering no butter or milk. My guess had been only too correct, and a tinned tongue had indeed been left by glad eyes as the staple article of diet. Sent chas and feeder out to buy some in Circus Road. Chloe gazed from the kittens to the nelephant, and from the nelephant to the kittens, then finally burst out with. Well, do you mean to tell me that the nelephant perpetrated those? This is how she behaves directly our back is turned, after always pretending she was above the softer emotions. Nell, come here, and let me ask you what you mean by it. But the nelephant, in spite of her lapse, proved unchanged in temper and at the first caress, fled shrieking, and brooded over her family like a thundercloud, muttering at intervals and clapping her children over the head with her club-like paws. I don't often dislike an animal, but I must admit to a coldness for the nelephant. When the changeling had quieted down somewhat and was contenting herself with merely stroking my skirt in silence, and little John all smiles was showing me how she had progressed to the toddling stage. Finally in a fit of domesticity began to set the studio to rights, it badly needed it, for the changeling, poor dear, must have been so puzzled at finding herself alone and in a responsible position that her wit seemed to have gone more astray than usual. Only the washing and dressing of little John, from long and loving practice she had accomplished as well as usual, and probably better than glad eyes, with her bursts of mother-love was capable of doing. Chas reappeared with a tin can of milk, and Peter with a pad of butter rolled up in paper, and in rather a melted condition from his grasp. Warm from the cow, he said, laying it tenderly on the table, Joe spread it on a large but very stale loaf which she proceeded to hack into slices, exclaiming bitterly. Why the Dickens didn't glad eyes joint the loaf before she went away and left it. Hello! cried Chloe, shaking out some draperies that were tumbled on the window sill. Here's something else she left. It's for you, Viv. And she handed me a rather grubby note, smelling of violets and dressed in purple ink. I opened it in red, allowed as notes are read upon the stage, which must have been the theatrical instincts of glad eyes influencing me through the paper, as follows. Dear Miss Lovell, I don't know what you'll say when you get my telegram. But I love Mr. Murdock passionately, and a true woman can but follow her heart. I am following mine to Canada, where I hope, with my sympathy to cheer him and his six hundred pounds capital, Mr. Murdock will do something really splendid, something that will make us all proud of him. You will always be interested in him, I know, for he tells me you have been his best friend and helped him to regain his self-respect. I am not jealous of his admiration of you, because I know how different that sort of feeling is from what he feels for me. He says I am his lodestar. I think it's such a poetical expression. Dear Miss Lovell, I am not taking Lucy, because I know how you love her. So I leave her to you with a mother's blessing. It almost breaks my heart, but my duty to Edgar comes before everything, does it not. Please remember me to Mrs. Chetwind and Miss Callender. And Mr. Whimperous, and believe me, always yours gratefully, glad is Murdock. I read this astonishing epistle through in a voice stony from sheer amazement, and only just stopped myself in time from reading the following post-script aloud also. P.S. I did tell Edgar the truth about Lucy, about my not having been married to her father. And Edgar said there were base men in the world who took advantage of young girls, and that the essential innocence of my soul was untouched, which I thought so beautiful of him. And since you're taking Lucy, I feel it only right to tell you who her father is. It's Mr. Morris Purvis, the famous artist. He won't deny it if you ask him. G.M. Under cover of the comments aroused by the letter I managed to conceal the fact that I had stumbled on this even more illuminating post-script, for after all, Chloe's affair with Morris Purvis was not of such a very ancient date as to preclude all embarrassment on her part at hearing such news. Besides, I didn't see why anyone ever should know that piece of news. I knew enough of Mr. Purvis to be sure he would not want little John, and I did want her. Well, of all the damned cheek remarked Chaz, coolly eloping like that and planting her offspring on you. Alas, poor Edgar, said Peter, how bitterly will he rue Gladdy's womanliness some day. He found a difficulty in running straight himself. But at least he always knew he was crooked. Whereas Gladdy's could talk a circle into a straight line. Chaz, said Joe, I hereby solemnly announce that we, you and I, contribute yearly to the upkeep of little John and her attendant, changeling. It's a bit thick to expect Peter and Viv to do it all. I paid no heed for unpoking into the highly scented envelope. I had found another enclosure, this time written on a piece of drawing paper. Dear Miss Lovell ran this communication. I know you will pardon this unceremonious departure when you think of the excuse I have, i.e. Gladdy's. I have indeed been blessed beyond my desserts. In my mother, in you as my friend, and in my girl. I have paid off all my debts, Miss Viv, and hope to do well in Canada. I dare say I shan't be what you'd call honest, but I won't try any more silly low-down games like the one you caught me at. Who knows, I may become a Member of Parliament, if they have such things out there. I trust you will not mind our leaving you, baby Lucy. But Gladdy's thinks it would be so selfish to take it away from you. At now, Miss Viv, I am trying to save what I want, what I am writing this letter to say. I am not entirely ungrateful, even indeed, and I am making you a present which I hope will be of use to you, as an expression of my gratitude for that time when you spared mother and me. I have made a deed of gift giving you secrecy-farm. The land, as you know, is all sold, but there's a bit of garden, and the house is big, though old. I know this is what the old lady would have wished. You were the only person accepting myself that she loved, and she was very set on you. Wherever I have been to the rest of the world, to you I am always very sincerely yours, Edgar Murdoch. I heard none of the comments that were shrieked aloud, for I was shrieking myself, dancing round the studio and waving Edgar's letter above my head. A house. A house for Peter and me and the changeling at Little John, and for Joe and Chaz and Chloe whenever they cared to come and stay. A roof-tree and fireside of our very own. We all partook of that unprepossessing tea in a state of jubilation bordering on frenzy, and after it Joe and Chaz departed for their new flat at Campden Hill. Chloe was to stay at the hen coop with me until my marriage, and Peter retired to his ancient Bloomsbury attic, taking one of the Nelevin's kittens as a present to his landlady. A long night's rest was a necessity for all of us, since next day Peter and I had to confront our publisher with the results of our winter's wanderings. And Chloe and I had also to attend the RA, as proud exhibitors therein, it being varnishing day. As a matter of fact we all attended it, Joe, Chloe, Chaz, Peter and I. We all met in the courtyard, and there laid a deep and cunning plan. Joe marched up the stairs first, waving my ticket casually under the nose of the man at the top. Then Chloe followed with her own. Joe then gave Chloe mine again, and Chloe emerging gave it to Chaz, who walked in on the strength of it. This little game was repeated till we were all within the sacred walls. Peter and Chaz were much intrigued by the unwanted sight of the RA, swathed in dust sheets and brown holland, pots of varnish and top hats decking the muffled setees. And famous artists perilously poising on stepladders while they dabbed at their pictures somewhere round the skyline. We settled in case embarrassing questions were asked, that Chaz and Peter were to be miniaturists. It was a trifle awkward when a well-known sculptor of Chloe's acquaintance, on being introduced to Peter, asked where his contribution was. For Chloe replied feverishly that it was a miniature, in the same breath that Peter, losing his head, said that it was badly skied. However, these nerve-wracking little incidents merely served to brace us for our visit to Mr. Brennan. The most important outcome of that visit was that Mr. Brennan advanced us fifty pounds at once on the strength of Peter's manuscript and my sketches, though neither was quite finished. And Peter then walked out alone with the money and refused to tell me what he was going to do with it. Next day I knew. He had spent thirty odd pounds on a special license and the rest he proposed to spend on a week's honeymoon. I pointed out that as we were merely going straight into residence at Secrecy Farm, and the honeymoon consisted of being by ourselves for a week, twenty pounds was a rather superfluous sum, so we decided to spend fifteen of it on clothes. Joe was giving me the little white-serge coat and skirt that was to be my wedding gown, and Chloe herself made me a white shirt with lawn-ruffles to go with it, so for my part I bought some filmy under-clothes that were such a joy to me that I kissed them when they came home from the shop. Peter invested in a Harris-Tweed suit with a nice smell, also in one of blue-serge, and then we went out together and bought boots exactly like, save as the size, in which to be married. They had gray suede uppers and patent leather toes, so shiny that the sky reflected blue in them as we walked. They were always known as the sky-boots in consequence. We were to be married on opening day, and it was at the R.A. we all met, under the clock at twelve. Chloe looked lovely in rose-color, and I looked harmless in the white-serge. The changeling was almost human in a new frock of brightest tartan, her own obstinate choice I need hardly say. Fortunately, little John in white with blue ribbons distracted some of the attention of passers-by from her guardian. Another of these two innocents entered the academy itself, but waited without, upon a seat, the stared-at of all beholders. On opening day one always meets everybody one knows, and I was not, of course, surprised to run into Evadi and Ted, who were gazing at the pictures with the scornful toleration one would expect from nature-vibrationists. But I was a little astonished to meet Kissa, because I knew that her family, unlike the pen-roses, never came up to town for opening day. She was looking charming, and with a radiance she had not had only the summer before. Her brown eyes had lost their wistful expression, and if some of the woodland charm had gone from her aspect she had gained in other ways. Her simple but smart frock had certainly never emanated from St. Annan's vicarage. A moment later and all was clear, explained by Kissa's blushes and the appearance at her elbow of William, glossy in morning coat and pearl-grade trousers, with a truly British light of possession in his eye. Before Kissa was ahead of me, and William had very wisely consoled himself two months earlier. We didn't send wedding-cake, because you left no address, explained Kissa eagerly. I hadn't one then, I replied. I have a house in Hampstead now. Oh, are you married? cried Kissa. I'm going to be married in a few minutes. This is my fiancé, Mr. Wimperous. Everyone beamed, but I knew Peter and William would mutually dislike each other if they lived to be a hundred. Kissa was all a gog to come to my wedding, but William, murmuring something about not intruding, drew her away. I think he didn't care about his wife mixing with people who got themselves married so casually. I was not sorry. It is a mistake to have might have been at an affair of that kind. I had written to Harry, who had not consoled himself, and he had sent me the dearest letter back. But nothing would have induced him to come to my wedding, and I was glad of it. Even without Kissa and William, we seemed to collect people like a snowball. And finally there left in taxis for the Little City Church, which Peter and I had chosen, the Culver's Mr. Brennan, in a new white waistcoat, Joe and Chaz, the child of sixty summers, all flutter and excitement, the changeling, Little John, Chloe, Peter and myself. It was a very incorrect wedding, since Chaz, though wed, was the best man, and Joe gave me away with a flourish. Peter and I stared nervously at the sky-boots, and Little John, under the mistaken impression that the whole thing was arranged for her amusement, shrieked with mirth. We all lunched in Soho, and Mr. Brennan stood some champagne, and afterwards lent Peter and me his car to take us right into the country for the afternoon, while Joe and Chloe went to put the finishing touches to Secrecy Farm. Only four rooms were furnished as yet. Everyone had given furniture as wedding presents. But there was a big attic for a studio, and a sunny south room as a nursery for Little John. That infant, with her attendant, was being looked after by Chloe for a week, so that Peter and I might have a little bit of honeymoon to ourselves. I can imagine no one less suited to the task than Chloe. Or who would dislike it more? And I mingled admiration with gratitude. Afterwards, sad as it made us all, the hen-coupe was to be given up, for Joe and Chaz rejoiced at their Camden Hill flat, in a painfully superior studio with a carpet. And Chloe was going to pay a long round of visits. �You will have to go and get wed to Chloe,� said I at lunch. �If it's only to take you off our minds.� �Many thanks,� replied she. �But there's a limit to my altruism.� �I shall probably never bring myself to do it at all. And I shall develop into one of those fabulously ancient crones who nod their heads and say hoarsely. �Ah, me dears, it wasn't for want of asking, I can tell you. Not for want of asking.� �And no one will believe you,� said I, �because no one ever does believe that,� though it's invariably true. �I think,� said Chloe, �that there ought to be a compulsory register of proposals kept at Somerset House. Like wills, you know. And then one could send doubting people to look them up.� �It wouldn't save you,� remarked Joe mournfully. �They'd only say,� �Oh, dear, all those proposals and still couldn't get the man she wanted.� Here the nelephant, who at church had been concealed in Chloe's large chiffon moth, and had nearly bitten it to pieces, tramped firmly over the table, and the question arose as to what was to become of her when Chloe's week at the Hencoupe was up. I for once in my life was firm and utterly refused to have her at secrecy-farm. Who then came to our rescue but the child of sixty summers? She it may be remembered, always had a partiality for strange animals. She now announced herself perfectly willing to adopt the nelephant and her family. And who were we that we should tell her of that cat's unpleasant idiosyncrasies? It was evening when Peter and I arrived at secrecy-farm. The big notice board was gone, and the long low house front had been newly whitewashed, and against it the lilac and syringa. In full bloom cast a delicate tracery of blue shadow, while the wall itself looked golden in the glow of the late sun. We pushed open the gate and walked up the little path, and round to the back of the house, where the front door had been placed by a thoughtful architect. The ricks of sad-colored hay were gone, and no elevators rattled their iron joints in the ghostly fashion of last summer. Instead a tall trellis-work, already thick with creeper, had been erected to hide the building which, alas, would inevitably occur round about us. In the little garden left to run adorably wild, the white stars of anemone lay tangled in the grass. The candles were a light on the horse-chestnut, and by the door there was a maitry clustered with deeply bright pink blossom. Peter fitted the key into the lock, found that whosoever had left last had forgotten to put the latch down, and we walked straight in. We went all over the house into the big, bare, whitewashed rooms, and into those where sketches and bits of old furniture made the place home. Everywhere were flowers, and Joe and Chloe had left supper ready for us. We looked at all this and then went up to my room, which was the attic looking towards the road. I had chosen it because there was a tall plain tree outside, and at night the lamp at the gate threw the shadows of the leaves against the pale wall of my room. And when a wind was abroad that shook the boughs, the shadows fled across and across the wall like a flock of big birds flying. The lamp had not been lit yet, for the sunset still held the sky. And Peter and I went to the window and stood looking out. The clouds were heaped and tumbled in fantastic palaces of rosy towers and purple shadows, with a streak of molten light at their foot where they touched the rim of the heath. There's one of your spirit cities, Peter, I said. Oh, it's good all of it, answered Peter, his arm about me. And I pressed his head against me in silence. Yes, it was good. And as I looked out at the gray green of the heath, the darker blots of the trees and the high arch of the sky, I saw how it might come to be even better. But there would be difficulties I knew. For once, more clearly than Peter, for this house so sweet to me would cease to satisfy him. And one day he would take the road again. He would come back, but always to go once more. Yet whether I went with him or had to stay behind, there was always one thing which would have a power of solace, and that was our mutual knowledge of the year we had already had together. I saw it in a many-colored flash, how disconnected and without scheme it had seemed while we were living it. And how it all, to use one of Peter's pet phrases, went to make a pattern. Yes, it's good, I answered at last. And we're awfully lucky to have it. And to have such friends, and five pounds to go on with. And a ready-made family. And perhaps things would always be good where you were, said Peter, fitting the top of his head in under my chin. You're like that. Do you know, Viv, I have a theory. But I slipped my hand over his mouth, and he laughed and kissed it. Perhaps you're right, he said. But it wasn't a bad theory. It was about our being happy living here. Do you know, I'm not sure a roof isn't a good thing to have, because, well, after all, true adventure is of the soul. Let's just be happy, I answered, for as long as we can. Oh, Peter, I wonder, I wonder, end of Chapter 37, End of the Milky Way by F. Tennyson Jussie.