Mr. Standfast | Page 6

if from a hilltop which made
all the present troubles of the road seem of no account. I saw not only
victory after war, but a new and happier world after victory, when I
should inherit something of this English peace and wrap myself in it till
the end of my days.
Very humbly and quietly, like a man walking through a cathedral, I
went down the hill to the Manor lodge, and came to a door in an old
red-brick facade, smothered in magnolias which smelt like hot lemons
in the June dusk. The car from the inn had brought on my baggage, and
presently I was dressing in a room which looked out on a water-garden.
For the first time for more than a year I put on a starched shirt and a
dinner-jacket, and as I dressed I could have sung from pure
lightheartedness. I was in for some arduous job, and sometime that
evening in that place I should get my marching orders. Someone would
arrive--perhaps Bullivant--and read me the riddle. But whatever it was,
I was ready for it, for my whole being had found a new purpose. Living
in the trenches, you are apt to get your horizon narrowed down to the
front line of enemy barbed wire on one side and the nearest rest billets
on the other. But now I seemed to see beyond the fog to a happy
country.
High-pitched voices greeted my ears as I came down the broad
staircase, voices which scarcely accorded with the panelled walls and
the austere family portraits; and when I found my hostesses in the hall I
thought their looks still less in keeping with the house. Both ladies
were on the wrong side of forty, but their dress was that of young girls.
Miss Doria Wymondham was tall and thin with a mass of nondescript
pale hair confined by a black velvet fillet. Miss Claire Wymondham
was shorter and plumper and had done her best by ill-applied cosmetics
to make herself look like a foreign demi-mondaine. They greeted me
with the friendly casualness which I had long ago discovered was the
right English manner towards your guests; as if they had just strolled in
and billeted themselves, and you were quite glad to see them but
mustn't be asked to trouble yourself further. The next second they were
cooing like pigeons round a picture which a young man was holding up

in the lamplight.
He was a tallish, lean fellow of round about thirty years, wearing grey
flannels and shoes dusty from the country roads. His thin face was
sallow as if from living indoors, and he had rather more hair on his
head than most of us. In the glow of the lamp his features were very
clear, and I examined them with interest, for, remember, I was
expecting a stranger to give me orders. He had a long, rather strong
chin and an obstinate mouth with peevish lines about its corners. But
the remarkable feature was his eyes. I can best describe them by saying
that they looked hot--not fierce or angry, but so restless that they
seemed to ache physically and to want sponging with cold water.
They finished their talk about the picture--which was couched in a
jargon of which I did not understand one word--and Miss Doria turned
to me and the young man.
'My cousin Launcelot Wake--Mr Brand.'
We nodded stiffly and Mr Wake's hand went up to smooth his hair in a
self-conscious gesture.
'Has Barnard announced dinner? By the way, where is Mary?'
'She came in five minutes ago and I sent her to change,' said Miss
Claire. 'I won't have her spoiling the evening with that horrid uniform.
She may masquerade as she likes out-of-doors, but this house is for
civilized people.'
The butler appeared and mumbled something. 'Come along,' cried Miss
Doria, 'for I'm sure you are starving, Mr Brand. And Launcelot has
bicycled ten miles.'
The dining-room was very unlike the hall. The panelling had been
stripped off, and the walls and ceiling were covered with a dead- black
satiny paper on which hung the most monstrous pictures in large
dull-gold frames. I could only see them dimly, but they seemed to be a
mere riot of ugly colour. The young man nodded towards them. 'I see

you have got the Degousses hung at last,' he said.
'How exquisite they are!' cried Miss Claire. 'How subtle and candid and
brave! Doria and I warm our souls at their flame.'
Some aromatic wood had been burned in the room, and there was a
queer sickly scent about. Everything in that place was strained and
uneasy and abnormal--the candle shades on the table, the mass of faked
china fruit in the centre dish, the gaudy hangings