Mr. Waddington of Wyck

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Mr. Waddington of Wyck

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Title: Mr. Waddington of Wyck
Author: May Sinclair
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MR. WADDINGTON OF WYCK
BY MAY SINCLAIR
1921

MR. WADDINGTON OF WYCK

I
1
Barbara wished she would come back. For the last hour Fanny
Waddington had kept on passing in and out of the room through the
open door into the garden, bringing in tulips, white, pink, and red tulips,
for the flowered Lowestoft bowls, hovering over them, caressing them
with her delicate butterfly fingers, humming some sort of song to
herself.

The song mixes itself up with the Stores list Barbara was making: "Two
dozen glass towels. Twelve pounds of Spratt's puppy biscuits. One
dozen gent.'s all-silk pyjamas, extra large size" ... "A-hoom--hoom,
a-hoom--hoom" (that Impromptu of Schubert's), and with the notes
Barbara was writing: "Mrs. Waddington has pleasure in enclosing...."
Fanny Waddington would always have pleasure in enclosing
something.... "A ho-om--boom, hoom, hee." A sound so light that it
hardly stirred the quiet of the room. If a butterfly could hum it would
hum like Fanny Waddington.
Barbara Madden had not been two days at Lower Wyck Manor, and
already she was at home there; she knew by heart Fanny's
drawing-room with the low stretch of the Tudor windows at each end,
their lattices panelled by the heavy mullions, the back one looking out
on to the green garden bordered with wallflowers and tulips; the front
one on to the round grass-plot and the sundial, the drive and the
shrubbery beyond, down the broad walk that cut through it into the
clear reaches of the park. She liked the interior, the Persian carpet faded
to patches of grey and fawn and old rose, the port-wine mahogany
furniture, the tables thrusting out the brass claws of their legs, the
latticed cabinets and bookcases, the chintz curtains and chair-covers, all
red dahlias and powder-blue parrots on a cream-coloured ground. But
when Fanny wasn't there you could feel the room ache with the
emptiness she left.
Barbara ached. She caught herself listening for Fanny Waddington's
feet on the flagged path and the sound of her humming. As she waited
she looked up at the picture over the bureau in the recess of the
fireplace, the portrait in oils of Horatio Bysshe Waddington, Fanny's
husband.
He was seated, heavily seated with his spread width and folded height,
in one of the brown-leather chairs of his library, dressed in a tweed coat,
putty-coloured riding breeches, a buff waistcoat, and a grey-blue tie.
The handsome, florid face was lifted in a noble pose above the stiff
white collar; you could see the full, slightly drooping lower lip under
the shaggy black moustache. There was solemnity in the thick, rounded

salient of the Roman nose, in the slightly bulging eyes, and in the
almost imperceptible line that sagged from each nostril down the long
curve of the cheeks. This figure, one great thigh crossed on the other,
was extraordinarily solid against the smoky background where the
clipped black hair made a watery light. His eyes were not looking at
anything in particular. Horatio Bysshe Waddington seemed to be
absorbed in some solemn thought.
His wife's portrait hung over the card-table in the other recess.
Barbara hoped he would be nice; she hoped he would be interesting,
since she had to be his secretary. But, of course, he would be. Anybody
so enchanting as Fanny could never have married him if he wasn't. She
wondered how she, Barbara