Nightfall | Page 8

it would be a pity to waste them." She
helped herself liberally out of Val's hand. "Now stop both of you, you
can't have any more."
She linked her other arm in Val's and dragged her brothers out of the
dangerous proximity of the strawberry beds. Val sat down on a deck
chair, one leg thrown over the other, Rowsley dropped at full length on
the turf, and Isabel doubled herself up between them, her arms clasped

round her knees. "How's the Old Man?" she asked in friendly reference
to Rowsley's commanding officer. "Oh Rose, I knew there was
something I wanted to ask you. Will Spillsby be able to play on the
Fourth?" Spillsby, a brother subaltern and a famous bat, had twisted his
ankle at the nets, and Rowsley in his last letter had been uncertain
whether he would be well enough to play the Sappers at the annual
fixture.
Happily Rowsley was able to reassure his young sister: the ankle was
much better and Spillsby was already allowed to walk on it. Isabel then
turned her large velvet eyes--gazelle eyes with a world of pathos in
their velvet gloom on her elder brother. "Coruscate, Val," she
commanded. "You haven't said anything at all yet. We should all try to
be bright in the home circle. We cannot all be witty, but-Ow! Rowsley,
if you pull my hair I shall hit you in the--in the place where the Gauls
fined their soldiers if they stuck out on parade. Oh, Val, that really isn't
vulgar, I found it in Matthew Arnold! Their stomachs, you know. They
wouldn't have fined you anyhow. You look fagged, darling-- are you?"
"Not so much fagged as hungry," said Val in his soft voice. "It's getting
on for nine o'clock and I was done out of my tea. I went in to Wanhope,
but Laura was out, and Clowes was drinking whisky and soda. I cannot
stand whisky at four in the afternoon, and Irish whisky at that. There'll
be some supper going before long, won't there?"
"Not until half past nine because Jimmy has his Bible class tonight."
Jimmy was Mr. Stafford: and perhaps a purist might have objected that
Mrs. Clowes and Yvonne Bendish had not done all they might have
done to form Isabel's manners. "I'm so sorry, darling," she continued,
preparing to leap to her feet. "Shall I get you a biscuit? There are
oatmeals in the sideboard, the kind you like, I won't be a minute--"
"Thanks very much, I'd rather wait. Did you see Mrs. Clowes today?
Clowes said she was at the Castle."
"So she was, sitting with Mrs. Morley in an angelic striped cotton. Mrs.
Morley was in mauve ninon and a Gainsborough hat. Yvonne says Mr.
Morley is a Jew and made his money in I. D. B.'s, which I suppose are

some sort of stocks?" Neither of her brothers offered to enlighten her,
Rowsley because he was feeling indolent, Val because he never said an
unkind word to any one. Isabel, who was enamoured of her own voice
flowed on with little delay: "If he really is a Jew, I can't think how she
could marry him; I wouldn't. Mrs. Morley can't be very happy or Laura
wouldn't go and talk to her. Laura is so sweet, she always sits with
people that other people run away from. Oh Val, did Major Clowes tell
you their news?" Isabel might refer to her father as Jimmy and to
Rowsley's commander as the Old Man, but she rarely failed to give
Bernard Clowes his correct prefix.
"No--is there any?"
"Only that they have some one coming to stay with them. Won't he
have a deadly time?" Isabel glanced from Val to Rowsley in the
certainty of a common response. "Imagine staying at Wanhope!
However, he invited himself, so it's at his own risk. Perhaps he's
embarrassed like you, Rose, and wants Laura to feed him. It's rather fun
for Laura, though--that is, it will be, if Major Clowes isn't too
hopeless."
Strange freemasonry of the generations! Mr. Stafford's children loved
him dearly and he was wont to say that there were no secrets at the
vicarage, yet they lived in a conspiracy of silence, and even Val, who
was mentally nearer to his father's age, would have been loth to let Mr.
Stafford know as much as Isabel knew about Wanhope. It was assumed
that Val's job was the very job Val wanted. Mr. Stafford had indeed a
suspicion that it was not all plain sailing: Bernard Clowes retained just
so much of the decently bred man as to be courteous to his wife before
a mere acquaintance, but the vicar came and went at odd hours, and he
observed now and then vague intimations--undertones from Bernard
himself,