Laughing House by Warwick Deeping (grave mercy .txt) 📕

to look at it.

But let me speak of my first night in the House. It was ‘a most strange feeling to climb the familiar stairs that had known candle and slipper days, and to walk into that intimate room and shut the door upon the world. This room, with all its belongings, was Sibilla, and as I lay in bed with the sweet stillness of the valley about me, I could feel Sibilla with me, a Sibilla who was sharing in the old house’s spiritual and human adventure, for that was what it was. It seemed to me that Sibilla would have smiled upon us and the House, a Sibilla who was more Other World than we were.

Dear old sentimentalist!

But I slept the sleep of the contented. Life was being somehow good, with the House cleaned and garnished, a house that was full of new inspiration, and waiting calmly for what was to be. I slept until someone knocked at my door. I heard Sybil’s voice.

“Early tea, Uncle.”

Well, well, well!

“Come in,” said I, “this gracious act is appreciated.”

So, Peter and Sybil and I went all over the place together. We saw the polished tables and rich curtains and flowery walls of the dining-room, and the gracious calm of the chambers where our guests would sit at ease. We inspected the bedrooms and the bathrooms where Peter thorough as to detail had fixed two hooks upon each door. We looked into Sybil’s linen cupboard, and her blanket store. We paid a formal visit to Ellen and her kitchen, and Ellen’s face was as bright as her pots and pans.

Then we went outside and wandered. Floweriness everywhere. The Mollis Azaleas were out and the early Rhodos, and Pyrus Floribunda, and the apple blossom, and narcissi in wild corners. Down below there old Potter and Tom were scything the new lawns before the mower would deal with them. The Pool was a shimmer, blinking at us, and up above the great beeches were coming into leaf. I thought that the Surrey valley had never looked more green and lovely.

From below came the exultant quacking of ducks, and Sybil copied them.

“Quack, quack, quack! Aren’t they feeling good?”

“The duck is an optimist,” said I.

Peter smiled at me.

“Call it an omen, Uncle. If this place does not please people well—”

“Hats aren’t eaten these days,” said his wife.

XIX

WERE we excited? Yes, sir, we were.

Jean and Marie had joined us, and I liked the look of these women. Jean was sandy and smiling, Marie slim, dark and intense, a lovely mover and graceful as a waitress should be. I guessed that she was the more temperamental of the two, but would respond to courteous handling.

But before we opened our show we gathered the whole staff together in the dining-room, Ellen and Emily, Mrs. Hobson, Jean and Marie, Polly, Potter and Tom, and I spoke to them of the spirit of our enter prise. It was to be a rest-house for the tired. We should be giving succour and service, working as a team, whole heartedly and happily. We wanted every member of the staff to feel a part of the show, and responsible for it. We were not mere commercialists. I appealed to them to accept the ten per cent, and to refuse tips, which might be bribes, and unfair to those who could not afford to bribe. I spoke of the staff fund I hoped to found, a share in the profits. And if any member of the staff had a grievance, let her or him come straight to me. Moreover, we should welcome any suggestion which might make for efficiency and the easing of labour.

I watched their faces. They were interested and friendly, and I felt that I had them with me.

Then I said: “Does anyone wish to say anything?”

There was silence for a moment, and then Polly sat forward in her chair.

“Jolly good show, sir. I don’t mind turning in and giving a hand at anything.”

“Thank you, Polly. That’s the spirit.”

I looked at Mrs. Hobson, whose face was somehow eloquent, but she remained silent.

“Does anybody else—?”

I had a smile from Marie.

“When we have our day off, sir?”

“Yes, Marie, all of us will do helps—That’s the whole idea. I’m ready to put on a white jacket and play waiter.”

There was friendly laughter, and I added: “When ever one of us has a day off, that means breakfast in bed, for those who like it.”

Yes, we were excited, and I think I was more excited than any of them. I had become a regular kid. I lay abed thinking, and I got up early in the morning and pottered around for my own pleasure. I am afraid I was proposing to leave all the interminable bumph to poor Peter: ration-cards, official fuss and what-not, for he was young and knew much more about it than I did. I found that he had some knowledge of accounting, and he elected to keep the books, and make out bills. He could use a typewriter, and so could Sybil, and I had an old machine which still functioned.

I had had notepaper and bills printed.

THE BEECH HILL HOTEL, Telephone Number

FRAMLEY GREEN, So-and-so.

SURREY.

Proprietor Manager

SIR JOHN MORTIMER. MR. PETER NASH.

I had rather wanted to cut out the Sir, but Peter had grinned at me, and said it would supply dignity and inspire confidence.

We possessed a telephone. I think I forgot to mention that. We had a little box rigged up in the hall.

I fussed around the garden, eyeing our crops, especially the earlies, for we should need them. There had been a most dastardly May frost, but our fruit was above the valley bottom, and it did not suffer severely. Potter had put the motor mower over the lawns, and I had rummaged out a croquet set and hoops, and a box of bowls. Tennis balls appeared to be out of the question for the moment, and we had no stop-netting and standards.

My moods fluctuated between elation and mild gloom. I had seen our advertisements, but as yet they had brought us no inquiries. I watched for the postman, but for days he delivered nothing but papers and letters for the staff. I had arranged for daily papers.

I became a little irritable and worried.

Damn it, was our show going to prove a frost?

Peter disappeared for one whole day, and came back looking mighty pleased with himself. He confessed that he had been touring some old haunts and making contact with friends and acquaintances who might prove helpful.

“Such as—?” I asked him.

He mentioned the names of two famous hotels, and a restaurant, and said that the managers had been kind to him, but he had also visited several of the quieter hotels whose clients might find Beech Hill more sym pathetic to their pockets and their tastes. I understood that they had consented to the display of our card, which was magnanimous of them, but then Peter and his lame leg were particularly persuasive.

Our first letter.

It was addressed to the Manager, and Peter brought it to me in the vegetable garden where I was helping to earth up early potatoes.

“Read it,” said I.

The letter came from London, and asked for infor mation, terms, etc., and whether we had two single rooms vacant. It was a feminine letter. The writer ex plained that her husband had been ill, and needed rest and country air. It was signed “Mary Manners.”

I liked the name.

“Well, the answer is in the affirmative.”

We had three letters next day, inquiries for two double rooms, and one single. I began to feel tails up.

Then Mrs. Manners wrote and said they would come to us on the Friday, and could they be met at Melford station? I had not got my new car yet, but the local expert had tinkered up the old one.

“Yes, I’ll do it, Peter.”

“You, sir?”

“Why the devil not? I’ll play chauffeur.”

I did, and feeling puckish I did the thing thoroughly. I put on a cap and coat which had belonged to my chauffeur; they had been stored. Peter saw me drive off, and I shall never forget his grin.

“All tips pooled, sir.”

“You’re telling me!”

I met Mr. and Mrs. Manners. I saw him as a very frail man with a skin like vellum and queer dark eyes, leaning on the arm of a tall, grey-haired woman. A porter followed with some luggage. I touched the peak of my cap in the proper professional way.

“For Beech Hill, madam?”

She gave me an appraising look, but her grey eyes were kind.

“Yes.”

She had a pleasant and slightly husky voice. I held the door open, while she helped her husband in. He was very feeble. The porter stowed the luggage away in the dickey. I had brought a rug and a cushion, and I offered Mr. Manners the cushion. His white fragility touched me.

We drove off, and I remained silent, as though knowing my place. Then I heard her voice.

“Tell me, driver, who was it who thought of the cushion?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, madam.”

“Thank you.”

There was more silence, until we were passing the delightful group of old white cottages in Melf ord.

“Good to be seen once more, dear.”

“Yes,” said he. “England and peace.”

She spoke to me again.

““Is the hotel very full?”

“As a matter of fact, madam, you are our first visi tors. We are only just open. We are expecting more people soon.”

“It is an old country house?”

“Yes.”

“Quiet and a good garden?”

“Yes. I have always thought it one of the loveliest places in Surrey.”

I could see her questioning face in the mirror. I wondered if I had given myself away.

“May I ask if you are masquerading?”

“Masquerading, madam?”

“Yes.”

I laughed.

“Well, we are all doing jobs. Luckily my old car can still do a job.”

“How—er—human, Sir John. You make an admirable chauffeur.”

“Thank you, madam,” said I, “how quick of you!”

“You are a great relief to me. I judge by the cushion.”

They were silent when we reached the valley, and saw the high woods, and the pool and the comely house, but I had a feeling that Mrs. Manners drew a deep breath. She laid a hand over her husband’s.

“Isn’t it lovely!”

What a gentlewoman was this!

I said: “Nearly all the valley is ours. You can wander or sit as you please.”

“It is like a soft green cushion.”

I helped Mr. Manners upstairs. Sybil handled the luggage.

She was as strong as a pony. I showed them their rooms.

“If there is anything you want—”

She was looking round the room.

“It’s a house, not an inn. Do you like it, Arthur?”

He said: “I feel I shall sleep here.”

They had tea in the lounge. I had put out deck chairs, and later I saw them sunning themselves on the lawn, for the day was kind. I had a basket, and, was off to gather young spinach which had been doched. I took a look at their two faces, and I had the feeling that they were all smoothed out. In fact, when I came back with my basket I met them wandering up by the azaleas to the high seat under an old lilac. Mrs. Manners looked as though she had shed much-weariness and care, and the brave melancholy of a good comrade who had grown secretly afraid of life.

I stopped to speak to them. Yes, the azaleas were lovely. They were poignant both in perfume and colour. Manners was looking at my great basket of spinach, he struck me as