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Six
I
Midge Hardcastle came downstairs about eleven on Saturday morning. She had had breakfast in
bed and had read a book and dozed a little and then got up.
It was nice lazing this way. About time she had a holiday! No doubt about it, Madame Alfrege’s
got on your nerves.
She came out of the front door into the pleasant autumn sunshine. Sir Henry Angkatell was
sitting on a rustic seat reading The Times. He looked up and smiled. He was fond of Midge.
“Hallo, my dear.”
“Am I very late?”
“You haven’t missed lunch,” said Sir Henry, smiling.
Midge sat down beside him and said with a sigh:
“It’s nice being here.”
“You’re looking rather peaked.”
“Oh, I’m all right. How delightful to be somewhere where no fat women are trying to get into
clothes several sizes too small for them!”
“Must be dreadful!” Sir Henry paused and then said, glancing down at his wristwatch:
“Edward’s arriving by the 12:15.”
“Is he?” Midge paused, then said: “I haven’t seen Edward for a long time.”
“He’s just the same,” said Sir Henry. “Hardly ever comes up from Ainswick.”
“Ainswick,” thought Midge. “Ainswick!” Her heart gave a sick pang. Those lovely days at
Ainswick. Visits looked forward to for months! “I’m going to Ainswick.” Lying awake for nights
beforehand thinking about it. And at last—the day! The little country station at which the train—
the big London express—had to stop if you gave notice to the guard! The Daimler waiting outside.
The drive—the final turn in through the gate and up through the woods till you came out into the
open and there the house was — big and white and welcoming. Old Uncle Geoffrey in his
patchwork tweed coat.
“Now then, youngsters—enjoy yourselves.” And they had enjoyed themselves. Henrietta over
from Ireland. Edward, home from Eton. She herself, from the Northcountry grimness of a
manufacturing town. How like heaven it had been.
But always centring about Edward. Edward, tall and gentle and diffident and always kind. But
never, of course, noticing her very much because Henrietta was there.
Edward, always so retiring, so very much of a visitor so that she had been startled one day when
Tremlet, the head gardener, had said:
“The place will be Mr. Edward’s some day.”
“But why, Tremlet? He’s not Uncle Geoffrey’s son.”
“He’s the heir, Miss Midge. Entailed, that’s what they call it. Miss Lucy, she’s Mr. Geoffrey’s
only child, but she can’t inherit because she’s a female, and Mr. Henry, as she married, he’s only a
second cousin. Not so near as Mr. Edward.”
And now Edward lived at Ainswick. Lived there alone and very seldom came away. Midge
wondered, sometimes, if Lucy minded. Lucy always looked as though she never minded about
anything.
Yet Ainswick had been her home, and Edward was only her first cousin once removed, and over
twenty years younger than she was. Her father, old Geoffrey Angkatell, had been a great
“character” in the country. He had had considerable wealth as well, most of which had come to
Lucy, so that Edward was a comparatively poor man, with enough to keep the place up, but not
much over when that was done.
Not that Edward had expensive tastes. He had been in the diplomatic service for a time, but
when he inherited Ainswick he had resigned and come to live on his property. He was of a
bookish turn of mind, collected first editions, and occasionally wrote rather hesitating ironical little
articles for obscure reviews. He had asked his second cousin, Henrietta Savernake, three times to
marry him.
Midge sat in the autumn sunshine thinking of these things. She could not make up her mind
whether she was glad she was going to see Edward or not. It was not as though she were what is
called “getting over it.” One simply did not get over anyone like Edward. Edward of Ainswick
was just as real to her as Edward rising to greet her from a restaurant table in London. She had
loved Edward ever since she could remember….
Sir Henry’s voice recalled her.
“How do you think Lucy is looking?”
“Very well. She’s just the same as ever.” Midge smiled a little. “More so.”
“Ye—es.” Sir Henry drew on his pipe. He said unexpectedly:
“Sometimes, you know, Midge, I get worried about Lucy.”
“Worried?” Midge looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
Sir Henry shook his head.
“Lucy,” he said, “doesn’t realize that there are things that she can’t do.”
Midge stared. He went on:
“She gets away with things. She always has.” He smiled. “She’s flouted the traditions of
Government House—she’s played merry hell with precedence at dinner parties (and that, Midge,
is a black crime!). She’s put deadly enemies next to each other at the dinner table, and run riot
over the colour question! And instead of raising one big almighty row and setting everyone at
loggerheads and bringing disgrace on the British Raj—I’m damned if she hasn’t got away with it!
That trick of hers—smiling at people and looking as though she couldn’t help it! Servants are the
same—she gives them any amount of trouble and they adore her.”
“I know what you mean,” said Midge thoughtfully. “Things that you wouldn’t stand from
anyone else, you feel are all right if Lucy does them. What is it, I wonder? Charm? Magnetism?”
Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“She’s always been the same from a girl—only sometimes I feel it’s growing on her. I mean
that she doesn’t realize that there are limits. Why, I really believe, Midge,” he said, amused, “that
Lucy would feel she could get away with murder!”
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