Philip listened. After a moment of scratchy roaring, the Punch and Judy parody of his father’s voice said: “The key to the problem of sex: passion is sacred, a manifestation of the divinitah.” And then, without stop or transition, but in a slightly different tone: “The wahrst thing about politics is the frivolitah of politicians. Meeting Asquith one evening at dinner, I forget now where, I took the opportunitah of ahrging on him the necessitah of abolishing capital punishment. One of the most syahrious questions of modern life. But he myahrly suggested that we should go and play bridge. Unit of measure seven letters long: Verchok. Fastidious men do not live in pigsties, nor can they long remain in politics or business. There are nature’s Greeks and nature’s Mrs. Grundies. I never shared the mob’s high opinion of Lloyd George. Every man is born with a natural right to be happy; but what ferocious repression when anybody tried to claim his right! Brazilian stork, six letters: jabiru. True greatness is invarsely proportional to myahr immediate success. Ah, hyah you … !” The scratchy roar supervened.
“Yes, I see the style of things,” said Philip, looking up. “How does one stop this affair? Ah, that’s it.” He stopped it.
“So many thoughts occur to me as I lie hyah,” said Mr. Quarles, aimed upward, as though speaking against aircraft. “Such a wealth! I could never record them all but for the machine. It’s wonderful. Ryahlly wonderful!”
XXXIII
Elinor had had time to telegraph from Euston. On her arrival, she found the car waiting for her at the station. “How is he?” she asked the chauffeur. But Jaxton was vague, didn’t rightly know. Privately, he thought it was one of those ridiculous fusses about nothing, such as the rich are always making, particularly where their children are concerned.
They drove up to Gattenden, and the landscape of the Chilterns in the ripe evening light was so serenely beautiful that Elinor began to feel less anxious and even half wished that she had stayed till the last train. She would have been able in that case to see Webley. But hadn’t she decided that she was really almost glad not to be seeing him? One can be glad and sorry at the same time. Passing the north entrance to the park, she had a glimpse through the bars of Lord Gattenden’s bath chair standing just inside the gate. The ass had stopped and was eating grass at the side of the road, the reins hung loose and the marquess was too deeply absorbed in a thick red morocco quarto to be able to think of driving. The car hurried on; but that second’s glimpse of the old man sitting with his book behind the grey donkey, as she had so often seen him sitting and reading, that brief revelation of life living itself regularly, unvaryingly, in the same old familiar way, was as reassuring as the calm loveliness of beech trees and bracken, of green-golden foreground and violet distances.
And there at last was the Hall! The old house seemed to doze in the westering sun like a basking animal; you could almost fancy that it purred. And the lawn was like the most expensive green velvet; and in the windless air the huge Wellingtonia had all the dignified gravity of an old gentleman who sits down to meditate after an enormous meal. There could be nothing much wrong here. She jumped out of the car and ran straight upstairs to the nursery. Phil was lying in bed, quite still and with closed eyes. Miss Fulkes, who was sitting beside him, turned as she entered, rose and came to meet her. One glance at her face was enough to convince Elinor that the blue and golden tranquility of the landscape, the dozing house, the marquess and his ass had been lying comforters. “All’s well,” they had seemed to say. “Everything’s going on as usual.” But Miss Fulkes looked pale and frightened, as though she had seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter?” Elinor whispered with a sudden return of all her anxiety, and before Miss Fulkes had time to answer, “Is he asleep?” she added. If he were asleep, she was thinking, it was a good sign; he looked as though he were asleep.
But Miss Fulkes shook her head. The gesture was superfluous. For the question was hardly out of Elinor’s mouth when the child made a sudden spasmodic movement under the sheets. His face contracted with pain. He uttered a little whimpering moan.
“His head hurts him so much,” said Miss Fulkes. There was a look of terror and misery in her eyes.
“Go and have a rest,” said Elinor.
Miss Fulkes hesitated, shook her head. “I’d like to be useful …”
Elinor insisted. “You’ll be more useful when you’ve rested …” She saw Miss Fulkes’s lips trembling, her eyes growing suddenly bright with tears.
“Go along,” she said, and pressed her arm consolingly.
Miss Fulkes obeyed with a sudden alacrity. She was afraid that she might start crying before she got to her room.
Elinor sat down by the bed. She took the little hand that lay on the turned back sheet, she passed her fingers through the child’s pale hair caressingly, soothingly. “Sleep,” she whispered, as her fingers caressed him, “sleep, sleep.” But the child still stirred uneasily, and every now and then his face was distorted with sudden pain; he shook his head, as though trying to shake off the thing that was hurting him, he uttered his little whimpering moan. And bending over him, Elinor felt as though her heart were being crushed within her breast, as though a hand were at her throat, choking her.
“My darling,” she said beseechingly, imploring him not to suffer, “my darling.”
And she pressed the small hand more tightly, she let her palm rest more
