The Sleeping Fury Read online

  MARTIN ARMSTRONG

  THE SLEEPING FURY

  Contents

  Book I

  Charlotte At Fifty

  Book II

  Charlotte Asleep

  (Past History)

  Book III

  Charlotte Awakes

  (Past History)

  Book IV

  Charlotte’s second

  awakening

  Book I

  Charlotte At Fifty

  Chapter I

  Young Eric Danver, handsome, blue-eyed, and golden-haired, stood at the edge of the tennis-court unrolling the sleeves of his shirt and talking to John Pennington, who was doing the same. The two girls who had been their partners had moved away towards a group of onlookers who sat on deck-chairs ranged along the edge of the court. Two other chairs, detached a little from the rest, stood beside the two young men. Before the set they had just finished they had hung their coats on them, and now they unhooked the coats and began to put them on.

  “Let us sit here,” said John to his guest. “I’m tired of talking polite small-talk. Besides, I haven’t had a chance of talking to you since you arrived. I’m glad you managed to catch the earlier train.”

  “I only just caught it,” said Danver; “snatched it, in fact, when it was already well on its way.”

  “Well, a train in the hand is worth two in the time-table. You haven’t, I hope, been very bored among all this crowd of strangers?”

  Young Danver smiled. “Far from it,” he said. “Your mother kindly introduced me to lots of people. Besides, I’ve played tennis almost from the moment I arrived.”

  “Then you haven’t seen the place yet?”

  “Well,” said Eric, “I have seen something of it. I walked about, after a set, with one of my partners.”

  “A nice partner?”

  “Very nice, thank you.”

  “Young, charming, innocent?”

  Eric laughed and blushed. “The trouble with you, John,” he said, “is that you want to know too much.”

  John sighed deeply and made a gesture of profound despair. The pretence that Eric was a crafty and unscrupulous Don Juan was one of his pet jokes. “Would it be too grossly inquisitive,” he asked, “to enquire if, at least, you like the place?”

  “It’s marvellous,” replied Eric. “Almost too good to be true.” His eyes flitted over the courts towards the long, low front of the Manor House, half hidden among trees. On the lawns that stretched from its windows, shapes of bright colour moved slowly among the flower-beds and over the lawns. Other moving figures were to be seen through the gaps in a yew-hedge which enclosed a formal garden; there the colours of the women’s dresses showed with a gem-like richness against the walls and pyramids of black yew which rose here and there to the stiff, fantastic shape of a peacock or a dragon.

  “Your father must have been glad to come back,” he said.

  “He was,” said John; “and so were all of us. We used to come here a great deal, you see, in my grandfather’s time; but I was only seven when he cleared out and left the place. Couldn’t afford to keep it up. It takes some keeping up, as you can imagine. My grandfather was, unhappily, somewhat too interested in the Turf. Not this turf”—he tapped the ground with his foot—“ but the Turf in general. You understand? I thought perhaps, in your beautiful innocence … No? Forgive me. Well, my grandfather’s interest in the Turf in general was such that he had no interest left, and precious little capital either, for this particular turf, those yew-hedges, the house, and so forth. So out he had to go, and, as you know, we’ve been recovering, with the help of my mother, ever since.” He paused, and glanced at Eric. “It was lucky that my father married money,” he said.

  As he had hoped, this off-hand reference to his mother embarrassed Eric. “How nice of you, dear Eric,” he went on, “to blush for my mother. But it’s useless to blink the facts: my father undeniably married money. Still, it was, I must admit, very nice money; don’t you think so, Eric? And she, on her side, poor woman, thinks that you’re nice, because I have never revealed your real character to her. I have spared her all those painful details of broken hearts, ravished maidens, inquests, and so on. No; as much for her sake as yours, I have always refrained from giving you away, Eric.”

  Another four had taken possession of the tennis-court, and the game had already begun when Eric noticed with a leap of the heart that one of the two girls playing was that partner of his with whom he had walked round the grounds. He had been enormously attracted by her, so much so that he had been shy of speaking to John about her; and now, when he was dying to ask who she was and where she lived, he dared not, for he felt that his enthral-ment would betray itself at once in his eyes, in his voice, in the very manner of his enquiry. And so he talked of other things, or listened to the gaily cynical chatter of his friend. But, whether he talked or listened, his eyes followed the playing girl in fascinated wonder. What was it, he asked himself, that was so enchanting about her? Her looks certainly were enchanting; the small face with its compact, neatly modelled features, the large, deep-blue eyes under the delicate, dark brows, the alert, confident expression of her face, like a little hawk without the hawk’s fierceness. And the movements of her slim, well-knit body, alert and confident as the expression of her face, were enchanting too. But there was something that enchanted him still more than these things—something that he could not explain. Her sudden arrival on the scene had turned this garden-party into a delicious adventure for him. He sat now, his blue eyes absorbed in watching the small white figure. Shoes, stockings, and dress were all white. Even her hat was white except for the little bunch of bright blue feathers in it. He longed for her to take it off, so that he could see her hair. Gradually all talk between him and John ceased. John must have noticed his abstraction and have wearied of talking to one who refused him more than a fraction of his attention, for after a short time he got up from his chair.

  “Let us walk about a bit,” he said, and Eric reluctantly rose and followed him. He heaved a deep, inaudible sigh. How wonderful life was! How wonderful this old garden, full of sunshine and shadows, shining lawns and blazing flower-beds, among which all these dignified, beautifully dressed people strolled and sat! A sudden intoxication seized him. He had an irresistible longing to shout and dance and turn cartwheels on the grass. How surprised John would have been, he thought to himself. But, however great John’s surprise, he would have shown none. He would have accepted the outbreak as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “Evidently, my dear boy,” Eric imagined him saying, “you are in need of a drink.”

  They walked on over the close-cropped lawn until the trees drew back and revealed the whole long front of the many-gabled house, its weathered brick smouldering with a dark fire behind the massed colours of the flower-beds. It was the very essence of England, the rich, rural England which flourishes still through all the superficial changes of period, creed, and politics. For four centuries the old house had brooded benignly upon its green lawns, and dignified, leisured folk, in the various fashions of the various periods, had moved in and out of its doors and paced under its trees, among its flower-beds, over its flawless turf. The gay spectacle which the place presented to-day must be the counterpart of numberless others seen throughout the four hundred summers since the house had been built, all of them identical except for the differences of fashion in the dresses of the company and the addition, perhaps, or removal, of a door or window or chimney, or a small change in the disposition of the flower-beds. The spell of the place seemed to Eric almost too intense for common daily life. Surely, living in such a place, one would be absorbed by it; one’s little self, with its desires and energies, swallowed up in the great ancestral self into which,
like a single mote in a great shaft of sunlight, one had drifted for a few brief years.

  “Isn’t it almost too beautiful?” he said, when they had strolled in silence for some time.

  John turned his head sharply. Eric’s remark had shocked him out of his usual impassiveness. “You don’t like it?” he asked.

  “Like it?” said Eric. “I’m entranced by it. That’s just it. I feel it must be overpowering to have it always.”

  “One gets acclimatised,” said John; “which means, I suppose, that one becomes less acutely aware of its beauty; but that surely is inevitable, and, in fact, desirable. You can’t go about all day long in an ecstasy; neither body nor soul would stand it. Besides, one has not, I believe, reached the point of real appreciation until one has become habituated. At first the thing absorbs you; you resign yourself, and become a part of it. But after a while you absorb it and make it a part of yourself. You regain your self-possession. However, I may be wrong. I evolved the theory on the spur of the moment. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” said Eric. “With you it may be so, because you do love the place; but I feel that a good many of these people take it all for granted. They have lovely places of their own; they live surrounded by exquisite things, and take no more notice of them than I do of my mother’s little house in St. John’s Wood.”

  “No, perhaps they don’t; but the exquisite things influence them, for all that. Without them, these folk would not be what they are. Whether what they are is of any value is, I suppose, a matter of opinion. It all depends on what value you attach to what we call refinement.”

  Eric was silent for a moment. “How much do you include,” he asked at last, “in what you call refinement? Mere dignity of bearing, mere good manners, aren’t worth much without goodness of heart. Nor is even refinement, in the sense of culture. They’re very ornamental, I grant you, but little more than ornamental. The most heartless and inhuman creature I ever met had lovely manners, and was highly intelligent into the bargain; but, though he was very good company, when all’s said and done he was an awful swine.”

  “Oh, I quite agree that manners alone, and culture alone, and the two together alone, are not worth much.”

  “And don’t you think it possible that the acquirement of fine manners, and, in fact, all conventionality of behaviour, are rather apt to suppress feeling, to choke all heartiness and gusto?”

  John smiled one of his acid little smiles. “Humph!” he said. “I’m not very keen on gusto. I fancy that eruptions of feeling generally explode the feeling itself. The whole thing goes up in noise and gesticulation. Besides, your very hearty man is generally an awful bore.”

  Eric laughed. He remembered his impulse to dance and turn cartwheels on the lawn a few minutes before. Yes, certainly John would have been shocked.

  “I wonder who the lady was who talked to me during tea,” he said.

  “Is she a case in point or merely a change of subject, Eric? Merely, in fact, another example of your shameless preoccupation with the sex? I like that expression ‘the sex,’ don’t you?”

  “She is a case in point,” said Eric, “a superb case.”

  “Describe her. Young? Beautiful?”

  “Old, and … well … not beautiful; but prodigiously impressive. In fact, she’s formidable. The manner and dignity of the proverbial duchess; but as cold as an iceberg—a beautifully chiselled iceberg. And yet,” he added, as if reflectively to himself, “she was awfully nice to me. And I liked her eyes. But I did feel horribly cowed. I felt, you know, that she would never condescend to express the smallest emotion, and I felt, too, that all the time I was under inspection.”

  “And you probably were, my son. If you will mask the blackness of your soul under that blameless and prepossessing exterior. …”

  But Eric was not listening. His eyes were turned to where the broad gravel walk which ran parallel with the front of the house ended in the formal yew-hedged garden. “There she is,” he said, “there at the end of the path, with your father.”

  “That?” said John. “Oh, that’s Lady Mardale. Ah! no wonder you felt as you did, my poor Eric. But Lady Mardale’s tremendous. She’s a national monument; and surely, Eric, you don’t expect warmth from a national monument. All the same, she’s an awfully good sort.”

  “Yes, I felt that,” said Eric. “But I can’t live up to such flawless self-possession. It freezes me. Do you think, John, that she ever breaks out … or breaks down … or breaks through?”

  “Certainly not. What a question!”

  “But don’t you think there’s something rather terrible in that? For instance, can you imagine her in love?”

  “No, frankly, I can’t. One does feel, I admit, that Lady Mardale is protected from the commoner facts of life. But can we, to choose another aspect, picture her stepping into a bath? And yet, being an English lady, and such an English lady, she undoubtedly does step into a bath every day of her life. You will allow, Eric, that it’s undeniable.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “And so, you see, she must be a little different from what we suppose. Let us make another test. Can you imagine her weeping?”

  Eric gave a little frown of distress. “I’d rather not try,” he said.

  “But why not, if she seems to you so inhuman?”

  “Well, I don’t know. …” He paused. “I feel, somehow,” he said at last, “that there would be something more than usually tragic in her breaking down.”

  “And so it would appear that you don’t really deny her humanity. In fact, I suspect, Eric, that you are confusing dignity—or, if you like, austerity—with humanity. You have allowed that she steps stark naked every day into a bath, so that perhaps you will believe me when I tell you that twenty or twenty-one years ago she produced a very beautiful daughter whom we saw playing tennis when we were sitting over there.”

  “What? The one in white, with the … with the blue in her hat?”

  John turned his head, and saw that Eric was blushing and gaping like a schoolboy. “A … h, Eric!” He shook a reproachful finger. “You must take a few lessons in self-possession from Lady Mardale. So I’ve convinced you at last, have I, you unmitigated old Casanova?”

  “Yes, you’ve convinced me,” said Eric. “But you must admit that she hides her humanity very successfully.”

  “Oh, I admit that. And you, on your side, must admit that she’s a work of art, a grande dame if ever there was one, and admirably adapted to be the wife of a parson-peer.”

  “A parson?”

  “Yes, Lord Mardale is both a lord and a servant of the Lord. Very compendious, isn’t it?”

  “And he, I suppose, is as austere as his wife?”

  “Austere? Far from it. He’s the most human creature I know. Unusual in a parson, isn’t it? But he isn’t primarily the parson; in fact, you wouldn’t, I think, take him for a parson if it wasn’t for his dog-collars. But you would guess at once that he was an aristocrat, and what you do feel about him at once is that he’s that rare bird, a good man. The Halnakers have always rather run to goodness. Real goodness, I mean; not mere piety.”

  “Halnaker is the family name?”

  “Yes. Spelt H-a-l-n-a-k-e-r and pronounced Hannaker, with the accent on the Hann—the pro-penultimate, as we were taught to call it at school. The propenultimate, if you please. What unmitigated nonsense! Why not the last-but-two?”

  Eric made no reply to these scholastic ruminations of John’s. His eyes were following the two figures that were now pacing slowly along the grass six or seven yards away. They were far enough from where he and John sat to be unaware of them, yet near enough for him to be able to inspect Lady Mardale as he had not dared to do when she had talked to him at tea; and he studied her intently, his interest reinforced now by the knowledge that she was the mother of his delightful girl.

  She was a large woman, but there was nothing ungainly in her size, for she was tall—taller than he had supposed when he had stood by h
er chair at tea—and she carried her head and body with an ease and assurance which gave her an air of elegance. Though she appeared old in Eric’s young eyes, she gave him the impression also of being physically strong; she might almost, he thought to himself, have been called athletic. The alertness and confidence which had so charmed him in the girl had evidently come from the mother. He examined her face. No, he thought again, she could not strictly be called handsome. The nose was too large, the large cheeks were somewhat pouched, and so was the chin. There was something grim and yet kindly about the long, narrow mouth, turned down a little at the corners. From where he sat he noticed again the large, care-worn eye-sockets, but he could not see the eyes—those eyes he had especially noticed at tea, brownish-grey like agates, piercing yet kind. No, thought Eric, she was not really handsome, and yet she produced the effect of handsomeness much more than many handsome women. How entirely in her appropriate surroundings she seemed to be in this beautiful old place. But wasn’t she, after all, Eric reflected, one of those very people of whom he had spoken just now to John, who have always been surrounded by exquisite things, and take them all for granted? Was she as entranced as he was? Was she even conscious of the place at all as something marvellously rich and moving? No, Eric felt certain that she was not. She had driven over, probably in a large closed car so that her hair and hat should not be disturbed, to carry out a formal duty, bringing with her her admirable social distinction. Convention demanded that she should be there, and there she was, and the occasion was certainly the richer for her presence. She was deep in conversation now with John’s father, and, from the seriousness of their faces, Eric judged that they were talking business. He turned to John. “Yes,” he said, “she certainly is a work of art.”

  John nodded. “A national monument,” he said. “But come along; we ought to go back to the tennis. I’m supposed to keep an eye on it, and make up new sets when necessary. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Eric, though it will go sorely against my conscience. I’ll lead the lamb to the slaughter: I’ll make up a four with you and Sylvia Halnaker as partners.”