The man who found himself (Smith's Magazine 1920)/Chapter 15

Upton-on-Hill stands on a hogback of land running north and south, timbered with pines mostly, and commanding a view of half Wessex—not the Wessex of Thomas Hardy, however. You can se seven church spires from Upton and the Roman road takes it in its sweep, becomes the Upton High Street for a moment, and passes on to be the Roman road again, leading to the Downs and the distant sea.

It is a restful place, and in spring the shouting of the birds and the measured call of the cuckoo fill the village, mixing with the voice of the ever-talking pine trees. In summer Upton sleeps among roses, in an atmosphere of sunlight and drowsiness, sung to by the bees and the birds. The Rose Hotel stands, set back from the High Street, in its own grounds, and beside the Rose there are two other houses for refreshment, the Bricklayers' Arms and the Saracen's Head, of which more hereafter.

It is a pleasant place as well as a restful one. Passing through it, people say: “Oh, what a dream”; living in it, one is driven at last to admit there are dreams and dreams. It is not the place that forces this conviction, but the people.

Just as the Roman road narrows at the beginning of the High Street, so the life of a stranger coming, say from London, narrows at the beginning of his or her residence in Upton. If you are a villager, you find yourself under a microscope, with three hundred eyes at the eyepiece. If you are a genteel person but without introductions, you find yourself the target of half a score of telescopes leveled at you by the residents.

Colonel Salmon, who owned the fishing rights of the trout stream below hill, the Talbot Tomsons, the Griffith Smiths, the Grosvenor Joneses and the rest—all these, failing introductions, you will find to be passive registers to your presence.

Now, caution toward strangers and snobbishness are two different things. The Uptonians are snobbish because, though you may be beautiful as a dream or innocent as a saint, you will be sniffed at and turned over; but if you are wealthy it is another matter, as in the case of the Smyth-Smyths, who were neither beautiful nor innocent—but that is another story.

“The village is a mile farther on,” said Pugeot. “Let's turn down here before we go to the hotel and have afternoon tea with my cousin. Randall, steer for The Nook.”

The car was not the Dragon Fly, but a huge closed limousine with Mudd seated beside Randall, and inside the rest of that social menagerie, about to be landed on the residents of Upton, upon the landing stage of the social position of Dick Pugeot's cousin, Sir Squire Simpson. All the introductions in the world could not be better than the personal introduction to the resident of Upton, by the Honorable Richard Pugeot.

They passed lodge gates and then went up a pleasant drive to a big house front before which a small garden party seemed to be going on. A big afternoon tea it was, and there were men in flannels and girls in summer frocks, and discarded tennis racquets lying about, and the sight of all this gave Bobby a horrible turn.



Uncle Simon had been very quiet during the journey, happy, but quiet, squeezed between the two women, but this was not the sort of place he wanted to land uncle Simon in, despite his quietude and happiness. Mudd, evidently, also had qualms, for he kept looking back through the glass front of the car, evidently trying to catch Bobby's eye.

But there was no turning back.

The car swept along the drive, past the party on the lawn, and drew up at the front door. Then, as they bundled out, a tall old man, without a hat and dressed in gray tweed, detached him- self from the lawn crowd and came toward them.

This was Sir Squire Simpson, Bart. His head was dome-shaped and he had heavy eyelids that reminded one of half-closed shutters, and a face that seemed carved from old ivory, an extremely serious-looking person and stately. He was glad to see Pugeot and he advanced with a hand outstretched and the ghost of an old-fashioned sort of smile.

“I've brought some friends down to stay at the hotel,” said Pugeot, “and I thought we would drop in here for tea, first. Didn't expect to find a party.”

“Delighted,” said the squire.

He was introduced to “My friend, Mr. Pettigrew, Madame—er—de Rossignol, Mademoiselle de Rossignol, Mr. Ravenshaw.”

Then the party, moving toward the lawn, were all introduced to Lady Simpson, a harmless-looking individual who welcomed them, distributed them among her guests, and gave them tea.

Bobby, detaching himself for a moment from the charms of Miss Squire Simpson, managed to get hold of Pugeot.

“I say,” said he, “don't you think this may be a bit too much for uncle?”

“Oh, he's all right,” said Pugeot. “Can't come to any harm here. Look at him, he's quite happy.”

Simon seemed happy enough, talking to a dowager-looking woman and drinking his tea, but Bobby was not happy. It all seemed wrong, somehow, and he abused Pugeot in his heart. Pugeot had said himself that a moated grange was the proper place for uncle Simon and that even then he might tumble into the moat, and now, with the splendid inconsequence of his nature, he had tumbled him into this whirl of local society. This was not seclusion in the country. Why, some of these people might, by chance, be Simon's clients.

But there was no use in troubling, and he could do nothing but watch and hope. He noticed that the womenfolk had evidently taken up with Cerise and her mother, and he could not but wonder vaguely how it would have been if they could have seen the rooms in Duke Street, Leicester Square, and the picture of uncle Simon, tucked up and snoring in Cerise's little bed.

The tennis began again and Bobby, firmly pinned by Miss Squire Simpson—she was a plain girl—had to sit watching a game and trying to talk.

The fact that madame and Cerise were French had evidently condoned their want of that touch in dress which makes for style. They were being led about and shown things by their hostess.

Uncle Simon had vanished toward the rose garden, at the back of the house, in company with a female—she seemed elderly. Bobby hoped for the best.

“Are you down here for long?” asked Miss Squire Simpson.

“Not very long, I think,” replied he. “We may be here a month or so—it all depends on my uncle's health.”

“That gentleman you came with?”

“Yes.”

“He seems awfully jolly.”

“Yes, but he suffers from insomnia.”

“Then he'll get lots of sleep here,” said she. “Oh, do tell me the name of that pretty girl who came with you. I never can catch a name when I am introduced to a person.”

“A Miss Rossignol—she's a friend of uncle's, and French.”

“And the dear old lady is her mother, I suppose?”

“Yes, she writes books.”

“An authoress.”

“Yes—at least, I believe she translates books. She is awfully clever.”

“Well played!” cried Miss Squire Simpson, breaking from the subject into an ecstasy, at a stroke made by one of the flanneled fools. Then, resuming:

“She must be clever! And are you all staying here together?”

“Yes, at the Rose Hotel.”

“You will find it a dear little place,” said she, unconscious of any double entendre, “and you will get lots of tennis down here. Do you fish?”

“A little.”

“Then you must make up to Colonel Salmon. That's he at the nets. He owns the best trout stream about here.”

Bobby looked at Colonel Salmon, a stout, red-faced man, with a head that resembled somewhat the head of a salmon—a salmon with a high sense of its own importance.

Pugeot came along, smoking a cigarette. Some of the people began to go. The big limousine reappeared from the back premises with Mudd and the luggage, and Pugeot began to collect his party. Simon reappeared with the elderly lady. They were both smiling and he had evidently done no harm—it would have been better, perhaps, if he had, right at the start. The French ladies were recaptured and as they bundled into the car, quite a bevy of residents surrounded the door, bidding them good-by for the present.

“Remember, you must come and see my roses,” said Mrs. Fisher-Fisher. “Don't bother about formality. Just drop in, all of you.”

“You'll find Anderson stopping at the hotel. He's quite a nice fellow,” cried Sir Squire Simpson. “So long—so long!”

“Are they not charming?” said old Madame Rossignol, whose face was slightly flushed with the good time she had been having. “And the beautiful house—and the beautiful garden!”

She had not seen a garden for years. Verily, Simon was a good fairy, as far as the Rossignols were concerned.

They drew up at the Rose Hotel. A vast, clambering vine of wistaria shadowed the hall door. The landlord came out to meet them. Pugeot had telegraphed for rooms. He knew Pugeot, and his reception of the party spoke of the fact.

The Rossignols were shown to their room where their luggage, such as it was, had been carried before them. It was a big bedroom with chintz hangings and a floor with hills and valleys in it. It had black oak beams, and the window opened on the garden.

The old lady sat down.

“How happy I am!” said she. “Does it not seem like a dream, ma fée?”

“It is like heaven!” said Cerise, kissing her.