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_ It was quite a different sort of house from Mr Brindley's. One
felt that immediately on entering the hall, which was extensive.
There was far more money and considerably less taste at large in
that house than in the other. I noticed carved furniture that must
have been bought with a coarse and a generous hand; and on the
walls a diptych by Marcus Stone portraying the course of true love
clingingly draped. It was just like Exeter or Onslow Square. But
the middle-aged servant who received us struck at once the same
note as had sounded so agreeably at Mr Brindley's. She seemed
positively glad to see us; our arrival seemed to afford her a
peculiar and violent pleasure, as though the hospitality which we
were about to accept was in some degree hers too. She robbed us of
our hats with ecstasy.
Then Mr Colclough appeared.
'Delighted you've come, Mr Loring!' he said, shaking my hand
again. He said it with fervour. He obviously was delighted. The
exercise of hospitality was clearly the chief joy of his life; at
least, if he had a greater it must have been something where
keenness was excessive beyond the point of pleasure, as some joys
are. 'How do, Bob? Your missis has just come.' He was still in his
motoring clothes.
Mr Brindley, observing my gaze transiently on the Marcus Stones,
said: 'I know what you're looking for; you're looking for "Saul's
Soul's Awakening". We don't keep it in the window; you'll see it
inside.'
'Bob's always rotting me about my pictures,' Mr Colclough smiled
indulgently. He seemed big enough to eat his friend, and his rich,
heavy voice rolled like thunder about the hall. 'Come along in,
will you?'
'Half-a-second, Ol,' Mr Brindley called in a conspiratorial tone,
and, turning to me: Tell him THE Limerick. You know.'
'The one about the hayrick?'
Mr Brindley nodded.
There were three heads close together for a space of twenty
seconds or so, and then a fearful explosion happened--the unique,
tremendous laughter of Mr Colclough, which went off like a charge
of melinite and staggered the furniture.
'Now, now!' a feminine voice protested from an unseen interior.
I was taken to the drawing-room, an immense apartment with an
immense piano black as midnight in it. At the further end two
women were seated close together in conversation, and I distinctly
heard the name 'Fuge'. One of them was Mrs Brindley, in a hat. The
other, a very big and stout woman, in an elaborate crimson garment
that resembled a teagown, rose and came to meet me with extended
hand.
'My wife--Mr Loring,' said Mr Oliver Colclough.
'So glad to meet you,' she said, beaming on me with all her
husband's pleasure. 'Come and sit between Mrs Brindley and me,
near the window, and keep us in order. Don't you find it very
close? There are at least a hundred cats in the garden.'
One instantly perceived that ceremonial stiffness could not exist
in the same atmosphere with Mrs Oliver Colclough. During the whole
time I spent in her house there was never the slightest pause in
the conversation. Mrs Oliver Colclough prevented nobody from
talking, but she would gladly use up every odd remnant of time
that was not employed by others. No scrap was too small for her.
'So this is the other one!' I said to myself. 'Well, give me this
one!'
Certainly there was a resemblance between the two, in the general
formation of the face, and the shape of the shoulders; but it is
astonishing that two sisters can differ as these did, with a
profound and vital difference. In Mrs Colclough there was no
coquetterie, no trace of that more-than-half-suspicious challenge
to a man that one feels always in the type to which her sister
belonged. The notorious battle of the sexes was assuredly carried
on by her in a spirit of frank muscular gaiety--she could, I am
sure, do her share of fighting. Put her in a boat on the bosom of
the lake under starlight, and she would not by a gesture, a tone,
a glance, convey mysterious nothings to you, a male. She would not
be subtly changed by the sensuous influences of the situation; she
would always be the same plump and earthly piece of candour. Even
if she were in love with you, she would not convey mysterious
nothings in such circumstances. If she were in love with you she
would most clearly convey unmysterious and solid somethings. I was
convinced that the contributing cause to the presence of the late
Simon Fuge in the boat on Ilam Lake on the historic night was
Annie the superior barmaid, and not Sally of the automobile. But
Mrs Colclough, if not beautiful, was a very agreeable creation.
Her amplitude gave at first sight an exaggerated impression of her
age; but this departed after more careful inspection. She could
not have been more than thirty. She was very dark, with plenteous
and untidy black hair, thick eyebrows, and a slight moustache. Her
eyes were very vivacious, and her gestures, despite that bulk,
quick and graceful. She was happy; her ideals were satisfied; it
was probably happiness that had made her stout. Her massiveness
was apparently no grief to her; she had fallen into the
carelessness which is too often the pitfall of women who, being
stout, are content.
'How do, missis?' Mr Brindley greeted her, and to his wife, 'How
do, missis? But, look here, bright star, this gadding about is all
very well, but what about those precious kids of yours? None of
'em dead yet, I hope.'
'Don't be silly, Bob.'
'I've been over to your house,' Mrs Colclough put in. 'Of course
it isn't mumps. The child's as right as rain. So I brought Mary
back with me.'
'Well,' said Mr Brindley, 'for a woman who's never had any
children your knowledge of children beggars description. What you
aren't sure you know about them isn't knowledge. However--'
'Listen,' Mrs Colclough replied, with a delightful throwingdown of
the glove. 'I'll bet you a level sovereign that child hasn't got
the mumps. So there! And Oliver will guarantee to pay you.'
'Aye!' said Mr Colclough; 'I'll back my wife any day.'
'Don't bet, Bob,' Mrs Brindley enjoined her husband excitedly in
her high treble.
'I won't,' said Mr Brindley.
'Now let's sit down.' Mrs Colclough addressed me with particular,
confidential grace.
We three exactly filled the sofa. I have often sat between two
women, but never with such calm, unreserved, unapprehensive
comfortableness as I experienced between Mrs Colclough and Mrs
Brindley. It was just as if I had known them for years.
'You'll make a mess of that, Ol,' said Mr Brindley.
The other two men were at some distance, in front of a table, on
which were two champagne bottles and five glasses, and a plate of
cakes. 'Well,' I said to myself, 'I'm not going to have any
champagne, anyhow. Mercurey! Green Chartreuse! Irish whisky! And
then champagne! And a morning's hard work tomorrow! No!'
Plop! A cork flew up and bounced against the ceiling.
Mr Colclough carefully emptied the bottle into the glasses, of
which Mr Brindley seized two and advanced with one in either hand
for the women. It was the host who offered a glass to me.
'No, thanks very much, I really can't,' I said in a very firm
tone.
My tone was so firm that it startled them. They glanced at each
other with alarmed eyes, like simple people confronted by an
inexplicable phenomenon. 'But look here, mister!' said Mr
Colclough, pained, 'we've got this out specially for you. You
don't suppose this is our usual tipple, do you?'
I yielded. I could do no less than sacrifice myself to their
enchanting instinctive kindness of heart. 'I shall be dead
tomorrow,' I said to myself; 'but I shall have lived tonight.'
They were relieved, but I saw that I had given them a shock from
which they could not instantaneously recover. Therefore I began
with a long pull, to reassure them.
'Mrs Brindley has been telling me that Simon Fuge is dead,' said
Mrs Colclough brightly, as though Mrs Brindley had been telling
her that the price of mutton had gone down.
I perceived that those two had been talking over Simon Fuge, after
their fashion.
'Oh yes,' I responded.
'Have you got that newspaper in your pocket, Mr Loring?' asked Mrs
Brindley.
I had.
'No,' I said, feeling in my pockets; 'I must have left it at your
house.'
'Well,' she said, 'that's strange. I looked for it to show it to
Mrs Colclough, but I couldn't see it.'
This was not surprising. I did not want Mrs Colclough to read the
journalistic obituary until she had given me her own obituary of
Fuge.
'It must be somewhere about,' I said; and to Mrs Colclough: 'I
suppose you knew him pretty well?'
'Oh, bless you, no! I only met him once.'
'At Ilam?'
'Yes. What are you going to do, Oliver?'
Her husband was opening the piano.
'Bob and I are just going to have another smack at that Brahms.'
'You don't expect us to listen, do you?'
'I expect you to do what pleases you, missis,' said he. 'I should
be a bigger fool than I am if I expected anything else.' Then he
smiled at me. 'No! Just go on talking. Ol and I'll drown you easy
enough. Quite short! Back in five minutes.'
The two men placed each his wine-glass on the space on the piano
designed for a candlestick, lighted cigars, and sat down to play.
'Yes,' Mrs Colclough resumed, in a lower, more confidential tone,
to the accompaniment of the music. 'You see, there was a whole
party of us there, and Mr Fuge was staying at the hotel, and of
course he knew several of us.'
'And he took you out in a boat?'
'Me and Annie? Yes. Just as it was getting dusk he came up to us
and asked us if we'd go for a row. Eh, I can hear him asking us
now! I asked him if he could row, and he was quite angry. So we
went, to quieten him.' She paused, and then laughed.
'Sally!' Mrs Brindley protested. 'You know he's dead!'
'Yes.' She admitted the rightness of the protest. 'But I can't
help it. I was just thinking how he got his feet wet in pushing
the boat off.' She laughed again. 'When we were safely off,
someone came down to the shore and shouted to Mr Fuge to bring the
boat back. You know his quick way of talking.' (Here she began to
imitate Fuge.) '"I've quarrelled with the man this boat belongs
to. Awful feud! Fact is, I'm in a hostile country here!" And a lot
more like that. It seemed he had quarrelled with everybody in
Ilam. He wasn't sure if the landlord of the hotel would let him
sleep there again. He told us all about all his quarrels, until he
dropped one of the oars. I shall never forget how funny he looked
in the moonlight when he dropped the oar. "There, that's your
fault!" he said. "You make me talk too much about myself, and I
get excited." He kept striking matches to look for the oar, and
turning the boat round and round with the other oar. "Last match!"
he said. "We shall never see land tonight." Then he found the oar
again. He considered we were saved. Then he began to tell us about
his aunt. "You know I'd no business to be here. I came down from
London for my aunt's funeral, and here I am in a boat at night
with two pretty girls!" He said the funeral had taught him one
thing, and that was that black neckties were the only possible
sort of necktie. He said the greatest worry of his life had always
been neckties; but he wouldn't have to worry any more, and so his
aunt hadn't died for nothing. I assure you he kept on talking
about neckties. I assure you, Mr Loring, I went to sleep--at least
I dozed--and when I woke up he was still talking about neckties.
But then his feet began to get cold. I suppose it was because they
were wet. The way he grumbled about his feet being cold! I
remember he turned his coat collar up. He wanted to get on shore
and walk, but he'd taken us a long way up the lake by that time,
and he saw we were absolutely lost. So he put the oars in the boat
and stood up and stamped his feet. It might have upset the boat.'
'How did it end?' I inquired.
'Well, Annie and I caught the train, but only just. You see it was
a special train, so they kept it for us, otherwise we should have
been in a nice fix.'
'So you have special trains in these parts?'
'Why, of course! It was the annual outing of the teachers of St
Luke's Sunday School and their friends, you see. So we had a
special train.'
At this point the duettists came to the end of a movement, and Mr
Brindley leaned over to us from his stool, glass in hand.
'The railway company practically owns Ilam,' he explained, 'and so
they run it for all they're worth. They made the lake, to feed the
canals, when they bought the canals from the canal company. It's
an artificial lake, and the railway runs alongside it. A very good
scheme of the company's. They started out to make Ilam a popular
resort, and they've made it a popular resort, what with special
trains and things. But try to get a special train to any other
place on their rotten system, and you'll soon see!'
'How big is the lake?' I asked.
'How long is it, Ol?' he demanded of Colclough. 'A couple of
miles?'
'Not it! About a mile. Adagio!'
They proceeded with Brahms.
'He ran with you all the way to the station, didn't he?' Mrs
Brindley suggested to Mrs Colclough.
'I should just say he did!' Mrs Colclough concurred. 'He wanted to
get warm, and then he was awfully afraid lest we should miss it.'
'I thought you were on the lake practically all night!' I
exclaimed.
'All night! Well, I don't know what you call all night. But I was
back in Bursley before eleven o'clock, I'm sure.'
I then contrived to discover the Gazette in an unsearched pocket,
and I gave it to Mrs Colclough to read. Mrs Brindley looked over
her shoulder.
There was no slightest movement of depreciation on Mrs Colclough's
part. She amiably smiled as she perused the GAZETTE'S version of
Fuge's version of the lake episode. Here was the attitude of the
woman whose soul is like crystal. It seems to me that most women
would have blushed, or dissented, or simulated anger, or failed to
conceal vanity. But Mrs Coclough might have been reading a fairy
tale, for any emotion she displayed.
'Yes,' she said blandly; 'from the things Annie used to tell me
about him sometimes, I should say that was just how he WOULD talk.
They seem to have thought quite a lot of him in London, then?'
'Oh, rather!' I said. 'I suppose your sister knew him pretty
well?'
'Annie? I don't know. She knew him.'
I distinctly observed a certain self-consciousness in Mrs
Colclough as she made this reply. Mrs Brindley had risen and with
wifely attentiveness was turning over the music page for her
husband. _
Read next: PART XII - THE DEATH OF SIMON FUGE: CHAPTER VIII
Read previous: PART XII - THE DEATH OF SIMON FUGE: CHAPTER VI
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