Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [64]
It was eight o'clock when Mr. Salter arrived at the front door. He had covered a good six miles tacking from field to field under the setting sun; he had scrambled through fences and ditches; in one enormous pasture a herd of cattle had closed silently in on him and followed at his heels � the nearest not a yard away � with lowered heads and heavy breath; Mr. Salter had broken into a run and they had trotted after him; when he gained the stile and turned to face them, they began gently grazing in his tracks; dogs had flown at him in three farmyards where he had stopped to ask the way and to be misdirected; at last, when he felt he could go no farther but must lie down and perish from exposure under the open sky, he had tumbled through an overgrown stile to find himself in the main road with the lodge gates straight ahead; the last mile up the drive had been the bitterest of all. And now he stood under the porch, sweating, blistered, nettle-stung, breathless, parched, dizzy, dead-beat and dishevelled, with his bowler hat in one hand and umbrella in the other, leaning against a stucco pillar waiting for someone to open the door. Nobody came. He pulled again at the bell; there was no answering spring, no echo in the hall beyond. No sound broke the peace of the evening save, in the elms that stood cumbrously on every side, the crying of the rooks and, not unlike it but nearer at hand, directly it seemed over Mr. Salter's head, a strong baritone decanting irregular snatches of sacred music. "In Thy courts no more are needed, moon by day nor sun by night," sang Uncle Theodore blithely, stepping into his evening trousers; he remembered it as treble solo rising to the dim vaults of the school chapel, touching the toughest adolescent hearts; he remembered it imperfectly but with deep emotion. Mr. Salter listened, unmoved. In despair he began to pound the front door with his umbrella. The singing ceased, and the voice in fruity, more prosaic tones demanded: "What ho, without there?" Mr. Salter hobbled down the steps, clear of the porch, and saw framed in the ivy of a first-floor window, a ruddy, Hanoverian face and plump, bare torso. "Good evening," he said politely. "Good evening." Uncle Theodore leaned out as far as he safely could and stared at Mr. Salter through a monocle. "From where you are standing," he said, "you might easily take me to be totally undraped. Let me hasten to assure you that such is not the case. Seemly black shrouds me from the waist down. No doubt you are the friend my nephew William is expecting." "Yes...I've been ringing the bell." "It sounded to me," said Uncle Theodore severely, "as though you were hammering the door with a stick." "Yes, I was. You see..." "You'll be late for dinner, you know, if you stand out there kicking up a rumpus. And so shall I if I stay talking to you. We will meet again shortly in more conventional circumstances. For the moment � a riverderci." The head withdrew and once more the melody rose into the twilight, mounted to the encircling tree-tops and joined the chords of the homing rooks. Mr. Salter tried the handle of the door. It opened easily. Never in his life had he made his own way into anyone else's house. Now he did so and found himself in a lobby cluttered with implements of sport, overcoats, rugs, a bicycle or two and a stuffed bear. Beyond it, glass doors led into the hall. He was dimly aware of a shadowy double staircase which rose and spread before him, of a large, carpetless chequer of black-and-white marble pavings, of islands of furniture and some potted palms. Quite near the glass doors stood a little armchair where no one ever sat; there Mr. Salter sank and there he was found twenty minutes later by William's mother when she came down to dinner. His last action before he lapsed into coma had been to remove his shoes. Mrs. Boot surveyed the figure with some distaste and went on her way to the drawing-room. It was one of the days when James was on his feet; she could hear him next door rattling the silver on the dining-room table. "James," she called, through the double doors. "Yes madam." "Mr. William's friend has arrived. I think perhaps he would like to wash." "Very good madam." Mr. Salter was not really asleep; he had been aware, remotely and impersonally, of Mrs. Boot's scrutiny; he was aware, now, of James's slow passage across the hall. "Dinner will be in directly, sir. May I take you to your room?" For a moment Mr. Salter thought he would be unable ever to move again; then, painfully, he rose to his feet. He observed his discarded shoes; so did James; neither of them felt disposed to stoop; each respected the other's feeling; Mr. Salter padded upstairs beside the footman. "I regret to say, sir, that your luggage is not yet available. Three of the outside men are delving for it at the moment." "Delving?" "Assiduously, sir. It was inundated with slag at the time of the accident." "Accident?" "Yes, sir, there has been a misadventure to the farm lorry that was conveying it from the station; we attribute it to the driver's inexperience. He overturned the vehicle in the back drive." "Was he hurt?" "Oh, yes, sir; gravely. Here is your room, sir." An oil lamp, surrounded by moths and autumnal beetles, burned on Priscilla's dressing-table illuminating a homely, girlish room. Little had been done beyond the removal of loofah and nightdress to adapt it for male occupation. Twenty or thirty china animals stood on brackets and shelves, together with slots of deer, brushes of foxes, pads of otters, a horse's hoof, and other animal trophies; a low, bronchial growl came from under the bed. "Miss Priscilla hoped you would not object to taking charge of Annabel for the night, sir. She's getting an old dog now and doesn't like to be moved. You'll find her perfectly quiet and good. If she barks in the night, it is best to feed her." James indicated two saucers of milk and minced meat which stood on the bed table that had already attracted Mr. Salter's attention. "Would that be all, sir?" "Thank you," said Mr. Salter, weakly. James left, gently closing the door which, owing to a long-standing defect in its catch, as gently swung open again behind him. Mr. Salter poured some warm water into the prettily flowered basin on the washhand stand. James returned. "I omitted to tell you, sir, the lavatory on this floor is out of order. The gentlemen use the one opening on the library." "Thank you." James repeated the pantomime of shutting the door.