i f6c06dd9cf3fe221 by Unknown (100 books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📗

THE DRAWING ROOM

A narrow lane off the rural Harton road led to Conis- ter House; at least, to one of the walls which surrounded it. A wrought-iron gate in the wall led out of the lane into the lower garden, a long sloping lawn, studded with ornamental trees. The upper garden, which was also on a slight rise, was another lawn, with a lily pond in the centre and bordered by flower-beds. Shallow steps led from this to a terrace, on to which two sets of broad french windows opened from the house. But so gentle was the rise of the ground and so high the surrounding creeper-covered walls that nothing but the garden was to be seen from any part of the ground floor of the three- storied, red-brick house.

This, Stella Prince told herself, was the only thing that made life bearable in this vile town. When they had first arrived in Shields there had been no suitable house vacant in the best end of the town.

Some that were offered were open to the gaze of passers-by or of neighbours; these were not to be even considered. So, when she saw Conister House, although not actually in the upper quarter, she felt that, in all this cesspool of ships, coal mines, mean streets and impossible people, this was an oasis. Here, in the summer, she could sit in the garden and write, as undisturbed as if she were a thousand miles away from all this grimness; only the faraway sound of ships'

horns penetrated the garden, the soot and smuts which dared to invade it and the house being soon dealt with by two gardeners and three maids. She was determined that if she had to live here it was going to be bearable.

Stella had spent a lot of thought and time on the inside of the house, but most of all on the drawing-room. The

walls were of a delicate silver-grey, not a picture marring their virgin surface, and the woodwork was painted black. The windows were draped in long straight folds of dull-rose velvet, and the plain carpet, of heavy pile, was a tone darker. Standing on the carpet, one at each side of the bog-oak fire-place, were two superb Hepplewhite elbow chairs, and two occasional chairs, oozing preserved antiquity, rested nonchalantly at given distances. A Queen Anne walnut bureau bookcase stood against one wall, while a china cabinet of the same period stood against the other. The black wood of the mantelpiece lent a deeper lustre to the three Bow figures which had its long length entirely to themselves. A cabriole-legged settee faced the fire, and opposite the french window, stood a seventeenth-century writing-desk.

The room at any time would have appeared unusual, but at this period of chair-backs, mantel-borders and heavy mahogany it was rebellious.

Visitors to Conister House were impressed, as they were meant to be.

The order of the room was rarely disturbed. If there were more than six people present, chairs were brought in from other parts of the house, to be removed immediately the visitors had departed . a little subdued at the splendour and more than a little awed by the creator of it all; for who would think a gentle, fragile creature, such as Mrs.

Prince, could arrange a house like that, and give such dinners! But of course, she wasn't just an ordinary woman, no one who wrote poetry was.

Stella knew herself to be absolutely in line with the room; she herself had chosen each article in it, replacing the more homely pieces she and Rodney had chosen together at the beginning of their married life.

She sat now at her desk and read again the letter she had received by the mid-morning post. Her deep-set eyes glowed, and the creamy pallor, usual to her heart-shaped face, was tinged with the flush of excitement.

What would Rodney, who had thought her writing only a pose and who had no belief in her ability, say to this? At first he had called her his clever little girl and had treated her work as a joke, or, at best, as a hobby. But lately he had been absolutely hostile to it; even going so

5i

far as to say she spent too much time scribbling, and hinting that there were more useful occupations. She hadn't put the question, "Such as what?" telling herself she was too wise to make that mistake; one of his answers might have been, "Raising an adopted family." She had enough to endure, she thought, without this horror. Of course, had she known that Rodney would insist on practising in these slums, she would never have married him; she had thought it would have been Harley Street at least, and then, perhaps, a title. Her sister had managed that for herself, and she had always been inclined to look down on Annabel. She knew she could certainly have done better for herself than she had done; but it had been the two Prince boys constantly fighting over her that had seemed so exciting at the time, and Rodney had appeared so romantic when he had returned from college with that beard. Still, Frank, she now realised, would have been the more sensible choice, especially since at that time she liked him nearly as much. She felt certain he would have been easier to manage, much easier; for one thing, he was staunch to his class, he had no revolutionary ideas; and for another, she couldn't imagine Frank being beastly in the same way as Rodney was . Frank was more . yes . more cultured; there was a coarse streak in Rodney. Still, she smiled inwardly, she had managed very well to avoid all unpleasantness, such as children. After all, men were such fools, and Rodney, a doctor too,