Free The Echoing Grove by Rosamond Lehmann Page A

says to herself: “Then it’s murder, is it?” and she lets out a screech to wake the dead and bless her if you didn’t drop your hands off one another like as if it was the Sunday joint you’d been caught stealing, and so she says: “Oh Mr Worthington, Mr Masters, sirs! Think of your dear mothers! Turn the other cheek! Let bygones be bygones be your motter! Don’t let the sun go down on it, I beg.” And Mr Masters he says: “Oh, Mrs Upex,” he says, as cool as a cucumber, “is that you? I never heard you. I do sincerely trust,” he says, “you’ll accept our humble apologies and overlook the shock to your feelings.” Oh, you were a precious pair of rascals the both of you, but mind you, always the perfect gentlemen …’
    ‘I guess I was impertinent,’ said Mrs Enthoven from the middle of her throat, fixing Rickie with a steady gaze.
    ‘Dearest Mrs Discoboles!’ He waved a hand across her eyes. ‘Relax, relax! It is I who should feel remorse. Truth to tell, this pain makes me feel a trifle snappish.’
    ‘What kind of a pain?’
    ‘A pain I have sometimes. We all have one sometimes, somewhere, don’t we? Where do you get yours?’
    ‘I guess you shouldn’t be here.’
    ‘Not here? But I must be here. This is a big evening, all sorts of celebrations. Hymen in the ascendant. We’re gathered together here to drink to you and Jack. A blood-curdling rumour reached me I was to be the hero. False, thank God! Sh! Forget I mentioned it. Jack’s my best friend. He’s an extraordinarily nice chap. Nobody knows how nice, except you and me, it’s not on the outside, bless his heart. I hope you’re going to be very happy.’ He smiled, an extremely winning smile.
    ‘Thanks, Rickie. I hope you are too,’ said Mrs Enthoven, not smiling.
    ‘Ah, you’ve been tipped the wink.’ Brusquely he turned a shoulder on her.
    Driving on through Jack’s hilarious explosions, observing the moment when Rickie turned suddenly, with a sharp jerk of his head, away from his unsmiling neighbour, Madeleine wound up:
    ‘Kind Mrs Upex, I think she wanted to warn me, as one woman to another, that I was taking on a dangerous character.’
    ‘A dangerous—old Rickie …’ Jack mopped his eyes. ‘Ah well, perhaps she was right. Perhaps he is.’ Hey, mind your step, he told himself—thin ice. ‘Ah well! Boys will be boys, you know,’ he added feebly, hastily. ‘Not that I wouldn’t take my dying oath old Rickie and I never fell out for a single moment from the day we met.’
    ‘You can both swear on your grandmothers’ graves, I’ll never believe you’ve forgotten the incident. It was terribly disgraceful, wasn’t it? — and you’re too ashamed to tell me.’
    ‘Rickie!’ called Jack across the table; and immediately Rickie leaned forward with an expression of intense willingness to join in the fun. ‘Help here! Your wife—I’ve done my best, but women, you know — tenacious animals. We’re ruined. It’s out at last.’
    ‘It is, is it?’ His grin stretched wary, false, too broad.
    ‘There, you see!’ cried Madeleine. ‘He does know. He doesn’t even ask what’s out at last.’
    ‘Matter of principle,’ countered Rickie. ‘Always plead guilty. Th’ charge is immaterial. Takes th’ wind out o’ their sails.’ He was rather drunk. Dilated, his eyes thrust at Madeleine, then from face to face, then back at her. He looked—not a tenacious animal but a tricky, nimble-witted one; and caged up; and dangerous perhaps. ‘United we fall, Jack,’ he said; then turning to Mrs Enthoven, added politely: ‘Old English custom.’
    ‘Stout fellow! Right, Madeleine, you’ve asked for it! What was it now? Remind me. What were my exact incriminating words?’
    In a hush of suspended laughter everybody turned waiting upon Madeleine to elucidate the joke. She paused, sank her voice theatrically, put the words across in all their ludicrous ferocity: ‘I’ll get you this time, Worthington, if I have to swing