Free So Well Remembered by James Hilton Page B

‘mystery’ about her mother and old Mr.
Felsby, and once the idea got into her head she was quick to notice other
evidences of mystery—certain occasions, for instance, just before and
just after her mother went away for a few days, when a curious air of tension
filled the entire house, when even Sarah and Miss Fortescue seemed to rush
from room to room with secrets as well as pins filling their mouths. Livia
noted too the almost guilty look they had if she interrupted them at such
times; it made her determined to discover what everything was all about, like
the detectives in some of her favourite stories. Actually ‘the Mystery of
Stoneclough’ (as she privately decided to call it) gave her an added interest
in life, since it was clearly more exciting to LIVE in a detective story than
merely to read one, especially when the detective was herself. For that
matter, she sometimes imagined she was the criminal also, or the suspected
person who was really innocent, or the stupid policeman who made all the
mistakes, or any other of the familiar characters… it was so easy, and so
fascinating, to climb on the moors and lie down and imagine things.
    On the afternoon of Christmas Day, 1910, Livia entered the drawing- room
just in time to catch Mr. Felsby inveighing against “any man who makes a
proposal of that kind”. In truth, there was nothing particularly mysterious
about the words, since they referred to the wickedness of the Chancellor of
the Exchequer (Mr. Lloyd George, who was still bent on increasing taxes), but
from force of habit Emily shot the old man a warning look, whereat Richard
assumed his glassiest Christmas smile and reached out his less arthritic
hand. Livia then allowed herself to be patted on the head as usual; but
later, while Mr. Felsby enjoyed his usual nap, she pondered alone in the
downstairs room which was her own whenever Miss Fortescue was away, since it
was there that she received lessons, played quiet games, and felt entrenched
in extra-special privacy. She was still pondering, with a book on her knee,
when she overheard something else—her mother telephoning from the hall
outside. Without any intention to eavesdrop at first, she gathered it was a
trunk call from London, and after that she listened deliberately. The talk
continued, with long pauses and a lowering of her mother’s voice in short
staccato replies; at last she heard her end up—“I can’t hear
you—yes—no—I still can’t hear you—I’ll write… yes,
I’ll think about it… yes, dear, happy Christmas to you too… Goodbye…”
Livia then put aside her book and abandoned herself to wondering who ‘dear’
was and what ‘it’ was that her mother had promised to think about; and
suddenly, as she speculated, an idea came that she instantly labelled as
absurd, yet instantly allowed to take possession of her; supposing ‘it’ had
been a proposal of marriage? Doubtless the remark of Mr. Felsby’s she had
overheard was really responsible; anyhow, during the next few minutes the
idea became a perfectly tenable theory, and by the time her mother called her
to tea the theory had developed into a near-certainty, strengthened by the
absence of any comment about the telephone call. It would have been natural,
Livia thought, for her mother to say—“Guess who rang up just now?”
—and because this did not happen Livia stifled her own natural impulse,
which was to ask.
    Presently, however, the near-certainty slipped back into a mere theory
again, and then into its proper place as an absurd idea; a few guests began
to arrive for the Christmas dinner, and the whole thing passed out of mind
till it was revived hours later by a remark of Mr. Felsby’s about something
else altogether—he was discussing the state of the cotton trade and
trying to be seasonably cheerful about it. “There’s only one thing I can say,
Whiteside—booms come after slumps just as slumps come