Music at Long Verney by Sylvia Townsend Warner

Author:Sylvia Townsend Warner [Sylvia Townsend Warner]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2001-10-17T16:00:00+00:00

A Flying Start

YOUNG MR HARINGTON was paying one of this usual studious visits to the Abbey Antique Galleries and had as usual brought Mrs Harington with him. Seeing them come in, the assistant, mindful of a previous recommendation, unobtrusively withdrew; the gentleman was one of those customers, like the pot in the proverb, who won’t come to the boil if they are watched. Mr Harington had settled to his studies, and Mrs Harington, who couldn’t positively withdraw, was giving an appearance of having done so, gracefully killing time with the patch boxes and vinaigrettes displayed on the rosewood sofa table, and eventually rewarded by finding something she could study, too. She stood patiently, cradling it in her hand. Once or twice, she held it out, saying, “Look, Richard. Isn’t this rather . . .” But Richard was absorbed in the decision whether or not to buy the églomisé mirror, and did not turn his head.

If a poet or artist had happened to be walking down Abbey Street and had glanced in at the window that framed Richard and Lizzie Harington amid the dusk and glitter of the showroom like two elegant fish poised tail downward in a rather overfurnished aquarium, he might have wondered why anybody should be interested in antiques when the Abbey Galleries contained two such strikingly handsome specimens of the contemporary. The third denizen of the aquarium (a crab, not a fish, and therefore stationed, not poised), Mr Edom, the gallery owner, was lurking behind an Empire harp, waiting for Mr Harington to make up his mind. The young gentleman was a distinguished customer, one who paid on the nail and scorned to bargain; but it did not do to hurry him.

There was a sudden stir in the aquarium. Richard had taken the wallet out of his pocket. But a moment later he put it back again, and with the coquettish flick of a fish moved away to examine a George II coffeepot. His examination was appreciative but did not go deep. Noticing this, Mrs Harington came forward, holding out her hand. “Look, Richard. Isn’t this rather charming?”

On her palm lay a very small enamelled locket, shaped like a heart; against a scarlet background and framed by a band of seed pearls was the head, in full face, of a grey cat with a pretty expression. “I suppose it’s Victorian,” she said.

Mr Edom, coming forward in his turn, said, “Second Empire.”

Richard Harington gave the locket a brief but careful scrutiny. “I don’t like it.”

Her lovely, tranquil countenance registered no shade of disappointment, of protest, of private disagreement. Without a word, she replaced the locket on the velvet-lined show tray whence she had taken it, and began to turn over a portfolio of prints.

She’s not out of quite the same drawer as he, thought Mr Edom – a fact that he had for some time suspected. Too tactful. Poor young lady, she wouldn’t get her locket! A shame, really, since she had been so taken with it. But,

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