A Night of Errors

PROLOGUE

The Dromios came to England at the end of the sixteenth century, the precise date being probably 1592. There is no certainty on where they came from—Ephesus and Syracuse have both been suggested—but historians of the family admit that they seem to have been persons somewhat below the middle station of life, if not of actually servile condition. In England, however, they prospered, and already in the reign of James I were importing wines in a large way. On the strength of this they married first into the London citizenry—the Frugals, the Hoards and the Moneytraps—then into the landed gentry—the Mammons, the Overreaches, the Clumseys and the Greedys—and finally into the fringes of the aristocracy itself—the Nolands, the Littleworths, the Rakes, the Foppingtons and the Whorehounds.

In thus uniting Levantine subtlety and enterprise with so many of the solid English virtues, the Dromio family gave itself an excellent start. But its ability to do something more than keep its head above water during the succeeding centuries it owed to another hereditary factor. Women who married Dromios found themselves more than commonly likely to have twins—and this not at the end of the child-bearing period but at its beginning. Here was a great political convenience. During the Civil Wars there was a Dromio Roundhead and a Dromio Cavalier of virtually indistinguishable presence and authority. And when party government was established the reigning Dromio and his twin would commonly be found eyeing each other with severity or even bellicosity across the Treasury and Opposition front benches. To be presented at one birth with both a little Liberal and a little Conservative is a blessing for which any man of property may give Lucina, goddess of labour, thanks. Whatever party ruled, there was generally a Dromio in some modest corner of the Ministry, ready to make interest for the family.

Towards the close of the eighteenth century the Dromios added to their trade in wine an equally lucrative traffic in Oriental rugs. On the strength of this, and some thirty years later, the then reigning Dromio was able to donate and subscribe himself into a baronetcy—a transaction prompting a wit of the time to remark that although carpet-knights were common enough carpet-baronets were something new.

But this Dromio, Sir Ferdinand, achieved another innovation, and one which proved disastrous in its results.

By now the Dromios were immemorially English. If the strongly marked features of the men folk were still discernibly those that looked out of family portraits painted in the time of the Commonwealth, centuries of English weather and generations of English brides had bred into the family a dominant complexion which was Saxon enough. Sir Ferdinand, as if assured of the adequacy which this protective colouring had achieved, allowed himself the indulgence of marrying after a different fashion. His bride was the daughter of a Mr Eugenides, a Smyrna merchant who had made a fortune out of currants—and a fortune amply sufficient (so Sir Ferdinand thought) to compensate for any lack of breeding that the family might show. But breeding (in the more substantial sense) proved to be Lady Dromio’s strong point. Some ten months after her marriage she presented Sir Ferdinand not with the traditional Dromio twins but with Dromio triplets. So contrary to all precedent did this odd performance seem that her husband was at first incredulous and sternly bade the nurse go back and count again. But no mistake had been made. It was almost as if Nature, prescient in the political as well as biological sphere, was determined that the Dromios should now have not a little Liberal and a little Conservative only but a little Socialist as well.

And Nature is much given to forming habits; if it were otherwise scientists would not be able to deal in what they call Natural Laws. With the Dromios the triplet habit supplanted the twin habit, and this, far from being beneficent, had calamitous results.

Whereas the twins had always worked together hand-in-glove the triplets invariably quarrelled. They quarrelled over bibs and tuckers, peg-tops and puppies, ponies, cronies and the less virtuous of the village girls. They quarrelled over chloroform and the Corn Laws and the Chamberlains, over the Derby and the Grand National and the Disestablishing of the Church of Wales. But above all they quarrelled over carpets and wines, pitching at one another in venomous dispute the great names of Yquem and Lafite, Peyraguey and Rauzan-Gassies, Sehna and Tabriz, Bokhara, Sävast and Kashmir.

The scandal of all this gradually spread abroad and both the commercial and the social worlds began to view the Dromios somewhat askance. As the prosaic number Two had seen the family fortune rise so now the mystical number Three bade fair to preside over its fall. Despite the spread of whisky and the ubiquity of beer the English drank as much wine as before, despite the horrid invention of linoleum and the vogue of parquetry they trod as heavily as ever on the products of Benares and Turkestan. But it seemed that nothing of this could save the Dromios from the decline which waits upon a divided house. And when, round about the beginning of the twentieth century, Sir Romeo Dromio married, he prayed for nothing more devoutly than an end to all family tradition and the gift of an only son followed by a quiet nurseryful of girls. But the legacy of Miss Eugenides was with the family still and some hours after Lady Dromio was taken in labour the now customary news was brought to Sir Romeo in his study. Whereupon Sir Romeo, whose temper had suffered much through thirty years of association with intolerable triplet brothers, ran upstairs in a distraction—so family legend had it—and fell to tossing his three newly born sons about the room like tennis-balls. But the infants were none the worse, having inherited from their remoter ancestors a virtual invulnerability to drubbing. And their father, being presently persuaded of the impropriety of his proceeding, retired again to his study to consider the situation with whatever calm he could command.

This was the study in which was to take place the fatality which made the Dromios notorious. Had Sir Romeo, hard upon becoming so abundantly a father, not thus sat down to brood and to plan, had he accepted a position in the creating of which he had played if a brief yet a decidedly seminal part, then those shocking events which must still linger in the public mind would not have taken place, and the necessity of the present painful and candid narrative would have been obviated. And this should serve as a warning to merchants when closeted in their studies to confine themselves to calculating percentages and casting accounts, since their education has seldom equipped them to deal skilfully in intricate emotional problems. And particularly should they eschew trafficking in futures—unless indeed it be those of corn and cotton upon an Exchange.

To Sir Romeo it appeared evident that his forebears, from the rash Sir Ferdinand onwards, had merely tinkered with the disruptive legacy of Miss Eugenides. If his own remaining years were to pass in moderate tranquillity, if his heir was to be unharassed by fraternal cares, if the bouquet of the Dromio wines and the pile of the Dromio carpets were to regain that excellence which would come only from the superintendence of a eupeptic palate and untroubled eye, then it was essential that the late decisive action of Lady Dromio should be met by countermeasures of a like decisiveness.

To take two of the triplets and expose them upon the rooftop, although legitimate in both Syracuse and Ephesus a long time ago, would not be consonant with the domestic manners of the country in which the Dromios had now sojourned for some centuries. To give the younger boys their breeding at a distance would be reasonable and assuredly not criminal, but to Sir Romeo in his present excited state this in itself seemed a measure insufficiently permanent in its effects. For even if (what would come uncommonly expensive) an adequate provision were made for establishing the growing lads in whatever counts as a respectable station of life in Oregon or New South Wales, it was almost certain that sooner or later they would come home to roost beneath the ancestral rooftree of Sherris Hall. And the thought of this Sir Romeo could by no means abide. Very possibly he himself would be gone. But this consideration, which would surely have afforded solace to a man not under the influence of a fixed idea, only agitated Sir Romeo the more. That the eldest of the three sons now born to him might so far modify recent family history as adequately to cope with such a family reunion never entered his head. For his thought now based itself upon a single irrational postulate: the disastrous triplet situation must not continue through another generation.

Increasingly in the grip of this persuasion, Sir Romeo paced his study, taking occasional swipes at any breakable object within reach. But no inspiration came—nothing, in fact, was wafted to him but a faint wailing from the nursery wing. Sir Romeo seized a stick, strode through a French window, gave himself the mild satisfaction of knocking down the gardener’s boy on the terrace, and strode across the park, occasionally cursing the browsing sheep and cattle in a manner altogether unusual among the landed gentry. It was only when he reached the boundary of his demesne that the gardener’s boy (who had followed in the inchoate hope of retaliating with some sudden privy injury to his employer’s person) perceived him to grow suddenly composed. Sir Romeo returned to the house meditatively and without giving so much as a single thwack to the lowing kine. His bearing was that of a man to whom some great conception has come—a conception however which must be filled in with much meticulous detail.

Two days later the inhabitants of Sherris Magna were horrified to hear that a disastrous fire had broken out at Sherris Hall. The nursery wing was totally destroyed. Thanks to the courage of his father (who was early on the scene) the eldest of the triplets, Oliver, had been saved, but his brothers, Jacques and Orlando, had both perished. Such a calamity evoked the widest sympathy, and when they buried them the little port had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

It was otherwise with the funeral of Sir Romeo Dromio himself three months later. Unobtrusiveness is the right note to strike in the obsequies of a baronet who has died mad.

CHAPTER ONE

"L ucy, said Lady Dromio, can you see the little silver bell?"

There was a lot of silver on the tea-table; nevertheless Lucy did not trouble to survey it, or to take her eyes from the single fleecy cloud sailing past almost directly overhead.

No, Mama. Swindle has forgotten it.

How very vexatious. Lady Dromio, who had been peering despondently into an empty hot-water jug, glanced with equal despondence over the spreading lawns by which she was surrounded. The grass, she was thinking, was in something worse than indifferent order, and the motor-mower with which a sulky youth struggled in a distant corner must be some twenty years out of date. How very vexing, Lady Dromio repeated.

Yes, Mama. But the situation is a familiar one.

Familiar, child? From under her white hair the faded blue eyes of Lady Dromio expressed a large, vague surprise.

Swindle, I think, has a horror of the ringing bell. He avoids it. One day he will undoubtedly try to avoid the clangour of the angel’s trumpet too.

Lucy, dear, what odd, clever things you say. Lady Dromio’s tone was placid, but there was a remorselessness in the way she flicked open and shut the lid of the hot-water jug. The sound had no power over the absent Swindle, gently respiring in a summer day’s slumber in his distant pantry. But it brought Lucy to her feet—a tall, dark girl in her early thirties, at once lackadaisical and restless. Her movement was received by Lady Dromio as if it was something entirely unexpected.

Well, dear, if you would like to fetch some that will be very nice.

Lucy compressed her lips, held out her hand for the hot-water jug and departed across the lawn. Lady Dromio watched her go, turned to scrutinise her tea-table, watched again. Across the hot lawn Lucy was almost out of earshot. Lady Dromio called; she picked up and waved an empty cream-jug.

Lucy turned obediently back.

Lucy Dromio (for she was called that) was Lady Dromio’s experiment, an experiment made some thirty years before. The Reverend Mr Greengrave, now advancing up the drive to pay a call, and observing the girl as she trailed towards the house, reflected that she was an abandoned experiment. Most experiments were that, of course, after thirty years. Was she an abandoned girl? Mr Greengrave, who was professionally obliged to weigh questions of this sort, shook his head doubtfully. He knew very little about Lucy despite an acquaintance stretching back over a considerable period. She was secretive. But then, for that matter, so was Lady Dromio, despite her open, amiable air. After all, was not Lucy perhaps Lady Dromio’s experiment still—or rather a sort of private laboratory for the carrying out of tiny, daily vivisections? This was an uncharitable thought. But Mr Greengrave was aware that one has to do a lot of uncharitable thinking if one is to get people clear. And until one does that how can one help them?

What sort of a woman had Lady Dromio been before Mr Greengrave’s time as incumbent of Sherris Parva? Pausing by a tulip tree and mopping his brow (for he was a shy man who had often thus to brace himself before plunging into parochial duties), the vicar reviewed what he knew of that early time. The lady now waiting placidly for her cream and hot water was the widow of Sir Romeo Dromio. Her married life had early ended in tragedy. Two of her children had died in a horrible disaster and not long afterwards her husband had died also—mad, it was said, and talking strangely. Sir Romeo, it seemed, had been a wayward and violent man, brooding over sundry reverses and misfortunes which the family had suffered over several generations. Through half a dozen parishes queer tales were still told of him. If some of these were true it must be judged that Lady Dromio had got off lightly, even at the cost of widowhood and the difficult care of a single surviving son. But these legendary tales were already hopelessly confused with popular memories of other and earlier Dromios noted for this or that sultry eccentricity. Not a comfortable family, had been Mr Greengrave’s summary. He had never been prompted to sift or analyse chronicles so patently barren of edification.

But he knew that Lady Dromio had to all seeming taken everything quietly. The tablet she had erected to her husband’s memory in Mr Greengrave’s church was quiet. Any reference she ever made to him was quiet to the extent of, as it were, a metaphorical inaudibility. And she had done nothing in haste. When her son was eight years old, and having maturely rejected, maybe, any thought of second marriage, Lady Dromio had adopted the infant girl who was now Lucy Dromio. Perhaps she judged that a sister might ameliorate the manners of her son; perhaps she merely obeyed an inadequately satisfied maternal instinct. But all that was long ago. And, whatever the bill, Mr Greengrave doubted whether Lucy had filled it. Of necessity she must have been a pig in a poke, her virtues and vices unfolding from an unknown stock. And almost certainly she abundantly if covertly possessed something that had not been desired. Was it passion, or intelligence, or independence? Mr Greengrave did not know. Such ignorance about a parishioner disturbed him. Could the girl, he wondered, be drawn out? Perhaps now was a favourable time to gain her confidence, since her foster-brother was abroad and the atmosphere at Sherris Hall something less oppressive as a result.

Not, Mr Greengrave reflected, that Sir Oliver could be called a dominant personality. Weak, vain, sensitive, easily depressed: the master of Sherris was not one to a brief view of whom distance lent any enchantment. Yet (and this the confidential annals of the parish abundantly attested) he was markedly attractive to women. How frequently do concrete human relationships run counter to expectation and rule! Mr Greengrave, to whom musings of this sort came more easily than that blending of tea-table talk with faint overtones of spiritual advice which is the parish priest’s task, turned left and took a procrastinating route round the lily pond.

One wonders, said Lucy, setting down the jugs, if something might be done about Swindle.

Done, dear?

He was actually asleep. It’s like living at Dingley Dell with the Fat Boy.

But Swindle is extremely thin.

He certainly has a lean and hungry look. And possibly Dickens was wrong. If fat men sleep at night there may be an inference that it is thin ones who are inclined to sleep during the day. But it would be curious if Shakespeare threw any light on Swindle.

Lady Dromio put down the teapot. Shakespeare— she said. Well, that reminds me. I seem to have mislaid my novel. Such an interesting and unusual novel, Lucy, about a lot of people in a big hotel. Do you know, I think I must have left it in the drawing room?

It is no matter, Mama. For Mr Greengrave is about to call. Were he a resolute man he would be with us now. Look beyond the lily pond.

Well, that is very nice. He will bring us a breath of the great world.

That is doubtless.

Lady Dromio patted her well-ordered hair. But it will mean more sandwiches, dear. And surely there must be another cake?

Lucy rose. This time, she said with resolution, I shall waken Swindle.

I think it will be better to wait until Oliver gets home.

But that may be months. We can’t have Swindle turned into a Rip van Winkle.

No, dear—certainly not. I merely mean that about things in general we had better wait until Oliver gets home.

Which, I hope, will be soon. Mr Greengrave, who usually made his eventual entry with a plunge, spoke heartily as he took Lady Dromio’s hand. It will be a pleasure to hear him read the lessons again.

Lady Dromio produced a welcoming smile and a non-committal noise. Very possibly she doubted the propriety of describing as a pleasure anything that transacted itself within the walls of a church. Lucy, she said, if you could just ask Cook—

Yes, mama. Sandwiches and a caraway cake and a cup and saucer.

Lady Dromio watched her adopted daughter trail across the lawn once more. Dear, dutiful girl, she said.

Yes, indeed. But because this had been insincere Mr Greengrave in penance resolutely added: It is to be hoped that she will marry.

So it is! Lady Dromio spoke as if concurring in a novel and surprising thought. But it is to be feared that she will not.

It occurred to Mr Greengrave that sometimes, and with an odd effect, the elder lady fell into the clipped and mannered speech of the younger. He felt that this pointed to Lucy’s possessing the stronger will. Of course a stranger would take Lady Dromio to possess no will at all—but that would be a mistake. Aloud Mr Greengrave conventionally said: But so attractive a girl—and so advantageously placed in the county.

Lady Dromio received this old-world civility with a bow and at the same time turned in her garden chair. Perhaps she was looking for Lucy and the sandwiches, but the motion enabled her to make a critical inspection of Sherris Hall. The house was imposing enough and doubtless estimable among surrounding seats. Equally evidently it was in a state of some disrepair. Mr Greengrave, who had turned also, felt himself awkwardly involved with his hostess in a joint contemplation of this disagreeable fact. It was an attempt to suggest that he was aware only of the more permanent aspects of the building that prompted his next remark.

How sure they were of their proportions in those days! The whole effect has always seemed to me a delight to the eye. And yet I have sometimes wondered about that wing where the billiard-room and gun-room are. Had they carried it up another storey—

But they did. I got the trustees to take it down. Those were the nurseries, you know, that were destroyed by fire. I am so sorry that Lucy is being rather a long time with your cup. You will be thirsty, dear Mr Greengrave, after walking across on this warm afternoon.

Mr Greengrave coughed. Having unwittingly led the conversation to painful memories he felt it incumbent upon him not to retreat upon small talk. Your great sorrow, he said, was before my time here. But I have often thought of it.

So have I. I have been puzzled over it for years.

Mr Greengrave considered this doubtfully. Yes, he said with caution; the ways of Providence are often inscrutable indeed.

Not over what happened, for that was always fairly clear to me. But over what I should have done. I was very young and I ended by doing nothing, apart from having that wing rebuilt as you see it now. I waited for Oliver to grow up. Lady Dromio sighed heavily. But has he grown up? It is hard to say.

Mr Greengrave felt somewhat out of his depth. The afternoon was drowsy; the effect of his visitation was perhaps soporific; Lady Dromio seemed almost like one speaking in sleep. I am sure, he said politely, that Sir Oliver must be a great support.

Things should be settled when they turn up. Otherwise there is uncertainty and suspense, and new problems arise before one has at all made up one’s mind about the old. Oliver has a great many problems now—business problems for which he is not perhaps very fitted by temperament. Of course my brother-in-law is a help.

Mr Sebastian Dromio?

"Yes. My father-in-law had three sons, of whom Sebastian is the only survivor.