“Yes, of course. And we know that she likes Nurse O’Brien and is well looked after. All the same, perhaps we have been a bit slack. I’m talking now not from the money point of view—but the sheer human one.”
Elinor nodded.
“I know.”
“So that filthy letter has done some good, after all! We’ll go down to protect our interests and because we’re fond of the old dear!”
He lit a match and set fire to the letter which he took from Elinor’s hand.
“Wonder who wrote it?” he said. “Not that it matters… Someone who was ‘on our side,’ as we used to say when we were kids. Perhaps they’ve done us a good turn, too. Jim Partington’s mother went out to the Riviera to live, had a handsome young Italian doctor to attend her, became quite crazy about him and left him every penny she had. Jim and his sisters tried to upset the will, but couldn’t.”
Elinor said:
“Aunt Laura likes the new doctor who’s taken over Dr. Ransome’s practice—but not to that extent! Anyway, that horrid letter mentioned a girl. It must be Mary.”
Roddy said:
“We’ll go down and see for ourselves….”
II
Nurse O’Brien rustled out of Mrs. Welman’s bedroom and into the bathroom. She said over her shoulder:
“I’ll just pop the kettle on. You could do with a cup of tea before you go on, I’m sure, Nurse.”
Nurse Hopkins said comfortably:
“Well, dear, I can always do with a cup of tea. I always say there’s nothing like a nice cup of tea—a strong cup!”
Nurse O’Brien said as she filled the kettle and lit the gas ring:
“I’ve got everything here in this cupboard—teapot and cups and sugar—and Edna brings me up fresh milk twice a day. No need to be forever ringing bells. ’Tis a fine gas ring, this; boils a kettle in a flash.”
Nurse O’Brien was a tall red-haired woman of thirty with flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile. Her cheerfulness and vitality made her a favourite with her patients. Nurse Hopkins, the District Nurse who came every morning to assist with the bed making and toilet of the heavy old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a capable air and a brisk manner.
She said now approvingly:
“Everything’s very well-done in this house.”
The other nodded.
“Yes, old-fashioned, some of it, no central heating, but plenty of fires and all the maids are very obliging girls and Mrs. Bishop looks after them well.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“These girls nowadays—I’ve no patience with ’em—don’t know what they want, most of them—and can’t do a decent day’s work.”
“Mary Gerrard’s a nice girl,” said Nurse O’Brien. “I really don’t know what Mrs. Welman would do without her. You saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, she’s a lovely creature, I will say, and she’s got a way with her.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“I’m sorry for Mary. That old father of hers does his best to spite the girl.”
“Not a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon,” said Nurse O’Brien. “There, the kettle’s singing. I’ll wet the tea as soon as it comes to the boil.”
The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two nurses sat with it in Nurse O’Brien’s room next door to Mrs. Welman’s bedroom.
“Mr. Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down,” said Nurse O’Brien. “There was a telegram came this morning.”
“There now, dear,” said Nurse Hopkins. “I thought the old lady was looking excited about something. It’s some time since they’ve been down, isn’t it?”
“It must be two months and over. Such a nice young gentleman, Mr. Welman. But very proud-looking.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“I saw her picture in the Tatler the other day—with a friend at Newmarket.”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“She’s very well-known in society, isn’t she? And always has such lovely clothes. Do you think she’s really good-looking, Nurse?”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“Difficult to tell what these girls really look like under their makeup! In my opinion, she hasn’t got anything like the looks Mary Gerrard has!”
Nurse O’Brien pursed her lips and put her head on one side.
“You may be right now. But Mary hasn’t got the style!”
Nurse Hopkins said sententiously:
“Fine feathers make fine birds.”
“Another cup of tea, Nurse?”
“Thank you, Nurse. I don’t mind if I do.”
Over their steaming cups the women drew a little closer together.
Nurse O’Brien said:
“An odd thing happened last night. I went in at two o’clock to settle my dear comfortably, as I always do, and she was lying there awake. But she must have been dreaming, for as soon as I got into the room she said, ‘The photograph. I must have the photograph.’
“So I said, ‘Why, of course, Mrs. Welman. But wouldn’t you rather wait till morning?’ And she said, ‘No, I want to look at it now.’ So I said, ‘Well, where is this photograph? Is it the one of Mr. Roderick you’re meaning?’ And she said, ‘Roder-ick? No. Lewis.’ And she began to struggle, and I went to lift her and she got out her keys from the little box beside her bed and told me to unlock the second drawer of the tallboy, and there, sure enough, was a big photograph in a silver frame. Such a handsome man. And ‘Lewis’ written across the corner. Old-fashioned, of course, must have been taken many years ago. I took it to her and she held it there, staring at it a long time. And she just murmured. ‘Lewis—Lewis.’ Then she sighed and gave it to me and told me to put it back. And would you believe it, when I turned round again she’d gone off as sweetly as a child.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“Was it her husband, do you think?”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“It was not! For this morning I asked Mrs. Bishop, careless-like, what was the late Mr. Welman’s first name, and it was Henry, she told me!”
The two women exchanged glances. Nurse Hopkins had a long nose, and the end of it quivered a little with pleasurable emotion. She said thoughtfully:
“Lewis—Lewis. I wonder, now. I don’t recall the name anywhere round these parts.”
“It would be many years ago, dear,” the other reminded her.
“Yes, and, of course, I’ve only been here a couple of years. I wonder now—”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“A very handsome man. Looked as though he might be a cavalry officer!”
Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said:
“That’s very interesting.”
Nurse O’Brien said romantically:
“Maybe they were boy and girl together and a cruel father separated them….”
Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh:
“Perhaps he was killed in the war….”
III
When Nurse Hopkins, pleasantly stimulated by tea and romantic speculation, finally left the house, Mary Gerrard ran out of the door to overtake her.
“Oh, Nurse, may I walk down to the village with you?”
“Of course you can, Mary, my dear.”
Mary Gerrard said breathlessly:
“I must talk to you. I’m so worried about everything.”
The older woman looked at her kindly.
At twenty-one, Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a kind of wild-rose unreality about her: a long delicate neck, pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep vivid blue.
Nurse Hopkins said:
“What’s the trouble?”
“The trouble is that the time is going on and on and I’m not doing anything!”
Nurse Hopkins said drily:
“Time enough for that.”
“No, but it is so—so unsettling. Mrs. Welman has been wonderfully kind, giving me all that expensive schooling. I do feel now t
hat I ought to be starting to earn my own living. I ought to be training for something.”
Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically.
“It’s such a waste of everything if I don’t. I’ve tried to—to explain what I feel to Mrs. Welman, but—it’s difficult—she doesn’t seem to understand. She keeps saying there’s plenty of time.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“She’s a sick woman, remember.”
Mary flushed a contrite flush.
“Oh, I know. I suppose I oughtn’t to bother her. But it is worrying—and Father’s so—so beastly about it! Keeps jibing at me for being a fine lady! But indeed I don’t want to sit about doing nothing!”
“I know you don’t.”
“The trouble is that training of any kind is nearly always expensive. I know German pretty well now, and I might do something with that. But I think really I want to be a hospital nurse. I do like nursing and sick people.”
Nurse Hopkins said unromantically:
“You’ve got to be as strong as a horse, remember!”
“I am strong! And I really do like nursing. Mother’s sister, the one in New Zealand, was a nurse. So it’s in my blood, you see.”
“What about massage?” suggested Nurse Hopkins. “Or Norland? You’re fond of children. There’s good money to be made in massage.”
Mary said doubtfully:
“It’s expensive to train for it, isn’t it? I hoped—but of course that’s very greedy of me—she’s done so much for me already.”
“Mrs. Welman, you mean? Nonsense. In my opinion, she owes you that. She’s given you a slap-up education, but not the kind that leads to anything much. You don’t want to teach?”
“I’m not clever enough.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“There’s brains and brains! If you take my advice, Mary, you’ll be patient for the present. In my opinion, as I said, Mrs. Welman owes it to you to help you get a start at making your living. And I’ve no doubt she means to do it. But the truth of the matter is, she’s got fond of you, and she doesn’t want to lose you.”
Mary said:
“Oh!” She drew in her breath with a little gasp. “Do you really think that’s it?”
“I haven’t the least doubt of it! There she is, poor old lady, more or less helpless, paralysed one side and nothing and nobody much to amuse her. It means a lot to her to have a fresh, pretty young thing like you about the house. You’ve a very nice way with you in a sickroom.”
Mary said softly:
“If you really think so—that makes me feel better… Dear Mrs. Welman, I’m very, very fond of her! She’s been so good to me always. I’d do anything for her!”
Nurse Hopkins said drily:
“Then the best thing you can do is to stay where you are and stop worrying! It won’t be for long.”
Mary said, “Do you mean—?”
Her eyes looked wide and frightened.
The District Nurse nodded.
“She’s rallied wonderfully, but it won’t be for long. There will be a second stroke and then a third. I know the way of it only too well. You be patient, my dear. If you keep the old lady’s last days happy and occupied, that’s a better deed than many. The time for the other will come.”
Mary said:
“You’re very kind.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“Here’s your father coming out from the lodge—and not to pass the time of day pleasantly, I should say!”
They were just nearing the big iron gates. On the steps of the lodge an elderly man with a bent back was painfully hobbling down the two steps.
Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:
“Good morning, Mr. Gerrard.”
Ephraim Gerrard said crustily:
“Ah!”
“Very nice weather,” said Nurse Hopkins.
Old Gerrard said crossly:
“May be for you. ’Tisn’t for me. My lumbago’s been at me something cruel.”
Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:
“That was the wet spell last week, I expect. This hot dry weather will soon clear that away.”
Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old man.
He said disagreeably:
“Nurses—nurses, you’m all the same. Full of cheerfulness over other people’s troubles. Little you care! And there’s Mary talks about being a nurse, too. Should have thought she’d want to be something better than that, with her French and her German and her piano playing and all the things she’s learned at her grand school and her travels abroad.”
Mary said sharply:
“Being a hospital nurse would be quite good enough for me!”
“Yes, and you’d sooner do nothing at all, wouldn’t you? Strutting about with your airs and your graces and your fine-lady-do-nothing ways. Laziness, that’s what you like, my girl!”
Mary protested, tears springing to her eyes:
“It isn’t true, Dad. You’ve no right to say that!”
Nurse Hopkins intervened with a heavy, determinedly humorous air.
“Just a bit under the weather, aren’t we, this morning? You don’t really mean what you say, Gerrard. Mary’s a good girl and a good daughter to you.”
Gerrard looked at his daughter with an air of almost active malevolence.
“She’s no daughter of mine—nowadays—with her French and her history and her mincing talk. Pah!”
He turned and went into the lodge again.
Mary said, the tears still standing in her eyes:
“You do see, Nurse, don’t you, how difficult it is? He’s so unreasonable. He’s never really liked me even when I was a little girl. Mum was always standing up for me.”
Nurse Hopkins said kindly:
“There, there, don’t worry. These things are sent to try us! Goodness, I must hurry. Such a round as I’ve got this morning.”
And as she stood watching the brisk retreating figure, Mary Gerrard thought forlornly that nobody was any real good or could really help you. Nurse Hopkins, for all her kindness, was quite content to bring out a little stock of platitudes and offer them with an air of novelty.
Mary thought disconsolately:
“What shall I do?”
Two
Mrs. Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her eyes—eyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor, looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a handsome, hawklike profile. Pride and determination showed in her face.
The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by the window. They rested there tenderly—almost wistfully.
She said at last:
“Mary—”
The girl turned quickly.
“Oh, you’re awake, Mrs. Welman.”
Laura Welman said:
“Yes, I’ve been awake some time….”
“Oh, I didn’t know. I’d have—”
Mrs. Welman broke in:
“No, that’s all right. I was thinking—thinking of many things.”
“Yes, Mrs. Welman?”
The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender look come into the older woman’s face. She said gently:
“I’m very fond of you, my dear. You’re very good to me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Welman, it’s you who have been good to me. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what I should have done! You’ve done everything for me.”
“I don’t know… I don’t know, I’m sure…” The sick woman moved restlessly, her right arm twitched—the left remaining inert and lifeless. “One means to do the best one can; but it’s so difficult to know what is best—what is right. I’ve been too sure of myself always….”
Mary Gerrard said:
“Oh, no, I’m sure you always know what is best and right to do.”
But Laura Welman shook her head.
“No—no. It worries me. I’ve had one besetting sin always, Mary: I’m proud. Pride can be
the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too.”
Mary said quickly:
“It will be nice for you to have Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. It’s quite a time since they were here.”
Mrs. Welman said softly:
“They’re good children—very good children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know I’ve only got to send and they’ll come at any time. But I don’t want to do that too often. They’re young and happy—the world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and suffering before their time.”
Mary said, “I’m sure they’d never feel like that, Mrs. Welman.”
Mrs. Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than to the girl:
“I always hoped they might marry. But I tried never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so contradictory. It would have put them off! I had an idea, long ago when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart on Roddy. But I wasn’t at all sure about him. He’s a funny creature. Henry was like that—very reserved and fastidious… Yes, Henry…”
She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband.
She murmured:
“So long ago…so very long ago… We had only been married five years when he died. Double pneumonia… We were happy—yes, very happy; but somehow it all seems very unreal, that happiness. I was an odd, solemn, undeveloped girl—my head full of ideas and hero worship. No reality…”
Mary murmured:
“You must have been very lonely—afterwards.”
“After? Oh, yes—terribly lonely. I was twenty-six…and now I’m over sixty. A long time, my dear…a long, long time…” She said with sudden brisk acerbity, “And now this!”
“Your illness?”
“Yes. A stroke is the thing I’ve always dreaded. The indignity of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do anything for yourself. It maddens me. The O’Brien creature is good-natured—I will say that for her. She doesn’t mind my snapping at her and she’s not more idiotic than most of them. But it makes a lot of difference to me to have you about, Mary.”
“Does it?” The girl flushed. “I—I’m so glad, Mrs. Welman.”
Laura Welman said shrewdly:
“You’ve been worrying, haven’t you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. I’ll see to it that you shall have the means to be independent and take up a profession. But be patient for a little—it means too much to me to have you here.”
Sad Cypress Page 2
