When they drew up at the cottage, Mrs. Stratton sat looking at it, saying nothing. The ancient man and wife who acted as caretakers came to take out the luggage; they transferred Mrs. Stratton’s cases to Julian’s car.
“You mustn’t hurry away, Anita,’’ Mrs. Westerby said, appearing round the side of the house. “You must come in and look over the cottage—though of course you can do that as often as you care to, later on. Gail, there is to be no question of your leaving until tomorrow. You are going to stay with me tonight, and when you go away tomorrow, Julian is going to follow you and see you safely on your way.”
“There’s no need—” Gail began.
“I’m taking you as far as the frontier,” Julian said, coming out of the house and joining them.
“I can get to the frontier by myself.”
“I daresay you can,” he said. “But I need some sherry, and I shall hop across the border and buy some cheap.”
“My dear boy,” Mrs. Westerby protested, “the people in these mountains have been hopping over the border, as you term it, since time immemorial. They are still doing it. All you have to do is name what you want; if it’s French, they will have it, if it’s Spanish, they will get it for you. I daresay some of those young contrabandistas I knew are still alive; if not, their sons will be following in their footsteps. Why would my mother have been able to sell that great house so easily if the hoteliers who bought it hadn’t been assured of a steady, cheap supply of everything they wanted?”
Julian laughed and Gail, studying him, saw that he was enjoying her own sense of release. There was nothing in this atmosphere to recall the discomfort and uneasiness of the previous night. The sun was warm, the air bracing; the caretakers were all smiles and Mrs. Westerby reassuringly normal.
Mrs. Stratton, Gail and Julian went indoors and followed her slowly round the rooms of the cottage.
“You can see now why my mother couldn’t bear to give it up,” she said. “When you get to the hotel, Anita, you’ll see a number of pieces, among the furniture there, that belonged to my mother—but nothing they have there can compare with what you see here.”
They were standing in the little square drawing-room; its windows faced south and west and lit a room that might never have been without an occupant; the floors and the furniture were brightly polished, the ornaments were in place, beautifully-bound books stood in perfect order. It did not need a connoisseur to judge the beauty and value of the furniture.
“Edward often wrote letters at that desk,” Mrs. Westerby told them. “He moved it so that he could see the view better. ‘How can you write and gaze out at the view at one and the same time?’ I used to ask him—I liked the desk better where it was, but he never moved it back again.”
Julian had picked up a delicate porcelain figure and was examining it.
“Vincennes,” Mrs. Westerby said promptly. “That little figure is 1753 —you know, of course, that Louis XV gave a royal concession to the factory for making porcelain?”
“I didn’t think his mind ran on porcelain figures,” Julian commented. “What would happen to all this”—he waved a hand that embraced the cottage and its surroundings — “if the caretakers died?”
“Their sons and daughters would step into their place,” Mrs. Westerby stated confidently. “My mother’s family lived in the big house for generations; as you can see for yourselves, they made the focal point of life here. There was no village, only scattered little houses whose owners made a living by smuggling. Some of them still do—but from the time my forebears settled here, they made themselves responsible for the welfare of every person who worked for them or who lived within reach of their care. The cottage means, today, what the big house used to mean in the old days. I hope Anita will use it very often in the future.”
It was clear to Gail, and she thought it must be clear to Mrs. Stratton too, that if the cottage was stripped of its contents, it would lose its personality and its purpose. But the furniture was Edward’s; he was dead, and his widow had come to claim what was hers, and she would have it packed up and sent away. It would be the end.
It would be a pity, Gail thought, if she wanted the furniture, and wondered what Mrs. Westerby was thinking.
Mrs. Westerby’s face was very pale, but she was quieter, more restrained, more dignified than Gail had ever seen her. She seemed to be struggling to say something; as they watched her, she turned to Mrs. Stratton and spoke in a tone almost humble.
“Well, here it is, Anita. I wish that you had come out alone—but you didn’t want to take possession of the things unless I came too, so here I am. I would have liked you to accept the cottage, but perhaps it was asking too much to expect you to see our family as we did; it was certainly asking too much, I know, to expect you to immure yourself here—except for short visits. If I had been younger, if I had been a person nearer to you in age, I might perhaps have begged you to consider some kind of joint residence here; my cottage and Edward’s furniture, and everything and everybody round us full of memories of him. But I do not think you would have cared for that.”
Mrs. Stratton had been gazing out of the window. She turned slowly, and the eyes of the two women met. Gail could read nothing in the expression of either, but she saw the colour leave Mrs. Westerby’s cheeks.
“No.” Mrs. Westerby answered herself. “No, it wouldn’t have been possible. If you couldn’t endure me while Edward was alive—and I don’t in any way blame you, because I know that I’m thought troublesome and eccentric—if you couldn’t put up with me then, how much less can you have patience with me now that he’s dead?”
Still Mrs. Stratton said nothing. After a pause, Mrs. Westerby continued on a brisker note.
“Well, my hope is to see a good deal of you in London. You must let me help you to settle into your new home. You must come down to Shern to meet my friends, and I must go up to London to meet yours. There is a link between us, and we must not let it break. And now, shall we go and look at the garden, and at the lake? We’ll take the lake walk first, before the clouds come out and spoil the nice sunshine—the water looks so much prettier when it’s sparkling. This,” she went on, taking the lead and talking to the others over her shoulder as they followed her along a narrow, paved path, “this is the way to the little belvedere my mother built. Look!”
They went into a little glass-enclosed shelter which had cushioned seats placed before the windows, and gazed out over the spreading view.
“This was her favourite spot by day,” Mrs. Westerby said, “and Edward’s too. He tried to get the view down on canvas—you’ve got one of his paintings of it, haven’t you, Anita?—but he wasn’t pleased with the results; he said he couldn’t reproduce the full variety of the colours. And now I’ll take you to the walk we all loved. Up this way; it’s rather steep.”
They toiled up a grassy incline; it was very short, and at the top Julian, who had given Mrs. Stratton a hand to aid her, gave a startled exclamation and a sharp warning.
“Watch outl”
“There’s no need to sound so alarmed, my dear boy.” Mrs. Westerby sounded indulgent. “It’s just the momentary feeling of stepping into space, that’s all. As you see, there’s a perfectly good, wide bank to stand on.”
Gail, at Julian’s exclamation, had clambered up the last foot or two with caution, but even so it was a shock to find the slope terminating abruptly and levelling out to a narrow shelf which dropped sheerly away to the lake below. She took a tentative step forward, glanced over the edge and stepped back hastily.
“Now, that’s something we never did as children,” Mrs. Wester by told her. “My father always said something to any children who came to stay with us—gave them a warning and told them, with no attempt at disguise and with no merciful skipping of nasty details, what would happen to them if they walked near the edge. There’s no danger of crumbling; the ground is quite firm, but he considered it essential to give children a sense of danger. ‘Show them the penalties,’ he
used to say, ‘and they’ll heed the warnings’. He would have deplored that great, ugly, defacing wire fencing that was put up when the big house became an hotel. He would have considered it unnecessary.”
“Without that great, ugly, defacing fencing,” Julian pointed out, “most of the guests would fall into the lake before they’d paid their bills.”
“Nonsense, my dear boy.” Mrs. Westerby threw the words over her shoulder; she was leading them along the track. “Nonsense! You can’t hedge people round with protective barriers.”
“But children—” began Gail.
“Children on farms have to learn to keep out of the bull’s way,” Mrs. Westerby pointed out in her most decided tones. “Do you think that Swiss or Austrian children grow up with hideous wire fencing stuck on every ski slope? Accidents, my father used to say, occurred only when children were not told exactly what the danger was and exactly what would happen to them if they didn’t obey warnings to avoid it. I used to run along this edge quite alone, as a very small child, and when he was old enough, Edward used to do the same. We didn’t have to have nurses screaming behind us. We knew. At the hotel, where fools doubtless stay sometimes, perhaps there has to be some kind of warning—but people can read; a notice in several languages would have been quite as efficacious, and far less ugly than that monstrous wire. Now!” She rounded a corner, waited for them, and then threw out a hand. “Here it is!” she exclaimed. “Our most beloved, most private, most time-honoured retreat.” The path had widened into a semi-circle on which they could stand and gaze at a magnificent panorama. A few large boulders made natural seats, and on one of them Mrs. Westerby sat, looking out over the water.
“We called this spot the Moonlight Watch,” she said. “When there was a moon in summer, we used to come out here— accompanied, as children, because the moon might go behind clouds and leave us with no light to guide us. We would come and sit here—quietly. I say quietly, because even now, as you can hear, my voice is an intrusion. At night, with the moon shining on the lake, there is such peace here that one would hardly venture to speak. Peace enwraps you on this spot. You might be in space; you would think you were on the moon itself if you couldn’t see it shining above you and, in reflection, below you too. Isn’t it quite, quite perfect?” She fell silent, and they could test the truth of her words. She had scarcely exaggerated. The place had an almost unearthly stillness.
Gail, looking downwards, gave a shiver.
“I wouldn’t like to swim in that water,” she said.
“Swim? My dear girl, you couldn’t swim in this lake!” Mrs. Westerby protested. “It’s far too dangerous!”
“What’s dangerous about it?” Julian asked. “Cramp from the cold? No whirlpools that I can see.”
“Rocks. Nasty rocks like rows of teeth. My father kept on his study desk a double row of jagged wooden points, just like the jaw of a crocodile. He used to open it”—Mrs. Westerby put her wrists together and drew apart the palms of her hands —“wide, like this, and then suddenly—” She brought her palms sharply together with a slap—“Scrunch! just like that. ‘If that’s what you want to happen to you,’ he told us, ‘then try to swim in the lake; better still, or worse still, jump into it.’ ”
Mrs. Stratton was turning back; it was time, she said, for her to go over to the hotel.
“Then Julian will take you,” Mrs. Westerby said, bringing up the rear as they walked back in single file along the path. “But if any of you want to find me at any time, this is where I shall be—breathing in the peace of this lovely spot. If there are ghosts, this is where the ghosts of my family would walk—and nobody would mind them a bit, because they would just be strolling, as we are now, and as they did when they were alive—contented and at peace. Gail, why don’t you go with the others and look at the hotel?”
Gail thought it would be a good idea, and drove to it with Mrs. Stratton and Julian. She found that the interior of the house had retained some of its home-like atmosphere; no attempt had been made to change the large, square entrance hall; a low screen placed round a table was the only sign of a reception desk.
Mrs. Stratton and her luggage were taken up to her room; she would not, she told Gail and Julian, ask them to stay to lunch; to invite them would mean inviting Mrs. Westerby and this—she spoke for the first time openly and without reserve—she said she would not do.
“I’m sorry to sound unkind,” she said, “but . . . perhaps there are too many memories here. I don’t know ... all I know is that I feel a little upset—I cannot bear any more of your godmother for the present, Julian.”
“I quite understand,” he said. “Just so long as you remember that she means well.”
She smiled—a faint, entirely incredulous smile. “Don’t let’s pretend any more,” she begged. “I’m here, safe at the hotel. I shall have to say goodbye to Gail before she goes, but I hope she will come and say goodbye to me here.”
Julian and Gail watched her going out of sight in the lift; then they turned and walked towards the door. Gail saw Julian pause and then turn back to say something to a clerk sitting at the desk. She did not hear his question, but she heard the man’s answer: the gentleman was out, he said, but he had left a message. She saw Julian take the folded paper; he read it, crumpled it and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.
When he rejoined Gail, she glanced at him enquiringly.
“Someone you know staying here?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes. I wasn’t quite sure when he was arriving.”
He said no more, and she was annoyed at having shown any curiosity. She was also, she found, getting into his car and watching him take his place at the wheel, vaguely uneasy. She didn’t want to know anything he didn’t want to tell her, she told herself irritably, but it was odd that he should have said nothing whatsoever, up to this moment, of having a friend staying here. This hotel wasn’t at Brighton or Palm Beach; it was stuck on a mountain on the edge of the Pyrenees, where the arrival of an acquaintance, or, even more, a friend, was a matter either of singular coincidence, or pre-arrangement; in either case, it would surely have been natural for him to have said that he expected to see someone he knew. A devil of perversity seized her.
“Don’t you want to speak to him?” she asked.
“Speak to whom?”
“Your friend.”
“What friend?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“The one you asked the hotel clerk about.”
He frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t mention the incident to my godmother,” he said, “or to Mrs. Stratton.”
The last remnants of patience slipped from her. She spoke in a voice that shook with fury.
“Look,” she said, “there’s been enough mystery on this trip. I don’t care who your friend is or what he’s doing here, but I’m not going to creep about sharing secrets with you or with anybody else. Early tomorrow morning, thank goodness, I’ll be on my way; in the meantime, I’ll do my best to get over my feeling of sitting on a time bomb which might go off any minute and take me with it. All I hope is that it doesn’t go off before I do. I don’t mind facing things in the normal way—that is, I can run my own life and take what comes—but nobody had any business to include me in this set-up. Especially you. You knew before we set out that we were going to have trouble, and I’ll bet you could guess what sort of trouble it was going to be. I never did you any harm, and I think you played a mean trick in letting me get tied up in this circus without giving me any kind of warning. I’m prepared to go through a lot for my own family, but I can’t see why I should—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up!” he shouted.
He need not have asked; she had run out of breath. She drew in a fresh supply, and noted through her anger that the car had stopped. They were somewhere halfway between the hotel and the cottage. She saw Julian put out a hand and switch off the engine.
“If you’re fed up,” he said, turning on her, “what the hell do you think I am?”
<
br /> “Who the hell cares? She’s your godmother — not mine.”
“What do you propose I should have done when Mrs. Stratton talked you into driving her here? Sent an anonymous letter of warning? Asked you to meet me, and hinted vaguely about crying off? Hints—to you? You would have asked me for a printed list of all possible risks, signed with my full name. Hints? You wouldn’t recognise a hint if I threw it in your face. All you want, all you’ve wanted since you got to that village yesterday, is a clear analysis of a situation which hasn’t even developed. How could I warn you not to come? Haven’t you realised yet that I didn’t know what was coming?”
‘‘That’s not true. You told me you came out to keep an eye on your godmother.”
“So I did. If you keep an eye out for possible trouble, does that necessarily mean it’s bound to come? Can’t something be put down to my having exaggerated the risks? If I felt uneasy, was I justified in making you uneasy too — on nothing but my own apprehensions? Before I set out on this trip, remember that I had never once seen my godmother and Mrs. Stratton together. In fact, I’d never seen Mrs. Stratton at all. How could I foresee what tension, if any, would build up between them? The reason for my godmother’s journey was a perfectly valid one; how valid, you saw for yourself in the cottage a short time ago. One of them owned the house and the other owned the contents, and one of them seemed to think she couldn’t act without the other being present. And so they arranged a date that would suit them both, and Mrs. Stratton took elaborate precautions to avoid meeting us on the way.”
“And your godmother took elaborate precautions to hole us all up at that inn. You knew perfectly well she draped her scarf round that notice and tampered with the directional arrow. You should have come out into the open and dealt with her, because she’s dangerous. But instead of restraining her, you acted as though—”
“Don’t you,” he broke in, “ever think of anybody but yourself? Just because you scare so easily, do I have to—”
The Stratton Story Page 14
