“Well, yes I did.”
Agnes turned back to Peter and Rose.
“You see! What she has done we shall never forgive.” Peter caught her by the arm.
“Is it ‘we’? I should rather have said it was ‘I.’ Look into your heart, my dear sister-in-law. Does it really matter to you so much whom your niece marries? Are you sure that you’re not sick with jealousy because she is marrying?”
“How dare you!”
For a moment it almost looked as though Agnes would hit him. Rose got quickly up from the music-stool.
“Well,” she said briskly, “I don’t see that any decision need be made to-day.” She moved towards the door. “Come on Agnes, let me help you to pack your things.”
At that moment the door opened and Letitia came in. She stood quietly in the entrance. The fact that she was desperately nervous showed only in the way she twisted a little darn in one of the fingers of her cotton gloves.
“You sent for me, Miss Torrys?”
Agnes seemed in a huge breath to draw all her temper into one place.
“Yes,” her voice shook with the intensity of her emotion. “That my niece has become a street-woman, slipping off to Paris to sleep with a common creature out of a boot-shop, is your fault. She was in your charge. What have you been doing to let this thing go on? Why did you go to Victoria Station? Was it to wave ‘good-bye’ as the train went out? I know why you went, and I’ll tell you. You went because you were paid to go. You’re an incompetent old fool, and you knew you’d soon be out of work, so you feathered your nest while you had the chance. What did they pay you to say nothing, while looseness and worse went on? Get out! When the money you’ve made is gone I hope you starve in a gutter. It’s the end filth like you deserve. Get out!”
Letitia looked round. She made a shadowy attempt at dignity.
“Good-bye.” Then she turned to James. “Don’t listen to her, Mr. Torrys. Caroline loves you, and she has done nothing to be ashamed of. I can promise you that.” She went quietly into the passage and out into the street.
PART II
The Mother
Chapter XI
HASTINGS beach was crowded. Two women sat in deck-chairs. The one nudged the other.
“Look, Mary. There’s that pretty widow with those three children.”
Mary twisted her body so that she faced the other chair. “Oh, Ruth. I meant to tell you. She isn’t a widow.”
“Then why the black?”
Ruth settled down comfortably. It was pleasant to feel so well-informed.
“For a sister: She was abroad travelling with her husband and got typhoid fever. Her married name was Merral. Dymphna Merral. She was only thirty-six.”
“How did you find all this out?”
“My nursery-maid. She has made friends with her nursery-maid, and Nanny, of course, hands all the news on to me.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s England. Her husband is in South Africa. He writes books.”
Mary screwed up her forehead.
“England? I don’t think I’ve read anything of his.”
“I’m trying to get one from Mudie’s. The children are called Laurence, Elizabeth and Helen.”
Mary eyed the distant Mrs. England thoughtfully. “And another quite soon I should think.”
Ruth nodded.
“That’s what I thought, but the nursemaid says November.”
“My word, the nursemaids did get together. What else did yours find out?”
“Well,” Ruth shifted the top of her deck-chair so that the sun was out of her eyes, “she’s a daughter of Milston Manor.”
Mary opened her eyes.
“What! The place in Kent? Is she?”
“But the children have never been there because she ran away with her husband, who wasn’t approved of.”
Mary looked eager.
“What was wrong with her husband?” Ruth was apologetic.
“The nursemaid didn’t know. She says it happened when Mrs. England was seventeen.”
“Has it turned out well?”
Ruth nodded.
“Nanny says, as far as she could glean from my nursemaid, very well. That she worships him.”
“And he her?”
Ruth shrugged her shoulders.
“Nursemaids are so stupid. Nanny says she gathered that he did, but that they never see much of him. He’s out a great deal. They see a lot of her.”
Mary raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“If he’s fond of her, odd to go out without her.”
“That’s what I thought. I expect he’s unfaithful. Those sort of people like writers and actors usually are I believe. Nanny is going to try and get the children to meet. The boy Laurence is just the same age as Violet, and her Elizabeth could play with Harry. Whatever the father may be, she must be all right.”
“Oh, look!” Mary pointed towards the sea. “They are playing together. That’s the boy talking to Violet, isn’t it?”
“Have you caught any shrimps?” Laurence shook his head.
“No. Have you?”
Violet held out a pail with a minute shrimp in the bottom.
“Only one. What’s your name?”
“Laurence England. What’s yours?”
“Violet Hardy. How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“So’m I.”
Laurence pushed his shrimping net into the sand. The water round their feet turned dusky.
“I go to school. I go to Clifton. That’s by Bristol. It’s miles and miles. Mummy said it was too far, but Daddy said I couldn’t go too far, as I’d got to learn to go about alone.” He pushed his net deeper into the sand. “Daddy’s fighting the Boers.”
“So’s mine.” Violet picked a shell off some seaweed that was floating by. “You’ve got two sisters haven’t you?”
Laurence looked round. He pointed to a child with brown hair digging with furious concentration in the sand.
“That’s Betsy up there.” He searched with his eye amongst the deck-chairs. “That’s Helen, and in the chair behind her, the one by itself in the middle, that’s Mummy.”
Violet raked the beach with her eyes.
“Up there is my mother and with her is my godmother. I call her Auntie Mary.” She looked round amongst the sand-diggers. “That’s my brother Harry, and we’ve got a tiny baby at home.” She caught Laurence by the hand. “Let’s shrimp together.”
Laurence looked anxiously towards where his mother was sitting.
“I’d like to. But we aren’t allowed to play with other children.”
Violet looked surprised.
“Why? Have you had something infectious?”
“No.” Laurence stood on one leg and examined the sole of his other foot. “Mummy says it’s more fun being just ourselves.”
“Oh.” Violet considered the point. “Is it?”
“No.”
“Come on.” Violet pushed the hair back off her shoulders. “Let’s shrimp then.”
Caroline lay back in her deck-chair. She watched Helen busy putting pebbles into her bucket. She looked up at the crunch of stones behind her.
“Oh, Nanny, has the post come?” Nanny nodded.
“Nothing from Africa. There’s just this.”
Caroline turned over the letter and recognised her Aunt Rose’s handwriting. She patted the deck-chair beside her.
“Sit down, Nanny. You must be tired. It’s a hot morning for doing washing.”
Nanny settled in the chair. Her white pique skirts billowed round her. She felt in the pocket of her apron for a handkerchief. She lifted her black straw-hat and mopped her forehead.
“Couldn’t get my starch right. Just one of those days when everything goes contrary.”
&
nbsp; “Yes,” Caroline agreed vaguely, her mind on the letter which she had just opened.
“My dear Caroline,—
“I am so glad the visit to Hastings is being a success. I am thankful you have had a cheerful letter from John. It is a disappointment to Louisa that the baby is another girl. They hoped for a boy this time. It is good news that you hope to have her and the children for a visit, and I hope, after the baby is born, Elizabeth will come also. It is ludicrous for your sisters to take part in that silly quarrel.
“Your grandmother is remarkably well. When you think that she celebrated her seventy-seventh birthday this year, the way she gets about is astounding. Dymphna’s death seemed to age her at the time, but she is entirely herself again now. She has been staying at the Manor all the summer, as your Aunt Agnes is far from well. In fact, dear, it is about this that I am writing.
“As I told you in my last letter, your Aunt Agnes has been very religious these last years. She insists on confession and horrid Popish things like that. Mr. Sykes has been wonderful with her and agreed to anything she suggested, although I fancy it must have upset him, for he could not have approved. Besides which, your poor aunt has grown embarrassingly fond of him. Lately she has become more peculiar. She has, taken bunches of flowers to church and arranged them on her hassock and then knelt to pray to them. All in the middle of the service!! It would not have mattered if she would sit in the family pew, but it seems she chooses the front row, which is terribly upsetting for everybody. Doctor Felton has told your father that he thinks she would be better to go away for a time to somewhere under the care of skilled people. Not, of course, an asylum, but just somewhere quiet where she can rest.
“If your Aunt Agnes agrees to go away, your Uncle Peter and I feel that you should write at once to your father and suggest a visit. There is no doubt that your Aunt Agnes has always been very bitter at your marrying as you did, but we have thought of recent years that your father would be glad to see you again. You were always his favourite daughter, and I am afraid Ellison, the naughty boy, is no companion, as well as being a great anxiety at present.
“It is as much for Ellison’s sake as your father’s that your Uncle Peter and I are particularly anxious for a reconciliation. I am sure the dear boy is splendid underneath, but he is, perhaps, a little weak and has made some unfortunate friends at Oxford. He is, I am afraid, constantly in debt, and your Uncle Peter met him at a music-hall and was most distressed at the type of his companions. He described them very amusingly as ‘precious pearls,but he says Ellison needs stiffening with more sporting friends.
“It is natural that you have seen very little of him. He was a baby when you left home. But if he has failings we must remember the poor boy has never had a mother to guide him. Your Uncle Peter has always been so fond of you, and he thinks that perhaps you are the person to help Ellison. He says I cannot put it too strongly that he does need influencing.
“Forgive this very long letter, dear child. I hope the heat is not upsetting you. You must take great care of yourself as John is not at home to take care of you.
“Your loving Aunt,
“Rose.”
Caroline folded the sheets of paper and put them back in their envelope. Her eyes were on Helen, but she was seeing Ellison. He had been very little older than Helen when she had first tried to mother him. Poor cowering little thing, back from his first ride, sick with fright. Those boxing lessons with the village lad gently tapping him with the gloves, while he urged “Hit out Mas’er Ellison. There’s no need to be a feared. I won’t hurt ’ee. Why, my little brother of three he’ve more spunk than you ’ave.” The efforts to make him learn to shoot. The child backing away, his fingers in his ears. “I won’t touch it. I won’t. It might go off.” He had been born weak and delicate and he had not had much help. As a baby he had been left too much with Nurse, who adored and spoilt him. He probably had suffered from having no mother. Perhaps, without frightening him, she would have found a way for him to learn the things he had to learn. Louisa and Elizabeth would have been no use. They had never cared for anyone but each other. Aunt Agnes had perhaps done her best, but she had not a vestige of understanding. She herself, who might have helped, had gone out of his life before he was six. They had inflicted unnecessary suffering on him. He had been packed off to school early, he had suffered there, but what had he suffered when he had come home to find Nurse gone? Sensitive, delicate little boy, loathing all the things he was forced to do. His childhood must have been a martyrdom.
Caroline unconsciously stiffened her back. The moment her baby was born she would get hold of Ellison. He had been through a hard childhood. Some wild oats were natural now he was more or less free to please himself. Other boys, such as her own Laurie, might take their time in settling down, but not Ellison. He was the heir. It was his duty to have a son as quickly as possible. She would write to her father the moment Aunt Agnes left the house. Then he and she could put their heads together and find the right girl for him to marry.
She was drawn back from her thoughts by Nanny, who got up to remove from Helen a stone that she was sucking. She came back, rather wearily, to her chair.
“You’re tired,” said Caroline contritely, “and I was supposed to be looking after Helen, but I was day-dreaming instead. You shouldn’t work so hard. Why not send everything to the laundry while we are here?”
Nanny sniffed. She took some sewing from her work-bag. “Iron-mould over everything! Besides, it all costs money.”
Caroline laughed.
“You always forget we can afford a little money now. It’s difficult for me to remember, too, after being poor so long. All the little shifts you and I went to when Master Laurie was born.”
Nanny chuckled.
“Yes. We had some funny ways those days. The trouble we had to keep the blessed boy quiet too, when the master was writing. I can remember how I’d be washing his little things in the bathroom, and I’d hear him start to cry, and although I’d only a step or two to take, you’d be up the stairs before me. ‘Hush, baby,’ I’d hear you say. ‘Hush, darling. You mustn’t disturb Daddy.’” Caroline smiled.
“Do you remember the dreadful days when he wouldn’t hush?”
Nanny’s mouth set.
“I do, indeed, Ma’am. Callin’ out to us as if we were upsetting the precious lamb for nothing.”
“Oh well, Nanny, it must be difficult when you’re writing a book to be disturbed by a baby’s crying. Besides, he’s not a man who’s fond of children when they are very little. He only began to take a real interest in Master Laurie when he got to the talking age.”
“I sometimes thought that he never would. Funny how it is with gentlemen, they’re either all over the nursery, making the children noisy, or they don’t seem to care for them at all.”
Caroline nodded.
“Sometimes it made me feel selfish to be so glad to have a baby. You know, Nanny, as we’d been married over two years before I knew he was coming, I was getting terribly anxious. I never could say so to my husband, because I knew he was hoping we never would, but I think he’s glad now.”
“It was lucky that book of his done so well before Miss Betsy came. I can see you now, coming up to the nursery. ‘Nanny,’ you said, ‘Mr. England’s got a success at last. We’re going to move.’”
“Of course, it’s very silly of me.” Caroline leant forward and stroked Helen’s hair. “But I shall never be as fond of the new house as I was of the queer little first one. We were so happy there. Of course, I know we’ve been very happy in the new house too, but that silly little old house was the first we had. Besides, in away it’s more fun buying things when you are poor.”
Nanny laid down her sewing.
“Of course you know, Ma’am, you’re like me, you like things simple.”
Caroline looked thoughtfully at Helen.
“I do love having my
family round me. Since we moved to the big house, there seem a terrible lot of parties and things. We have been out a great deal. You know, when I was a child my mother was an invalid. When she died we were brought up by a nurse and a governess. That nurse I’m always telling you about. I’ve always thought since then how lovely it is to be all together. I can’t see why, if you’ve got children and a nice home, you want anything else; a whole lot of friends from outside. I’m sure I don’t. But ever since we moved we seem to have them.”
Nanny looked up. There was pity in her eyes.
“The master would never feel that way, Ma’am, and it wouldn’t be right if he should, him so distinguished and all.”
“No, of course not,” Caroline agreed. “I don’t mean that I think he should, but I just wish human nature was different, and we all liked the same things.”
Nanny looked towards the sea.
“There’s Master Laurie talking to a little girl. Nice family, name of Hardy. Staying in the rooms next door to us they are. I sometimes have a word with their Nanny. Quite the right sort of people.”
Caroline sat up.
“Oh, dear. I don’t want him making friends with other children. It only means that Miss Betsy is left to play alone.”
Nanny went comfortably back to her stitching.
“Miss Betsy won’t want Master Laurie. Happier alone, she is. It will be nice for Master Laurie to have someone to play with.”
“Now, Nanny.” Caroline’s voice was reproving. “You know that’s what I don’t like. I think Miss Betsy is too fond of being alone. It makes her so very—” she hesitated for the word—“undemonstrative.”
“Making her go against herself won’t alter her, Ma’am.”
Nanny got up. “I suppose it’s time I took Miss Helen up for her rest. Come along, my duck.”
Elizabeth knelt in rapture before the house she had drawn on the sand. The roof she filled with green seaweed. Out of the chimney came curling smoke of small grey stones. The four windows and the door were picked out in brown stones. Up the front of the house climbed a rose. It was made of green seaweed, with pink shells for the flowers. There was a gravel path leading to the gate, and two flower-beds of brown seaweed, with small pieces of different shades of sea-rounded glass for flowers. Elizabeth had ceased admiring the outside, and was now living inside. She was a princess. There were many servants to bring her everything she wanted, but, like those in the fairy-tale, they were invisible. Just hands answering every wish. There were large rooms with great big windows. Elizabeth saw herself in a grand, flowing white silk dress, walking up and down inside, saying, “Nobody lives in this house, but only me.” At the height of this imagining, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up dazed. Caroline stooped and studied the house.
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