The Hayburn Family

by Guy McCrone

  If she had been the mother of a family, as now, at forty, she might have been—a family that could have filled this house and made it cheerful. Then, perhaps. She thought of the only child she had borne: a child that had not come into the world alive. Her own son would have been twenty-one now.

  A man was lighting the street-lamps, thrusting his long lighter expertly at one gas-jet after the other, igniting each quickly and hurrying on. It was not yet dark enough for these lights to be effective. Their burning points seemed only to increase the greyness of the waning day.

  There was Robin, of course. Henry had many plans for Robin. But who, in these days, would dare to look into Robin’s future, except Robin’s father?

  Now Phœbe wondered what it was that had thrown her into this mood of gloom. She knew better, she told herself, than let herself be annoyed by Sophia’s talk; or Mary’s smug and ridiculous notion that Robin must be going to the bad on the Riviera. Was it a stray pang of jealousy over Isabel’s successful maternity? Was it a sudden, unnamed anxiety for the young man she had left waving to her as the train moved from the Garavan Station?

  But here at last she was home. She hurried up the gravel walk towards her front door, bent forward in a final battle with the wind, then took her key from her muff and let herself in.

  Her husband had come back before her. He had just taken off his tweed cape, and stood warming himself by his study fire.

  “Hullo, Phœbe. It’s bitter outside.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Bel’s.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Seeing Isabel and her baby.”

  It was a trivial enough conversation, but during it he had taken off her outdoor coat, helped her to throw aside her hat, and now she stood, her husband’s arm about her waist, dishevelled but warm, looking into the yellow flames.

  Phœbe felt her mood soften. Here, beside Henry, was where she belonged. As she looked up at him, her strange eyes caught the firelight. He bent down and kissed her. She was pleased, yet something in her forced her to say: “Feeling sentimental?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh. No reason.”

  “Were you in a bad temper when you came in?” Henry asked.

  “I was.”

  “I thought so.” Then, without pursuing this: “There’s a letter from Robin. He seems all right. He’s been for a drive to Monte Carlo with a woman who says she’s an old friend of your family. Rennie, or something, her name was. What are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing much. I had better tell Mary, that’s all.”

  “I don’t see what Mary has to do with it. Does she think he’ll take to gambling?”

  “Exactly. And Sophia thinks we should buy your mother’s old house. That it’s ‘more like our position’.” Here Phœbe mimicked, a little, her sister’s chattering eagerness.

  She was surprised to find that Henry did not reply to this at once. They continued to stand together looking into the fire. At last he spoke.

  “So the old house is for sale?”

  “Sophia says so.”

  “Well, you can tell Sophia from me that when I do move I’ll go to a better house than that. Why should your brothers be in fine country places and not me—if I have the money to take me? And haven’t I got a son to come after me?”

  Phœbe could only turn towards her husband in amazement. This was a new Henry.

  “Henry, do you mean that?”

  “Why shouldn’t I mean it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just not like you. We’ve been very happy here.”

  He disengaged his arm and flung himself into a chair.

  “And what’s to keep us from being happy in a new place too?” he asked.

  Chapter Eight

  ROBIN was dressing at his leisure, having drunk his morning coffee in his room. It was just after ten, and another silver morning. Outside, almost touching the iron rail of his balcony, a palm-tree stood motionless, its young fronds made luminous by the morning sun shining through them. Beyond, where leafy gaps allowed, he could see the absurdly blue sea.

  Bred as he had been in a land of mists and sombre, if perhaps more subtle colours, Robin’s eyes took quick delight in this, the brilliance of the south. It was all so new, so uplifting. And this morning the world seemed particularly bright. He moved about his room humming snatches of a tune the band had played at tea yesterday in Monte Carlo.

  Yes. She was wonderful, Miss St. Roch. The most wonderful person he had ever met! And her wit was tremendous! Of course, it would have to be. She was a writer; and writers had to be witty.

  Mrs. Hamont was charming too. Like a pleasant aunt or something. And how lucky she had known Miss St. Roch!

  He was standing, brushes in hand, giving a final lick to his lank, dark hair, when there was a burst of loud barking, accompanied by wild snarls.

  Robin went to his balcony. Over there, safe from harm on the branch of an umbrella pine, was his friend Grimaldi, the black cat, mocking at a giant wolfhound that was leaping and snapping in an ecstasy of fury. Worn out by this, the great beast at last gave up and sat back silently on his haunches, his tongue out and his body quivering, now contenting himself with staring up at his tormentor, hoping, perhaps, that Grimaldi’s nerve might, in the end, fail him and that he might be hypnotised into coming down to be torn to pieces.

  “Grimaldi, I’m ashamed of you!” Robin shouted.

  At this Grimaldi got up, shook his full coat and, arching his tail, walked with care along the branch in Robin’s direction. “No,” Robin went on. “Don’t you try to jump from there to here. It’s too far. And if you fall, well!”

  But Grimaldi had no idea of doing anything of the sort. He had achieved his purpose, since, once again, the handsome animal beneath, maddened by seeing him move, was leaping and gnashing his teeth in a useless attempt to reach him. This Grimaldi appeared to find amusing.

  “Paul Morphy, what’s all this about? Hold your tongue!” Robin was surprised to see Miss St. Roch come out into the garden, fearlessly seize hold of the great creature’s collar, attach a chain to it, and drag him away from the tree. “What do you see up there, anyway?” Looking up herself, she saw Robin.

  “Good morning!” he called. “It’s only the hotel cat. Aren’t you frightened of being swallowed whole by that beast?”

  “Don’t be silly! Paul Morphy’s a grand boy! I bought him last year—just a grey, woolly baby he was—from an old shepherd up there in Alsace. I’m taking him to the studio to show him where he’s got to live now.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’ve got to go to the agency first and say I’m taking the place.”

  “All right. I’m going into town.”

  She had not meant to make this quick friendship, Denise reflected, as, a few minutes later, she found herself walking with Robin. She had left Paris, indeed, to escape her friends. And now, within a day of her arrival almost, here was a young man who had attached himself to her and seemed to think he had every right to do so. And what was worse, he knew her hiding-place up there among the old houses.

  And yet for some reason she did not resent him. Why? He was quick, gentle and gay. Was it that? Or was it because of his close likeness to the man she had once hoped to marry? Was he stirring her memory pleasantly?

  “I say, is this awfully pushing of me?” Robin was saying, as though in answer to her thinking.

  “Is what pushing?”

  “Forcing myself on you like this.”

  “You won’t force yourself on me, young man, if I don’t want you.”

  Robin laughed. “How do you know?”

  “You’ll find out if you try.”

  Robin thought about this for a time, looking about him as he went. A steam yacht in the harbour. A couple of English girls on mules. A new-fangled French automobile. A horse char-a-banc full of trippers, driving towards Italy. “Do you want me today, then?” he asked at length.


  “Well, I don’t seem to have sent you away. Do I, Robin?”

  “That’s the first time you’ve called me Robin, Denise!”

  She was surprised at his pleasure.

  II

  About a week later, Robin was hanging over his balcony once more. He was sucking the end of the pen he had taken up to write a letter home. Had he been told that he was waiting to shout goodbye to Denise, who was going to Nice for the day, he would have denied it. But this was just what he was doing. She had shopping to do, she had told him, and a friend to visit. Now, boyishly, he was hating the thought of her absence even for so short a time.

  He had just passed a week of enchantment, helping her to put her studio into order. He was filled with amazement at Denise’s cleverness. She had managed to rent chairs, tables, and Heaven knew what else. It had been great fun; for whatever Denise did had, somehow, the cheerful, improvised air of a picnic.

  Now all was ready, and Denise, after her day in Nice, would leave the hotel, move into her new quarters and settle to work. It was pure romance for Robin to think of her writing up there alone, hour after hour, in those queer, high surroundings. He would have given the world to be able to do the same. And yet, so far, he had been reluctant to tell her of his own ambition to write. He did not know why. Especially as he hadn’t much minded telling Mrs. Hamont about it. But his reluctance was to be dispersed.

  As he had expected, Denise now came out through the garden on her way to the railway station.

  He called: “Good morning!”

  “Oh, hullo! Is that you up there, Robin? Good morning!”

  “I only wanted to tell you that I would fetch Paul Morphy today, and take him for a walk.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Denise found difficulty in restraining a laugh. He looked so like the little boy who is left at home. “You look very—well what? Thoughtful, this morning. What are you doing with that pen? Going to write a novel?”

  “Would you like me to write you a short story?” he asked, grinning.

  “I don’t believe you could.”

  “I’ve tried before, you know.”

  “Have you? You never told me.”

  “What will you give me if I do?”

  “I don’t know. Tell you if it’s any good, maybe.”

  “All right, then. You’ll see.”

  “Good. Well, goodbye.” She went away. And presently, in her hurry, she had forgotten all about it.

  But Robin had not. He had turned back into his room and was pacing up and down in a sudden frenzy of plot hunting.

  Now he had an idea. Yesterday, Denise and he had gone to the Casino for tea. He had watched an odd couple sitting near them: a richly dressed woman having tea with a threadbare, faded little creature. And yet the rich woman had allowed the poor one to pay; scarcely thanking her. And the poor one had seemed to expect to do it. He had drawn Denise’s attention. But she had not been particularly interested. Yet here, surely, must lie an interesting tangle of motives.

  Now Robin worked out the situation as he guessed it, invented an ending and sat down in triumph to write. But it was not easy. He was unpractised and, despite his excitement, words refused to obey him.

  But he continued the fight all day. Writing and rewriting. Trying it this way and that. He was exhilarated, exhausted and engrossed. So engrossed, indeed, that for most of the time he had forgotten Denise and why he had undertaken to do this.

  She reappeared at dinner. “Well, Robin,” she said, “you’re looking wild a bit. What have you been doing?”

  He was surprised at her question. Didn’t she remember? “Writing that story I promised you, of course.”

  “Oh? You wrote it? Have you got it?”

  “No. I’m going to re-write it this evening.”

  “My, my! That sounds very, very serious to me!” was her comment.

  III

  It was some days before Robin brought Denise what he had written. Bold and cheerfully confident in most things, he was shy about this.

  Denise was now in her studio in the Rue Longue. She had begun her serial story. On sunny mornings Robin could see her on her balcony high up there above the street, her fair head bent to her task, her great dog crouched beside her. Seen thus, the American woman personified the very world, the very way of life about which Robin dreamed. Young, beautiful, successful, following a trade that he himself now burned to follow. If other feelings towards her were growing out of this, his inexperience had not yet made them precise.

  “How am I to know when I can come to see you?” he had asked her. “You’ll always be working now—or out.”

  “You had better just come up and try the door.”

  “Why not hang out something as a sign when you are free?”

  Denise laughed. “What? Signal to my gentlemen callers to come up and call?” But she saw this had displeased Robin, was out of key with his idea of their friendship.

  And she noticed the faint flush as he replied: “That’s all very well. It’s quite a long way up for me, you know.”

  She remembered his breathlessness on that first day when they had climbed up together and he had helped her with the key. She smiled, the same irresistible smile as then. “All right, then, Robin. There’s a ledge on the balcony. I’ll put a pot of flowers there if I feel conversational. And I’ll tell any other friends that turn up. Yes. It’s quite a climb.”

  He saw that she did not want to appear to do this for himself only. But he was pleased and thanked her.

  It was after that she said: “You still have your story to show me.”

  “It’s finished. When shall I bring it?”

  And now he was sitting out here on her balcony, nervously fidgeting with Paul Morphy’s ears, leaning over to study the street beneath him with an interest he did not feel, forever putting back his lank dark hair, and now and then casting furtive eyes at Denise, guessing where she had got to, as she turned a page.

  And Denise, in turn, wondered what to say about this. It was strange to her and outside her line of sympathy. And doubly strange that a young man should be writing anything of the sort, setting down thus the feelings of two women and making a story of it. And yet, in his way, he had caught their hopes, their fears, and their hidden resentments perfectly; too cruelly, indeed. But she wished he were not there, self-conscious as a schoolboy, awaiting some kind of verdict from her.

  At length she set the few sheets straight on her lap and looked at him. “Now, what put a story like that into your head, Robin?” she asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, not many young men would see a subject in just two old women.”

  “Perhaps not. But does that matter?”

  “No. Not quite. Well—not if it’s interesting.”

  “And is it?”

  Denise coloured a little. “Oh, it’s well written; nothing we couldn’t put straight,” she said slowly. “But it’s all too—I don’t know—well, to me, not exciting enough. I’m being honest, you see.”

  “Of course.”

  She wished he would not be so intense. Not hang so eagerly upon her words. “Have you tried to write before? Surely this is not the first thing you’ve—”

  “Oh, I’ve scribbled this and that.”

  “You’re taking this more seriously than I thought.”

  “Yes.”

  They both fell silent for a time. The noises of the street came up to them. The cries of children. Somewhere, at an unseen window, a woman was singing a strange tuneless song, a song that had been left behind in her blood by the Saracen raiders of long ago. Presently the tune changed to one that was popular just now on the boulevards of Paris.

  “Suppose you try again. Would you like to, Robin?”

  “Of course, Denise.”

  “We’ll work out a better plot for you this time.”

  She spoke to him as one writer to another. She took this situation and that, showing him how they might be developed, might be used with effect.

  And i
f, sometimes, Robin found her ideas too sensational, her discussion surprisingly frank for a woman, yet it was all part of a new excitement, a new enchantment.

  Down there, in the bay, the sea sparkled. White yachts moved in the harbour. A breeze ruffled the olive yards on the far off hillsides.

  Flattered and engrossed, Robin Hayburn told himself that now, surely, he was in touch with the life for which he was intended.

  IV

  The sun was shining, but it was a day that called forth effort. Lucy Hamont, wrapped in a long coat of white tweed, was forcing herself, head down, against a sharp breeze that might almost be called a gale. She was on the promenade of the west bay of Mentone, taking her morning walk.

  Little painted, argonaut waves of blue and green that broke into neat curls of foam covered the sea. Palms in nearby gardens and here on the Promenade Du Midi itself danced hither and thither, tossing up their silver undersides to the wind. The white February sunshine, hard and unrelenting, held no warmth.

  Presently Lucy became aware that someone was calling to her. She looked up to find Denise St. Roch, dragged along by her wolfhound, coming towards her.

  “Hullo, Denise! Where have you come from? I thought you worked at this time of day.” Clutching the skip of her white pancake hat—which threatened to come adrift despite yards of veil—Lucy held out the other hand.

  “I felt wooden-headed this morning, so I thought I had better come down and have a walk.” Denise wore a scarf about her curled head, her honey-coloured skin was glowing and her smile showed a mouth full of dazzling teeth. Today there seemed nothing of the Frenchwoman about her. Her bearing was radiantly, triumphantly American.

  Lucy found herself envying Denise her youth, her vitality and her looks, as she said: “You must have given our young friend a wonderful time yesterday, Denise! He was full of his visit to you at dinner. Were your ears burning?”

  For a moment Denise looked at Lucy earnestly—strangely earnestly, Lucy thought—before she said: “Was he? What did he say?”

  “Oh, that there was no one like you! He’s written something for you, I hear.”