Little sister

by Mary Burchell

  "Where is Nina?" he said, as though the letter had explained nothing. "What, in God's name, does she mean?"

  Alix tried to find words in which to reply to him, but at first she could only say stupidly:

  "She's gone."

  "Yes, I know she's gone." For the first time in his life he spoke impatiently to her. "But what is the idea behind it all? Has she said anything to you? What did she say?"

  Alix began to tell him then — in slow, halting sentences, about the scene which had taken place. But, after a few minutes, the recollection became too much and she began to cry quietly.

  Moerling came over then and took her in his arms and kissed her.

  "Don't, darling. Please don't cry, or I think I shall."

  The quiet despair in his voice steadied Alix at once, and after a moment or two she was able to complete her story

  — in a whisper, and pressed comfortably close against him. She didn't know quite what she had expected him to do.

  Rage — give way to despair — certainly make some sort of plan to follow Nina. But he did none of those.

  Sitting down on the window-seat, he drew Alix down beside him.

  "Poor silly little Nina," he said, half to himself. "Has she got to work this out for herself? But she'll come back, of course. She'll come back."

  "When?" Alix looked up quickly.

  "I don't know, child. Perhaps not until her voice goes

  — but she will come back."

  "That might be years," Alix whispered fearfully.

  "Yes, it might be years." He gave a little frown of pain. "But she will come back."

  Alix wondered if he were repeating that simply to convince himself.

  She wondered often in the next few days if he even believed in it himself. For her part, she could derive no comfort from the thought. But then, of, course, she had seen the ruthless determination of Varoni's departure.

  But even in such stunning disaster and despair, one had to make some sort of plans. In just over a week Moerling had to go to the States, and now it was virtually impossible that Alix should go too.

  "I don't know what we're to do with you, my dear." Moerling looked at her with affectionate, anxious eyes. "I can't take you round with me from one hotel to another, stating you are my grown-up daughter who has suddenly appeared from nowhere."

  Alix shook her head.

  "No. Well have to think of something else." And then, on sudden impulse: "I know what I'll do. I'll go back to the cottage."

  "The cottage?"

  "Yes, the cottage where I used to live with Grandma. Betty, our old servant, still lives there. She'd love to have me, and I — I almost think I could welcome the peace and quiet myself," she finished a little unsteadily.

  "Are you sure, Alix? Would you really like to do that?"

  "Yes," Alix said firmly, relieved that something at last had been settled.

  And so it was arranged.

  The last few days went cruelly fast after that.

  He took her back to England, and on a golden afternoon in late September, he kissed her good-bye at London Airport, and Alix, as she stepped on to the airport bus, felt that she also stepped out of the strange life which had, surrounded her for nearly five months.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FOR THE first few days after Alix returned to the cottage, she woke each morning wondering puzzledly whatever had happened. It seemed to her that Grandma must be in the room across the landing, and that, if she herself didn't hurry, she might be late for school.

  Then, as the memory of the last few weeks — months — years — rolled back, she would re-adjust her thoughts, and lie there watching the sunlight on the wall, telling herself that, though all the world had changed, she might yet recapture here some of the peace and happiness of the old days.

  It was very odd, of course, being the young mistress of the house where Grandma had once reigned, and much the simplest thing was to leave many of the decisions to Betty, who, in any case, had known everything to do with the running of the cottage for the last fourteen years.

  To be sure, Betty, with unfailing politeness, affected to consult Miss Alix about everything, but she knew, and Alix knew, that it was merely a courteous gesture. The discussion invariably ended with Alix smiling and saying:

  "Do what you think best, Betty. I'm sure you know much more than I do about it."

  And Betty would reply:

  "Just as you like, Miss Alix," which meant: "Well, of course, I do really."

  There were quite a number of things to do at first — quiet, thoughtful tasks which were very soothing after the feverish uncertainty of the last few months. Books to arrange, new chintz curtains and cushions to make for the sitting-room, countless jobs to be done in the garden — all the pleasant, lighter household duties which had made up I her life and Grandma's.

  It was impossible to do these things again and not feel some of the quiet content that had always been associated with them.

  •This is my life, really," Alix told herself. "These are the things among which I was brought up. They are part of me and the pattern of my everyday world. Those last

  months were just a dazzling interlude, and perhaps now they have passed, just as they came, like some strange dream."

  But, even as the thought formed, a pain at her heart that would not be denied reminded her how deeply some of the actors in that interlude had thrust themselves into her life.

  Varoni — Moerling — Barry. Her mother — her father — the man she loved. It was useless to tell herself that their images could fade, however fantastic the circumstances in which she had known them.

  She went to see one or two of the neighbours whom she and Grandma had known in the old days.

  They received her very kindly, and they inquired with genuine interest about the time she had spent in London and abroad. But it was impossible to tell them anything of real interest, of course.

  They were sympathetic, friendly, unaffected in their concern for her welfare — but between them and her, stretched a barrier of glass. In looks she was just the same — or nearly so — as she had been when she used to come with her grandmother. Only her heart had changed, for half of it at least — perhaps the whole — belonged now to people they had never known and would never understand.

  It was Betty who first put into words the one objection to this quiet, peaceful life.

  "Jt's very lonesome for you, Miss Alix, dear," she said, when she had come in one afternoon with tea, to find Alix sewing quietly by herself.

  Alix put down her work and smiled.

  "I don't know that I mind that, Betty."

  "Well, it's not natural for a young thing like you." Betty shook her head disapprovingly. "And it's your birthday next week, and not a soul here to make a fuss of you."

  'There's you," Alix reminded her.

  "Yes, of course, Miss Alix. And I've made a special cake for you and all. But that's not much for a twenty-first birthday. Why, some young ladies have all sorts of to-do when they're twenty-one."

  Alix was silent. She scarcely saw how she could have "all sorts of to-do". Probably no one would even remem-

  ber her birth y It was a little bit like being a forgotten old lady.

  She looked doubtfully at Betty.

  "Why don't you have someone to stay, Miss Alix?"

  "There's no one much that I could have."

  "There's Miss Jenny," Betty suggested. "She must be grown up too, now, but a very nice young lady she was when you were at school together."

  "Jenny?" Alix smiled suddenly with very real pleasure. "Why Betty, that's really a very good idea. I wonder if she would come."

  "I'm sure she would." Betty could see no adequate r^a^-n f -r anyone refusing the pleasure of being with her beloved Miss Alix,

  "I think I'll write and ask her. It's a splendid idea!" Alix looked quite excited. "Perhaps she'll stay for several days, and we can have lovely long talks, just as we used to when we were girls."

  "Wh
at does she think she is now?" muttered Betty as she retired to her kitchen. But she was very well satisfied with the success of her suggestion.

  Alix wrote that night to Jenny, and by return of post came the reply

  "I'd love to come, Alix dear. Vve been wondering so much how things are with you, and Vm really rather glad to hear you re back at the cottage once more, even if only for a little while. All that glamour and glitter and loneliness didn't seem quite right for you. Or did you really take to it quite well?

  "Anyway, you shall tell me all the news when we meet.

  "Its your twenty-first on the Thursday, isn't it? I think its very original and sweet — but very characteristic — of you to spend it quietly in the country. No one else would dream of doing that. I presume the dazzling prima donna parent will not be there? I think I read something about her going to Russia. What a place to go, with the winter coming on! But I suppose she wears sable coats lined with mink, or something of the sort.

  "See you on Wednesday evening, pet, in time for tea — and a six-hour talk. Much love. — Jenny. 9 '

  Alix was quite excited. Getting ready Jenny's room and preparing a welcome for her were tasks after her own

  heart, and Betty was very well pleased to hear Miss Alix singing about the house again.

  Late on Wednesday afternoon Jenny arrived — in the ancient Ford which was always referred to in the village as "The Taxi" — and as Alix clasped her warmly in her arms, she was dimly aware of how lonely she had been during the last few weeks.

  "Darling Alix! How good to see you." Jenny was as self-possessed as ever, but her greeting was as warm as Alix's own. "Hello, Betty. I hear you're really responsible for this invitation. I hope you still remember how I adore your coconut buns."

  "Oh yes, Miss Jenny," Betty beamed. "And well I remember the time you ate seven and were very sick. Quite small you were then."

  "Horrid little pig! And fancy your remembering such a humiliating fact about me. I have other outstanding characteristics besides greed. You might have recalled something more elevating than a bilious attack."

  "Oh yes, miss." Betty continued to beam. "But it was the coconut buns made me remember." And she withdrew, chuckling, while the two girls went into the dining-room.

  "You're thin, Alix dear." Jenny surveyed her critically over the tea-table. "What is it? Didn't la vie bohimienne suit you?"

  "Oh yes." Alix smiled, because Jenny's inquiries never really hurt. "But there was a certain amount of strain about those months in London, particularly after the quiet life I had had with Grandma."

  "So I should imagine. The fascinating Varoni is a little — wearing at close quarters?"

  Alix didn't answer at once. She supposed one would certainly describe Varoni as "wearing". But oh, how she wanted her suddenly! It was as though her feelings, which had been dammed up by the shock of recent events, broke loose again at something in Jenny's question.

  "She was not exactly soothing," Alix admitted slowly. "But she was immeasurably dear."

  "Was?" Jenny looked interrogative. "Why do you put her in the past?"

  "Because—" Alix looked thoughtfully into the fire. "I think perhaps, for me, she i? in the past. There is a lot to

  explain, Jenny — but one thing I must make you understand. Even if I'm never with her again, in her odd way she loves me — just as, in her way, she loves Moerling."

  "Moerling?" Jenny's eyebrows went up. "So that story is true?"

  Alix shook her head.

  "Not if you mean the usual one about them. He's her N husband and has been for years. It doesn't really matter your knowing, because you've known so much of the story, right from the beginning."

  "So much of your story, you mean," Jenny said curiously. "Then are you Moerling's daughter too?"

  "Yes."

  Jenny leant back in her chair and stared at Alix.

  "Only you would make such sensational announcements in such a quiet way."

  "Are they sensational?" Alix smiled. "They seem quite natural now."

  "But why aren't you with your mother and — father?"

  Alix didn't look at Jenny, as she replied, rather carefully:

  "Well, you see, she has gone on this Scandinavian and Russian tour, and he has a long season in America."

  "I see. Is it usual for them to separate like that? I thought they were nearly always together."

  "Nearly always," Alix agreed, and Jenny refrained from asking more. The complete intimacy of their schooldays had not yet been re-established.

  But as the evening wore on, and the wood fire burned with a comforting, hissing sound, the girls talked more and more as they had done in the old days. Certain things Alix kept back even now, because it was so hard to tell them and still make someone who had not known Varoni understand her dear and lovely side too.

  And she touched only very lightly on Barry too.

  Even so, Jenny said:

  "Were you rather smitten with him?"

  As she spoke, the same thing happened in Alix's heart as when she had mentioned Varoni. The full force of her feelings broke into flood again, and she wondered at the numbness that had kept her heart from aching more than dully during the last weeks.

  "Yes, I was very fond of him," she admitted at last. "But things went wrong, and so — it's no use moping over it."

  "Admirable philosophy," Jenny smiled slightly. "But a little difficult in practice, surely?"

  "A little," Alix agreed.

  "And you don't think you're likely to go back to your parents?"

  "Not unless something quite unforeseen happens." That at least was true. She hadn't Moerling's strange, unshakable faith, and she couldn't imagine circumstances that could draw the threads of all their lives together again.

  "Then you just mean to go on living here?" Jenny frowned. "It's too lonely for you, dear, in the circumstances. Wouldn't you rather travel or something?"

  "Not just now. I'll probably do some welfare work during the winter.

  "Oh, Alix, you're so young to be talking like that! It isn't lack of money that keeps you from doing much, is it?"

  "Oh no, I have quite a big allowance. But I'd like to stay on at the cottage while I can. Nina rented it half-yearly, you know, after Grandma died, but maybe she won't go on doing that. If not, I should want to feel I had had the last months here that I could."

  "I see."

  It was late when the girls went to bed — so late that Jenny said:

  "It's really your birthday now, isn't it? Good night and many happy returns of the day in one." And she laughed and kissed Alix.

  Alix returned the kiss, smiled at Jenny's declaration that she "couldn't have her present until the morning, all the same", and went to her own room.

  She undressed — by moonlight, because she liked the effect better than artificial light. And then she sat up in bed, watching the silvery light travel slowly across the wall until it touched the edge of her mother's photograph.

  Twenty-one years ago she had been born in this very room. Twenty-one years — and of those, more than twenty had been happy and uneventful. Less than half a year had sufficed for the overwhelming crisis that had completely changed her life.

  Alix sighed thoughtfully, and propped her chin on her hand.

  The moonlight had moved a little farther now, and only half of Varoni's smiling face was in the shadow. As Alix looked across at the photograph, she smiled slightly in her turn.

  She wondered if by any chance her mother was thinking of her. It was not very likely, of course. Varoni had a wonderful capacity for forgetting anything she didn't want to remember, and Alix could quite imagine that the date of her daughter's birthday would be one of those unwelcome milestones best banished from one's mind.

  But she might be thinking of her. Thinking of her with that reluctant, half-wistful affection which she sometimes allowed herself. It was nice to believe so, anyway.

  Alix lay down, comforted and warmed by the thought.

  The whole
of the photograph was illuminated by the moonlight now, and Varoni's smile seemed to fill the room.

  "Not — soothing, but immeasurably dear," murmured Alix, and fell asleep.

  When Alix roused herself the next morning, the sunshine was pouring into the room, in a manner much more suggestive of June than October. She remembered how her mother had said it was like that the day she was born, and, with a distinct thrill of pleasure and excitement at the brightness of the day, she jumped out of bed and began to dress.

  Jenny called out gaily to her from the room across the landing, and Alix felt very happy to think she was not spending her birthday alone after all.

  The two girls went down together — Jenny presenting Alix on the way with a beautiful little gold vanity case.

  "I know it doesn't go with your life of a recluse, darling," she said. "But I hope it will tempt you to come to London and be frivolous sometimes, if only to set an example by your beautiful nature to lesser mortals like myself."

  "Don't be absurd," Alix laughed, and hugged her gratefully. "It's beautiful, Jenny dear, and I'll use it when Moerling comes back to London in the spring, and conducts. I shall come up to London quite a lot then, I expect."

  "And before then, I hope," Jenny added with a smile.

  When they came into the dining-room, Betty was waiting there, with an air of suppressed excitement.

  "Quite a post for you this morning, Miss Alix dear! A long letter — though that looks rather like business — and a registered parcel. Some folks have remembered your birthday, it seems."

  u Oh, Betty, how lovely!'* Alix sat down at the table, smiling and colouring a little with pleasure.

  "Open the parcel first," Jenny advised. "Parcels are always more thrilling than letters."

  Alix opened the parcel. Inside was a small case, with the name of a very famous jeweller stamped on in gold. Trembling a little, she opened the case, to disclose a slender platinum and diamond bracelet of most exquisitely delicate design.

  "Alix!" Jenny exclaimed.

  "Is it real, Miss Alix?" asked Betty, at the same moment, in tones of awe.

  "Oh, how beautiful! It's from Moerling," Alix said, even before she opened the note that went with it.