Carmona moved her head. It was the slightest of movements. It said, “No.”
Pippa Maybury repeated what she had said before.
“Something must have happened to him!”
This time it was Carmona’s lips that moved.
“No-he wrote afterwards. The letter came next day. He said he couldn’t go through with it-he wasn’t cut out for marriage, and he was going to join a friend on a horse-breeding ranch in South America.”
“And that was all?” Pippa stared. “Well, darling, I really do think you were well rid of him! He was a charmer and all that, and marvellous to go about with, but when it comes to husbands-” she shrugged and laughed-“well, you know, there’s something to be said for having them solid. After all, they’ve got to run the show, and pay the bills, and do all the unpleasant sort of things like income tax, and washers on taps, and spiders in the bath, and I don’t really see Alan making much of a show of it. Speaking quite frankly, you know.”
Carmona didn’t see it either. She never had. She had always known that if there was anything unpleasant to be done, she would have to do it herself. The thing that had been broken in her was the conviction that Alan needed her. It was a conviction that went right back into her childhood. He was selfish, he could be cruel, he had a fatal knowledge of his own charm and of other people’s weaknesses, but-he needed her. And then when she found out that he didn’t, that he could push her aside and put the width of the world between them, something broke. She said,
“No-”
Pippa gave her a light pinch.
“Wake up, darling! You said that as if you were about a hundred miles away, and the one thing one ought never to let oneself do is to go dreaming back into the past. Fatal! And it isn’t as if you had got left on the shelf, or anything like that. Why, it was no time at all before you married James. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you’d have had the spirit.”
“Thank you, Pippa.”
“Well, you know, you were always one of the quiet ones, and you might have taken up good works, or gone into a mouldering melancholy-like the girl in Shakespeare who sat on a monument and smiled at grief, which I always thought a particularly stupid thing to do, because young men aren’t really interested in monuments and they wouldn’t bother to climb one. And now tell me all about you and James! He isn’t nearly as good-looking as Alan of course.”
“Not nearly.”
Pippa nodded vivaciously.
“Husbands don’t need to be. And I always thought Alan overdid it. After all, looks are more in the woman’s line, don’t you think? Anyhow I’m dying to see him again.”
“He’s away,” said Carmona.
“Away!”
“He’ll be coming any day now. He has been doing a job under U.N.O.-something to do with tracing people who have disappeared. He speaks a lot of languages, so they find him useful.”
“Doesn’t it take him away a lot? It sounds as if it might.”
“It does rather.” After a pause she said, “Sometimes I go with him. I went over to the States with him in the spring.”
Pippa stared.
“It sounds a bit detached. I hope he turns up in time for me to see him. And where is everyone else? You say you’ve got the house packed with relations. Where are they?”
“Down on the beach. I hope you won’t find it dull here. There’s nobody young.”
Pippa looked through her eyelashes.
“Too, too reposeful. Not all the time, you know, but every now and then-relations, I mean-the nice quiet elderly sort who have never had anything happen to them.”
“Do you suppose anyone is really like that?”
Pippa burst out laughing.
“Marvellous if they all had buried secrets! But, no, I’d really rather be soothed. Where are they?”
“Down on the beach-and we should just have time for a swim before tea.”
CHAPTER 2
The tide came up slowly. There was a shimmer of heat over the sea and no breeze. Esther Field sat on a cushion in the shade of the beach hut and knitted diligently. Since this year she was giving shawls as Christmas presents to the three or four old pensioners whom she had inherited from Penderel Field’s mother, and since this particular shawl was almost complete and of a lively shade of crimson, she both looked, and was, extremely hot. Billows of red wool flowed from her in every direction.
“Extra big,” she was explaining to Lady Castleton who was sharing the patch of shade. “For old Mrs. Mount. She gets larger every year and is really quite proud of it, so of course it wouldn’t be the least bit of good my giving her anything skimpy.”
They had been at school together thirty years ago, when Adela Castleton was Adela Thane with a brother in the Army whose occasional visits provided the other girls with a thrill. They had neither of them changed very much. Esther had always been large, and kind, and dowdy, and Adela had been beautiful. She had kept her looks wonderfully. The celebrated profile, the celebrated complexion, the celebrated figure were all still intact. If they had become a little fixed, a little-how shall one say, stereotyped-the effect was sufficiently imposing. She made Esther Field look like a rag-bag, and Maisie Trevor of that out-dated smartness which is so much worse than just being dowdy. Her own dark blue linen was exactly right, and so was the simple shady hat which had probably cost more than Esther had ever paid for one in her life. She glanced at the billowing shawl and said,
“Really, Esther-I don’t know how you can! Do put that ghastly thing away and give us all a chance to get cool! You don’t have to think about Christmas now!”
“I’ve dropped a stitch, dear. You see, that is why I have to get on-I’m always dropping stitches. I can’t think why they won’t stay on the needle. Other people seem to manage it, but I’ve never been able to. That is where I miss Carmona so much. She always used to pick them up for me. It’s lovely being here with her now.” She raised her voice a little. “Darling, if you wouldn’t mind-I’m afraid there’s another one gone.”
Carmona came over and knelt beside her. Pippa lifted her head from her folded arms to say lazily,
“Darling Esther, why not do a dropstitch pattern and have done with it?”
“Well, dear, I don’t suppose I should ever manage to drop the right stitch. It doesn’t do for it to be just any one, you know. You have to follow a pattern, and I do find patterns so difficult. This is one I learned when I was at school, and I don’t seem to be able to manage any other.”
Carmona put the shawl down again in her lap and went back to where the sun was glinting on the silver gilt of Pippa’s hair. Not a breath stirred. She thought Colonel Trevor must be having a very hot walk. She wondered why one sat in the sun and baked, and thought Maisie really had the best of it when she said it would be much cooler up at the house and she would go and look for an amusing book.
Carmona waited till she had gone, to say,
“She won’t find one.”
Pippa yawned.
“Uncle Octavius didn’t rise to light literature?”
Carmona shook her head.
“Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, in sets-handsome bindings and very small print. And all the works of Mrs. Henry Wood-East Lynne, you know. And frightful memoirs, like the ones Esther solemnly brings down here every day and never reads. Uncle Octavius had never read them himself-nobody has ever read them, because the pages have never been cut. But she thinks they will improve her mind if she can get it off her knitting long enough to give them a chance, so she brings out her pet paper-knife that Penderel gave her and waits for the moment to be improved.”
In the shade of the beach hut Adela Castleton said suddenly,
“That girl’s happy, isn’t she-the marriage is turning out all right?”
Under the droopy hat which had seen better days Mrs. Field’s placid face took on a startled expression. Her hair was never tidy for very long. She pushed back a strand of it now and said quickly,
“Oh, yes. My dear, what makes you
ask?”
“She doesn’t look like she used to,” said Adela Castleton. “Alan wasn’t any good for her, but she used to have that kind of lit-up look with him. It wouldn’t have lasted of course-it never does. Do you ever hear from him, Esther?”
“No.”
“You’ve no idea where he is?”
“He said he was going to South America.”
“You never knew why the engagement was broken off?”
“No.”
“And she married this James man practically the next minute!”
“It was three months, Adela.”
“Well, what do you call that? I call it the next minute. And a very good thing too. Tom was delighted. James has always been a pet of his. I’ve hardly seen him myself since he was a boy and used to spend his holidays with Mildred Wotherspoon. Is it true that he fell in love with Carmona at first sight? I can’t think why anyone should, but the most extraordinary things do happen.”
Esther Field ruffled up like a hen with one chick.
“Really, Adela!”
“What have I said? I’m very fond of Carmona, but nobody is going to pretend that she is the kind of beauty who would turn a man’s head at the first glance. She has the sort of looks that grow on you, and they generally give a girl the better chance of happiness. Beauty doesn’t always do that.” Her voice dropped a little. “Do you remember how lovely Irene was?”
The vexed look left Esther Field’s face. Warmth and kindness flowed from her.
“Oh, my dear, yes! I don’t think there was ever anyone as pretty as she was that last summer.”
Adela bit her lip. What a fool she had been to speak of Irene. She couldn’t imagine what had made her do it. A little quick jealousy over Carmona, a small cold wish to prick Esther Field, and here were her eyes smarting and the old wound aching as if it had never healed. Irene had been more than ten years dead-everything healed, everything passed. What had possessed her to speak of those old forgotten things?
Esther Field was remembering too. Irene Thane, the young sister whom Adela had loved like her own child-lovely, bright, and tragically dead at twenty. They said it had been an accident-but was it? A warm summer day and a still sea, and Irene swimming out into the blue and never coming back…
They said it must have been cramp. The best swimmer in the world may have cramp-
The word came to her lips.
“Had she ever had cramp before?”
Adela’s face hardened.
“Everyone gets it some times.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, dear. I’ve never had it myself. It wouldn’t be safe to swim out very far if one did. And Irene was such a good swimmer-so graceful in the water too. You know, my dear, I am so glad you spoke of her. It does always seem so sad when no one ever talks of them-like shutting them away and trying to forget. It’s difficult of course when one has had a shock. I felt like that when Penderel died, but I knew I couldn’t do it, because if I did I should feel as if I had lost him altogether-never speaking of him, you know. And it would have been awkward too-his name being so unusual, and strangers being so very apt to remark on it. I used to have it on my visiting cards-only one doesn’t visit so much as one used to-at least not formally. But I have always called myself Mrs. Penderel Field, and then they say, ‘Not the Penderel Field?’ and we often have quite a nice little talk about him. It is such a pleasure to find that he is remembered. Do you know, his portrait of Lord Dainton has just been bought for the Tate Gallery, and really the Daintons didn’t care very much about it at the time it was painted. Now, if it had been that lovely thing he did of Irene-I always did like that-but Lord Dainton was such a very plain old man, you wouldn’t have thought he would have wanted to be painted at all. And the Times says it is Penderel’s masterpiece! Of course he was Lord Chancellor.”
“I always thought it a very fine portrait,” said Adela Castleton firmly.
Esther Field sighed.
“I’ve never been any good at art, dear. Penderel used to tell me not to try. He said there was only one thing worse than the out and out Philistine, and that was the Philistine who pretended he wasn’t. And when I said I couldn’t think why he ever wanted to marry me, he said it was because I had the only two virtues indispensable in a wife, a sweet temper and a light hand with pastry. He had such a sense of humour, and he did love my lemon meringue tart. Do you know, that new clever young man Murgatroyd is going to write a life of him. He came to see me, and when I told him about the lemon meringue he said that was the sort of personal touch he wanted. He has just written what everyone says is a very brilliant book about Mr. Parnell. The papers all say things like his ‘being a live wire’ and ‘having quite a new approach’-if anyone knows what that means.”
“It generally means something unpleasant,” said Adela Castleton.
Esther Field dropped a stitch without noticing it.
“Oh, my dear, I do hope not! And as I said to him, ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you very much, because it was my stepson who went through his father’s papers for me.’ I was really too ill to do it myself, and so much of the early stuff had to do with Alan’s mother, so I didn’t feel-” She dropped another stitch.
“My dear Esther, you mustn’t dream of just handing those papers over to anyone! You will certainly have to go through them yourself.”
“I know, dear. But I can’t. You see, I’m not sure what Alan did about them. I was ill, and he managed everything.”
“You must know what he did with the papers.”
Esther looked vague.
“He managed everything-and it’s nearly ten years ago- Carmona and I had that cottage-there was so little room. Of course they must be somewhere. I promised Mr. Murgatroyd I would have a good look, and he said he would put an advertisement in the South American papers-for Alan, you know.”
Adela Castleton pressed her lips together. She was of the opinion that it would probably be better for Esther and everyone else if Alan Field were to remain on the other side of the world. There had been so many stories about him. Men didn’t like him-didn’t trust him-never had. There was a time when he used to run after Irene. So many young men did that, and he was only a boy-twentyone-twentytwo. Old enough to be quite terribly attractive-and a troublemaker. That last year Irene had seen a lot of the Fields… Irene swimming out to sea and drowning there…A sudden attack of cramp?…She had never had cramp in her life…
“Oh dear!” said Esther Field. “I’ve dropped two more stitches! No, three! Carmona darling-”
When the stitches had been retrieved Carmona stood up. She was still holding the shawl. The man who had come down the cliff path looked at the little group and saw her like that, in her white dress with the folds of crimson wool falling down it to her feet. He stood for a moment to take in the scene. Quite a decorative effect. She had, if anything, improved in looks. Pretty would always be the wrong word for her, and no one would ever call her beautiful, but there was something about her that pleased the eye-a charm, a grace. Since Hardwick was away, they might have quite a sentimental meeting.
His eye travelled to Esther Field. She really hadn’t changed a bit. He supposed she never would, the soft-hearted, muddle-headed old thing. He felt quite fond of her as he remembered how easy it had always been to get round her.
Neither of the Trevors was in evidence. Esther’s maid had told him they would be here-“Such a nice party, Mr. Alan. Mrs. Field was ever so pleased about it. Colonel and Mrs. Trevor, and Lady Castleton-quite a reunion as you might say, not to speak of meeting old friends we used to see when we went down to Cliffton regular every summer. The only pity is Major Hardwick not being there.”
Somehow, he felt, they would be able to do very nicely without James Hardwick. And without the Trevors too. Maisie was all right-she might even be useful-but old Tom had always given him a pain in the neck. Adela Castleton- no, on second thoughts, Adela might be worked into the game. It would be tricky of course, but he could do it-oh yes, he could d
o it. And to play a tricky game well was half the fun.
He came across the shingle to the beach hut, and Carmona saw him. It was just as if someone had struck her a sharp blow. The shawl slipped from her hands and fell. She didn’t know whether she was hurt or not. There was just that sense of shock and of everything being wrenched a little out of focus. His voice and the touch of his hand on her shoulder-
“Carmona!”
He was smiling and looking down into her eyes just as he used to do. And then he was on his knees by Esther Field, an arm about her, kissing her.
“Well, old dear, how are you? But I needn’t ask-you look marvellous. I’m even a little hurt. The wanderer returns, and nobody has been pining for him!”
“Oh, my dear boy! Oh, Alan, my dear, dear boy!”
He endured an embrace which entangled him in crimson wool. Half a needleful of stitches slipped and were lost. He disengaged himself, laughing, and turned to Adela.
“Lady Castleton-how nice to walk right into a family party! Emily told me when I turned up at Esther’s flat, so I thought I would come down right away. Pity about Hardwick not being here. I was looking forward to meeting him.”
Carmona had not moved. She did not move now, but she spoke.
“I hope he will be here tomorrow.”
Alan Field said, “Delightful!”
The numbness went out of her. The shock of the blow was passing and she could feel again. What she felt was not what she had expected to feel. Whenever she had thought of seeing Alan again there had been an intolerable sense of shrinking, but now that he was here it was gone. He stood looking at her with the smile which used to twist her heart, and all she felt was the prick of anger.
As he stepped into the sunlight, she saw that he looked more than the three years older. Whatever he had been doing in South America, it had not done him any good. There was the old charm, the old grace of movement and manner, the old ease, but it seemed to her as if something had gone out of all these things. Or was it that something had gone out of her? That little glow of anger persisted. It was outrageous of him to blow in like this…He had come to see Esther. There was nothing outrageous about that… It wasn’t Esther’s house…It belonged to James Hardwick whom she had married after Alan had let her down…And James wasn’t here…If he had been, would even Alan have had the nerve to walk in like this?
Out of the Past Page 2
