Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It’s damnable,” he declared. “I wonder if we could say she’d broken it off. Could we?”

  “I don’t see how we could.”

  “No, perhaps not … silly idea of mine. It was just — well, I thought it might save her face a bit. It’s hard for a girl. Caroline, I’m terribly sorry about this.”

  “You can’t help it.”

  “I did all I could. If he’d been fit I could have said a lot more but the nurse came and turned me out — said his temperature was going up or something.”

  “You can’t help it,” she repeated. “You warned me, didn’t you?”

  “I wasn’t too happy about it,” admitted Sir Michael. “But I hoped it would be all right when it was settled — cut and dried. Derek hasn’t any patience, that’s the trouble. When he wants a thing he wants it at once — can’t wait for it — quite different from Rhoda. It was the same when they were children, Derek always wanted things in a hurry and then got tired of them … but he won’t get out of this in a hurry,” said Sir Michael with a grim smile. “He’s caught now, for better, for worse. I could see that quite clearly. The Brights have swallowed him whole.”

  Caroline nodded.

  “Swallowed him whole,” repeated Sir Michael. “He’s in cotton-wool, pampered and cosseted, surrounded with hot-house flowers and picture papers. He’s a prisoner in a gilded cage. I wonder how long it will be before he sees the bars.”

  There was a little silence.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Sir Michael with a sigh. “I seem to have lost my son. I suppose it’s my own fault, I should have managed things better … I won’t stay any longer, Caroline.”

  She rose and went to the door with him.

  “Caroline,” he said earnestly, “If there’s anything I can do let me know, won’t you? I’d be glad if there was something I could do.”

  “Yes, I will,” said Caroline. She hesitated and then added, “Come and see us if you feel like it, Sir Michael.”

  “No ill-feeling?” he asked, taking her hand.

  “Not towards you,” she replied, trying to smile at him. “I can’t say the same about Derek, I’m afraid.”

  “No, of course not — don’t blame you.”

  She stood at the door for some minutes after he had gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CAROLINE DECIDED that Leda must be told before the rest of the family and this meant she must bottle up the dreadful news until Leda returned from Wandlebury. She went upstairs to her bedroom and, sitting down in a chair near the window, she tried to compose her thoughts and to think of some way in which she could soften the blow. She had not been sitting there long when there was a knock on the door and James looked in.

  “What did the Admiral want?” asked James. “I saw his car. You seemed to be having a terrific pow-wow so I didn’t interrupt you.”

  Caroline hesitated.

  “There’s something wrong, I suppose,” said James, looking at her.

  It was no use trying to keep anything from James. They were too near one another; they understood one another too well … besides she wasn’t going to tell James a lie. “Something frightfully wrong,” said Caroline miserably. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Leda.”

  “Derek, of course,” said James.

  “Yes, Derek. He’s engaged to another girl — that Miss Bright.”

  “Engaged!” James exclaimed in amazement.

  Caroline handed him the letter and he read it, standing beside her by the window. She noticed that he read it twice — as she had done — before he folded it up and returned it to the envelope.

  “It’s incredible,” said James. “It’s the most rotten thing I ever heard of. I had a feeling there was some funny business going on. Derek seemed a bit odd, somehow. I mean at the Ash House Party; he wasn’t very — he didn’t seem particularly keen on Leda — or so I thought. But this is beyond everything. This beats the band!”

  “Sir Michael says they’ve swallowed him.”

  “So they have. You can see that from the letter.”

  “He’s weak.”

  “Weak as water, but that doesn’t excuse him. Derek!” exclaimed James incredulously. “Derek … I’ve known Derek always!”

  “Yes,” agreed Caroline. They had both known Derek always.

  “It’s staggering,” James declared. “People sometimes make mistakes — you can’t help it sometimes — but surely he could have told Leda like a man! This is a rotten way to behave; it’s cowardly.”

  It was cowardly, Caroline saw that. She saw, more or less, how the whole thing had happened, for she had the gift — which is often a doubtful blessing — of being able to see the other person’s point of view, of being able to put herself in the other person’s place. Derek had not wanted to go on with his studies (perhaps they bored him or perhaps he was doubtful of success in his exams) and Leda had not understood — nobody had understood. He was too cowardly, and too vain, to make a clean breast of it and to own up to his mistake; he had felt trapped and the Brights had offered him a pleasant, easy way out of all his difficulties.

  James walked across the room and back. “He’s a cad,” said James.

  “Yes,” she agreed. It was an old-fashioned term, but it seemed to fit the case.

  “What do we do, Mother?”

  “What can we do?”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “No, nothing … but I feel as if I ought to take a hand in it … go after him with a horse-whip or something.”

  He looked so fierce, standing there with his hair ruffled and his eyes flashing that she could almost have laughed. “That’s a bit out of date, I’m afraid,” Caroline said.

  “Pity! I’d like to, you know.”

  “You were born a hundred years too late for horse-whips, James.”

  “I don’t even know what they look like,” he admitted, “But they sound useful weapons. It must have been good when you could go after a fellow and beat him up without getting put in jail. Well, don’t worry too much.”

  “No,” said Caroline, with a sigh.

  “I mean, she’s well rid of him.”

  “Oh, yes. You might look out for her, James, and send her up to me when she comes in.”

  He nodded. “I don’t envy you telling her. She’ll take it hard,” said James.

  *

  Leda took it hard. At first she would not believe that Derek wanted to break off the engagement. (Caroline had put it like this.) Somebody was trying to make mischief, declared Leda. She knew Derek. She knew Derek loved her and wanted to marry her, he had said so time and again. It was just a plot to part her and Derek, because people didn’t want them to be married … but the plot wouldn’t succeed; she would go and see Derek herself and put everything right. Why should Derek have changed his mind suddenly? asked Leda.

  Caroline told her about Valerie Bright.

  “That girl!” exclaimed Leda scornfully. “That girl with her teeth on every poster! Derek wouldn’t look at her.”

  It was necessary to show Leda the letter before she would be persuaded of the truth. Caroline had not meant to show Leda the letter — it was so bald and cruel and wounding — but what else could she do. The letter convinced Leda, of course … the colour faded from her cheeks as she read it and her face went set and hard.

  “Leda, darling!” Caroline said. “I’m so sorry — so terribly sorry. It’s dreadful for you!”

  Looking back on the interview, when it was over and Leda had gone, Caroline realised that she had failed to get near her daughter. She had tried to comfort Leda, but everything she had said was wrong; she had opened her arms but Leda had remained outside, standing in the middle of the room, tearless and defiant.

  “Why should this happen to me? What have I done?” she had exclaimed.

  It was impossible to find any answer to this — or at least Caroline found it so.

  Leda had led a sheltered life, her capacity for bearing suffering had never been tested, nothing serious h
ad ever happened to her before. Her nature was arrogant (pride was the keystone of her nature) and this thrust had wounded her in a vital part. She felt disgraced — Derek had disgraced her — she could never hold up her head again. She could never go out and meet people, never again. She would know people were looking at her, pointing the finger of scorn. Some people would be glad with that strange unchristian gladness which glories in the downfall of others.

  Caroline tried to reason with her and to point out that it was Derek who had behaved badly; he had disgraced himself, not Leda, by his behaviour. “People will be sorry,” Caroline told her.

  “I don’t want their pity!” she cried. “I don’t want sympathy. Of course, this would happen to me … other girls don’t have frightful things like this to bear. Why should I have to bear it? I hate Derek — hate him! I hope he’s terribly unhappy all his life.”

  Perhaps this was natural but it shocked Caroline for it was not merely an exclamation of distress. Leda really meant it seriously … and hatred is a terrible thing. Hatred hurts the hater far more than its object.

  “Oh, Leda, don’t hate him!” Caroline exclaimed and she tried to soften Leda’s heart, tried to persuade her to accept her trouble in a different spirit but it was like talking to a stone.

  “That’s right, stand up for Derek,” said Leda at last.

  “I’m not standing up for Derek!” exclaimed Caroline. “I think he’s behaved abominably, but —”

  Leda turned and went, pausing at the door to say, “You don’t understand … and anyhow it’s all your fault; if you’d been decent about it everything would have been all right.”

  “Oh, Leda!” cried Caroline in distress. “Leda — wait —”

  But Leda was gone. She locked herself up in her room so that nobody could come in and offer her consolation.

  Caroline had failed badly. She tried to think what she could have said or done. It was quite true that she did not understand Leda but it was not for want of trying. Leda had said, “Why should this happen to me?” and a few minutes later she had exclaimed bitterly, “Of course this would happen to me?” Of course one might exclaim thus in sudden grief — without really meaning anything — but Caroline realised that the words were not merely expressions of grief, they voiced a definite conviction. Arnold had said the same words over and over again when anything went wrong (things were always going wrong with Arnold) and Caroline had never been able to understand what they meant. She simply could not understand why people should claim special privileges from Providence (so that disasters might befall others but ought not to befall them) and yet, at the same time, should be convinced that Providence had a down on them and had singled them out — as Job was singled out — to bear the blasts of misfortune. In Caroline’s opinion both these ideas were wrong and in addition they were incompatible.

  Why can’t I understand? wondered Caroline. If only I could understand Leda perhaps I could help (but she would never understand Leda because their natures were entirely different: Caroline was humble-hearted and Leda was proud.).

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  BREAKFAST WAS LATE the following morning. Leda did not come down to breakfast nor would she open her door to let any one in her room with a tray. Caroline left the tray upon the table outside her door and came down feeling very unhappy.

  “You would think someone had died,” said Harriet looking up from her porridge.

  “Harriet, what do you mean?”

  “Nobody has died. Nothing serious has happened.”

  “Nothing serious has happened!” echoed Caroline in amazement.

  “Nothing,” said Harriet firmly. “Things like this happen every day and people go on living; they go on doing their work and eating their food and behaving like reasonable beings.”

  “But poor Leda —”

  “Shucks!” exclaimed Harriet inelegantly. “There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it and Derek is only a sprat. You know perfectly well you were never happy about the engagement.”

  This was true of course, but still —

  “You shouldn’t encourage the child to make such a fuss,” continued Harriet. “ ‘What can justify tears and lamentations.’ That’s a Buddhist saying, and it’s true. The more you see of the world the more you realise how few things can justify tears and lamentations. I’m wasting none over this.”

  “Yes,” agreed Caroline doubtfully. “But all the same you must admit that it’s a horrible thing to happen to a girl.”

  “It isn’t what happens to you that matters, it’s how you take it,” replied Harriet with conviction.

  They were silent for a few moments. Caroline was thinking it over, she realised that this was Harriet’s creed. This was the conviction by which Harriet ruled her life. It accounted for many things which had puzzled Caroline.

  “I’ve had some pretty severe knocks,” continued Harriet. “Pass the marmalade, James … but I’m too proud to lie down and whimper. I don’t let the world see my wounds. I bob up and laugh. Nobody can laugh at you if you laugh first; they laugh with you. That’s different. That doesn’t matter. Leda ought to put on her gayest hat and prance into the village … that’s the way to take it.”

  “Aunt Harriet’s right!” cried James.

  Caroline thought so too, but she had no hopes of being able to convert Leda to Harriet’s creed, especially through a locked door.

  “If she can’t do that she must go away,” continued Harriet “It isn’t nearly so good, either for her reputation in the village or her own private character. People will talk far more if she goes away, and she’s got to come back sometime, hasn’t she? And it’s bad to run away from things, it becomes a habit. But if she can’t take it bravely she must go away, it’s second best. She can go to my flat if she likes.”

  “Aunt Mamie would have her,” suggested James.

  “Third best,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “Mamie would be far too kind and there would be nothing to do at Mureth.” When Caroline went upstairs to discuss matters with Leda she found the breakfast tray where she had left it but she was glad to note that the food had gone. She knocked at Leda’s door but there was no answer and the door was still locked.

  “Let me in, Leda, I want to talk to you,” Caroline said.

  “Leave me alone,” replied a muffled voice.

  “But you can’t stay here indefinitely. I want to discuss plans with you,” Caroline explained.

  “What plans?”

  It seemed rather absurd to discuss plans through the keyhole, and Caroline (whose sense of humour could never be dormant for long) was reminded of the human wall in Midsummer Night’s Dream and was tempted to say:

  “I see a voice: now will I to the chink,

  “To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face …”

  She resisted the temptation, however, and inquired whether Leda would like to go away for a little while.

  “I don’t care what I do,” was the reply.

  “But you must do something, darling,” Caroline told her. “You must either come out and face things bravely or else go away. Aunt Harrie says you can have her fiat if you like.”

  “I’ll go to Mureth,” said Leda. “I’ll go to-morrow morning. Aunt Harriet can drive me over to Wandlebury in her car.”

  “To-morrow?” asked Caroline in surprise.

  “Yes, to-morrow,” said Leda firmly.

  This was the third best course — according to Harriet — but as Leda refused to consider the other two courses it was decided to let her go to Mureth. Several long and complicated telegrams were exchanged with the Johnstones and the arrangements were completed. Caroline was by no means happy about it, for Leda was still hard and defiant and, although she allowed her mother to come into her room and pack her clothes, she would scarcely speak to her.

  “You’re sure you want to go?” Caroline asked. “You’re quite sure? There’s no need to go unless you want to.”

  “I’ve told you I want to go,” replied Leda.

>   Caroline sighed. It seemed heartless to send her off like this — as if she were in disgrace — and without coming to an understanding with her. There were all sorts of things Caroline wanted to say, but she was afraid to say anything. She had said all the wrong things last night and would probably say them again so it was better to say nothing. Time would heal Leda’s wounds. Caroline was old enough to know this and patient enough to wait.

  The morning was fine. Harriet brought her car to the gate and James carried out the luggage and stowed it away.

  Caroline was waiting to say good-bye and when Leda came out she put her arms round her daughter and kissed her tenderly, but Leda did not respond. Leda neither pushed her mother aside, nor returned the embrace, she merely suffered it.

  “You’re sure you want to go?” Caroline asked anxiously.

  “I don’t care whether I go or not — nothing matters,” replied Leda.

  “Don’t go, darling!” exclaimed Caroline. “It’s still not too late —”

  “How silly you are!” said Leda coldly as she got into the car and sat down.

  Caroline was aware that she had been silly — she felt silly. “You’ll write, won’t you?” she said.

  “Oh, I suppose so,” replied Leda impatiently.

  The car drove away. Caroline’s eyes were full of tears as she turned back into the house.

  “You were a bit stony, weren’t you?” said Harriet to her passenger. “What’s the big idea? What has Caroline done to be treated like that?”

  “It’s all her fault,” replied Leda.

  “What’s all her fault?”

  “That we weren’t married of course. If Mother and Sir Michael hadn’t been so horrid we would have been married —”

  “You must be mad!” Harriet exclaimed. “Any man who can behave like that is a rotter and you’re well rid of him. For goodness’ sake have a little sense.”

  “You aren’t very sympathetic —” began Leda.

  “I thought you didn’t want sympathy,” interrupted her aunt. “Caroline offered sympathy and you wouldn’t take it so I thought I’d offer something else.”