“I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to read the name.”
Something in Anna responded. She nodded.
“What then do you want?”
“I want it for his family—for Sir Cotterell Laydon. I don’t want it for myself at all; I want it to use if there is trouble about the succession.”
“Take it then. It has never been unwrapped.”
Still Evelyn did not put out her hand.
“I don’t want to take it like that. I want you to do something for me. I want you to sew it up in a piece of stuff. Will you do it?”
A curious look of comprehension came into Anna’s eyes. She nodded slowly twice and put the disc back on the Bible. Then she opened her work-box and produced a scrap of linen.
“With this I have been patching the last of my grandmother’s sheets. It is good old linen; now there is none like it any more.”
She pressed the paper close about the disc, set it on the linen, and cut a square. Then she threaded a needle, turned the edge of the linen in neatly, and ran a draw-string of stout thread all round it. When the disc was in its linen bag, she fastened it with a few strong stitches and put it into Evelyn’s hand.
As their fingers touched, Anna said sharply,
“Is he well? Is he happy? You have told me nothing.”
Evelyn held the disc. The linen was cold against her palm.
“He is well.”
“And happy?” Anna’s round blue eyes accused her.
“No, he isn’t happy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why.”
Something fierce came into Anna’s voice.
“He was happy here where he had nothing. Now he has everything, and he is not happy. Whose fault is that?”
“No one has everything, Frau Blum.”
Evelyn turned to the door and opened it. The sun streamed in. It dazzled her, and she turned back. Anna had not moved. There was a great sadness in her face.
“Some of us have nothing,” she said.
Evelyn had an extraordinary impulse of understanding and pity; her heart went out to Anna. She kissed her quickly on the cheek and ran through the open doorway into the sunshine and down the winding path among the trees.
XXVII
“Monkey, I think you’re absolutely weak about Evelyn.”
Lacy’s flute-like voice was a little plaintive. She felt herself justly aggrieved. To begin with, it was a very fine day and she would have enjoyed the drive. Why then should Monkey have insisted on her remaining at home—really insisted—when all she had ever suggested was that she should sit in the car and keep him company whilst Evelyn went to see Frau Blum?
“You can say what you like, Monkey, but it would have been much better if I had come with you as I suggested. Suppose Evelyn had fainted, or anything like that?”
“She didn’t faint, thank the Lord.”
“She might have fainted—you never know. And if she had fainted, why, then I should have been there. And anyhow I should have insisted on hearing what had happened, whereas, as far as I can make out, you let her come back looking like a ghost, and didn’t ask her a single question.”
“My child, what a dramatic mind you’ve got! I didn’t say Evelyn looked like a ghost; I said she looked as if she’d had a trying scene with Anna. And when she got into the car and said, ‘You won’t ask any questions, Monkey,—will you?’, well, I naturally didn’t ask any. And what’s more, Lacy, you’re not going to ask any either.”
Lacy smiled and dropped him a little curtsey.
“Really?” she said. “And how are you going to stop me, Monkey darling?”
Manning put a hand on her shoulder. All the lines on his face deepened.
“I’m serious.”
She twisted away from him with a pettish laugh.
“And so am I serious. Evelyn’s my very own cousin, and I shall ask her as many questions as I like.”
Manning went out of the room and banged the door behind him.
A little later Lacy had an opportunity of putting her questions. She spent the whole of the evening alone with Evelyn, but she did not get much farther than:
“I hope your visit to Frau Blum went off all right.”
“Oh, yes, quite all right,” was the very composed reply.
“You won’t want to go again now, will you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Did you get anything out of her?”
There was a little silence. Evelyn looked up from the letter she was writing.
“I’m so sorry—what did you say?”
“I asked whether you got anything out of her. Monkey says she’s as close as wax.”
“I’m frightfully sorry for her,” said Evelyn.
She went on writing, and Lacy began to realize that her question had been left unanswered for the second time. She returned to the charge with obstinate sweetness:
“You didn’t get anything out of her, I suppose?”
“Her? Oh, Frau Blum. Sorry, Lacy, I’m rather in the middle of this letter.” Then, after a pause, “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”—after which there was really no more to be said.
Evelyn returned to town with the Mannings. Manning had leave before taking up his appointment, and he and Lacy went straight to Laydon Manor in response to a rather urgent invitation from Sir Cotterell.
Evelyn went back to her flat to pick up a few things. She had spent a fortnight at Laydon Manor in May every year for the last nine years. This year’s visit loomed rather terrifyingly in her thought, since Laydon would as a matter of course be there, and to live under the same roof with him, move with him amongst the old remembered places, was an ordeal from which she shrank. The Mannings had been asked in order to make the situation a little easier. Lacy, gratified and important, was already very much the chaperone.
“Because, of course, Evelyn darling, it’s a very, very delicate position; and I’m not at all sure it wouldn’t be wiser for you to give up your visit this year.”
Evelyn surveyed her with a smile.
“Lacy, or the dragon!” she observed. “It’s frightfully edifying, but it’ll give you lines and turn you into a frump if you go on with it.”
“All the same, Evelyn darling,——”
“Come right off it,” said Evelyn. “I’m not taking any.”
It was whilst Evelyn was considering whether she would pack her green tea-gown that the front door bell rang. Ponson, pausing at her door, inquired whether she was at home, and Evelyn, after saying “No,” suddenly changed her mind and said “Yes.”
It might, of course, be Cotty or Mrs Cotty. But on the other hand it might be Marcia Lane, whom she really wanted to see—or it might be Laydon. The bare possibility was enough to make her revoke her “No.”
She went into the drawing-room and waited, furious with herself because her cheeks were hot. She bent over the fire to provide them with a legitimate excuse, and heard behind her the sound of the opening door and Ponson’s voice, very carefully restrained:
“Mrs Albert Laycock.”
The door was shut again, and Evelyn found herself gazing spell-bound at Pearl Palliser in mourning garb so deep that it fairly took her breath away. She had on a dress which was almost covered with rustling crape and a long widow’s veil. Her hands were encased in black kid gloves, and she wore the widest and most noticeable of lawn collars and cuffs. A jet chain hung to her knees.
Evelyn found herself shaking hands.
“Well, dear,” said Miss Palliser, “you see how it is.”
“Mr Laycock?”
“Gone,” said Miss Palliser. Her voice was cheerful, but she raised her eyes perfunctorily to the ceiling. “The cable came whilst you were real away. Very prompt, I’m sure, and only goes to prove what I’ve always said, that it’s a real blessing to be living in up-to-date times, where you’re not kept waiting months and years to hear a bit of news.”
She paused to take breath, and settled herself
comfortably in a chair by the fire.
“Well, dear, I’m a widow this time, and no human doubt about it. And you’ll be pleased to hear that my banns are put up to marry Henry Cowdray a month from to-day.”
“Oh, I hope you’ll be happy,” said Evelyn. She tried to keep her fascinated gaze from the black kid gloves and the folds of the widow’s veil.
Miss Palliser nodded comfortably.
“You’re looking at my mourning. Nice, isn’t it? Makes me look slim too. A bit extravagant perhaps, but I said to Henry straight away when the cable came, ‘All right, Henry,’ I said, ‘poor Albert’s gone, and I’ll marry you as soon as you can get the banns put up; but I’m not going to be done out of my weeds for you, or for anyone else either, and that’s that.’ You see, dear, I never got a chance to wear them for Ted Edwards, because he just kind of faded away, and when I did really hear from that Australian parson—well, I was married to Jim Field, or thought I was, and it’d have looked a bit queer if I’d come out a widow—a bit sudden as you might say. Then when Jim Field and Jack Laydon were missing—I don’t know, I didn’t seem to have the heart to bother about it. You may believe me or not just as you like, but I did cry my eyes out over those two boys, and I didn’t seem to have the heart to think about being dressy.” She took a stiff new handkerchief with a black border and applied it to her eyes.
Evelyn found herself unable to think of anything to say. She gazed sympathetically at Miss Palliser, and after a moment the black-gloved hand withdrew the handkerchief and disclosed Miss Palliser’s naturally cheerful expression.
“Well, I’m a fool to cry, to be sure,—and when a drop of water’s ruin to crape and all. Well, where was I? Oh, I was talking about being extravagant. Henry had a lot to say about it. But don’t you think I was right, dear,—not to give way I mean? It isn’t as if it’d all go to waste either. The gloves, and the collar and cuffs, and the crape I grant you; but there’s a friend of mine that’ll be glad enough to have them. And as to the rest, I told Henry he didn’t know what he was talking about. I can put a touch of colour on the dress and wear it out in the afternoon as easy as easy. And I rather thought of putting that nice large paste ornament I had on the other day right across the front of the hat. But there, dear, men are obstinate, and the less they know about a thing, the more fuss they kick up.”
She stopped, displayed a momentary embarrassment, fidgeted with her handkerchief, and then said rather abruptly,
“I suppose now, you wouldn’t come and see me married, would you?”
“Oh, yes, I would,” said Evelyn. “I will if I’m in town.”
“Of course if it hadn’t been for a kind of accident, as you may say, you might have been coming to my wedding as a connection so to speak. But as I was married to Albert Laycock, why, then of course I never was Mrs Jack Laydon, though I thought so at the time and for ten years after. But of course I’m not asking you to come for that because I’m not a family connection any more, and never was. It’s just a fancy I’ve got, to have you there, dear. And it’ll be in church, as I told you, and all very proper and respectable, Henry being a sidesman and taking round the bag on Sundays.” She went off into deep chuckling laughter. “Now, dear,” she said, “I’m coming to business. I didn’t come here to talk about myself, but to tell you I’d had Nosey Parker round again.”
“Mr Abbott?”
“Mr Nosey Parker Abbott. Oh, Lord, he is a nosey one too! And I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me, dear; but he worried me into it.”
“Into what?” Evelyn’s tone was alarmed.
Miss Palliser nodded ruefully.
“He worried me into it. I told you as like as not he would. And he did. First thing I knew, I had a pen in my hand signing my name.”
“Oh, Miss Palliser, don’t! What did you sign?”
“A paper,” said Miss Palliser in tones of gloom. “He took it down, and wrote it out, and put the pen into my hand, and next thing I knew I was signing my name. And he asked me as sharp as a ferret,’ Is that your legal name?’ and I said ‘Lord knows,’ for the cable hadn’t come.”
“Oh, Miss Palliser, what did you sign?”
“Well, seeing it was all so uncertain, I put Pearl Palliser.”
“No, no. I mean what was in the paper?”
“Don’t ask me, dear.”
“But you must know.”
“Can’t say I do. But it was something about recognizing you know who, and being sure he was Jim Field the first time I saw him.”
Evelyn bit her lip. It was no good being angry.
Miss Palliser got up reluctantly.
“Well, so long,” she said. “Henry’s waiting for me to go and choose a carpet with him, and I’d rather he was in a good temper for it. It might make as much as five pounds difference in the price—you never know. I’ll send you a card about the wedding. And here’s luck to you.”
She went towards the door, but turned as Evelyn touched the bell.
“Look here, dear,” she said, “I don’t mind telling you now that, honest, I don’t know which he is. Sometimes I’ve thought he was one, and sometimes another. That’s the gospel truth. And now, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care. See? He may be Jim Laydon, or he may be Jack Laydon, or he may be Jim Field, which I’ve put my name to. Whichever of the three he is, he’s not my husband, thank goodness, for I want to settle down comfortably with Henry. And you’re free to take your pick, dear. Well, cheery-o!”
She opened the door, waved affably, and, encountering Ponson, became with startling suddenness a figure of majestic woe. Even the fact that the coat which she had left in the hall was both old and shabby did not impair her dignity. She assumed the garment after the manner of a tragedy queen, and departed full of inward satisfaction.
Evelyn stood in the middle of the room, quite still. “You’re free to take your pick.” An anger that was like ice and a pride like fire fought in her.
XXVIII
Evelyn drove herself down to Laydon Manor next day, arriving in time for tea. Laydon did not appear, and after tea she went for a long solitary ramble through the woods behind Laydon Sudbury.
Primroses lingered in the shady places, but on the open grassy slopes cowslips, cuckoo-pint and purple orchises were flowering, whilst in any open glade the bluebell buds were almost out. After a very long, cold winter, which had left no room for spring, just to see blue sky, to walk in the open without furs, and to feel the warmth of the sun and the softness of the May air was pure delight.
Evelyn came slowly up the gardens with the sun low behind her, and fell in with Lacy in the beech walk. She had had her solitary hour and was feeling at peace with all the world, not wanting to plan or to think, but just to be with people whom she loved, in this lovely green place where the light was golden and birds were singing.
“Where have you been?” said Lacy. “I think you might have told me you were going for a walk.” This from Lacy who hated the country, and walking, and wet grass and muddy shoes.
Evelyn laughed at her.
“It’s all very well, Evelyn, but you’ve no idea how bored I’ve been. I don’t like walking, but I’d rather walk than be bored to death. Uncle Cotterell’s in one of his very worst tempers, shut up in the library with Monkey. And nobody’s brought a novel into the house since Aunt Catherine died about forty years ago.”
“Poor old Lacy!”
Evelyn slipped an arm through hers. The beech walk was a grassy lane smoothly mown and guarded by tall beech hedges still brown and bare, with some of last year’s copper leaves clinging to them. It took a right-angle turn at the top of the long, gentle slope, and thence led to the terraces below the house. Just where it turned, in the far angle, the hedge was interrupted, showing an old brick wall with a heavily clamped oak door.
Lacy stopped, looked at the door, hesitated, and then said,
“Do they still keep it locked?” Evelyn nodded. “But you’ve got your key—I know Uncle Cotterell gave you one.”
“Yes.”
Evelyn was remembering her wedding day, and Sir Cotterell’s words: “The key of the Lady’s Garden, my dear. You know the story. No one goes into it unless the lady of the house takes them. And if you care for old customs, you should go there for the first time with Jim.”
Lacy’s high, sweet voice broke in:
“I wish you’d take me in, Evelyn—I’ve never been.”
“Nor have I.” Evelyn’s tone was dry.
“Never been? How extraordinary! You’ve never used your key?”
“No.”
“Evelyn, darling, how weird of you! I’ve always wanted to go in so dreadfully. Do they keep it up?”
“Oh, yes. McAlister always asks me about the flowers.”
“Oh, he goes in?”
“Yes, the head gardener has a key—and Sir Cotterell. But Sir Cotterell never uses his.”
“Evelyn, do take me in. I wonder if the story is true.”
“Yes, I think so. I don’t know why it shouldn’t be. They used to do things like that in the fifteenth century. It was a vow, you know,—she swore no one should see her face till her lord came back from the wars. She was frightfully beautiful, but she wore a veil always, except when she walked in this garden. She had the wall built all round it, and she used to walk up and down, and pray for him to come back.”
“I forget if he came—and I forget her name,” said Lacy.
“Her name was Aveline de Waveney, and she was married to Sir Cotterell’s twentieth great-grandfather. He came back when they were both quite old. But she went on wearing her veil—I expect she’d got used to it.”
“Oh, do take me in. Evelyn, you will, won’t you?”
“No, my child, I won’t.”
Lacy maintained an offended silence for about two minutes. Then she said in an injured voice,
“I wish I hadn’t come. You’re horrid, and Uncle Cotterell’s wild, and the Gaunts are coming up from the Vicarage to dine, and they’ve got a perfectly awful cousin staying with them, and of course they’ve got to bring her.”
“Don’t be cross, Lacy. Why is Sir Cotterell wild?”
The Amazing Chance Page 20
