A quarter of a mile farther on they swept round the curve of a broad lake, beyond which lay a square, red brick Georgian house of moderate size.
There was no butler to receive them but Gervaise Stapleton came out himself with his brother, Oliver, who was also down for the week-end, and Lavina’s elder sister, Margery.
Although Gervaise Stapleton had not seen his errant favourite daughter for just over three years, he greeted her as naturally as though they had only parted the day before. He was a tall, white-haired man nearing sixty, with the same aristocratic features as Lavina and the same magnetic personality.
Her Uncle Oliver was a less distinguished and more untidy replica of his elder brother. The best part of his life had been spent in the Royal Observatory at Greenwich and his stooping shoulders were the result of the countless hours he had spent poring over abstruse astronomical calculations.
Margery Stapleton was three years older than Lavina and seemed to have just missed all the qualities which made Lavina such an outstanding beauty. Her limbs were sturdier, her hair light-brown instead of natural gold, her mouth even smaller and a little thin; her nose more beaked and so too prominent in her otherwise handsome face.
It was soon clear to Sam Curry that only one portion of the house was occupied; but the bedroom to which his host showed him had a cheerful wood fire burning in its grate.
‘We live very simply here, as Lavina will certainly have told you before she asked you down, so I fear you’ll have to unpack and fend for yourself,’ was Gervaise Stapleton’s only reference to his lack of servants.
‘I’m used to that,’ Sam lied cheerfully. It was twenty years since he had done anything but use his brain and give orders to others, but his age, his arrogance and his habit of taking it for granted that every service should be performed for him seemed to have unaccountably disappeared from the moment he had entered the half-derelict Georgian mansion.
He felt almost a boy again and that it would have been more natural to accept a five-bob tip from Lavina’s father than to offer him financial assistance. There was a strange, compelling dignity about the tall white-haired figure, although Gervaise Stapleton was not the least stiff and his smiling blue eyes showed whence his younger daughter had got her sense of humour.
On coming downstairs Sam found the family assembled in the library; a long, book-lined room furnished with an assortment of pieces from a dozen different periods, but all mellowed by time, so that nothing jarred. Gervaise loved his books and so had chosen it as the living-room when economy had compelled him to close up the others.
As soon as he had a chance to talk to Margery, Sam discovered that she was as different mentally from Lavina as she was physically. The beautiful Lavina could be hard, but that was a sort of protective armour, whereas Margery’s hardness was a natural quality and, clearly, she was jealous of her younger sister.
It transpired that she ran the house and looked after her father with only the help of a woman in the kitchen and a farm hand who laid the fires, cleaned the shoes and did the other heavy work each morning. She made an unnecessary parade of busying herself and mildly sarcastic remarks about Lavina’s proverbial laziness.
But Lavina, lolling in a big armchair, refused to be drawn and watched her sister with a faintly cynical smile as the older girl went off to lay the table for supper.
To his own surprise, Sam found himself offering to help and he could cheerfully have smacked Lavina for the openly derisive grin with which she favoured him; but Gervaise Stapleton would not hear of his guest lifting a finger and had just produced some remarkably fine Madeira in a dust-encrusted bottle.
‘We have unfortunately used up all our old sherry,’ he explained, ‘but I trust you will find this a passable substitute. Luckily, I still have a few bins of it. My grandfather laid it down.’
Sam made a rapid calculation. The dark golden nectar had been bottled in the 1840’s or early ‘50’s at the latest, then. He sipped it and found it marvellous.
A newcomer entered at that moment; a good-looking, fair man aged about thirty, in well worn tweeds; whom Gervaise introduced as ‘our neighbour, Derek Burroughs’.
With a quick nod to Sam, Burroughs walked straight over to Lavina, took both her hands and smiled down into her face.
‘So you’re back at last,’ he murmured. ‘I was beginning to think you’d completely forgotten us.’
‘I could never do that, Derek,’ she smiled up at him.
Sam Curry’s mouth tightened. The fellow was in love with her. That was as clear as if he had said so, and it looked as if she had tender memories of him. For the first time that evening Sam felt himself as Sir Samuel, and his age—getting on for fifty. He didn’t like the thought of this solid, good-looking ghost that had suddenly arisen out of Lavina’s past but he comforted himself quickly. Burroughs was evidently a gentleman-farmer—a country bumpkin with little brain and probably less money. What if he had had an affair with Lavina in the past? Surely he could not hope to attract the sophisticated woman she had now become. Still, Sam admitted to himself, he would have given a good few of his thousands to be Derek Burroughs’s age again or even to have his figure.
‘Do you think I’ve changed much, Derek?’ Lavina was asking.
‘You’re still the same Lavina underneath,’ he replied slowly, ‘but on the surface—well, you’re a bit startling, aren’t you?’
‘D’you mean my make-up?’
‘Yes. All that black stuff round your eyes makes them look smaller and somehow it doesn’t seem to go with your fair complexion. I suppose it’s all right in a film star but the simple folk round here would take you for—for …’
Oliver Stapleton had been quietly working at a desk in a corner of the room. He turned, and raising his horn-rimmed spectacles, looked across at Lavina under them. ‘Go on, say it, Derek,’ he urged with a dry chuckle. ‘A scarlet woman. That’s the classic expression, isn’t it? She’s remained quite a nice girl really, but she’s still very young.’
Lavina sat up with a jerk. ‘Uncle Oliver, you’re a beast!’ she laughed. ‘Perhaps I have got a bit much on for the country but I’m so used to it.’
Sam Curry cut into the conversation with smooth tact and was rewarded by a little look of gratitude from Lavina which made his heart beat faster.
At dinner they waited upon themselves. The meal was simple but good, and over it the Stapletons and Derek Burroughs talked mainly of old times and friends whom Sam did not know, which left him rather out of it, although Gervaise Stapleton took pains to draw him into the conversation at every opportunity.
Afterwards they sat in the library again and Lavina told her family something of the joys and pitfalls that she had met with during her three years in the studios.
At half-past eleven Derek Burroughs reluctantly broke up the party as he had a sick mare that he wanted to look at before he turned in; but on leaving he said that he would be over again first thing in the morning and it was agreed that he and Lavina should go for a ride together.
Margery, Lavina and Sam went up to bed, leaving the two older men together. Oliver had a great pile of logarithm books and other astronomical impedimenta on the desk in the far corner of the room; and he settled down to do an hour’s work before going to bed. But Gervaise Stapleton was, for him, unusually restless. After reading a few pages of his book, he threw it down and addressed his brother.
‘Well, what do you make of her, Oliver?’
The tall, untidy astronomer pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and turned in his chair. ‘Make of whom?’ he asked, vaguely.
‘Why, Lavina, of course.’
‘Oh—Lavina. I think she’s looking very well. Older, of course, and a little hard; but that is only on the surface. The girl has character, you know, Gervaise. Always had. And that’s doubtless stood her in good stead through any trouble. She laughs as easily as ever, which shows that she has come to no serious harm; but then, I never thought she would, and you may remember that I fel
t you were wrong when you so strongly opposed her going into the film business.’
Gervaise nodded. ‘Yes. I think I was wrong but, from all one had heard, the film people seemed such a terribly mixed lot, and she was only twenty.’
At that moment Lavina came into the room again, looking very small and very young now that she had taken most of the make-up off her face and was wearing flat-heeled slippers and a dressing-gown.
She was an impulsive person, and feeling that she owed it to her father to have a heart-to-heart talk with him at the first opportunity, had decided not to delay it until the morning. The fact that her Uncle Oliver was there did not deter her, as the two brothers had no secrets from each other and, in any case, he had turned back to his calculations on her entry.
Going straight up to her father where he stood with his back to the smouldering wood fire on its great pile of accumulated winter ashes, she said softly: ‘Well, dearest, am I forgiven?’
He put both his hands on her shoulders and smiled down at her. ‘Of course you are, my princess. It is really I who should ask your forgiveness, for opposing you so bitterly three years ago that you ran away and cut yourself off from us.’
‘I ought to have been more patient, darling, and waited another year as you wanted me to, but I can understand now just what you felt. You must have thought that all sorts of terrible things would happen.’
He shook his head. ‘I should have known that with your personality you’d be all right, and I’ve blamed myself terribly since for not letting you go when you wanted to. Then you would at least have had our support in those early months when you must have needed it most.’
‘They weren’t so bad. Of course, there are bad hats in the film business just like any other; but I soon learnt how to deal with them when they became difficult, and most of the film people are wonderfully kindhearted. Many of them were absolutely marvellous to me.’
‘I wish I’d known that at the time, because I’m afraid I did them an injustice and it would have saved me many a night of sleepless worry about you.’
‘Poor darling! Never mind. It’s all over now and we’re together again.’
‘Yes. And you’ve come back triumphant, a famous film star.’
‘No, dearest, not really. I am a star by courtesy, but I’ve never made a really big picture. The trouble is that I’m not really photogenic and every picture I play in means endless extra trouble for the director and cutters before they’re satisfied. What d’you think of Sam?’
Gervaise considered for a moment. ‘He seems a nice fellow. Is he the Sir Samuel Curry who gambles for such big sums at Deauville and Le Touquet? I seem to remember seeing his name in a paper somewhere in that connection.’
‘Yes. He’s immensely rich and the few thousands he makes or loses at the tables are only a bagatelle to him. He wants to marry me.’
‘So I supposed,’ Gervaise remarked dryly.
‘Why?’
‘What man could know you and not want to marry you?’
‘You always were a flatterer, darling; but what do you think about it, seriously?’
‘Does that matter? My little princess always did have her own way in everything, so it’s a bit late in the day for her to try to put her responsibilities on her old father now.’
‘But it does matter what you think, darling. Because, you see, for once in my life I can’t make up my mind. If I were convinced that I could become a really great star I’d stick to my career, but I’m afraid the odds are rather against it. Yet I like making pictures and all the friends that I’ve made are in the film world. Sam insists that, if I marry him, I must cut out the films entirely, but of course he can offer me everything that money can buy by way of exchange.’
‘Surely the crux of the matter is, are you really fond of him?’
‘Yes. I’m not passionately in love with him or anything of that sort, but I’m beginning to think that I never shall be with anyone, and Sam is the only man I’ve ever met who has all the qualities a woman could ask for in a husband. He’s kind, generous to a degree, definitely good-looking, and has that forceful personality which a real man should have.’
‘On the other hand, he is a bit old for you, isn’t he?’
Lavina nodded. ‘That’s just it. He’s forty-six and I’m only twenty-three. I suppose that doesn’t matter, really, if you’re fond of a person, but I’m just a tiny bit frightened that in a few years’ time I might fall for somebody younger and I’d hate to break up Sam’s life by running away.’
Oliver had finished his calculation and was looking across at her. ‘I don’t think you need let that worry you,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to tell anybody, because it’s a highly dangerous secret; but I think it a pity, Lavina, that you should die without going through the experience of marriage.’
Gervaise and Lavina turned to stare at him and she exclaimed: ‘Oliver! What on earth d’you mean?’
He laid down a long Burma cheroot he was smoking on the edge of the ash-tray. ‘Just this, my dear. A comet, which is not yet visible to the human eye, is approaching us at enormous speed. If it is a solid body, as we have some reason to suppose, our earth will be shattered into fragments when it hits us. It is now April 25th; the comet is due to arrive on June 24th and, in my opinion, none of us has more than sixty days to live.’
3
EVEN WORLDS SOMETIMES DIE
In her three years as a film actress Lavina had ridden on outdoor locations when her work required it, but it was many months since she had mounted a horse solely for pleasure. In consequence, it was with a special thrill that she cantered beside Derek Burroughs over the meadows surrounding her home, on the morning after her return to it.
After her three years’ absence she was a very different Lavina from the girl of twenty who had run away to seek fame on the films, yet, to her, not a blade of grass seemed to have changed in the quiet Surrey landscape. The old Georgian mansion in which she had been born lay behind them down by the lake, with two-thirds of its windows dusty and shuttered; the green pastures curved away in front, broken by hedges, occasional coppices and the belt of woodland that bounded the estate, just as she had always known them.
On the crest of a hill she and Derek reined their horses in to a walk and he turned to smile at her.
‘I see you haven’t lost that splendid seat of yours.’
She laughed. ‘Riding’s like bicycling, isn’t it? Once learnt, never forgotten. You ought to know that, darling.’
The endearment slipped out. In the film world she was so used to calling everybody ‘darling’, but she regretted having used that term to Derek. Time was when she had often called him ‘darling’, but that was long ago; and she feared now that he might attach a meaning to the word which she had not intended.
Before he could reply, she hurried on: ‘Gervaise is looking well, isn’t he? But keeping up this place must be an awful strain on him. Are things just as bad as ever, Derek?’
He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. He doesn’t tell me much. You know how proud he is. If only he’d sell the place he could have a comfortable flat in London or a small house somewhere in the neighbourhood, but he’s absolutely determined to hang on here. His income is just enough to keep the house going without servants but we poor farmers have been pretty badly hit, and I don’t see much hope of permanent recovery.’
‘You seem to take it very philosophically yourself.’
‘Oh, I manage somehow. Selling a mare here and there and by sending all my stuff from the hothouses up to London. And I like the life; I wouldn’t change it to be cooped up in an office, even if I could make ten times the money.’
She glanced at him swiftly from beneath lowered lids. His clear-cut features and the wavy brown hair she had so often stroked were as attractive as ever. Even the sight of him was enough to call up for her the smell of tobacco and old tweeds that clung to him and had once meant more to her than the perfumes of all Arabia. Giving herself a little shake she said:
>
‘I think you’re right. I can’t see you mixed up in the turmoil of modern business. You’d hate it, Derek.’
‘I should have thought you would have hated it, too. I’ve never been able to visualise the Lavina I loved rubbing shoulders with all the queer birds you must have met by this time.’
‘Oh, I can look after myself. It’s always the woman who makes the running, you know. A girl gets what she asks for and, if she takes a firm line to start with, all but a few outsiders are perfectly prepared just to remain friendly and let her alone.’
‘You’re glad to be back, though.’
‘Terribly. It’s like escaping from an orchid house, or rather from the heat and din of a ship’s engine-room into the fresh sea air on deck.’
‘Does that mean—’ he hesitated, ‘that there’s a chance of your staying for some time?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d like to, for Gervaise’s sake. He’s so very glad to see me. But I’ve come to a turning-point in my life and, whichever way I decide, I’ll have arrangements to make which mean my going back to London tonight.’
‘D’you mean that they’ve offered you a Hollywood contract and that you may be going abroad?’
‘No. I may be giving up the films altogether. That’s what I’ve got to decide.’
‘By Jove! If you do chuck the films, once you’ve fixed things up we may be seeing lots more of you.’
‘Yes. I shall never stay away so long again.’
‘You might even come back to live here?’
‘No, Derek, no.’ She quickly quelled the hope that was so clear in his eager voice. ‘If I decide to give up my career, it will be to marry.’
‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘So at last you’ve found a chap on whom you’re really keen?’
‘Sam Curry wants to marry me.’
‘Curry?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you realise?’
‘But, hang it all, he’s old enough to be your father.’
Sixty Days to Live Page 2
