The door banged behind him and Jeremy returned to the matter in hand.
“Alexander can’t come by himself,” he pointed out. “If his mother isn’t coming, what’s happening—is he being posted?”
“You must read the letter for yourself,” said Lady Rome. “I have it with me.” She felt in both pockets of the voluminous black velvet jacket she wore every evening. but found nothing except some skeins of silk. “No, it isn’t here,” she said, “but there was nothing of any importance in it. And of course, the baby is coming, too.”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Jeremy. “Alexander can keep an eye on the baby on the journey.”
“How,” demanded Lady Rome, “can poor little Alexander, at three years old, take charge of an eight- months-old—dear me, little Margaret must be more than that—nearly ten months old.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Natalie, “they’re coming with their nurse.”
“Yes—such a wonderful woman,” said Lady Rome. “She was with us for eighteen years—she had Lucille and Jeremy and then the poor thing was worn out—”
“Thank you,” said Jeremy.
“—and she retired,” went on Lady Rome, “and when Alexander and little Margaret were born and nobody could get anybody to come, dear old Nannie came out again and now she looks after them.”
“When are they coming?” asked Jeremy.
“On Thursday,” said Lady Rome, “and they’re going to stay for a month. Nannie will look after little Margaret and your grandfather and I will have Alexander with us—and we’ll have to get your girl down soon, Natalie. You must ask her when she’s coming and we must hurry and get your little house furnished so that she can see it—you must let me show you all William’s things tomorrow and you can choose whatever you like. We shall assemble it and then Jimmie Batch can move it all down when we’re ready. He’s Tommie Batch’s brother, you know, and has a furniture-removing business and does very well. His brother, Frank, is our policeman, and nobody could possibly realize, until they had seen him, what a clever idea our policemen’s helmets are. One sees at once, don’t you know, why our police force is the best in the world, because without his helmet, Frank is nothing but Frank Batch, and with his helmet, he’s a really splendid figure and frightens everybody very much. Old Mrs. Batch won’t talk to him until he takes his helmet off.”
Natalie said that she, too, had once seen a policeman without his helmet and had experienced a great sense of anti-climax.
“It shows you how dress can change the appearance completely,” said Lady Rome. “People should always be careful what they wear—isn’t that your Confirmation dress, Lucille?—it looks very pretty. Alexander is a dear little fellow, Natalie, and so intelligent. Couldn’t you find a little pony for him, Lucille? If you ask Philip, he might see if old Hawke could find anything very small, but of course he’d charge the most dreadful price because the man’s nothing but a swindler. You must ask Philip.”
Lucille turned from her contemplation of the fire and shook her head gently.
“I can’t ask Philip,” she said. “He’s going away tomorrow.”
Natalie and Duncan stared at her.
“You mean,” said Duncan, when he could speak, “you mean he’s going away? Where to—I mean, why—I mean—”
Lucille looked faintly puzzled, as if wondering where and why.
“He had to go to arrange a lot of things,” she said, “but he’s coming back.”
“When?” demanded Duncan.
“In a week, I think,” said Lucille. “Or perhaps more than that.”
Duncan sat still, his thoughts racing. He had fought with a feeling that he ought to leave Romescourt, and he had subdued it. There had been nothing to wait for, except brief and unsatisfactory talks with Lucille, but he waited, and everybody seemed to take his presence for granted. Jeremy treated him with an easy comradeship, Natalie with kindness and his host and hostess with a friendly detachment which made him wonder at times whether they remembered why he had come. Lucille was gentle but elusive, and the sweet, swift response which he had once kindled in her seemed like some dream long past.
Now Philip was going away. The business that was taking him must be urgent, thought Duncan—or he must be very sure of his position. How could he leave Lucille—lovely Lucille, will-of-the-wisp Lucille—and go—
“He wanted me to go, too,” said Lucille to her grandmother, “but I didn’t want to.”
“Of course not, my dear,” said Lady Rome. “You’re a very silly little thing to forget that Mr. Macdonald is here; I don’t see how Philip could have expected you to go away—where did he want you to stay?”
“With his aunt in Sussex,” said Lucille.
“That would be that dreadful Aunt Julia,” said Lady Rome. “I remember her so well because she came once with red hair and the next time with a kind of pale blue hair. She told me it was very expensive, but those odd fashions always are expensive, don’t you know, because if they weren’t, none of those people would ever dream of having them. If Philip doesn’t want to ride any more, Lucille,” she went on, “perhaps Mr. Macdonald would go out with you. Do you like riding, Mr. Macdonald?”
Duncan told her that, on the whole, he preferred to walk, and wished that he could have added a short account of his remarkable prowess in swimming, sailing, skating, climbing and even sword-dancing. On a horse, however—
But he could walk with Lucille. Bellamy was going away. He had tried—how hard, Duncan could easily conjecture—to persuade Lucille to go with him, and Lucille had not gone.
He had a week. Seven days in which to search for the warmth and passion which had stirred so briefly in Lucille at their meeting. He had left a girl as much in love with him as he had been with her, and now he was groping in the soft, invisible barriers beyond which his beloved had vanished.
Natalie, watching the expression in the brown eyes, followed Duncan’s thoughts and found herself sympathizing with him. She had tried, with her usual hesitancy, to find a way through Lucille’s unchanging sweetness and good nature, but without success. She knew that Duncan was confused and baffled, but she could do nothing to help him.
Her musing was interrupted by a call to the telephone, and she went out eagerly to Lady Rome’s office, where the call awaited her. She lifted the receiver and in a few moments heard Helen’s voice. With an expression of pleasure, Natalie drew forward a chair and prepared to enjoy a little chat with her daughter.
“How are you, darling?” she asked with loving anxiety.
“I’m all right, Mother,” came Helen’s voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t write last week.”
“It didn’t matter at all—I mean, I realized you were busy,” said Natalie. “Have you kept quite well?”
“Of course I have, mother,” said Helen. “I’ve been—well, I’ve just been sort of going about, that’s all.”
A faint chill, without cause and without reason, crept slowly over Natalie. She decided that it was the fireless room, and strove to fix her mind on Helen’s description of a successful display of export gowns at Maybelle et Cie. In spite of her efforts, however, she found herself listening to something beyond Helen’s words—an indefinable something that made her stiffen in her chair and await she knew not what.
It was stupid, she told herself. Her imagination was running away with her. But she was sure that there was something missing in Helen’s voice. It was as firm and confident as ever, and the matters of which she spoke were such as occurred in her ordinary way of life, but there was an occasional faltering—a stumble here and there, and always the vague thing that Natalie could not identify.
But of one thing she became increasingly sure. Helen was unhappy.
Helen—self-assured, supremely self-confident, Helen —was unhappy. Natalie broke into her daughter’s sentences almost with abruptness.
“Helen,” she asked, “is there—is there anything wrong?”
There came a little laugh and, a moment later, Helen�
�s cool and amused voice.
“No, Mother, of course there isn’t. What should be wrong?—Have you settled on your furniture yet?”
“Yes,” said Natalie. “Are you sure you haven’t been in bed or anything? You sound—I think you sound a little different.”
“I’m quite the same,” Helen assured her. “But perhaps you’ve got a sixth sense. I’ve got some news for you.”
The voice was light and the tone almost one of banter. Yet Natalie knew that whatever news was coming was going to be bad news.
“Tell me, darling,” she urged.
“Well, Mummy”—she had not used the word since she was thirteen, and Natalie sat very still—“I’ve been going about with Maurice quite a lot lately and last night he—we—” There was a pause, but Natalie knew already.
“Last night, Mummy, we fixed it up. I mean, we got engaged.”
Natalie stared at Lady Rome’s silver-mounted calendar and, putting out a hand, screwed its little handle and sent the days flashing past in a dizzy procession.
“Did you hear, Mummy?”
“Yes, Helen darling. Are you happy?”
“Yes, of course I’m happy,” said Helen. “Maurice said I was to give you his love. Go on, Mother—say you’re glad.”
“If you’re happy, darling, then I’m very, very glad,” said Natalie. “Can you—can’t you get a few days off and come and stay? We could talk about it and—”
“Yes, I’m coming,” said Helen. “I spoke to Mrs. Creech and she said yes, of course. Not this week, but early next week—would that be all right for William’s mamma?”
“Yes, I’m sure it would,” said Natalie. “She’s—she was only saying just now—”
“There’s the pips, Mother,” broke in Helen. “Can’t afford any more now. Good-bye.”
“God bless you, darling,” said Natalie. “Take care of yourself.”
She replaced the receiver and sat quite still, feeling that though she had many times in her life felt lonely, she had never before experienced such a feeling of desolation. She gave scarcely a thought to the loving plans she and William had made for the marriage of Helen and Jeremy. It had been a pleasant possibility and was now a possibility no longer. Helen had chosen for herself and she had chosen, Natalie admitted, very well. Maurice Hunter would make a very good husband and there was no reason why Helen should not be happy with him.
But that Helen was not happy, Natalie was convinced. If William had been there she could have told him all her jumbled, unconnected impressions and he would have pieced them together, as he could always do so quickly and so wisely, and give them back to her as a clear, complete picture. Without William to sort them, her thoughts remained chaotic, but she was still sure that all was not well with her daughter.
She felt something dropping on to her hands and looked down to find that her tears had been falling for some time and that a great deal of mopping-up was required. She was in the process of drying her eyes when the door opened and Sir Jason stood before her.
She had been so lost in her grief that the unexpectedness of his appearance unnerved her. She made a fresh attempt to stem the torrent and regain control of herself while her father-in-law, making no move to withdraw, stood looking at her with surprise and concern.
“Something wrong,” he said. “Bad news from your daughter, hey?”
“No—oh no,” said Natalie, drying the last tear hastily. “I’m sorry to be so silly—you must think—”
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Sir Jason. “Sick?”
“Oh, no!” said Natalie. “She’s very well—she’s quite all right. She’s” She looked at him with her eyes filling. “She’s engaged.”
“Engaged?” demanded Sir Jason. “Engaged to be married?”
“Yes,” said Natalie.
Sir Jason stood and thought the matter over. He had become fond of his daughter-in-law. He had not expected his son to marry again and he had waited for he knew not what kind of woman to present herself as his daughter-in-law. The coming of Natalie had brought him relief and reassurance and, later, a good deal of pleasure. He liked her and he thought his son a fortunate man to have won her. She was a nice little thing—but he had never liked the sound of that daughter of hers. Dress shop and no outdoor exercise—not a life that any girl with any real stamina could tolerate. And the moment her mother left her alone, she got herself entangled with the first bounder that made advances. Sir Jason reflected that it wasn’t surprising, but he would like very much to give the girl a piece of his mind.
He walked over to Natalie and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Never mind,” he consoled her. “All blow over. She’ll get over the excitement and send the bounder off.”
Natalie stared up at him in bewilderment.
“Oh, but he isn’t a—he’s a very nice young man,” she protested. “He’s—” The tears came to her eyes, and she stopped.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Sir Jason. “Bed’s best place. You run up, m’dear. Nice sleep and wake up feeling better. Go on up, now, and no more to worry about.”
He led her to the stairs and watched her as she climbed them and went in the direction of her room. Sir Jason turned and went back to the other members of the party.
“Sent Natalie up to bed,” he told them without preamble. “Upset—daughter got engaged to one of those bounders and poor Natalie worried.”
“One of what bounders?” inquired Jeremy.
“One of those London bounders,” said his father. “Don’t know him. Lucille, take your stepmother a hot drink.”
Lady Rome, who had been making little sounds of regret and distress, thought this a very good suggestion.
“Yes, Lucille. Take up a nice hot drink and see that everything’s comfortable. It’s too bad of that girl to go and worry her mother, but I didn’t think it was a good thing to leave her alone in a flat in the middle of London, with nobody to see whether she gets her proper sleep or not. Jeremy, I think you ought to go up and see if you can do anything to comfort poor little Natalie. Take her a nice hot drink and tell her it’ll all come to nothing. We must get that girl down here and talk to her—somebody must tell her that she mustn’t make her mother fret like this. If Natalie wants me, Jeremy, call me at once, but we mustn’t all break in on her when she’s worried.”
Jeremy went to the tray of hot drinks which had been brought in, and poured out a cupful for his stepmother. He chose a biscuit or two, put them on the saucer and made his way upstairs. He knocked his own special knock on Natalie’s door and heard her answer.
“Hot drink,” he said, entering and closing the door behind him. “You’re to drink it and go instantly to bed.”
Natalie took the drink gratefully, looking at her stepson with a shamefaced expression.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I do try so hard not to become tearful, but it’s never any use. I hate to cry but—”
“—but you have to cry,” finished Jeremy gently. “Well, it’s only a nice healthy way of letting off steam. I hope my wife cries—they tell me that if they don’t cry they throw china and get into shocking rages. Eat both those biscuits,” he ordered.
“I made your grandfather think that I was upset,” said Natalie, “but it wasn’t really that. I think it was a little sudden, though she didn’t tell me quite at once—only at the end.”
“Well, don’t think about it,” said Jeremy. “Granny’s got it all fixed up. We get Helen down here and she forgets all about the bounder in no time and—”
“Oh no!” protested Natalie. “He isn’t a—he’s Maurice Hunter and I’ve met him and—”
“Well, just leave him to us,” said Jeremy comfortingly.
“You’re making a mistake,” said Natalie. “He’s quite a nice man—he isn’t in the least what you think.”
“Then why,” inquired Jeremy, “were you crying? Was it with joy?”
“No,” said Natalie. “Not joy.”
“Do you want he
r to marry this who’s-it?” asked Jeremy.
“No—not exactly,” said Natalie. “I—”
“Well, then, we’ll prise ’em apart,” promised Jeremy.
“But Helen’s in love with him,” said Natalie. “If she can be happy with him, I—”
“Nobody,” stated Jeremy, “can be happy with a bounder. You give me that cup and pop off to bed and dream about Father. If you like,” he offered, “I’ll go and get you that picture of him that’s in my room. You know the one—in a sailor suit—not Royal Navy pattern—holding his nurse’s hand.”
Natalie declined this favour and said good night without any further attempt at clearing Maurice Hunter’s reputation. In the morning she would try and correct the family’s impression, but for the moment she was tired and depressed and not feeling very clear headed. Helen was unhappy, she herself was thoroughly miserable and life, which had been so pleasant, was clouded over.
It was all due to Maurice Hunter. Perhaps he was a bounder, after all.
Chapter 9
Duncan MacDonald woke early the following morning and, with a realization that last night’s news had changed his life, leapt from his bed with a single bound.
Having stood on his hands three times in the middle of the room, he went to the window and, pushing it open to its widest extent, flung off his pyjama jacket and drummed with his fists upon his diaphragm. To mark further his mood of exhilaration, he sucked in large gulps of air and expelled them tunefully. In a few moments, he felt moisture on his chest and found that the rain was making its way in uninvited and wetting him.
He cared nothing for rain, he told himself. This was the good, soft rain he loved. Sun? What did sunshine do but make one sweat? What could one do in the sun but lie about? Sunshine was for weaklings—physical and the other kind. It relaxed the moral fibres and sent the softies searching for the sunny places. In that way, it did good—it weeded out all the poisonous guys and their women and laid them out in rows on warm beaches, half naked, and with skins the colour of brown shoe polish. There they stayed, poisoning only one another, while those with more mental, physical and moral stamina walked on Scottish hills and heather, in fine wet mist or with a sea wind blowing in their faces.
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