Helen nodded, her eyes taking in the details of the lovely scene.
“It’s more open on the other side,” said Jeremy. “You get some good riding country. Natalie tells me you used to be the belle of all the Children’s Meets—don’t you miss hunting?”
“No,” said Helen.
“ ‘Oh, the galloping, oh, the walloping,
Oh, the rush of the gone-away jack’ ”
quoted Jeremy. “You don’t miss it?”
“No,” said Helen again.
“If you were staying longer,” observed Jeremy, “it would be interesting to scratch down and see how far your City layer went. I bet if one got far enough, they’d find some good, honest mud.”
“In a few hours,” said Helen, “I’ve no doubt I shall be good honest mud all over.”
Jeremy laughed and, after a moment, Helen joined in. Jeremy glanced at her with an odd expression.
“That’s a pleasant sound,” he said. “You don’t make it often enough. Here we are,” he said, driving into the yard and bringing the car to a stop. “Look round you and tell me what use those paper shoes of yours are going to be.”
Helen looked round and saw some pleasant sights. A friendly grey had his head out of a stall and was regarding the newcomers with interest. Three dogs leapt round Jeremy and small fat puppies hurried along to join in the welcome.
“Out you get,” ordered Jeremy. “Early lunch, I think, and miles and miles of inspection afterwards. Come and meet the old man first.”
Helen met the old man, the two younger men, the pleasant woman who acted as Jeremy’s housekeeper, and a bewildering number of animals, all of which were introduced to her by name. She sat down to a lunch of fried eggs and potatoes which were followed by fresh scones and Jeremy’s proudly-presented Devonshire cream and cider. She walked up and down stairs and in and out of rooms. She climbed over stiles, was lifted over ditches, and stood with her hair blowing wildly in a breeze straight from the sea. Her cheeks became red, her eyes sparkled, and her laughter mingled with Jeremy’s throughout the swiftly-passing hours. She looked as happy and carefree as the puppies which licked her face so enthusiastically.
“If only,” Jeremy grumbled, “you didn’t look so wrong. Look”—he lifted a foot and indicated his stout, workmanlike shoe. “That’s the sort of thing my wife’s going to wear. They’re called Stormers, which is a damn silly name, but they keep everything out and they make ’em for girls, too—Lucille’s got some. That’s what you want—and one of those tweed coat and skirt affairs and a nice sensible country coat and a mackintosh—a real one that keeps out real rain. Then you could tramp about with me and go wherever I go—on your own feet. I’d like to see you,” he ended, “in an outfit like that—you’d look pretty good.”
“It would look wonderful in Bond Street,” commented Helen.
He led her on a last tour of the farmyard and through a lane which led to the house. On a grassy bank, high on one side, Helen saw a tiny tortoiseshell kitten and gave an exclamation of delight.
“Oh—it’s sweet,” she cried. “I must pick him up.”
“No—I will,” said Jeremy. “You keep down here—it’s slippery and those shoes’ll turn you over. I’ll—”
Helen, however, was already up and reaching eagerly for the little animal. The kitten jumped aside and Helen, stepping forward too hastily, put her foot into a grass-covered opening and fell. She was up again in an instant but, feeling a sharp stab of pain in her ankle, sank back on to the grass with a little gasp.
Jeremy, in two bounds, was beside her and stooping to investigate the damage. Helen, her face white and her lips twisted with pain, looked at him.
“It’s my—it’s my ankle,” she said.
Jeremy stared at her for a moment, his brows together in a fierce frown. Then he put his arms under her and lifted her, carrying her without a word to the car and putting her into it gently.
“Can you stick it,” he asked, “until I get you back to Romescourt?”
Helen nodded, and Jeremy, running swiftly to the house, came back with her coat and scarf. He got in beside her and settled her into a position that would afford the greatest comfort to her swelling ankle.
“All right?” he asked.
Helen nodded, adding a moment later: “I’m sorry, Jeremy.”
Jeremy’s expression, half anger, half worry, did not change.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I told you so.”
Chapter 15
Helen was installed in a pretty sitting-room overlooking looking the gardens. She lay on a sofa, her foot comfortably bandaged, and the doctor pronounced that she must keep it up for two weeks, walk on it during the third week, and go back to her normal occupations at the end of the fourth.
This being settled, the matter of a visit from her fiancé came up for discussion between Jeremy and his grandparents. It was taken for granted that he would wish to pay Helen a visit of a day or two, but even the shortness of the period did not appear to reconcile Sir Jason to the prospect of entertaining him.
“Don’t want any bounders here,” he grunted. “Probably be a dreadful feller.”
“On the contrary, my dear Jason,” his wife assured him. “It’s quite the other way round, because these people are always very charming. If they weren’t, you see, everybody would realize at once that they were bounders and then they would never be able to take people in.”
“Upset Natalie,” was Sir Jason’s next objection.
“I don’t think he’ll do that, sir,” said Jeremy. “She’s down at the house quite a lot and I could arrange to keep her out of his way.”
“Well, it’s very tiresome,” said Lady Rome, “but I suppose he’ll have to come, and we must just make the best of it and hope that he’ll go away at once.”
“Probably stick, like that other feller,” forecast Sir Jason gloomily.
Everyone looked depressed. Fiancés were, on the whole, troublesome people. At last Jeremy made a suggestion.
“We could,” he said, “put him into St. Jude.”
Lady Rome looked at him with her countenance brightening.
“That’s a capital idea, my dear Jeremy,” she said. “I’m really very grateful to you. Of course, we’ll put him in St. Jude and then he’ll go away at once. You must go and tell Helen it’s all settled and that we shall be delighted to see Mr.—Mr.—I don’t think I heard his name, but she’ll know.”
Jeremy carried the news to Helen, and she thanked him with a smile.
“That’s sweet of your grandmother,” she said, “but will you explain that it won’t be necessary?”
“Not necessary?” said Jeremy.
“No. You see,” said Helen, “I had a telegram from Maurice and I wired to tell him not to come. Your grandmother’s got quite enough on her hands, and it’s stupid to have still more fiancés appearing on the scene. So I told Maurice to stay where he was.”
Jeremy lowered himself into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs comfortably.
“Ah!” he said. “You told him to stay where he was.” Helen frowned slightly.
“Yes,” she said.
“Well, then,” pursued Jeremy, “what happens now—does he stay where he is?”
“Yes, he does,” said Helen, “I—”
“Because you told him to?” asked Jeremy.
Helen’s frown deepened.
“Don’t start an argument about it,” she said. “It’s quite simple—he’s an intelligent man and he knows that if I—that if there was any reason for his coming, I’d—that he—”
She stopped in some confusion, and Jeremy, after waiting politely for her to continue, spoke calmly.
“One reason,” he said, “might be that he wanted to see you.”
“He’s going to see me,” pointed out Helen, “for the rest of his life—he doesn’t have to come two hundred miles to look at me just because I’ve got a sprained ankle. I like people to be sensible—he wires ‘Shall I come’ and I wi
re ‘No’ and so he doesn’t—what’s peculiar about that?”
“Nothing at all,” said Jeremy. “It sounds a pretty good scheme. You say ‘Sit’ and he sits. Tell me, does he do ‘Trust’ and ‘Paid for’?”
Helen’s face became scarlet and Jeremy studied it with enjoyment.
“If you’re going to be unpleasant again,” she said, “I’d much rather you went somewhere else. I don’t really want to be entertained—I’ve got a lot of books.”
“I only wanted a little gratitude,” said Jeremy. “I spent all the morning working my grandparents up to the point of consenting to receive your fiancé, and now you don’t want him.”
“I didn’t—”
“—say you didn’t want him,” finished Jeremy. “Well, no. But I got the general idea—and so does he, apparently, because otherwise he’d realize that you didn’t really mean him not to come. We were going to put him into St. Jude,” he went on. “He wouldn’t have been very comfortable, I’m afraid—St. Jude is that enormous medieval chamber that the Romes always used to put knights into before important tournaments—the poor fellow slept in a shocking draught and got up the next morning with such a hell of a cold that he didn’t win a single joust. Nothing sort of cosy about St. Jude—no h. and c. and no nearby mod. cons. Sounds a little inhospitable, but you must remember that we all started off with that silly idea that you’d got yourself entangled with a bounder, and old people don’t shake off ideas very easily.”
“I never—” began Helen.
“—get entangled,” said Jeremy. “I know. I wish we all had your strength of mind.”
“Will you please,” requested Helen, “get out of here?”
“Don’t be hasty,” pleaded Jeremy. “I came in here prepared to arrange the details of your fiancé’s reception and I find that you don’t even want the guy. You can’t blame me if I get a little over-excited.”
“What,” asked Helen, “has it got to do with you?”
“Well, if he isn’t coming,” said Jeremy, “you and I can become such friends. We were getting on so nicely before you fell into that hole and dished everything. It’s going to be wonderful now—we can grow closer and closer together and—” He paused and looked at the slowly opening door. “Well! look who’s here,” he exclaimed. “Come in, Alexander. I suppose you want to see Helen’s bad foot—well, there it is—all done up like an old gentleman’s gout.”
“What,” asked Helen nervously, “has he got in his hand?”
“Let’s see, Alexander,” said Jeremy, peering. “I say, that’s not a bad specimen. Where did you get it?”
“Specimen of what?” asked Helen.
“Slug,” said Jeremy. “Round black juicy fellow— show Helen. Alexander.”
“Get him,” shouted Helen, “out of here.”
“I wouldn’t bother, then, Alexander,” said Jeremy. “Some people aren’t animal lovers—it’s regrettable, but there it is. I’d take your slug outside and let him have a run in the garden.”
Alexander decided to take this advice, and, walking across the room with his prize held in one hand, opened the door and closed it carefully behind him.
“Nice chap,” observed Jeremy. “He looks like me, but I think he’s got his father’s nature. Easy-going.”
“What,” asked Helen, “does his father do?”
“Nothing,” said Jeremy. “He’s a writer.”
“But doesn’t he—I mean, if he doesn’t do anything, how can he earn anything?” asked Helen.
“Well, you can’t have it both ways,” said Jeremy. “If you don’t work hard, like me, you can’t expect people to pay you anything. Alexander’s father hasn’t any what they call money sense. His wife sent him to America last year because somebody told her that everybody over there laid a lot of emphasis on money getting. So she sent her husband over and told him to learn about money.”
“And did he?”
“I’m coming to it,” said Jeremy. “His first letter was all about American girls—he thought they were far freer and much less inhibited than the ones of the same age over here. Then he wrote to say that he thought American husbands were so busy getting rich that they didn’t take enough time off to protect their wives from fellows who weren’t so busy—busy working, that is. Then he wrote to tell her that he thought it was absolute rot to say that American wives were cold. Then his wife wrote and fetched him home.”
“And then what?”
“Well, it had all been a misunderstanding,” explained Jeremy. “He said he thought she’d said he was to go over there and learn about honey.”
Helen laughed, and Jeremy leaned back in his chair and watched her. He was silent for so long that Helen at last put a question.
“You look awfully dreamy,” she said. “What are you thinking about?”
“Honey,” said Jeremy.
Helen looked at his expressionless face and felt herself, to her anger and embarrassment, blushing deeply. She thought that there was a slight smile on Jeremy’s lips, but she could not be sure. It was becoming increasingly difficult to be sure about anything in which Jeremy was concerned.
The door opened and a moment later Lady Rome’s voice was booming through the room. Jeremy rose to his feet and made his grandmother comfortable in the chair he had vacated, seating himself in a cross-legged position at her feet.
“I think you’re looking better, Helen, my dear,” said Lady Rome. “You were very pale yesterday. How is the ankle?”
“It’s feeling very nice, thank you,” said Helen. “I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance.”
“You know very well,” said Lady Rome, “that you’re not being anything of the sort. We like to have you, and your mother, I’m sure, is very glad that something has turned up to keep you here. And when your young man comes along,” she went on, “I’m going to put him into—”
“No—please,” broke in Helen. “My fiancé isn’t coming.”
“Not coming?” said Lady Rome in astonishment. “Dear me—but I thought he sent a telegram asking—”
“Well, yes,” said Helen, “but I told him that it wasn’t worth coming for so—I mean, I shall be back in London quite soon.”
“Yes, I see,” said Lady Rome, “but perhaps we’d better let them get St. Jude ready, because these young men don’t always do what one tells them to.”
“I’m sure,” said Helen, “that he won’t come.”
“Well, that’s a—” began Lady Rome, and paused on the brink of saying that it was a great relief. “I wish,” she went on, “that you could talk to Lucille and make her manage her young men better. Don’t you see, Jeremy, how much better Helen is at it?”
“Indeed I do,” said Jeremy earnestly. “I’ve been admiring her strength of mind—her capacity for organizing—her—”
“Alexander,” said Helen, “brought me a slug.”
“He did?—isn’t that charming?” said Lady Rome. “He loves to pick up things and look after them—I think it shows a very gentle nature—his father has just the same tender feelings.”
“I’ve just been telling Helen,” said Jeremy.
“You mustn’t stay in here too long,” said his grandmother, “and if Helen wants to be quiet and read, you mustn’t tease her. He’s a tease sometimes, Helen, my dear—you mustn’t let him worry you.”
“I won’t,” promised Helen.
“But you must talk to poor little Lucille,” went on Lady Rome, “because now that Philip is coming back, she must—”
“Who said—I mean, when’s he coming?” asked Jeremy.
“At the end of this week,” said Lady Rome. “His mother has just been talking to me on the telephone. I wish she wouldn’t bring up private matters in a telephone call—she could quite easily drive up to see me, but people are very informal nowadays, and think nothing of telephoning about the most private matters. She actually went into details about the allowance which his aunt is going to make Philip. It’s a very nice substantial sum but I can’t re
ally see why Mrs. Bellamy should telephone to me about it.”
“He’s got the money, has he?” said Jeremy.
“I suppose so,” said his grandmother. “That’s what he went for, of course, but I think it was a very awkward time to choose, with Mr. Macdonald on our hands like this. I think that Philip is, in many ways, a very nice young man, but sometimes I find myself wondering if he’s quite right in the head.”
“Helen thinks,” said Jeremy, “that I ought to throw Canny out.”
“Mr. Macdonald?—Oh, my dear Helen, why?” asked Lady Rome in distress. “The poor fellow couldn’t be blamed for coming down here—if Jeremy won’t post letters, then nobody can get them, can they? And it must have been quite a shock to the poor man to find somebody else down here pretending to be Lucille’s fiancé, too. The whole thing could have been quite a fuss, don’t you know—only one can’t allow that sort of thing. If you don’t fuss about things, they always settle down perfectly well. Jeremy will tell you what a bother we could all have got into when the new Vicar came here. We were all so fond of the old one, and we could never understand why they put a Welshman into this district. But we all got used to him in time—”
“Except Grandfather,” put in Jeremy. “He went to church once to hear him preach and then said he wasn’t going again until he could hear the Word of God spoken in His own language.”
“But nobody made any fuss,” said Lady Rome. “And we needn’t fuss about Lucille. The sensible thing is to let her make up her mind once and for all.”
“But she won’t,” said Helen, “make it up.”
“No. It’s odd, isn’t it?” said Lady Rome, “how some people can and some people can’t. You’re such a sensible little thing that you wouldn’t understand poor little Lucille’s difficulties. However,” she went on, “she must do one thing or the other now, because Mrs. Bellamy’s giving a party for Lucille and Philip on the day he comes back—it sounded very muddled over the telephone, and mixed up with Philip’s allowance from his aunt, but we’re all to go—except Mr. Macdonald, of course—and the thing will be quite an engagement party, so Lucille must make up her mind which engagement is which, mustn’t she? I think her grandfather would have said something to her, but of course, the wallflowers—of course, you know about the wallflowers, Helen, my dear?”
Family Gathering Page 17
