“I was more doubtful of them,” she admitted candidly. “There won’t be any opposition from Aunt Josephine, I imagine. And I’m going down to see Mr. Deeping tomorrow.”
“Is that so?” He looked amused and interested. “Did Carisbrooke arrange that for you?”
“No. Mr. Deeping’s nephew did.”
“Maurice Deeping?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Enough,” said Gregory Picton, in a tone of some reservation.
“We are quite good friends,” Cecile stated firmly, in a way which forestalled argument. “He was a good friend of my father, too.”
“Who told you that?” enquired her companion with an air of amused skepticism which she found provocative.
“He did.”
“Well, well,” said Gregory Picton, which had the effect (the intended effect, she feared, the moment after she had fallen into the trap) of making her ask sharply:
“What does that mean exactly? Have you anything against him?”
“Only that he is a rather lightweight young man, who would like an easy living without working for it,” was the reply, as they drew up outside the hotel.
“You seem to think you are entitled to criticize everyone,” Cecile exclaimed angrily. “Is there anyone you think highly of, I’d like to know?”
“Yes, indeed.” He turned in his seat and smiled full at her, rather wickedly. “I think highly of you.”
“That’s not a very good recovery,” she told him scornfully. “It sounds pretty feeble and unconvincing, if you want to know.”
“The unadorned truth often does,” he assured her regretfully, his eyes still sparkling a little dangerously.
“I don’t know why you should think highly of me,” Cecile said flatly. “I’ve been rude to you, disobeyed you, deflated your ego and generally behaved not at all as a trustee would want his ward, or whatever she is, to behave.”
“Perhaps,” he said, still smiling, “that is why you intrigue me.” And, before she realized what he was going to do, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her lips.
“How dare you?” Cecile could not have said just why that dismayed her. “Is that the proper way for a trustee to behave?”
“Why, yes, I think it is,” he replied, the faintest drawl in his unrepentant voice. “Why not? Surely he can adopt an avuncular air towards his ward, if he wishes?”
“Avuncular?” She laughed angrily. “Was that an uncle’s kiss that you handed out to me?”
He laughed a good deal at that.
“I leave you to decide that for yourself, Cecile.” He leaned over to open the door for her. “But if old Algernon Deeping offers to kiss you tomorrow, be sure you treat him just as roughly.”
“I don’t think,” Cecile retorted coldly, “that he is likely to presume so far.” And she got out of the car hastily, because there was something disturbing about the proximity of that laughing, vivid face.
“No?” He also got out and stood beside her on the pavement, looking down at her. “Well, perhaps he is past the age when presumption seems worth even a slap in the face.”
“And you aren’t? For all your talk of uncles?” Her eyes sparkled dangerously that time.
“At least I took the risk,” he reminded her, still smiling.
“Then you can’t complain of the result,” she replied. And, raising her hand, she flicked him lightly but sharply on his cheek, before she turned and ran into the hotel.
In the doorway, she remembered suddenly that she had not thanked him for her evening. Not for the dinner, nor the theatre, nor the capitulation about her mother. And, half remorseful, she turned again to look back at him.
He was still standing looking after her, his hand against the cheek she had flicked. For a moment their eyes met—challengingly, as they had in Court that first morning. Then he smilingly and deliberately kissed his hand to her, got back into his car and drove away.
Hardly had she come into her room when the telephone bell rang. And, with the absurd and illogical idea that it might be Gregory, with some provocative last word to say to her, she snatched up the receiver with extraordinary eagerness.
But it was her mother’s voice which said, “Is that you, Cecile?”
“Yes! Yes, darling. What is it?”
“I—wondered what happened—during your evening with Gregory Picton.”
“Oh, he took me to the Savoy and—talked to me. Then we went to the play, though we were too late for the first act. But we saw you—and you were splendid.” Cecile spoke as naturally as she could.
“He talked to you?” It was, Cecile thought, a measure of Laurie’s anxiety that she did not immediately take up the reference to the play. “What did he talk about Cecile?”
“About you,” said Cecile quietly. “He told me the—the old story about—his sister...” She heard her mother catch her breath. “Then he listened quite patiently to my point of view, and finally decided that he had nothing against my coming to share your flat with you.”
“What—was that you said? I didn’t quite hear?”
“I said Gregory listened to what I had to say, and then decided that I could live where I wanted. Which is with you.”
There was a long silence. So long that Cecile said softly, “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Mother,” she was not going to call her mother Laurie in that moment, “what is it? Are you crying?”
“No,” her mother said slowly. “I’m not crying. Because I’m not the crying sort. I’m just remembering. I remember what you were wearing the day I—left you. It was a little yellow dress, with frills. And though you wouldn’t think it to look at me now, I made it for you myself, by hand.”
“Oh—don’t,” Cecile said, “or I shall cry.”
“You smiled at me when I kissed you, and you were so little—and fat—and unknowing. I remember thinking to myself ‘There won’t be any going back. This is really goodbye. No one will ever give you a second chance.’ I’ve remembered that, all these years. And now it’s you who have grown up—and given me a second chance. Oh, it’s so sentimental to talk like this—”
“No, no, it isn’t!”
“Don’t remind me of it when I see you again. Bu it had to be said. Goodnight, Cecile.”
“Goodnight, darling,” Cecile said, and the telephone went dead in her hand.
She replaced the receiver, wiped away a foolish tear or two as she got undressed, and finally dropped into bed and slept dreamlessly.
The next day Maurice Deeping and she, in his shabby little car, drove out of London, lingered enjoyably on the way, lunched at a charming old sixteenth-century inn, and eventually came within sight of Mr. Algernon Deeping’s handsome estate about three in the afternoon.
“There you are—” Maurice paused at the top of a hill and pointed down into the lush, wooded valley, where a large stone house, with a pillared portico in front, sat squarely among the trees, as though challenging anyone to dispute its position. “That’s Erriton Hall, where Uncle Algernon lives. If you can call it living, with the small amount of fun he gets out of his thousands.”
“Perhaps he enjoys them in his own way,” Cecile suggested.
“Not he! The only pleasure he gets out of his money is the pleasure of adding to it.”
“It seems a waste,” Cecile agreed. “Who will get it all after he is gone?”
“Ah, there you’re asking.” Maurice made a face, and started the car again. “He’s capricious, you see, as well as mean. And he does get a sort of enjoyment out of keeping us all guessing.”
“Well, I’m glad he has some fun,” declared Cecile.
“It’s tough on those of us who’re kept guessing, though,” replied Maurice with feeling.
“Oh, are you in the running?”
“In many ways, I suppose I’m the favourite in the field,” Maurice said, but gloomily. “That isn’t necessarily a good thing, though. In fact, I have a feeling that, with anything so unpredictable
as the Uncle Algernon Stakes, a rank outsider may well romp home, leaving the favourite at the post.”
“In that case you’d better not count on anything, then you won’t be disappointed,” suggested Cecile philosophically.
“Of course I’ll be disappointed,” said Maurice rather crossly. “Wouldn’t anybody be disappointed if they’d even half hoped for a fortune and then got next to nothing?”
“I don’t know.” Cecile looked reflective. “I didn’t feel too awful when I found Father had left nearly nothing.”
“When—” Maurice turned to look at her in astonishment, and a dismay which she thought was excessive, even if kindly meant on her behalf. “Was that what happened?”
“Yes. I forgot to explain that bit to you. You needn’t look so upset on my behalf. I don’t mind earning my own living.”
“Don’t you?” said Maurice drily. “But then you’ve never had to do it, up to now, have you?” And then they arrived at the entrance to Erriton Hall.
Maurice had telephoned the previous day to give notice of their arrival, and a severe-looking housekeeper, introduced as Mrs. Frinton, received them in the very handsome hall.
“Mr. Deeping is waiting to see you,” she said, giving them the impression that they were late, rather than eagerly looked for, although, in point of fact, they were ten minutes earlier than the time suggested. “He is in the small drawing room.”
Then she conducted them to such a large and lofty room that Cecile was left wondering what the large drawing room could possibly be like.
In a chair by the window, with a rug over his knees, sat a spare, shrunken little man of quite indeterminable age. His hair was white and his skin deeply lined, but his eyes were dark and flashing and rather disconcertingly shrewd.
“Come in,” he said, in a high-pitched, impatient voice, “come in. Don’t leave the door open. There’s a draught.” And then, as Cecile approached his chair, he turned those uncomfortably bright eyes upon her.
“So you’re poor Henry Bernardine’s daughter?” He shook his head gloomily, but whether in sympathy for her father or poor opinion of herself, Cecile was not quite sure.
“Yes, I’m Cecile,” she agreed, and she took his dry, old hand in hers, half amused, half touched by the peculiar old man before her.
“You’re not much like him.” Uncle Algernon shook his head again. “You’re like your flibbertigibbet of a mother.”
Cecile had never heard anyone referred to as a flibbertigibbet in real life, and, while she was annoyed at this stricture on her mother, she could not but be intrigued by the use of the term. Indeed, Uncle Algernon was so much like someone out of a Victorian novel that she would not have been greatly surprised if he had addressed Maurice as “Nevvy”.
However, he addressed him as Maurice—in order to enquire disagreeably why he was not at work.
Maurice explained, with a specially winning smile, about his few days’ leave. But Uncle Algernon seemed to think poorly of this explanation. For, to Cecile’s immense delight, he said, “Tcha!” adding that Maurice would never get rich that way. Which seemed to depress Maurice unduly, Cecile thought.
“Well, sit down, sit down,” the old man said. “So I’m one of your trustees? The other two won’t be much good to you. There’s Josephine Coulter, who had no more sense than to marry a hypochondriac. And then there’s young Gregory Picton, who’s too busy playing the buffoon in the Law Courts to be much use to you either.”
“Gregory doesn’t play the buffoon at all,” Cecile said indignantly, as she recalled the extremely restrained and skillful way he had conducted his case when she was in Court.
“Well, he gets his name into the headlines of the popular newspapers,” retorted the old man. “And no one does that without playing the buffoon.”
“I don’t agree with you at all,” stated Cecile pleasantly but firmly. Which seemed to cause a certain amount of anxiety to Maurice, and a good deal of astonishment and pleasure to Uncle Algernon.
“You don’t need to,” Uncle Algernon said. “But don’t you go thinking Gregory Picton is perfect, just because he has a handsome face and a lot of animal vitality.”
“I don’t think he is perfect at all,” Cecile retorted unequivocally.
“No?” Uncle Algernon gave her a malicious little glance of enquiry. “Well, a lot of girls do. But none of them have a chance with him, I can tell you that. The only one who ever did was my great-niece, Felicity Waring. And she didn’t want him.”
CHAPTER IV
It said something for Cecile’s self-control that she did not exclaim, “Felicity Waring? Oh, do tell me about her.”
But she had already taken the measure of Uncle Algernon and was certain that any direct request for information would be met by clam-like reserve. So, instead, she said reflectively, “I think I met her last night. She had just come home from the States. But I didn’t know she was your great-niece.”
“She wouldn’t be wearing a label to that effect,” replied Uncle Algernon disagreeably, because at this particular moment he wished to be the one imparting information, not receiving it. Though strictly on his own terms. “Where did you meet her?” he asked grudgingly.
“At the theatre.”
“So you’ve been running round to plays, as another way of wasting your time, eh?” Uncle Algernon shot a critical glance at his nephew.
“Not at all. I went with Gregory Picton,” stated Cecile crisply, before Maurice could reply for himself.
“You did?” Uncle Algernon’s eyes gleamed afresh. “And he was with you when you met Felicity?”
“He made the introduction.”
“Well, well.” Uncle Algernon seemed prepared to take immense vicarious pleasure in the meeting. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” said Cecile, who thought he deserved that, after the nasty way he had spoken to Maurice.
“What do you mean—nothing?” Uncle Algernon gave her a cross but incredibly knowing glance. “They spoke to each other, I suppose, didn’t they?”
“Oh, yes. They seemed rather surprised to see each other. But then she explained about having just come back from America, and he remarked that it was quite by chance that we happened to be at the same theatre.”
“Did she believe that?” The old man chuckled.
“I don’t know why she shouldn’t,” Cecile said calmly. “It was the truth. It was only at the last minute that we decided to go. After the first act was over.”
“Oh.” Uncle Algernon seemed rather disappointed about this. And he added, on principle, “Shocking waste of money, paying for seats and seeing only half the play.”
“We saw two-thirds of it,” Cecile stated exactly. “And we didn’t pay for seats, anyway. We were invited into the actor-manager’s box. And Felicity was there.”
“Just like that?” Uncle Algernon began to cheer up. “Was Gregory very much taken aback at seeing her?”
“If so, he hid it remarkably well,” replied Cecile. But she remembered in that moment the half nervous way Lady Lucas’s hand had closed on hers, as she told Gregory that Felicity was in the box.
At this point, Uncle Algernon slid further down in his chair, rather like a disgruntled child, and looked aggrieved.
“No one ever tells the old man anything,” he muttered. “They just leave him to find out for himself. And then they expect him to be pleasant and leave them all his money.”
“Nonsense,” said Cecile, kindly but briskly—which had the effect of making him sit up again. “What you really mean is that you would like me to tell you some malicious gossip about Gregory and your great-niece, so that the next time you see either of them you can show you know more than they know themselves, and enjoy their discomfiture.”
“Cecile—” murmured Maurice, in a warning sort of way.
But the old man turned on him angrily.
“You leave her alone. She has some real spirit and doesn’t mind speaking out. And she’s right too—though her grammar is poor. I d
o enjoy finding out about people and showing that I know as much as they do, even though I’m sitting here in a chair, leading a miserable dull life, with no one to care whether I live or die, except for getting my money. And why shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” said Cecile mildly. “Except that you won’t make yourself very popular that way.”
“I don’t want to be popular. I like being unpopular.”
“Well, that simplifies things, anyway.” And Cecile laughed. It was a pretty laugh. Gay and full of real amusement, and it seemed to shatter the dull formality of the room into a thousand sparkling fragments.
For a moment Uncle Algernon looked at her in surprise. Then he grinned back at her, with a sort of malicious good humour.
“I like you,” he remarked.
“Do you? I think I like you,” Cecile replied candidly. “At least you are not the slightest bit like anyone else.”
Uncle Algernon looked enormously gratified.
“But,” Cecile went on, “I don’t hold any brief for your snooping into other people’s affairs, for the sheer pleasure of showing you can find things out, even when you are sitting here.”
“Now you’re being too bright,” he growled, giving her a more wary look. “I like you best when you’re amusing and laugh. I don’t want you, or anyone else, lecturing me.”
“You prefer to do the lecturing yourself, don’t you?” Cecile flashed a smile at him.
“That’s right.” He grinned again at that, and then said unexpectedly, “I might leave you some money, if you come down here sometimes and talk to me.”
“I shall come down sometimes, in any case,” Cecile told him, “but I don’t want your money for that.”
“Nonsense.” He seemed quite nettled at the idea that she should be independent of his whims. “Of course you do. Everyone wants money. Why shouldn’t you want some of mine?”
“I’m not entitled to it, for one thing,” Cecile said. “You have relations of your own.”
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