Anthony turned to meet her, and Mirrie sparkled and said,
‘It’s a lovely morning. And Anthony’s going to show me a place in the wood where a badger lives, only he says we shan’t see him, because he only comes out at night. Why do you suppose he does that? I should hate to go out in the dark alone – wouldn’t you?’
‘But then you’re not a badger,’ said Anthony in a teasing voice.
After breakfast Georgina took the anonymous letter to Jonathan Field in the study. He looked up with an air of impatience as she came to stand by the writing-table and put the envelope down in front of him.
‘This came by the morning post. I thought I had better show it to you.’
When he spoke, the impatience was in his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s an anonymous letter.’
‘An anonymous – what nonsense!’
‘I thought you had better see it.’
He picked the envelope up, his brows drawn very close and black above his deep-set eyes. He got the letter out, frowned even more darkly, and read it through. When he had come to the end he turned back and read it a second time. Then glancing up he said sharply,
‘Any idea who wrote it?’
‘Absolutely none.’
He dropped it on the blotting-pad.
‘Cheap paper, bad writing. What’s it all about?’
‘I don’t know.’
He leaned back, swinging his chair round so that he faced her.
‘A cheap, nasty letter. But why was it written?’
She said again, ‘I don’t know.’
His voice was suddenly sharp.
‘It means there’s been talk! About Mirrie and about you! People have been talking! Why? Something must have been going on to make this talk about you! Why haven’t I been told?’
‘There wasn’t anything to tell.’
He brought his hand down hard upon the letter.
‘There’s no smoke without some fire! No one writes a letter like this unless there’s been talk! Talk and feeling! If you weren’t getting on with Mirrie you ought to have told me! You might know she wouldn’t say anything. She is always thinking about what she can do to please you. I suppose that ought to have opened my eyes. I can’t think why it didn’t. She hasn’t ever felt secure – she hasn’t felt sure of herself or of you.’
Georgina went back a step.
‘Uncle Jonathan!’
‘I thought you would be glad to have her here – as glad as I was. She is so grateful for everything – so anxious to please. I can’t understand why you should have taken this prejudice.’
‘Why do you say that I have taken a prejudice?’
He had always been quick to anger, but not against her. She was not afraid, but she felt herself vulnerable. The whole thing was so sudden, so much a denial of what their relationship had always been. His hand beat on the table and on the letter that lay there.
‘I don’t understand this about the clothes – giving her old things to wear. It would be very humiliating – very humiliating indeed. For her – and for me, since it seems it has been noticed. I can’t think how you came to do such a thing!’
Georgina’s eyes had not left his face. She saw it hard and altered. She steadied her voice and said,
‘You haven’t waited to ask me whether I did do it.’
‘Well, I am asking you now.’
She came a step nearer and rested her hand on the edge of the table.
‘Will you let me tell you just what happened? You brought Mirrie here, and she had nothing. You said she had come on a visit. You didn’t say for how long. You didn’t say that you meant to make yourself responsible for her.’
‘I hadn’t made any plans.’
‘Uncle Jonathan, she really hadn’t got anything. I took one or two things of my own over to Mrs. Bell at Deeping. She is very clever about alterations, and she took them in and made them fit. If Mirrie minded she didn’t say so. She seemed to be terribly pleased. She said she had never had anything so nice before, and I suppose she hadn’t. They were very good things.’
His face was closed against her. He said,
‘You shouldn’t have done it. It was putting her in a wrong position. You should have come to me.’
‘I didn’t like to.’
She couldn’t say – it wasn’t in her to say – that there had been an instinct to protect the stray kitten of a creature that he had brought home with him. There had been a trunk full of what was literally rubbish – old musty clothes, chiefly black – old tattered books – and a frightful mangy eiderdown pushed in on the top to keep the other things steady. There wasn’t anything that could have been worn in Field End. There wasn’t anything at all. She couldn’t tell him that Mirrie hadn’t a change of underclothes, or a nightgown to sleep in, or practically anything except a cheap shoddy dress she stood up in and the cheap shoddy coat which covered it.
Jonathan echoed her last words.
‘You didn’t like to? Why?’
Georgina had an appalled feeling that they were sliding rapidly down a steep place to disaster. She had known him for too many years to mistake what was happening. She had seen him involved in too many breaches, controversies, and quarrels, starting often from some infinitesimal seed and ending in bitter estrangement. And always whilst the process was going on he would be impervious to argument or reason. But this was the first time it had happened with her. She had been seventeen years under his roof, and it was the very first time. She couldn’t believe that he had gone too far away for her to reach him. She only knew that she had to try. She said,
‘It’s difficult—’
‘I asked you why you didn’t come to me. Well, why didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t know what you wanted – what you meant to do. I really didn’t like to let you, to let anyone know, how little she had. I didn’t know you meant her to stay. Don’t you see I wanted to be nice to her? I thought it would be just a thing between us – between two girls. It’s the sort of thing that is happening in families all the time, girls passing them on because they’ve grown out of them, or because they’ve got tired of them and think they would like to have a change.’
Jonathan broke in on a hard sarcastic note.
‘Yes – now we’re getting there! You were tired of the things and you wanted a change. They weren’t good enough for you, but they were all right for Mirrie. And she was so innocent and inexperienced she didn’t see that she was being humiliated. Do you know what she said to me the other day? I thought it was one of the most pathetic things I had ever heard. I had given her a cheque to fit herself out, and she came in here before dinner to show me her dress. She looked a picture, and she held up a bit of the skirt and said, “Do you know, this is the first bought dress of my own I’ve ever had.” Cast-offs, that was all she’d had all her life – other people’s cast-offs. Charity parcels! And then after I brought her here, when you might think she had got away from all that, she runs into it again. You pick out some old clothes you don’t want any more, let the village dressmaker botch them up, and get the poor child to believe you are doing her a kindness in foisting them on her!’
They had got a long way from the anonymous letter, and a long way from reason and from the likelihood that he could be got to listen to her and to understand. She couldn’t get near him, she couldn’t reach him at all. The letter lay where he had dropped it on his blotting-pad. She came round to stand beside him and leaned to pick it up. As she turned away with it in her hand, he said,
‘Wait! There is something I have been going to say to you.’
He pushed his own chair back and sat there tapping on the arm. Then he looked over to her and spoke briefly.
‘It’s about my will.’
She was pale above the pale primrose of her jumper and cardigan. The dark grey eyes looked all the darker for it. When he said, ‘It’s about my will,’ a little colour came up momentarily and then was gone again.
�
�Uncle Jonathan—’
He lifted a hand from his knees.
‘I am speaking. What I want you to do is to listen. I suppose like everyone else you have taken it for granted that whatever I have will come to you?’
‘Uncle Jonathan, please—’
He rapped out, ‘I have told you that I am speaking! All I want you to do is to listen! There is nothing more offensive than the intrusion of emotion into matters of business. This is a matter of business. It concerns my will. I don’t wish you to be under any misapprehension as to its terms. I have never embarrassed you or myself by discussing them with you, but since I have recently decided to make certain alterations, I feel that you should be informed. I don’t want you to think that my decision has been made in a hurry, or because of any indignation which I may be feeling at the moment. I came to the conclusion some time ago that my present will no longer expressed my wishes. I am therefore proposing to make certain alterations. In the main the legacies to the household staff and to charities will remain as they are, but there will be important changes in some other directions. I intend to make provision for Mirrie.’
Georgina drew in her breath. She said quickly and warmly,
‘But of course, Uncle Jonathan.’
There was a faint sarcastic lift of the black brows which made so decorative a contrast with his thick grey hair. He said,
‘Very nice of you, I am sure, but I would ask you not to interrupt. I intend to provide for Mirrie by making her secure and independent. This will make a considerable difference in what under my present will is left to you.’
‘Uncle Jonathan—’
‘Disinterestedness can be overdone, my dear. Are you going to pretend you wouldn’t care if I cut you off without a penny?’
She said in a quick indignant voice,
‘Of course I should care! It would mean that you were terribly angry, or that you didn’t care for me any more – of course I should care! But not about Mirrie. I should be very glad about your providing for Mirrie. Oh, darling, please wake up and stop thinking dreadful things about me! I don’t see how we can be talking to each other like this. It’s like some frightful drean – it really is! What has put such horrible ideas into your head?’
He said,
‘They are facts, and facts are inconvenient things. You can’t get away from them by calling them dreams. If a thing is plain enough for you to be getting anonymous letters about it, it’s time something was done. You’ve been jealous of that poor child from the first, and I was a fool not to see it.’
Georgina said slowly,
‘Who has been putting these things into your mind? Is it Mirrie?’
There was bleak anger in his eyes.
‘Mirrie? No, it wasn’t Mirrie, poor child. She thinks you have meant to be kind to her. It’s been all, “Look how kind Georgina is! She has given me an old dress of hers – such a pretty colour,” or, “Isn’t she kind! She says I can come out for a walk with her and Anthony, but of course I knew she would rather be alone with him, so I didn’t go.”
‘There was something about that in your letter wasn’t there? Something about A. H. getting too fond of her. Now, my dear, I’ll give you a bit of advice, and if you’ve any sense you’ll take it. There’s nothing any man dislikes more than a jealous, spiteful woman, so if you are interested in Anthony Hallam, I would advise you to be careful how you show your jealousy of Mirrie.’
She did not know what to do or what to say. Her every word and look seemed only to feed that strange unnatural anger. It was no use talking to him whilst he was like this – she had better go. But if she said nothing, the whole thing went by default. She made an effort and spoke.
‘I never thought of being jealous.’
‘Then you had better do so without delay! It is a bad fault and you should try to correct it. If you married it could wreck your life. I tell you frankly that there is nothing which puts a man off so much.’
It wasn’t any good. He had worked himself into a state of exasperation where there was nothing she could do or say. She said,
‘It isn’t any good my saying anything, is it, but I haven’t really thought about Mirrie like that. I don’t know what has happened between us. I don’t know what you want me to do. I think I had better go.’
Her voice had got slower and slower. Now it just left off. She turned with the letter in her hand went across the room to the door. She had her back to him as she went, and all at once she had the feeling that there was something behind her, something that was an enemy. There was the old, old instinct that it wasn’t wise to turn your back upon an enemy. She came to the door and found it unlatched and went out. She thought that she had shut it behind her when she came into the room. But it was unlatched now.
SIX
ANTHONY HALLAM WAS coming down the stairs. Because he always looked at Georgina when she was there to look at he looked across at her now, and saw at once that something had happened. For one thing there was no colour in her face, just absolutely none, and for another the way she was coming towards him across the hall she might have been blind. Her eyes were fixed, but not on him, and if she wasn’t exactly feeling her way, she had one hand a little out in front of her and it gave that effect. It was her left hand and it was empty. Her right hand hung down with a letter in it. He ran down the rest of the stairs and met her as she came to the bottom step.
‘Georgina – what is it? Have you had bad news?’
He was one step above her. She looked up at him as if she had only just seen that he was there and said, ‘Yes.’ He could see right down into her eyes, and they had a lost look.
‘What is it?’
The hand which had been stretched out took hold of the baluster. The other one, the one that held the letter, motioned him to let her pass. He stepped aside, and she went on up the stairs without turning her head. He went up behind her, but she did not seem to know that he was there. She had her own sitting-room on the first floor. It was along a passage to the left, a bright room looking south-east with a view over the terrace to the garden with its sloping lawn and the great cedar which had been there since the house was built. He went in with her, and the first time she noticed him was when she put out a hand to shut the door and it touched his own. She moved at once and said,
‘I want to be alone.’
‘I’ll go if you want me to. But can’t you tell me what is the matter? You look—’
She went over to a table and put down the letter she was holding. Then she took a yellow linen handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket and rubbed her hand with it. He had the impression that she was wiping something off. He said quickly,
‘Is it that letter?’
There was a moment that said, ‘Yes.’
‘Who is it from?’
‘I don’t know. Anthony—’
‘Don’t send me away. I can’t go – I want to help you. Won’t you tell me what has happened?’
She moved her head in a gesture which indicated the letter.
‘Do you mean I am to read it?’
She had a moment of indecision. She had shut her doors. There was an impulse to bolt them against him, there was an impulse to throw them wide and let him in. There was no conscious thought behind the pressure of these two things. Each had its own urge, its own force. And then quite suddenly she was letting the second impulse have its way. She hadn’t known what she was going to do until she was doing it. She heard herself say,
‘Yes, read it.’
Whilst he was reading it she watched him. She was tall, but he stood half a head above her. He had a tanned skin and pleasantly irregular features, eyes between blue and grey, eyebrows dark with a sort of quirk in them, a good strong line of jaw, and a firm-set mouth and chin. There floated vaguely on the surface of her mind an old and comforting impression that he didn’t look as if he would ever let anyone down.
He was frowning over the letter. When he got down to the bottom of the second page where it left off he said,
>
‘The proper place for anonymous letters is the fire. Let’s burn it.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Much better get rid of it, unless – have you any idea where it comes from?’
‘No.’
‘You had much better put it on the fire.’
She had begun to remember what she ought to have remembered before, that he came into the letter himself. One of the more unpleasant sentences floated up – ‘because you want everything for yourself, and because she is prettier than you are and with much more taking ways, and because A. H. and others have begun to think so.’ She was Mirrie, and A. H. was Anthony Hallam. He couldn’t miss it, or the place right at the end where it said, ‘because you think J. F. is getting fond of her as well as A. H.’ She said,
‘I ought not to have let you read it.’
‘I’m very glad you did.’
She drew a long troubled breath.
‘I oughtn’t to have let anyone read it. I didn’t think – I never thought that anyone would believe those things were true.’
‘Of course they wouldn’t!’
‘Uncle Jonathan did.’
When she said that, he knew where the lost look came from. It wasn’t the anonymous letter that had shaken her. It was Jonathan Field.
‘He didn’t!’
‘He did. I thought I ought to show it to him. I never thought he would believe it, but he did. He has got very fond of Mirrie, and he thinks I’m jealous. I don’t think I am – I really don’t think so. But he believes it. I even began to think he might have written the letter himself. Not really, you know, but he did seem to agree with everything it said.’
The Fingerprint (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 30) Page 4
