Kitabı oku: «Sad Cypress»

CHAPTER 1

An anonymous letter!

Elinor Carlisle stood looking down at it as it lay open in her hand. She’d never had such a thing before. It gave one an unpleasant sensation. Ill-written, badly spelt, on cheap pink paper.

This is to Warn You (it ran),

I’m naming no Names but there’s Someone sucking up to your Aunt and if you’re not kareful you’ll get Cut Out of Everything. Girls Are very Artful and Old Ladies is Soft when Young Ones suck up to Them and Flatter them What I say is You’d best come down and see for Yourself whats Going On its not right you and the Young Gentleman should be Done Out of What’s yours—and She’s Very Artful and the Old Lady might Pop off at any time.

Well-Wisher

Elinor was still staring at this missive, her plucked brows drawn together in distaste, when the door opened. The maid announced, ‘Mr Welman,’ and Roddy came in.

Roddy! As always when she saw Roddy, Elinor was conscious of a slightly giddy feeling, a throb of sudden pleasure, a feeling that it was incumbent upon her to be very matter-of-fact and unemotional. Because it was so very obvious that Roddy, although he loved her, didn’t feel about her the way she felt about him. The first sight of him did something to her, twisted her heart round so that it almost hurt. Absurd that a man—an ordinary, yes, a perfectly ordinary young man—should be able to do that to one! That the mere look of him should set the world spinning, that his voice should make you want—just a little—to cry… Love surely should be a pleasurable emotion—not something that hurt you by its intensity…

One thing was clear: one must be very, very careful to be off-hand and casual about it all. Men didn’t like devotion and adoration. Certainly Roddy didn’t.

She said lightly:

‘Hallo, Roddy!’

Roddy said:

‘Hallo, darling. You’re looking very tragic. Is it a bill?’

Elinor shook her head.

Roddy said:

‘I thought it might be—midsummer, you know—when the fairies dance, and the accounts rendered come tripping along!’

Elinor said:

‘It’s rather horrid. It’s an anonymous letter.’

Roddy’s brows went up. His keen fastidious face stiffened and changed. He said—a sharp, disgusted exclamation:

‘No!’

Elinor said again:

‘It’s rather horrid…’

She moved a step towards her desk.

‘I’d better tear it up, I suppose.’

She could have done that—she almost did—for Roddy and anonymous letters were two things that ought not to come together. She might have thrown it away and thought no more about it. He would not have stopped her. His fastidiousness was far more strongly developed than his curiosity.

But on impulse Elinor decided differently. She said:

‘Perhaps, though, you’d better read it first. Then we’ll burn it. It’s about Aunt Laura.’

Roddy’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘Aunt Laura?’

He took the letter, read it, gave a frown of distaste, and handed it back.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Definitely to be burnt! How extraordinary people are!’

Elinor said:

‘One of the servants, do you think?’

‘I suppose so.’ He hesitated. ‘I wonder who—who the person is—the one they mention?’

Elinor said thoughtfully:

‘It must be Mary Gerrard, I think.’

Roddy frowned in an effort of remembrance.

‘Mary Gerrard? Who’s she?’

‘The daughter of the people at the lodge. You must remember her as a child? Aunt Laura was always fond of the girl, and took an interest in her. She paid for her schooling and for various extras—piano lessons and French and things.’

Roddy said:

‘Oh, yes, I remember her now: scrawny kid, all legs and arms, with a lot of messy fair hair.’

Elinor nodded.

‘Yes, you probably haven’t seen her since those summer holidays when Mum and Dad were abroad. You’ve not been down at Hunterbury as often as I have, of course, and she’s been abroad au pair in Germany lately, but we used to rout her out and play with her when we were all kids.’

‘What’s she like now?’ asked Roddy.

Elinor said:

‘She’s turned out very nice-looking. Good manners and all that. As a result of her education, you’d never take her for old Gerrard’s daughter.’

‘Gone all lady-like, has she?’

‘Yes. I think, as a result of that, she doesn’t get on very well at the lodge. Mrs Gerrard died some years ago, you know, and Mary and her father don’t get on. He jeers at her schooling and her “fine ways”.’

Roddy said irritably:

‘People never dream what harm they may do by “educating” someone! Often it’s cruelty, not kindness!’

Elinor said:

‘I suppose she is up at the house a good deal… She reads aloud to Aunt Laura, I know, since she had her stroke.’

Roddy said:

‘Why can’t the nurse read to her?’

Elinor said with a smile:

‘Nurse O’Brien’s got a brogue you can cut with a knife! I don’t wonder Aunt Laura prefers Mary.’

Roddy walked rapidly and nervously up and down the room for a minute or two. Then he said:

‘You know, Elinor, I believe we ought to go down.’

Elinor said with a slight recoil:

‘Because of this—?’

‘No, no—not at all. Oh, damn it all, one must be honest, yes! Foul as that communication is, there may be some truth behind it. I mean, the old girl is pretty ill—’

‘Yes, Roddy.’

He looked at her with his charming smile—admitting the fallibility of human nature. He said:

‘And the money does matter—to you and me, Elinor.’

She admitted it quickly.

‘Oh, it does.’

He said seriously:

‘It’s not that I’m mercenary. But, after all, Aunt Laura herself has said over and over again that you and I are her only family ties. You’re her own niece, her brother’s child, and I’m her husband’s nephew. She’s always given us to understand that at her death all she’s got would come to one or other—or more probably both—of us. And—and it’s a pretty large sum, Elinor.’

‘Yes,’ said Elinor thoughtfully. ‘It must be.’

‘It’s no joke keeping up Hunterbury.’ He paused. ‘Uncle Henry was what you’d call, I suppose, comfortably off when he met your Aunt Laura. But she was an heiress. She and your father were both left very wealthy. Pity your father speculated and lost most of his.’

Elinor sighed.

‘Poor Father never had much business sense. He got very worried over things before he died.’

‘Yes, your Aunt Laura had a much better head than he had. She married Uncle Henry and they bought Hunterbury, and she told me the other day that she’d been exceedingly lucky always in her investments. Practically nothing had slumped.’

‘Uncle Henry left all he had to her when he died, didn’t he?’

Roddy nodded.

‘Yes, tragic his dying so soon. And she’s never married again. Faithful old bean. And she’s always been very good to us. She’s treated me as if I was her nephew by blood. If I’ve been in a hole she’s helped me out; luckily I haven’t done that too often!’

‘She’s been awfully generous to me, too,’ said Elinor gratefully.

Roddy nodded.

‘Aunt Laura,’ he said, ‘is a brick. But, you know, Elinor, perhaps without meaning to do so, you and I live pretty extravagantly, considering what our means really are!’

She said ruefully:

‘I suppose we do… Everything costs so much—clothes and one’s face—and just silly things like cinemas and cocktails—and even gramophone records!’

Roddy said:

‘Darling, you are one of the lilies of the field, aren’t you? You toil not, neither do you spin!’

Elinor said:

‘Do you think I ought to, Roddy?’

He shook his head.

‘I like you as you are: delicate and aloof and ironical. I’d hate you to go all earnest. I’m only saying that if it weren’t for Aunt Laura you probably would be working at some grim job.’

He went on:

‘The same with me. I’ve got a job, of sorts. Being with Lewis & Hume is not too arduous. It suits me. I preserve my self-respect by having a job; but—mark this—but I don’t worry about the future because of my expectations—from Aunt Laura.’

Elinor said:

‘We sound rather like human leeches!’

‘Nonsense! We’ve been given to understand that some day we shall have money—that’s all. Naturally, that fact influences our conduct.’

Elinor said thoughtfully:

‘Aunt Laura has never told us definitely just how she has left her money?’

Roddy said:

‘That doesn’t matter! In all probability she’s divided it between us; but if that isn’t so—if she’s left all of it or most of it to you as her own flesh and blood—why, then, darling, I shall share in it, because I’m going to marry you—and if the old pet thinks the majority should go to me as the male representative of the Welmans, that’s still all right, because you’re marrying me.’

He grinned at her affectionately. He said:

‘Lucky we happen to love each other. You do love me, don’t you, Elinor?’

‘Yes.’

She said it coldly, almost primly.

‘Yes!’ Roddy mimicked her. ‘You’re adorable, Elinor. That little air of yours—aloof—untouchable—la Princesse Lointaine. It’s that quality of yours that made me love you, I believe.’

Elinor caught her breath. She said, ‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’ He frowned. ‘Some women are so—oh, I don’t know—so damned possessive—so—so dog-like and devoted—their emotions slopping all over the place! I’d hate that. With you I never know—I’m never sure—any minute you might turn round in that cool, detached way of yours and say you’d changed your mind—quite coolly, like that—without batting an eyelash! You’re a fascinating creature, Elinor. You’re like a work of art—so—so—finished!’

He went on:

‘You know, I think ours will be the perfect marriage… We both love each other enough and not too much. We’re good friends. We’ve got a lot of tastes in common. We know each other through and through. We’ve all the advantages of cousinship without the disadvantages of blood relationship. I shall never get tired of you, because you’re such an elusive creature. You may get tired of me, though. I’m such an ordinary sort of chap—’

Elinor shook her head. She said:

‘I shan’t get tired of you, Roddy—never.’

‘My sweet!’

He kissed her.

He said:

‘Aunt Laura has a pretty shrewd idea of how it is with us, I think, although we haven’t been down since we finally fixed it up. It rather gives us an excuse, doesn’t it, for going down?’

‘Yes. I was thinking the other day—’

Roddy finished the sentence for her:

‘—That we hadn’t been down as often as we might. I thought that, too. When she first had her stroke we went down almost every other week-end. And now it must be almost two months since we were there.’

Elinor said:

‘We’d have gone if she’d asked for us—at once.’

‘Yes, of course. And we know that she likes Nurse O’Brien and is well looked after. All the same, perhaps we have been a bit slack. I’m talking now not from the money point of view—but the sheer human one.’

Elinor nodded.

‘I know.’

‘So that filthy letter has done some good, after all! We’ll go down to protect our interests and because we’re fond of the old dear!’

He lit a match and set fire to the letter which he took from Elinor’s hand.

‘Wonder who wrote it?’ he said. ‘Not that it matters… Someone who was “on our side”, as we used to say when we were kids. Perhaps they’ve done us a good turn, too. Jim Partington’s mother went out to the Riviera to live, had a handsome young Italian doctor to attend her, became quite crazy about him and left him every penny she had. Jim and his sisters tried to upset the will, but couldn’t.’

Elinor said:

‘Aunt Laura likes the new doctor who’s taken over Dr Ransome’s practice—but not to that extent! Anyway, that horrid letter mentioned a girl. It must be Mary.’

Roddy said:

‘We’ll go down and see for ourselves…’

Nurse O’Brien rustled out of Mrs Welman’s bedroom and into the bathroom. She said over her shoulder:

‘I’ll just pop the kettle on. You could do with a cup of tea before you go on, I’m sure, Nurse.’

Nurse Hopkins said comfortably:

‘Well, dear, I can always do with a cup of tea. I always say there’s nothing like a nice cup of tea—a strong cup!’

Nurse O’Brien said as she filled the kettle and lit the gas-ring:

‘I’ve got everything here in this cupboard—teapot and cups and sugar—and Edna brings me up fresh milk twice a day. No need to be forever ringing bells. ’Tis a fine gas-ring, this; boils a kettle in a flash.’

Nurse O’Brien was a tall red-haired woman of thirty with flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile. Her cheerfulness and vitality made her a favourite with her patients. Nurse Hopkins, the District Nurse who came every morning to assist with the bed-making and toilet of the heavy old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a capable air and a brisk manner.

She said now approvingly:

‘Everything’s very well done in this house.’

The other nodded.

‘Yes, old-fashioned, some of it, no central heating, but plenty of fires and all the maids are very obliging girls and Mrs Bishop looks after them well.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘These girls nowadays—I’ve no patience with ’em—don’t know what they want, most of them—and can’t do a decent day’s work.’

‘Mary Gerrard’s a nice girl,’ said Nurse O’Brien. ‘I really don’t know what Mrs Welman would do without her. You saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, she’s a lovely creature, I will say, and she’s got a way with her.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘I’m sorry for Mary. That old father of hers does his best to spite the girl.’

‘Not a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon,’ said Nurse O’Brien. ‘There, the kettle’s singing. I’ll wet the tea as soon as it comes to the boil.’

The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two nurses sat with it in Nurse O’Brien’s room next door to Mrs Welman’s bedroom.

‘Mr Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down,’ said Nurse O’Brien. ‘There was a telegram came this morning.’

‘There now, dear,’ said Nurse Hopkins. ‘I thought the old lady was looking excited about something. It’s some time since they’ve been down, isn’t it?’

‘It must be two months and over. Such a nice young gentleman, Mr Welman. But very proud-looking.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘I saw her picture in the Tatler the other day—with a friend at Newmarket.’

Nurse O’Brien said:

‘She’s very well known in society, isn’t she? And always has such lovely clothes. Do you think she’s really good-looking, Nurse?’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘Difficult to tell what these girls really look like under their make-up! In my opinion, she hasn’t got anything like the looks Mary Gerrard has!’

Nurse O’Brien pursed her lips and put her head on one side.

‘You may be right now. But Mary hasn’t got the style!’

Nurse Hopkins said sententiously:

‘Fine feathers make fine birds.’

‘Another cup of tea, Nurse?’

‘Thank you, Nurse. I don’t mind if I do.’

Over their steaming cups the women drew a little closer together.

Nurse O’Brien said:

‘An odd thing happened last night. I went in at two o’clock to settle my dear comfortably, as I always do, and she was lying there awake. But she must have been dreaming, for as soon as I got into the room she said, “The photograph. I must have the photograph.”

‘So I said, “Why, of course, Mrs Welman. But wouldn’t you rather wait till morning?” And she said, “No, I want to look at it now.” So I said, “Well, where is this photograph? Is it the one of Mr Roderick you’re meaning?” And she said, “Roder-ick? No. Lewis.” And she began to struggle, and I went to lift her and she got out her keys from the little box beside her bed and told me to unlock the second drawer of the tall-boy, and there, sure enough, was a big photograph in a silver frame. Such a handsome man. And “Lewis” written across the corner. Old-fashioned, of course, must have been taken many years ago. I took it to her and she held it there, staring at it a long time. And she just murmured. “Lewis—Lewis.” Then she sighed and gave it to me and told me to put it back. And would you believe it, when I turned round again she’d gone off as sweetly as a child.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘Was it her husband, do you think?’

Nurse O’Brien said:

‘It was not! For this morning I asked Mrs Bishop, careless-like, what was the late Mr Welman’s first name, and it was Henry, she told me!’

The two women exchanged glances. Nurse Hopkins had a long nose, and the end of it quivered a little with pleasurable emotion. She said thoughtfully:

‘Lewis—Lewis. I wonder, now. I don’t recall the name anywhere round these parts.’

‘It would be many years ago, dear,’ the other reminded her.

‘Yes, and, of course, I’ve only been here a couple of years. I wonder now—’

Nurse O’Brien said:

‘A very handsome man. Looked as though he might be a cavalry officer!’

Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said:

‘That’s very interesting.’

Nurse O’Brien said romantically:

‘Maybe they were boy and girl together and a cruel father separated them…’

Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh:

‘Perhaps he was killed in the war…’

When Nurse Hopkins, pleasantly stimulated by tea and romantic speculation, finally left the house, Mary Gerrard ran out of the door to overtake her.

‘Oh, Nurse, may I walk down to the village with you?’

‘Of course you can, Mary, my dear.’

Mary Gerrard said breathlessly:

‘I must talk to you. I’m so worried about everything.’

The older woman looked at her kindly.

At twenty-one, Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a kind of wild-rose unreality about her: a long delicate neck, pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep vivid blue.

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘The trouble is that the time is going on and on and I’m not doing anything!’

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

‘Time enough for that.’

‘No, but it is so—so unsettling. Mrs Welman has been wonderfully kind, giving me all that expensive schooling. I do feel now that I ought to be starting to earn my own living. I ought to be training for something.’

Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically.

‘It’s such a waste of everything if I don’t. I’ve tried to—to explain what I feel to Mrs Welman, but—it’s difficult—she doesn’t seem to understand. She keeps saying there’s plenty of time.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘She’s a sick woman, remember.’

Mary flushed, a contrite flush.

‘Oh, I know. I suppose I oughtn’t to bother her. But it is worrying—and Father’s so—so beastly about it! Keeps jibing at me for being a fine lady! But indeed I don’t want to sit about doing nothing!’

‘I know you don’t.’

‘The trouble is that training of any kind is nearly always expensive. I know German pretty well now, and I might do something with that. But I think really I want to be a hospital nurse. I do like nursing and sick people.’

Nurse Hopkins said unromantically:

‘You’ve got to be as strong as a horse, remember!’

‘I am strong! And I really do like nursing. Mother’s sister, the one in New Zealand, was a nurse. So it’s in my blood, you see.’

‘What about massage?’ suggested Nurse Hopkins. ‘Or Norland? You’re fond of children. There’s good money to be made in massage.’

Mary said doubtfully:

‘It’s expensive to train for it, isn’t it? I hoped—but of course that’s very greedy of me—she’s done so much for me already.’

‘Mrs Welman, you mean? Nonsense. In my opinion, she owes you that. She’s given you a slap-up education, but not the kind that leads to anything much. You don’t want to teach?’

‘I’m not clever enough.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘There’s brains and brains! If you take my advice, Mary, you’ll be patient for the present. In my opinion, as I said, Mrs Welman owes it to you to help you get a start at making your living. And I’ve no doubt she means to do it. But the truth of the matter is, she’s got fond of you, and she doesn’t want to lose you.’

Mary said:

‘Oh!’ She drew in her breath with a little gasp. ‘Do you really think that’s it?’

‘I haven’t the least doubt of it! There she is, poor old lady, more or less helpless, paralysed one side and nothing and nobody much to amuse her. It means a lot to her to have a fresh, pretty young thing like you about the house. You’ve a very nice way with you in a sick-room.’

Mary said softly:

‘If you really think so—that makes me feel better… Dear Mrs Welman, I’m very, very fond of her! She’s been so good to me always. I’d do anything for her!’

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

‘Then the best thing you can do is to stay where you are and stop worrying! It won’t be for long.’

Mary said, ‘Do you mean—?’

Her eyes looked wide and frightened.

The District Nurse nodded.

‘She’s rallied wonderfully, but it won’t be for long. There will be a second stroke and then a third. I know the way of it only too well. You be patient, my dear. If you keep the old lady’s last days happy and occupied, that’s a better deed than many. The time for the other will come.’

Mary said:

‘You’re very kind.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘Here’s your father coming out from the lodge—and not to pass the time of day pleasantly, I should say!’

They were just nearing the big iron gates. On the steps of the lodge an elderly man with a bent back was painfully hobbling down the two steps.

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

‘Good morning, Mr Gerrard.’

Ephraim Gerrard said crustily:

‘Ah!’

‘Very nice weather,’ said Nurse Hopkins.

Old Gerrard said crossly:

‘May be for you. ’Tisn’t for me. My lumbago’s been at me something cruel.’

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

‘That was the wet spell last week, I expect. This hot dry weather will soon clear that away.’

Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old man.