Karl Von Hamn was anxious to get back to his base as soon as he could. Stooping over the big double-bed in which his wife of just over a year was looking up at him trying to smile, he had whispered words of comfort to her.
“It will soon be over, Liebchen: both your pain and my trip, and then we shall rejoice in our first-born son together. The good Herr Doktor is here and so is Nurse Frieda. All will be well with my darling. Farewell, sweetest one.”
And now the unloading of Death was over, for, quite unexpectedly, as the great Cathedral looked gravely up from the circle of flame that surrounded her, the Squadron Leader had barked an order through the intercom that had made his crew stare. But all were thankful, for they were sick of this endless destruction. They loved their wives and their children and their cosy little homes. And the British . . . never ready with anything and yet in spite of it so uncomfortably stubborn, were becoming alarmingly ready.
“Schnell! Zurück fliegen!” barked the Squadron Leader, describing a perilous circle for home. For he had suddenly remembered. In one of those buildings, crashing in flames, might be lying a woman struggling to give birth to her first-born. He fled for home, noting on his way through the suburbs, that Brixton Hill was on fire—at least, part of it was. That must have been Franz: unloading to gain extra height. But the men manning the Ack-Ack station on the coast had lost their temper. Reports had reached them of the City of London. A forlorn hope . . . but worth trying as he was not flying too high. . . .
“Give him all you’ve got . . .! yelled the officer in charge of the Ack-Ack unit.
And so as Karl Von Hamn’s first-born whimpered its way into an unfeeling world, Karl Von Hamn, also whimpering, made his way out of it.
“Where is Rosemary Destin?” Miss Hill laid her novel down on her knee and yawned.
“Rosemary Destin? She is where any girl as silly as she is would be. Probably at the top of that tree at the bottom of the orchard.”
“You don’t like Rosemary, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Because I don’t see anything in her to like. She is emotional: she flies off at tangents: and worse than all, she is incalculable.” Miss Maddison spoke crossly. She was tired of being at Summerford House: it wasn’t the sort of school she liked or was accustomed to. She had taken the post of History Mistress against her better judgment, and was now bitterly regretting it.
“I like her,” said Mary Hill.
“Yes, but then you would, because you like queer unbalanced things.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“I do. Look at all the things you’re interested in. Telepathy . . . ghosts . . . people who see visions . . . all that sort of unhealthy stuff that I loathe. Why can’t people be normal? After all, the world is normal enough . . . isn’t that enough for you.”
“That rather depends on what you mean by normality.”
“Oh well, I’m not going to argue with you. Let’s get back to Rosemary. Perhaps I am rather hard on her. . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, I think you are, rather,” said Mary Hill thoughtfully. “After all, it can’t be pleasant to suddenly be told that your one great friend is leaving the place where you have been together for so long. All these poor children without parents or near relatives get very much attached to one another, and Rosemary and Hilda have always been devoted friends. Then, you see, they are both of the same class and that means a good deal in a community like this where social distinctions are not taken into account as qualifications for admission.”
“Yes, I know, I expect I am rather hard on her. But I don’t know . . .” Margaret Maddison laughed a little apologetically. “I think I’m tired of it,” she said frankly.
“I expect you want a holiday. This School Certificate business . . . it’s enough to take it out of anybody. But it’s not so long now . . . only three weeks. . . .”
“My dear, you’ve forgotten. I don’t get a holiday until the autumn. That’s the worst of this place. . . . Oh, I know they pay us well for it, but still . . . one does long to get away. Other schools have the regular three holidays a year: here you only get three every other year.”
“Well, two long holidays are enough for anybody, surely.”
“Not for me.”
“Never satisfied!”
“Yes, I suppose that is it, really. Although don’t you think it may be something in the atmosphere? All these poor girls growing up in the care of outsiders. Oh, I know that a lot of them have relatives who have them for holidays and all that, but there’s something so awful about being an orphan. I know it’s a long time ago now, but think of that huge block of flats on Brixton Hill simply crushed to smithereens. And during the summer holidays too, when so many of the children were out on the Common . . . well, of course they were in the shelters there then, when that awful raid took place. And to have to go home . . . to nothing. No parents except to the lucky few whose father and mother happened both to be out at the time. And Rosemary was not one of those. Sometimes I think that it damaged her beyond repair . . .”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . . Look at her. To begin with, that glorious dark hair, and she’s really lovely all over, you know.”
“Yes, but is that precisely an advantage for a girl placed as Rosemary is placed?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .!” Mary sighed a little restlessly. “Anyhow . . she said finally, “we can’t do anything to help. Hilda is leaving us and poor Rosemary will have to put up with it.”
“Yes, I know she will. But what will be the end of it all? Apparently according to Miss Prentice . . . and at least you and I are agreed on that point . . . she does do her job uncommonly well . . . it isn’t by any means easy to run a place like this with all the differences in class . . . Oh, I know it oughtn’t to count but of course it does. Well, anyhow Rosemary is left here indefinitely because she doesn’t appear to have a relative in the world. Well, how does she end? That’s what I want to know. . . .”
“Leave it to God,” said Mary slowly.
“How like you!”
“I wish it was,” said Mary ruefully. “If only you knew how I fussed inside. I get just as tired of this as you do. And I haven’t your qualifications either. If I try to get another job I shall be asked to produce lots of certificates that I haven’t got. Miss Prentice overlooked it because she saw that I was in earnest and had the same idea of vocation as she has. But then I’m much younger than Miss Prentice, and I begin to hanker after fun, and perhaps a love affair . . . and all that. . .
“Oh dear me. . . !”
“Yes, I know . . . but there’s the bell and we shall have to go. Just as well perhaps if we are going to discuss prospects of marriage.” And Mary smiled a little grimly as she got up and shook out the pleats of her skirt.
The kitchens at Summerford House were large and rambling and rather out of date but they were presided over by one Doris, who had been with Miss Prentice ever since the inauguration of the school: aided by one Ireen, who went in mortal terror of Doris and was always trying either to dodge her or to “get her own back.”
“Ireen!”
“Coming . . .” thrusting a humbug into her cheek Ireen emerged from the scullery.
“What have you been doing all this time?”
“Cleaning up. Badly needed it was.”
“What do you mean, badly needed?”
“What I say. That rascal of a boot boy went away leaving all his things about. Proper mess it was.”
“Just you wait and hear what I say to him to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, I bet he gets a thick ear,” said Ireen, smacking her lips in anticipation.
“Pity he can’t, but there’s no beating in a Welfare State. It’s only the sons of the aristocracy that gets beaten at their public schools. Touch one of these common little monkeys and their parents put the police on to you. That’s where all this juvenile crime comes from . . . they’ve never been taught to behave. Better cut ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ out of the good old book. Because it’s only the real gentry that believe it: not these jumped-ups that we hear so much about, or this so-called working-class that does nothing but make tea and sit about drinking it.”
“Coo . . .!”
“Yes and that’s what’s the matter here,” said Doris, warming to her theme. “Too mixed. . . . I’ve often told Miss Prentice that. Now look at that Hilda and Rosemary . . . they’re gentry if you like . . . both of them. But the rest. . . . Pooh!” Doris made a gesture of distaste as she shoved the big kettle into a more favourable position on the Aga stove.
“Who was those two?” inquired Ireen, turning her back so that she could have a surreptitious suck at the humbug that was beginning to burn the roof of her mouth.
“Hilda and Rosemary? Well, Hilda’s parents were torpedoed at sea on their way home from India and no one seemed handy at home to take her over and bring her up. But now I hear an aunt has stepped forward . . . rich she is and spends a lot of time in the South of France. Got religion or something and felt she wasn’t doing her duty or something and nor she was . . . her own sister’s child. Vicar got hold of her and put her straight. So Hilda’s going and it’s coming near. And there’ll be a fine to-do about it because Rosemary’s just devoted to Hilda.”
“Where did Rosemary come from?” inquired Ireen, wondering whether she dared take another humbug from the twist of paper in her pocket and deciding that as it was nearly time for the morning cup of tea it might have to be crunched up in a hurry which would be a pity.
“Rosemary! . . . get down the cups, Ireen, the kettle’s just on the boil. And as I will say that of you, you never pass things on which in a place like this is proper fatal, I’ll tell you. You remember that big block of flats on Brixton Mill . . . huge place it was . . . well, perhaps you don’t remember but the Green Line from here goes through Brixton. Well, anyhow it got a direct hit . . . one Saturday afternoon it was and it wasn’t one of these places with steel scaffolding . . . you know, like they build them now. Well, anyhow it collapsed . . . a proper business it was . . . took them days to get them all out. But as bad luck would have it that Rosemary was saved. Both her parents killed . . . dead as stones squashed flat they were. But Rosemary, she must have been about four years old then . . . they found her wedged under a couple of girders screaming her head off. . . .”
“I can ’ear her,” said Ireen grinning.
“Don’t make fun of what wasn’t fun at all,” said Doris quellingly. “And come and sit down and have your tea now it’s made. Gardener isn’t coming . . . he’s got a job he wants to finish before his dinner. That’s the best of Alfred,” said Doris meaningly. “Duty first and pleasure afterwards. Not like some people we know. . . .”
“But who was she?” persisted Ireen. ignoring this thrust. “I mean who was the parents who was killed?”
“He was a Frenchman . . . an artist. I don’t know that he ever made much money at it although I believe he was good. But they fished out some of his paintings after the clearing up was done . . . they were all in a great big box banded round with iron it was . . . more like a barrel Miss Prentice said it was. Anyhow it had a great big white address painted on it. ‘If found send to . . .’ and then there was an address. And so after thinking about it a bit they sent it off . . . Government people that was. And then no one heard any more, at least, not here they didn’t.”
“And who was her Ma?” demanded Ireen, engulfing cake.
“Well, as you know how to hold your tongue I can tell you,” replied Doris, pouring herself out a second cup of tea and then waving the teapot in invitation to Ireen.
“Well, Miss Prentice told me that Mrs. Destin was the runaway daughter of a proper aristocrat but that they were that angry at the marriage that they cut her dead off for ever. Her pa was an Honourable someone but I don’t know who and nor does anybody. And then he was killed flying on some mission to the States and his wife took an overdose of something, couldn’t stand the grief poor dear. And so Rosemary was brought here, with a host of others and here she has remained ever since.”
“What’ll happen to her?” queried Ireen, her imagination tickled.
“Go into good service, let’s hope,” said Doris sharply. “Get licked into shape there if they find the right people. So long as they don’t plant her on me . . .” she ended vengefully.
“You and Rosemary,” chortled Ireen.
“Couldn’t be worse than you anyway,” retorted Doris. And there the conversation ended. The blessed few moments of respite were over. . . . Ireen, collecting the cups, reflected that if only something had knocked her on the head when she was a baby she wouldn’t have cared. And as she thought it her sad young eyes filled with tears.
Down at the far end of the orchard the two girls sat staring at one another. “For good grief’s sake do stop crying, Rosemary,” said Hilda impatiently.
“Where on earth did you get that frightful expletive?” Rosemary pressed her handkerchief to her eyes with a gesture of inexpressible weariness. She was too wretched to stop crying. Besides, what was the use if you did? You only began again.
“Out of a book . . . I forget which one. I always think that to say God is horrid and to say hell, which I like best, upsets Miss Prentice, so what’s the use. And look here, Rosemary, you will be able to come and stay with me. Aunt Minnie is sure to ask you.”
“My dear . . . that won’t be in the least the same. Besides, I shan’t have any of the proper clothes for that sort of stay. No, I shall stay here until I moulder away or turn into something else like that poor Jessica Robins has done. She used to be quite a pretty girl and now she’s turning into someone exactly like Miss Prentice . . . voice and everything. And soon she’ll be Miss Prentice and become a partner or something.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be too bad.”
“It would be Hell.”
“Well, it would be useful, anyhow.”
“I don’t want to be useful. I want to enjoy myself and be decorative.” Rosemary blew her nose which was small and slightly upturned. With her dark Florentine crop and her deep blue eyes shaded by ridiculously long eyelashes she was indeed decorative, decided Hilda wistfully. For not even the hideous school uniform could conceal the slenderness of the slight figure with its curves where curves should be. She herself was pretty all right but Rosemary stuck out a mile. It was a frightful thought that she might be shut up in this school for the rest of her life. It was an unbearable thought, decided Hilda briefly.
“This time to-morrow you won’t be here,” said Rosemary suddenly. “And I shall hear that hell bell for supper and shall have to walk in with that little frog Maysie. She holds her knife like a pen and says serviette.”
“How can the poor thing know?”
“How do we know?”
“We read books. We got all of ours out of that gorgeous book by Nancy Mitford called Pursuit of Love. . . . Do you remember how poor Miss Hill hunted and hunted for it and then we took pity on her when we’d both finished it and put it somewhere where she’d find it. And then she did and rushed away with it and never said anything about it again. . . .” And now both girls were laughing. “Fabrice was a poppet,” sighed Rosemary luxuriously.
“I know. . . . Why can’t we meet someone like that. By the way, wasn’t your father French?”
“Oh yes . . . of course he was. He was in the Resistance. But he loved the English too, and he had lots of friends among the parachuters. Miss Prentice had some of his letters sent to her soon after he died. People who’d known him and bought his pictures. And then of course they forgot . . . like people always do forget. . . .”
“Not always. You see, Aunt Minnie remembered in the nick of time and so will someone for you: you see if they don’t.”
“Let’s pray madly in chapel to-night, shall we?”
“Will it do any good?”
“That frantically pi Miss Baker says it does. And I must say that when one is in the san she is most frightfully nice. I mean to say it’s not only pi with her. Faith with works, if you get my meaning and not only crackling of thorns under a pot like some we could mention but won’t.”
“That’s right!”
“Hilda!”
“I know . . . but they all say it,” said Hilda laughing. “The next time you see me I shall be saying much worse than that. Pleased to meet you . . . and pardon and crooking out mv little finger on my teacup and I don’t know what else. . . .”
“Oh, Rosemary, I shall miss you most frightfully.”
“Don’t!”
“Yes, but I’ve always got the feeling that it will all come right. That somebody frightfully nice will turn up for you too. . . .”
“Somebody romantic?” Rosemary was forcing back her tears.
“Yes, madly. A man.”
“Could I go straight off and live with a man if he suggested it? I should of course . . . like a shot But would Miss Prentice take it lying down? Or the committee? We’ve got a bishop on the committee.”
“We haven’t got to think about details. Things just fall into place like a jigsaw puzzle. One of the old-fashioned wooden ones . . . not these horrid cardboard affairs. . . . Oh goodness, there’s the hell bell. Don’t let’s think about last times,” said Hilda sensibly, “because it isn’t last times. We shall meet again and somewhere much nicer than this, my child. Come along or we shall miss grace and that won’t please the old girl. Run. . . .” The two young hands swung out and clung to each other.
The following evening, moved with compassion by the look of almost suicidal misery on Rosemary’s small pointed face, Mary Hill went up to her and laid her hand on her shoulder.
“Rosemary.”
“Yes, Miss Hill?”
“How would you like to spend the rest of the evening quietly by yourself in the grounds. I know you’ll be in by half-past nine if I let you go now, and it is beautifully fine and keeps light quite late.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Hill!”
“Then get along with you.” And Rosemary flew: out of the big swing-door, set wide open to let in the lovely summer air across the lawn: her sobs drifting back behind her. Unbalanced, perhaps, thought Miss Hill, sighing, but who could blame a girl of that temperament with a close companionship of many years torn asunder with very little warning. She would come back restored . . . solitude for a time was the only thing. Curious glances and crudely rendered sympathy were no good to Rosemary. She needed to be alone to fling herself face downwards on to the long grass and howl if she wanted to.
And this Rosemary did. Until she suddenly lifted her head and sat up . . . a man. Yes . . . he must actually have passed quite close to her. . . . Footsteps . . . there he went. . . . He must be carrying a lantern because there was light round his feet. In any event . . . she suddenly put her hands over her heart. The pain had gone . . . the pain of desolation like a knife had gone. . . . Where? Never mind where . . . it had gone. Pulling a comb out of her pocket she put her hair to rights. The birds . . . she had never heard them sing so loudly in the evening before. There was one especially that sounded as if it was chuckling to itself. “Woman, why weepest thou?” She started and sat still. Words . . . like trails of mist in the air above her. Of course . . . that was the worse of crying all day, you became unbalanced. She must get back to the house . . . Standing up and shaking her skirt down she began to run.
“Anthony!”
“Coming!” And so he was. She surveyed him with complacence as he sauntered down the stone steps that separated the sunk garden from the terrace. Beyond the sunk garden was the lawn, sloping gradually down to the river: a huddle of lovely old trees in one corner of it. The river . . . one of the upper reaches of the Thames . . . one of the most beautiful reaches, as a matter of fact. Yes, she was lucky . . . and fortunately she knew it and did not intend to play fast and loose with it. Because Sir Anthony Keith could be queer if he liked . . . obstinate and sticking out for things that you didn’t expect him to stick out for. Not like poor old Jack . . . too feeble to object to anything she chose to do. Pray heaven he was not going to do what he had lately hinted at, come home on long leave. The Sudan was damned unhealthy he had said in one of his last letters. Also he was damned lonely. However . . . she forgot about her husband as Anthony stood there looking down at her.
“You look very pretty this morning.”
Denise crinkled up her eyes. “You seem to forget that you’ve seen me already!”
“Shush. Batey might be about!”
“Batey!” She allowed her rancour to get the better of her and instantly regretted it. “How she hates me!” she said.
“Does she? I shouldn’t have thought that Batey was capable of hatred.” He dropped into the deck-chair beside her and tipped his hat over his eyes to shield them from the sun.
“No, I was silly to say that . . . she’s an old pet. Perhaps I’m jealous of her,” she smiled.
“Perhaps. Women are queer creatures . . . you never know what they will be up to next. May I light you a cigarette?”
“Thank you.”
He lighted it between his lips and then put it between hers.
“Thank you, darling.”
“Granted!” he grinned. Drawing on his own cigarette and then blowing a cloud of smoke over his shoulder he turned to look at her.
“By Sam, you are pretty!” he said.
“Do you still think so?”
“I do.”
“Not tired of the pink and white and blue eyes and all the chocolate-box rest of it?”
“Not a bit.”
“Good!” she sighed with relief and then turned it into a little laugh.
“There is Batey,” she said.
“She’s just emerged from the drawing-room by the french window. She’s got a paper in her hand. She’s coming down here.”
“Oh heavens, I don’t want to be disturbed!”
“Perhaps it’s a receipt for a registered letter.”
“I’m not expecting one.”
“Well, here she is and now we shall know. Good morning, Mrs. Bateman,” Denise smiled very charmingly.
“Well, here she is and now we shall know. Good morning, Mrs. Bateman,” Denise smiled very charmingly.
“Good morning, madam.” Mrs. Bateman’s eyes were opaque . . . queer eyes, decided Denise, suddenly noticing them for the first time.
“What have you got for me, Batey? Why do you worry me on this lovely day?”
“I wouldn’t have come, sir, only Francis was so occupied with his silver and it meant taking off his green apron and all. It’s only a receipt to sign for the carrier, sir. He’s brought a great barrel sort of affair . . . strapped round with bands . . . and ever so rusty they are. . . .”
“Are you sure it’s for me?”
“Oh, yes, sir . . . it’s addressed quite clearly. And Francis went out and spoke to the driver of the British Railways van and he said that why it was in such a state—mucky, be called it—was that it had been for ages in some underground storage place and they had only just found it or something.”
“Good gracious. Anything to pay?”
“Yes, fifteen shillings, sir.”
“Tell Francis to give it to him and a shilling for himself. No, if it’s heavy, better make it two shillings . . .” Sir Granted!” he grinned. Drawing on his own cigarette Anthony was scribbling on his knee. “Here you are!”
“Thank you, sir,” Mrs, Bateman turned to go.
“Oh, Mrs. Bateman, tell Tom to open the box and tell him at the same time that we should like the car round by three, will you?”
“Very good, sir.” And now Mrs. Bateman, her small black figure erect, was really on her way back to the house. But her thoughts were sulphurous. There she sprawled: no better than a harlot and without the excuse for it either. And there he lounged . . . her darling . . . the light of her eyes: the boy she had more or less brought up. The man her heart had anguished over when he was gone on one of his frightfully dangerous descents into enemy country.
And there he was . . . trailed at the heels of a worthless slut. “O Lord, how long?” Mrs. Bateman’s Quaker ancestry held up their hands in prayer.
And meanwhile Francis, in green apron and with a scowl, was surveying the huge package set down in one of the empty horse-boxes.
“What is it?”
“Ask me another,” said Tom, who had just come back from fetching his hammer and chisel.
“Well, go easy with those bands.” Francis stood there watching. As they came off one by one he spoke again. “That’s the last,” he said. “Bend them back . . . don’t pull them off. Hallo, what’s that? A letter.” Francis stepped forward and pulled it out from between the folds of the corrugated paper. Major Anthony Keith. “That’s old . . . before he came into the title. Leave the rest of the unpacking. . . . I’ll take his letter down to him first. I’ll get my coat,” and Francis went away.
“Old Francis coming to tell me something . . .” Anthony was peeping out from under the brim of his panama hat.
“We found this in the package, sir,” Francis held it out.
“Oh . . . I’ll read it. What’s in the package, Francis?”
“We don’t know, sir. Now the battens are off it’s all corrugated paper bound round with string.”
“Better leave it then perhaps. It may be an infernal machine. One never knows . . . somebody mayn’t like me,” Anthony grinned.
“I should prefer to open it without you there, sir.”
“And I should prefer that you didn’t. However, you go back to the house and get on with whatever you were doing and in the meantime I’ll read this, which can’t do me any harm and it may shed some light on the mystery.”
“Very good, sir,” and Francis departed. While Anthony, slitting open the envelope with his penknife, took the sheet of folded paper covered with writing out of it, and then turned his head to his companion.
“I’ll read it to myself if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Denise closed her eyes as a wave of sudden depression washed over her. Shivering, she seemed to visualise someone walking over her grave. Which was nonsense because she was going to be cremated so that she wouldn’t have a grave. Anyhow. . . .
“Good God!”
“What?”
“Listen to this. To begin with, I ought to have had this years ago. Nineteen forty-four . . . good heavens. . . . And it’s from a man I met in the Resistance . . . one Paul Destin. How it brings it all back . . . Good God. . . .” Sir Anthony let the sheet of paper drop on to his knee as he leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Go on. Read it to me.”
“I will in a minute . . .” Sir Anthony was diving for his cigarette-case. “Have one.”
“No, thanks.” Hadn’t she known. . . . Again Denise felt the shiver of apprehension.
Blowing a cloud of smoke over his shoulder he picked up the letter again.
“My dear Tony,” . . . he read.
“I’ve never answered your last letter . . . thanks very much for it. My . . . what a time we had. . . . I was jolly glad to be invalided to England and I’m sure you were glad to be out of it and snug in one of your Diplomatic Missions to the States . . . well, they couldn’t have sent a better man. I’m busy here . . . of course. . . . ‘VERY SECRET,’ you know the sort of thing, and they were jolly good to send me to England . . . back in a little flat with my wife and small daughter: one Rosemary. . . . Rosemary is rather a tricky name, but my wife fancied it and so it had to be.
“Anyhow, what I am writing about is this. Sometimes I feel very anxious about the future . . . yes, I know we’ve got them licked but there’s life in the old dog yet and they’ve done a lot of damage in the suburbs and may still do more. Anyhow . . . I’ve done a lot of painting since I came back and I don’t want them all smashed up, so here they are for safe custody and if we come to a sticky end they are yours for all time. If we are wiped out I pray we all are, but if we aren’t, is it too much to ask you to keep an eye on the one or ones who are left? As I told you, my wife’s people chucked her out and I know she’d never go near them again even for the kid’s sake. Let’s hope my gloomy prognostications are all wrong and let me have a fine when you get this, if you ever do.
“Remembering always the little estaminet in the Rue de Foucard, and plump Madame who ran it, after they’d murdered her husband. Dirty swine!
“Paul Destin.”
“My heavens!” Anthony leaned sideways to pick up the envelope from the grass and put the letter back into it. And then stretching himself he got up.
“I’m going to have a look at the case,” he said.
“I’ll come too.”
“No, better let me look at it first. . . . I’ll get hold of Francis.”
“Oh, very well. . . .” Denise dropped back into her chair and as she lay there staring into the shade of a great oak tree her thoughts flew. What did it all mean . . .? her ingenious mind rooted here, there and everywhere. He spoke of a flat . . . probably the whole place had been demolished and this case had been put in some underground store place and left there until work had started on the whole rebuilding of the place and then it, and lots of similar things, had been discovered. There had been a great block of flats in Brixton knocked to bits . . . her husband had told her, a typist in his office had lived there and had mercifully been away on holiday when the disaster had occurred. Or . . . and then other solutions occurred to her. But in any event the Destins must all have been killed or he would have made some sign years ago. Or he would have taken possession of the pictures again knowing where they were. Anyhow . . . she stubbed the tiny cigarette end to death on the grass and then sat there thinking. Why did her thoughts fly round and round in circles? It was coming to an end. . . . What was coming to an end? And why should it come to an end? Tony loved her, or he said he did. He was rich . . . and he was idle. He had a lovely house and a devoted staff. Certainly Mrs. Bateman was a bore but she dared not openly object to anything he did . . . in fact he never did openly anything that anyone could object to. He entertained only slightly, he was not fond of the modern noisy type of visitor. When the hunting season opened there was more coming and going, of course, but nowadays there was so much talk of the cruelty of hunting that it was becoming less fashionable. And when the Royal family did what so many people hoped they would and set their faces definitely against it, the circle in which Anthony moved would hurriedly set their faces in the same direction. All so silly really; everybody knew that the fox enjoyed it. Anyhow . . . Denise sighed and went on dreaming.
While, in one of the empty loose boxes, Sir Anthony stood in a sea of crumpled iron hoops and corrugated paper, staring down at a long carefully wrapped parcel. Sacking sewn Up with string . . . Destin had obviously valued his paintings. And a few minutes later he was not surprised. For they were powerful and blazing with colour. Paint splashed on by a hand that knew what it was doing. Almost all were paintings of the sea. A tumultuous heaving sapphire sea: a cluster of white-washed cottages sprawled joyously round a harbour: fishing boats dragged up on to the hot sand: fishing nets hung out to dry, brown and glistening with salt: and here and there a wheeling flight of seagulls; you could almost hear their discordant cry.
“Good heavens . . .” as Tom propped them up one by one against the empty crate Anthony stood and stared.
“Bright colours, aren’t they, sir?”
“They are indeed. Well. . . .” He seemed to shake himself out of a dream. Destin: who would have imagined it. . . . That little black-eyed fellow, with whom he had so often stood silent and motionless . . . listening. Every crackle of a leaf might be the herald of an ugly death. The stars . . . how often propped up against a tree or lying flat on his back he had tried to count them. Horrible nights . . . and days. And yet in some way glorious because they brought with them the glamour of danger.
“Go and ask Francis to come to me out here, will you, Tom?”
“Very good, sir.” Tom saluted and left. And in a minutes Francis stood there watchful and polite.
“Francis, this huge affair that we were so suspicious of turns out to be pictures. Will you have them carried up to the box-room. You know; the one where I keep my skis. Get whoever takes them to carry them very carefully and ask Mrs. Bateman to give you some dust sheets. Set them up against the wall, glass inside, and then cover the lot with the sheets. There are seven of them.”
“Very good, Sir Anthony.”
So that was that. And now what should he do? Join Denise on the lower lawn and watch the river flowing lazily by? That would be very pleasant and while away the time until luncheon. Go and see the rector and tell him that he would be delighted to open the sale for the new church hall. He wouldn’t be at all delighted but that was beside the point, it was a case of noblesse oblige. Or . . . and then he suddenly decided. He would go and shut himself up in the library and read that letter again. Destin had spoken of a child . . . and that letter had been written in nineteen forty-four. Not much of a child by now . . . she would be at least fifteen if not more . . . However if he could get half an hour to himself he could puzzle the whole thing out.
And settled in the library, smelling deliciously of leather, he selected with great care a cigar from the tortoiseshell box lined with cedar wood, and sat down to read the letter again. Probably soon after that letter had been written and the pictures packed up, the flying-bomb raids had started and Destin had thought it safer to hustle the pictures down into the underground shelter. The shelter had been buried under masses of concrete slabs and only lately had it been uncovered and investigated. The parcel had been addressed to him at the War Office that had managed after a time to find out his present address and send it on. And now he’d got it and the letter, what should he do next? Talk it over with Denise . . . no, for some reason he didn’t want to. With his sister who lived at Esher? Yes, that would be better . . . he’d ring her at once. Sir Anthony was very fond of his only sister although he didn’t see very much of her. She was single and about sixty and given to good works. Her fiancé had been killed in the First War and she had hoped to die but had not succeeded. So she had done the next best thing which was to interest herself in the miseries of other people. She would be the person to ferret out the whereabouts of this child Rosemary if she was still alive. Probably she was already comfortably settled with some relative, which would be all to the good, but it was up to him to find out for certain that she was. Destin and his wife must be dead or they would have claimed the pictures. He reached out a long arm and picked up the telephone.
“Yes, sir, Miss Keith is in. I’ll call her.”
“Yes, do, Harriet. How are you on this lovely summer day?”
“Very well, sir, thank you. Oh, here is Miss Keith. It’s Sir Anthony, miss.”
“Thank you, Harriet. Hallo, Tony?”
“Hallo. Look here, Kate . . .” and then he told her.
“But how the devil I’m to locate the kid—if she’s alive, that is—I don’t know. After all this time she might be anywhere. And I don’t want to rout her out if she’s comfortably settled: it might start endless complications. That’s what I want to ask you about, because you’re good at this kind of philanthropic business. What shall I do?”
“Well. . .” Miss Keith was evidently pondering. “Give me a little time to think it over, Anthony. Can you ring me after dinner to-night? Say at a quarter to nine. You don’t bother about the News, do you?”
“Good gracious, no!”
“All right then. I’d say ring earlier but I shall be out the all the afternoon. Also it will give me more time and I might by chance meet the one person who could help at this British Legion Sale that I’ve got to go to. And how are you, my boy. Doing anything useful yet?”
“I’m on the church council and I’m opening a sale at the village hall the week after next. And if you don’t call that useful you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re hopeless!” Miss Keith was laughing. She was extremely fond of her only brother although she deplored his outlook on life. Of course he managed his estate excellently and was popular in the village and supported the rector in his various undertakings. But still, what was that? And when the hunting season began he thought practically of nothing else. Being Master, of course, he had to give his mind to it. Hunting . . . the ugliest and most unmanly sport that had ever been invented. Stag-hunting . . . one of the Sunday papers had been full of it yesterday. Stag-hunting most bestial of all, so said the paper, and Miss Keith heartily agreed with it although it stood for the Left and Miss Keith was immovably Right. Anyhow . . . when Anthony had rung off she went to her favourite chair and sat down in it. Bother, she had never asked Anthony what the child’s name was. Well, she knew the surname anyhow . . . Destin . . . an unusual name. Her friend, Mary Hill, would be at the fête that afternoon and she was a mistress at Summerford House: that great big mansion in Surrey that had been handed over by its rich owner as a home for war orphans. She would be in touch with the sort of people that one had to get in touch with when you were on the hunt for a war orphan. Not that Rosemary, assuming she was alive, would be likely to be at Summerford House, of course. But it was in the right line of country.
But the staggering thing was that Rosemary Destin was at Summerford House. As they sat under a gay little umbrella having tea, Miss Keith put the question and received the reply that took all the wind out of her sails.
“My dear Mary, it’s not possible!”
“But it’s always the impossible that does happen. Rosemary came to Summerford House long before I did. She was brought in almost as soon after that fearful disaster on Brixton Hill as was possible, allowing time for full inquiries to be made. Nobody came forward so she settled in with us and has remained ever since.”
“What is she like?” Miss Keith was frowning at a wasp that was threatening to settle on her cake.
“Rosemary is extremely pretty and a lady, which is what I mean by a gentlewoman. At the moment I am extremely sorry for her because her great friend, also a lady, has been claimed by an aunt, who is taking her off to the Riviera. I am afraid she is going to be dreadfully lonely.”
“Ah . . .!” The wasp imprisoned under the empty slop bowl, Miss Keith could breathe more freely. “ Have some more tea, Mary. And then listen. . . .”
And Mary listened as Miss Keith explained . . . at length.
“But do you mean that your brother is prepared to take complete charge of her!”
“He hasn’t said so, and of course the whole thing has only just been burst upon him. But when he hears that the daughter of his great friend is in an orphanage I expect he will. Anthony is a very unusual man, at least, so I think. He is content, with all his capacity for hard and dangerous work, as well as being equipped with an excellent brain, to lead what I consider a completely useless life, waited on hand and foot by a devoted staff, lots of money to waste and at the moment, so I believe, being exploited by an entirely worthless woman.”
“Oh, dear!”
“I know . . . it worries me very much. But what is the use of attempting to interfere? I shall only alienate him and do no good at all.”
“I see.” Mary sat back and tried to collect her thoughts. “As you know, I am on holiday,” she said. “But I go back next week. Shall we wait until I am back and then perhaps if your brother is determined to go further in the matter you and he might come over.”
“Where exactly is Summerford House?”
“Do you know the Portsmouth Road that runs through Esher. Well, it’s one of those lovely great houses on the left, before you get to Cobham. It stands in grounds of about twenty acres. It was given by a Jew . . . an extremely wealthy and a completely broken-hearted man who lost his wife and only daughter in an air raid at Brighton. They had just gone down there for the week-end when this frightful thing happened.”
“Is it endowed?”
“Yes, fully. And is managed by a trust.”
“Hmmm . . .” A wave of apprehension washed over self-possessed Miss Keith. Anthony was so incalculable. Supposing he decided that it was his duty to adopt this Rosemary Destin . . . an extremely pretty girl of seventeen or so, no. perhaps younger than that; she hoped so, anyhow.
“How old is she?” she inquired.
Mary reflected. “She came to Summerford House in nineteen forty-four. She was then exactly four years old. Now then . . .” Mary began to count on her fingers. “She must be just about eighteen.”
“Heavens!”
“She ought of course to go to a good finishing-school abroad,” said Mary. “Do you think your brother would send her to one?”
“No. I think it most unlikely,” said Miss Keith unexpectedly. “Knowing Anthony I consider it much more likely that he will say that Rosemary has had enough regimentation and now requires some home life.”
“I see. . .” Mary’s thoughts flew. She was tired to death of Summerford House. If only the Keiths would decide that she would be excellent as governess for Rosemary . . . . Oh, what a prospect! She picked up her teacup, drank a little tea and set it down again.
“I wonder. . .”
“Yes,” said Miss Keith, feeling in some strange faraway bit of her brain that she knew what Mary was going to say. And that she must be ready with a reply.
“Well, it was only an idea, of course,” Mary spoke rather hesitatingly. “But I was thinking that if Sir Anthony did think of taking Rosemary into his own home . . . only for a time, of course—he wouldn’t be likely to do it permanently. But I was wondering . . . do you think he would entertain the idea of me as a governess for her. just for a time, of course. . . .”
“But do you want to leave Summerford House?”
“Well, I’m frightfully tired of it,” said Mary frankly. “You see, a place of that kind has to be run on rather stereotyped lines. And one gets tired of that. But if one could have Rosemary under one’s own care as one’s only pupil, it would be a very different thing.”
“Well, my dear . . .” and then Miss Keith spoke very sensibly and kindly; although she had already made up her mind that such a scheme was entirely out of the question. Mary would instantly fall in love with her brother and then the fat would be in the fire. . . .
“No, I suppose Rosemary ought really to get right out of the institutional atmosphere,” said Mary regretfully.
“I see what you mean. She would connect me with it all the time.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I do mean. By the way, has Rosemary got her G.E.C.?”
“Yes, she has . . . we’ve had the results, and she has got honours, in four subjects. I don’t think she quite grasps what this success means, but of course we do!”
“I should think you did. It is wonderful and I should imagine very largely due to you.” Miss Keith’s thoughts were still whirling: that must be partly because it was so hot. And the strains of the band coming through the shimmering air. And the thoughts that came crowding in on her. The girl who until about half an hour ago had seemed not to exist at all was now a living reality. Her brother was very unaccountable . . . would he take this unknown quantity into his home? If he did, what would happen? One thing would have to happen and that would be that that unscrupulous woman who now, apparently, had him completely under her thumb, would have to go. His prejudice against the modern boarding-school would then come into play. Rosemary should be educated at home and this would mean an endless stream of governesses all falling in love with Rosemary’s guardian and having to be dismissed in various stages of disintegration. This last unpleasant duty would of course devolve upon her. Which then was the worst? That worthless Mrs. Mather or a lovesick governess? Mrs. Mather, decided Miss Keith suddenly. Besides, would it not be possible to find an elderly governess? A widow, perhaps. But if she was a widow she would have to be well into the sixties because they were the worst of all. All very difficult. Miss Keith sighed. And with the sigh her common sense returned. She was doing that extremely foolish thing: crossing her bridges before she came to them. . . .
“Come along, Mary,” she said resolutely, “we’re wasting our time. I want to spend some money. I have several sales of work in view and I can buy some things here and pass them on.”
A glorious August was blazing its way into September. Soon the lawns would be grey with dew and the house cat’s footmarks would show on them, a darker grey with perhaps a few blades of grass sticking through. At the window of her bedroom which she shared with two other girls, Rosemary stood, staring out: her small oval face bleak with despair. The night before, the new occupant of Hilda’s bed had come to take up residence. She was plain and earnest and had knelt to say very long prayers. And in the early morning the bell at seven o’clock had discovered her sitting up in bed reading a very large Bible. Rosemary had wondered why the sight of this had roused such fury in her because it was right to read your Bible. But not then . . . not on your first day in a new school and so early in the morning.
However, this irritation, although profound, was not enough to cause the despair that she felt at this precise moment. Because what was going to happen to her? How could she go on . . . feeling as she did then? She was eighteen . . . she had just had her birthday and they had been awfully nice about it . . . making a fuss of her. Mary Hill had come back from her holiday just in time and for some reason had seemed to kiss her more affectionately than she generally did on birthdays. But now the birthday was over and it was all going to start again . . . the same . . . the same . . . Rosemary gave a little stifled groan. While in the rather dismally furnished drawing-room on the ground floor Miss Prentice was staring.
“This is all very extraordinary,” she said briskly.
“Well, it is really, isn’t it?” Sir Anthony was enjoying himself much more than his sister was. This was all so new . . . so utterly different from anything that he had encountered before.
This ghastly room furnished with complete lack of taste. The woman confronting him; the Head of this home for war orphans. The other woman, probably a secretary or something: Hill was her name. She was quite comparatively young and was looking at him with interest. Poor wretch! she ought to get married to some nice man. . . .
“Can we see Rosemary?” said Miss Keith after a little pause. Time was getting on and all the necessary explanations had been made.
“Of course. Miss Hill, will you go and fetch Rosemary,” said Miss Prentice crisply.
“Yes, Miss Prentice.” Obediently Miss Hill left the room. “You have a charming garden here,” said Sir Anthony, strolling to the french window. “Yes. and many of the girls are keen gardeners, Sir Anthony. Which is a mercy as it would be quite impossible for us to employ enough men to keep the place as it looks now.”
“Does Rosemary like gardening?” inquired Miss Keith.
“No, I am afraid she does not,” said Miss Prentice grimly.
“What does she like?” asked Sir Anthony.
Miss Prentice hesitated. “Best of all she likes going away by herself and doing nothing,” she said. Her voice was acid, decided Anthony. She obviously did not like Rosemary and for some reason his spirits rose. If in addition to being gawky and very plain, she was a pet of this headmistress, his plans would have to be changed. He would do the right thing, of course, but he would also place the responsibility in other hands. At last the door opened and the two women came in.
Good heaven! It needed all Sir Anthony’s savoir faire not to say the words aloud. The glances of brother and sister crossed. Out of the question . . . Miss Keith’s mental response was instantaneous.
“This is Rosemary,” said Miss Prentice. “Don’t let me keep you, Miss Hill.”
“Thank you. Miss Prentice.” Miss Hill withdrew. Rosemary stood there bewildered. Who were these people who wanted to see her? Was it . . . could it be that the wonder of Hilda’s deliverance was to be repeated?
“Well, Rosemary . . .” Miss Keith’s voice and bearing were kind. “We have just called in to see you,” she said.
“My brother, Sir Anthony Keith, knew your father many years ago and news has just come to us, never mind how, it’s a rather long story, that you were living here. So we have just called in to see how you are getting on.”
“Thank you.” Rosemary’s eyes were fixed on the man who had turned from contemplation of the garden. He was like a god. He was like one of those men that you saw in advertisements of overcoats. Tall, clean-shaven with a whimsical twist to his clean-shaven lips. A perfect B.B.C. voice: for he was speaking.
“May I call you Rosemary?” He had taken her hand and was looking down at her. Heavens! even at this age she was lovely. Eyes . . . set in between long black eyelashes. Pale with a straight fringe like a Botticelli cherub. Teeth . . . small and white and very slightly receding. Slim, with any curves that there might have been successfully concealed by the hideous blue serge uniform.
“Would you like to come and be my ward? I think that is what your father and mother would have liked.”
“It can’t be true . . .” her eyes never left his.
“Anthony, don’t you think . . .” Miss Keith had taken a step forward.
“Would you like it?”
“Please . . .” Her voice was a prayer. Would he listen to his sister, because she didn’t approve of the plan? But this was the only man she ever wanted to see for the rest of her life. To hear him speak . . . to be his slave . . . anything. To work for him . . . if it was a cottage she would keep it clean . . . cook . . . anything . . . Rosemary’s starved imagination flamed.
“Perhaps it would be better . . . and now it was Miss Prentice speaking. “I know that we have given you all particulars but . . .”
“Yes, Anthony.” It was obvious that Miss Keith was deeply perturbed. When Anthony took an idea into his head. . . . She must get him away before he compromised himself still further.
But Anthony had now devoted his attention to Miss Prentice. And as he stood talking to her Rosemary crept to his side. He seemed to know that she was there because he turned a little and smiled down at her.
“You may go, Rosemary,” said Miss Prentice.
“We shall soon be meeting again,” said Anthony quietly.
“Yes.” Not caring what anybody thought, she picked up his hand and kissed it. She could feel the cold gold of his signet ring on her lips.
“Rosemary!”
But Anthony was only smiling pleasantly at Miss Prentice.
“Her French parentage,” he said. “They are more demonstrative than we are. And now. Miss Prentice, if you can spare us a little more of your valuable time, let us talk a little business, shall we?”
As the powerful car steered its leisurely way down the long tree-lined avenue that led from Summerford House into the main Portsmouth Road Anthony in some faraway part of him felt vaguely amused. That his sister was profoundly disturbed was obvious not only from her silence.
“Cheer up, Kate!”
“Are you crazy?”
“I hope not. Why?”
“Why? Are you aware that you have agreed to take into your entirely bachelor household a girl of eighteen. And not only that, but a beautiful girl of eighteen?”
“Would it have been better if she had been ugly?”
“Oh, Anthony, don’t be so ridiculous! Don’t be so maddening! Can’t you see the hopeless unsuitability of the whole thing?”
“No.” Out into the main stream of traffic, Anthony was watching his step. He would let his sister exhaust herself until he got into one of the quieter by-waters when he would be able to reply to her more coherently. And as he listened he reflected that it was a very good thing to have all the disadvantages of a scheme laid bare before you. Kate was a sensible woman and a lot that she was saying had its foundation in fact. But it affected him not at all. He had made up his mind to take Rosemary Destin into his home so that he could give her a little, at least, of what she had up to now missed. And that no human being was going to deflect him from that course. Putting his hand through the small window at his elbow he waited for a suitable opportunity and then carefully steered his car through the halted stream of traffic.
“Ah! That main road is a corker. We shall have to do something about our traffic but exactly what?”
Miss Keith did not reply. She had exhausted herself. Now it was his turn. “ Do you mind if I stop and have a cigarette. Or no . . . let’s have lunch first. I got Francis to put some up. I know a nice place a little farther along. There’s a wood and a heathery sort of patch that we can drive the car on to. Ah yes, here it is! Now you sit still and I’ll fix up the table and get everything set.”
And a little later all was ready. Francis knew how to put up an excellent lunch and had done so. And after they had eaten and drunk they both felt better.
“Coffee?”
“Is there any?”
“Is there any? You don’t know Francis. And it’ll be hot as coffee always ought to be hot and generally isn’t. Here’s your cup. And a saucer with it. No mucking about for Francis. Sugar? I always forget if you take it or not.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.” As Miss Keith sipped and glowed she wondered if she had spoken too drastically. She would try to make amends. . . .
“Perhaps I spoke too violently, Anthony.”
“No, you didn’t. I far prefer people to say what they mean instead of beating about the bush. You think I’m crazy. Well, in some things I think I am. But not in this. A gallant comrade of mine, and believe me he was a gallant comrade, speaks from the past. He calls on me to befriend his child. Well, I am going to befriend her.”
“But why introduce her into your home? Send her to school . . . send her to one of those beautiful places in Switzerland . . . there is an excellent one in Vevey where the Mathesons’ two daughters went. I could make all inquiries for you.”
“The wretched child has had enough of school.”
“Yes, but I don’t mean a place like Summerford House. That of necessity has had to be run on more or less charitable lines. I mean a place where she will associate with girls of her own class in a beautifully appointed house set in divinely beautiful surroundings. Vevey looks straight across the Lake of Geneva on to the French Alps. Heaven on earth. . . . I know it well . . .” said Miss Keith devoutly.
“I agree. And that may all come later,” said Sir Anthony quietly. “But for the moment I am going to have her with me.”
“And what about Mrs. Mather.”
“She will have to go.” Now where had those words come from, wondered Sir Anthony, drawing on his cigar and sending a long streamer of blue smoke out of the window at his elbow. Until that moment he had entirely forgotten about Denise. Denise and Rosemary under the same roof. Oh no! . . . out of the question.
“You mean that you would get rid of her.”
“That is hardly the way to speak of a lady guest of mine, Kate.”
“I loathe her,” said Miss Keith explosively.
“I know you do, but that is no reason why I should.”
“She has a husband of her own. Why does she want you?”
“As a husband? I don’t think she does.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Anthony.”
“Well yes, perhaps I do.” Sir Anthony smiled lazily. “You know times have changed, Kate.”
“I know they have. Infinitely for the worse.”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion. In the old days people concealed what they were doing. To-day they don’t. That seems to me to sum up the difference.”
“Laxity of morals spreads. It is infectious.”
Sir Anthony drew on his cigar rather more slowly. He was startled. Kate had said a clever thing. But was she right? He reflected. There used to be a saying that summed up a divergence from an accepted code in a very few words, “It’s not done,” and that put an end to any discussion. But now. . . . Oh, my dear fellow, everybody does it. . . . He suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort. Old Batey . . . Francis . . . loyal and devoted servants. But what . . . in their hearts were they thinking of him? Batey’s loathing of Denise was obvious. He sighed.
“I hate to be obstructive or worrying.” Kate laid a quick hand on her brother’s arm.
“I’m sure you do.” His response was instant. “But you see, Kate, you can’t alter me over this. I have quite made up my mind practically to adopt Rosemary . . . whether legally or not I shall see . . . I’ll consult Harrington. So do, there’s a dear girl, reconcile yourself to it because you can be of such enormous help. To begin with she must have a governess. Miss Prentice tells me that she has passed her G.E.C., which is a blessed mercy as I loathe examinations, especially for young women. But she must be taught. Do you know of anybody who would do?”
Miss Keith turned a radiant face. “Yes, I do.”
“Who?”
“You know the Dollings? He came into the title last year. Well, the girls are both going abroad and Mary doesn’t really want to keep Madame Dubois any longer. Although as a governess she has been magnificent. She is elderly . . . not that that would matter, in fact, in this particular case it would be a blessing!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Kate!” crinkled in laughter.
“Well, you know what women are where you are concerned.”
“I think you exaggerate.”
“No, I don’t! However, we needn’t bother about that because Madame Dubois must be nearly sixty. But she has done wonders with Marjorie and Angela. They came from that ridiculous school where they think of nothing but games . . . chins poked out and rounded shoulders and Mary was quite desperate. Mercifully he took command and said that he declined to pay six hundred a year for having his two pretty daughters turned into hobbledehoys. So Mary took them away and mercifully got hold of Madame Dubois, who has worked a complete transformation. Not only they do speak beautiful French but they hold themselves properly and speak in a low musical voice . . . it’s quite remarkable.”
“Can you get hold of her for me?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Soon?”
“I’ll ring Mary up to-night. I know that Madame Dubois is still at the castle.”
“Good. And now then perhaps we’d better get on. I’ll pack up . . . no, don’t you move. I’ll do it. And then I’ll drop you as we go through Esher. I shall be home in time for tea and so will you.” Sir Anthony was preparing to get out of the car.
“Come and have tea with me.”
“No, I think I won’t. . . . I’ve got a lot to see to. I told Miss Prentice that I should like Rosemary to come to me at once. We’re getting half through September already. I said the twentieth. That gives us a little less than a fortnight. She’ll need a new wardrobe. Miss Prentice says that one of her mistresses has excellent taste and will choose a few suitable things for Rosemary so that she can come to you properly dressed.”
“And then I can carry on if you like.”
“I shall be thankful if you will.”
“I shall be delighted.” And Miss Keith meant it. For suddenly an enormous load had been lifted from her mind. The ugly association with Mrs. Mather was coming to an end. Compared with that nothing else mattered. That there would be complications connected with this adoption of Rosemary Destin was inevitable. And they might be tiresome and very difficult to overcome. But they wouldn’t be sordid. Her brother’s life would no longer be bound up with a wanton. Disgracing his beautiful home and his loyal servants and himself as well. People said it didn’t matter. It did matter, decided Miss Keith, turning to take her hat from the little embrasure by the back window and cramming it rather defiantly down on her short waved hair.
Rosemary was writing a letter. She was writing almost hysterically, for this was the first moment that she had been able to shake off the ordinary school routine. It was after tea when they always had an hour to do what they liked before preparation.
Summerford House,
Shere Wilderness, Surrey.“Hilda . . . my dear, I feel as if I was going right off my head. I’m free . . . I’m free! It’s happened to me like it happened to you only perhaps even better. It’s so wonderful . . . unbelievably wonderful and it’s too long to tell. Perhaps another time I will when I don’t feel so utterly bouleversée as Mademoiselle would say. Quite suddenly out of nowhere a Sir Anthony Keith turned up, he had been in the last war with Daddy in the French Resistance. Daddy left him some pictures in case something happened to him and of course it did happen. But the pictures, mercifully in a very tough barrel, were buried under masses of masonry when our flat got that direct hit. And the foundations have only just been dug out and there was the barrel, mercifully intact and they sent it to the War Office as it was addressed to an officer and Sir Anthony has only just had it. Sir Anthony found out where I was, through Miss Hill as a matter of fact, and he wrote to old Prentice and then came and I’m going to him on about the twentieth of this month. He has a lovely house on the Thames . . . and he’s rich, and to look at . . . well, do you know those advertisements of mens’ clothes . . . like that, only better. And you know, after the agonies I’ve suffered over you going and the utter desolation . . . well, I can’t describe it! I only pray that I may be what he likes. . . . I mean if he’s being so utterly heroic as to rescue me. . . . I must do something in return . . . but what . . . what? Think of something I can do. Oh, Hilda, you don’t know what I feel like. . . . He’s got a sister . . . she came with him . . . rather fierce to look at, but I expect she’s awfully kind really. She doesn’t live with him . . . both of them have their own houses. Oh, how shall I know how to behave in a wonderful home like that? Perhaps God will show me if I pray hard enough. I must be so that he’ll want to keep me and not be revolted by my uncouthness. I believe Miss Hill is going to buy me some clothes so that I can at any rate arrive looking respectable. In a house like that there are sure to be servants and perhaps a butler. Servants are so frightfully critical . . . even here we’ve noticed that. Oh dear . . . !
“Write to me soon and support me. You seem to be having a lovely time, but I knew you would.
“Love from Rosemary.”
It was sixpence to France, but she had a book of stamps. And now she would go downstairs and put it in the hall box. As she went she wondered if it bad all been a dream. Less than nine hours ago she had come down these very same stairs . . . going down to breakfast. Everything the same! the daily dreary routine without a hope of there ever being anything else. And now . . . she felt as if she was walking on springs: as if she could quite easily put a hand on the banister: vault over it and float all the rest of the way down to the hall.
But in spite of this wonderful feeling she walked soberly. And about forty miles away Sir Anthony was also walking soberly. He had dropped his sister at her own front door and was now walking in at his own. And his heart sank because he disliked hurting people and unless he was very much mistaken he was going to hurt Denise pretty badly. She loved him as much as she was capable of loving anybody and once he had thought that he loved her in return. But now he knew that he didn’t . . . it had only been one of those affairs that invariably ended as this one had ended, on his side, anyhow, with a vague feeling of satiation . . . he had had it in a different degree when he was a boy . . . he had eaten four meringues straight off and had longed to be able to be sick and had not quite been able to manage it. Anyhow . . . walking through the hall he went straight up to his room and after taking off his coat he walked into his bathroom and twisted round the hot tap. A bath would do him good, he could lie and reflect in it.
And this he did. But somehow it did not bring the relief that he had expected it to. Dinner would be dreadful . . . in the intervals when they were alone she would expect him to do what he had done in the first days of his infatuation, put out his hand to take hers and sigh with pleasure when she slipped her fingers under his white cuff. And now . . . he tied his black tie with a jerk. Well . . . he had brought it on himself . . . shrugging himself into his dinner jacket he stared at himself in his mirror . . . grinned rather sardonically at his reflection and turned to go downstairs.
“Oh darling. . . .” She was there . . . dazzling in her black velvet dress with the pearls he had given her round her throat. “Had a nice day?”
“Yes, quite. Have you?” he strolled to the side table.
“The usual?”
“Yes, please.” She took it from him, lifting her chin a little. He hadn’t kissed her . . . what had he been doing? Her long eyelashes narrowed a little. “Yes, I’ve had quite a nice day. I met Kate and we went to Summerford House together . . .” He stooped to kiss her. “Gosh! what’s the new scent? Fairly powerful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, don’t you like it?”
“Rather too exotic for me,” he wrinkled his nose as he dropped into his chair on the other side of the hearth.
“Jack brought it back from Egypt the last time he came on leave.”
“Oh, yes.” Jack . . . poor sap . . . Anthony suddenly loathed himself. Such a dirty trick to play on a poor unsuspecting fellow like Jack. . . .
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me anything about what you’ve been doing? Summerford House. What happened about that girl?”
“I’ll tell you after dinner. Francis will be telling us it’s ready in a minute or two. And it’s too long to keep on stopping when the servants come in and out with the next thing. I’m hungry . . . aren’t you?”
“Rather. I always am here . . . she cooks so awfully well.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she?” Trivialities . . . thank heaven. If only they would keep them up during dinner, all would be well.
And they did. Anything to keep her ugly suspicions at rest, decided Denise, snapping her crisp toast between her beautifully manicured fingers as Francis walked noiselessly round the polished table. Candles . . . tall and golden behind their pleated satin shades. Wealth and the lovely luxury that wealth always brings with it. Give it up . . .? No, she’d fight like hell to keep it, thought Denise passionately. This girl . . . she’d hear about her after dinner. . . . The bother was that Tony’s sister had always detested her influence over her only brother. She’d do her level best to further any project that would get her out of Monks Orchard. So would Francis . . . so would Mrs. Bateman. She’d defeat all their plotting. She could . . . she knew her influence over him only too well. To-night . . . she’d get him to promise to take her abroad. The Austrian Tyrol: they’d wander about there . . . come home for him to see to the farm and then go back and ski. . . .
“Well, come along . . .” He was drawing her chair out from behind her. Francis had gone: he stooped and kissed her neck.
“Tony . . .”
“Come along into the fire. I’m glad Francis had one lighted. One begins to need it now we’ve started on September . . .” They strolled together into the drawing-room. Coffee . . . it was already there on the low table drawn up close to the fire. “Sugar?” he spooned out the coloured crystals.
“Thank you!”
“Brandy?”
“No, thank you.” But he filled his own tiny goblet. He might need it, he thought grimly. Sitting there he wondered how he was going to begin. But she’d probably start the ball rolling because she would be desperately curious to know what really had happened.
“Well, tell me how it all went off this morning?”
“Half a moment while I light you a cigarette.”
“Thank you, darling.”
He leaned across and slipped it between her lips. And as he sat back again he reflected rather sardonically that it was all very well to talk grandly about feeling sick! But by gum . . .! he stamped on his thoughts, and crossed one long leg over the other as he drew on his cigar.
“You’re sure you don’t mind this?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Well. . .” He blew a cloud of blue smoke over his shoulder. “You want to know about this morning. Well Kate and I found Summerford House . . . rather institutional and all that and Miss Prentice who heads it, a bit of a stiff neck. But on the whole not too bad . . . that sort of place has to run more or less on institutional lines, of course.”
“And did you see the girl?”
“Oh yes, we saw her all right. She was sent for and came along in one of those dreadful uniform affairs that they always cram them into. You know . . .”
“Don’t I know . . .” In her relief she laughed almost naturally. “I spent several years in one. So silly because of course the minute you can get quit of the thing you fly to the other extreme unless you’ve got a firm parent to control you, which I hadn’t. I only had an aunt who held the same ideas.”
“Well, you’ve broken out since!” he surveyed her as she lay back watching him.
“Oh yes, I had to. Well, go on. What’s the girl like? How old is she, by the way?”
“Eighteen.”
“Pretty?”
“Rather difficult to say,” he mused. “Of course the ghastly clothes don’t help. But I should say . . . yes, decidedly pretty or with possibilities of being so.”
“What sort of pretty?”
Inwardly he laughed. She was narrowing her eyelashes . . . a trick he knew well. “What sort of pretty . . .? Well, dark hair cropped like a Florentine page: blue eyes and one of those dead white complexions . . . you know. . . . And very clearly marked eyebrows, black of course.”
“A beauty, in fact.”
“Well, hardly yet, anyhow.”
She was playing with the tiny spoon in her saucer. “And what are you going to do with her? Send her to finishing school, of course.”
There was something in the tone of her voice that annoyed him. “I am going to have her here,” he said shortly.
“Here!”
“Yes, here. I’m going to make a home for her . . . my sister will find me a governess. Later I dare say we shall send her abroad-——”
“You can’t have her here, Tony!” Denise had set her coffee cup down on the table beside her.
“Why not?”
“Well, of course you can’t. To begin with, what about me?”
“Well . . .” He took his cigar from between his teeth and leaning forward dropped the greying ash from it into the fire. “You see . . .”
“Go on,” she was watching him.
He hesitated. “I don’t like saying it, but you see . . . this can’t go on. To begin with. Jack will be coming home on leave . . . well, that makes it impossible for you to go on living here, doesn’t it?”
“Not if you want me to stay.”
A sudden terror seized him as he grasped what she had in her mind. Jack, poor sap, was to be confronted with the idea of a divorce. A divorce. . . . Denise for keeps, as his wife till death did them part. Oh God in Heaven! he put two fingers inside his collar and tugged at it.
“You’re tired of me.” She was still watching him.
“You have no right to say that.”
“But you have just told me so. What else makes a man give up the woman he has taken as his mistress? A sudden belated sense of honour? Oh no. He has ceased to want her . . . to desire her, and that is quite enough for a man. I’ve had enough of you. Get out!” She laughed a white-hot laugh of rage.
“Don’t, Denise.”
“Don’t, Denise . . .” she mocked at him. “Don’t, Denise, offend me with your too intelligent summing up of the situation. Let me go gently with ‘I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honour more’ halo round my head.” And then as an agonising sense of deprivation cut through her like a knife she slid on to her knees. “Tony, Tony, don’t. . . . Say you don’t mean it! Last night . . . why, it was only last night . . . you can’t have got tired of me as suddenly as all that. Tony, it will kill me . . . you know how I adore you . . . how I always have adored you. If you cast me off I shall die . . . I really shall.”
“Do mind . . . Francis may come in to collect the cups. . . .” Awful banal words, but somehow it seemed to Tony that the one thing that could not be was for his butler to see Denise on her knees. The whole household would blaze with the news that Mrs. Mather had got the boot. Not from Francis, he was far too loyal but the other servants would find out: servants always found everything out.
“Let Francis see . . . I don’t care.” But all the same Denise got back on to her heels and flung herself down into a chair. And only just in time . . . the door was opening. . . . How much had he heard? But Francis’s back gave nothing away. “Don’t wait up, Francis.”
“Very good, sir,” and Francis, carrying the tray like a sacrificial platter, vanished. Denise was wiping her eyes.
“You didn’t mean it, did you, Tony?”
“Oh God, Denise, leave it alone for now.”
“Will you come to me to-night?”
“No, I’m too tired. You must remember I’ve had a long day.”
Like a fool she could not leave it at that. “Only to kiss me . . . just to say good night. I promise you . . .”
“No, Denise, I’ve got business letters to write, I must get down to them. I’ve been neglecting everything lately. . . .”
“It’s about that girl. . . . I know it is. Oh, go to hell with your baby-snatching . . .!” She shot up out of her chair. “I’m going to bed. . . . I’ll leave this place in the morning . . . tell Francis to have the car round for me to catch the eleven-twelve to London. I’ll ring my sister from my room . . . no, don’t open the door for me, please, I can do it myself. . . .”
But he was there first. “Good night, Denise.”
“Good night.” And then she had gone. As he walked back to his chair he felt himself shaking. He leaned across the hearthrug and pressed the bell on the wall.
“You rang, sir.”
“Yes, bring me a whisky and soda, will you, Francis.”
“Yes, sir. As usual, Sir Anthony?”
“Perhaps a shade more whisky.”
“Very good, sir.” As Francis crossed the hall he was reflecting. So she’s been creating, has she? Well, let’s hope he sticks to it. We’ve had enough of her in this establishment . . . more than enough.
“Is that how you like it, sir?” Back again, Francis was surveying his master.
“Yes, thanks. Oh, Francis, I shall be taking the early train up to London: tell Jackson to be round at half past seven. And Mrs. Mather will be taking the eleven-twelve so see that the car is round in plenty of time. And get Mrs. Bateman to help her pack if she wishes it. And come back in half an hour or so, as I shall be writing a note to Mrs. Mather to explain my early and unexpected start . . . I’ve had a phone call from my lawyer. Put it on her early morning tea-tray, will you?”
“I will, sir.”
And after Francis had left the room, Anthony, dropping back into his chair and closing his eyes and sipping very slowly at his whisky and soda, reflected that a good servant was really one of the most marvellous things on earth. Not a sign . . . not a flicker. And yet he would bet his last farthing on the certainty that Francis knew exactly what had taken place during the last hour. . . . Oh, that cursed letter, but he must write it. . . .
Very wearily he crossed the room to the little inlaid escritoire in the corner and sat down on the inlaid chair. Staring at his pen he waited a moment before beginning to write, and then with a little stifled groan he started off.
“My dear Denise,
“A letter of this kind is always desperately difficult to write because it is so difficult to express in words what one feels. But I am sure you feel as I do, that with this new responsibility that has been thrust upon me, and with Jack’s very probable return to this country, it is better that we see less of one another. I know you to have many friends and relations and most important of all really, the wherewithal to lead a comfortable life even if it has to be spent apart from your husband. If this were not the case I should always see to it that you were comfortable, you know that. But I do hope that you and Jack will be able to make a go of it again. He really is a good kind fellow and y< glamorous much as we should like to be!
“Always with my love and gratitude and best wishes.
“Tony.”
“Love!” He said the word aloud as he picked an envelope out of the leather case and slipped the letter into it. But you couldn’t be too brutal even if you felt brutal. Pray heaven that she did not come to his room or anything equally awful . . . he would creep to his by the back staircase and leave it as late as he could. Stretching his arms high above his head he mingled a sigh with a groan.
The moment the car containing Mrs. Mather and her suitcases had turned the corner of the long avenue, Mrs. Bateman left Francis standing at the still open front door and hurried upstairs as fast as her sturdy little legs would carry her. Lily would still be doing Sir Anthony’s room, so there was plenty of time. Mrs. Bateman sniffed distastefully as she closed the door of the recently vacated bedroom; Mrs. Mather’s scent was over everything. But it was not that scent that Mrs. Bateman was after. It was something much more potent and as Mrs. Bateman was a confirmed teetotaller something much more displeasing to her.
And her search was rewarded. Denise had forgotten to put her medicine glass back into its little case. Mrs. Bateman sniffed. Neat gin . . . and she wouldn’t wash it because she intended to show it to Francis. Poor silent old Francis suffering torments at the depleted decanters and wondering how soon his master would accuse him of tampering with their contents. Thrusting the little tumbler into the pocket of her black alpaca apron, Mrs. Bateman hurried downstairs again and into the butler’s pantry.
“Smell.” She held the tumbler out. Francis smelt.
“Gin,” he said briefly.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Of course you did. But you only told me something I knew already. But what bothers me is that the master may have noticed all the time and not said anything because I’m an old servant.”
“Tell him.”
“No, because I think she’s gone for keeps. There was some sort of a rumpus last night and you told me she looked like the day after to-morrow when she saw that note on her tray.”
“Did she not?” And then Mrs. Bateman went away. There was change in the air . . . but what sort of a change? Well, they would know all in good time. In the meantime she would get everything all spick and span again and have Mrs. Bloom in for an extra day or so. And Mrs. Bateman went bustling upstairs again.
While Denise, sunk in the corner of a first-class compartment, was smoking one cigarette after another. The night that lay behind her had been a horror. No Resistance poilu standing knee-deep in the undergrowth of the pine forests above Thonon had waited as Denise had waited for the sound of a softly opening and closing door. As the dark and dreadful hours dragged on with their ever dwindling hope she had writhed in the torments of her mind and body. And when at last she heard the church clock chiming half past three she had known that it was hopeless. He had meant it to be final and it was. With a terrible sick thirst consuming her she kicked back the bedclothes and hurried across the soft carpet, the rosy light from the bedside lamp lighting up her beautiful filmy nightdress. And from the back of the drawer where she kept most of her lingerie, she took her small silver flask. Full . . . she always kept it filled. Snapping back the silver cap of it she tipped the contents into a medicine glass and drank greedily. Oh, thank God . . . thank God . . . she whispered the words as the lovely sense of languor stole over her. And as he was not coming, no need for the gargling and the mouth-washing with myrrh and borax which was always such a bother because it destroyed the taste and now back to bed . . . crawling in between the rose-coloured sheets she fell almost instantly to sleep, snoring a little and lying straight out like a poker.
And now her mind moved from the past into the future. When she got to Waterloo she would drive straight to a hotel off Piccadilly where she was known and book a room for the next few days. And then she would look round for a flat: mercifully she could afford to pay a decent rent so she ought to be able to get one fairly easily. Her only sister lived in Chelsea, she might get one near her. And after lunch she would go round to her club as that was where Jack always addressed his letters. Poor old Jack . . . and then in the extremity of her misery her heart reached out to him. He was solid and reliable and she had treated him very badly. And then as she thought of her husband, her mind rushed back to her lover. Oh, the torment and the pain and the agony of longing that suddenly submerged her. “Tony, Tony!” . . . she cried his name aloud. Where was he? . . . he had gone to London, perhaps she would see him. She would find him somehow . . . she would rush blindly about until she did find him. Like an animal pursued, she would rush and rush until she stumbled blindly into his arms. A Siamese cat she had once owned had done that when a dog had got into the garden and was chasing it. And she had clutched at it and told it not to be afraid because it was safe . . . safe in her arms . . . safe for ever. But would Tony say that? . . . no, no, he would thrust her away from him. Tony . . . Tony. . . . I know thee not . . . no, that was out of the Bible. . . . “Can I bring you anything, madam?” The dining-car attendant had noiselessly slid back the door.
“Yes, please, a double gin and lime. . . .” Emerging from her handkerchief, choking and blowing her nose, Denise gave her order. “Asian ’flu,” said the attendant gloomily as the steward poured out the drink. “Ought to be a law against people travelling with it.”
“Make any more laws and they won’t travel at all,” returned the steward grimly. “What’ve we got in the kitty this week? Precious little. Don’t make it worse for goodness’ sake. . .
The attendant returned grinning. “Perked up no end at the sight of the drink,” he said cheerfully. “Wonderful what it’ll do. Could do with one myself,” he said significantly.
“So could I. And you can have one if you’re prepared to hand over three and six. There’s too much picking and stealing nowadays. Go and serve the third class with lemonade . . . that’s where you Labour chaps belong,” jeered the steward, who did not like the attendant who was apt to air his silly doctrines at odd times.
And now at last the train journey was over. The receptionist at the hotel gave Denise a warm welcome: she knew her quite well and liked her because she always took a good room and was generous with her tips.
It was fine, and Denise decided to walk to her club because it was quite near. “Any letters for me, Walters?” She stood at the polished counter smiling at the hall porter. Somehow she suddenly felt inclined to smile. . . . The horror of the last few hours had receded. She would ring Elsie up after dinner that night and tell her that she had decided to make it up with Jack. Elsie would be pleased . . . she had never liked her sister’s mode of life and had always lamented that she and Jack had not had a child. That would have kept them together and would have been an interest for Denise.
“Thank you, Walters.” She would go and read the letter from Jack in the library which was a silence room and had lots of comfortable chairs in it. Sinking into a low chair she lighted a cigarette . . . mercifully smoking was allowed, and after reading Jack’s letter she would write him a nice long one in reply.
“The Club,
“Alexandria.“Denise dear,
“I ought to have written before but I have put it off and off because I don’t know how to word it. You see, I am frightfully anxious not to hurt you too much . . . you have hurt me so terribly that I know what it feels like.
“But I had better say straight out that I am never coming back to you. You will probably be very glad because I can’t help knowing that you have very often found me very stupid and you are not at all stupid, you are clever and witty and dazzling and the things that men like. And of course because of that it hasn’t been too easy for you to lead the life you’ve had to lead, with me away so much. And of course I’ve heard all about Keith . . . one always hears these things; people seem to enjoy telling one. But in a way it makes it easier for me to tell you that I too have met someone I can really love. She is rather younger than I am and is the elder daughter of my C.O. He knows that I am married. . . . I have concealed nothing from him, and he has been inexpressibly kind about it.
“We shall have to wait to marry, of course, because I do pray that you will not feel it necessary to divorce me. Of course you have no grounds and will not have, except for desertion. I could divorce you . . . but I hate the idea of it . . . it means such endless squalor. Desertion will mean three years waiting for us, but we have faced it and her father agrees. . . . I am so superlatively lucky that he likes me and doesn’t regard me as an adventurer or anything like that.
“Well, I think that’s all, Denise. Be happy . . . I am sure you will, and think of me as kindly as you can. If I come home we had better not meet; in fact, we must not meet, or it will upset things.
“Always my love,
“Jack.”
Denise, looking preternaturally solemn, put the letter back into its air-mail envelope and then began to laugh.
“Ha, ha, ha,” she laughed and choked, stuffing her handkerchief over her mouth to stifle the sound . . . mercifully there was nobody else in the room. The biter bit . . . ha, ha, ha! Jack, the adoring husband . . . the worshipper at her shrine. Into her open mouth the well-known sensation was beginning to creep. An unquenchable thirst that nothing could slake but alcohol. Mercifully the bar would be open . . . snatching her bag up from the floor she crammed her letters into it. No time to open any of the others and they all looked like catalogues or bills. A drink was what she needed . . . after that she’d be able to think more clearly. Yes, it was beginning to come back: to turn like a knife between her ribs. Tony, Tony . . . and now Jack . . . what had happened to Jack? Presently . . . now there was only one thing in her mind. . . . Why on earth had they put the bar on the ground floor?
“Good night, Walters!”
“Good night, madam.”
Through the swing door respectfully pushed open for her by a page boy. Steadily . . . now go steadily . . . better walk; it isn’t far. . . . She turned her face to the soft breeze drifting its way up Stafford Street. While, back in the club, Walters caught the eye of his assistant and raised his eyebrows significantly.
“Hmm, I thought the same,” returned the younger man.
“Pity,” said Walters, turning to pull a packet of letters out of a pigeon-hole and flicking through the contents.
Fortunately Miss Prentice decided to invoke Mary Hill to help Miss Keith in her choice of Rosemary’s new wardrobe and Mary Hill had excellent taste. Rosemary was in raptures and wrote long and excited letters to Hilda in Cannes.
“You can imagine what a stew I was in when I grasped that Miss Prentice had the casting vote about my clothes. Do you remember that frightful red jersey dress that she used to think was so lovely; in fact she does now, she had it on for a sort of reception affair that we had the other day for the Governors. But mercifully Miss Keith stepped in and said that she would like to choose my clothes and perhaps Miss Hill would help. When I found out that Miss Keith buys all her clothes at Marshall’s you can imagine the joyous state I was in, and my dear . . . you should see the things! I believe Sir Anthony entertains a lot . . . anyhow. I’ve got two most enchanting little cocktail dresses and shoes and stockings and all the things that one feels quite certain one will never have. And underclothing and dressing-gowns . . . my dear, they must have spent hundreds but then I believe that the Keiths are very rich. But I shall take most frightful care of everything and I think she was pleased because I was so desperately grateful . . . well, can you wonder that I was? After this. . . . Oh well, I know they are kind but there is no glamour and one simply must have it . . . at least you and I must.
“I go to Sir Anthony in ten days from to-morrow. . . . My address will be Monk’s Orchard, Fratton Hollow, near Guildford. Isn’t it fearful the way postage has gone up? But I can’t help it. . . . I’ll get some air-mail paper and write reams . . . all about everything. Oh yes . . . I knew I had something else to tell you. Miss Keith has got a sort of governess chaperone for me . . . a Madame Dubois . . . she’s the widow of a French Resistance soldier and has been with some friends of the Keiths for some time and now the girls are ‘out’ she wants another job. She is to talk French with me all the time. Presently I expect I shall go abroad but not yet. Anyhow can’t you imagine how utterly heavenly it is all being?. . . the only bother is that it doesn’t seem real . . . you know how one can get, either with joy or misery all sort of foggy: you did for a day or two after your release from penal servitude. Anyhow I’ll let you know what happens . . . think of me literally counting the minutes . . . no, seconds !
“Tons of love,”
“Rosemary,”
And as Rosemary excitedly stuck on six stamps . . . really one would very soon have to give up writing abroad at all—they couldn’t have any knowledge of psychology or they would have grasped that it was nearly always Conservatives who wrote letters to people in other countries and now they were all cross and would vote Liberal. . . . Madame Dubois, neat, with eyes like very wide-awake boot-buttons, was trotting along to the pillar box at the end of the quiet little road where she lived with two sisters, to post the letter with her acceptance of the post that had been offered to her by Miss Keith on behalf of her brother. What it would turn out to be she did not know . . . how could she know? But that her new charge was well bred and charming to look at she had been assured. “Well brrrred. That is vital. . . .” Madame Dubois had said so very definitely when first approached on the matter.
Rosemary never forgot her first sight of Monk’s Orchard. In the slanting sunshine of a late September afternoon it seemed to be drowned in its own beauty. Madame Dubois, who had been to fetch her new charge from Summerford House, was intrigued by the inscrutable little profile silhouetted against the plate glass window. Every crevice through which fresh air might penetrate had been carefully sealed. Only Jackson, the chauffeur, had obstinately refused to close the window on his side and had retained a depressingly wide aperture through which he could occasionally thrust an oncoming hand.
“But the drrraught . . .”
“Can’t chance an accident, Madame . . .” Jackson, who had been to France in the war, knew how to address a Frenchy and was always very deferential. So with a shudder Madame Dubois gathered her fur round her and remained silent. But it was the last time that she would appropriate the seat of honour, she decided. You felt the draught much less in the humbler one.
“Nous sommes arrivées,” she announced grandly.
“Mais oui, Madame.” Madame Dubois started a little as Rosemary responded in almost perfect French.
“Vous parlez français?”
“Mais oui, Madame.” Madame Dubois subsided. This was obviously no bourgeois middle-class girl whom one might expect to collect from a charitable institution. She sighed with relief as she lifted her veil to dab at her top lip. Her task was already vastly simplified. Hers only to mould and shape this girl, now for the first time to be introduced into the cultured circles of the true aristocracy. Madame Dubois had spent all her recent years in the company of the true aristocracy. She adored them, their perfectly modulated voices were as balm in Gilead.
And now the first welcomes were over. Rosemary stood in the panelled hall, gazing round her.
“Oh. . .!”
Sir Anthony stood there watching her.
“Do you like it?”
“Like it!” Rosemary was silent. Then she spoke again, shyly this time.
“Would it be right for me to shake hands with the butler!”
Madame took a little step forward. But Sir Anthony shot a quick glance at her.
“Yes, perfectly right if you want to,” he said.
“I do want to.” Rosemary crossed the hall to where Francis stood respectfully waiting. “You gave me the most heavenly welcome although it was only with your eyes,” she said. “Thank you.” And in the brief moment that he held the neatly gloved little hand in his, Rosemary leapt straight into Francis’s faithful old heart and stayed there. Too moved to speak he only bowed his head. Until eternity this child was his to love and cherish.
“Well, now then . . .” Miss Keith with her brisk common sense outlook took command. “Shall we show Rosemary her rooms, Tony?”
“Do.” Sir Anthony turned to go back into the library, feeling for his cigarette case as he did so. For he, too, was moved and he didn’t want to be. He was devoted to his butler and he didn’t like to see him standing there trying not to look as if he was groping for his handkerchief. And Rosemary . . . what a little treasure of a girl. And so lovely. . . . Without a particle of make-up. Good heavens! . . . Sir Anthony, blowing a stream of smoke over his shoulder, strolled to the window and stood there staring out of it. While on the first floor Rosemary stood again speechless, gazing round her beautiful bedroom and the room leading out of it.
“Oh, oh . . . who has got it ready . . .?” she flung out her hands.
“Mrs. Bateman and I,” said Miss Keith, smiling.
“Oh, thank you, thank you. . . . It seems as if I can’t say anything but that. . . . To come from somewhere like Summerford House. . . . Oh, I know they tried to be kind . . . and they were kind . . . they were kind. But this . . . all the beauty and the sort of graciousness and the . . .” and then Rosemary gave it up and dropped into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
“Just for a moment we leave you.” Madame Dubois took command. Outside in the corridor, the Persian rugs glowing mysteriously in the afternoon sunshine, she spoke in French.
“C’est une jeune fille très distinguée,” she said. “I am happy to think that I have been entrusted to teach her . . . . what do you say, in the way she should go. Some of it she obviously already knows. But there will be the little things. . . . And I feel with her that the house and the grounds that surround it are so, so . . . beautiful. And now you show me my room. Near at hand but not too near, in between us the school-room, also serving as our sitting-room, and the bathroom . . . and so on. And now my room. La, la!” Madame was exclaiming with pleasure. “It too is beautiful.”
Miss Keith was pleased.
“Your tea will be brought up at four,” she explained. “Very often my brother has his friends stroll in and we thought it more suitable . . .”
“Mais certainement. . .
“Well then, I think that’s all,” said Miss Keith pleasantly. “I shall stay to tea with Anthony and then go back to Esher where, of course as you know, I live. I can leave you in charge with the utmost confidence. Au revoir, Madame.”
“Au revoir, chère Mademoiselle,” said Madame Dubois and taking Miss Keith’s weatherbeaten but excellently manicured hand in hers she raised it to her lips.
“Oh, but how delightful!”
“A tribute to a very charming lady,” said Madame Dubois as she relinquished it again. “And I am sure I shall be very happy here in this beautiful house and with my delightful little charge.” And softly opening the white-painted door of the school-room Madame Dubois disappeared.
“Good night, Carter.”
“Good night, sir.” The night porter at the great London hospital raised a respectful hand to the salute, as Mark Progress ran down the wide stone steps.
He had had a long day, and was looking forward to the walk through the park on this lovely late autumn evening. The plane trees were already shedding their leaves; twisting and turning in the soft air as they fell. Only man is vile, Mark murmured the words as he drank in the beauty of the evening sky and remembered the day that lay behind him. Disease . . . the miseries of disease and everything attendant upon it. How utterly alien it was to a God of Love and Pity and Perfection. Looking back in a swift stab of remembrance he recalled his own case. Freed: thanks to that same God of Love and Pity and the devoted help of faithful friends. He began to walk a little faster as he remembered a walk through this self-same park when God in the shape of a human being, had mentally caught him by the throat and brought him to a standstill.
“Hopeless? Not a bit of it!” the man had smiled.
“That’s what we exist for, to help the people who have given up hope. You’ve heard of A.A., Alcoholics Anonymous. . . . I’m on the way there now . . . I only sat down on this seat as I’m rather early. It’s quite a good walk from here. Come along. . . .”
And that was the beginning. Or rather the end of that degrading mud-bespattered descent. Hard going . . . at first, yes. But very soon the warmth of the companionship and sympathy began to unfreeze the ice-cold despair. The sight of people who had shed their chains and because of it were able to cut through the chains of others. The sense of humour of those gathering in the crypt of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. The cups of tea. . . . what rivers of tea poured down those wildly craving throats! The frantic call over the telephone . . . “I can’t. . . . Yes, you can. . . . I’ll be round. Get the kettle boiling. . . .” And over all, the blessed shroud of anonymity. Christian names only . . . no clue beyond what you yourself chose to give.
Nearing the entrance to the park he turned down to the right. He would remain among trees and flowers as long as he could.
And then at last he was in the square where his flat was. It was earlier than he thought and the square garden was still open. Away in the corner the man who always locked the garden up was stopping over a seat. Somebody ill . . . he knew the attendant well.
“Anything wrong. Mason?”
“Well, sir . . .” The attendant looked quizzical. “It depends what you mean by wrong. But she can’t stay here, that’s quite certain.”
“No, she certainly can’t . . . you’re due to lock up. Let me see . . .” Mark Progress stooped. Odd that he had so recently been remembering his own case. . . .
“We’d better get her into my flat. It’ll be easy as it’s on the ground floor. . . .” He straightened himself again. Being a doctor certainly had its advantages. No need to fuss about conventions.
“Hadn’t I better get Peters, sir? He’s on this beat tonight. I’ve just seen him turn the corner. He can’t have gone far.”
“Oh, no . . . we don’t want the police in this. You can see . . .” Mark made a little gesture with his hands.
“Yes, sir,” the attendant spoke grimly. “But I can speak freely to you. You see, I know who she is. Before I took on the job I was hall porter to a ladies’ club . . . better not tell you the name perhaps. But I can tell you her name . . . if you will step a little farther away. It’s a Mrs. Mather . . . and we all liked her and were regularly upset when we saw this coming on. I don’t know whether she’s still a member but I can find out if you like.”
“No, it’s not material. Now then, the coast seems clear. Let’s get her up on to her feet and she’ll be able to walk . . .” They stooped, lifting her from the seat.
“Oh—-!” Coughing and choking she struggled in their hands. “Let me . . .” She broke away from them and stumbled away into the bushes.
“The best possible thing . . .” Mark spoke dryly.
“That’ll get rid of most of it. Don’t appear to notice . . .” as a few minutes later, Denise, handkerchief to her mouth, came into view. . . .
“I’ll . . .”
“It’s all right. I’m a doctor. I’m taking you into my flat until you are quite yourself again.”
“Come along.” He put an authoritative hand under her elbow. So beautifully dressed . . . how appalling it was that such things should be possible. “Thanks, Mason, we shall be all right now. Good night. Now you can finish your locking up.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
“I’d rather go home. . . .” Denise was pressing her handbag into her side.
“Presently you shall. I’ll take you home when you have had a cup of tea. I’ll tell you my name . . . I’m a doctor, Mark Progress, and I work at the St. Christopher’s Hospital in Great Matthew Street. I’m quite safe. . . .” He smiled.
“I wasn’t. . .”
“No, I know you weren’t. But it’s nice to know. . . .” He smiled again. “Now here we are. . . .” He was fitting the latch key into the Yale lock. A pretty hall . . . a refreshing smell of furniture polish . . . a charming sitting-room. . . .” I’m sure you’d like to wash. Look! come in here straight away. Plenty of hot water and a clean towel and a new cake of soap. I always have them ready as I often have an unexpected visitor.”
She glanced up at him. Yes, he had a nice face . . . a reliable face. She was in good hands. As the fumes of drink cleared . . . the beautiful hot water helped and the scented soap and the soft damask towel. . .the full degradation of her condition caught at her throat. Drunk and disorderly . . . no, not disorderly, but the next stage might easily be that . . . she opened the door and looked out. “Could I possibly have some sort of a cloth . . . one of those string things . . . you know . . .”
“Of course.” He fetched one. Still fastidious . . . a good sign. He went into the little kitchen reassured.
“Thank you.” She took it from him with a little smile. How pretty she was: a sort of rosebud prettiness. No sign yet of the blurring that must inevitably follow.
“All clear?” He met her in the hall with a tray of tea.
“Yes, thank you. Have you a scullery where I can hang this cloth. It’s quite clean.”
“Yes, bring it in here. And then I’ll put the tea in the sitting-room. A man living alone gets to be handy, you see. That’s it . . . take that low chair: women always like low chairs.”
“How can you be so kind to me? When you have seen. . . . Oh, the filthy degradation of it!” She buried her face in her hands.
“Doctors see so much that nothing disturbs them. Besides . . . this is all foreign to anyone like you. Perhaps when you have had some tea you will feel inclined to tell me about it.”
“It’s not foreign to me. I’ve been drinking now for quite three months.”
“Three months’ drinking does not create a confirmed drunkard.”
“No . . . but still. . . . Also, it makes me stop thinking.”
“Of course. That’s almost always the reason for drinking. Our minds . . . what complete hell they can make for us.”
“Yes.” She was silent. Presently she could begin to think . . . not yet. The tea was good. He pushed a glass canister of biscuits towards her.
“Dare I risk it?” She put the question with a little twisted smile.
“Oh, yes. Quite safe now.”
“What kind of a doctor are you? Oh, yes, please, I should love another cup.”
“Well, I’m a consultant really. But I give one or two days a week to a hospital. I feel that does much to keep me in touch with all sections of the community. Wimpole Street . . . well, you know what Wimpole Street reminds one of. The sticky kiss of great fat tyres on asphalt. The striped trousers and the black coat. The kind but final handclasp of the Great Man. No . . . I love getting down into the rough and tumble.”
“I see.” And then she suddenly set down her cup.
“I mustn’t keep you.”
“You don’t. Besides, I’m not going to let you go home until I’ve heard a little—— You smoke, of course. Take a cigarette and tell me all you feel able to.”
Her hand was trembling as she bent forward to his lighter.
“Tell you all the degrading story?”
“No. I said as much as you wanted to.”
“I’d better tell you all. The finale you know because you’ve seen it.”
“Go ahead then.” Leaning back in his chair he put the tips of his fingers together. And as he listened he reflected that the one and only thing that could so desperately affect a sensitive woman was a shattered love affair. “Love is of man’s life a thing apart. ’Tis woman’s whole existence.” Who had made that profoundly wise remark? He couldn’t remember.
When she had finished he sighed and looked thoughtfully across at her.
“And so you began——”
“And so I began . . .” She was weeping.
“I always think of Our Lord’s words. Woman, why weepest thou? Can’t you imagine how He said them? In a voice that could unlock the handcuffs round one’s very soul?”
“Do you believe in Him, the?”
He burst out laughing. “Believe in Him?”
“Yes, but——”
He leaned forward to knock the ash from the end of his cigarette. “Nearer than hands or feet,” he said. “But we must leave our beliefs or unbeliefs for another occasion. I am now going to get my car . . . only just round the corner, and take you home. I shall then, with your permission, give you a telephone number and if at any time during to-night or to-morrow you should get that feeling that I need not describe to you, ring her instantly, for she is a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, that great company of faithful people who have been through the same hell as you are encountering now and emerged victorious. I speak of A.A. of course.”
“She will know who I am.”
“No, she won’t. The second A stands for anonymous.”
“What should I say when I have rung her?”
“Tell her very briefly indeed what has happened . . . you may mention my name—by the way, you don’t know it, it is Mark Progress. Tell her that you are dying . . . craving, wild for a drink. But that you feel that if you can control it even only once, it may be the first of the Twelve Steps. She will say and do all the rest. If she is in bed she will get up and dress. If she has not yet gone to bed she will be with you rather sooner. That’s all.”
“What are the Twelve Steps?”
“They are really our watchword. I will tell you the first. It runs like this. ‘We admitted that we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable . . .’”
“I see.” Denise stood up. “I can’t thank you,” she said.
“Yes, you can.” Mark took her hand in his. “You can thank me by doing this very thing,” he said. “By calling on Helen . . . yes, we may use Christian names, if you suddenly feel that you cannot continue without instant help. And, oh yes,” he twinkled, “one more thing. Having rung her up . . . put on the kettle.”
“For tea?”
“For tea.”
They left the flat laughing. She was very charming, he decided, as he stood with her outside the front door of the little flat she had rented in Chelsea.
“Shall I ever see you again?”
“Of course. And until I do, Helen will give me news of you.”
“Oh. . . .” She hesitated. “I generally take a sleeping thing at night. Shall I to-night?”
“What is it!”
She named a well-known soporific.
“Given to you by a doctor?”
“Yes. I have my own doctor . . . he’s not on the Health.”
“You don’t mind telling me his name.”
“Oh no.”
She named him and he nodded. “Yes, that’s all right,” he said. “By the way, does he know about this?”
“I think he has an inkling. But I’ve been awfully careful. . . .”
“Naturally.” He smiled again as he stepped up into his car. She would be all right, he decided. Not quite at once but presently. He had got hold of her in time. And now to get round to H.Q.; he wanted to report the case to Hugh. Hugh and Helen . . . how very much he hoped that that would come off. . . .
“Speaking. . . .” Having switched on her light Helen had picked up her receiver. “Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . I know. I’ll be with you in about a quarter of an hour . . . oh no . . . I’m just round the corner from you. Kettle already on . . . that’s good. Good-bye for now.” And now the receiver was back in its place again. A good thing that Mark had warned her . . . no time wasted in getting dressed.
“Oh. . . .”
Helen’s instant reaction was that she had been in time. The wildly longed for spirit was still in its bottle or decanter. “First of all, tea,” she said.
“Tea isn’t what I want. . . .” Denise was beginning to lose her self-control.
“I know. But it’s what you need. And I need it too . . . you see, I waked in a hurry . . . and what time is it?” She shot a glance down at her wrist. A quarter to two. “Lead me to the kitchen, Denise . . . it’s Christian names, you see. And I’m Helen, as I expect you know.”
“If I could just. . .”
“If it becomes unbearable I’ll let you have a tiny one. But it won’t become unbearable. You see, I know it all so well . . . I’ve been through it myself, remember. And it’s desperately true that when you have taken the first and by far the most difficult step, which is the determination to root out this Devil’s lure from your very system, the step that comes next has lost a fraction of its power. Oh, what a sweet little kitchen. All pale green . . . my favourite colour. . . .”
“I’ll make the tea, shall I?” Denise’s creeping tongue moistened a little. She breathed in the steam from the kettle she had tipped up. “That’s it. While I was waiting for you to arrive I cut some tiny Marmite sandwiches. Brown bread . . . I hope you like it.”
“I do. And what an excellent idea. . . . I’m quite hungry.”
“I believe I am too. Shall we go into the sitting-room . . . it’s quite warm, I turned on the fire. Now then, sit down in the low chair and I’ll have the other one . . . they’re awfully comfortable. You smoke, of course.”
“Indeed I do. But not until after tea, ever. Afternoon tea, I mean. Thank you. . . .” Helen took one. “I have my lighter, thank you very much.”
But Denise had already got up out of her chair and was walking up and down the room. How well she knew what she was feeling, thought Helen, deeply compassionate. But what a pretty young woman this was . . . and not, as yet, completely enthralled. What a mercy Mark had chanced to see her. No, not chanced . . . nothing was ever chance.
“This tea makes me feel rather sick,” said Denise with a little shudder. “It reminds me . . .” and then she told her.
“Yes, but you know I often think that that reaction has been provided by a far-seeing God,” said Helen thoughtfully. “Because I don’t think anything else could so bring home the complete degradation of the state that we permit ourselves to get into. And you are so pretty and so dainty, it must be doubly worse for you.”
“You are pretty, too.”
“Am I? How nice of you to say so because I wasn’t once. I had gone further down the path than you have.”
“What stopped you?” Denise was drinking her tea.
“Falling in love.”
“That’s what started me. I dared not think . . . dared not remember. Even now . . .” and then Denise began wildly to cry.
“Tell me about it,” said Helen and she continued to drink her tea. And then she set down her cup. “May I help myself to some more. The sandwiches are so nice. May I have another?”
“Yes, please do.” Denise was blowing her nose and trying to pull herself together. This woman was so calm . . . so matter of fact. At two o’clock in the morning . . . there she sat with a complete stranger, eating sandwiches and inquiring, almost as if she was talking about the weather, what devastating love affair had caused this woman of her own social standing to start the slide down into the underworld of drunkenness. And then the temptation was too great and she poured it all out. Nothing omitted. Deeply compassionate, Helen listened although towards the end it was almost beyond human fortitude not to yawn. Oh, she was so sleepy . . . so sleepy . . . so sleepy. . . .
“Now that I have told you I believe I could go to sleep,” said Denise unexpectedly.
“Do you really?”
“Yes, I do,” and now it was Denise who was yawning.
“Then let me help you put these things on the tray and we can carry them into the kitchen and you needn’t wash up until to-morrow. And then if you’re wise you’ll get off to bed at once.” Helen was already on her feet. And ten minutes later she took Denise’s hand closely into her own.
“You’ll be all right now.”
“Dr. Progress said I might take the dope I always do. I told him what it was and the name of my doctor.”
“Then you’re quite safe to take it. And don’t forget you’ve negotiated the first step. To-morrow I’ll slip the card into your letter-box. And if you’re a wise girl you’ll join us in the crypt of St.-Martin-in-the-Fields to-morrow evening. You’ll get a very warm welcome and nobody will ask you your name or express the faintest surprise at seeing you.”
“Supposing I can’t stand it and do have a drink, what will you all say to me or think of me?”
“We shan’t say or think anything because it’s happened to nearly all of us. But do remember that if you only can stick the first awfulness out it is never so bad again.”
“I’ll try.”
“Yes, do. And remember I am always at your service and profoundly anxious to be of help. That sounds rather . . . Oh, I don’t know, sort of portentous. But you see. I’ve trodden the same path, only farther down the slope. And I know that without someone to hold on to one simply cannot. At least I couldn’t.”
“With your help I feel that I shall be able to. And if you see Dr. Progress again will you thank him for me?”
“I will. But you’ll be seeing him yourself, of course, he often comes to St. Martin’s. Well, if I can’t do any more I’ll be off.”
“Good-bye.” Denise took the outstretched hand in hers and her eyes filled with tears. “I do hope you’ll be able to go to sleep again.”
“Of course I shall. You forget that I’m used to this sort of midnight excursion.” Outside the little green front door the air on their faces felt soft and friendly.
“Oh, do look at the stars.”
“I know. And when one reflects that the light from some of them has been travelling for five hundred years at thousands of miles a minute and hasn’t got to us yet it does make us rather wonder why we fuss so much about trifles,” said Helen laughing. “Well, good night and God Bless.”
“God Bless.” And now Denise was alone again. But no . . . not alone. All around her were people who cared . . . people who understood and because they understood did not condemn. It was all to do with God, of course. God . . . what ages it was since she had even thought about Him.
Madame Dubois had demurred a little when Miss Keith had insisted that she should have one day a week entirely to herself. “You will need it,” she said. “The life will of necessity be circumscribed . . . all school-room is not good for anybody. You have some friend in the neighbourhood, perhaps,”
“I have one,” said Madame Dubois promptly. “She is the grandmother of one of my late charges . . . a Lady Ashenden. She is a very wonderful and wise old lady . . . well, do not let us say old for she has the mind and spirit of a much younger woman. On my days off when I was with the Honourable Mrs. Peters I used to go to visit her. And I invariably returned to my duties uplifted and refreshed.”
“Then do get in touch with her. Where does she live?”
“She lives at Stoke D’Abernon: not far from here.”
“Splendid, Then you can be taken and fetched in the car. I will speak to my brother about it at once.”
Madame Dubois hesitated. Then, “I should prefer to remain without a break of any kind until I have been here a month,” she said. “By then Rosemary and I will have become very well acquainted. That is to say, if you are agreeable to that plan.”
“Entirely,” said Miss Keith, who had already formed a very favourable opinion of Madame Dubois’s qualifications. “Shall we say a month to-day? . . . and that will mean about the middle of September.”
“That will suit me excellently,” said Madame Dubois warmly. And so it was arranged. And now the great day had arrived and Madame Dubois, neatly dressed in a very expensive suit which had been given to her by her late employer, was having a few last words with Rosemary in the school-room, “You will complete the translation back into French of the first three chapters of the Letters of Direction of L’Abbé de Tourville.”
“Mais oui, Madame.”
“You will learn by heart the second verse of Le mort de Frejus.”
“I wish he’d die more quickly,” said Rosemary naughtily.
Madame Dubois permitted herself a smile. For how could you help it, she reflected. No girl of Rosemary’s age had the right to be so beautiful. And she was becoming more beautiful . . . those gentian blue eyes fringed with black eyelashes. “La, la!* said Madame Dubois to herself, heaving a reflective sigh.
“And so I leave you for one whole day.” concluded Madame Dubois, drawing a minute chiffon handkerchief from her cuff. “And spend it profitably, je vous en prie.”
“Mais certainement, Madame,” said Rosemary. And as a few minutes later she watched the long black car slide down the avenue and disappear behind a bulwark of rhododendron bushes she flung her hands up over her head and began to jump about. First to get on with the traduction and then out into the grounds and then lunch downstairs. Oh, heaven, heaven, heaven, chanted Rosemary sliding down on to the austere seat of a school-room chair, and picking up her ball pen.
And now Madame Dubois sat and gazed at her distinguished hostess and decided that unless she could speak freely to someone she would burst. “You are happy in your new post?” queried Lady Ashenden, picking up her knitting from the tall work-stand at her side.
“Yes, very.” Madame Dubois spoke with entire freedom. “The house is beautiful. My host is all that could be desired: and the staff are attentive and always respectful. What more could I ask?”
“I am delighted. I am only sorry that I have never made the acquaintance of Miss Keith and her brother. I know people whom they know but that is as far as it has ever got. You see, my three sons and their families fill my life as far as visiting is concerned. At my age one has to curtail one’s social activities.”
“Quite.”
She is bothered about something, decided Lady Ashenden, pretending to count her stitches. But she will tell me in time: she always has done and she will now. She spoke aloud. “And your little charge?”
“Ah . . . !” Madame Dubois proceeded to extract the little chiffon handkerchief from her sleeve. Having flicked her lips with it she put it back. “I may speak frankly to you, milady?”
“Of course.”
And then out it all came. “But how can it be helped?” wailed Madame Dubois. “She is young and beautiful and has had no experience of the world at all. He is rescuing her from a life of extreme drabness, is to her a god. In addition to which, he is extremely good-looking . . . an aristocrat to the tips of his fingers and no longer a boy. What can she do but fling the whole of her untried and emotional nature at his feet? She worships him . . . she talks of nobody else . . . if she hears his voice she stops either speaking or working or whatever she is doing and the whole of her is one passionate effort to hear . . . to hear his voice, for nothing else matters to her. He . . . his voice . . . her world. . . .”
“Oh dear!” Lady Ashenden laid down her knitting. “A schoolgirl infatuation,” she suggested. “It will pass.”
“I fear not. Rosemary has not a schoolgirl mind. The life she has led up to now has destroyed much of her childishness. You can see that in her choice of programme both in television and the wireless for we have them both in our sitting-room. The noisy or the garish item she dislikes intensely.”
“But he would never . . .” ruminated Lady Ashenden.
“No, I think you are right . . . he would never contemplate the folly of allowing himself to fall in love with a girl nearly twenty years younger than himself. But of course it is quite obvious to see that he is not at all unaware of her beauty or of her worship. And her beauty and worship combined can be very dangerous.”
“How much does he see of her?”
“Not a very great deal. Sometimes we are invited down to a meal but not very often. He has a great many visitors . . . men from round about. And week-end parties . . . sometimes a married couple but as a rule men. Home on leave . . . he has many friends.”
“Do they see anything of Rosemary?”
“No, very little. When there are visitors we have our meals upstairs. He does not encourage fraternisation between his ward and his friends.”
Lady Ashenden twinkled. “No, I don’t suppose he does.”
“We had one incident when a young man appeared in the school-room. But I dealt with that at once, and I think effectually.”
Lady Ashenden laughed aloud. She had always very much appreciated Madame Dubois and was very glad to have got into touch with her again. This visit must be the first of many. . . . “And now tell me all about your relatives in la belle France,” She smiled. “And then we shall be having lunch and I hope it will meet with your approval.”
And while this conversation was in progress Rosemary, who had finished her translation, was tearing downstairs. First to the pantry. “Francis.”
“Mademoiselle” said Francis with a twinkle.
“Something nice to eat. A sausage roll: we had them for supper last night and there are sure to be some left. Get cook to make it hot for me . . . I adore hot sausage rolls.”
“I have one ready for you, Mademoiselle.” Francis had adopted Madame’s way of speaking of Rosemary. Vanishing, he reappeared almost at once with two sausage rolls on a plate.
“Two! Bliss!” Rosemary had fastened her neat little teeth on the one nearest to her. “Francis. . . .” She blew the crumbs from her lower lip. “Francis, am I having lunch with Sir Anthony?”
“That is the arrangement, Mademoiselle.”
“Heavenly! Where is he now?”
“I think in the lower orchard, Mademoiselle.”
“Say Miss: it’s quicker.”
“But the other is more decorative, Mademoiselle.”
“What grand words you use. But then of course you are a very grand person. Francis, is anyone nice coming for the week-end?”
“Yes, a very charming doctor who worked in the Resistance with the master. A Dr. Mark Progress.”
“Only him?”
“So I believe,” said Francis, reaching out for his green baize apron and tying it on.
“No cluttering women?”
“Not to my knowledge. Mademoiselle,” said Francis, permitting himself a smile. “But here is Mrs. Bateman: she will tell you.”
“Oh, darling Batey!” Setting down her plate Rosemary flung her arms round the small black figure. “A lovely crumbly sausage roley kiss for you. Now tell me. Any cluttering woman coming for the week-end?”
“No, Miss Rosemary. Only one gentleman and a very nice one. A Dr. Mark Progress.”
“How old?”
“I should say a little younger than Sir Anthony. Thirty-three or so.”
“Two perfect gentlemen at once! How marvellous. The bother will be that I shall be stuck upstairs with Madame watching over me like a lynx. However, she’s a dear, really. But if only these nice people would come on her day off! Anyhow . . . those sausage rolls were perfect. And now to find Sir Anthony. You say he’s down in the lower orchard. Thank you for the perfect sausage rolls, Francis, and thank cook for me. . . .” And Rosemary was off.
“A sweet little thing if ever there was one,” said Mrs. Bateman fervently.
“You’re right,” said Francis gravely. “But you know, Mrs. Bateman, you and I have known one another for many, many years. How’s it going to end? That’s what I sometimes ask myself.”
“Need we trouble our heads about that now, Mr. Barton?”
“No, perhaps not,” said Francis slowly. “And it’s only you and me that thinks about it and wonders a bit. Her little ladyship is having her lunch with the master to-day. Fairly off her head about it, she is.”
“Don’t forget that she’s going to school in Switzerland in November,” said Mrs. Bateman. “And there she will be until she’s nineteen or so. This is only a time for getting her used to the sort of life she was born for. Her father and mother were proper gentry, you know. French her father was, and that probably accounts for her being a bit excitable. . . .”
“Ha.” Francis was reaching up to take a silver rose bowl from a shelf. While Rosemary, having negotiated the old stone steps that led from the terrace down into the lawn, was running with flying hair to where she knew Sir Anthony would be.
“Oh. . . .” She flung herself into his arms as he turned.
“Hallo! Where have you come from? You ought to be doing your lessons.” He looked down into her upturned face.
“I have done them, Madame left me something to do. She’s out . . . it’s her day you, know. So I’m having lunch with you: joy and bliss.”
Sir Anthony looked blank. “Gosh! that reminds me. . . . I forgot to tell Francis that I’m not in to lunch. Go and tell him for me, there’s a good girl . . . my boots are simply covered with mud and I don’t want to go through the house because the mud’s all wet.”
“Won’t you be there to lunch then?”
“No, I shan’t. So get along and tell Francis so that he can warn cook . . . it was stupid of me to forget.”
“I shall come back.”
“Of course . . . and you can help me tie up these sticks; it needs two people.”
He stooped to his job again as Rosemary, her eyes blazing with disappointment, started off for the house. Back again, she spoke furiously.
“It’s the one thing I look forward to all the week.”
“What is?”
“Having lunch with you.”
“Heavens! Mind . . .!” he spoke as he struggled with an unruly stake. “Mind your eyes, these twiggy stakes are the devil.”
“You don’t care . . .”
“I don’t care about what?. . . mind, girl, get back a bit, you won’t be at all pleased if one of those blue eyes of yours got poked out.” He stood there wiping one hand on his corduroy trousers.
“All my frightful disappointment is nothing to you. You could easily have fixed another day for going out to lunch.”
“Could I though?” He stood there looking at her. . . . Gosh, she was lovely in her anger and a queer uneasiness stole over him. What had old Kate said to him the other day . . . it suddenly came back to him although he had scoffed at the time. “Do be careful, Tony . . . don’t forget that you’re extremely attractive to women.” To women, yes, he had chuckled to his sister as he eyed her quizzically. But Rosemary was a child. . . .
“A child? Nonsense!” and then Miss Keith had changed the subject. And now he stood there scraping the mud from his gum boots with his spade and thinking. If that was going to start, he had landed himself properly in the soup, he thought gloomily. Had he perhaps done a foolish and over-quixotic thing in making himself responsible for Rosemary? But no . . . look at the way she had burgeoned under the new régime. And how could he have disregarded that last appeal from his old comrade? Out of the question. . . .
“I’ve got a very old friend coming to spend the week-end with me,” he said. “You shall come and have dinner with us. Madame does not like a long evening meal so she won’t want to come, and we three can be all friendly together.”
“It’s having you alone that I so adore,” trembled Rosemary and one large tear detached itself from her black eyelashes and ran down her face.
“Heavens! don’t cry about it,” said Anthony irritably.
“Will you be out all the afternoon as well?” Rosemary was groping for her handkerchief.
“I shall be out until long after you are in bed.”
“Are you going out with a lady?”
“No. A man. Now do you feel better?” Anthony suddenly burst out laughing. It was all so ridiculous . . . so preposterous.
“Much better,” said Rosemary, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “I always have disliked women and when I think of them mixed up with you I positively loathe them.”
“Oh, Rosemary, don’t be such a little ass.” But Rosemary was now walking away. A mercy she was, thought Anthony, giving a final kick to the muddier of his gum boots. Because it wouldn’t have taken much more for him to have picked her up in his arms and half suffocated her with kisses. And then the fat would have been in the fire. “It would, wouldn’t it, my friend?” he said, addressing the robin who, perched on the handle of the roller, was regarding him with its head on one side.
It was very late but somehow there was so much to say. . . .
“I shall never forget it. There was I almost as tight as a lord and the Hun within a few yards of me. And then you appear, creeping through the undergrowth, and those woods above Thonon have plenty of that, and actually risking death itself to lug me to safety. . . .”
“I’ve forgotten it,” said Anthony grinning.
“Well, I haven’t,” said Mark. “But it stopped me drinking and A.A. did the rest. By the way, I came across an awfully sad case the other evening. I’ll tell you as much as I can about it if you’d care to hear.”
“Anything about A.A. interests me. By the way, help yourself to another drink.”
“No, thanks. I never have more than two although by the Grace of God I fancy I’m tough enough now to stand it. I was on my way home from hospital, and sitting on a seat in the gardens opposite was a woman . . . a lady, well away. She was sick. I know Mason who looks after the gardens and together we got her into my flat. She recovered and after several cups of tea she told me her story.”
“Love affair?”
“Love affair.”
“It always is with a woman. Most peculiar.”
“I know. Would an emotional disaster drive you to drink?”
“No.”
“But of course she had started to tipple before the smash came. Anyhow I rang Helen and she promised to go round if Denise found things too tough for her. Yes?”
“No, I didn’t say anything,” Anthony was reaching out for the decanter.
“And since then I hear they’ve seen more of each other and next week Denise takes a job at St. Christopher’s as ward orderly. We need them badly and she is determined. She’ll make a complete come-back, I feel sure.”
“Splendid,” Anthony leaned forward to kick a log into place. “I gather that she’s still young.”
“Oh, yes . . . in her early thirties I should say. Good-looking: soignée . . . you know the type. But not above mixing with her fellow criminals. Twice I’ve met her at St. Martin’s.”
“Where does she live?”
“We only give away Christian names, Tony.”
“Of course. Sorry. Well. . .” Anthony glanced up at the clock.
“I should say so. I’ll get along. Good night.”
“Good night, Mark.” Stooping to settle the brass guard in place Anthony glanced round at the closing door. Now opening again. . .
“Francis! What are you doing up at this hour.”
“I just thought that I should like to see that you had all that you wanted, sir.”
“You old villain! Come over here, Francis.” Francis trod carefully across the Persian rugs. “Francis, I’ve had a fearful shock. Don’t ask me what it is because I can’t tell you. But. . .” Anthony stopped speaking.
“If there is anything that I can do, sir.” Francis grasped the hand held out to him. “I would give my life . . . but that sounds foolish of course.”
“No, it doesn’t. That’s why I told you because I knew you’d feel like that. My most faithful friend, as you have always been. No, I shall get over it but at the moment I feel that I just don’t know which way to turn.”
“My savings, sir,” suggested Francis delicately.
“Oh, Francis——!” Anthony gave a little choking laugh. “No, thank you, my dear friend. at the moment I am quite solvent.”
“Weil, you only have to give me the word, sir.”
“I know. And thank you again . . . more than I can say. And now get off to bed, Francis. I won’t leave the room until this log has done sputtering. Good night, Francis.”
“Good night, sir.” And now, at last, Anthony was alone. With a little groan he dropped back into the chair he had just vacated. Denise . . . dead drunk on a seat in gardens just opposite Mark’s flat. Denise with whom he had spent many long delirious evenings in this very room before carrying her upstairs in his arms. “You’re getting too fat . . . you must eat less. . . How often in a whisper choked with laughter he had set her down on the floor in her room and gasped for breath. And now . . . well set down on the path of destruction by him, he who had said he loved her and really thought it. Leaning forward he buried his head in his hands and groaned again.
But this wouldn’t do . . . he must go to bed and try to sleep. No, not another drink or he’d be going the same way. He got up and replaced the decanters in the corner cupboard. Those decanters . . . and once he had actually begun to suspect Francis. So she had already begun it. . . . No, but that was no excuse for him. He had often been the one to suggest a drink when they could both very easily have done without it. And now . . . deserted by him she had started to drown herself in it. Until she had got to the stage of being sick in the gardens of a well-known square.
“Oh, God, deliver me from this torment of thought,” groaned Anthony, getting up on to his feet again.
The next day was Sunday. Lily, the between maid, arriving with the early tea, announced to Rosemary that Madame had a migraine and was remaining in her room.
“Que Dieu soit béni!” said Rosemary pulling on her filmy bed-jacket. “But it’s meegraine, Lily, not migraine.”
“I saw it in a book the other day,” replied Lily. “And it was spelt with an ‘i’.”
“In French ‘i’ is pronounced ‘e.’ Oh, what nice tea!” Rosemary poured out her first cup and was sipping it.
“You said something in French before,” said Lily conversationally. “What did it mean, Miss?”
“Oh, how sorry I am,” said Rosemary fluently.
“Yes, poor Madame,” said Lily. And then Rosemary was alone. God was kind, she reflected. He had struck Madame down so that she would be out of the way on that glorious Sunday. She would have lunch with her guardian and his very nice friend . . . she had met Dr. Progress the night before. He was not so good-looking as Sir Anthony, of course, and not so tall . . . not so commanding, thought Rosemary, thrilling deliciously. But he had one of those quiet faces and lovely hands and a lovely voice. He looked a good deal younger than her guardian and he was younger; Mrs. Bateman told her he was little over thirty. “Quite a boy,” said Mrs. Bateman indulgently. “In fact he was little more than a boy when he and Sir Anthony met in the Resistance.”
“A boy at thirty-odd! Then what am I at eighteen?” inquired Rosemary joyously.
“A baby,” said Mrs. Bateman fondly.
“Batey, you wretch, I’m a grown-up woman,” declared Rosemary, seizing the housekeeper’s tough little hand and giving it a great squeeze. And now on this lovely early autumn Sunday, Rosemary, not wishing to be visible too soon so that they might think her a bother . . . she was going to have lunch downstairs anyhow, was up in the school-room writing her normal weekly letter to Hilda, who was still in Cannes with her indulgent aunt, who on further acquaintance had proved to be nicer even than Hilda had expected.
“Duckies,
“Yes, I know it sounds awfully silly but it suits you because you always were such a simple sort of creature . . . always thinking the best about everybody . . . you know. . . . Anyhow you do seem to have landed on your feet: my dear! we both have! Isn’t it marvellous? This of course has its drawbacks . . . for instance Madame is getting more fussy about my movements. I mean to say that of course my one aim and object is to be where Sir Anthony is . . . do you remember how we once began to write a book . . . the Ideal Guardian . . . I came across it the other day . . . he was a perfect fiend that Guardian was . . . he used to tie the wretched Violet up to a tree and beat her. . . . I suppose a psychiatrist would find in that a baleful promise of some ghastly flaw in our characters. Anyhow, as I have told you heaps of times I simply worship the ground he treads on, and when I am a little older he will fall in love with me . . . he shall, he shall, he SHALL. Anyhow I think Madame Dubois isn’t quite easy . . . and I am always so afraid lest she should say anything to Miss Keith who might hustle me off to Switzerland earlier . . . she was in Vevey for a fortnight a little while ago settling up finally about Mont Fleuri . . . that’s where I’m going, you know. Otherwise this is of course heaven on earth: a perfect house and garden . . . delightful staff who are all perfectly sweet to me; and of course, HIM. Oh dear me, how I do adore him! Oh, Hilda, I can hear him calling me. . . . I must fly.
“I must fly. ‘I hear you calling me. . . .’ Do you remember Miss Hill singing that. . . . I am sure she was in love with Herr Friedel, who taught us German and French . . . and how jolly well he did it, you should hear Madame Dubois cracking him up. Interval while I fly to the window because I’m not quite sure that it was Sir Anthony calling me . . . no it wasn’t, he is walking down the path in the sunk garden talking to Dr. Progress. How I loathe anybody who talks to him, but a man is not so bad—— Well, I think I’ll take this to the post, I must be frightfully fond of you to pay sixpence for a stamp. Once a week, too. Good-bye, my love: soon we shall be old enough to have love affairs, bliss, bliss, bliss!
“Always, Rosemary.”
They had passed through the sunk garden and were now on the way down to the small landing-stage that Anthony had had put on the edge of the lawn that gave on to the river. “We might row down as far as Cherry Mill,” he said as he threw the stub of his cigarette into the bushes. “It won’t take more than three quarters of an hour: heaps of time before lunch.”
“Delightful,” agreed Mark. His friend looked a bit wan, he decided. Up too late the night before, perhaps. Settled in the gay little boat already bobbing at the landing-stage, Anthony spoke first. “What do you think of Rosemary?”
“I think she is one of the loveliest young women I have ever seen,” Mark flicked a still burning match into the water as he spoke.
“Young women!” Anthony was startled. “Why, she’s only a child.”
“A child?” Mark laughed. “Why, she’s eighteen or nineteen, isn’t she?”
“Eighteen. But only just. And she’s going to Switzerland in November. To a finishing school. My sister found it for me.”
“What did your sister think of your adopting Rosemary as your ward?”
“Well, I don’t think she was altogether taken with the idea. But what else could I do? I couldn’t disregard an appeal from Destin . . . you remember him, don’t you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, I told you about the letter that I found with those pictures . . . in fact. I’ve told you the whole thing. What else could I do?”
“Nothing else.”
“Then why did you look so sceptical?” inquired Anthony, amused.
“Because she is so lovely.”
“But I can’t help that any more than she can,” said Anthony, taking one hand from the oar to scoop up some water to flick at his friend.
“Mind, I can do that,” retorted Mark grinning. “No, but seriously, Tony, surely you can sense the complications that may arise. You may fall in love with Rosemary, for instance.”
“I! With Rosemary! Are you crazy, my friend?”
“Not in the least. Or she might fall in love with you.”
“Rubbish! I tell you she’s only a child.”
“Hmmn!” with the recollection of Rosemary Destin’s eyes as they blazed adoration at her guardian Mark remained silent. That was just like Anthony and it had helped him enormously in his horribly dangerous Resistance activities. He bad never even considered the possibility of being captured with its ghastly sequel. No, he had gone calmly on as he was going calmly on now. Well . . . it was no affair of his really. Leaning back he let his hand trail through the water.
“You’ve made yourself very comfortable down here, Tony.”
“Yes, I know I have, it’s been a great stroke of luck for me. Although, you know, I haven’t allowed myself to get slack. You’ve seen my small farm . . . well, I’m able to supply a children’s home just outside London with vegetables and eggs and things from it. Then we’ve got a Dr. Barnardo’s fairly near here so that’s an outlet for produce and eggs, if they are plentiful enough. Then I’m on various things . . . you know how they always want people of leisure and with a little spare cash in their various charitable activities. Oh, yes: it’s a very good life on the whole.”
“And you flourish on it.”
“Yes, I flourish on it.”
And now there was silence. Only the splash of the oars as they lifted and fell. And then Mark spoke meditatively.
“I wish I could get Denise out of my mind,” he said.
“Who’s Denise?”
“You know . . . that woman I told you about the other day. The one who was drunk in my gardens.”
“Oh, yes, of course. . . .” Anthony had shipped his oars and was feeling for his cigarette-case.
“I thought you said she was getting on all right.”
“She is . . . more or less. But what I didn’t tell you was that in spite of the fact that her husband had fallen in love with another woman she always rather hoped that that would fizzle out and he would return to her. But on Friday night Helen rang me up to say that she had seen Denise, who had just had the news that her husband had been killed in a motor accident. He had been driving back from Kantara . . . you know that road along by the canal . . . and had met a military lorry head on . . . you know how those fellows drive.”
“Was she very much upset?”
“Yes, but Helen said not foolishly. I mean to say that there was no hysteria or threats to drown her sorrows . . . you know the sort of thing. But of course it was a nasty shock for her and I was only sorry that I was leaving London and couldn’t be of any help. However, Helen is a tower of strength and was going round to Denise’s flat to sleep. She’ll be all right, she loves her work at St. Christopher’s and will very soon be put on to something more responsible. Then let us hope that after a decent interval she will marry again. Two at least of my colleagues are obviously very much attracted.”
“Are they indeed?”
“Yes.” How queerly the fellow spoke, thought Mark, almost as if he knew the woman himself and was affronted that she should be discussed; however, Anthony never had been like anyone else. . . . But the short journey home was spent in silence. Eyeing him professionally Mark came to the conclusion that he was not sleeping too well. However Anthony was not his patient so it was nothing to do with him.
And in the meantime, Rosemary was paying a final visit to Madame Dubois before beginning to dress for lunch downstairs. She knew what she was going to wear. Something rather grown up: an orchid-pink jersey suit with big patch pockets and a short coat. The jumper to match it and a string of pearls from Switzerland that Hilda had sent her, Hilda having gone there from Cannes for a short visit. They were made at Thonon on the Lake of Geneva from fish scales: Hilda had seen them made and the longer they left them in the fishy solution the more expensive they were. These had been expensive ones, decided Rosemary, rubbing her cheek with them to feel their silkiness.
“Doucement, doucement!” From a darkened corner Madame Dubois spoke petulantly. During these dismal moments she had almost made up her mind to leave. With the agile facility that the Parisian possesses of seeing rocks ahead, Madame Dubois had come to the conclusion that there were lots of rocks ahead as regards Rosemary. And now it was the day for luncheon downstairs with the monsieur, and to-day it was messieurs which was much worse. Sighing voluminously Madame Dubois turned on her side. And then she suddenly remembered what in her pain and misery she had forgotten. It was coming to an end. . . . Rosemary would be going to Switzerland in less than two months. Madame Dubois knew Mont Fleuri well . . . many a time she had shepherded her illustrious pupils to spend their last year or years as it might be of social seclusion under its exclusive roof. And the English mademoiselle who reigned over it stood no nonsense. She would at once sum up this new pupil and treat her accordingly. She need not worry . . . she rolled over on to her back again and blinked up at the darkened ceiling.
“Vous êtes souffrante?” Really the child’s accent was superb, thought Madame Dubois, recognising her own share in this perfection and feeling better because of it.
“Un peu.”
“Ma pauvre Madame,” said Rosemary solicitously and very quietly she withdrew. Along to her bedroom she flew on dancing feet. Now then . . . she would dress slowly and frightfully, frightfully carefully . . . she turned to her dressing-table. Now . . . now. . . .
But the long anticipated luncheon did not prove to be the rapture that had been expected. Sir Anthony was silent: almost morose, thought Mark, touched to the quick by the agony of disappointment on the lovely little face opposite to him.
“Could we perhaps go out in the boat?” ventured Rosemary after a long silence. “After lunch I mean——”
“Doctor Progress might take you. I have letters to write,” said Anthony shortly.
“That wouldn’t be quite the same, would it?” said Mark, raising his eyes from the peach he was peeling.
“Well, perhaps not quite,” said Rosemary, wincing from the snub yet anxious to be polite. She spoke with eyes cast down, the lashes black against the lovely pallor.
“Oh well, I can row, you know,” said Mark cheerfully. Deeply sensitive himself he knew exactly what Rosemary was feeling. These Sundays were golden days to her and probably Anthony had always taken her for a row in the afternoon. And now something had upset him and he didn’t feel inclined to. He hoped that it was not because of anything he had said. But they were such old friends and surely it would occur to any man who was not quite a half-wit that having a young and lovely girl under your roof did open the way to certain possibilities.
“If you would accept me as a very inferior substitute?” he said gently.
“Oh well, I shouldn’t think you were inferior,” said Rosemary bravely. “Shall I be ready, then, whenever you tell me?”
“You’d better put on something less decorative,” said Anthony, with an oblique glance at the orchid-pink get-up.
“Yes, I will. I only put this on because I always feel that Sunday lunch is something rather special,” said Rosemary. How could she prevent herself from bursting into tears, she wondered. And Mark, watching her, wondered what he would do if she did. Follow her, probably; being a doctor he was accustomed to dealing with emotional situations.
But Rosemary was gradually regaining her self-control. Francis would be upset if she cried because he knew how much she looked forward to these Sunday lunches and the afternoon on the river that almost invariably followed them.
Also Dr. Progress would think she was a baby and Sir Anthony in the mood he was now might say something biting. Suddenly Rosemary felt angry with him: the first time she ever had felt angry with him. This was the second time he had disappointed her and not cared. The first time she could bear it . . . now she couldn’t.
And her resentment grew. So that when she found herself sitting comfortably in the luxurious little boat, facing Mark, it burst out.
“Why should he not take me out just on this Sunday?” she fumed.
“I expect he didn’t feel inclined,” said Mark reasonably.
“That’s not an excuse for disappointing a person so desperately.”
“People often make it one,” Mark began to laugh. She was so young and so almost unreasonably lovely to look at. He felt that he was going to enjoy himself.
“You wouldn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“You haven’t got that sort of a face.”
“What sort of a face does it require?”
“A terribly good-looking face. So good-looking that it’s a don’t-care face as well,” said Rosemary frowning in her effort to make herself clear.
“So I’m not good-looking?” Mark began to laugh again. She was delicious, was this child.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean that,” said Rosemary hastily.
“All I did mean was that you haven’t got that sort of ‘don’t care’ good looks. Your good looks are more tender . . . more careful for the people you are talking to. That’s being a doctor, I expect. You have to be so frightfully careful not to hurt anybody because they are wretched enough already.”
“I see.” Mark fell silent as a strange, far-distant feeling of alarm stole over him. Surely not I . . . not he! It was as if for one brief moment she lay in his arms . . . her soft breathing close up to his throat He must be . . . mentally he shook himself.
“How would it be if we rowed as far up as that lovely hotel that comes right down to the water,” he said. “We could have tea there. It’s owned by a private company that won’t allow rowdy parties to land there. The whole thing is run by one man and he keeps a watch-dog there . . . an ex-Serviceman who has the right to warn people off. There have been some fine rows about it but he’s legally secure . . . something to do with the original freehold of the place. Anyhow it’s a very delightful spot for tea . . . I’ve often been there.”
“I should simply love it.” Rosemary’s face shone. How wise she had been to keep on her orchid suit Now she could be grown up for once . . . this man treated her as if she was grown up. “This is being most glorious fun and that after I thought that the afternoon had been utterly ruined,” she said joyously. ”Doesn’t it just show how silly it is to make up your mind about anything beforehand?”
“Well, sometimes we have to,” said Mark laughing. He is much more attractive when he laughs, thought Rosemary, because his eyes laugh as well as his mouth and he has such awfully nice teeth.
“How old are you?” she asked abruptly.
“Thirty-three.”
“Younger than Sir Anthony?”
“Yes, but only a little.”
“Yes, but two or three years make a lot of difference,” said Rosemary wisely. “For instance, when you talk to me you don’t make me feel that I am only a child. I feel a woman . . . quite grown up.” She chuckled deliciously.
“And do you like the feeling?” inquired Mark, greatly daring.
“Of course I do. Any girl would. And it makes me feel that I did right in keeping on this suit. Now I can step up on to the lawn feeling that I do you credit.”
“You certainly do that,” said Mark dryly. And a little later as he noticed how people were gazing at the slim little figure presiding over the tea pot he decided that if he had any sense left he would wait until Rosemary had gone to her school in Switzerland before coming down to Monk’s Orchard again. But had he any sense left? That was the point. He sighed as he held out his cup for some more tea.
Should he take a taxi? No, it was such a lovely evening, the walk across the park would be delicious. And the dahlias were a most glorious sight; travelling quickly past in his car a few nights before Anthony had longed to wait and really enjoy them. And now he could. Mark was dining with him at his club at eight o’clock. Heaps of time. He sauntered through the big iron gateway.
“Denise!”
“Anthony!”
Oh, but she was much thinner and not nearly so much made up. But what was it that had not been there before? Something that he had caught sight of before he spoke. Something. . . . Anyhow. . . . “What a stroke of luck. Where have you sprung from?” He stood there looking down at her.
“I’ve come from my hospital. St. Christopher’s. I work there, you know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“May I walk with you a little way?”
She hesitated. “There is nothing I should like better. But since I saw you last so many things have happened. I took to drink, you know. . . . I was always inclined that way although I hid it from you. But then it took me by the throat. By the Grace of God I hope I am very nearly cured . . . at any rate they tell me so. But I avoid any opportunity . . . oh no . . . not to drink, but any opportunity to remember the past. Never to look back. Only forward. . . .”
“But . . .” He made a quick gesture with his gloved hands.
“Yes, I know. But I feel sure I am right.” Denise spoke with trembling lips. “You see. . . . Oh, Anthony, do understand!”
“I do understand.” He made a gesture of hopelessness. “But . . .”
“Yes, I think I know all you would like to say. But all the same . . . Good-bye, Anthony.”
“No, don’t. . .!” But she had turned and was walking away. Follow her? No . . . she had made it too clear. He swung round and started to walk in the opposite direction. He would speak to Mark that evening: he was in constant touch with her. More than likely he was in love with her himself, in which case of course he might resent. Although probably he wouldn’t: Mark was a very sensible fellow. But why had the past been raked up with such force? Such relentless force that it had shaken him to his foundations. But he had been glad . . . it gave room for a new interest. Besides, the whole thing had been in shockingly bad taste, to put it mildly. His old and trusted servants, his sister . . . yes, of course it had been a disgraceful affair. But in spite of the disgrace there had been magic. Magic . . . the Light that never was on sea or land. Nothing satisfied you but that: nothing would do but that; nothing else satisfied the real You, the You that could not rest until it had found the unattainable. Oh heavens! Anthony made a desperate effort to control his thoughts. A mercy he was seeing Mark that evening . . . he could find out what she was doing, where she was living, whether she had enough to live on comfortably.
But Mark proved to be tiresomely uncommunicative.
“You see, Tony . . .” Mark was clipping the end off his cigar. “You see, anonymity is our watchword. We are pledged not to reveal anything that we have been told. Not even her surname.”
“I know her surname.”
“But not from me.”
“No. I knew it before. I have known Denise for a long time.”
“Then you are entitled to know it.”
“You can at least tell me if she has enough to live on. To live decently, that is to say.”
Mark reflected. Yes, he could tell him that. Anthony was a very generous fellow and any idea that Denise might be in financial straits would be a nightmare to him.
“Yes, she has,” he said. “Her husband did not leave her much, he hadn’t got it to leave, but some relative died recently and left her quite a packet, I believe.”
“Thank God for that.” Anthony spoke with intense relief. He is still in love with her, decided Mark. What a pity! He began to ferret about in his mind for things he had heard. One heard things in such a queer round-about way. One tapped sources that really one had no business to tap. His chauffeur . . . one had no business to listen to what one’s chauffeur said. It had been after his last visit to Monk’s Orchard. A Mrs. Mather had just left . . . a proper headache, the chauffeur had said. No, he hadn’t heard it from Francis the butler or Mrs. Bateman the housekeeper . . . they were far too loyal to their master for that. It had been from the under-gardener he had heard it. Back very late one night to see that the lamp in the camellia house had enough oil in it to last till the morning the gardener had heard voices in the summer house and had crept round to see who it was. And they say . . . concluded the chauffeur, giving a significant lift to his elbow.
And now Mark sat and gazed at Anthony. There was so much that he could say but perhaps it was better not. If a man was in love it was useless and if he wasn’t it was better to leave it alone and hope it would die a natural death. Although from the medical and psychological standard it was more or less certain that she would prove a complete cure there was always the chance that she wouldn’t. And then Anthony could do so very much better for himself than a reversion to a cast-off love. However, being his guest at dinner it behoved him to watch his step.
But Anthony stirred restlessly in his chair. He knew he was being stupid but he couldn’t help it, and Mark being a doctor and knowing his past war history would make allowances for him. “I’ve seen Denise . . .” he said bluntly.
“You’ve seen her. Where?” Mark was taken aback. Denise had promised him to steer clear of her former lover. And if alcoholics broke one promise they were apt to break another.
“Just now. At least about an hour ago. She was coming into the Park from Park Lane. I stopped her: she didn’t stop me.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Nothing. At least practically nothing. She wouldn’t wait: I tried to make her but she wouldn’t. Said that it was better not, or something to that effect.” Anthony was looking rather blankly at his friend.
“Well, don’t you think she was wise?”
“No: it wouldn’t have hurt to have stopped for a minute or two.” Anthony did not seem to realise that he had given himself away over his relationship with Denise.
“You don’t know that. The members of our fraternity have to beware of hurts, past or present, because of the repercussions they provoke.”
“Don’t speak of Denise as if she was a hopeless alcoholic.” Anthony was rather viciously crushing the grey ash from the end of his cigarette.
“She isn’t. And if I did convey that impression it was entirely by accident,” said Mark warmly. “I consider Denise one of our outstanding cases. Determined to root out the devil that threatened her she has so far as one can bank on anything, succeeded. What more can one say than that?”
“I don’t know.” Anthony was moving restlessly in his chair. “Let’s have a brandy. Steward!” Anthony lifted his hand.
“When does Rosemary start the school in Switzerland?” The drinks bad been brought and the two men were enjoying them leisurely.
“In a few weeks.”
“So soon!”
“Yes, time goes so fast nowadays: I am sure it goes faster than it used to.”
“Yes, I’ve often thought that.” Mark was twisting his wineglass between his clever fingers. “Have you ever regretted taking her under your care?” he queried.
“No, not actually regretted, because that wouldn’t have been possible. I owed a debt of gratitude to that gallant fellow, Paul Destin, and I am determined to fulfil it. Rosemary will always be my care. But I must admit that it hasn’t turned out quite as I thought it would.”
“In what way?”
“Well, to begin with she is far older for her years than I expected her to be. I had a sort of fond idea that a girl of eighteen is still a child. Well, she isn’t . . . at least Rosemary isn’t. And with her beauty, that introduces complications. You and I are such old friends, Mark, and you are a doctor and a psychiatrist and all that. Well, it wouldn’t take much for me to make a complete fool of myself over her, especially when she gives me the opportunity.”
“So she has given you the opportunity?”
“In all innocence I am sure. It was the other night when everybody was supposed to be in bed. I was sitting reading by the library fire when to my amazement Rosemary walked in in her dressing-gown. When I asked her what the devil she was supposed to be doing she flung herself on her knees at my feet and burst out crying.”
“Good heavens!”
“I know. . . .” Anthony tipped a little more brandy into his glass. “Well, ultimately it all came out. She did not want to go to school . . . it meant that she would have to leave me and the idea of that was killing her. That I didn’t grasp that she worshipped the ground I trod on: that she would never never care for anyone else, and that why couldn’t she just stay quietly at home; Madame Dubois being there would make it all perfectly all right, and that perhaps one day when she was older I might feel that I could love her in return and then everything would be all right.”
“Good gracious me!”
“Yes, I know . . . but it all sounds worse than it really is. Rosemary has a great deal of her father’s excitability in her and I am not sure that there wasn’t a streak of Italian in her mother. Well, those two combined, coupled with the fact that until I took charge of her she lived the most restricted and barren life . . . kindly treated, of course, that goes without saying, but you know what those places are like . . . no room for romance or anything connected with it. Well, I pick her out of that and plant her down here . . . comfort; luxury . . . new clothes . . . the servants are devoted to her. Well, is it any wonder that she begins to think that life is that? And that the idea of being separated from it is hell . . . neither more nor less.”
“What does your sister say to the whole thing?”
“Well, of course she knows nothing of what I have just told you. But Kate had never really approved of what she considered my excessive philanthropy. But seeing that I was determined, she gave way.”
“And Madame Dubois?”
Anthony smiled. “Madame Dubois has the perspicacity of her compatriots.” he said. “And I think she has seen the road-blocks in the way. But like all Frenchwomen she is discreet. Although ready to act at any moment she waits until the moment arrives. And then she is all action and discretion and kindly ability to settle the situation as it should be settled.”
“Which is . . .?”
“To get Rosemary out of my vicinity as soon as possible. And it may yet even happen that I may get Rosemary to Switzerland before I thought I should. But that remains to be seen. Mark, you look tired . . . I have talked too much.”
“No, you haven’t. But you know . . .” Mark spoke reflectively. “There is something very pathetic in the sight of a lovely little orphaned creature like Rosemary being at the mercy of the world.”
“Don’t forget that I shall be her background for a long time yet,” said Anthony warmly.
“Yes, I know. But that isn’t the same as a real home with a living father and mother to reign over it. Oh dear . . .!” Mark gave a little groan, half sigh, half groan, as he heaved himself up out of his chair.
Towards the end of October things had become rather more difficult at Monk’s Orchard—in fact they might be said to have come to a head. And yet, as Miss Keith reflected after one of her periodical visits to her brother, how ridiculous to describe anything so trivial as coming to a head.
“Yes, that’s all very well, Kate.” Anthony had spoken rather impatiently. “But you know the young lady has completely lost her head over me. And it is beginning to worry the staff. They . . . that is to say Francis and Mrs. Bateman, because they are the only ones who count, don’t like seeing me bothered. They don’t grasp that I am perfectly able to cope with the situation myself. In my eyes Rosemary is still only a child. That she is so lovely is a bother because I am only human. But I should never be foolish enough either to do or to say anything that I might regret afterwards: that is perfectly certain.”
“Would you like me to say anything to her?”
Anthony reflected. “What could you say? You can’t tell a girl like Rosemary that she is making a fool of herself over a man who will never have a spark of feeling for her of the kind that she wishes he would have. The next thing would be that she would be found floating face upwards in the lily pond. Don’t forget that her parents were not English . . . at least not entirely.”
“I see. . . .” Miss Keith was silent. Then, “I have had several talks with Madame Dubois,” she said. “And she takes the line that she thinks that Rosemary should go to Switzerland earlier than was intended. There is no earthly reason why she should not go almost immediately.”
“But that will mean that Madame will have to give up her job here. Won’t she mind?”
“No, I don’t think she will because Lady Ashenden with whom she always spends her day off has invited her to go there to companion her until she finds a job that she prefers. She will pay her an excellent salary.”
“I see.” And now it was Anthony’s turn to fall silent. His plan for this lovely daughter of his old friend had failed, and he was not a man who cared for failure. And yet had it really failed? Rosemary was very young and now had the chance of two years at a first-rate finishing school in the most beautiful country in the world. How could she have had that chance unless he had come to the rescue? She couldn’t have had. And what happened to her after that two years was still on the knees of the gods. She would marry, of course. She would long since have got over this silly infatuation for him and settled down to a life with a man of her own age and tastes and everything else. “Yes, I think you had better have a talk with her,” he said briefly.
“Very well, I will.” Miss Keith spoke cheerfully although she didn’t feel at all cheerful. The plan had been a mistake from the very beginning, she thought impatiently, and now she was to have the extremely unpleasant job of telling Rosemary that she was to go to Switzerland earlier than had first been arranged and all the additional bother of altering the existing arrangements. Men are always a bother, thought Miss Keith sturdily. How sensible she had been never to marry!
Rudi Von Hamn was in a very bad temper. And that in spite of the overwhelming loveliness of the view that spread itself out below his feet. The Lake of Geneva, a great sapphire pool, lay still below the green slopes of the French Alps that fringed it. On the heights the first late autumn snow had sprinkled itself like caster sugar. The sky was cloudless, seeming to smile down on the fat little white steamer just rounding the corner from Vevey. Heading for Ouchy . . . with its gay promontory of café and bandstand and lovely old Chateau Hotel.
But Rudi lay in a long chair on the balcony of his extremely expensive pensionnat for young gentlemen . . . a lovely house of three stories on the Route D’Ouchy. The Route D’Ouchy began in Lausanne, just above, and ended on the borders of the lake. And there he lay, scowling under his dark glasses, for the sun was dazzling. And he scowled because he was lonely. . . . His widowed mother had insisted on sending him to this expensive educational establishment . . . she had a Thing about the English: their manners were so good; at least the manners of the upper classes were. Their ideas were right. . . . Oh, yes, well the Germans were all right but they only turned on their manners when they wanted to; the English were polite anyhow.
And so it was settled. Rudi Von Hamn . . . son of the famous German ace who had done more damage in London during those famous raids than anyone else, was now boxed up with ten other young gentlemen of unimpeachable origin. Six from England, two from France . . . Paris, of course, and two from the Far East, the sons of Indian Princes, coffee-coloured with smooth cheeks like silk and eyelashes that any film star would have given her immortal soul to possess.
But Rudi was the only German. And he had only been admitted because Mary Wylde, the charming wife of the principal, Major Wylde, had been so staggered by the amount in excess of the ordinary fees that had been offered that she had insisted.
“My dear Mary!” Major Wylde had protested, although enormously tempted himself.
“Yes, but don’t forget that in three cases we have been obliged to reduce our fees for three of our English boys. However well-bred they may be their parents cannot afford to pay what they used to pay even as late as nineteen thirty-seven when the pound was worth seventeen to eighteen francs. Let alone the gorgeous days when it stood at twenty-five, when your father ran this place. Rudi Von Hamn will get a splendid education here and learn to eat properly, which most Germans don’t.” Mary giggled.
“What about old François? You know the boys call him Belsen because he’s so thin.”
“Well, will that hurt Comrade Hamn?” said Mary viciously.
“No, but it won’t make for harmony,” said Frank Wylde gloomily.
But Mary got her way. And on the whole, Rudi had settled down quite happily. The Honourable Peter and Lord Clive and the other English boys had been warned.
“What shall we call him. Belly?” inquired Lord Clive, his eyes dancing.
“No, call him by his proper name. François?” said Mary, her dark eyes dancing in reply.
“Impossible after all these years,” said Lord Clive tersely. And so it remained.
“You call the porter Belsen. Please why?” inquired Rudi, terrified but greatly daring. “He was there, yes?”
“And still lives? Oh, no! People in Belsen died, you know . . . but perhaps they have not told you that yet. No, we call him Belsen because he is so thin. Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”
But on the whole, in deference to their headmaster’s wishes the boys were not too cruel. And Rudi being clever, profited by the excellent tuition. He began to speak quite fluent English: the two French boys, who loathed him, always spoke to him in French. The two Indians, showing their rows of perfect teeth, spoke English with a chi-chi accent and as they didn’t care who had won either of the Wars they were affable to everybody. The weather was perfect: there was a great deal of freedom and the food was plentiful and excellently cooked by the Swiss chef.
“All that we lack is women,” said Rudi one day when he was feeling especially irritable.
“Hear, hear.” Lord Clive, with his feet on the schoolroom table, spoke feelingly. “Our Teutonic friend has stated his case in no uncertain terms. What we need is women.”
“We get them here?”
“We do not. Please.”
“You say please to make game of me.” Rudi’s neck was red.
“I do not. I was only saying please to send us women,” said Clive in convulsions of laughter.
“It is not permitted?”
“Oh boy, I should just say it wasn’t,” said Clive and amidst the holocaust of laughter that broke out, Rudi stood his ground, pale with fury.
“You Britishers are full of arrogance. There is nothing else but arrogance. That is well known. All over the world you are hated. Especially in Jarmany.”
“Hallo, have you altered the spelling?”
“Of what, please?”
“Of your tiresome country.”
“I do not understand. . . .” Rudi was tugging at his tie.
“I say, Clive, stop baiting the poor fellow.” This was from the Honourable Peter, who was known in the establishment as the peacemaker.
“But he’s such a drip.”
“I know. But he can’t help it. He was born in the middle of one of his daddy’s best raids. Brixton Hill blown to pieces. I don’t know where Brixton Hill is but it sounds salubrious enough. And now come on out, some of you loafers. There’s time for a row before evening study hour. Like to come and cox for us, Von Hamn?”
“I thank you, no.” And so Rudi was left alone. As he lay in his long chair and brooded he thought bitterly that he was always alone. Even at home in his own country he was always alone. His mother liked England although it had been English ack-ack fire that had killed his father. She said wild things about it being only silliness that started wars. When everybody knew . . . Rudi Von Hamn stiffened himself in his chair and blew out his chest.
And so the afternoon wore on. And a few miles away, Rosemary, bathed in the same lovely sunshine, lay flat on her face in floods of tears. The garden of Mont Fleuri ran right down to the borders of the lake and there was a little secluded plot of mossy grass where you could not be seen from the house. She lay there prone on her face and in floods of tears.
“Oh, how unspeakably . . . how unutterably wretched I am,” she sobbed.
“Why?” Audrey Mayne, one of the three English girls at Mont Fleuri, spoke curiously as she stared down at Rosemary’s prostrate figure. To be wretched when you had eyelashes like a haystack and a face like an extremely good-looking Botticelli cherub was very difficult to understand.
“Brutes: beasts and devils!” Rosemary lifted her face from the soft turf to spit out the words.
“Why do you carry on about it so? It’s rather nice here.”
“Yes, but you don’t know. . . .” Rosemary rather liked Audrey Mayne. She was plain and solid and diligent. She did not talk about her boy friends, as the others did, although that was probably because she hadn’t any.
“How can I know without your telling me?”
“Yes, but if I tell you you’ll probably tell somebody else.”
“No, I shan’t. I like you. I should like you to take me as your friend. You can’t make a friend of a person if you can’t trust them.” Audrey was nibbling up a blade of grass like a rabbit. She was rather like a rabbit, decided Rosemary. . . . Like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. She raised a smudged face, sat up and blew her nose.
“I’ll tell you if you like,” she said. And as nice plain Audrey stared down at her new friend her heart swelled in adoration of her beauty. Damp and smudged as she was, she was still lovely. And apparently utterly unconscious of it, which was so wonderful. Now Alison Poole, the pink and white beauty, was always trying to catch a sight of herself in a mirror and fiddling with her hair and all that.
“Do tell me,” she said. “ We’ve got a whole hour before second déjeuner. I’d love to hear . .
“Well, it was like this. . . .” and then Rosemary began. All about Summerford House. . . . Audrey listening open-eyed. . . . And then the wonder of her guardian’s advent. And then Rosemary began violently to weep. “And you see, that was the beginning of all the wretchedness and the disgusting behaviour of everybody. A collection of treacherous fiends every one of them . . .” and Rosemary’s sobs became more violent.
“Don’t cry, but go on telling me,” said Audrey solidly.
“Why, don’t you see that of course I began to adore him,” said Rosemary, raising a dishevelled face and scrubbing at it with her handkerchief. “How could I help it with him so absolutely perfect . . . so frightfully good-looking and so . . . well—perfect. . . . I can’t describe him in any other way. And then, of course, I suppose I began to show it and they all put their hideous heads together and decided that as I was coming out here anyhow I’d better come rather sooner. And so here I am,” concluded Rosemary with a great choking, hiccuping gasp.
“I see. . . .” Audrey spoke reflectively. “The mistake you made was in showing it,” she said calmly.
“How could I help it?”
“I don’t know. But you must have known that if you did show it they’d all begin to put their hideous heads together. Especially if there was a Frenchwoman among them because you know what their minds are like. They’ve only got to see a woman looking at a man as if she liked him and they are instantly in bed together.”
“That’s what it was. She wanted to be and she was at least a hundred years old and frightfully ugly.”
“Oh, Rosemary, you are an ass.” Audrey began to laugh. “Of course she didn’t want anything like that. All she wanted was for everything to be comme il faut. By the way, did Sir Anthony show any signs of falling for you?”
“No. Rather the reverse,” said Rosemary dolefully.
Audrey was stooping to pick up tiny stones to throw into the lake. “Wasn’t there anyone else you could have concentrated on,” she inquired. “You say it was a lovely house and lots of money and butlers and housekeepers and things. Didn’t anyone ever come and stay?”
“Oh, yes. . . Rosemary sighed heavily. “ One or two of the young men who came tried to get into the schoolroom. But Madame Dubois was too clever for them and they never tried more than once. And then I didn’t want them or I might have helped.”
“I think your precious Sir Anthony sounds rather a drip if he can’t muster any friends of his own age,” said Audrey discouragingly.
“Oh well . . . he has one. A doctor, Mark Progress, who was with him in the Resistance.”
“Over here?”
“Over there. . . .” Rosemary was pointing. “Up behind Thonon where we went the other day. Just imagine . . . in those very woods. Dodging the devils . . . don’t you remember seeing the little shrine where they shot that good brave priest? Sir Anthony saved Progress after he had been parachuted into the thickest part of the woods. And now he’s a doctor at that big hospital, St. Christopher’s in Central London. And he often comes down to Monk’s Orchard. I got to know him quite fairly well.”
“How old was he?”
“Thirty-three. Younger than Sir Anthony.”
“Nice?”
“Yes, very.”
“Why didn’t you fall in love with him?” Audrey was watching her stones falling with little plops into the still blue water.
“With him! How could 1? I was in love with Sir Anthony and still am.”
“I see. . . . Audrey raised her head. “That cursed bell,” she said.
“Oh heavens!” Rosemary blew her nose again. “I feel rather better,” she remarked. “I think it must be something to do with you. You’re so ordinary and calm and see things so stodgily. Oh dear . . . I do wish I could be more like that,” said Rosemary, struggling up on to her feet and stretching herself luxuriously.
“Have you ever tried?” inquired Audrey as the girls walked slowly towards the house together. A nice house built of grey stone, with the pale green shutters flat and neat on each side of the sash windows.
“Tried what?”
“Being calm and ordinary?”
“No, because you can’t if you aren’t.”
“You can,” said Audrey wisely. “At any rate you can begin to try to be. And it’s much better to begin to try to be before you start doing really silly things that may matter. Gazing dreamily at a guardian isn’t anything much. But when you once begin to think that you can do anything you like because other people are dull then the trouble begins.”
“I didn’t only gaze dreamily at him,” said Rosemary, suddenly looking naughty.
“What did you do then?”
“There isn’t time to tell you now,” said Rosemary. “But I will one day because you seem so awfully sensible. How can you be so sensible. . . .”
“Long practice.”
“Why, aren’t you sensible anyhow?”
“Not always,” said Audrey wistfully. “Although of course it comes more easily to me because I’m plain. Now with that face like yours it must be terribly difficult to be sensible ever.”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . .” Linking her arm in her new friend’s, Rosemary sighed. “You’ve cheered me up,” she said. “Thank you most awfully.”
Major Wylde had a theory that it was far better to leave young men to themselves. A certain amount of supervision in an educational establishment was, of course, a necessity. But on the one day a week when they were allowed to go for a “course ”. . . or an excursion, he believed that it was far better to let them go unattended by a master and to allow them to choose where they would like to go. The only stipulation was that they should all go to the same place, and as there were only eleven of them that was easy enough.
“We should like to go to Lutry, sir.” Lord Clive had been selected as spokesman. Looking extremely nice in his coloured shirt, soft suede jacket and corduroy trousers he stood there agreeably smiling.
“That delightful little township on the Lake. But what on earth will you do there if you go before déjeuner?”
“Well, eating will take some time, sir. Then we thought we might fish, and when the afternoon boat to Montreux comes along we might take it and go round to Thonon, and have a look at the pearl shops. Peter wants to send some home to his sister. At least he says it’s his sister.” Clive’s teeth shone white. “Then we might drop off at Bouveret and have tea, and catch the six o’clock steamer back to Ouchy and so home. . . .” Clive smiled again.
“Well, it all sounds delightful. You’ll catch the twelve o’clock steamer to Lutry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s quite hopeless to beg you to talk French, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get along with you!” Left alone again, Major Wylde sat and reflected on his unprecedented luck in having such a charming collection of young men under his care. Even Rudi Von Hamn seemed to be settling down and that was largely due to young Peter, who was always lazily eager to keep the peace.
Well, they’d got a lovely day for their excursion. . . . Leaning over the clematis-covered rail of the balcony he called to his wife in the garden below.
“They’re going to Lutry, Mary.”
“All of them?” Mary, protected against the dazzle of the sun, looked up through her dark glasses.
“Yes. I had a sort of subconscious feeling that Von Hamn might ask to be excused. But apparently he wants to go too and I’m very glad he does as it shows that he feels that he’s more or less accepted. I’m always rather sorry for that boy.”
Mary made a face.
“Now don’t be naughty, and come up here, it’s just on lunch-time and I’ve told chef that we’ll have it on the veranda and that François will bring it.”
And as Major Wylde and his wife sat on their balcony enjoying their beautifully cooked luncheon, Clive was shepherding his charges on to the fat little white steamer that had just hooted itself up to the landing stage.
“Women and children first,” said Clive loudly.
“What does he mean, women and children first?” inquired Rudi Von Hamn, who was being hustled by the Honourable Peter.
“He means you for children,” replied Peter, who was annoyed by the feather that Rudi had stuck in his panama hat. Keeping the peace was all very well but not when you had to deal with a blasted German. “Take out that dam’ feather,” he said violently.
“But I like . . . Rudi put a quick hand up to his hat.
“But we don’t.” Peter jerked the feather from under the ribbon and threw it dart-wise into the lake. The two Indians showed their magnificent teeth in a slow grin and said a few words in Hindustani to each other.
“Now then, you can do what you like until we get to Lutry. Don’t go confusing it with Pully and getting off, or you won’t get anything to eat. Don’t forget our fishing-rods and baskets or you’ll have to hire them there and they’ll stick it on because we’re English.” Clive was admonishing his little brood. And then he walked away and with a sigh of relief lighted a cigarette; although as a matter of fact he rather enjoyed these excursions when he was in complete charge. He winked across at Peter, who winked back with a jerk of the elbow towards Von Hamn, who was gazing enthralled at the glittering profile of the Dent du Midi.
“Boy, I don’t blame him, it’s sublime,” said Clive, who had his sketching things in a canvas bag, “I’m going to have a try at it this afternoon although I know it’s hopeless.”
“Well, I think you’re jolly good,” said Peter stoutly.
“Isn’t your pater’s brother an R.A.?”
“Yes, I rather think he is,” said Clive as he gazed and drank in the sublime beauty around him. The lake . . . blue as sapphire. The Dent du Midi standing sentinel at the opening of the Rhone valley with its great forests running up almost to the snows. Away on the left, grey and austere, the Rochers du Naye. . . . Oh lovely, lovely country! thought Clive, half ashamed of the emotion that caught at his throat. One of these days . . . dreamily he visualised the great canvas. Ah . . . but would he ever be able to reproduce the magic of it all? Perhaps. . . .
“Next stop Lutry.” Strolling back to where his charges stood in a little group he watched them gather up their fishing rods. “Women and children first.”
“Again he says it: what does he mean . . .?” Scowling, Rudi held back. He was not going to be hustled to the front and made game of. And Clive was merciful. “Come on, Von Hamn,” he said. “See that the two princes don’t get flustered or they’ll get lost.”
“I will see,” said Von Hamn, highly gratified. “This way . . .” he said grandly.
The enormous brown eyes surveyed him kindly. “We come,” said the two little princes in chorus and they flickered their long eyelashes at each other.
The Hotel de la Tours had a low mellow front covered with wistaria. It gave on to the green, which was really the whole of Lutry . . . for the little cluster of houses stood back against a high wall above which were tiers of vineyards. Above ran the railway along which the great Orient expresses thundered night and day. From Lausanne with its great echoing railway station you could flee to the East . . . miles and miles of flickering steel railway lines with their great streams of sleeping cars behind the great electric engines. Queer, thought Clive, standing on the lovely little green of this tiny homestead as a great train stole slowly round the bend and then talcing on speed fled onwards through Vevey, Clarens, Montreux and then on into the Rhine Valley and on . . . on . . . on. . . .
“I’ll go and fix up our meal. You all stay here.” Clive went ahead. Madame, who came out to greet him, was all smiles. “ We already have visitors,” she said, “but it will only be a matter of minutes. . . . Monsieur would like . . .” and Madame reeled off a delicious list of foods which she would only be too delighted to prepare.
“At home it would be: ‘We’re clowsed,’” said Clive as he strolled back to the little group staring down into the lake. “I’d like to bring some of those lazy unimaginative brutes out here to show them what true hospitality and catering are. Those filthy meals of limp salad and slabs of spam, and cheese in silver paper. My God! Why are we doomed to live in such a country?”
“We bring it on ourselves: we shouldn’t put up with it,” said Peter promptly. “My mater’s a terror in that way and doesn’t. She made a scene in a dining-car the other day and in ten minutes she had the whole staff fawning round her. While all the men sat round like dumb animals eating the muck they’d brought them, without a word. Thank Heaven I wasn’t there, I never travel with my Mama. Daren’t risk it!”
“Ah, it’s ready. Come along, boys.” Clive led the way. A charming low-ceilinged room with the most perfect smell of cooking food coming in from the back premises. “My!” Peter joyfully sniffed it up.
“We have accommodated you here, Monsieur.” The pretty daughter of the proprietor was leading the little company to a table at the end of the room. At the other end was another table at which about six girls were seated. “We have another pensionnat to lunch with us,” she said, beaming.
“So I see.” Clive was surveying the far table with complacence. “They are . . .?”
“The young ladies from Mont Fleuri at Vevey. In charge of their French governess.”
“Charming.” He is already a courtier, she thought, heading for the back premises. “They are seated, Papa,” she announced to the tall chef in his white cap. “May I please have the menu.”
“Delicious,” said Clive when he had read it. “I will tell them what we are to have. Now then, gentlemen. Potages au crème. Truites with mustard sauce. Poulet en casserole, avec les carrottes au crème and pommes de terre glacés, whatever that may mean. And pêche Melba. And if anyone would prefer spam with a leaf or two of lettuce three days old, let him now speak or forever hold his peace.”
There was a ripple of laughter as Mademoiselle tripped away to the kitchen and the boys sat down. Except Rudi Von Hamn, who remained on his feet staring at the far table.
“What’s the matter, Von Hamn. Sit down,” said Clive sharply.
“I see . . .” Rudi remained standing.
“I don’t care what you see. Sit down or we shall have the old dragon in charge after us.” Clive spoke sharply and Rudi sat down. But he hung his head and fumbled with the little French roll by his plate.
“Buck up, Von Hamn!” Peter, sitting opposite to the German boy, was sorry for him. Clive was a bit hard on him, he decided. For after all, they were out on more or less of a spree.
“I have seen an angel,” whispered Rudi with trembling mouth. He spoke in German because he knew that Peter would understand. Peter’s father had been in Leipzig in the Diplomatic Service when Peter was a boy of ten or so.
“Gosh, where?” Peter mouthed the words.
Rudi made a little gesture with his head. My! what a peach, thought Peter, his eyes following Rudi’s. Rosemary . . . laughing, with her head thrown back. Thick black eyelashes lying flat on her pale cheeks. Yes, Rudi had spotted a winner . . . a pity he had not been able to get in first.
“Go in and win.” Peter spoke in quick and almost inaudible German and Rudi, comforted, devoted himself to the beautiful food. Because it was beautiful. Rosemary, full to repletion, smiled as she turned to Audrey.
“What a country,” she said. “Not only the most beautiful in the world but the cleanest. And they cook as if they meant it . . . not the watery messes they serve up in restaurants at home. At home . . . I begin to wish that I could stay here for ever. Shall I marry a Swiss, Audrey?”
“No, a German. That young man over there can’t take his eyes off you. I’m sure he’s a German because of his hair.”
“Which one?” Rosemary shot a glance across the room. “My heavens, he can stare, can’t he?” She was chuckling. But Mademoiselle was rising from her seat.
“Venez, mes enfants,” she said briskly. “Il fait beau. Dehors, dehors.” They filed out. As they distributed themselves over the green, Mademoiselle sank into a deck-chair and closed her eyes. “Un peu de repos,” she murmured and instantly slept.
Rosemary and Rudi had been talking for some time. For it had all been perfectly simple. The green at Lutry was all that there was of the enchanting little township; behind, the main-line railway, and beyond, a few scattered villages rising up through vineyards to the little town of Savigny.
“You are at school here, please?”
“Yes, at Vevey. Mont Fleuri: I like it . . . rather, that is.”
“I too. I am at the establishment of Major Wylde at Ouchy. At least not quite Ouchy or Lausanne: in between both.”
“Are these all your friends then?” Rosemary flicked her fingers towards a little group close up to the wall busy with unfastening their fishing rods.
“Yes.”
“Two of them are quite good-looking,” said Rosemary appreciatively. “That one especially. . . .” She flicked a decorative forefinger at Clive.
Rudi winced. “He is arrogant.”
“Yes, probably he is. Well-bred Englishmen very often are. You ought to know it having fought against them. By the way . . .” Rosemary was pondering. “I oughtn’t to be talking to you,” she said airily. “My father and mother were killed by one of your beastly bombs. On Brixton Hill. However, the devil who dropped it copped it at Dover where the ack-ack fire was too accurate for him.” Rosemary stared downwards. “What have you dropped?” she inquired.
“Nothing,” Rudi was scrabbling in a crevice in the wall. “I thought I saw something in a crack,” he said hoarsely. Straightening himself he stared at her with wide blue eyes. “I too bear the same name . . . Von Hamn. But I am no relation to that ace though my father, too, was a pilot . . . it is a common name in Germany.”
“Well, I shouldn’t blame you if you were,” said Rosemary carelessly. “After all, we can’t be responsible for what all our relations do—I expect lots of mine did a lot of damage in your stupid country. Because you are a stupid nation, you know, stupid nations always start wars. Like monkeys. I once saw that lovely tea-party at the Zoo. The minute the attendant’s back was turned they started snatching things off one another’s plates. Heavenly to watch. . . .” Rosemary flung back her head, showing her pink kitten’s tongue.
“Yes,” Rudi was gazing and as he gazed his heart thumped wildly against his ribs. She was divine . . . this lovely little English thing. His heart was hers . . . for ever and ever. “Tell me more,” he stammered.
“What about?” Rosemary settled herself more comfortably on the wail.
“About yourself.”
“Well, I don’t know that there’s much to tell,” Rosemary, highly delighted with the adoration blazing in the blue eyes on a level with hers, for the wall was fairly high, giggled . . . “My brutal guardian sent me out here in spite of my cries and so here I am, you see.”
“He ill-treats you? This devil in human form!”
“Well, perhaps not exactly ill-treats,” said Rosemary carefully. “Unless you can call it ill-treating to send a person where she doesn’t want to go.”
“But you must escape,” said Rudi wildly. “I will . . .”
“Move your head a bit, I believe one of the boys has caught a fish,” said Rosemary, craning her dark head.
“Oh, yes, he has. Poor thing. . . .” She flung her hands over her face.
“I will tell him . . . to desist.” Rudi flung round. But Rosemary caught hold of his arm. “Don’t you,” she said. “That boy’s an Indian prince. He’ll stick a poisoned dart into you before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“He conceals such things upon his person! It is permitted?”
“Well, how can you stop it?” said Rosemary, rolling in convulsions of laughter.
Oh, oh, oh. . . . Oh, this was perfect . . . she hadn’t laughed so much for ages. Extracting a minute coloured handkerchief from the top of her stocking she wiped her eyes.
“You can laugh. . . .” Rudi spoke with averted eyes. One glimpse of that pink knee had completed his downfall. This lovely unconscious innocent thing . . . he choked.
“Well! . . . but what’s the use of doing anything else,” said Rosemary, replacing the handkerchief and taking the opportunity of pulling up her stockings so that the join at the back was straight. “For, after all, they’re Indians, aren’t they? And one never knows what an Indian will do. And anyhow I expect Major Wylde has them under proper control. He’d have to, wouldn’t he, as they’re all mixed up with English and French boys?”
“It sounds to me . . .” Rudi spoke wildly because he had seen the prostrate figure in the deck-chair beginning to move. “She wakes,” he said. “The Mademoiselle in charge of you. Quickly, quickly, tell me your name. I have heard your first name . . . Rosemary . . . a name of enchantment. But now I wish the second name. The surname . . . quickly.”
“Have you got a pencil?”
“I need no pencil. It will for ever be written on my heart.”
“It’s Destin.”
“French?”
“Well, my father was French. . . .” Rosemary’s eyes narrowed. “Just across the lake,” she said. . . .” Look! the steamer is just going up to the landing stage. Thonon . . . in France . . . my father was in the Resistance. Up in those woods . . . they used to drop him there by parachute. Oh! that I could go there one day and explore them all! . . . I believe there is a hut there, somewhere, built on a concrete gun-emplacement. We used to leave food there and the Germans never dared touch it in case it was poisoned. . . . Some was, but it was marked so that we could tell the difference. Oh, how often have I not imagined it. My father . . . creeping, creeping. And my guardian creeping to meet him. . . .”
“The devil who now ill-treats the daughter of his comrade in arms!”
“Oh, well, you know, times change. . . .” said Rosemary airily. But she had been silly to say that, she reflected. She levelled her luminous gaze on him. “I like you,” she said. “Fancy me saying that I like a German.”
“I adore . . . I worship you,” said Rudi. “I see you again, or I perish. Together we go and explore those sacred forests above Thonon. We find the hut where your father fed. Together we go. Soon. . . .”
“But how on earth could we?” said Rosemary, her gaze kindling. For what more glorious adventure could be thought of than that? To actually see the very place where her father had proved his gallantry. And even her guardian . . . she thought of him with longing although it was perfectly hopeless to long . . . she would never be anything more to him than she was now. And after all, when she saw young people like that frightfully nice-looking one called Clive, perhaps Sir Anthony was rather old. “How can I get to know that tall good-looking one with the fishing rod?” she asked abruptly.
“You cannot,” said Rudi, speaking equally promptly. “It is not done. They are English . . . they would not understand. . . .”
“Yes, they would: I’m English too!” But it was too late. Mademoiselle was advancing. “Venez, mes enfants. The steamer, he approaches, I hear him tooting as he leaves Pully. We board him and proceed to Bouveret where we shall have tea. Venez! venez!”
Audrey was coming. “Has she disturbed you?” she inquired naughtily. “But why did you choose a German when there are all those G.B. dreams about?”
“I didn’t choose him: he chose me,” said Rosemary. “Which dream did you pal up with? There are only two really good-looking ones.”
“I couldn’t bother: I ate too much lunch,” said Audrey sleepily. “I went away and slept in a corner where nobody could see.”
“Pig!”
“Pig yourself,” said Audrey rudely. “But joking apart, did you ever eat a better lunch? What would these people say to the muck they give you in England?”
“You look tired, Sister.”
“Don’t call me sister . . . you know I’m not one.” Denise, leaning on her mop, was laughing down at the pale woman in the high hospital bed.
“You’re Sister to me. Much better than that starched bit of nonsense over there,” said Jane King, pointing with an emaciated finger.
“Hush.”
“You can’t say hush to a dying woman,” retorted Jane King as she painfully caught her breath.
“Who told you you were dying?”
“The good Lord. He tells me everything. And when He said it, all I said was, you couldn’t have given me better news, Milord Jesus Christ.”
“Oh, Jane, has it been so wretched?” Denise stood nearer to the bed. The ward was spotless: she had plenty of time to linger.
“Wretched? It’s been awful, Sister. All but a bit in the middle when I had my man and my little boy. And then a flying bomb finished them and when I got back from my bit of shopping they’d gone and so had my little top flat. And when some blooming idiot from the chapel round the corner came and said to me that she’d like to have a word of prayer with me to thank the Lord that I’d been spared, I said that if I knew anything about the Lord he’d be as sorry as I was that I was left all alone and that if she wanted to hear me cursing she was welcome but if she didn’t to go away quick. ‘Hop it,’ I said. ‘Hop it!’”
“And did she go?”
“Yus. At the double.”
Denise was laughing again. She loved Jane King, for hers was the sure faith that refreshed the soul. She talked freely about Death, welcoming it as a friend. The next world would have bits of Switzerland in it . . . she had gone to Switzerland once with a family who had had a nurse and an under-nurse, and she had been the under-nurse. The top-dog nurse had been hateful to her but that hadn’t mattered because the hotel where they were staying was surrounded by snow mountains except on one side where they looked down on the plains reached by a lovely forest road that ran through pine trees. She had never forgotten it. “Oh, Sister, that’s what Heaven will be like . . .!” Her sunken eyes were blazing. “And I’ll walk in, and my Alf will be there and he’ll have little Harry by the hand. And there’ll be the marmalade cat that I loved. . . . Buttercup we called him, he was run over, poor pet, and Alf’ll have his dog Sandy. All five of us as happy as birds in a nest. . . .” Jane King, through her gasps, was joyously smiling.
“Oh, Jane. . .
“I’d love you to come too, Sister.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now: just the two of us.”
“Perhaps they wouldn’t let me in.”
“Not let you in. I’d see to that,” said Jane fiercely. She spoke so fiercely that the starched figure seated writing at the table close up to the end window glanced across to the high bed. She frowned and made a quick motion with her hand.
“I must go,” said Denise softly.
“Interfering old trout,” said Jane weakly, but all the same she lay back on her pillows. She loved this real lady who moved about the ward with her mop and called herself a ward orderly. She had suffered, had this dear lady; it was written on her sweet pretty face. Someone knew about her suffering, and that someone was the kind doctor with the quiet eyes. Doctor Progress, for he always greeted the pretty lady so kindly and smiled when she called him Sir. He might marry her, thought Jane dreamily, and they would make a lovely pair. And then Jane turned on her side and shut her eyes and prayed the little prayer she always did, which was that the next time she opened them she would be somewhere else.
While Denise moved down the ward, her mop stealing in and out under the bed tables. Somehow this menial work made her happy for it gave her time to think. She had been marvellously helped in her struggle back to temperance and sanity and Helen was delighted because she sensed a complete cure. Denise had been taken in time and her initial collapse had burnt the degradation of the whole thing into her very soul.
“Don’t excite Mrs. King, Mrs. Mather.” It was Sister, bending confidentially from her chair.
“No, Sister, I’m very sorry,” Denise had learnt to speak humbly.
“Oh, it’s all right.” Sister liked Mrs. Mather and was extremely curious about her because for a woman like that to be a ward orderly was unusual. That Dr. Progress knew something about it she was quite certain, but of course he would never say anything and naturally she could not possibly ask him.
“Mrs. Mather.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Dr. Progress tells me that he does not think that Mrs. King will last through the night. So make some excuse and have the screens put round her now as then it will not rouse any comment.”
Oh lucky Jane! Out of it all . . . would that she could take her place. “Sister . . .”
“Yes, Mrs. Mather.”
“Would it be possible. . . . I know it’s against the rules, but would it be possible for me to remain in the hospital to-night so that if Jane does die I could be with her. You see, in a way, she has always clung to me because she has no one else. . . I mean, no relatives of her own. Please, Sister.”
Sister hesitated. And then her brow cleared. “Dr. Progress has just come into the ward,” she said. “He may give permission. . . . I don’t know. I’ll ask him. Get one of the porters to bring in the screens and then you settle them round the bed.”
“Well, Sister!” With a brief smile to Denise as she hurried passed him he reached the table covered with temperature charts. Sister gave her report, to which he listened attentively.
“And Mrs. King?”
“I have given orders for the screens to be brought. And ward orderly Mathers has asked me, sir,” and then Sister began.
“Yes, why not?” So . . . he reflected, Denise was now forgetting herself in her care for others. “Let her lie down in the rest-room, Sister, and Night Sister can call her if necessary. I am on duty to-night so she can call us both at the same time.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“I’ll tell her.” He walked away. “Let me do that, they’re heavy. Look . . .” He drew Denise a little aside. “They will call us both,” he said. “I am going just to have a look at Mrs. King but I feel sure that she will go to-night. So let us both wish her bon voyage,” he smiled again. And Denise, watching him, as he disappeared behind the screen. Sister rising hurriedly from her chair and hastening to join him, wondered whether it wasn’t because of his complete disregard of her as a woman that she liked him so much. Ever since he had dragged her morally as well as physically from her disgusting condition in those gardens he had been the same. . . . Never showing by word or deed that she was anything but a case . . . worthy of the utmost care and consideration but beyond that always only a case.
She had remarked on it to Helen.
“Yes.” Helen had looked thoughtful. “I expect, you see, it’s partly because he’s a doctor and having been in the war as well. . . . He was in that part of the war where a poker face is a necessity. It’s become a habit . . . and then I don’t think he’s a man who wants to marry.” Helen smiled.
“How’s life, Denise?”
“Marvellous. I couldn’t have believed . . .”
“Ah, you see, we got you in time! And then you cooperated with us so marvellously. If only they all would!” And then Helen trod delicately. “Have you seen Sir Anthony since that time that you met him?”
“Yes, once. And he’s written.” Denise hesitated. “He wants me to go out to lunch,” she said. “You see, Dr. Progress is a friend of his and I expect he’s found out that I’m practically cured . . . in fact I am quite, only one doesn’t want to be too cock-sure.”
“Well, why don’t you go?”
“How could 1? . . . as I told you, I could never possibly care for anyone else. How could I see him as I should do . . . simply as a friend? He would have put me out of his mind as certainly as I have put alcohol out of my mind. Well, I couldn’t stand that. I might try to think that it was all for the best and all that, but it wouldn’t be the real me that was thinking it. The real me would be gasping . . . longing for his arms round me again.”
“I see. . . .” And then the conversation turned to other things. And now as Denise moved about the quiet little rest-room adjoining the ward where Jane lay waiting for the end, Denise lived this conversation over again. For when she came to die what would her life have been proved to be? A life in which her longing for complete love and security had been satisfied, or a life like most people’s lives, where the best had had to be made of the second best? She would leave further thought of it for the moment, anyhow, because she was very tired. . . . Lying down, she lay there dreamily listening to the muffled roar of the distant traffic. London . . . marvellous city of the living and the dead. The living . . . even now pouring out of the theatres and cinemas either to scramble for a bus or train or to stand waiting with complete assurance for their car to slide up to the kerb, to carry them off to restaurant or night club, or wherever they wanted to go. Probably with no thought whatever of the vast sea of misery surrounding them. A mercy, really, thought Jane sleepily, because they would be sure to get their share of unhappiness somehow. . .
“Mrs. Mather . . .!”
“Yes, all right.” Sitting up, Denise swung herself off her bed, wide awake in a moment. She picked up her cap and settled it on her head. Twitching her white coat from its hanger she buttoned it on. Along the quiet ward; many curious eyes watching her. “Thinks we don’t know,” muttered one old arthritic patient to herself, “but we knows all right. She’s off, is Jane King. Good luck to her. . . .” The tired old eyes narrowed as Denise disappeared behind the screens.
“Hallo, Jane!” With a quiet smile at Dr. Progress on the other side of the bed, Denise gathered the straying fingers in her firm grasp.
“I’ve seen Alf but he’s gone again,” whispered Jane.
“He’ll come back,” said Denise confidently. Death . . . how wonderful: how final and how completely peaceful. Why were people afraid of it? Jane was not in the least afraid . . . that was perfectly obvious. She lay there smiling a little, her wrist between Mark’s well-kept fingers.
“I saw my Alfie, but he hadn’t got Harry with him. He’d got Sandy all right and I could see him all right but not Harry or Buttercup.”
“Perhaps he’d sent Harry to fetch Buttercup.” Denise was smiling down at the white face. Mark, watching her, decided that Anthony might quite easily risk it now, if Denise would give him the opportunity. Because underneath that delicacy of complexion was a delicacy of spirit. Denise bad suffered frightfully . . . the lines round her mouth and eyes showed that. But from that suffering had been born the real Denise . . . the Denise that God had had in His Mind when He created her.
“Oh . . .!” Jane was drawing her breath in short gasps. “Mind, Harry! don’t let Sandy jump up on your father. Yes . . . I know I’m a bit late, but. . .” and then Jane was gone. One hot tear fell on the thin hand as Denise placed it carefully in the one that Mark had laid down.
“And people fear death. And hesitate to believe in a future life,” Mark spoke softly and gravely, as he closed Jane’s eyes.
“I know. It’s incredible.” Denise was wiping her eyes as she drew a long trembling sigh. “Oh, dear . . .!”
“And now you get back to your rest-room and I’ll have some tea sent along to you. I’ll tell Night Sister . . . she’ll be in the next ward, I told her to stay there: there’s a bad case just been brought in. Good night, Denise.”
“Good night, sir.”
And now back again through the rows of quiet beds. But, seeing the wide open eyes of the old arthritic lady, Denise crossed over to whisper to her.
“Not asleep yet, Mrs. Tribe?”
“No, Miss. I always likes to keep awake when there’s a death coming along,” said Mrs. Tribe, her sunken eyes twinkling. “Reminds me of hanging up my stocking when I was a littl’un. Never knew, you see, when he might pop along. And soon there’ll be the porters to carry her out. And as she goes I say good luck, old dear, I shan’t be long. Tootleoo!” and Mrs. Tribe gave vent to a subdued cackle of laughter.
Oh, wonderful people! As Denise left the ward she met one of the student nurses carrying a tray of steaming hot cups of tea. For the wakeful . . . the Matron of the great hospital was a deeply sympathetic woman. Closing the door of the rest-room she saw her own tray of tea on the bedside table. Kept warm by a gay little knitted cosy. “Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy.” And then for some reason or other, Denise began to cry again.
Francis was worried about his master. He spoke to Mrs. Bateman about it. “Sits about brooding,” he said, “and he’s never been one for doing that; I hope he’s not ill. I wish he’d have Dr. Progress down again, he always does him good.”
“Missing little Miss, perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Bateman. “I know I do. Always so bright and perky. And Madame, although she could be pernickety about her food sometimes: vegetables cooked all wrong, she always said. The master finds the house too dull . . . that’s what it is.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Francis, rummaging in a drawer for his green baize apron and tying it on. “The master was never one for young people and if you ask me I think he began to find Miss Rosemary a bit of a trial, always at his heels as she was. And he knows she’s all right where she is: loves Switzerland, she says. Never thought there could be such a beautiful country: would like to live there always, she says.”
“Oh well, then, I don’t know what it can be,” said Mrs. Bateman, going away to see if the laundry had arrived because she wanted to count it before lunch. But as she went she decided that she knew very well what was wrong with Sir Anthony because men were all alike. They wanted a pretty woman about the place and he hadn’t got one. Sometimes Mrs. Bateman almost regretted the banishment of Mrs. Mather, although of course that couldn’t have gone on, especially with a young girl about the place. But it kept the atmosphere lively. She hadn’t told Francis that she’d indirectly had news of Mrs. Mather. Her sister’s cousin Irene had been in St. Christopher’s Hospital for an operation on her toes. And Mrs. Mather had been ward orderly in the ward where she was.
“Mrs. Mather a ward orderly!” Mrs. Bateman’s eyes had flown open like a burst plum.
“Yes, and me cousin said that she was ever so sweet. So sweet and pretty and calling the doctors sir . . . ever so polite. Me cousin said that she loved it when she stopped by her bed and passed the time of day with her. Looked forward to it, she did, ever so . . .”
But this staggering piece of news Mrs. Bateman had kept to herself. To begin with, it might not be true, and if it was Sir Anthony would not wish it made public property. That Mrs. Mather had taken to drinking was well known both to Francis and herself. . . . But she might have been cured . . . they did such wonderful things nowadays. In any event, least said soonest mended, decided Mrs. Bateman, continuing her journey up to the linen cupboard. But Francis, silently brooding, was not satisfied. A friend of his had been valet to a gentleman who had gone just like Sir Anthony . . . silent and moody and all that. And then one fine day his friend had found his master sprawled on the gunroom floor, a revolver in his out-flung hand and a bullet through his head. And his friend had cried and said that he had feared that there was something wrong but had not liked to appear to notice or say anything. And now what, sobbed his friend, also sprawled out on the floor in his comfortable little bedroom with a great big photograph of his master, complete with bearskin, set proudly out on the mantel-shelf.
And Francis had not known what to say or do. And he did not know what to say or do now. For his master was dearer to him than his own life. Was he then to stand helplessly by; debarred from saying anything because he was only a servant. No . . . Francis pacing up and down the butler’s pantry made up his mind.
But it was very late before he dared to disturb his master’s solitude. He had taken coffee into the library where, when he was alone, Tony liked to sit.
But he was trembling as he held the handle of the library door between his cold fingers. For had he the right? Sir Anthony was his employer and his master: he was not his equal in any sense of the word. . . .
“Come in, Francis.” Anthony turned from his contemplation of the bright fire that Francis had lighted. Evenings down by the river were cold and damp. “Come in,” Anthony repeated the words as Francis hesitated beside the half-open door. “Come and sit down, Francis, you spend your life on your feet and I’m sure it isn’t good for you.”
“If you will excuse me, sir, I prefer to stand in your presence.”
“Oh Francis, don’t be so ridiculous. I look upon you much more as a father than a butler.”
“I know, sir, but all the same. . . .” Francis stood there with his clean-shaven lower lip pinched up between his forefinger and thumb. It was too difficult to begin. He gave up the unequal struggle.
“Did you want to say something to me, Francis?”
“I did, sir. But on thinking it over . . .”
“Well, it’s odd that you should have done that. Because for some time I have been wanting to say something to you. Something frightfully difficult to put into words. Supposing we toss for it. Heads for the one who is to start the ball rolling.” Sir Anthony slipped a finger and thumb into his watch pocket. He spun the coin and slapped it down on the back of his other hand. “Now then, Francis.”
“Tails, sir.”
Anthony uncovered it. “You win. Francis. Out with it. But I insist that you sit down. On your feet you have an unfair advantage over me.”
Francis sat down. Laying a hand on each knee he drew a long breath. “For some time now, sir,” he said. “For some time now Mrs. Bateman and I have noticed a change in you. It may of course be caused by little Miss Rosemary having gone to her school abroad: all that coming and going has been done away with. Then Miss Keith being in Spain for a month makes a blank of course. But in spite of all that, and in spite of the fact that you are busy about the farm and seeing to things as you always do . . . all the business and the orderings . . . you know what it is, sir, your hands are always full. But there’s something lacking and I feel that I know what it is. Not that I’ve told Mrs. Bateman what I think because it doesn’t do with a woman: you’ve got to be so careful what you say to a woman,” said Francis thoughtfully.
Anthony smiled wryly. “You certainly have, Francis.” He turned a little in his chair. “And what do you think is wrong? Tell me perfectly frankly because you and I are old friends.”
“I think that you want a woman about the place, sir.”
“Right again.” Anthony gave a short sardonic laugh. “Look here, Francis, I’m going to be perfectly frank with you because you deserve it. You can tell Mrs. Bateman as much as you like of what I am going to say to you: that I leave to your discretion. Now look here. . . .” And Anthony began. He spoke perfectly frankly and at length.
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Bateman and I both knew that there was more between you and Mrs. Mather than appeared on the surface. And so far as I was concerned it did not disturb me at all. What did disturb me was the fact that she was taking the drink because I was afraid that you might think it was me.” Francis smiled. “And I also thought that it was a pity that she should give way like that because she was a lady born and it’s always unfortunate that the gentry should so bemean themselves. It doesn’t seem to matter so much when it’s the lower classes,” said Francis dryly.
“Lower classes, Francis?” interrupted Anthony with a grin.
“Well, what else can you call them, sir? You can’t call them the working classes because they don’t work. Nor yet the poorer classes because they aren’t poor. Many of those families take in fifty pounds a week or so and they never save a penny nor give a ha’penny to charity.”
“You’re perfectly right,” said Anthony sighing. “And now then, let me say some more and this is very important because it concerns you as well as me. After what I have told you would you agree to my having Mrs. Mather here to stay again? It would not be on the same terms as before . . . you understand what I mean, don’t you? But just as a friend. I have wonderful accounts of her from Dr. Mark Progress, who is senior physician at St. Christopher’s Hospital. Mrs. Mather has taken a post there as ward orderly . . . the ward orderlies sweep the wards and do any menial work that may be necessary. The patients love her . . . she is unfailingly good and kind and cheerful with them. Yes, what did you say, Francis?”
“I was just going to say that I know all about that,” said Francis. “I didn’t mention it to Mrs. Bateman because I happen to know that she’s got a cousin in there . . . something wrong with her toes, and I didn’t want her to spread it about, you know what women are. But a young nephew of mine is one of the ambulance drivers to the hospital, and he told me. He said that Mrs. Mather came down to the front door with a patient who was going home the other night. And she was crying and clinging to Mrs. Mather and saying that how was she going to get on without her . . . she couldn’t. . .”
Anthony swallowed. “But she won’t see me, Francis.”
“Won’t see you, sir!” Francis was horrified and incredulous.
“No. I have twice met her . . . just by accident . . . once in the park and once near the Army and Navy Stores. And then I wrote and said that I should so much like to take her out to lunch . . . you see, I’ve heard from Dr. Progress how hard she works at the hospital and I thought it might be a little change, you know. . . . But she replied quite definitely that she thought it far better that we should not meet again.”
Francis was appalled, “But she won’t stick to that, sir.”
Sir Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh no, sir, of course she won’t,” Francis was indignant and affronted. “Oh, no, sir . . . out of the question. A gentleman like you! Oh no. . . .” Francis staring into the fire had set his clean-shaven jaw in a very firm line indeed.
“Everyone hasn’t the exalted opinion of me that you have, Francis.”
“No, sir. But on the face of it. . . .”
“I know. . . . But still. . . .” Anthony sighed. “ Well, I’m glad I’ve told you, Francis. You might pass on what you think fit to Mrs. Bateman. Nothing would induce me even to ask Mrs. Mather here if you and she objected to the idea. You have both served me too faithfully for that.”
“I think I can speak for both of us, sir,” said Francis steadily. “If you think fit to ask Mrs. Mather here as your guest we shall both do our utmost to make her feel at home again.”
Anthony cleared his throat. “I can’t say what I feel, Francis, but I think you know. Now get off to bed, there’s a good fellow, you look dead to the world. For God’s sake don’t you break down or I shall be finished.”
“No, sir. I never felt better. This talk has put my mind at rest.” Francis got up on to his feet. “ Good night, sir.”
And now Anthony was also on his feet. “ Good night, Francis—good night, my good and faithful friend,” and Anthony took both the worn old hands between his own. And when Francis had gone he still stood there, looking at the closing door. What more priceless possession than a faithful servant? Tragedy indeed that the day for them was over. Sighing, he stooped to lift the tall brass guard from its corner to settle it in place.
When Denise got Anthony’s second letter she took it round to Helen. Having given her an idea of what it contained she put it back into her bag again.
“What am I to do, Helen?”
“A frightfully difficult question to answer. You see, I don’t really know what you want to do.”
“What I want to do! I want to go back. Not on the same terms, although it could only be a matter of time before that started again. What does any woman want to do when she loves . . . adores? She only wants to do what the man wants . . . you ought to know that.”
“I do know it. And that’s why I beg you not to go. So much hinges on a woman’s emotional life. You might begin to wonder if his love was as eager as it was before, and that might very easily send you flying to the sure and certain solace . . . a solace for the moment, anyhow. And then you start drinking again and when you start for the second time there is very little hope for you . . . as a matter of fact for any woman. Because you know what we are: women are much more difficult to cure than men.”
“I can’t say no. Every fibre of me is tearing . . . lacerating at me. I feel like a mad person who puts down his head and starts to run . . . get out of my way . . . beating, kicking at anyone who tries to stop him. . . .”
“My!” Seeing the gravity of Denise’s condition Helen tried to turn it into a joke. “I’m glad I don’t feel like that about Hugh,” she said.
“Of course you don’t, because there is no need. You’ve got Hugh for keeps: you’re engaged to him . . . you’re going to be married. That’s sanity because it’s security. Mine’s only insecurity. I’m dependent on a man who knows he has me in the hollow of his hand. That’s a very different affair.”
“Can’t you prove to him that he hasn’t? That might make him make up his mind that it must be all or nothing.”
“And in the meantime he meets a woman who has all the attributes that I have not. Don’t forget that he is a frightfully attractive man with plenty of money. Money does not matter to me: I have enough of my own to live on and apart from that I don’t care for luxurious things. I should love Anthony if he was penniless and as a matter of fact I almost wish he was because then he might need me more.”
“What do you suppose the servants will think if you go back,” said Helen. “Servants are not fools and if as you say you stole the gin, that old butler of his must have known. Then trust a woman for knowing everything that is going on. Wasn’t there a housekeeper? Well . . .”
“Perhaps that’s partly why a bit of me doesn’t want to go back.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Helen simply. “And if you ask my advice I should say hang on to that bit of you. It’s the bit of you that sees you for what you really are and what you might become again but for the Grace of God. And if you weren’t so interested in your work at St. Christopher’s I should urge you to shut up your house and get right away from here. A change of scene might make all the difference. Now you only have the suffering and tragedy of St. Christopher’s versus the glamour and undoubted magic of that lovely house by the river. Is it to be wondered that you turn your face to the Light that never was on sea or land?”
“If I went away from London I should have to leave all those poor pain-racked creatures,” said Denise heavily.
“You mean if you shut up your flat and really went away?”
“Yes.”
“But you would leave them just as surely if you went back to your old life,” said Helen wisely. ”And this time it would be final because once you were entangled again you would be entangled for good and all.”
“When I am with you it all seems so simple,” said Denise.
“Do you mind if I have another cigarette?”
“No, do. Don’t be so proud: have one of mine.”
“No, thank you, I’ve got heaps.”
“Look.” Helen waited until Denise had deeply filled her lungs and was slowly exhaling it all again. “Look, Denise, write to Anthony while you’re here. Say this . . . that you thank him with all your heart for his invitation and that you long to accept it. But that at the moment you don’t feel strong enough . . . in any way. Unless he is a complete fool he’ll know exactly what you mean and it may make him begin to think . . . think seriously, that is. It will show him that you still love him and I consider that to be very important because some men do not take kindly to rebuffs. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder . . . sometimes it does: sometimes it doesn’t. In many cases it makes the man, and very rarely a woman, simply shrug their shoulders and think ‘Oh well, that’s that’ and begin to look for someone more amenable, or something else to fill their lives. Don’t let it do that for him. Let your love creep through and that will show us . . . because I hope you’ll tell me what your Anthony is really like.”
“My Anthony . . .” Denise took the cigarette from between her lips and stared at the glowing tip of it.
“Yes, why not?” said Helen steadily. “And now then, let’s get the tea . . . it’s nearly four. I’ll put the kettle on while you finish your cigarette: then we can have tea and you can write your letter afterwards and then post it on your way home. What do you think of that?”
“And supposing I write it and don’t post it?”
“I shall come as far as the corner with you to make sure that you do,” said Helen, twinkling back at Denise from the door into the kitchen.
It was late when Denise eventually left Helen’s flat. She had written the letter earlier in the evening and then Helen, seeing that it had been a strain, had kept her with her to supper. It was when a woman was emotionally drained dry that the devil had his chance. And Helen did not intend that he should have it with Denise. She had fought a wonderful battle and to all appearances had won it. That victory was going to remain if Helen had anything to do with it.
So after a nice little supper they sat and talked and smoked until the clock struck ten.
“Now, my dear, I’m going to see that you put that letter in the pillar box at the corner,” said Helen laughing. “As you’ve helped me wash up I can go straight to bed when I come back. Your way back is quite straight only don’t take the short cut through that passage behind the mews, I never think it’s safe after dark.”
“My dear, I’ve been through it loads of times and much later than this.”
“Yes, I know. But somehow to-night I don’t want you to,” said Helen uneasily. “After all, you needn’t . . . it only saves about ten minutes.”
“All right, I won’t. At least not unless it starts to thunder. Did you hear that growl just now?”
“Yes, I did. But I don’t think it’s going to be much. It sounded quite a long way away.”
And they parted cheerfully at the corner. The letter was safely posted: Helen heaved a sigh of relief as she let herself into her flat again. She had won a battle but it had tired her. With a quick glance round the kitchen to see that it was all spick and span for the morning, she went to the bathroom to turn herself on a bath, and began to undress. Bother . . . she cocked her head to one side to listen.
Thunder . . . well, Denise would be practically home by now. . . .
But the thunder had come a little bit too soon. Also cocking her head to stare up to the sky, Denise watched the stars blotted out by a scurrying cloud. She would have to take the short cut . . . it saved quite ten minutes and with a scurrying cloud ten minutes is a long time. Turning into the little alleyway she lowered her head against the rising wind.
“Denise. . . .”
“Tony . . .!” Does a starving man stop to think when food is held out to him? All the dammed-up anguish of the last few months flew to the lips that the tall man had prisoned in his own. “Tony . . . Tony. . . Tony . . .!”
“Darling, darling . . .!”
“No, no, don’t . . . I mustn’t . . .”
“Nonsense. I’m coming back to your flat with you. It’s going to deluge. Come along. . . .”
They ran, holding hands, and as they went she felt for her latch key in her coat pocket. Up the few steps and in at the front door. He took off his hat and flicked the raindrops from it. “Are you wet?”
“No, not a bit. Only my hat.” She took it off and shook it. Stooping, he buried his face in her hair.
“Darling, darling . . .!” She was mad . . . she didn’t care. His arms were round her again. What did anything matter? It had begun to rain in good earnest . . . pouring down. But they were together . . . the past was gone . . . blotted out. The future . . . let it take care of itself. If somebody puts a priceless jewel into the palm of your hand you don’t hand it back. “Tony . . . Tony . . .!”
“May I come in for a little while? I promise . . .”
“May you come in? But you are in. . . .” She freed herself. “I’ll make some tea; you won’t mind if it’s only tea? I never keep anything else in the flat now.”
“Of course not. I shall love tea. I’ll help you make it.” They went into the little kitchen together.
“What made you take that alleyway to-night?” Denise stood there watching the kettle begin to steam.
“I don’t know. An urge. I’d been to see if you were in and you weren’t. So as I felt pretty sure you’d take that short cut home as it looked a bit stormy I hung about. I’d been there nearly half an hour when you arrived and I’d had a couple of dirty looks from the bobby who sometimes patrols that place after dark.”
“Oh, dear. . . .” Denise was filling the kettle. Glancing round she picked up a plate covered with a lace square.
“Sandwiches,” she said. “I made them for my supper and then I stayed and had it with a friend. We’ll have them. Bring the biscuits, will you: they’re in that tin.”
They spread the tea things on the low table, and switched on the fire. But I’m happy again, thought Denise vaguely. All that abyss of misery has gone. But I mustn’t let it last . . . this is only for the next hour or so: perhaps not even as long as that. But I don’t care . . . I’m happy now, and that’s all that matters. I can see him . . . I can touch him . . . he has kissed me. He may kiss me again. We’ll see. . . . She smiled happily, like a child.
He lay back in his chair biting into a sandwich and then taking another.
“You make sandwiches well,” he said. “They taste.”
“A touch of Worcester sauce. Not at all U, but awfully nice, I always think.”
“I agree. Well . . .” He leaned forward to pick up his cup. “I needn’t ask how you are because I can see for myself . . . you look years younger. And then, you see, I get news of you from Mark. He tells me that they love you at St. Christopher’s. Well done, Denise.”
“It had to be that or I was finished. You see, I didn’t grasp what a hold alcohol had got on me . . . it fills up all the gaps. When you feel that you have come to the end and that you can’t struggle any more, a drink will make you feel that you can.”
“Poor child. It was my fault”
“Partly, not all.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He shot a glance down at his wrist. “Heavens, it’s past eleven.”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, you ought to be in bed. I’m sleeping at my club.”
“Oh. I’ve written to you at Monk’s Orchard.”
“What about?”
“Need I tell you?”
“No, not if you don’t want to. Anyhow, let’s bundle all the remains of this into the kitchen . . . you have a daily, don’t you. No, you sit still: I’ll do it.”
She watched him. Back again he held out his arms.
“Come and sit on my knee. . . .”
Her eyes widened.
“No, don’t be frightened. I shan’t stay long. But I simply must kiss you. You look so sweet . . . and soft . . . and all the things I love about you. And I needn’t tell you how I long . . . long. . . . But anyhow come over here and I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking.”
Locked in his arms she clung to him.
“You see. I’ve grown up a lot since that last time you stayed with me,” he said when at last he lifted his mouth from hers. “Whether it was that what Mark told me about you gave me a frightful shock or whether it was that I suddenly seemed aware of my responsibilities: you, Rosemary, myself, my devoted servants, Francis and Mrs. Bateman. Or whether it was that my hideous selfishness blazoned itself across my conscience. But anyhow, something just took me by the throat and I knew that I could never go back to that sort of life again or drag you into it. Yes, I know you’ll say that you came willingly . . . that there was no dragging about it, but the fact remains that except in very rare cases, that type of relationship is the man’s fault. He can alter it by asking the woman to marry him. Yes, I know that at the time you were married but shortly afterwards you became a widow and I could have asked you then. I could ask you now . . . but I don’t feel ready to do so. Nor do I think if you were to think it over very seriously you would be ready to accept me. Now would you?” Holding her a little closer to him, he looked down into her eyes.
Smiling she turned and hid her face in his coat. “Go on,” she said.
He shook her a little. “Answer me.”
“Go on.”
“Naughty girl. But you smell nice,” he sniffed appreciatively. “Well, I don’t think that there’s anything more to say and the fact that I haven’t long before this carried you into your bedroom must show you that I mean what I say. You are mine . . . I hope, for ever. But we’ve got to prove ourselves first and until we have proved ourselves we must wait for what we both want so terribly . . . so overwhelmingly.”
“If I know that you do, I don’t mind . . . really.”
“Of course I do. In fact. . . Time gentlemen please,” he laughed as he loosed her and let her slide to the floor. Picking her up again he set her on her feet. “My darling,” he said, “my darling, darling. Sleep well and I’ll answer your letter when I get it.”
“Anthony . . .”
“Well . . .” He stooped and buried his face in her neck.
“I love you so frightfully.”
“I know you do. And that gives me courage not to hold you by any tie at all. You are free . . . as I am free. . . .”
She shivered.
“Don’t worry. I’ve had enough of that sort of freedom. And now I must go or I never shall. I shan’t be seeing you again . . . yet, anyhow. Good night, my darling. No, don’t hold me so tight because I’m only human you know.”
And when she heard the front door close behind him she still stood there. God had given them that blessed little interlude. It was up to them to show Him that they were grateful and there was only one way to do that and Anthony had chosen it.
He had had her letter, he wrote, but it had made very little impression on him.
“I told you the other night what I intended to do,” he said. “And I am going, with your permission, to stick to it. I see desperately clearly where I went wrong. I did you a grave injustice, and indirectly I betrayed the trust of my two devoted servants, Francis and Batey. People in our position cannot behave like that and unfortunately it is nearly always people in our position who do behave like that. Ability to get away with it is no excuse. I can see your blue eyes cloud with incredulity, well . . . I have learned a lot during the last few months. Undertaking the care of Rosemary has taught me a lot. Renewing my friendship with Mark Progress has taught me a lot more because Mark is a really good man, free of all the hypocrisy and uncomfortable qualities that such goodness often brings with it, or seems to, perhaps it doesn’t, really, but that’s the impression it gives.
“So, darling, help me to keep to my resolution, which is not to see you again for some time. That gives us both time to think. You are much valued at the hospital and you are doing a noble job of work there. I have a great deal to do here . . . there is a fearful row raging about a property that a charitable institution want to buy and turn into one of their homes. I am not in favour of it; it seems to me that the private individual gets a very raw deal nowadays . . . our Welfare State has only one type of welfare in mind and that it runs to death. Fortunately Mark is of my opinion on this particular issue and he is coming down to all the meetings we are having in this part of Sussex. You see, if you dump an institution down in the middle of what is called a residential area that area immediately depreciates in value. Well, why should all these nice retired people, hoping to enjoy a well-earned rest and freedom from the noise and racket with which they have probably been surrounded for most of their lives, have that freedom destroyed and their money wasted? No, and I am going to do my level best to see that it isn’t. And Monk’s Orchard is well out of earshot so that I cannot be accused of grinding my own axe.
“So there we are! You may say, and probably will think, that it has been from you that the veto on our meeting has come. I agree . . . it has. But after seeing you again I have realised that the ban must come from me as well. There was infinitely more in our relationship than I realised. We must wait now until we are both quite certain that to be husband and wife is what we both want.
“Between ourselves I am not entirely satisfied with what I hear from Miss Alford, you know, the head of the school at Vevey where Rosemary is. But I am not going to do anything about it until I hear again. Mark is going to Geneva for some medical conference soon. He and Rosemary get on very well and I shall ask him to go and see her. He has had a good deal of experience in psychiatry and probably understands Rosemary much better than I or my sister do. In any event I am going to leave it to him to put anything that may be wrong, right.
“And now it only remains for me to say God bless and to tell you that I am always your devoted friend.
“Anthony.”
Denise was in bed when this letter came, having her breakfast. She had slept late so had not bothered to get early tea. As she slowly buttered a piece of toast she tried to analyse her feelings. Disappointment . . . she had much better face it. After what had happened a few nights ago she had not expected it. Women were like that when they loved . . . they were amoral. They didn’t care . . . the man they loved was the man they loved . . . that was the beginning and the end of everything. She ate her toast with a feeling of despair round her heart. He would decide after a long time of not seeing her that it would be better to marry someone more respectable. . . . She began to cry . . . the toast choked her and she stopped eating it. Helen had told her not to take the alleyway home and she had taken it. This was the result: complete rapture for a couple of hours and then the devastating misery that now enveloped her like a shroud.
But Helen, whom she went to see after a day of hard work and wretchedness, took a different view altogether.
“You see, Denise, what you can’t grasp is that a woman with your temperament cannot be allotted the easy way. You have . . . largely I admit by your own strength of character, emerged victorious from the octopus grip of drink . . . yes, don’t let’s be polite . . . drink with all its grubby accessories. I believe you to be cured. . . . I have seen many cases, my own included, and I can safely say that I think yours is a complete cure. And now let me add something else. If you once drift back into that life of emotional uncertainty you’ll start it all over again. Only the security of marriage will do for somebody like you. You’ve got to know that you are safe in your love life. A man when he marries gives up a good deal . . . why should Sir Anthony undertake it lightly? He wants to test you . . . why shouldn’t he? He has discovered that his love is something beyond the physical and he wants time to think it over. You did not feel like that on the evening that you have told me about. You would simply have fallen into his arms and started the whole thing all over again. He knew that . . . men are very perceptive. Well, why should he tie himself for life to a woman with no moral sense at all? I admire him for the attitude he has taken up. He has risen miles in my estimation of him.”
“But he may marry somebody else,” choked Denise.
“Well, if he does, you’ll have to face it,” said Helen sensibly, “but my own opinion is that he won’t. He’s found that the tie that bound you together is much less fragile than he thought. He has found in you perfect physical satisfaction. But he knows that that is not nearly enough for marriage. Try and be more sensible, Denise.”
“It’s all very well for you, you’re safely engaged to Hugh,” wept Denise.
“But then we have had the sense to wait for our supreme happiness,” countered Helen. “Oh, I’ve no patience with this modern way of going on. The whole lovely fusion of body, mind and spirit ruined by the sordid but desperate necessity for avoiding children! . . . can you imagine anything more revolting when you think of it in cold blood? Male and female. He created them for one supreme purpose, which is that two people who adore one another should be one in reality. And we’ve dragged it down to what?” Helen made expressive gestures with her hands.
“In a way. . . .”
“Yes, go on.”
“In a way you make me see . . .” said Denise uncertainly.
“Then for heaven’s sake go on seeing,” said Helen impatiently.
“He does say darling,” said Denise, slowly replacing the single sheet in its envelope.
“He says darling because he means darling. Men don’t say darling just for fun,” said Helen, getting up out of her chair. “And now I’m coming round to have supper with you for a change. Have you got anything at home to eat or have you been too miserable to think about food?”
“I’ve got lots of eggs and some cold ham.”
“Glorious. Now then, come on,” said Helen brightly. “Get a grip. Life isn’t only what we make it. It’s something great and glorious with which we’ve got to ally ourselves. We’ve all become so weak and self-indulgent and floppy. I suppose it’s the result of this donkeyfied Welfare State. And look at the wireless . . . we even have to have our parlour games played for us. No initiative. . . nothing . . .!” said Helen forcibly.
“You do me such a frightful lot of good,” said Denise explosively and she flung her arms round her friend.
“Thank you. And now I’ll tell you something. You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Helen fondly. And that’s saying a lot. And I don’t wonder your Anthony loves you. And the fact that he feels that he needs something more than the physical from you is indirectly a very great compliment, so hang on to that.”
“You don’t think he’ll fall in love with somebody else, do you?” said Denise tremulously.
“No, I don’t. And I’m not a person who says what they don’t mean simply to please anybody,” said Helen stoutly.
“Now put on your coat and don’t forget your bag,” she added as she stooped to the floor to pick it up.
Miss Alford, the headmistress and owner of the extremely expensive Pensionnat pour Jeunes Filles housed in the lovely premises known as Mont Fleuri at Vevey was, for the first time in her scholastic career, seriously worried.
But mercifully she had someone in whom she could confide. Headmistresses of schools cannot confide in their staff and very often there is nobody else at hand. But Miss Alford had an old friend living in Montreux and on one lovely afternoon at the end of November she stepped up into a tram and went to see her.
“Is it that girl Rosemary Destin whom I told you not to take?” inquired Mrs. Jackson puffing at a cigarette.
“Yes, it is.”
“It serves you right.”
“I was sorry for the girl: she had had such a raw deal,” returned Miss Alford irritably.
“Was it that or was it that the Keiths made no demur about your colossal fees?” returned Mrs. Jackson callously.
“Partly,” admitted Miss Alford frankly. “But not all. Don’t forget that I remained in Vevey during the whole of the war. And Vevey faces Thonon: Thonon with its history of the wanton murder of the innocent.”
“Quite,” Mrs. Jackson pondered. “Before you start telling me about Rosemary’s delinquencies, tell me, can you entirely trust your staff?”
And now it was Miss Alford’s turn to ponder. “There is only one about whom I have any doubts,” she said. “And that is Fräulein Möstler, my new German governess. She came with excellent recommendations and she is a born teacher . . . you know how often the German governess is the problem in a school, she is often fat and uncouth and the girls make game of her. But not Fräulein Möstler. She is graceful and well dressed, and the girls like her and take an unusual interest in their work with her.”
“I see.” Mrs. Jackson leaned forward to knock some of the greying ash from the end of her cigarette. “And now tell me about Rosemary. And pour yourself out some more tea because you know exactly how you like it.”
“Well. . . .” Miss Alford was devoting herself to the teapot. “Well, it’s this. Rosemary Destin seems to me to have very little idea of discipline. What she wants to do she does. And the bother is that she is extremely pretty and well-bred and all that, and has a very decided way with her so that she is very popular with the other girls and leads them more or less by the nose.”
“Has she any special friend?”
“Yes, she is very friendly with Audrey Mayne. The exact opposite to her in every way. Quite plain, to begin with, except for a very pleasant smile and beautiful teeth. She’s what you might call stodgy . . . you know. . . .”
“Yes, I know. And now tell me what you suspect?”
“Well, I don’t exactly suspect anything,” said Miss Alford uneasily. “I say, I’m going to have another of these enchanting sponge things with rum and cream in them. Do you mind?”
“Of course I don’t. I bought them for you to eat. I got them at Pitets this morning. It’s agony to have to be careful about one’s weight; I could eat these Swiss pastries for ever! Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a stale affair filled with ersatz cream? I might get some sent out from England for you.”
“Don’t! But do you know I actually saw one the other day. Dorothy Moore came back from her holidays and she hadn’t eaten all her lunch. And the very sight of it made me shudder.”
“I don’t wonder. Well, anyhow, let’s get on. Up to date you only suspect. There isn’t actually anything on which you can put your finger.”
“No, not exactly. The only thing I have noticed is this. Twice a week the girls go into Lausanne for a dancing class. And I always notice that on that day Rosemary is much more vivacious than usual. Of course that may be the result of the exercise. Rosemary is very light on her feet and I believe she could have been a ballet dancer if she had been caught young enough.”
“Who takes them into Lausanne!”
“Fräulein Möstler.”
“Ah . . . !”
“Yes, but why should she . . .? you mean that Rosemary might be meeting somebody there. But Fräulein Möstler wouldn’t dare. Besides . . . the other girls.”
“How many of them go?”
“Only three. Rosemary and two American girls. The classes are very expensive and the other parents couldn’t rise to it.”
“Does the stodgy friend go?”
“No.”
“Then that’s what it is. Rosemary is meeting somebody there. Either send another mistress with the girls or get rid of Fräulein Möstler.”
“My dear, I can’t. I’ve just paid her fare from I don’t know where in Germany and I promised that she might have the weekly visit to Lausanne because she is taking a course of radiant heat for her back. She can go to the clinic, you see, while the girls are at the Salle de Danse.”
Mrs. Jackson shrugged her shoulders. “Then you must put up with it,” she said. “And if you only have Rosemary’s increased excitability to go on I think you are probably making a fuss about nothing. By the way, have you said anything to Sir Anthony about it?”
“Only vaguely . . . something to the effect that Rosemary was very headstrong and a little difficult to control. And he wrote back to say that a friend of his was coming out to Geneva for a conference: a doctor who was in the French Resistance with him, a Dr. Mark Progress. And that he would ask him to call and see Rosemary because they were great friends and if anyone could make Rosemary see sense he could.”
“Well then, there you are! Stop worrying and leave the whole thing until Dr. Progress arrives. And now forget about it and we’ll go over to the Kursaal and listen to the orchestra. They’ve got a new first violin and he plays divinely.”
“Stop kissing me, you fat idiot!” Rosemary choking with laughter gave Rudi a great shove. Above her head the crystal chandelier swayed slightly in the breeze. The Salle de Danse was deserted as the dancing class was over; and the little ante-room was deserted too. Outside in the lovely gardens the two American girls strolled and chuckled.
“Wouldn’t it be a joke if Fräulein came back and caught them?” said the younger of the two.
“She won’t: she never does. Besides, Rosemary is much too clever to be caught.”
“I can’t imagine what she sees in that German creature.”
”No, nor can I. But then we’re not Rosemary Destin,” said the elder girl wisely. “She’s dull . . . and to be dull for somebody like Rosemary is hell. She’s not bad or sensual or any of those horrid things . . . she’s only dull. And Rudi Von Hamn is demented about her, so that’s a chance to have some fun. Of course I think Fräulein is awfully wrong to go in for it but she hates the English as much as they all do, and then of course Rudi is the son of that famous flying ace . . . he was killed over England the very day that Rudi was born and that invests him with a sort of glamour, especially in Fräulein’s eyes. Hallo! there he goes . . .” as Rudi slipped quietly out of the Petit Salon’s folding doors.
“Hallo, Rosemary!”
“Hallo!” Rosemary was combing her hair. Taking a powder compact from her jersey coat pocket she stuck it in the fork of a flowering shrub and went on combing.
“Had a happy time with your boy friend?”
“Fair to middling. But you’re welcome to have a turn if you like.”
“No, thank you. I’m not struck on Germans.”
“Nor am I really. But beggars can’t be choosers,” said Rosemary, giggling as she put the compact back into her pocket. “If somebody offers you water when you’re dying of thirst you don’t say no thank you, I’d rather have champagne.”
“No, that’s true.” Both girls laughed good-temperedly because there was something about Rosemary that completely disarmed you. She was so innocent . . . it sounded an odd thing to say in the face of the way she went on, but she was innocent.
“Here comes Fräulein,” said Rosemary. “What a mercy Rudi went out the back way or they would have met face to face and that might have been rather much even for Fräulein. How I pray she hasn’t had her tea and then we can go to that lovely place in the Rue Haldiman. Fräulein, have you had tea?”
“German, please,” said Fräulein Möstler in excellent English.
“Nonsense! not on our afternoon out. Come on, girls, we’re going to have a good gorge. I can eat at least four of those enchanting things in paper cups with rum in them: the things that Miss Alford is so keen on. Vorverts,” said Rosemary, giggling again.
They went two by two up the steep little street leading to the Place St. Vaudois. Into the lovely confectioner’s with its spotless trays heaped with pastries. “Oh boy, what a country,” sighed the younger American girl. “I could eat these things for ever!”
“So could I,” agreed Rosemary. And after an excellent tea they all stepped up into the great Continental Express that had just drawn into the glass-covered station of Lausanne. It stopped at Vevey but as it fled through Lutry, Rosemary got up and stared down at the little township. Rudi said it would be easy but it wouldn’t be at all easy. To begin with, the steamers were on their winter schedule and did not run nearly so often. They would either have to take a tram to Villeneuve and catch one of the steamers that ran from there to Thonon. Or they would have to take a train to Lausanne and then change into the funicular that ran down to Ouchy and catch the steamer that went straight across the Lake to Thonon. And in any event they would have to wait until it was getting dark or they would be seen. Certainly with true German thoroughness Rudi had thought out all details. He had a large rucksack into which he could put food and a rug for extra warmth, etc., etc. And as they would only be away for two nights they wouldn’t want all that food. . . .
“Two nights! Good heavens, we shall have Interpol on our tracks by then,” Rosemary had said.
“They will not find us. My mother had the linen maps that my father always used to carry about with him and she gave them to me. Every halting place is pinpointed . . . halting places in the forests, that is to say. The block-houses where they used to leave food. It is engraven on my heart,” said Rudi heavily.
“Not on the palms of your hands?” said Rosemary lightly.
“Please?”
“Oh, don’t say please, it’s so silly. That’s in the Bible, stupid . . . that’s why I believe in palmistry. See all those lines. . .” Rosemary held her pink palm uppermost. “Let’s see yours.”
“I do not believe in such things.” But Rudi extended his hand notwithstanding.
“What a funny life line you’ve got; it suddenly stops,” said Rosemary, peering downwards. “Look! Mine goes right round my thumb.”
“I adore you,” said Rudi, suddenly gripping Rosemary’s hand in a vice. “You will marry me, yes?”
“Marry you! Of course I shan’t. My heavens! what a row there would be! No, I don’t mind going a little trip of exploration with you because I think that would be awful fun . . . and I’ve always longed to see where Sir Anthony and Dr. Progress used to creep about. But marry a German . . . never.”
“A German is as good as an Englishman.”
“So you think, but I know better. Anyhow if you begin to be silly about marrying me I shan’t let you kiss me any more. And I shan’t meet you here on dance days, either.”
“I promise . . . I swear . . .” said Rudi hysterically. “If I do not see you: if I cannot kiss you, I die.”
“Oh, you poor idiot,” sighed Rosemary. But all the same she was rather pleased at this tribute to her charms. Although if only it could have been one of those two frightfully good-looking ones who came from the same place as Rudi. They reminded her of Madame Dubois with her “well brrrrred.” However. . . . Rosemary sighed as she reflected that this isolation among nothing but her own sex could not go on for ever. And that on the whole it wasn’t so frightfully bad and that soon it would be the winter and they would be going up to St Moritz for the winter sports.
While in Ouchy, Clive spoke to Peter.
“What’s the matter with the Hun?” he said.
“I was going to ask you that. Do you think we ought to draw the Governor’s attention to it?”
“No,” said Clive promptly. “Because my own idea is that he’s linked up with that little peach from Vevey . . . you know, we saw her at Lutry, and Von Hamn has never been the same since. And if we say a word it will start a conflagration and who knows where it will end. It’ll work itself off: these things always do.”
“True,” said Peter lazily. And so the matter was dropped, and only Rudi, lying sleepless and staring out into the soft white mist that hung over the still water of the lake, dreamed and plotted and planned.
It was nearly a month later that the telephone on Mark’s bedside table shrilled in his cars. Three o’clock . . . who the devil . . .? Surely not the hospital: they knew he was on holiday . . . he had left them for three weeks the day before.
“Speaking . . .” Holding the receiver up to his ear he propped himself up on one elbow. “Oh, hallo, Tony! Nothing wrong, I hope. By the way, I saw your sister today . . . in Harrod’s: oddly enough we ran into each other in the restaurant. And she told me you’d had a toss from your horse.”
“Yes, I know I have, but nothing would have induced me to ring you up at this hour to tell you that. No, the awful thing is that I have just had a phone call from Vevey to tell me that Rosemary has vanished.”
“Vanished! Where from?”
“Her school at Vevey. Miss Alford seems to think that it may have something to do with the German governess, who gave up her post in the school a week before. She wasn’t proving very satisfactory and Miss Alford spoke to her about it and she got in a temper and left.”
“Has Miss Alford tried to get hold of her?”
“Yes, and failed. She apparently is not at the address in Stuttgart that this Fräulein Möstler gave her.”
“Are you going out there?”
“I can’t . . . that’s the awful part of it. Apparently I’ve strained a muscle in my back and in addition to hellish pain when I attempt to move, my doctor says that I must give it complete rest. That’s why I rang you because I know you’re going out to Geneva on Saturday. And I wondered if you could possibly make it a few days earlier. I’ll pay anything extra that it may cost. You know that.”
“I’ll go to-day,” said Mark promptly. “I’ll ring Swiss-Air at once . . . they have an all-night service. They’ll advance my trip: it’s in between seasons now and they’re sure to have a place vacant. Ring Miss Alford now and tell her that I shall be arriving to-night. . . . I shall stay at that extremely nice hotel opposite the school, Whitegates . . . I’ve often been there, and your sister stayed there once she told me. So cheer up, my friend: we shall soon find that tiresome ward of yours.”
“Oh God, what a friend you are, Mark!” Mark could hear the quick intake of breath, almost a groan, at the other end of the wire.
“Not a bit. Now lie down and go to sleep, doctor’s orders,” said Mark, grinning into the receiver. “By the way, ring the dame first, though.”
“I will. Thank you more than I can say, Mark.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Mark still grinning. I’ll let you know as soon as I can what is happening. Night, night! Now I mean it. Get all the rest you can or that muscle of yours will take a very long time to right itself. If you want a good osteopath try Paton of Queen Anne Street. I know I ought to stick to my own profession but Paton is a wizard . . . I’ve been to him myself but don’t tell the B.M.A. so. Anyhow, good night and don’t worry. Yes . . . yes . . . yes. . . . All right, I will. . . .” and then Mark hung up. But not for long. Swiss-Air were most accommodating. ”Parfaitement . . . parfaitement, monsieur . . . C’est fait . . .” and then Mark with a sigh of relief hung up for the second time.
And now what . . .? He flung himself back at full length and began to think. Rosemary . . . that enchanting thing had vanished. Where? Not with the German governess . . . she was not that type. It could only be one of two things. Either she was so fed up with the banishment from her guardian that she had rushed away in a fit of misery and was in some hotel or other, somewhere above Montreux perhaps, brooding over her imagined wrongs. Or there was some man mixed up in it, which was, of course, much more serious. But where would she meet a man? . . . no man of any maturity would do anything as damned silly as taking a girl from a well-known pensionnat pour jeunes filles and bolting with her. No, it would have to be someone very young, a student perhaps, because that had happened more than once before. But not an English student. The German governess had left . . . why? Did she know anything about it? In any event . . . Mark kicked back the bedclothes and stepped out on to the floor. He must dress and pack and get himself something to eat. Mercifully all details of his holiday had been arranged with those concerned . . . where his letters were to be forwarded to in Geneva . . . his daily to come in and re-address them and watch over his flat! Mercifully he had no animals to think about and arrange for, although it was a frightful deprivation not to have a Siamese cat, but he would have one presently when he had got a cottage just outside London, which would be next year when a friend of his would vacate it for something nearer the British Museum. Anyhow . . . Mark set to work.
And in a few hours all was done. Pulling his new Homburg hat well down over his forehead he waved good-bye to his daily and stepped up into the taxi that was to take him to London airport. A strange and almost forgotten sense of adventure stole over him. He was off . . . and what lay before him? His immediate job was to find a naughty girl who had wrenched off her handcuffs and bolted after what . . . Mark wondered. Well, that remained to be seen. To-day is the to-morrow that you worried about yesterday. The Chinese were a wonderful people with their proverbs, thought Mark, easing his hat a little further to the back of his head as an exciting feeling of really being on holiday stole over him.
“Mais non, Madame.” The charming Swiss Inspector of Police was concerned at seeing this usually calm and imperturbable lady so upset. “Monsieur can perhaps . . .” He glanced across at Mark.
“I agree with the inspector, Miss Alford. I think you are taking the whole thing too seriously. Had any serious harm come to Rosemary we should have heard by now.”
“Yes, but what you don’t seem to grasp is that it is the ruin of my school,” sobbed Miss Alford, who, after twenty-four hours of acutest anxiety, had rather lost her self-control.
“Mais non, Madame,” urged the inspector. “We shall not allow the news of this disappearance to appear in the papers. And it is through the papers that news of this kind reaches the public.”
“Yes, but where is she?” cried Miss Alford, burying her face in her handkerchief. “You have made inquiries along the whole of the Montreux Oberland Bernois railways . . . she has not been seen in any of those mountain trains which run between here and Spiez. Lausanne has been honeycombed .. . the British Consul has been awfully good about it. Fräulein Möstler, who might have been able to help us, cannot be located. Then what earthly clue to her whereabouts can we find?”
“My advice to you, Madame,” said the inspector, “is to realise that the matter rests in the hands of those most competent to deal with it. Monsieur le Docteur . . .” the inspector indicated Mark with a gesture infinitely comprehensive, “will be telephoning Sir Anthony Keith to-night. And to-morrow we shall start even more searching inquiries. In the meantime, Madame, if I might suggest, I should retire to your room and try to get some sleep. You have perhaps some mild soporific that you could take. If not I am sure Monsieur le Docteur would suggest that you summon Docteur Gaillard who usually attends you and he will administer something to ensure that you obtain a good night’s sleep.”
“Well, what about it, Miss Alford?” said Mark, smiling. “Excellent advice, I think, Inspector. What have you got that you can take?”
Miss Alford named a well-known drug.
“Then take two instead of one. Go to bed now and have a hot bath but not too hot. If you like milk, have a cup of it after you have taken your dope. And I guarantee that you will have a good night And now if you will excuse me I will get across to my hotel. And I hope that the inspector will join me there for an aperitif.”
“Avec plaisir,” said the inspector warmly, as he stood up and bowed to Miss Alford.
“I can’t thank you both enough,” said Miss Alford shakily. “Let me see you out at the front door?”
“Of course not. You sit down and keep perfectly quiet. Don’t have any supper beyond a biscuit and we shall be round in the morning. At least I shall,” said Mark, smiling cheerfully.
But as they walked across the road that separated them from Whitegates the inspector’s face lengthened. “I am glad to have this opportunity of speaking to you. Monsieur,” he said, “because what I did not tell Mademoiselle is that the Pensionnat Wylde in Lausanne has a few hours ago reported to us that one of the pupils, Rudi Von Hamn, is missing.”
“A German. Good heavens!”
“Yes, Monsieur. Aha, thank you!” the inspector was sipping appreciatively at his apéritif. “And now I have more agitating news still. The two young people were seen to board a steamer that goes straight across the lake to Thonon. Thonon and St Gingolph were instantly searched but with no result. The customs officials at the frontier saw them both but as it was late and a time for changing the guard they did not pay much heed: several residents of the neighbourhood got off the steamer at the same time and as there has been a good deal of petty smuggling lately they were fully occupied opening bags and baskets. And by the time we got our inquiries across, quite twelve hours later, they had completely vanished.”
“But where could they have vanished to?” said Mark, bewildered.
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Monsieur, the forests above Thonon and St. Gingolph are vast: as I expect you know, they were the headquarters of the French Resistance during the last war. And they are riddled with booby traps of every kind and perhaps hand grenades not yet exploded. Much has been done to clear them but as you know in your own country such clearance is fraught with difficulties. Added to which . . the inspector stopped speaking.
“Yes, go on,” said Mark hastily.
“There were many tragedies enacted on that southern shore of the Lake of Geneva, Monsieur. There were many brutalities perpetrated by the Germans upon innocent people. The entirely harmless family of an old woodcutter, François Toulard, were shot in front of his eyes. He too was shot but as they were in a hurry they only shoved him into a ditch and did not wait to see if he was really dead. He was not . . . he was found and put into hospital. Terribly injured, he can now only walk more or less like a crab although mercifully he can still walk. His brain is also slightly affected but he is not in any sense dangerous or he would not be allowed to go free. But he spends all his time in those woods, roaming, roaming and from time to time coming down into Thonon to collect food which the Mairie allows him free of charge. He was down last week and now we shall not see him again for two weeks or more.”
“Yes. . . .” Mark was nervously fingering his small tumbler.
“Well, anyone encountering the poor fellow in the woods would get a terrible fright. And should he by any chance suspect that one of the party was a German he might become violent. He would not kill . . . he is too crippled and frail for that, but he might . . . well . . .” The inspector shrugged his shoulders again, “he might scream and curse in his own language and in any case prove very alarming to anyone who did not know who he was.”
“But is there nothing to prevent anyone getting into those woods?” asked Mark rather indignantly.
“There are plenty of warning notices, Monsieur. But would two young people set on adventure take heed of them? Young people do not even glance at AVIS however large the lettering may be.”
“No, well, that’s true. . . .” and a little later, as the Inspector rose to make his farewell, Mark took his tough little hand in a very warm grip. “Thank you very much, inspector,” he said. “And you’ll give me any news that you see fit to part with, won’t you? And in the meantime what would you wish me to do?”
“I should wish you to persuade Mademoiselle Alford that she must make every effort to get information from the two American young ladies who were accustomed to attend the same dancing class with Mademoiselle Destin,” said the inspector. “For we have certain knowledge that the two young people took the late steamer to Thonon. That the young man was carrying a large rucksack on his back and that Mademoiselle also had a smaller one which she was carrying under her arm. And that both had sticks and that both were wearing dark glasses . . . for purposes of disguise of course, as it was long past the hour for needing them. And we have of course instituted search but it is not so easy as it sounds. Those forests stretch for miles and have to be negotiated very carefully. Certain suspected areas have been encircled with barbed wire. But there are deep pot-holes in which may still lurk unexploded mines. And should the unwary either trip or step . . .” The inspector shrugged his shoulders again.
“Mon Dieu!” Mark had paled a little.
“Vous avez bien dit. Mon Dieu!” said the inspector grimly. And then he left. Leaving Mark staring over the lake; silver and motionless in the moonlight. He must go to bed. . . . He would take something or he would lie awake all night. A frightful anxiety descended on him. Rosemary and that young German alone in those forests. Even if Von Hamn’s intentions were honourable other hideous dangers threatened. . . . The mines . . . the deep pot-holes . . . the crazy woodman who could probably smell a German long before he saw him. He went to his bedroom: got out the clothes that he intended to wear the next day, undressed and got into bed. After taking his capsule he read for a little while and then as he felt the oncoming of merciful unconsciousness he closed his book: switched out his light, and turning on his side fell almost immediately asleep.
“How much farther?” Rosemary was gasping. “You go too fast for me. Throttle down a bit.”
“We must get to our first stopping place: the first of the block-houses. I have it on my map. Every inch of this map that I carry folded in the pocket above my heart is engraven on that heart”
“Yes, but that doesn’t help me: it’s not engraven on my heart. Besides, I’m hungry. What time is it?”
Rudi stretched his wrist out from the sleeve of his wind-jacket. “It is half past midnight,” he said.
“Good gracious me, no wonder I’m hungry! Why, I had my last meal seven hours ago and just think what I’ve done since. If we don’t come on your old block-house by one o’clock I’m going to sit down on anything handy and eat the sandwiches that I put in at the last minute. How sensible I was, and how difficult it was to get them at that lovely shop at Tours de Peilz without anyone noticing. But I’ve got them, so only another half hour’s walking for me, my boy, and then down I sit and eat.”
“We shall be there,” said Rudi. And oddly enough they were. A small concrete building half invisible in the undergrowth. Rudi dragged at the door that yielded. “I won’t go in until you flash your torch round,” said Rosemary. “There might be snakes or anything. Or dead bodies.”
“There will be neither,” said Rudi decidedly. And nor were there. Low bunks ran round the walls and the straw on them was clean. In one corner was a block of concrete low enough for a table and there were two concrete shelves above it. “On those we stick our candles,” said Rudi.
“Have we got any?” Rosemary was yawning. Oh, how tired she was and what a complete fool she had been to yield to Rudi’s entreaties and come. . . .
“Have we got any? Of course! How could we see without light? I have a packet in my rucksack.”
“Of course you have: Germans never forget anything,” said Rosemary, yawning again and sitting down on the straw. “Hurry up or I shall go to sleep sitting here and then you’ll eat it all, I know what Germans are about food.”
“You insult me,” said Rudi, not raising his eyes from his rucksack which he was unstrapping.
“Not at all. I can be awfully greedy too. Oh, a bottle of wine: and tumblers. What a marvel you are, Rudi! I promise you I will never say one more single disparaging thing about your holy race.”
“Please. What is holy race?”
“Something very, very good. You know . . . Holy Bible.”
“Ah yes, that I do know.” Rudi was mollified. He stood the packet of sandwiches on the concrete table and arranged the bottle and the tumblers round it. The candles, after a bad start, decided to burn, and their blue flame did not even flicker except when Rudi waved his hands and said, “Ready.”
“Did you know that Fräulein Möstler has done a bolt?” said Rosemary, munching with great speed.
“I had heard so.”
”What did you think of her?”
“I thought her a clever woman. A very clever woman.”
“And an unconscientious one.”
“Please?”
“She wasn’t to be trusted. She shouldn’t have let us meet as we did and she shouldn’t have helped you make this getaway.”
“She was well paid for it,” said Rudi grimly.
“Paid for it!”
“Of course. For what other reason would she do it? She had a great wish to go to England. I gave her enough to pay for her passage by rail or air and a certain amount for expenses.”
“But how perfectly frightful!”
”Frightful you say. A woman will do anything for money . . . it is well known.”
“You know, Rudi, you are becoming perfectly revolting,” said Rosemary solemnly. “And dog-tired as I am, the moment I have finished this meal I am going to start back home. You can come if you like but if you don’t like, stay here.”
Rudi began to laugh. Setting the bottle of red wine back on the table he flung back his head and laughed hysterically. “You go home . . .” he gasped. “You go home. You don’t go home until I have had my way with you and that’s the truth.”
“What do you mean, you miserable little German sausage?” Rosemary leapt to her feet. “If you so much as take one step towards me I’ll tear your eyes out.”
But Rudi went on laughing. “So . . .” he said. “So . . . you insult me again, do you? You fine little plump bit of English beef. You just wait for half an hour or so until I have had time to digest this nice supper and assimilate this good wine. Then you’ll see. . . .”
Inwardly and suddenly mad with fear, Rosemary’s mind flew. Helpless! . . . completely helpless! Miles from anywhere . . . buried in this frightful forest; the queer sounds of which were beginning to creep in through the wired-in aperture in the roof. The hooting of an owl . . . the scuttling of some animal in the undergrowth . . . even if she could get to the door that she knew was not locked, she could never get through it. Rudi would see to that, and he was a powerful young man.
At last she had got what she deserved. She hadn’t cared about anybody but herself. . . she hadn’t been grateful. . . she hadn’t been anything, and now she’d got it. Good measure pressed down and running over . . . she’d heard her guardian talk about something in those very words. She tried to control her voice.
“Don’t be a fool, Rudi,” she said. “You know I’m very fond of you. Don’t do anything that you will regret afterward because we might even get engaged and I could be your proper Braut. Let’s wait for that, shall we?”
“So you attempt to deceive me, do you?” taunted Rudi. “How truly British. As is well known they are all liars. And now you will see that what I say I mean. Get away from that door,” screamed Rudi, flinging himself across the mud floor and half strangling Rosemary with an arm flung round her neck. And now Rosemary too began to scream. Hanging wildly on to a concrete stake sticking out from over the door she screamed as she kicked out backwards with one foot. “Help me, God!” she shrieked. “I know it’s my fault but help me this time and I will never forget You again. God . . . God . . . !” She struggled to get her mouth to the crack by the hinges of the door. “God . . . God . . . Oh Son of God, have mercy upon me . . . !”
But Rudi had now got well hold of her and although she had dug her heels into the floor he was dragging her. “Mais qu’est-ce que c’est que ça . . .?” The door was being shoved open and through her half-open eyes Rosemary could see something sub-human peering at her through the candlelight. Some frightful monster coming to murder them both. . . . But Rudi’s hold on her was loosening.
“What do you want?” he spoke in French to the strange figure sidling towards the two of them.
“Monsieur speaks German.”
“I am German,” shouted Rudi. “And now get away with you! I am busy. . . .”
“Mademoiselle does not seem to care for the business,” returned the queer misshapen man and he came a little closer to Rudi and seemed to be sniffing at his hair.
“Help me I and my guardian will give you all the money he’s got,” screamed Rosemary, who had grasped that although this monster was probably mad he might do something if he heard the word money. Her French was beautiful. . . . Old François Foulard raised his head to look at her.
“You like this German?”
“Like him! I loathe the sight of him,” gasped Rosemary. “He has evil designs on me. Save me: save me.”
“I will save you,” said old François. “And I will save him too, for this is not as it should be. Come, mein Herr, and I will guide you safely down this forest path and then I will return for the lady and guide her. All she has to do is to remain quietly here and I will return to guide her also safely. Komm, mein Herr,” said François cajolingly.
Without speaking, Rudi reached out for his rucksack. With a furious gesture he swept the candles from the table. Pitch darkness . . . but François knew his way to the door. “Komm, mein Herr,” he said again and with an odd strength that one would not have thought he possessed, he drew Rudi through the door and pushed it shut again. Leaving Rosemary sunk down on to the straw, aching in every limb and still gasping.
But not for long. That frightful monstrosity was coming back and her fate might be even worse at his hands. Snatching up her rucksack she flung herself at the door and tore it open. They had gone down the hill . . . she would go up it, it was not nearly so steep now and she might come on some village or other. Oh, there was a path! she could see it faintly in the moonlight. On, on she went . . . stumbling and praying under her breath. “God . . . God . . . Jesus Christ” . . . it helped to call on the only names of people who might help. There wasn’t anyone else. “Mark . . . Mark. . . .” Half unconsciously she called his name. “Save . . . save. . . . Help, help!” Plunging through the overgrowth that almost hid the path, she babbled her prayers out into the moonlight. Up . . . up . . . up . . . farther, farther . . . she must get away from the Monkey Monster. Now the path led round to the right . . . no, this wouldn’t do, it was leading on to open ground. . . . Ah . . . I there was a cluster of trees . . . she rushed towards them. One huge tree with great spreading branches . . . easy to climb . . . she clutched at the great trunk of it. The Monkey Monster would not be able to climb . . . he was all twisted and gnarled like the tree. But she could climb. Her trousered legs twinkled as she went higher and higher. At last . . . she uttered a cry of joy . . . a sort of boxed-in look-out . . . it must have been used in the war . . . she stumbled her way into it . . . it was high, high above the ground. Stooping to twist her rucksack round her shoulders her forehead struck something . . . what was it? A box . . . a telephone . . . she never knew. For the sudden contact knocked her senseless. Spread-eagled across the hard wooden floor she lay, eyes closed . . . mouth a little open. And yet through her tangled senses she was conscious of a sound coming from a long way off. A muffled roar . . . an explosion . . . thunder . . . no, an explosion. Never mind what it was . . . she was safe . . . for the moment anyhow. A drifting leaf settled on her ankle. An inquisitive squirrel decided to investigate and came scuttling down an overhanging branch. The moon dimmed, as a drifting cloud slid over the silver surface of it. And far, far down the steep mountain side, old François sat and ate the sandwiches that he had taken from the rucksack that he had offered to carry. And the good red wine. A long time since he had had the chance of such good red wine, thought François, carefully corking it up again for he had only half emptied the bottle.
“Monsieur, I do beseech you to take some rest.” The Inspector of Police spoke gravely. For this English doctor looked awful . . . his eyes had sunk into his head and there were deep lines of fatigue cutting deep down into his chin. “We have a comfortable room in the Mairie here. You must occupy it to-night. . . . I insist.”
“Give me one more night, Inspector, and then I will promise you to give up the search. In fact I shall have to or I shall collapse and what will be the good of that? But Mademoiselle must be somewhere. We have found his body, but not hers . . . yet. We still have the moon in our favour. One more night. Please, and then I promise that I will desist.”
“Very well. . .The inspector shrugged his shoulders as he sat at his office table in the little room overlooking the lake. The lake was still and calm and the air was clear and Vevey and Montreux stood out clearly against the green of the hills behind them. The little M.O.B. train had left Chatelard and was making its way through the autumn loveliness of the trees behind it.
“Yes, what is it?” The inspector turned as a constable stood at the door.
“François Foulard to see you, sir.”
“Show him in.” The constable saluted and retired and then returned. The little gnarled man stood there staring from under his thick eyebrows.
“I have to report, Monsieur l’Inspector,” said François carefully. “I have to report that I have found the whereabouts of Mademoiselle.”
“What!” Mark leapt from his chair.
“Calm yourself, Monsieur, for the news may be bad, so do not let your hopes be unduly raised. Mademoiselle est morte?” he queried.
“Ça je ne peut pas dire. Mais elle est là.”
“Bon. And now, Monsieur, I must insist that you retire. François will speak more freely if we are alone. I will give orders that a meal is to be prepared for you and I must insist that you partake of it. If François is aware of Mademoiselle’s whereabouts we shall get him to describe exactly where it is and all arrangements will be made for removing her.”
“Very good. Inspector.” An order was an order and it was up to him to obey it. And as half an hour later he ate the excellent meal prepared for him in the inspector’s private room, he was surprised to find how really hungry he was. It was now four days since Rudi’s body had been found in the pot-hole: blown to pieces certainly but easily identified by fragments of his clothing. Four days of horror and suspense . . . four days of combing the forests from end to end with no result whatever. François had gone with them as far as he could manage, and then they had left him still wandering and muttering to himself. And now . . . Mark took a final glass of wine and felt for his cigarette-case. He certainly felt better . . . he ought to have eaten properly before instead of making up his mind that he would choke if he did. “Ah, Inspector.” Mark got up out of his chair.
“Sit down, Monsieur, and I will tell you what François has told us. High up in the forest, just below where the country begins to flatten out, there is an enormous tree in the branches of which is a wooden look-out: put there during the war. This afternoon François passed it and heard a chattering of birds . . . all circled round this little wooden place high up among the branches and almost entirely invisible from the ground. He thinks that it is possible that Mademoiselle in her terror and loneliness climbed up and got into it I have ordered six men with one of our expanding ladders to take a stretcher or two stretchers for I think one might not be amiss for you, Monsieur le Docteur,” said the inspector, grimly smiling.
“Is she dead?” Mark spoke with an effort.
“We do not even know whether she is there, Monsieur. Alive or dead is still to be discovered.” The inspector spoke gravely for in his own mind he was quite certain that if she was there Mademoiselle Destin was no longer alive. However the thing was to get to her as soon as possible. “François will go with you, of course, and as he is frail and old he will be carried in a stretcher. So there will be three stretchers.”
“When can we start?”
“In about twenty minutes. My assistant is preparing food: restoratives and such like, including medical supplies. And my deputy is seeing to ladders: stretchers, rope . . . anything, in fact, that may be required. François says that it will take less than two hours to reach the spot. Therefore as it is half past seven, we ought to reach there at about a quarter past nine.”
“Yes. Being a doctor I shall also take my small medicine case. She may need a hypodermic injection and I can administer it. Supposing she is still alive, Inspector, I should suggest that an ambulance might be in readiness and she can then be taken straight away to the Clinique Galmont above Territet. After that we shall see.”
“The ambulance shall be ready, Monsieur.” The inspector was interested to see how the haggard face changed when the doctor emerged to take command. Well . . . as half an hour or so later the little convoy set off, the inspector went off to his office to send a few telephone messages. Dead or alive . . . he tossed a coin and clapping it down on the back of his hand he chose. Heads she lives, tails she dies. Heads. . . .” I wonder,” said the inspector and he shook his head as he dialled another call to headquarters.
Mark never forgot that awful ascent into the pine forests above Thonon. After an hour’s hard going he was absolutely finished.
“I can’t . . .” He stood there, his hand pressed into his side.
The tough little Swiss Alpine climbers were delighted. In a matter of minutes they had the second stretcher unbuckled and were beckoning Mark into it with broad smiles. He stepped over the edge of it and sank down with almost a groan of relief. Four almost entirely sleepless nights had wreaked their vengeance on him.
“En avant,” and now with a regular swinging motion the little convoy set off again. After about half an hour’s going François stirred under his rug and sat up. Speaking rapidly in French he pointed with a shaking first finger. “Bon. . . .” The leader turned to the left. The ascent was now much less steep and the trees were not so close together. The path was wider and the going was much easier. Mark, who now felt almost himself again, crushed out the end of the cigarette he had been smoking and put it in his pocket. This was not the type of country to throw even an extinct cigarette-end into the undergrowth because you never knew . . . it might not be as extinct as it looked.
“Nous sommes arrivés. M’sieur.” Settling the stretcher gently on the ground, Mark saw François scrambling out of his. “Le voila . . . voila . . . !” the old man was chattering excitedly as he pointed upwards.
Yes . . . there it was . . . just visible through the interlaced branches. Mark felt for his tiny medicine-case, safely there in his big pocket. He spoke in rather halting but quite intelligible French. If they would unstrap the ladder and put it in position he would go up and see if Mademoiselle was there. He had everything that would be required in his medicine-case and a flask of brandy and water and travelling-cup also. So now it was only to safely fix the ladder, he said, and any directions that he had to give would be given from the look-out.
“Mais oui, M’sieur,” the soldiers set to work, with François excitedly watching. Mark kept on swallowing: he felt that this ascent, probably to find Rosemary dead, was the last thing he could do and remain sane. But it had to be done. “Lord, Lord!” he prayed as he set his foot on the first rung of the steel-reinforced ladder. The soldiers stood underneath him staring upwards. From a long way away the whistle of a train came trembling through the moonlight as the late train for Geneva rushed out of the Rhône Valley. Through a gap in the trees he could see the lake shivering under the soft breeze that rippled the fringe of the tiny wavelets lapping against the pier at Bouveret. And now . . . choking back the almost sobbing breath that tore at his throat he stooped and stepped into the little wooden shelter. Yes . . . she was there, he could see her in the moonlight.
“Water. . . .” Her blackened lips were stretched apart, showing her small teeth. “Water. . . .”
Tears poured down his face. The relief was too acute . . . too unexpected . . . too overwhelming. Taking his flask from his pocket he knelt down beside her and slipped a practised hand under her head, raising it a little. And then he poured a trickle of water into her mouth. Only a little in case she could not swallow.
“More. . . .” Her throat worked as he gave her some more. And then he paused and poured a very little brandy into the flask. Her face contorted a little as she tasted the spirit, and then a tiny smile seemed to flicker across it.
“Mark,” she whispered.
“My sweet . . . my little tiny sweet.” Setting down the flask he flashed his torch over her crumpled body and then ran his hands over the whole of her. As he touched her head she cried out. . . .
“Ah. . . .” He investigated. Her hair was matted and clotted with blood. That would have to wait until she was down and safely at the Galmont. In the meantime he had forgotten all about the men waiting below. Stepping out on to the little platform he looked down and spoke to them. “Mademoiselle lives,” he said. “I shall now give her an injection and then you must decide between you which of you will carry her down. I shall leave that entirely to you as you can do it much better than I can.” And then he stepped back into the hut. Her eyes were closed and did not open as he rolled up her sleeve and dabbed spirit into the hollow of her elbow. She made a tiny movement as the needle went home but did not stir again as he dabbed it with spirit and rolled down her sleeve.
“Ready.” He was out on the platform again. “There is room for me to stand here while you get her out of the hut.” And as he stood there he marvelled at their consummate skill in handling the limp little body. Two of them, with the third going down first so as to be ready in case of need. And then Mark last of all. With a quick glance round the hut to see that nothing was left behind, he pulled the wide-open door of it shut and went down the ladder.
But only his skilled hands were permitted to settle her in her stretcher. Blankets first and then the hot-water bottle, filled from the Thermos flask and pushed in close to her feet. A rolled-up blanket under her head. He turned her on her side with infinite tenderness . . . the ambulance would be waiting at Thonon and it would take her straight to the Galmont that had already been warned of the possibility of her coming there. The superintendent of it, Dr. André, was well known for his skill, and after he had seen her would be certain to permit a colleague to help in getting her to bed after she had been bathed, and her filthy clothes removed, or cut off her as the case might be.
“Well, François, you have done well and it will not be forgotten,” said Mark as François, his old face contorted with smiles, gazed down into the stretcher where Rosemary lay rolled up like a little cocoon. “And now we had better set off again as Mademoiselle is safe and fast asleep. Yes, I think I had better get into my stretcher again as you will go much more quickly without me to hold you back.”
And so down they went. As he took a cigarette from his case, Mark tried to remember his feeling as they had made that deadly ascent. He couldn’t . . . they were nothing but a horrible blur. What he might find after four days . . . what he might find! And God had stepped in. “Nearer than hands or feet.” How could he ever doubt again? How could he ever dare to doubt again?
It was about three o’clock that morning when Dr. André laid a gentle hand on Mark’s shoulder.
“Yes. . . .” Mark, putting a hand to his eyes, sat up in bed. “How is she?” he spoke as memory steadied itself.
“She is doing well. We have cleansed and stitched the wound in her head which is only superficial. There are no fractures . . . the reason why she did not attempt to get down to the ground again is probably that she was wild with fear. But of course she has not spoken at all. She is now fast asleep and my advice to you, my esteemed colleague, is that you remain where you are and also go to sleep again. There is a good deal of shock in Mademoiselle’s case, but of course you will realise. How fine you look in my pyjamas!” said Dr. André, his clever bearded face twinkling with amusement. “And now for more news. The police, of course, informed Miss Alford of the course of events at once and she too has retired to her couch after packing up and sending to us the night-clothes, etceteras, that Mademoiselle requires. It was more painful and difficult to tell Major Wylde and his good lady what had happened to their pupil . . . but that, of course, was done a couple of days ago. I do not think these tragic happenings will in any way adversely affect the two scholastic institutions of which these two worthy people are the heads. The Press has been guarded and not over-sensational. So there we are, my friend . . . now you know all. And rest assured that should Mademoiselle show the slightest sign of fever, you will at once be informed. In the meantime I too shall retire to rest, leaving a couple of nurses in charge. The night watchman is on duty, of course.”
“How can I ever thank you enough,” said Mark, sinking back on to his pillows.
“There is no need. Did you not serve in our Resistance? Is not Mademoiselle the ward of one who did the same thing and the child of another? We on this side of the lake, living in prosperity and comparative calm, were safe. While you on the other side risked your lives every moment in our defence and risked at the same time the possibility of dying a horrible death. And you talk of gratitude, my friend?” Dr. André spoke with the emotion of a man deeply moved.
“Oh well. . . .” Mark smiled faintly. And then a capacious yawn engulfed him, as he turned luxuriously on his side again.
“Dormez bien, mon ami,” said Dr. André as he laid a quiet hand on Mark’s disordered hair. He is in love with the child, he thought, as he walked quietly up to his own bedroom. Standing at the window he gazed across at the mountains on the other side of the lake. Already snow-capped, as the season was advancing. And then he turned to feast his eyes on the Dent du Midi blazing white in the moonlight. Truly this world made and fashioned in His likeness was a beautiful place, marred and disfigured only by the men whom God was supposed to have made in His image. Difficult to understand, decided Dr. André, as he unbuttoned his white coat and hung it carefully over the back of a chair.
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
“Denise. . .”
“Yes.” Denise was instantly fully awake.
“They’ve found her.”
“Oh, Anthony, thank God!” Leaning on her elbow, Denise pushed a pillow more firmly into her back.
“When did you hear?”
“Just now. Mark rang from Switzerland. They had been searching the forests for days, but he insisted on this last search being made because an old French woodman reported having seen birds hovering round a look-out high up in a tree. They sent up an expedition, with all the necessary equipment, and Mark with his medicine-case went up first, almost certain that if she still was up there she would be dead. But she was not dead. He gave her a shot and they got her down and she was rushed off in an ambulance to a clinique above Territet and it was from there that he was phoning. He will ring me this morning . . . it’s just three now so not so long to wait. And now go to sleep again. But I couldn’t sleep until I told you.”
“Oh, thank you, Anthony.” Denise took a long breath. “You know what I feel, don’t you? Oh, how utterly, utterly thankful I am. You’ve had an awful time. How good of you to let me know at once.”
“You were the one person I wanted to tell.” She could hear him give a little quiet laugh. “And now go to sleep again . . . as I shall. At least not again because it’s been frightfully difficult to go to sleep at all.”
“All right, I will. Good night, Anthony.”
“Good night. God bless.” And then silence. But not in her heart. That was one jubilant hymn of praise. For
he had wanted her to be told first of all. Before his sister . . . before Francis or Mrs. Bateman. No, it was to her he turned in his wish for sympathy in his joys as well as his sorrows. She breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.
“Mark.”
“My darling.” Because what was the use? He adored her and she knew it. What was going to happen he did not know. But these enchanting days of companionship were worth all the torture that might be in store for him. Now, at any rate, she could not do without him. “Mark . . . Mark . . . Mark. . . .” Night and day she had called for him when she had first been brought to the clinique. And Dr. André had said that it was essential that he should be at hand. She had been so severely shocked that the calming influence of hrs presence was vital to her recovery.
“When are we going home?” Rosemary with cropped head and tiny white face encircled by bandages, was staring across at him.
“Home?” Mark picked up his chair and brought it nearer to the bed. She felt for his hand and held it closely in both of hers.
“Yes, home. Home with you. Home to your hospital because I don’t expect they will let me go free yet, do you?”
“No, I don’t suppose they will.” Mark remained silent for a moment or two because he was so surprised. He had not imagined her well enough to think out a plan like this. Home to his hospital. . . . Oh, dazzling prospect! In his charge . . . completely in his charge. His word was law at St. Christopher’s. His would be the ordering of her life . . . for the time, anyhow. She could have that lovely sunny end-room in the new wing. He shut his eyes on the joy in them.
“Please arrange it, dear Mark.”
“Naughty girl! You know I can’t refuse you anything.”
“But why should you refuse such a perfectly reasonable request?” She smiled: only a tiny smile as her cracked lips had taken a long time to heal and she was still careful of them. But they were pink and soft again. He stooped and kissed them.
“Naughty Mark.” Rosemary chuckled: the first time he had heard that chuckle since he had stooped to see if she was still alive. “Naughty Mark! Infamous professional conduct.”
“Where did you get that from?”
“Everybody knows that a doctor may not kiss his patient.”
“Even if he loves her?” His eyes held hers.
“Do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Joy.” She shut her eyes and turned a little on her side, still holding his hand in hers. And then she opened them again. “What a shame.” she said, “you can’t hold your book, and you want to read.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You only say that to please me.” She went on talking with her eyes shut. “When will you ask Dr. André whether we can go home?”
“When I think it is the right moment.”
“When will the right moment be?”
“Perhaps to-night. . . we’ll see. Ah! . . . here is your hot milk. . . .” Sister Marie had opened the door and was smiling across at them over a feeding cup on a little round tray.
“I’m tired of a feeding cup. It makes me feel invalidy.”
The eyes of the white-capped Sister met Mark’s. “I’ll pour it out into a cup,” she said and vanished.
“Was that selfish of me, darling Mark?”
“No, not very.”
“Rather?”
“Well, it was a bit pernickety perhaps.”
“She didn’t mind. I like her and she likes me. I don’t like that spout thing, it reminds me of when my lips hurt and when I felt that if I couldn’t remember where I was I should go mad.”
“But that’s all over,” said Mark, smiling down into her suddenly clouded eyes. “And here’s your milk in a proper cup. Thank you, Sister Marie. And now let me prop you up.” He did so very skilfully. “Now can you hold it yourself?”
“I’d rather you did,” said Rosemary childishly.
“Baby!” He sat down on the bed beside her, holding the cup to her mouth. She drank with a loud sucking noise. “Germans do that,” she said. And then she shivered. “Would it hurt Rudi being blown to bits?”
“No, he would know nothing about it. A gorgeous way to go, really. And his mother would feel that to be killed by one of their own mines would be what his father would have wished. He will be a hero in his family circle. In her letter to the British Consul in Lausanne Frau Von Hamn practically said so.”
“You always say something lovely and comforting, Mark. Will you have to go to Geneva again?”
“No.”
“Joy, because I couldn’t bear it,” She drooped against him. “No more milk.”
“Yes, you must finish it. No, you’re not to blow bubbles in it, I said you must finish it.” She did so, rebelliously. “And now you are to lie down and go to sleep. Lie down.”
“Tyrant!”
But she lay down. He turned her carefully on the lovely spring mattress and watched her as she sighed deeply and then yawned. Drawing the top sheet close up to her chin he sat there watching her as almost instantly she fell asleep. He was mad . . . crazy to imagine that she would ever think of him in that way. To begin with, he was much too old. Fifteen years between them . . . well, that wasn’t much, really, he thought trying to fool himself. Fifteen years . . . they loomed over him like a dreadful brick wall with barbed wire on the top. She would climb up a ladder and peep over the top of the wall and then see the barbed wire and laugh her mocking laugh. Well, she was fast asleep and he could go and have a word with the doctor. One of the nurses would be outside in the corridor and she would relieve him.
He found the doctor sitting close up to the window in his small sitting-room overlooking the lake.
“Have you ever seen anything so enchantingly lovely?” Dr. André waved his hand across the window.
“Never. This place regularly gets into my soul. Look at those mountains powdered with snow like icing sugar. Look at the lake, blue as a sapphire with that tiny island in the corner of it. Look at the track that that fat little white steamer is making as it leaves Villeneuve. Look at the Dent du Midi with its snow-white peaks of eternal snows. Look at it all and then wonder, as I do, that anyone lives anywhere else,” said Mark, feeling the tide of emotion taking him by the throat. And then he went on. “The only thing that reconciles me to the idea of leaving it,” he said, “is the dead certainty that this wealth of beauty will be repeated exactly and in every detail in heaven. If it is not . . . and mind you I shall stipulate for the sea as well, I shall instantly beg to be excused.”
Dr. André laughed. And then he became grave again. “I laugh,” he said, “but I laugh in the blessed certainty that it will be as you wish. When people talk nonsense about streets of gold I refer them to the country of my birth which is this, if God could make this and call it good, why has He any need to improve on it?”
“How wise you are,” said Mark thoughtfully.
“But you speak of leaving us,” said Dr. André after a pause. “And as by the look of you I cannot believe that it is a departure to heavenly spheres am I to understand that you have made up your mind to return to England?”
Mark nodded. “I must go,” he said. “As it is, they have extended my holiday for another week and that will elapse in six days’ time. So what I really came to consult you about is this. Do you think it would be possible to fly Rosemary home . . . to be met at the airport by an ambulance and to be conveyed straight away to St. Christopher’s Hospital where I am, as you know, senior medical officer. She could occupy a small ward in the new block . . . very well equipped and completely quiet. Our staff is excellent at the moment, and she would have every care.”
“What would her guardian say?”
“He would say what he has said all along. That what I say, goes,” said Mark smiling.
“Then I see no reason why it should not be arranged,” said Dr. André. “And you could not have chosen a better moment for saying it. For Swiss-Air has been told to reserve a plane for two T.I.P., trés importants personnes,” translated Dr. André, smiling. “One of them is here as a matter of fact. So the same ambulance that fetches him can fetch Rosemary and if you will deputise for another man and be in medical charge of the two patients, a great deal of money can be saved all round.”
“I shall be delighted,” said Mark warmly. And he was. Now all that was necessary was to send Anthony a telegram: no need for any more costly conversations. To tell Rosemary, which he could do later in the day and to write the hospital saying that he would be back on Saturday morning and to send an ambulance to London Airport to meet him. Raising his arms above his head he sighed with relief at such an easy solution to the whole thing.
A young student nurse met Denise as in her white overall she emerged from Ward Seven in the new block. “I say, have you heard?”
“Have I heard what? I am always hearing things,” returned Denise, who was just going off duty. She liked these young things. “Heard what?” repeated Denise, leaning on her mop because her feet ached.
“Why, you know that girl who got lost in the jungle in Switzerland. She’s coming here . . . the Chief is bringing her, arriving on Saturday. That’s why there’s been all this schemozzle about getting Ward Seven ready . . . it’s full of sun now .. . simply lovely. Won’t it be exciting to see someone who’s been lost in a jungle: we’re all thrills,” and the young nurse hurried away. “Lunch-time,” she called back over her shoulder. “Are you staying?”
Denise shook her head and standing there in the deserted corridor she leaned against the pale green wall. Rosemary under the same roof as herself! What should she do . . . what should she do? Get hold of Anthony at once . . . never mind her resolution never to ring him. This was vital. She ran to the telephone room at the end of the corridor and shut herself into it. “Trunks . . . yes, I said trunks. Thank you.” She gave the number, feeling her throat constricted.
“Hallo. . . .” Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. “Hallo, I’ve been trying to get you at Chelsea . . . twice I tried but each time it was ‘no reply.’ I knew it was useless to attempt the hospital. Yes . . . yes . . . . yes . . . go on. No, of course I shan’t breathe it, and I’m meeting them at the airport and I’ll warn Mark. No: nobody shall know. Kate has no idea that you’re at St. Christopher’s. Francis knows and so does Batey because her cousin was there as a patient, but no one else knows. No . .. no . . .” His thoughts flew. She was deeply distressed, poor little girl. “Look here, I’m coming round to see you to-night if I may,” he said. “After dinner . . . I’ll have my coffee with you. Right?” He was laughing down into the receiver.
“Are you choking?” he inquired.
“With joy.” She could hardly speak for it.
“All right then. I’ll be along. About half past eight.” And then he closed down. Francis had lighted a fire in the library and he dropped into a deep leather chair in front of it. He was very much better . . . nearly well, in fact, and his doctor had given him permission to drive to the airport and meet them if he went on improving at the same rate. Three more days until they arrived. Plenty of time to improve a lot more. Leaning back he shut his eyes and began to think.
While Denise, blindly fumbling in her purse, wondered how she could live until the evening. He wanted to see her . . . that was the rapture of it. He understood her fear that Rosemary would somehow hear things . . . and very naturally have them up against her. God was being much more merciful to her than she deserved. But then He generally was. He had guided her to A.A. and they, in their infinite skill and charity and profound knowledge of human nature, had dragged her up and out of the morass in which she had fallen.
“Well?”
She stood there trembling.
“Come here.”
“No.” She stood there, hands clenched behind her.
“Come along. . . . You know you’re dying to.”
“No, you said you did not want to kiss me. That it was better not.”
“That was several weeks ago. Now I feel differently.”
He held out his arms and she flew to them. “Tony . . . Tony. . ..”
“Denise. . . .” He stooped and kissed her hair. Pressing her face into his neck she clung to him.
“Feeling better?”
“Infinitely.”
“Well then, give me some coffee.” He let her go again, first tipping her face up to his and kissing her forehead. “A brotherly kiss.”
“Do you feel like my brother?”
“Not in the least.” Laughing, he followed her into the kitchen. Together they poured out the coffee. “It’s got to be properly hot,” he said.
“It is.”
“Yes, you’re quite right. . . it is.” He set down his cup in a hurry. “No, I’m not burnt, I’ve had too much experience with Francis’s coffee which is always scalding. Thanks.” He took a cigarette from the box she held out to him. “I’ll light yours for you. Wait. . . .”
He put it between her lips. “Well, what’s the matter now?”
“It’s having you do that again.” She was holding it between her trembling fingers.
He laughed caressingly. “Well, go on smoking and don’t waste it,” he said. But his eyes dwelt on her. I am perfectly certain, and before I go to-night I will tell her. And then he spoke aloud. “Look! I’ve got lots to tell you,” he said. “So I’d better begin. First of all . . .” and then he told her what the arrangements were. To begin with, Rosemary was not by any means well yet; the shock had been even more profound than they had expected. Therefore she must be kept perfectly quiet. Emotionally she must be kept quiet also, so it had been decided that a hospital ward was better for her than a room in her own home. “It wouldn’t be possible to keep Francis and Batey out of her room the whole time,” he said. “And you know what trained nurses very often are, and I could not endure Francis and Batey being made to feel superfluous. . . . Oh, I know you will understand what I mean. So that’s the plan . . . she goes straight from the airport to St. Christopher’s in an ambulance. I shall meet them and smile at her but that’s about all I shall do. And then Mark takes complete charge.”
“You . . .” She tried to frame the sentence and could not.
“Yes, of course I shall, and I have already told Mark the same thing. Rosemary is not to know who you are and if we do happen to meet in her room we must appear as strangers. But I have told Mark that eventually I do wish Rosemary to know who you are so I have asked him to see that you are put on as ward orderly in her room. It’s a ridiculous position for you, of course, but I am quite sure that you will feel with me that it is much the best way out. You and she are bound to meet some time, and it is far better that it should come to pass in this odd informal way than in a formal introduction which might mean all sorts of complications. This may be ticklish but it is not nearly so ticklish as it could be.”
Denise could not speak. “You are bound to meet some time.” What did he mean . . .? What did he mean . . .?
“You see . . .” He leaned forward and imprisoned one of her hands in his. “What is the matter, darling?”
“Don’t call me darling . . .” She shut her eyes. “You see . . .” she choked. “I know now the deathly disgrace of the way I behaved. Your lovely house . . . I came to stay in it and disgraced you, because of course Francis and Mrs. Bateman knew exactly what was going on. And not content with that I drank your whisky and gin and Francis of course knew that and it might have got him into awful trouble because you quite easily could have thought it was him . . . you probably did. And then when I left you I took to drinking too much and Dr. Progress found me . . . of course you know all that. . . . Oh Tony, leave me . . . I’m not fit . . . I’m not fit . . .” She pulled her hand from his grasp and buried her face in both of them.
“Listen, Denise. . . .”
“No, no, because where you are concerned I am helpless. Go away now before I have time to clutch at you and beg you never, never to go. I’m strong now . . . the coffee has given me strength.” She broke into a little choking laugh.
“Listen . . . and come here. . . . No, not on your knees: I won’t have it.” He began to lift her.
“No, no, don’t. I want to.” She pressed her face into his knee and leaning forward he put a hand on her hair.
“Listen.” And then he told her. He had thought it all over . . . ceaselessly night and day he had thought of practically very little else. He had had plenty of time, having been obliged to stay in his own room and a good deal of the time in bed. He wanted her . . . he knew now that she satisfied all of him. “Don’t think the old Denise would have done,” he admitted it frankly. “But there is very little of that left, apart from her lovely body. You see, you have suffered so frightfully . . . far more than I have. That has brought out the gold that was being smothered. . . . Smothered by what? Oh, I don’t know . . . what is it that smothers our better self? In any event that has gone, and the real Denise has emerged. And I want her for my wife, I can’t put it plainer than that, can I?” he smiled, longing to reassure her and put her at her ease.
“I can’t believe it,” she raised her face to look at him.
“Well, it’s true. . . But . . . and now listen very attentively. I want it kept secret for the moment: I may tell Mark but I don’t know that I shall even do that. . . I’ll see. But in any event you and I know, which is all that matters. Happy?”
“Happy!”
“Yes, I can see you are. And now I’ll give you another piece of news: you won’t believe it but that doesn’t matter. Mark is head over ears in love with Rosemary.”
“With Rosemary?”
“With Rosemary. Mind you, he hasn’t told me so, but it breathes through every line of his letters—his telephone calls and almost, his telegrams! I rather suspected it a good deal earlier on but then I thought of the difference in age between them: quite fifteen years . . . not that that nowadays counts as much. But anyhow I am now perfectly certain. Yes, what did you say?”
“Only that I . . . Oh, Tony, if only you had known my sick terror. That doesn’t begin to express it . . . my agony of terror lest you should fall in love with her. I think that that was, perhaps, what tipped me over the edge. The feeling that she was there . . . close to you; with all her lovely innocence and freshness of youth. While I . . . Oh Tony, are you sure that you want me? You aren’t saying it out of pity. No, no, you wouldn’t do that. . . . I know you wouldn’t.”
“No, I certainly should not. And now let’s talk of other things. I won’t give you a ring until we make it public. At least . . . yes. Perhaps I will and you can put it away and take it out and look at it when you feel so disposed. Oh dear . . . that was a disgraceful person who drank . . . !” He laughed light-heartedly. “No, look, we’ve got a lot to discuss. To begin with, tell me what I’d better take to the hospital for Rosemary. . . . Mrs. Bateman will pack it up for me. Yes, all right, give me a list before I go. And now . . . it’s only you and me and we’re going to talk about ourselves. Get up from your ridiculous knees and we’ll pull the sofa up to the fire and you shall put your head on my shoulder and I will kiss your hair.”
“I’m too happy to live,” said Denise tremulously.
“I feel rather like that myself. But we’re going to live and you are going to give me the son that I’ve always rather hankered after, only we shall have to be quick! Only two children though, I don’t believe in swarms of them. What shall we call him?”
“Anthony, of course.”
“Oh dear, how unoriginal: I thought better of you. Well, anyhow I’m pulling up the sofa and we’ll sit on it and make our plans. And don’t forget to give me that list of Rosemary’s requirements. In love with Rosemary . . . ! How could you be so ridiculous, my sweet?”
“She’s so awfully pretty. And all the other things I told you.”
“They make no impression on me. Immaturity never has held any attraction for me, I’m too sophisticated myself. Now then . . . get a pencil and paper and let’s start being businesslike first. Later . . .”
“Will you kiss me?”
“Wait and see.” He turned with his hand on the end of the sofa and his eyes caressed her. “You sweetest thing,” he said.
“Are we nearly there?”
“Very nearly.” Mark spoke quietly as the aeroplane, high up over the Channel, glittered in the sunshine. “Why, are you tired?”
“No, not tired. Only terribly, terribly afraid that you’ll go away from me.”
“But I’ve promised you that I won’t,” Mark stooped lower over the narrow bunk. They were not alone in the plane . . . there was another invalid on a second bunk who was also in his charge. The other V.I.P. sat well forward, absorbed in his official papers.
“Yes, but somebody might make you,” said Rosemary, her lower lip quivering. “And if you were to leave me I should die. . . . I know I should die.”
“Listen, darling,” said Mark firmly. “Nobody has yet been able to make me do anything that I didn’t want to. And I have promised you that I will stay with you so long as I think it necessary.”
“Yes, but you might think it not necessary when I didn’t,” persisted Rosemary, speaking with the peevish insistence of the invalid. She reached out and caught hold of his hand, clutching at it with her feeble strength as the tears rose and ran down her white face.
André had been right . . . the shock was very deep-seated, and mercifully he understood it and could make every allowance for it.
“Listen, darling,” he said again. And then again he reassured her. He was taking her, as soon as they landed, away to his hospital in London. . . . “I’ve told you about it, you know, Rosemary. And there you will be in a lovely comfortable bed in a lovely sunny room with lots of nice nurses to look after you and me in charge to see that you have every mortal thing that you want.”
“What about the nights?” said Rosemary, shutting her eyes so that her dark eyelashes lay thick against her pale skin.
“Well, I hope that you’ll be asleep.”
“And supposing I’m not and you aren’t there and I begin to call out Mark, Mark, Mark, who fetches you?” said Rosemary querulously.
“The Night Sister will.”
“Where from?”
“From a room quite close at hand where I shall be lying down in my dressing-gown. And I shall wake up and say, is it that tiresome little creature in Number Seven because if it is go back and tell her that the doctor will soon be along to give her a good beating.”
“Would you really say that?” Rosemary opened her eyes.
“Yes, or something very much like it.”
Rosemary shut her eyes again. “Well, I’d rather have you there beating me than not there at all,” she said finally. And then she did what she so often did, fell asleep suddenly. Relieved, he leaned back in his chair. Bringing her home like this had been rather a toss-up. But she was obviously all right. And now what about his other patient! He walked forward. Not so good . . . he looked down at the pale face and decided that although they would be over the airport in less than twenty minutes it would take some time to get this poor fellow safely out of the plane and into the ambulance that was to take him down to his own home: a beautiful place in Sussex. He took his travelling medicine-case out of his pocket as the stewardess came forward.
“I’m just going to give him another shot, stewardess.”
“Very good, sir.” She hurried away to get the boiling water.
How good these girls were, he reflected, as he waited for her to come back again. Every bit as efficient as the average nurse: in fact very often much more efficient. Roiling the sleeve up over the thin arm, he dabbed on the disinfectant spirit and inserted the needle. Not a quiver on the white face: pray heaven they got home alive! Well, he had done all he could and followed out ail André’s instructions. Replacing the bedclothes he walked away and beckoned to the stewardess.
“Look,” he said. “We must get Lord Pimlico out first. His doctor will be there to meet him with nurses and an ambulance, and his wife may be there too, I don’t know about that. Anyhow leave Miss Destin, if necessary, until the plane has taxied away from the landing ground and tell her, if she begins to ask for me, that I shall be back as soon as I have handed the other patient over to his own doctor. Miss Destin has been very badly shocked and is apt to be unreasonable.” Mark smiled. “But for goodness sake don’t let her get up or anything. Get the steward to stay with her if you have to hand over to anybody.”
“Very good, sir.” And then in a couple of minutes the plane was circling the tarmac. Mark walked back to Lord Pimlico and to his astonishment his eyes were open.
“How do you feel, sir?”
“Feel? Well, I feel better. I feel better because I can smell England. Two months in the bloody East and when I say bloody I mean bloody. Nothing but a collection of thugs and criminals who don’t know the meaning of the word truth. Certainly I’ve had a week in Switzerland to recover and some of the best doctoring in the world. No offence meant,” added Lord Pimlico, showing his white teeth in a grin.
So that was that! And a little later as Mark gave his report to the eminent doctor who had come to meet Lord Pimlico he smiled.
“Half an hour ago I thought he was dying,” he said.
“Dying!” The eminent doctor was also smiling. “Dying! not a bit of it! But I warned them in Whitehall . . . they shouldn’t send a man who loathes the East and everything connected with it to conduct their blasted official hanky-panky. But some fool at the F.O. said he was the only man who could put the fear of hell into them. And I believe he’s done it. But at the expense of his whole nervous system. And I’m going to see that he doesn’t do it again.” Shaking hands very cordially, the doctor winked at Mark and returned to the ambulance.
And now for Rosemary. And Anthony . . . good gracious! he had forgotten that Anthony was going to meet them! Mark hurried forward to see if he could spot Anthony among the people crowding towards the gates of the enclosure. Yes, there he was! . . . Mark began to wave enthusiastically. He would get hold of him first and then take him along to Rosemary.
“Hallo. How is she?” Anthony looked uncommonly well, thought Mark, except that it was odd to see him walking with a stick.
“Much better. A little querulous as befits the convalescent,” smiled Mark. “Bad luck about your back. How is it?”
“Also much better. I’ll just come along and say a word to Rosemary and then go back home again. I only got permission to make this trip provided I didn’t walk too much. Your ambulance is outside: I had a word with the two Red Cross men: what capable fellows they are!”
“Yes, aren’t they?” They walked slowly to the plane together followed by the two Red Cross men carrying a stretcher between them. I wonder what he’ll think of her . . . Mark’s thoughts were very busy.
But they were not so busy as Anthony’s as, helped by his chauffeur, he got back into his car. That pale little creature was being lifted into the stretcher by Mark, for no one else would do.
“I must have Mark do it,” she stretched out her hands and clutched at him.
“Yes, perhaps I’d better do it although these two ambulance men are experts at their job, Rosemary,” said Mark apologetically. “Well then, here we go! Put your arms round my neck.” She obeyed him and with infinite tenderness he settled her in the stretcher and folded her blankets round her. And then the little procession went down the steps of the plane and in a few moments she was settled in the ambulance.
“I’ll be seeing you.” The two men had waved to each other as the folding doors of the ambulance closed. And then they were off. And as Anthony walked back to his car he wondered why he felt just a little resentful. Wasn’t it what he had wanted . . . that his ward should cease to adore him. But somehow it had come so awfully suddenly. Neither Mark nor Rosemary had eyes for anyone but each other. She had barely been pleased to see him: her eyes had left his face and wandered back to Mark’s. And now . . . Ah ! . . . an idea struck him. “Go to Chelsea,” he said, “Tenterden Square, number 7.”
“Very good, sir.” The chauffeur resumed his former position. Anthony, surveying the back of his head, wondered what he was thinking about. Servants knew so much and said so little.
“I shan’t be more than an hour, Jackson. Just ask if Mrs. Mather is at home.” He waited.
“Yes, sir, she is in.” The chauffeur wrenched round the handle of the car and helped his master out. So it was her again, was it? Well, by what he’d heard she’d jolly well turned over a new leaf. Doing a subordinate’s job at the hospital and everybody there loved her. There’s nothing like a reformed sinner, thought Jackson, pulling a copy of the Evening Standard out from under the seat. Well, an hour would give him time for a good read. Easing his peaked cap a little from his forehead he set to.
While inside the front door Denise stood there hardly able to believe her eyes. “Why, I thought you were at the airport,” she said.
“I was. I’ve come from there. I’ve come to be consoled. I’ve had the worst blow to my pride that I’ve ever had.”
“What? Come in here. I’ll get you something to drink. What will you have: whisky or brandy.”
“The situation demands brandy. But I’d rather have whisky if you don’t mind.”
“Sit down and I’ll get it.” She brought it on a little glass tray.
”Here’s to you,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Thank you. And now you’ve slaked your first thirst light me a cigarette and have one yourself.”
“It’ll taste of whisky.”
“It won’t affect me if it does,” she smiled. “That’s all past . . . done with. God bless A.A. I say it every night when I go to bed. If only people would take the first step and link up with it. But you know being at St. Christopher’s has given me tremendous opportunities. I don’t of course let anyone know that A.A. has been my salvation . . . it wouldn’t do. But I’m able to bring it in if anyone tells me about a husband or son. Because that’s what’s so awful for these poor women who have to come to hospital. What’s going on at home?. . . it’s always on their minds.”
“Poor Wretches.”
“Yes, but never mind about them. How is Rosemary after her flight? And what does she look like?” Denise spoke with a lovely sense of security. He loved her and he turned to her . . . what more could she desire? He hadn’t kissed her yet. . . but what did that matter? Kisses were heavenly but a secure tender love was more heavenly than all the kisses in the world. And she had got that for ever.
“How is Rosemary? Yes, thank you, I’d love another cushion. . . .” He settled it in the small of his back. “How is Rosemary? Well, if you ask me, I should say that Rosemary is as madly in love with Mark as Mark is with Rosemary.”
“What? Not possible! Look at the difference in their ages, to begin with.”
“Ages. Age doesn’t count where love is concerned. Besides, is it so much? Fourteen or fifteen years, and don’t forget that Rosemary is very old for her age. She’s had to be, to emerge from that orphanage the innocent little thing that she is. Look at her! . . . not one single inhibition, that I can find, anyhow.”
“Yes, but what about Mark?”
“Mark is a man who has lived life to the full, don’t forget that I know him very well . . . we were through the war together. So naturally he has turned to something young and untried. And also don’t forget that Rosemary shows promise of great beauty, in fact she is quite lovely to look at even now. Not now, taken literally, because she’s only a poor pallid little shadow of herself, but you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” Denise was silent because her thoughts were so active. And yet how she despised herself for them and how he would despise her if he knew what they were.
“You know . . .” Anthony broke the silence. “You know . . . and I wouldn’t say this unless I wasn’t sure of you. . . . You know . . . do you realise what a solution it would be to our immediate problem if those two could marry and go off together to his cottage in the country which I gather is now vacant because his tenant has decided to clear out before Christmas?”
Denise laughed a queer little broken laugh. “And I was hating myself for having thought exactly the same thing,” she said. “And wondering what you would think of me for having thought it.”
”You probably got my thought waves because I began to think it as soon as I left the aerodrome,” said Anthony. “You see, two women in the same house are never a success and yet what other arrangement is possible unless Rosemary does marry and marry soon? I am entirely responsible for her, you see . . . nothing can alter that But if she leaves me of her own accord . . . well then . . .” He shrugged his shoulders significantly.
“But we shall have to wait and see. . . .“
“Of course. But I’m not going to wait long. If Rosemary is not seriously in love with Mark the thing will settle itself. In which case I shall suggest that she goes abroad for a time. . . . Mark says that she speaks with great affection of some friend of hers who was at Summerford House with her, and who has now been taken over by some rich aunt. I think the aunt contemplates getting a villa somewhere on the French Riviera and living there permanently . . . well, that would be ideal for the two girls, and I could pay enough to make it worth her while to take Rosemary under her wing. Anyhow. . . . Anyhow, we have talked enough about other people and I only have half an hour of my visit left: doctor’s orders. So I will move very slowly and carefully on to the sofa and you will sit beside me and I shall kiss you until you haven’t the least idea where you are and then I shall go home.”
“Oh, Anthony . . . !”
“Yes, I know, but it won’t be long now. You know I have always been a quick mover and you’re going to be installed in Monk’s Orchard before Christmas and as my wife this time so don’t make any excuses. Only twenty minutes left now. Hurry along, you prettiest and silliest of sweets.”
“Who are you really?” Rosemary, propped up against her extremely comfortable bed-rest, was watching Denise as she went silently round the room with her mop. Rosemary had now been in the hospital a week and looked a different creature. All the bewildered, distracted look in her eyes had gone. She was sleeping without an opiate and was gradually getting back her appetite. She was also beginning to take an interest in outside things, her world no longer being bounded by the four corners of her bed.
“How do you mean, who am I really?” Denise was giving special attention to the little space under the bedside table.
“Well, of course, it’s obvious that you are One of Us, as we always say. And the ward orderlies aren’t generally that.”
“But there isn’t any reason why they shouldn’t be. You see, I like helping sick people but I don’t want to be a nurse and of course I couldn’t be one now even if I did want to, I’m too old. So you see, I feel that this is the next best for me.”
“I see. At least I see what you mean, but it doesn’t somehow answer my question. But still, I mustn’t ask you things that you don’t want to say. You see, being ill rather makes you think that you’re the only person that matters. Anyhow, let’s get off you to me. You’ve heard about me, of course—Switzerland and being stuck up in a tree and all that.”
“Oh yes. I’ve heard a certain amount.”
“And about Dr. Progress getting me down, and then bringing me home.”
“Yes, I’ve heard all that.” Denise had got out her duster and was polishing the furniture.
“Why do you put on gloves?”
“Well, I want to keep my hands nice.”
“What for?” Rosemary broke into a delighted laugh. “You see . . she said, “there’s a mystery; and if there is one thing I adore, it’s a mystery. You are somebody in disguise. . . a member of a royal house perhaps. A foreign princess . . . you’re quite pretty enough for one. I was telling my guardian about you the other day and he was very intrigued. I said that it was so tiresome that you were never on this corridor when he came to see me. And he asked when you were here and I told him generally between eleven and twelve and he said he’d try to come then, only it was a bit difficult because of the farm.”
“Oh yes. . ..”
“The bother is that unless you’ve got a somebody of your own you’re almost certain to fall in love with him. He’s terribly good-looking . . . good-looking all over if you know what I mean. Perfect voice: perfect hands: perfect figure: perfect teeth . . . at least almost perfect; a bit crooked two of them but I always think that’s rather nice. And added to all that, perfect manners. So what more do you want?”
“I should say, nothing,” said Denise dryly.
“I know, that’s what I thought. And when he came and took me away from that ghastly orphanage place and I saw his lovely house and his awfully nice servants: Francis, his butler, is a perfect poppet, he’s coming to see me next week; I simply fell for him in a very bad way. And I think he saw it so he bundled me off to Switzerland to school—as a matter of fact I think his sister bad something to do with that although I don’t know for certain. Anyhow I went. And I liked it awfully until this tiresome thing happened, which was, of course, entirely my fault.”
“How your fault?” Denise was polishing the taps over the wash-hand basin.
“Well, you see, I was bored. And if you can tell me of anything worse than being bored I shall be interested to hear of it. Anyhow I was bored, so I made a fool of myself with a German boy from Lausanne, and we decided to run away together . . . we didn’t contemplate anything more than that; at least I didn’t, but apparently he did. Well, I expect you know all about that so I won’t tell you all over again. But what I did think very extraordinary was that I should have been the means of his death when his father was the means of wiping out my father and mother in the last war.”
“Yes, that was very extraordinary.” Denise turned from her polishing to look at Rosemary. No, she was all right . . . the talking had not upset her.
“So you see, here I am: in hospital. Good gracious me! how I am talking, but somehow you are a very nice person to talk to: one can feel you listening with all of you. Most people only listen with a tiny bit of them and you can feel them waiting for the moment when they can chip in and tell you something about themselves.”
Denise burst out laughing. “How true!” And then she turned to look at the door. “Yes, Sister?”
“Miss Destin’s guardian has come to sec her. It’s rather an odd time, but I have told him that he can stay for a quarter of an hour . . . just until Miss Destin has her lunch.”
“Oh joy, joy!” Rosemary was clapping her hands at the sight of her guardian. “Oh Anthony, how heavenly! now you can see Mrs. Mather. Oh, she’s gone: get her back, please. . . .”
“I expect Sister wanted her for something.” Anthony was standing there, breathing rather more quickly than usual. For in turning a corner she had run into his arms. Mercifully the corridor had been deserted.
“Denise!”
“Anthony!” Like lightning he had stooped and kissed her cap. And then on again into the lovely sunny ward where Rosemary sat staring at him.
“I particularly wanted you to see her,” she lamented. “She’s frightfully nice and so pretty. A ward orderly . . . too ridiculous for words. She’s terrifically U. Oh dear! . . . I thought you might perhaps marry her.”
“Never mind, I’ll see her another time.” So the good work had begun. “And how are you?” he said. “You look splendid. What does Mark say about you?”
“He says he’ll let me get up next week,” said Rosemary. “The bother is . . she hesitated. “Oh, you know I want to come home. But it’s such awful fun here: always something going on. Perhaps I could stay a bit longer . . . you know, just to get more steady on my feet. Anyhow . . .” She hesitated again. This must all be sounding frightfully ungrateful, she must leave it to Mark to settle.
“How’s darling old Francis?” she inquired cheerfully. “And Batey. Sit down and tell me all the news. How’s your back?”
“Much better. Almost well, in fact.”
“Good.”
She is trying to be interested and isn’t in the least, thought Anthony. But what a blessed mercy! “Smoking is allowed in here, isn’t it?” he inquired, as he pulled out his cigarette-case.
Mark, standing by the chair drawn up close to the window, came to the conclusion that to keep Rosemary any longer in hospital was ridiculous. She was really quite well. All he was really keeping her for was to have her near him because to think of her somewhere else was agony. What on earth was he to do . . .? He was beginning not to be able to sleep, which was awful and to him, entirely foreign.
”Your face is all crumpled up and wretched. What’s the matter,” inquired Rosemary, who knew perfectly well what was the matter. She suddenly felt wicked. “You’re tired of me,” she said.
“Don’t be a little fool,” Mark spoke roughly.
“Well then, what is it? Sit down and tell me,” said Rosemary. “This is a nice time; everybody is drinking tea, including Matron. Sister never comes at this time: she sees about stores or something. Denise has done the room and gone. How I love that woman! I want to tell you something, Mark, come closer because hospitals have in their walls. I want Sir Anthony to marry Denise.”
“Indeed. Why?”
“Because I think they are perfectly suited. She is very U, so that settles that part of it. She is a widow so she knows her way about. She is extremely pretty and Sir Anthony would like that. I don’t know why it is that I can never bring myself to drop the Sir. You see, I knew him first like that and it has stuck. Anyhow, I have made up my mind that he shall marry her,” said Rosemary resolutely.
“I thought you were in love with him yourself.”
“Did you? Well, I’m not. At least not now. Perhaps I was once. You see . . Rosemary’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Well?” His eyes were fixed and hard.
“Well, you see, I’ve fallen in love with somebody else,” said Rosemary ruefully. “And it serves them jolly well right for bundling me off to Switzerland like that. And I shall tell them so if anybody blames me.”
“I shouldn’t blame you for anything you did,” said Mark. “So you may as well tell me who it is. . . .” He stooped to retie his shoe-lace.
“Well, you see. I’m not quite certain if it is the moment to tell anybody,” said Rosemary carefully. “These things want delicate handling and I’m not too good at delicate handling. I’m apt to rush at things too much: they told me that at that revolting Summerford House.”
“I see,” Mark stood up. “I must get on with my job,” he said, “and I will leave you to your problems. The first to settle your own love affair: and the second, to settle Anthony’s. And as I am sure that you are quite capable of doing both very efficiently I will leave you to get on with it.” He turned to go. And then he turned back again. “Look here,” he said. ”I may as well tell you now. The pressure on this hospital is so frightful that even although I want to keep you here I know that I ought not to. So I am seeing Anthony this evening to tell him that you will be well enough to go back to Monk’s Orchard on Saturday. That gives you nearly a week more here and I shall tell Sister that after tea you are to walk up and down the veranda outside Number 7 Ward.”
“I see. . ..” Rosemary swallowed. “And supposing I say that I won’t go.”
“It will not make the slightest difference.”
“Brute.”
“I’m very sorry but I can’t help it. And now I really must. . . .”
“Mark . . .”
“Don’t keep on stopping me, Rosemary. I really am busy.”
“Only a second,” she said breathlessly. “Only a tiny second . . . yes, do please sit down. Look, Mark, you ought not to have made me say it, but you are so obstinate and stupid that I shall have to. Look, ask me again who I am in love with and I will tell you and that will clear up this whole miserable business once and for all and we can get on with it.”
Mark crossed one long leg over the other. “Go on then. Who is it?”
“Oh, what a rude voice . . . it almost makes me feel that now I won’t tell you at all, only I said I would so I must. Put your face very, very close to mine and I will whisper his name.”
Feeling her hair soft on his lips he did so. “I love somebody called Mark Progress,” she whispered. “And it isn’t the remotest use for him to storm or talk a lot of nonsense about being too old or anything because I have made up my mind. And if he doesn’t marry me before Christmas I shall fling myself out of the window or something tiresome and leave a note to say why I did it.”
“Don’t make fun of me, Rosemary,” said Mark hoarsely. “What may be fun for you is hell for me.”
“Kiss me, darling idiot,” said Rosemary, laying her head on his shoulder and looking up into his face. “Kiss me for quite ten minutes and then I’ll let you go quite quietly. . . . Oh, Mark . . . Mark . . . ! ” She caught her breath. “Well, perhaps five minutes is long enough for a beginning. I don’t think I can. . . . Oh, Mark, do you love me as much as all that? . . .”
“Much, much more. .. .” He put a finger inside his collar, tugging at it. And then he stood up. “And now get on with your plans for marrying Denise and Anthony,” he said. “And I’ll see that you and I are well out of the way in plenty of time to give them a clear field.”
The fire in the housekeeper’s room was bright and cheerful. Francis and Mrs. Bateman had been sitting beside it for quite a long time and it was getting late, nearly eleven o’clock.
“You could have knocked me down with a feather,” said Mrs. Bateman. “Have another humbug, Francis.”
“Thanks.” Francis helped himself from the yellow tin. “And I wasn’t in the least surprised,” he said. “Because I’ve seen it coming on for some time. Now about Miss Rosemary, I was surprised because she was fairly set on the Master . . . of course that was what made Miss Kate so keen to get her off to Switzerland. And I must confess that I began to get anxious myself because he couldn’t be out in the garden for a minute and she’d be after him. He didn’t see it of course . . . he wouldn’t; he only regarded her as a child, which of course she was really when he got her from that place she was at. But you know, I was never easy about it although I loved the pretty creature from the first moment I set eyes on her. But then I’m an old man, or getting on that way. But with Sir Anthony it was different . . . you see, he’s led that wild life like Dr. Mark Progress has only a bit different of course. And you see what’s happened there, although that’ll be all right because he’s grown up the hard way. But with Sir Anthony, who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and a spoon full of money as well, you never know. The fancy might have taken him. . . . Oh, here’s a sweetly pretty young thing . . . how about it? And in less time than you can say Jack Robinson there’d have been wedding bells. And then what? All my dear master’s life ruined and me not able to do one single thing about it.”
“Yes, but what about the other lady?” said Mrs. Bateman doubtfully.
“The other lady?” Francis smiled. “He couldn’t have done a wiser thing. You see, there isn’t a thing they don’t know about each other and when you’ve got that you’ve got most of it . . . no trying each other out, if you get my meaning. My master’s a very wise man and there was no doubt but that Mrs. Mather had a very firm hold on him. But then he saw the dry rot that was eating away at the root of it and he decided that it wasn’t good enough. And if you ask me I don’t think there are many men who would have the strength of character to do that. A pretty creature like our Denise: a lady to the tips of her fingers: a nice circle of friends: money of her own: he’d got it on a plate if you’ll pardon the expression. And then, poor thing, she went all to pieces, but even then she wasn’t going to beg for mercy . . . no, she set her teeth: saw where she was going to end if she didn’t get a pull on herself, and got a pull. Takes a menial job at a hospital: gets herself beloved by all and sundry and if you ask me is going to end up as a wife to my master that we can all be proud of and be jolly glad to have under our roof.”
“You always seem to know,” said Mrs. Bateman admiringly.
“You don’t hold a place for as long as I have without knowing something about the people who pay you your salary,” said Francis wisely. “And now it’s time you and me turned in,” said Francis, getting up out of his chair and stretching. “Because if you ask me, we’ve got a busy couple of months ahead of us. Miss Rosemary being married from here when she comes back from the South of France and their own wedding a week or so later.
“Very quiet, that’s going to be: they both want it that way and I think they’re wise.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Bateman sleepily. “I’ll put on the guard, Francis. Library fire O.K.?”
“Trust me,” said Francis. “You don’t suppose I’d leave it to him, do you? All fussed up as he is with all these weddings. We’ve got Dr. Progress coming for the week-end so we shall have a pair of them on our hands,” said Francis, smiling indulgently.
And a few days later Anthony and Mark talked even longer than Mrs. Bateman and Francis had done.
“Well. . . .” Anthony stretched his long legs and smiled across the hearth-rug. “Well, now that we have exhaustively discussed our own affairs, what about discussing somebody else’s for a change? Have you had any news from Switzerland. Because I haven’t?”
“Yes, and it’s good news. Because I was always anxious about those two schools, Wylde was such a particularly nice chap and his wife was charming. I should have hated, and so would you, if the catastrophe had damaged their excellent reputation. But apparently it has not. . . . I have heard twice from the Swiss Inspector of Police who became quite a friend of mine before I left. You see, the Swiss are extremely sensible and instead of allowing the affair to become a collection of flaring banner-lines in every available newspaper, they toned it down so that it hardly caught the eye of anyone who was not personally interested. And the same went for the Pensionnat Mont Fleuri. Miss Alford took it very sensibly when she had got over the first shock. By the way, has Rosemary told you that her friend Audrey has been invited to Cannes to stay with her other friend Hilda? By what she said in her last letter to me, she seems highly delighted.”
“Yes, I believe she did say something about it.” Sir Anthony yawned. “Time to turn in, Mark, my friend.” “Yes.” Mark got up out of his chair. “Isn’t it odd,” he said. “You and I two confirmed bachelors and now look at us.”
“Yes I know, I was only thinking the very same thing yesterday. Nothing else matters . . . nothing else even counts. And how often you and I have scoffed at people in the same plight. By the way, what about the guard? shall I put it on?”
“Yes . . . do, if you will . . . Sir Anthony turned at the sound of an opening door. “Good gracious me, Francis, what on earth are you doing, up at this hour. Can’t you even trust me to put on my own guard?”
“No, sir.” Francis was advancing across the Persian rugs. “No, Sir Anthony. Allow me, sir,” said Francis respectfully as he removed with decision the brass guard from Mark’s slightly resentful hand.