Sad Cypress

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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First published in Great Britain by Collins 1940

Agatha Christie® Poirot® Sad Cypress™

Copyright © 1940 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved

www.agathachristie.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Title lettering by Ghost Design

Cover photograph © Ilona Wellman/Trevillion Images

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008129576

Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780007422760

Version: 2018-08-06

TO PETER AND PEGGY MCLEOD

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew

O prepare it;

My part of death no one so true;

Did share it.

Shakespeare.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

PART II

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

PART III

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

‘Elinor Katharine Carlisle. You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Mary Gerrard upon the 27th of July last. Are you guilty or not guilty?’

Elinor Carlisle stood very straight, her head raised. It was a graceful head, the modelling of the bones sharp and well defined. The eyes were a deep vivid blue, the hair black. The brows had been plucked to a faint thin line.

There was a silence—quite a noticeable silence.

Sir Edwin Bulmer, Counsel for the Defence, felt a thrill of dismay.

He thought:

‘My God, she’s going to plead guilty… She’s lost her nerve…’

Elinor Carlisle’s lips parted. She said:

‘Not guilty.’

Counsel for the Defence sank back. He passed a handkerchief over his brow, realizing that it had been a near shave.

Sir Samuel Attenbury was on his feet, outlining the case for the Crown.

‘May it please your lordship, gentlemen of the jury, on the 27th of July, at half-past three in the afternoon, Mary Gerrard died at Hunterbury, Maidensford…’

His voice ran on, sonorous and pleasing to the ear. It lulled Elinor almost into unconsciousness. From the simple and concise narrative, only an occasional phrase seeped through to her conscious mind.

‘…Case a peculiarly simple and straightforward one…

‘… It is the duty of the Crown…prove motive and opportunity…

‘… No one, as far as can be seen, had any motive to kill this unfortunate girl, Mary Gerrard, except the accused. A young girl of a charming disposition—liked by everybody—without, one would have said, an enemy in the world…’

Mary, Mary Gerrard! How far away it all seemed now. Not real any longer…

‘… Your attention will be particularly directed to the following considerations:

 1. What opportunities and means had the accused for administering poison?

 2. What motive had she for so doing?

‘It will be my duty to call before you witnesses who can help you to form a true conclusion on these matters…

‘… As regards the poisoning of Mary Gerrard, I shall endeavour to show you that no one had any opportunity to commit this crime except the accused…’

Elinor felt as though imprisoned in a thick mist. Detached words came drifting through the fog.

‘… Sandwiches…

‘… Fish paste…

‘… Empty house…’

The words stabbed through the thick enveloping blanket of Elinor’s thoughts—pin-pricks through a heavy muffling veil…

The court. Faces. Rows and rows of faces! One particular face with a big black moustache and shrewd eyes. Hercule Poirot, his head a little on one side, his eyes thoughtful, was watching her.

She thought: He’s trying to see just exactly why I did it… He’s trying to get inside my head to see what I thought—what I felt…

Felt…? A little blur—a slight sense of shock… Roddy’s face—his dear, dear face with its long nose, its sensitive mouth… Roddy! Always Roddy—always, ever since she could remember…since those days at Hunterbury amongst the raspberries and up in the warren and down by the brook. Roddy—Roddy—Roddy…

Other faces! Nurse O’Brien, her mouth slightly open, her freckled fresh face thrust forward. Nurse Hopkins looking smug—smug and implacable. Peter Lord’s face—Peter Lord—so kind, so sensible, so—so comforting! But looking now—what was it—lost? Yes—lost! Minding—minding all this frightfully! While she herself, the star performer, didn’t mind at all!

Here she was, quite calm and cold, standing in the dock, accused of murder. She was in court.

Something stirred; the folds of blanket round her brain lightened—became mere wraiths. In court!… People…

People leaning forward, their lips parted a little, their eyes agog, staring at her, Elinor, with a horrible ghoulish enjoyment—listening with a kind of slow, cruel relish to what that tall man with the Jewish nose was saying about her.

‘The facts in this case are extremely easy to follow and are not in dispute. I shall put them before you quite simply. From the very beginning…’

Elinor thought:

‘The beginning… The beginning? The day that horrible anonymous letter came! That was the beginning of it…’

PART I

CHAPTER 1

An anonymous letter!

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

This is to Warn You (it ran),

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

Well-Wisher

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

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

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

She said lightly:

‘Hallo, Roddy!’

Roddy said:

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

Elinor shook her head.

Roddy said:

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

Elinor said:

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

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

‘No!’

Elinor said again:

‘It’s rather horrid…’

She moved a step towards her desk.

‘I’d better tear it up, I suppose.’

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

But on impulse Elinor decided differently. She said:

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

Roddy’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘Aunt Laura?’

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

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

Elinor said:

‘One of the servants, do you think?’

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

Elinor said thoughtfully:

‘It must be Mary Gerrard, I think.’

Roddy frowned in an effort of remembrance.

‘Mary Gerrard? Who’s she?’

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

Roddy said:

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

Elinor nodded.

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

‘What’s she like now?’ asked Roddy.

Elinor said:

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

‘Gone all lady-like, has she?’

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

Roddy said irritably:

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

Elinor said:

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

Roddy said:

‘Why can’t the nurse read to her?’

Elinor said with a smile:

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

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

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

Elinor said with a slight recoil:

‘Because of this—?’

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

‘Yes, Roddy.’

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

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

She admitted it quickly.

‘Oh, it does.’

He said seriously:

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

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

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

Elinor sighed.

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

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

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

Roddy nodded.

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

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

Roddy nodded.

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

She said ruefully:

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

Roddy said:

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

Elinor said:

‘Do you think I ought to, Roddy?’

He shook his head.

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

He went on:

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

Elinor said:

‘We sound rather like human leeches!’

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

Elinor said thoughtfully:

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

Roddy said:

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

He grinned at her affectionately. He said:

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

‘Yes.’

She said it coldly, almost primly.

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

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

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

He went on:

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

Elinor shook her head. She said:

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

‘My sweet!’

He kissed her.

He said:

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

‘Yes. I was thinking the other day—’

Roddy finished the sentence for her:

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

Elinor said:

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

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

Elinor nodded.

‘I know.’

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

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

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

Elinor said:

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

Roddy said:

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

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

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

Nurse Hopkins said comfortably:

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

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

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

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

She said now approvingly:

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

The other nodded.

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

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

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

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

Nurse O’Brien said:

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

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

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

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

Nurse Hopkins said sententiously:

‘Fine feathers make fine birds.’

‘Another cup of tea, Nurse?’

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

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

Nurse O’Brien said:

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

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘Was it her husband, do you think?’

Nurse O’Brien said:

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

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

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

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

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

Nurse O’Brien said:

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

Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said:

‘That’s very interesting.’

Nurse O’Brien said romantically:

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

Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh:

‘Perhaps he was killed in the war…’

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

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

‘Of course you can, Mary, my dear.’

Mary Gerrard said breathlessly:

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

The older woman looked at her kindly.

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘What’s the trouble?’

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

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

‘Time enough for that.’

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

Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically.

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

Nurse Hopkins said:

‘She’s a sick woman, remember.’

Mary flushed, a contrite flush.

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

‘I know you don’t.’

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

Nurse Hopkins said unromantically:

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

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

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

Mary said doubtfully:

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

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

‘I’m not clever enough.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

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

Mary said:

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

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

Mary said softly:

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

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

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

Mary said, ‘Do you mean—?’

Her eyes looked wide and frightened.

The District Nurse nodded.

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

Mary said:

‘You’re very kind.’

Nurse Hopkins said:

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

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

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

‘Good morning, Mr Gerrard.’

Ephraim Gerrard said crustily:

‘Ah!’

‘Very nice weather,’ said Nurse Hopkins.

Old Gerrard said crossly:

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

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

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

Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old man.

He said disagreeably:

‘Nurses—nurses, you’m all the same. Full of cheerfulness over other people’s troubles. Little you care! And there’s Mary talks about being a nurse, too. Should have thought she’d want to be something better than that, with her French and her German and her piano-playing and all the things she’s learned at her grand school and her travels abroad.’

Mary said sharply:

‘Being a hospital nurse would be quite good enough for me!’

‘Yes, and you’d sooner do nothing at all, wouldn’t you? Strutting about with your airs and your graces and your fine-lady-do-nothing ways. Laziness, that’s what you like, my girl!’

Mary protested, tears springing to her eyes:

‘It isn’t true, Dad. You’ve no right to say that!’

Nurse Hopkins intervened with a heavy, determinedly humorous air.

‘Just a bit under the weather, aren’t we, this morning? You don’t really mean what you say, Gerrard. Mary’s a good girl and a good daughter to you.’

Gerrard looked at his daughter with an air of almost active malevolence.

‘She’s no daughter of mine—nowadays—with her French and her history and her mincing talk. Pah!’

He turned and went into the lodge again.

Mary said, the tears still standing in her eyes:

‘You do see, Nurse, don’t you, how difficult it is? He’s so unreasonable. He’s never really liked me even when I was a little girl. Mum was always standing up for me.’

Nurse Hopkins said kindly:

‘There, there, don’t worry. These things are sent to try us! Goodness, I must hurry. Such a round as I’ve got this morning.’

And as she stood watching the brisk retreating figure, Mary Gerrard thought forlornly that nobody was any real good or could really help you. Nurse Hopkins, for all her kindness, was quite content to bring out a little stock of platitudes and offer them with an air of novelty.

Mary thought disconsolately:

‘What shall I do?’

CHAPTER 2

Mrs Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her eyes—eyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor, looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a handsome, hawk-like profile. Pride and determination showed in her face.

The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by the window. They rested there tenderly—almost wistfully.

She said at last:

‘Mary—’

The girl turned quickly.

‘Oh, you’re awake, Mrs Welman.’

Laura Welman said:

‘Yes, I’ve been awake some time…’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’d have—’

Mrs Welman broke in:

‘No, that’s all right. I was thinking—thinking of many things.’

‘Yes, Mrs Welman?’

The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender look come into the older woman’s face. She said gently:

‘I’m very fond of you, my dear. You’re very good to me.’

‘Oh, Mrs Welman, it’s you who have been good to me. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what I should have done! You’ve done everything for me.’

‘I don’t know… I don’t know, I’m sure…’ The sick woman moved restlessly, her right arm twitched—the left remaining inert and lifeless. ‘One means to do the best one can; but it’s so difficult to know what is best—what is right. I’ve been too sure of myself always…’

Mary Gerrard said:

‘Oh, no, I’m sure you always know what is best and right to do.’

But Laura Welman shook her head.

‘No—no. It worries me. I’ve had one besetting sin always, Mary: I’m proud. Pride can be the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too.’

Mary said quickly:

‘It will be nice for you to have Miss Elinor and Mr Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. It’s quite a time since they were here.’

Mrs Welman said softly:

‘They’re good children—very good children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know I’ve only got to send and they’ll come at any time. But I don’t want to do that too often. They’re young and happy—the world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and suffering before their time.’

Mary said, ‘I’m sure they’d never feel like that, Mrs Welman.’

Mrs Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than to the girl:

‘I always hoped they might marry. But I tried never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so contradictory. It would have put them off ! I had an idea, long ago when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart on Roddy. But I wasn’t at all sure about him. He’s a funny creature. Henry was like that—very reserved and fastidious… Yes, Henry…’

She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband.

She murmured:

‘So long ago…so very long ago… We had only been married five years when he died. Double pneumonia… We were happy—yes, very happy; but somehow it all seems very unreal, that happiness. I was an odd, solemn, undeveloped girl—my head full of ideas and hero-worship. No reality…’

Mary murmured:

‘You must have been very lonely—afterwards.’

‘After? Oh, yes—terribly lonely. I was twenty-six…and now I’m over sixty. A long time, my dear…a long, long time…’ She said with sudden brisk acerbity, ‘And now this!’

‘Your illness?’

‘Yes. A stroke is the thing I’ve always dreaded. The indignity of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do anything for yourself. It maddens me. The O’Brien creature is good-natured—I will say that for her. She doesn’t mind my snapping at her and she’s not more idiotic than most of them. But it makes a lot of difference to me to have you about, Mary.’

‘Does it?’ The girl flushed. ‘I—I’m so glad, Mrs Welman.’

Laura Welman said shrewdly:

‘You’ve been worrying, haven’t you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. I’ll see to it that you shall have the means to be independent and take up a profession. But be patient for a little—it means too much to me to have you here.’

‘Oh, Mrs Welman, of course—of course! I wouldn’t leave you for the world. Not if you want me—’

‘I do want you…’ The voice was unusually deep and full. ‘You’re—you’re quite like a daughter to me, Mary. I’ve seen you grow up here at Hunterbury from a little toddling thing—seen you grow into a beautiful girl… I’m proud of you, child. I only hope I’ve done what was best for you.’

Mary said quickly:

‘If you mean that your having been so good to me and having educated me above—well, above my station—if you think it’s made me dissatisfied or—or—given me what Father calls fine-lady ideas, indeed that isn’t true. I’m just ever so grateful, that’s all. And if I’m anxious to start earning my living, it’s only because I feel it’s right that I should, and not—and not—well, do nothing after all you’ve done for me. I—I shouldn’t like it to be thought that I was sponging on you.’

Laura Welman said, and her voice was suddenly sharp-edged:

‘So that’s what Gerrard’s been putting into your head? Pay no attention to your father, Mary; there never has been and never will be any question of your sponging on me! I’m asking you to stay here a little longer solely on my account. Soon it will be over… If they went the proper way about things, my life could be ended here and now—none of this long-drawn-out tomfoolery with nurses and doctors.’

‘Oh, no, Mrs Welman, Dr Lord says you may live for years.’

‘I’m not at all anxious to, thank you! I told him the other day that in a decently civilized state, all there would be to do would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it, and he’d finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. “And if you’d any courage, Doctor,” I said, “you’d do it, anyway!”’

Mary cried:

‘Oh! What did he say?’

‘The disrespectful young man merely grinned at me, my dear, and said he wasn’t going to risk being hanged. He said, “If you’d left me all your money, Mrs Welman, that would be different, of course!” Impudent young jackanapes! But I like him. His visits do me more good than his medicines.’

‘Yes, he’s very nice,’ said Mary. ‘Nurse O’Brien thinks a lot of him and so does Nurse Hopkins.’

Mrs Welman said:

‘Hopkins ought to have more sense at her age. As for O’Brien, she simpers and says, “Oh, doctor,” and tosses those long streamers of hers whenever he comes near her.’

‘Poor Nurse O’Brien.’

Mrs Welman said indulgently:

‘She’s not a bad sort, really, but all nurses annoy me; they always will think that you’d like a “nice cup of tea” at five in the morning!’ She paused. ‘What’s that? Is it the car?’

Mary looked out of the window.

‘Yes, it’s the car. Miss Elinor and Mr Roderick have arrived.’

Mrs Welman said to her niece:

‘I’m very glad, Elinor, about you and Roddy.’

Elinor smiled at her.

‘I thought you would be, Aunt Laura.’

The older woman said, after a moment’s hesitation:

‘You do—care about him, Elinor?’

Elinor’s delicate brows lifted.

‘Of course.’

Laura Welman said quickly:

‘You must forgive me, dear. You know, you’re very reserved. It’s very difficult to know what you’re thinking or feeling. When you were both much younger I thought you were perhaps beginning to care for Roddy—too much…’

Again Elinor’s delicate brows were raised.

‘Too much?’

The older woman nodded.

‘Yes. It’s not wise to care too much. Sometimes a very young girl does do just that… I was glad when you went abroad to Germany to finish. Then, when you came back, you seemed quite indifferent to him—and, well, I was sorry for that, too! I’m a tiresome old woman, difficult to satisfy! But I’ve always fancied that you had, perhaps, rather an intense nature—that kind of temperament runs in our family. It isn’t a very happy one for its possessors… But, as I say, when you came back from abroad so indifferent to Roddy, I was sorry about that, because I had always hoped you two would come together. And now you have, and so everything is all right! And you do really care for him?’

Elinor said gravely:

‘I care for Roddy enough and not too much.’

Mrs Welman nodded approval.

‘I think, then, you’ll be happy. Roddy needs love—but he doesn’t like violent emotion. He’d shy off from possessiveness.’

Elinor said with feeling:

‘You know Roddy very well!’

Mrs Welman said:

‘If Roddy cares for you just a little more than you care for him—well, that’s all to the good.’

Elinor said sharply:

‘Aunt Agatha’s Advice column. “Keep your boy friend guessing! Don’t let him be too sure of you!”’

Laura Welman said sharply:

‘Are you unhappy, child? Is anything wrong?’

‘No, no, nothing.’

Laura Welman said:

‘You just thought I was being rather—cheap? My dear, you’re young and sensitive. Life, I’m afraid, is rather cheap…’

Elinor said with some slight bitterness:

‘I suppose it is.’

Laura Welman said:

‘My child—you are unhappy? What is it?’

‘Nothing—absolutely nothing.’ She got up and went to the window. Half turning, she said:

‘Aunt Laura, tell me, honestly, do you think love is ever a happy thing?’

Mrs Welman’s face became grave.

‘In the sense you mean, Elinor—no, probably not… To care passionately for another human creature brings always more sorrow than joy; but all the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience. Anyone who has never really loved has never really lived…’

The girl nodded.

She said:

‘Yes—you understand—you’ve known what it’s like—’

She turned suddenly, a questioning look in her eyes:

‘Aunt Laura—’

The door opened and red-haired Nurse O’Brien came in.

She said in a sprightly manner:

‘Mrs Welman, here’s Doctor come to see you.’

Dr Lord was a young man of thirty-two. He had sandy hair, a pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw. His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue.

‘Good morning, Mrs Welman,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Dr Lord. This is my niece, Miss Carlisle.’

A very obvious admiration sprang into Dr Lord’s transparent face. He said, ‘How do you do?’ The hand that Elinor extended to him he took rather gingerly as though he thought he might break it.

Mrs Welman went on:

‘Elinor and my nephew have come down to cheer me up.’

‘Splendid!’ said Dr Lord. ‘Just what you need! It will do you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs Welman.’

He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration.

Elinor said, moving towards the door:

‘Perhaps I shall see you before you go, Dr Lord?’

‘Oh—er—yes, of course.’

She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr Lord approached the bed, Nurse O’Brien fluttering behind him.

Mrs Welman said with a twinkle:

‘Going through the usual bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What humbugs you doctors are!’

Nurse O’Brien said with a sigh:

‘Oh, Mrs Welman. What a thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!’

Dr Lord said with a twinkle:

‘Mrs Welman sees through me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs Welman, I’ve got to do my stuff, you know. The trouble with me is I’ve never learnt the right bedside manner.’

‘Your bedside manner’s all right. Actually you’re rather proud of it.’

Peter Lord chuckled and remarked:

‘That’s what you say.’

After a few routine questions had been asked and answered, Dr Lord leant back in his chair and smiled at his patient.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’re going on splendidly.’

Laura Welman said: ‘So I shall be up and walking round the house in a few weeks’ time?’

‘Not quite so quickly as that.’

‘No, indeed. You humbug! What’s the good of living stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?’

Dr Lord said:

‘What’s the good of life, anyway? That’s the real question. Ever read about that nice mediæval invention, the Little Ease? You couldn’t stand, sit or lie in it. You’d think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks. Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage, was released and lived to a hearty old age.’

Laura Welman said:

‘What’s the point of this story?’

Peter Lord said:

‘The point is that one’s got an instinct to live. One doesn’t live because one’s reason assents to living. People who, as we say, “would be better dead”, don’t want to die! People who apparently have got everything to live for just let themselves fade out of life because they haven’t got the energy to fight.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s nothing more. You’re one of the people who really want to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body wants to live, it’s no good your brain dishing out the other stuff.’

Mrs Welman said with an abrupt change of subject:

‘How do you like it down here?’

Peter Lord said, smiling:

‘It suits me fine.’

‘Isn’t it a bit irksome for a young man like you? Don’t you want to specialize? Don’t you find a country GP practice rather boring?’

Lord shook his sandy head.

‘No, I like my job. I like people, you know, and I like ordinary everyday diseases. I don’t really want to pin down the rare bacillus of an obscure disease. I like measles and chicken-pox and all the rest of it. I like seeing how different bodies react to them. I like seeing if I can’t improve on recognized treatment. The trouble with me is I’ve got absolutely no ambition. I shall stay here till I grow side-whiskers and people begin saying, “Of course, we’ve always had Dr Lord, and he’s a nice old man: but he is very old-fashioned in his methods and perhaps we’d better call in young so-and-so, who’s so very up to date…”’

‘H’m,’ said Mrs Welman. ‘You seem to have got it all taped out!’

Peter Lord got up.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I must be off.’

Mrs Welman said:

‘My niece will want to speak to you, I expect. By the way, what do you think of her? You haven’t seen her before.’

Dr Lord went suddenly scarlet. His very eyebrows blushed. He said:

‘I—oh! she’s very good-looking, isn’t she? And—eh—clever and all that, I should think.’

Mrs Welman was diverted. She thought to herself:

‘How very young he is, really…’

Aloud she said:

‘You ought to get married.’

Roddy had wandered into the garden. He had crossed the broad sweep of lawn and along a paved walk and had then entered the walled kitchen-garden. It was well-kept and well-stocked. He wondered if he and Elinor would live at Hunterbury one day. He supposed that they would. He himself would like that. He preferred country life. He was a little doubtful about Elinor. Perhaps she’d like living in London better…

A little difficult to know where you were with Elinor. She didn’t reveal much of what she thought and felt about things. He liked that about her… He hated people who reeled off their thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was always more interesting.

Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look at, witty to talk to—altogether the most charming of companions.

He thought complacently to himself:

‘I’m damned lucky to have got her. Can’t think what she sees in a chap like me.’

For Roderick Welman, in spite of his fastidiousness, was not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that Elinor should have consented to marry him.

Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soon—that is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps she’d rather put it off for a bit. He mustn’t rush her. They’d be a bit hard-up at first. Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that Aunt Laura wouldn’t die for a long time to come. She was a dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for holidays, always interested in what he was doing.

His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death (his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness). He didn’t like to visualize anything unpleasant too clearly… But—er—afterwards—well, it would be very pleasant to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to keep it up. He wondered exactly how his aunt had left it. Not that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didn’t care enough about money to make too much of it.

He thought: ‘No, there’s nothing to worry about—whatever happens!’

He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees.

Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him—a rippling of his previous placidity. He felt: ‘There’s something—something I haven’t got—something I want—I want—I want…’

The golden green light, the softness in the air—with them came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden impatience.

A girl came through the trees towards him—a girl with pale, gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin.

He thought, ‘How beautiful—how unutterably beautiful.’

Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy!

The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fish-like, his mouth open.

She said with a little hesitation:

‘Don’t you remember me, Mr Roderick? It’s a long time of course. I’m Mary Gerrard, from the lodge.’

Roddy said:

‘Oh—oh—you’re Mary Gerrard?’

She said: ‘Yes.’

Then she went on rather shyly:

‘I’ve changed, of course, since you saw me.’

He said: ‘Yes, you’ve changed. I—I wouldn’t have recognized you.’

He stood staring at her. He did not hear footsteps behind him. Mary did and turned.

Elinor stood motionless a minute. Then she said:

‘Hello, Mary.’

Mary said:

‘How do you do, Miss Elinor? It’s nice to see you. Mrs Welman has been looking forward to you coming down.’

Elinor said:

‘Yes—it’s a long time. I—Nurse O’Brien sent me to look for you. She wants to lift Mrs Welman up, and she says you usually do it with her.’

Mary said: ‘I’ll go at once.’

She moved off, breaking into a run. Elinor stood looking after her. Mary ran well, grace in every movement.

Roddy said softly: ‘Atalanta…’

Elinor did not answer. She stood quite still for a minute or two. Then she said:

‘It’s nearly lunch-time. We’d better go back.’

They walked side by side towards the house.

‘Oh! Come on, Mary. It’s Garbo, and a grand film—all about Paris. And a story by a tiptop author. There was an opera of it once.’

‘It’s frightfully nice of you, Ted, but I really won’t.’

Ted Bigland said angrily:

‘I can’t make you out nowadays, Mary. You’re different—altogether different.’

‘No, I’m not, Ted.’

‘You are! I suppose because you’ve been away to that grand school and to Germany. You’re too good for us now.’

‘It’s not true, Ted. I’m not like that.’

She spoke vehemently.

The young man, a fine sturdy specimen, looked at her appraisingly in spite of his anger.

‘Yes, you are. You’re almost a lady, Mary.’

Mary said with sudden bitterness:

‘Almost isn’t much good, is it?’

He said with sudden understanding:

‘No, I reckon it isn’t.’

Mary said quickly:

‘Anyway, who cares about that sort of thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!’

‘It doesn’t matter like it did—no,’ Ted assented, but thoughtfully. ‘All the same, there’s a feeling. Lord, Mary, you look like a duchess or a countess or something.’

Mary said:

‘That’s not saying much. I’ve seen countesses looking like old-clothes women!’

‘Well, you know what I mean.’

A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black, bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said:

‘Afternoon, Mrs Bishop.’

Mrs Bishop inclined her head graciously.

‘Good afternoon, Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary.’

She passed on, a ship in full sail.

Ted looked respectfully after her.

Mary murmured.

‘Now, she really is like a duchess!’

‘Yes—she’s got a manner. Always makes me feel hot inside my collar.’

Mary said slowly:

‘She doesn’t like me.’

‘Nonsense, my girl.’

‘It’s true. She doesn’t. She’s always saying sharp things to me.’

‘Jealous,’ said Ted, nodding his head sapiently. ‘That’s all it is.’

Mary said doubtfully:

‘I suppose it might be that…’

‘That’s it, depend upon it. She’s been housekeeper at Hunterbury for years, ruling the roost and ordering everyone about and now old Mrs Welman takes a fancy to you, and it puts her out! That’s all it is.’

Mary said, a shade of trouble on her forehead:

‘It’s silly of me, but I can’t bear it when anyone doesn’t like me. I want people to like me.’

‘Sure to be women who don’t like you, Mary! Jealous cats who think you’re too good-looking!’

Mary said:

‘I think jealousy’s horrible.’

Ted said slowly:

‘Maybe—but it exists all right. Say, I saw a lovely film over at Alledore last week. Clark Gable. All about one of these millionaire blokes who neglected his wife; and then she pretended she’d done the dirty on him. And there was another fellow…’

Mary moved away. She said:

‘Sorry, Ted, I must go. I’m late.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to have tea with Nurse Hopkins.’

Ted made a face.

‘Funny taste. That woman’s the biggest gossip in the village! Pokes that long nose of hers into everything.’

Mary said:

‘She’s been very kind to me always.’

‘Oh, I’m not saying there’s any harm in her. But she talks.’

Mary said:

‘Goodbye, Ted.’

She hurried off, leaving him standing gazing resentfully after her.

Nurse Hopkins occupied a small cottage at the end of the village. She herself had just come in and was untying her bonnet strings when Mary entered.

‘Ah, there you are. I’m a bit late. Old Mrs Caldecott was bad again. Made me late with my round of dressings. I saw you with Ted Bigland at the end of the street.’

Mary said rather dispiritedly:

‘Yes…’

Nurse Hopkins looked up alertly from where she was stooping to light the gas-ring under the kettle.

Her long nose twitched.

‘Was he saying something particular to you, my dear?’

‘No. He just asked me to go to the cinema.’

‘I see,’ said Nurse Hopkins promptly. ‘Well, of course, he’s a nice young fellow and doesn’t do too badly at the garage, and his father does rather better than most of the farmers round here. All the same, my dear, you don’t seem to me cut out for Ted Bigland’s wife. Not with your education and all. As I was saying, if I was you I’d go in for massage when the time comes. You get about a bit and see people that way; and your time’s more or less your own.’

Mary said:

‘I’ll think it over. Mrs Welman spoke to me the other day. She was very sweet about it. It was just exactly as you said it was. She doesn’t want me to go away just now. She’d miss me, she said. But she told me not to worry about the future, that she meant to help me.’

Nurse Hopkins said dubiously:

‘Let’s hope she’s put that down in black and white! Sick people are odd.’

Mary asked:

‘Do you think Mrs Bishop really dislikes me—or is it only my fancy?’

Nurse Hopkins considered a minute.

‘She puts on a sour face, I must say. She’s one of those who don’t like seeing young people having a good time or anything done for them. Thinks, perhaps, Mrs Welman is a bit too fond of you, and resents it.’

She laughed cheerfully.

‘I shouldn’t worry if I was you, Mary, my dear. Just open that paper bag, will you? There’s a couple of doughnuts in it.’

CHAPTER 3

Your Aunt had second stroke last night No cause immediate anxiety but suggest you should come down if possible Lord.

Immediately on receipt of the telegram Elinor had rung up Roddy, and now they were in the train together bound for Hunterbury.

Elinor had not seen much of Roddy in the week that had elapsed since their visit. On the two brief occasions when they had met, there had been an odd kind of constraint between them. Roddy had sent her flowers—a great sheaf of long stemmed roses. It was unusual on his part. At a dinner they had had together he had seemed more attentive than usual, consulting her preferences in food and drink, being unusually assiduous in helping her on and off with her coat. A little, Elinor thought, as though he were playing a part in a play—the part of the devoted fiancé…

Then she had said to herself:

‘Don’t be an idiot. Nothing’s wrong… You imagine things! It’s that beastly brooding, possessive mind of yours.’

Her manner to him had been perhaps a shade more detached, more aloof than usual.

Now, in this sudden emergency, the constraint passed, they talked together naturally enough.

Roddy said:

‘Poor old dear, and she was so well when we saw her the other day.’

Elinor said:

‘I do mind so terribly for her. I know how she hated being ill, anyway, and now I suppose she’ll be more helpless still, and she’ll simply loathe that! One does feel, Roddy, that people ought to be set free—if they themselves really want it.’

Roddy said:

‘I agree. It’s the only civilized thing to do. You put animals out of their pain. I suppose you don’t do it with human beings simply because, human nature being what it is, people would get shoved off for their money by their fond relations—perhaps when they weren’t really bad at all.’

Elinor said thoughtfully:

‘It would be in the doctors’ hands, of course.’

‘A doctor might be a crook.’

‘You could trust a man like Dr Lord.’

Roddy said carelessly:

‘Yes, he seems straightforward enough. Nice fellow.’

Dr Lord was leaning over the bed. Nurse O’Brien hovered behind him. He was trying, his forehead puckered, to understand the slurred sounds coming from his patient’s mouth.

He said:

‘Yes, yes. Now, don’t get excited. Take plenty of time. Just raise this right hand a little when you mean yes. There’s something you’re worried about?’

He received the affirmatory sign.

‘Something urgent? Yes. Something you want done? Someone sent for? Miss Carlisle? And Mr Welman? They’re on their way.’

Again Mrs Welman tried incoherently to speak. Dr Lord listened attentively.

‘You wanted them to come, but it’s not that? Someone else? A relation? No? Some business matter? I see. Something to do with money? Lawyer? That’s right, isn’t it? You want to see your lawyer? Want to give him instructions about something?

‘Now, now—that’s all right. Keep calm. Plenty of time. What’s that you’re saying—Elinor?’ He caught the garbled name. ‘She knows what lawyer? And she will arrange with him? Good. She’ll be here in about half an hour. I’ll tell her what you want and I’ll come up with her and we’ll get it all straight. Now, don’t worry any more. Leave it all to me. I’ll see that things are arranged the way you want them to be.’

He stood a moment watching her relax, then he moved quietly away and went out on the landing. Nurse O’Brien followed him. Nurse Hopkins was just coming up the stairs. He nodded to her. She said breathlessly:

‘Good evening, Doctor.’

‘Good evening, Nurse.’

He went with the two of them into Nurse O’Brien’s room next door and gave them their instructions. Nurse Hopkins would remain on overnight and take charge with Nurse O’Brien.

‘Tomorrow I’ll have to get hold of a second resident nurse. Awkward, this diphtheria epidemic over at Stamford. The nursing homes there are working short-handed as it is.’

Then, having given his orders, which were listened to with reverent attention (which sometimes tickled him), Dr Lord went downstairs, ready to receive the niece and nephew who, his watch told him, were due to arrive at any minute now.

In the hall he encountered Mary Gerrard. Her face was pale and anxious. She asked:

‘Is she better?’

Dr Lord said:

‘I can ensure her a peaceful night—that’s about all that can be done.’

Mary said brokenly:

‘It seems so cruel—so unfair—’

He nodded sympathetically enough.

‘Yes, it does seem like that sometimes. I believe—’

He broke off.

‘That’s the car.’

He went out into the hall. Mary ran upstairs.

Elinor exclaimed as she came into the drawing-room:

‘Is she very bad?’

Roddy was looking pale and apprehensive.

The doctor said gravely:

‘I’m afraid it will be rather a shock to you. She’s badly paralysed. Her speech is almost unrecognizable. By the way, she’s definitely worried about something. It’s to do with sending for her lawyer. You know who he is, Miss Carlisle?’

Elinor said quickly:

‘Mr Seddon—of Bloomsbury Square. But he wouldn’t be there at this time of the evening, and I don’t know his home address.’

Dr Lord said reassuringly:

‘Tomorrow will be in plenty of time. But I’m anxious to set Mrs Welman’s mind at rest as soon as possible. If you will come up with me now, Miss Carlisle, I think together we shall be able to reassure her.’

‘Of course. I will come up at once.’

Roddy said hopefully:

‘You don’t want me?’

He felt faintly ashamed of himself, but he had a nervous dread of going up to the sick-room, of seeing Aunt Laura lying there inarticulate and helpless.

Dr Lord reassured him promptly.

‘Not the least need, Mr Welman. Better not to have too many people in the room.’

Roddy’s relief showed plainly.

Dr Lord and Elinor went upstairs. Nurse O’Brien was with the patient.

Laura Welman, breathing deeply and stertorously, lay as though in a stupor. Elinor stood looking down on her, shocked by the drawn, twisted face.

Suddenly Mrs Welman’s right eyelid quivered and opened. A faint change came over her face as she recognized Elinor.

She tried to speak.

‘Elinor…’ The word would have been meaningless to anyone who had not guessed at what she wanted to say.

Elinor said quickly:

‘I’m here, Aunt Laura. You’re worried about something? You want me to send for Mr Seddon?’

Another of those hoarse raucous sounds. Elinor guessed at the meaning. She said:

‘Mary Gerrard?’

Slowly the right hand moved shakily in assent.

A long burble of sound came from the sick woman’s lips. Dr Lord and Elinor frowned helplessly. Again and again it came. Then Elinor got a word.

‘Provision? You want to make provision for her in your will? You want her to have some money? I see, dear Aunt Laura. That will be quite simple. Mr Seddon will come down tomorrow and everything shall be arranged exactly as you wish.’

The sufferer seemed relieved. The look of distress faded from that appealing eye. Elinor took her hand in hers and felt a feeble pressure from the fingers.

Mrs Welman said with a great effort:

‘You—all—you…’

Elinor said: ‘Yes, yes, leave it all to me. I will see that everything you want is done!’

She felt the pressure of the fingers again. Then it relaxed. The eyelids drooped and closed.

Dr Lord laid a hand on Elinor’s arm and drew her gently away out of the room. Nurse O’Brien resumed her seat near the bed.

Outside on the landing Mary Gerrard was talking to Nurse Hopkins. She started forward.

‘Oh, Dr Lord, can I go in to her, please?’

He nodded.

‘Keep quite quiet, though, and don’t disturb her.’

Mary went into the sick-room.

Dr Lord said:

‘Your train was late. You—’ He stopped.

Elinor had turned her head to look after Mary. Suddenly she became aware of his abrupt silence. She turned her head and looked at him inquiringly. He was staring at her, a startled look in his face. The colour rose in Elinor’s cheeks.

She said hurriedly:

‘I beg your pardon. What did you say?’

Peter Lord said slowly:

‘What was I saying? I don’t remember. Miss Carlisle, you were splendid in there!’ He spoke warmly. ‘Quick to understand, reassuring, everything you should have been.’

The very faintest of sniffs came from Nurse Hopkins.

Elinor said:

‘Poor darling. It upset me terribly seeing her like that.’

‘Of course. But you didn’t show it. You must have great self-control.’

Elinor said, her lips set very straight:

‘I’ve learnt not—to show my feelings.’

The doctor said slowly:

‘All the same the mask’s bound to slip once in a while.’

Nurse Hopkins had bustled into the bathroom. Elinor said, raising her delicate eyebrows and looking full at him:

‘The mask?’

Dr Lord said:

‘The human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.’

‘And underneath?’

‘Underneath is the primitive human man or woman.’

She turned away quickly and led the way downstairs.

Peter Lord followed, puzzled and unwontedly serious.

Roddy came out into the hall to meet them.

‘Well?’ he asked anxiously.

Elinor said:

‘Poor darling. It’s very sad to see her… I shouldn’t go, Roddy—till—till—she asks for you.’

Roddy asked:

‘Did she want anything—special?’

Peter Lord said to Elinor:

‘I must be off now. There’s nothing more I can do for the moment. I’ll look in early tomorrow. Goodbye, Miss Carlisle. Don’t—don’t worry too much.’

He held her hand in his for a moment or two. He had a strangely reassuring and comforting clasp. He looked at her, Elinor thought, rather oddly as though—as though he was sorry for her.

As the door shut behind the doctor, Roddy repeated his question.

Elinor said:

‘Aunt Laura is worried about—about certain business matters. I managed to pacify her and told her Mr Seddon would certainly come down tomorrow. We must telephone him first thing.’

Roddy asked:

‘Does she want to make a new will?’

Elinor answered:

‘She didn’t say so.’

‘What did she—?’

He stopped in the middle of the question.

Mary Gerrard was running down the stairs. She crossed the hall and disappeared through the door to the kitchen quarters.

Elinor said in a harsh voice:

‘Yes? What is it you wanted to ask?’

Roddy said vaguely:

‘I—what? I’ve forgotten what it was.’

He was staring at the door through which Mary Gerrard had gone.

Elinor’s hands closed. She could feel her long, pointed nails biting into the flesh of her palms.

She thought:

‘I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it…it’s not imagination…it’s true… Roddy—Roddy I can’t lose you…’

And she thought:

‘What did that man—the doctor—what did he see in my face upstairs? He saw something… Oh, God, how awful life is—to feel as I feel now. Say something, fool. Pull yourself together!’

Aloud she said, in her calm voice:

‘About meals, Roddy. I’m not very hungry. I’ll sit with Aunt Laura and the nurses can both come down.’

Roddy said in alarm:

‘And have dinner with me?’

Elinor said coldly:

‘They won’t bite you!’

‘But what about you? You must have something. Why don’t we dine first, and let them come down afterwards?’

Elinor said:

‘No, the other way’s better.’ She added wildly, ‘They’re so touchy, you know.’

She thought:

‘I can’t sit through a meal with him—alone—talking—behaving as usual…’

She said impatiently:

‘Oh, do let me arrange things my own way!’

CHAPTER 4

It was no mere housemaid who wakened Elinor the following morning. It was Mrs Bishop in person, rustling in her old-fashioned black, and weeping unashamedly.

‘Oh, Miss Elinor, she’s gone…’

‘What?’

Elinor sat up in bed.

‘Your dear aunt. Mrs Welman. My dear mistress. Passed away in her sleep.’

‘Aunt Laura? Dead?’

Elinor stared. She seemed unable to take it in.

Mrs Bishop was weeping now with more abandon.

‘To think of it,’ she sobbed. ‘After all these years! Eighteen years I’ve been here. But indeed it doesn’t seem like it…’

Elinor said slowly:

‘So Aunt Laura died in her sleep—quite peacefully… What a blessing for her!’

Mrs Bishop wept.

‘So sudden. The doctor saying he’d call again this morning and everything just as usual.’

Elinor said rather sharply:

‘It wasn’t exactly sudden. After all, she’s been ill for some time. I’m just so thankful she’s been spared more suffering.’

Mrs Bishop said tearfully that there was indeed that to be thankful for. She added:

‘Who’ll tell Mr Roderick?’

Elinor said:

‘I will.’

She threw on a dressing-gown and went along to his door and tapped. His voice answered, saying, ‘Come in.’

She entered.

‘Aunt Laura’s dead, Roddy. She died in her sleep.’

Roddy, sitting up in bed, drew a deep sigh.

‘Poor dear Aunt Laura! Thank God for it, I say. I couldn’t have borne to see her go on lingering in the state she was yesterday.’

Elinor said mechanically:

‘I didn’t know you’d seen her?’

He nodded rather shamefacedly.

‘The truth is, Elinor, I felt the most awful coward, because I’d funked it! I went along there yesterday evening. The nurse, the fat one, left the room for something—went down with a hot-water bottle, I think—and I slipped in. She didn’t know I was there, of course. I just stood a bit and looked at her. Then, when I heard Mrs Gamp stumping up the stairs again, I slipped away. But it was—pretty terrible!’

Elinor nodded.

‘Yes, it was.’

Roddy said:

‘She’d have hated it like hell—every minute of it!’

‘I know.’

Roddy said:

‘It’s marvellous the way you and I always see alike over things.’

Elinor said in a low voice:

‘Yes it is.’

He said:

‘We’re both feeling the same thing at this minute: just utter thankfulness that she’s out of it all…’

Nurse O’Brien said:

‘What is it, Nurse? Can’t you find something?’

Nurse Hopkins, her face rather red, was hunting through the little attaché-case that she had laid down in the hall the preceding evening.

She grunted:

‘Most annoying. How I came to do such a thing I can’t imagine!’

‘What is it?’

Nurse Hopkins replied not very intelligibly:

‘It’s Eliza Rykin—that sarcoma, you know. She’s got to have double injections—night and morning—morphine. Gave her the last tablet in the old tube last night on my way here, and I could swear I had the new tube in here, too.’

‘Look again. Those tubes are so small.’

Nurse Hopkins gave a final stir to the contents of the attaché-case.

‘No, it’s not here! I must have left it in my cupboard after all! Really, I did think I could trust my memory better than that. I could have sworn I took it out with me!’

‘You didn’t leave the case anywhere, did you, on the way here?’

‘Of course not!’ said Nurse Hopkins sharply.

‘Oh, well, dear,’ said Nurse O’Brien, ‘it must be all right?’

‘Oh, yes! The only place I’ve laid my case down was here in this hall, and nobody here would pinch anything! Just my memory, I suppose. But it vexes me, if you understand, Nurse. Besides, I shall have to go right home first to the other end of the village and back again.’

Nurse O’Brien said:

‘Hope you won’t have too tiring a day, dear, after last night. Poor old lady. I didn’t think she would last long.’

‘No, nor I. I daresay Doctor will be surprised!’

Nurse O’Brien said with a tinge of disapproval:

‘He’s always so hopeful about his cases.’

Nurse Hopkins, as she prepared to depart, said:

‘Ah, he’s young! He hasn’t our experience.’

On which gloomy pronouncement she departed.

Dr Lord raised himself up on his toes. His sandy eyebrows climbed right up his forehead till they nearly got merged in his hair.

He said in surprise:

‘So she’s conked out—eh?’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

On Nurse O’Brien’s tongue exact details were tingling to be uttered, but with stern discipline she waited.

Peter Lord said thoughtfully:

‘Conked out?’

He stood for a moment thinking, then he said sharply:

‘Get me some boiling water.’

Nurse O’Brien was surprised and mystified, but true to the spirit of hospital training, hers not to reason why. If a doctor had told her to go and get the skin of an alligator she would have murmured automatically, ‘Yes, Doctor,’ and glided obediently from the room to tackle the problem.

Roderick Welman said:

‘Do you mean to say that my aunt died intestate—that she never made a will at all?’

Mr Seddon polished his eyeglasses. He said:

‘That seems to be the case.’

Roddy said:

‘But how extraordinary!’

Mr Seddon gave a deprecating cough.

‘Not so extraordinary as you might imagine. It happens oftener than you would think. There’s a kind of superstition about it. People will think they’ve got plenty of time. The mere fact of making a will seems to bring the possibility of death nearer to them. Very odd—but there it is!’

Roddy said:

‘Didn’t you ever—er—expostulate with her on the subject?’

Mr Seddon replied drily:

‘Frequently.’

‘And what did she say?’

Mr Seddon sighed.

‘The usual things. That there was plenty of time! That she didn’t intend to die just yet! That she hadn’t made up her mind definitely, exactly how she wished to dispose of her money!’

Elinor said:

‘But surely, after her first stroke—?’

Mr Seddon shook his head.

‘Oh, no, it was worse then. She wouldn’t hear the subject mentioned!’

Roddy said:

‘Surely that’s very odd?’

Mr Seddon said again:

‘Oh, no. Naturally, her illness made her much more nervous.’

Elinor said in a puzzled voice:

‘But she wanted to die…’

Polishing his eyeglasses, Mr Seddon said:

‘Ah, my dear Miss Elinor, the human mind is a very curious piece of mechanism. Mrs Welman may have thought she wanted to die; but side by side with that feeling there ran the hope that she would recover absolutely. And because of that hope, I think she felt that to make a will would be unlucky. It isn’t so much that she didn’t mean to make one, as that she was eternally putting it off.

‘You know,’ went on Mr Seddon, suddenly addressing Roddy in an almost personal manner, ‘how one puts off and avoids a thing that is distasteful—that you don’t want to face?’

Roddy flushed. He muttered:

‘Yes, I—I—yes, of course. I know what you mean.’

‘Exactly,’ said Mr Seddon. ‘Mrs Welman always meant to make a will, but tomorrow was always a better day to make it than today! She kept telling herself that there was plenty of time.’

Elinor said slowly:

‘So that’s why she was so upset last night—and in such a panic that you should be sent for…’

Mr Seddon replied:

‘Undoubtedly!’

Roddy said in a bewildered voice:

‘But what happens now?’

‘To Mrs Welman’s estate?’ The lawyer coughed. ‘Since Mrs Welman died intestate, all her property goes to her next of kin—that is, to Miss Elinor Carlisle.’

Elinor said slowly.

‘All to me?’

‘The Crown takes a certain percentage,’ Mr Seddon explained.

He went into details.

He ended:

‘There are no settlements or trusts. Mrs Welman’s money was hers absolutely to do with as she chose. It passes, therefore, straight to Miss Carlisle. Er—the death duties, I am afraid, will be somewhat heavy, but even after their payment, the fortune will still be a considerable one, and it is very well invested in sound gilt-edged securities.’

Elinor said:

‘But Roderick—’

Mr Seddon said with a little apologetic cough:

‘Mr Welman is only Mrs Welman’s husband’s nephew. There is no blood relationship.’

‘Quite,’ said Roddy.

Elinor said slowly:

‘Of course, it doesn’t much matter which of us gets it, as we’re going to be married.’

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