Читать книгу Vanishing Point - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 11

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Mrs. Merridew turned from the window with a sound of dismay.

“Oh dear!” she said. “She has done it again! I can’t think how she can—so dreadfully awkward!” Then, as she encountered Miss Silver’s enquiring glance and heard Miss Crewe’s deep voice at the front door, she added hastily, “I will tell you afterwards, my dear,” and assumed the posture of one who has just risen from her chair to receive a guest.

The door was opened by Florrie, who herself remained unseen. Lydia Crewe came into the room. She had discarded her coat and appeared immensely tall and thin in the straight dark tweeds. There was a double string of pearls about her neck, and a valuable diamond brooch on the lapel. She did not exactly smile, but her face relaxed to a quite noticeable extent as she greeted her hostess and acknowledged the introduction which Mrs. Merridew at once proceeded to make.

“My old schoolfellow, Miss Silver. We only met again the other day after—well, we won’t say how many years. So pleasant, so very pleasant, to meet an old friend again, isn’t it?”

There was a slight pause before Miss Crewe said, “Not always.” It was borne in on Mrs. Merridew that a fatal propensity for saying the wrong thing had once more asserted itself. She hoped that Miss Crewe would not think she had meant in any way to refer to Henry Cunningham, and began in a hurry to speak about something else, only to realize that she had embarked upon a topic which she certainly would not have chosen.

“No, no—it all depends, doesn’t it? Especially when it is a case of relations. Poor Muriel now—” She turned in explanation to Miss Silver. “Lady Muriel Street—an old friend and near neighbour. Mr. Street owns that big place Hoys just outside the village. I’m sure I sympathize very much with her. I met her yesterday, and she was telling me that she had relations of Mr. Street’s to stay, and they seemed to find the country so dull. They have been accustomed to go abroad in the winter, and now that they can no longer afford it they find the English spring so very trying—the cold winds, and so much rain. And then, of course, they are not gardeners, which provides one with a constant interest, and they do not care for walking. And with petrol the price it is! Muriel is afraid they have been finding their stay very monotonous, and as she says, she would really rather not have had the house so full at the moment.”

Miss Silver remarked that entertaining was now by no means easy, to which Miss Crewe replied with the one word, “Impossible.” After which she directed her cold glance upon Mrs. Merridew.

“Since there are twenty bedrooms at Hoys, I can hardly believe that the house has been full.”

Mrs. Merridew was a large fair lady. In her youth she had had an apple-blossom prettiness. She still had the blue eyes and the rather appealing manner which had made up the youthful picture, but now everything was on a much more ample scale. The once fair hair was an untidy pepper and salt. It strayed in wisps about the neck of a faded mauve jumper and continually shed the hairpins with which she made a harassed attempt to control it. Over the jumper she wore an old black cardigan, now much too tight. At the moment she was quite flushed, since the agonized thought had presented itself that dear Maud whose companionship she was enjoying so much might think that any of the foregoing remarks, hastily thrown up as a smokescreen, could possibly refer to her delightful visit. She took up the teapot and began to pour with rather an unsteady hand as she said,

“Yes, yes—all those rooms, and hardly any staff—so difficult. I cannot say how thankful I am to have this dear little house, and my good Florrie to look after it so beautifully and to make it so easy for me to see my friends.”

She turned her large, kind smile upon Miss Silver, who returned it in a way that quite allayed her fears. The flush faded, and she was able, while putting in the milk, proffering sugar, and handing the green Rockingham cups, to pursue the theme of how thankful she had been to hand over Dalling Grange and retire to the modest comfort of the White Cottage. It was only when Miss Crewe accepted one of Florrie’s scones in an affronted manner that she realized that the diversion was not a happy one, since everyone knew that whatever happened to the country, to herself, or to her nieces, Lydia always had been and always would be determined to hold on to Crewe House. The flush mounted, and once more she said what she had not intended to say.

“Poor Muriel—I really did feel sorry for her—such a disappointment. But I expect she has told you all about it.”

Lydia Crewe held out her cup.

“I have no doubt she would have done if I had happened to see her. She never could keep anything to herself, and I don’t suppose she ever will. You have quite drowned me with milk—I only like a few drops ... Yes, tea right up to the brim—I have a perfectly steady hand. Well, what is Muriel disappointed about now?”

“Her brooch,” said Mrs. Merridew—“the one with the large diamonds which was left her by the godmother who died a year or two ago. Quite handsome, you know, but rather heavy. You remember, she showed it to us. And it wasn’t the sort of thing you could wear very much, but she said she always looked upon it as a nest egg. Not being one of the family things and coming to her like that, she said she wouldn’t mind selling it if she ever wanted the money. Well, the other day she took it up to town to have it valued, and, do you know, the stones are not diamonds at all—they are only paste.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!”

No one took any notice. She therefore continued to sip her tea from the cup with the apple-green border and to listen to the conversation of the other two ladies.

Miss Crewe, it appeared, had no sympathy for the disappointed Lady Muriel.

“People should not sell their family jewels. I consider it a breach of trust.”

“But this was not—”

Lydia Crewe broke in with impatience.

“Of course it was! Muriel’s godmother was Harriet Hornby, no more than a second cousin twice removed. She had no business to try and sell the brooch. If she had not done so, nobody would ever have known that it was paste.” She gave a short grim laugh. “If the truth were told, I fancy a good many people’s family jewels would turn out to be paste nowadays. They can’t afford to insure them, and they can’t afford the death duties. And as long as nobody knows, they can pocket the value and keep up appearances just as well on a sham. But as a rule they have enough sense to hold their tongues. Muriel Street can’t even do that—she didn’t get called the Babbling Brook for nothing when she was a girl. And you needn’t sit there wondering if you ought to have told me, Marian, for I daresay half the county knows by now.” She took another scone and continued with a wintry smile. “Felicia Melbury had better sense. I don’t suppose any of us ever guessed that her necklace with the big square rubies was just a copy, but that’s all it turned out to be. I must say it amuses me to look back and remember the nerve with which she used to display it and tell us that her grandmother wore it at Queen Victoria’s coronation. And no one would have known anything about it to this day if Freddy Melbury hadn’t gone round confiding in all and sundry and saying he couldn’t imagine what she had done with the money.”

Mrs. Merridew, who was doing her best to turn the conversation in some direction which would include Miss Silver, found herself unable to stem the steady flow of Miss Crewe’s strictures upon the behaviour of most of their mutual friends. She seemed to know everyone in the county, and to have very little that was good to say about any of them. Mrs. Merridew need not really have troubled herself, since her old schoolfellow was able to listen with some interest, and had no disposition to feel slighted. The tea was of the strength she preferred, Florrie’s scones were almost equal to those of her own devoted Emma, and there was a kind of tea biscuit just touched with a meringue mixture which was new to her and most agreeable to the taste. Really good recipes were not easy to come by. The fortunate owner cherished them and was not always willing to part, but in this case dear Marian was so perfectly amiable—She allowed herself to entertain the modest hope of being able to present Emma with what would be a decided addition to her repertory.

Tea being over and the tray removed by Florrie, she produced a flowered chintz bag and took out of it a pair of grey needles from which depended about two inches of knitting in a cheerful shade of cherry red. When presently Miss Crewe, fastening a derogatory look upon this employment, enquired what she was making, Miss Silver proceeded to furnish her with quite a detailed account of her niece Ethel Burkett and her family.

“She has three boys of school age, and they grow so quickly that it is almost impossible to keep them in clothes. A good deal of my time is necessarily taken up with their stockings and socks, so it is a pleasant change to be able to turn to something pretty for the only girl, little Josephine—and I suppose I shall have to stop calling her that soon, for she will be six next birthday. I have just made her a twin set, and I thought this bright wool would make her a really charming hood and scarf. The spring winds are so treacherous. Do you knit, may I ask?”

Miss Crewe’s “No” did not trouble itself to be polite, and Mrs. Merridew, colouring, interposed with the first thing that came into her head.

“That nice-looking man who is staying at the Holly Tree, Mr. Lester—is he an old friend of yours, Lydia?”

Miss Crewe’s eyebrows had a natural arch. Thirty years ago they had been very effective in conjunction with a pair of fine grey eyes. The lids were puckered now, and the eyes had sunk. They looked coldly as she said,

“My dear Marian!”

“Oh, isn’t he?”

In her most disdainful voice Miss Crewe said,

“Is he giving out that he is? If so—”

“Oh, no—of course not! I haven’t really had any talk with him, but he was most polite when I dropped one of my parcels yesterday getting off the Melbury bus—such nice manners, and such a pleasant voice. And after hearing from Mrs. Stubbs that he was a nephew of old Dr. Lester’s and seeing him about with Rosamond—”

She had blundered on, but at this point she could no longer be unaware that she was saying quite the wrong thing. It was not really possible for Lydia Crewe to draw herself up—her back was already as straight as a ramrod—but she did manage somehow to produce an effect of added rigidity.

“What do you mean by ‘about with Rosamond’? Rather an odd expression, it seems to me. She has had one or two business conversations with him on Jenny’s behalf, I believe. The silly child scribbles. A lot of nonsense, I daresay, but it has helped to keep her amused. Mr. Lester belongs to a publishing firm, and it seems Jenny sent him some of her rubbish. I am told it has become the fashion to publish the writings of children and of uneducated persons. Another symptom of modern decadence!”

Mrs. Merridew beamed.

“Is Jenny really going to have something published? How exciting for her!”

Miss Crewe had removed her gloves before partaking of Florrie’s scones. Her impatient gesture set the colours flashing in the crowded rings. Miss Silver reflected that it could not be good for the settings to be worn really jostling one another in such a manner. Such fine stones too—diamond, emerald, sapphire, ruby. And very much better kept than was often the case with the rings which elderly ladies wore.

The impatience was not in gesture alone. It was in Miss Crewe’s voice as she said,

“Certainly not! Even if it were proposed, I shouldn’t allow it! Mr. Lester appears to have enough sense to agree that she is too young, but he seems to think that there might be a prospect later on, and he has been advising her as to what she should read. She should, of course, be at school. Her education has been disastrously interrupted, and Rosamond spoils her in a ridiculous manner, but the very first moment she can be packed off I shall certainly see that it is done.”

Mrs. Merridew gave a little gasp of dismay.

“Rosamond won’t like that at all!” she said with more truth than tact.

Miss Crewe began to put on her gloves—black kid, very old and rubbed. The flashing rings were swallowed up, the fingers stroked down over them.

“Rosamond will do as she is told,” said Lydia Crewe.

Mrs. Merridew evaded the issue. It was sometimes exceedingly difficult not to quarrel with Lydia, and it wasn’t any good, besides being so awkward in a village. She pulled down the old grey and black checked shirt which was rather too tight and had an embarrassing tendency to ride up and said,

“Dr. Lester was always so kind, and very clever too. I was so glad to hear that he keeps well.”

Lydia Crewe gave a short unpleasant laugh.

“I thought you said you had no conversation with the nephew.” Tone and phrasing removed Craig to a distance quite beyond her own circle.

“Well, it was really Mrs. Stubbs—”

Miss Crewe’s eyebrows rose.

“Village gossip? My dear Marian!”

Mrs. Merridew flushed.

“I was so glad to have news of him. Mr. Lester is most attentive to his uncle. It is not every young man who would take so much trouble. He tells Mrs. Stubbs that Dr. Lester is really wonderful—asking after everyone at Hazel Green and most interested.”

Miss Crewe pushed back her chair with a jerk and got up.

“I always thought him a very disagreeable and sarcastic old man,” she said, and made her farewells.

When she had gone out under the arching yews, Mrs. Merridew told Miss Silver all about the engagement to Henry Cunningham and the breach which now existed.

“Nobody really does know quite what happened, but he went away in a hurry and poor Lydia changed very much. There is no doubt that she was very fond of him, but I have always wondered how it would have turned out—if they hadn’t quarrelled, I mean, or whatever it was that happened. Because he was really very young. She must have been quite ten years older than he was, and not at all an adaptable person, if you know what I mean.”

Miss Silver said that she knew perfectly.

Mrs. Merridew gave a reminiscent sigh.

“Well, there it was. She was quite handsome in those days, but never what you would call attractive to men—too much inclined to lay down the law, and always wanting her own way, and of course they don’t like that, do they? But she and Lucy Cunningham were the greatest friends, and she saw a lot of Henry. I don’t want to say anything unkind, but it always seemed to me that he didn’t have much chance. He was only just down from Cambridge and rather at a loose end—and then there was this silly scandal—”

Miss Silver was brightly attentive.

“I don’t think you told me about that, Marian.”

Mrs. Merridew hesitated.

“No—no—I don’t suppose I did. It was a very stupid affair. The Maberlys have left the neighbourhood, and it’s better forgotten—only of course these things never are—not really.”

Miss Silver had added several inches to little Josephine’s hood. She looked across the bright wool with her head very slightly on one side and said,

“You interest me extremely.”

After being snubbed by Lydia Crewe this was balm to the feelings. Mrs. Merridew relaxed and gave herself up to what a rather startling poet has described as “the rapture of the tongue’s prolonged employ.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter with you, for you don’t know any of the people. The Maberlys were immensely rich. He was a company promoter or something like that, and they rather threw their money about. It was all a little ostentatious, but I think they meant to be kind. She certainly did, but you know how it is. Her clothes were much too new and too expensive, and she wore too much jewelry. And then she lost a very valuable diamond ring, and somehow it began to be put about that Henry Cunningham had taken it. I can’t remember all the ins and outs, and one never does know how that kind of rumour starts, but there it was. I didn’t believe it myself, because—well, one doesn’t, not about people you know, and Mrs. Maberly was the sort of woman who couldn’t even go out to tea without leaving her bag or a scarf, and she might have taken off the ring and left it simply anywhere. I remember they dined with us at the Grange, and she was showing us a very handsome bracelet which her husband had given her for Christmas. Well, after they had gone the butler found it behind the cushion in her chair. It had slipped down where the loose cover was tucked in, and really it might not have been found for a day or two, because we were short-handed even then—and as Lucas said at the time, it wouldn’t have been at all pleasant. So you see, Mrs. Maberly might have done anything with that ring.”

“It was never found?”

“I really don’t know. The Maberlys went away. He had business interests in the States, and they went over there for a time—I don’t think they stayed anywhere for very long. So she might have found the ring and never troubled to let us know—she was one of those good-natured, casual women. And meanwhile Henry Cunningham went away and never came back. Nobody knows whether it was the talk, or whether he just got into a panic about marrying Lydia. His sister Lucy did nothing but cry, and poor Lydia just turned to stone. Nobody dared ask her what had happened, and it wasn’t any good asking Lucy, because she obviously didn’t know. Oh, well, it’s all a long time ago.”

Miss Silver pulled on her cherry-coloured ball.

“But Mr. Cunningham came back in the end?”

Mrs. Merridew nodded.

“About three years ago. Such a surprise—and of course he was very much changed. But Lucy was so pleased. She went about telling everyone what an interesting life he had had, but I think he had really been one of those rolling stones, and I don’t believe she knows a great deal about it.”

“And Miss Crewe?”

“Oh, my dear, that is the embarrassing part of it. As far as Lydia is concerned, he hasn’t come back at all. Of course in a village they are bound to meet, and she just cuts him dead—stares straight at him and walks past as if he wasn’t there. Why, only this afternoon—”

She went on talking about Lydia Crewe.