Читать книгу Who Pays the Piper? - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 4

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The proper way to reach the Little House was down half a mile of drive and along the road into Netherbourne village, but it was less than a quarter of a mile as the crow flies, and no more even without wings, if you went straight down past the three terraces and the tennis courts, through the vegetable garden, to the orchard which ran right down to Mrs. O’Hara’s fence.

Mrs. O’Hara had been Millicent Bourne—one of the beautiful Bourne twins. She and her sister Laura were the talk of their first season. And then the war came. Millicent married a penniless Irishman who was killed in 1917, leaving her with a delicate baby and no income. Laura married John Lenox. He was killed in 1916, and Laura died the following year. Millicent O’Hara came back to her brother at King’s Bourne. Everyone said that she would marry again, but she did not. She kept house very inefficiently for James, who was twenty years older than his young sister, and by degrees she lost her looks and her health and became a rather tiresome invalid. James Bourne was a confirmed bachelor. He was very glad to have poor Milly there, and to have her little girl and poor Laura’s little girl. He became, in fact, extremely fond of the children, but being a most amiable, indolent and inconsequent-minded man, it never occurred to him to make any provision for them. When he died there was really nothing left. The estate had paid death-duties twice during the war, and everything that could be mortgaged was mortgaged. For the last couple of years things had been kept going with borrowed money. Lucas Dale stepped in and bought the place lock, stock and barrel. He was English, though he had made his great fortune in America, and he meant to settle in England and marry an English wife. He meant to marry Susan Lenox.

Mrs. O’Hara moved into the Little House with Susan and Cathy. She supposed they would get along somehow. There was about two hundred and fifty pounds a year. They couldn’t afford a servant. One of the girls could look after her and the house, and the other could be earning something. Susan would have been the one to go out and earn, but it was no use wasting a training on her if she was going to marry Bill Carrick, so it was Cathy who went to stay with old Cousin Emma in London and took a three months secretarial course, the enterprise being financed by the sale of Mrs. O’Hara’s Brussels flounce. She wept over the sacrifice at the time, and would probably never stop talking about it, because of course Cathy ought to have the lace for her wedding dress, but on the other hand they really couldn’t live on two hundred and fifty a year, and how fortunate that Cathy should step straight into such an unexceptionable post. Mrs. O’Hara quite brightened when she talked it over with Mrs. Mickleham—“He treats her perfectly, like the nicest uncle. And she comes back to all her meals.”

“But I thought—surely the Vicar was told—that Mr. Dale had a secretary already. He has been superintending all the alterations. A Mr. Phipson—yes, that’s it—Mr. Montague Phipson. Quite a pleasant little man.”

“Oh, yes, but he’s the business secretary. Mr. Dale has a great many business interests. He doesn’t want Cathy for that sort of thing. She is to do the flowers and—well, all the sort of things she and Susan used to do for my brother—only of course there will be far more entertaining now. He came to see me about it and was quite charming.”

This was three months ago. Tonight Susan and Lydia took the garden way to the Little House. They came out on to the first of the terraces and saw the whole slope of the hill under a waning moon and a dappled sky, and the lights in the village far below.

Susan stood for a moment and looked. She felt Lydia’s hand on her arm.

“I don’t know how you can bear it. It isn’t his—it’s yours. It will always be yours.”

“But I don’t want it, Lydia—I never did. I’ve seen too much of trying to keep up a big place on a small income—” her soft laugh broke in—“or no income at all.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Lydia—“I didn’t mean that at all. What about having the income to match the place? Wouldn’t you like that?”

Susan laughed again.

“Bill wouldn’t. He wants to build everything we live in. He says what’s the good of being an architect if you don’t. So we shall start in a three-roomed cottage and work up.”

Lydia’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She said crisply,

“And when do you start?”

They had been standing still, but Susan moved now. It was not until they reached the next terrace that she answered Lydia’s question.

“It is so dreadfully hard for an architect to get a start. They mustn’t advertise, and it’s uphill work getting known. The Maynards were awfully pleased with the house he did for them. He proposed to me on the strength of that. But he’s only had small jobs since then. People say they’re going to build, and then building costs go up, or something like that, and they don’t do it. If we had any capital, it would be different, because then he could build to sell or let without waiting for orders, and get known that way.”

“It sounds like waiting a long time,” said Lydia. She paused and added, with the effect of flinging a dart, “Are you going to wait?”

Susan stopped at the top of the steps to the last terrace. The moonlight stole all her colour, but it wasn’t the moonlight which made her look so stern.

“What do you mean? Of course I’m going to wait.”

“Are you?” said Lydia. “Are you? Are you, Susan? I wouldn’t if I were you. Do you remember how Lolly Smith got engaged to a boy who had just gone into the army, and he went out to India, and they went on being engaged for years and years and years till she’d completely gone down the drain, and then he married a girl of eighteen whom he’d known for a month?”

“Lydia!”

“Well, suppose you both go on waiting. What a look-out! You’ll begin to lose your looks, and either he’ll get plodding and dull and won’t care, or else he’ll get worked up and nervy and feel that he’s spoiling your life. You can take your pick of which you’d rather have on your hands, but you can bet your life, whichever it is, it’ll be hell for you.”

“Lydia!”

“Oh, you don’t think so now. Look at me. I was crazy to marry Freddy—we were crazy about each other. And what’s the good of it? I’m sitting at home with the parents, and he’s in China. I can’t go out, and he can’t come home. What’s the good of it?”

Susan laughed.

“You’d do it again tomorrow.”

Lydia stamped her foot.

“Because I’m a fool! And now you’re angry with me—Susan——”

Susan put out a hand and touched her.

“I’m not really. But you mustn’t say things about Bill.”

They went down the steps together and across the last terrace. As they began to skirt the tennis courts, Lydia said in something just above a whisper,

“It was seeing you at King’s Bourne again, and—and—the pearls. I wanted you to have them.”

Susan was so secure that she could let a laugh come into her voice.

“It’s no good, Lyddy.”

“You might——” Lydia was breathless with her own daring.

“No.”

“What’s the good of saying no? He’s in love with you—he’d give you anything in the world. He only had those pearls out because he wanted to see them on you.” She broke into sudden laughter. “And I ran off with them! You bet he hated me quite a lot for that. But you can’t say he hasn’t got good manners. I piled it on on purpose just to see how he’d react, and he bore up nobly. Oh, Susan, think of lifting about half an eyelash and having King’s Bourne, and a millionaire, and those divine pearls all put down at your feet just waiting for you to pick them up.”

“I should find them too heavy. And I’d much rather not think about it, if you don’t mind. And, Lyddy, if you don’t want to make me angry, you’ll stop. Up to now I’ve laughed, but I’m not going to go on laughing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to make you really angry, darling. You know, the only time I did you nearly scared me dead. I believe if you were really roused you might do something rather frightful.”

They passed the tennis courts and took the orchard path.

“You do talk a lot of nonsense, Lyddy,” said Susan.