Читать книгу Bracken Turning Brown - Pamela Wynne - Страница 7

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Susan’s carefully worded letter of regret that she could not have her sister Millicent to stay came as a blow to the square Rectory in Warwickshire. “Why can’t she?” Millicent was having breakfast and sat at the table with dark shadows under her eyes. Eyes that were suddenly clouded and a little rebellious.

“She doesn’t say, my darling.” Canon Maitland really liked Millicent much the best of his daughters. She blew like a gust of wind through the shabby Rectory and reminded him of his wife. He hated to see her pale and listless as she was now. And this was a blow. He laid down the letter and tried not to show how dreadfully he minded.

“Let me see the letter,” said Millicent. She caught it as the Rector twitched it along the table.

“She’s hedging,” said Millicent after a little silence. “There’s something funny about Susan now. What is it? I think I’ll go and find out.”

“Yes, do,” said Joan suddenly. Joan was twelve, and fat and jolly. “What’s the good of a married sister if we can’t go and stay with her,” she said. “Besides, the Rectory’s jolly. That valley is most entrancing; there’s a girl at school who’s been there. She was there last year and stayed in one of the farmhouses on the side of the hill; and the Vicar drinks. Not Arthur, of course, there are lots of churches round about Keswick.”

“Don’t you think I might go even though she says I can’t, Daddy?” said Millicent. Her eyes were on Joan. “You’ll be late,” she said. “Do hurry up.”

“I shan’t,” said Joan roundly. But she pushed back her chair with a jerk. “Good-bye, everyone,” she said, and vanished.

“After all, she only says that I shouldn’t enjoy it because there’s nothing to do,” continued Millicent, who was eating porridge rather thoughtfully. “Well, that’s my affair. I can always find something to do, especially in a new place. Aunt Dorothy’s paying for it, and it seems a fearful waste of the money not to use it. I’ve a good mind to pack and start off to-day,” said Millicent suddenly.

“What, my darling?” Canon Maitland was reading the rest of his letters. He spoke vaguely.

“I think I’ll go and stay with Susan whatever she says,” said Millicent cheerfully. A little colour came flashing into her pale face. She was longing to get away; it was the only thing that would do her any good ... she knew it was. Influenza had left her with a queer empty feeling round her waist. It was a bother to do anything, and she was never properly hungry.

“I shall go this morning,” she said suddenly.

“Oh, my darling!” but inwardly the Canon was relieved. His two remaining daughters were a great anxiety to him. If Millicent went away there would be only Joan left, and she was always occupied scrimmaging round with a fat square friend from the High School that they both attended. The Canon often felt that he could not do justice to the parish with all his daughters about. They made game of the devoted church workers and told him teasingly that the plainest of them wanted to marry him. The Canon did not like his daughters to do parish work and said so clearly.

“Yes, it’s the best thing to do,” said Millicent briskly. “Will you give me the money, please, Daddy? Aunt Dorothy did say three guineas a week, didn’t she?”

“Yes, my darling,” the Canon was walking over to the writing-table by the window. He unlocked a drawer. “She sent me four five-pound notes,” he said, and he took out an envelope. “If you wanted any more she said she would send it.”

“I shan’t,” said Millicent firmly. “I shan’t stay more than a month at the very most. And the fare isn’t anything very enormous, I know. I’ll go and pack, Daddy.”

“Yes, my darling,” the Canon was relocking the drawer.

“You like me to go, don’t you?”

“I want you to get well,” said the Canon quietly. “And in a way I shall be glad to have first-hand information about Susan. I feel as you do, Millicent. We know so little about her life. She has been married for two years and none of us have ever seen her. We have neither been there or she here. I hope she is happy,” said the Canon, and he suddenly looked uneasy.

“I shall soon find out,” said Millicent calmly. “Especially as I shall take her by surprise. She’s got that frightfully good servant, so it can’t be really much of a bother to have me. I’ll telegraph, but I won’t give her time to reply and stop me. Don’t you think so, Daddy?”

“Yes, darling,” said the Canon. And he stood and watched the varnished door open and close again. Arthur Carpendale—who had been speaking about him the other day? Someone at the conference in Durham that he had attended a couple of months before. He had heard his name mentioned but had not been able to catch what had followed. In any event ... the Canon walked over to the fireplace and stooped to push a log a little farther from the hearth. Millicent would find it all out, he thought, and wondered, even as he thought it, why he should imagine that there should be anything to find out.