Grace laughed.
“Exactly. It is so idiotic and provoking, and, as a matter of absolute fact, it was because I always got ill at anything of that sort that they couldn’t let me go on at the hospital any more — my father and stepmother, I mean.”
“I didn’t know you had a stepmother.”
“I’ve had her about four years,” Grace informed him.
“Do you like her?” Trevellyan asked bluntly.
“Very much indeed. She’s only a few years older than I am, and she lets me call her Marjory. She’s so nice and pretty and merry.”
It was evident that Miss Jones was not a person to make capital out of circumstances.
When they started again, Trevellyan said gently: “You’d better take my arm, if you will. It’s heavy going along this field.”
It was, and an incessant sound of splashing told Grace that she was almost in the ditch.
“I think I can manage,” she said breathlessly. “I’m afraid of the light going out, and it’s easier to hold in both hands.”
Trevellyan said nothing, but presently Grace felt him take hold of the lamp.
“You must let me,” he said quietly. “You’ll want all your strength, for we’re going uphill now, and the ground’s very rough.”
They trudged up a steep incline, Grace with both cold hands deep in her pockets and her head bent against the wet driving mist that seemed to encompass them. Her feet were like ice, and she had long since given up trying to avoid the puddles and small snowy patches that lay so plentifully on the way. Twice she stumbled heavily.
“We’re just at the top,” said Trevellyan encouragingly. “You’re perfectly splendid, Miss Jones, and I feel such a brute for not taking better care of you. Cousin Joanna will be very much distressed; but, you see, I know she wants you.”
“I’m very glad,” said Grace simply. “I never admired any one so much as I do her.”
“Nor I. She’s been so ripping to me always. Even when I was a big clumsy schoolboy, with nowhere to go to for the holidays, she’d have me out to Plessing, and make me feel that she cared about having me there. She wrote to me all the time I was in India — I don’t think she ever missed a mail — and all the time I was in Flanders last year. Some day,” said Johnnie, rather shyly, “I’d like to show you her letters to me. No one has ever seen them. But I’ve always felt that you knew what she really is — more than other people do.”
“Thank you,” said Grace.
John seemed satisfied with something in the tone of the brief reply, and they went on in silence till he raised the flickering lamp.
“Wait a moment. There ought to be a fence here, and it may be barbed wire. Take care.”
Grace was thankful to stand still, her aching legs still trembling beneath her from the ascent. John held up the lamp and made a cautious examination.
“There ought to be an opening — here we are.”
He waved the lamp in triumph; the light gave a final flicker and expired.
There was a dead silence from both, Grace speechless from dismay and fatigue, and Trevellyan from his inability to express his feelings in the normal manner in the presence of Miss Jones.
“Have you any matches?” she asked at last.
“Yes. I’m sorrier than I can say, but I’m very much afraid that the wretched thing has given out. Why on earth the doctor can’t get proper electric lamps for his rotten car—”
John fumbled despairingly amongst his matches, made various unsuccessful attempts, and at last apologized again to Grace, and said that it never rained but it poured. They must go on in the dark.
“Very well. Only let’s avoid the barbed wire.”
“Miss Jones, I can’t tell you what I think of you. Any one else would be perfectly frantic.”
“But I’m never frantic,” said Grace, rather regretfully. “I often wish I was like the people in books who feel things so desperately. Maggie Tulliver, for instance. It’s so uninteresting always to be quite calm.”
“Always?”
“Well,” said Grace, “practically always.”
“It’s an invaluable quality just at present, but perhaps one of these days—”
“I’m so sorry, but I think my skirt has caught in the barbed wire.”
Trevellyan released her skirt in silence.
“Now, then, if we get through the gate here, the next field takes us on to the road again, and with any luck they’ll have got to Plessing and sent something back to pick us up.”
Trevellyan, who knew his ground and appeared able to see in the dark, pushed at the creaking wooden gate, and Grace passed through it, feeling her feet sink into an icy bog of mud and water.
“I’m afraid I can’t see much. You see, I don’t know the way at all.”
“I know; it makes all the difference. Look here, will you let me take your hand? I know every inch of the way.”
Grace put out her small gloved hand and said very sedately: “Thank you; I think that will be the best way.”
They went on steadily after that, speaking very little, and Grace stumbling from time to time. Once John asked her: “Are you very tired? This is rotten for you.”
“I don’t mind,” said Grace shyly.
After a long pause, Trevellyan said cryptically: “Neither do I.”
On this assurance they reached the high road, and Grace said gently, withdrawing her hand: “I can manage now, thank you.”
“It can’t be long now before something meets us. I don’t know what they can send; but if it’s only a farm cart, it will be better than nothing.”
“Luckily I’m a very good walker. I don’t think that poor Miss Vivian could ever have got out to Plessing unless we’d met you with that motor-bicycle. She dislikes walking, and is not used to it.”
“I wouldn’t have had this walk with Char,” said Trevellyan fervently, “for any money you could offer me. She’s a splendid companion, of course, on her own ground, but for this sort of thing — it’s only two people in a million, Miss Jones, who could do it without hating one another for ever afterwards.”
“We must be very remarkable, then, for I don’t think it’s going to have that effect,” said Grace, laughing.
“As far as I’m concerned,” said Trevellyan slowly, “it’s exactly the opposite. You won’t want me to tell you about it now, but perhaps some day soon you’ll let me — Grace.”
Miss Jones walked along the muddy, slushy edge of the road with her mind in a tumult. She felt quite unable to make any reply. But Captain Trevellyan, always matter-of-fact, did not appear to expect one. He presently remarked that it was getting colder again. Was Miss Jones very wet?
“Rather wet, but the worst half must be over by now. I wonder what news we shall find when we arrive. Do you know, I can’t help being selfishly thankful to be going there. It’s been so hard never hearing anything about her, and knowing all the time that she was in such anxiety.”
“Doesn’t Char tell you?”
“No; but I don’t think I asked her. She likes us to be official, you know.”
“I never heard such inhuman nonsense in my life!” exclaimed Trevellyan in tones of most unwonted violence.
They both laughed, and the next minute Grace said, “Listen!”
They both heard wheels.
“It’s the dog-cart. I thought so. It was the only thing left, and I suppose they’ve got hold of a boy to drive it. Thank goodness! Miss Jones,” said Trevellyan for the fourth time, “I can’t tell you what I think of you; you’ve been simply wonderful.”
“Don’t! Of course I haven’t.”
Grace’s voice was more agitated than accorded with her previous declaration of imperturbability, and something in the few shaky words caused John to put out his hand and grasp hers for a moment, while he hailed the cart.
“Here we are! Did Miss Vivian send you?”
“Her ladyship, sir. Couldn’t come any faster, sir; the roads are so bad.”
“They are.
How is Sir Piers?”
“The same, sir — still unconscious. Dr. Prince don’t anticipate no immediate change, sir, but he’s staying the night.”
“Good! He’s telephoned to Questerham, I suppose. Now, Miss Jones, let me help you. Boy, you’d better get on to the back seat; your inches are better suited to it than mine,” said John firmly. He put the rug round Grace, and she sank thankfully on to the small seat of the dog-cart.
They hardly spoke while he drove cautiously along the remaining mile of high road and up the long avenue to Plessing.
Even when John helped her down at the hall door he only said: “I shall see you tomorrow. I shall never forget this Christmas Eve.”
“Nor I,” said Grace.
In the hall Miss Bruce greeted them with subdued exclamations.
“How tired you must be, and half frozen! Sir Piers is just the same; the doctor is still upstairs. He and Charmian got here two hours ago or more, and told us what had happened. There wasn’t anything to send for you but the little cart. Poor dear Charmian! such a home-coming for her! She’s wonderful, of course — never given way for an instant.”
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs. I’ve sent to tell her and Lady Vivian that you’ve arrived at last.”
“And, Miss Bruce, we should like some food if it can be managed without too much trouble.”
“Of course, of course. Miss Jones, your room is ready. Wouldn’t you like to change your wet shoes at once?”
Miss Bruce spoke with an odd mixture of doubt and compassion, as she looked at Grace warming her frozen hands at the hall fire. It was evident that she did not feel certain whether Miss Jones was to be regarded as a friend of Lady Vivian’s, whom Captain Trevellyan had judged necessary to bring to Plessing at all costs, for Joanna’s sake, or as Char’s junior secretary, thrusting herself upon her chief’s family at a particularly inopportune moment. But the question was solved a few instants later, when Joanna Vivian herself, coming downstairs in her black tea-gown, exclaimed softly: “You’ve brought her, Johnnie! Well done! No; there’s no change yet. I want you to see Dr. Prince.” Then she took Grace’s hands in hers and said: “Thank you, my dear, for coming to me.”
XVI
“Well, I couldn’t have believed it — Christmas morning and all!”
“What, Mrs. Bullivant?”
“This letter from the office, dear.”
Little Mrs. Bullivant’s face was scarlet, and her voice shaking.
“But what is it?”
“Miss Vivian has dismissed me. This was evidently written two days ago, and has been delayed in the post. She simply says that she has come to the conclusion that I find the Hostel rather too much for me and is making other arrangements at the New Year. Oh, my dear!”
Mrs. Bullivant dissolved into tears, and Tony, aghast, picked up the small trebly-folded sheet of crested paper that had fallen from its square envelope.
“Written by herself, too, not typed! Oh, I am sorry! But doesn’t she give any reason?”
“Not any. But I suppose she wasn’t comfortable when she stayed here last month. She said one or two little things at the time — the hot water, you know, and the gas giving such a poor light, and then the servants. But I never knew she was thinking of this.”
“I must say, I think she might have given you a reason, or asked you to go and see her at the office,” said Tony, her allegiance to Miss Vivian shaken at the sight of the little Superintendent in tears.
Every one liked Mrs. Bullivant at the Hostel, and when Tony told the others that she was to be dismissed there was a general outcry.
“But why? What a shame!”
“She always works so hard, and she’s so nice to every one. It’s too bad of Miss Vivian.”
“It does seem very unlike her to be so inconsiderate!” Mrs. Potter exclaimed.
“I can’t believe there isn’t some satisfactory explanation. It’s too unlike Miss Vivian.”
Miss Delmege was caustically reminded by Miss Marsh that no explanation could really be satisfactory from the point of view of Mrs. Bullivant.
“Couldn’t we all send round a petition, and sign it? Do let’s. We can put it on her table for when she gets back tomorrow or next day.”
Miss Plumtree’s suggestion was acclaimed, and she and Miss Marsh spent most of the morning in composing a petition that should combine sufficiently official wording with appealing arguments in Mrs. Bullivant’s favour.
“Shall we wait till Gracie gets back before fastening it up, so as to make her sign it too?”
“Why?” said Miss Delmege sharply. “Several of the others are away, too, for the week-end, and we can’t wait for every one to get back.”
“Well,” provokingly said Miss Marsh, “as she’s Miss Vivian’s own secretary, one naturally looks upon her as being important. Besides, look at the way they’ve had her out to stay; she’s a sort of special person, isn’t she?”
Every one knew that Miss Marsh was “getting a rise out of Delmege,” always a favourite form of amusement, and there was a general giggle when Miss Delmege said in a very aloof manner: “If you ask me, I think Miss Vivian thinks it just as strange as any one else that Gracie should be asked out there now, with Sir Piers still so ill. But Lady Vivian is quite well known to be a most eccentric person.”
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if Miss Vivian’s Staff Officer cousin had got her asked. I think he admires Gracie.”
“Go on, Marshie! Why, he’s never seen anything of her, has he? — except, perhaps, at the Canteen.”
“There was that night, you know,” Miss Marsh reminded them.
“What night?”
“Why, when there was the air-raid, and he brought her back here afterwards. Don’t you remember?”
“Well!” Miss Delmege exclaimed, “I must say that I should have thought—”
“I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that those four words ‘I should have thought’ are responsible for more quarrels than any others in the language.”
Miss Delmege disregarded Tony and her literary allusions.
“I should have thought that after the strange way Grace Jones behaved that night, the less said about it the better. It’s not the kind of thing one cares to dwell upon.”
“I must say,” Miss Henderson agreed, “that it would have been more likely to put him off than to make him admire her. At least, so far as my experience of human nature goes.”
“Well, just sign this, will you, girls?”
They all hung over Miss Plumtree’s shoulder, and read the petition.
Miss Vivian’s secretary put her signature down first on the list, as by rights, and decorated her “Vera M. Delmege” with an elegant flourish.
“I must say I do like what I call a characteristic signature,” she remarked, hastening back to appropriate the wicker arm-chair nearest the fire.
The others cowered round, in twos and threes, gazing disconsolately at the driving hail and stormy clouds of the grey world outside.
“Rather a wretched Christmas, isn’t it? I do think we might have had a week’s leave, really,” said Miss Henderson, shivering.
“Miss Vivian isn’t taking that herself,” Miss Delmege at once reminded her. “And those who live near enough have been given the week-end, after all.”
“I might just have managed it if I hadn’t been on telephone duty. But she wouldn’t let me change with any one else. I suppose I must go over there now and release Miss Cox,” said Tony, rising reluctantly to her feet.
“Well, take the petition, dear, and leave it on Miss Vivian’s table, will you? Then she’ll find it when she comes. I dare say she’ll be in this afternoon. Poor Mrs. Bullivant!”
They talked of Mrs. Bullivant in a subdued way at intervals during the day. The little Superintendent remained in her own room.
“Oh, isn’t it wretched?” groaned Miss Marsh for the hundredth time. “I declare I’d welcome a troop-train; it would give us something to do, and make a b
reak.”
But Miss Anthony returned from the office at four o’clock with an awed face and a piece of news.
“Girls, what do you think? It’s too awful — poor Miss Vivian’s father is dead. He died this morning, after a second stroke yesterday. Isn’t it dreadful?”
Every one exclaimed, and echoed Miss Anthony’s “dreadful!” with entire sincerity, although the announcement of Sir Piers Vivian’s death had given them food for thought and conversation for the rest of the evening.
“How did you hear, Tony?”
“Gracie Jones telephoned. My dears, they’ve had every sort of adventure. Dr. Prince’s car broke down last night, or something, and a messenger met them from Plessing to say Sir Piers had had another stroke, and Miss Vivian and the doctor were to come at once. And he never recovered consciousness, and died this morning early. Isn’t it dreadful?”
“Oh, poor Miss Vivian! Did Gracie say anything about her?”
“Only that she was being very brave. Of course, that’s just what she would be.”
“I suppose Gracie’s coming back here tonight? Rather awful for her, poor girl, to be there just now.”
“That’s the extraordinary thing,” said Tony with great animation. “She’s actually been asked to stay on.”
“She hasn’t!”
“She has, really. I asked her what she was doing, and she said nothing much, but that Lady Vivian wanted her to stay.”
“Well, I suppose she thinks she’ll be of some use to Miss Vivian, but it seems rather queer, in a way, doesn’t it? I mean her not knowing them, except officially, so to speak.”
“Has any one told Mrs. Bullivant?” Miss Delmege inquired.
But official intimation came to Mrs. Bullivant. A car stopped outside the door, and Dr. Prince, looking tired and haggard, asked to speak to her. He brought a note from Miss Jones, and offered to take a small suit-case out to Plessing for her, if Mrs. Bullivant would get her things together.
“But, doctor, she isn’t going to stay there now, surely?”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 51