“That’s prime. You ought to broadcast,” said Henry, chuckling. “Oh, I say, Kate, isn’t it a shame! Mother won’t let me dine to-night because it’ll make thirteen at table. I told her I wasn’t superstitious, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Henry, I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t see that I can do anything,” said Kate. “It won’t be so very thrilling,” she consoled him, “and Florence is sure to see that you get your share of everything—especially the puddings.”
Henry brightened. “Yes, Florence is a good sort. If you could just save me one or two of those crystallised fruits, Kate, it wouldn’t be too bad.”
“Very well, I will,” Kate promised rashly. “And now I must fly. Telling you that bedtime story has taken up a good deal of time.”
She patted his shoulder, and went along the corridor to the drawing-room, praying that she wasn’t late, for she had heard a car arrive while she was talking to Henry.
But the drawing-room was empty save for one broad-shouldered figure leaning against the mantelpiece. Kate stopped short. “Robin!” she said.
“Robin it is,” he answered, straightening himself and coming to meet her down the long room. “You’re looking very nice this evening, Kar-handit Kitty.”
The unexpectedness of seeing him had brought a sparkle to Kate’s eyes, an added touch of colour to her smooth cheeks. In her velvet gown with its wide skirts, she seemed taller than usual, the puffed sleeves tightening to fit closely to her wrists and the square-cut neck all gave her a passing resemblance to some old picture, for choice by Van Dyck.
“That rig suits you,” he said. “You look so stately that I feel there is only one thing to do.” He took up her left hand as it hung at her side, and lightly kissed it.
Kate had been watching them both in the long mirror, with her old childish feeling that she was looking at someone quite different, and not herself and Robin. At the touch of his lips she started as if wakened from a dream. “Oh, Robin!” she said, catching her breath, seeing her brilliant eyes shining back at her from the glass. Then she recovered herself quickly, afraid of giving her secret away. “Are you in the habit of making these pretty compliments? Did you often do—that—to Mrs. Fardell?”
“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t believe I ever kissed Elizabeth’s hand. Why do you ask, Kate? Why her especially?”
“Tell me what she’s like,” said Kate hastily. “I’ve so often wondered. You said once that I—I reminded you of her.”
“Only in some of your ways. Not at all in looks” he said, and Kate’s silly heart sank like a stone. Still staring at the mirror, she listened to him. It almost seemed as if that other woman was slowly appearing from his description, and must be visible, standing beside Robin’s reflection in a moment, so vividly could Kate picture her.
“She is a little creature, to begin with . . . black hair that curls at the ends and is quite smooth on top of her head, and a mouth that curls at the corners, and eyebrows like wings, every hair in its place, and big shining eyes greeny-grey; and that fine pearly skin, not dead white, you know, and not thick enough for ‘magnolia pallor,’ but a sort of warm white like milk . . . and she has rather ugly ankles,” he added suddenly, but he didn’t sound as if the ankles mattered very much, Kate thought sadly. They obviously hadn’t to Andrew.
“Very, very attractive,” she murmured, feeling that she must say something or she might cry, which would be disastrous as well as stupid, and so awkward just before a dinner-party.
“Very,” he said briefly. Having to give a description of Elizabeth had shaken him, as thinking or speaking of her always did; and yet, he found with astonishment, though he immediately longed to see her, it was not quite the old desperate longing, but a gentler melancholy, not altogether unpleasant. He looked at Kate, whose eyes were dark with the tears she had managed to keep out of them, and thought: ‘Kate has more interesting eyes than Elizabeth.’ But he said carelessly: “How is it you’re so early this evening? I thought you rather specialised in being late.”
“I thought I was late,” Kate answered, as lightly. “I was trying to cheer poor Henry, who isn’t dining to-night, because with him we should be thirteen at table.”
“Hard lines,” said Robin. Then, suspiciously: “What is it, Kate? I seem to know that look in your eye—”
“Only if you’re sitting next to me, Robin,” pleaded Kate. “I want to smuggle some crystallized fruits and things for him, poor exile. He does love the flesh-pots. And I’ve nowhere to hide them. I thought you wouldn’t mind perhaps putting them in your pocket?”
“I do mind,” he said hastily. “No, really, Kate, it’s a bit too much to ask any man to fill the pockets of his dress-suit with sticky sweets. I’d do a good deal for you, but I draw the line at that.”
“I’ll wrap a clean handkerchief round them first,” said Kate with a wistful look, and he laughed.
“Oh, Kate, Kate! You are an awfu’ ane, as my old nurse used to say to me. I suppose I’ll have to do it, if you promise not to forget the handkerchief.”
5
“Of course, my dear Lucy,” said Cousin Charlotte in a tone which could have bitten through a sheet of copper, so acid was it, “if you have already invited that elderly male gossip Henry Halliday to stay, I must leave immediately. Be good enough to look up a suitable train for me at once.”
“Great-Uncle Henry isn’t coming for three days yet, Cousin Charlotte,” murmured Lucy placatingly. “You really needn’t hurry.”
“The mere thought that he is coming is quite sufficient to poison the place for me,” retorted Miss Napier, “However, I shall stay until the day of his arrival, as I have to pack. Why you saw fit to have him here, I cannot imagine, a creature so doddering that it takes him half the day to cross a room. He might die on your hands at any moment.”
“He’s Henry’s godfather, after all, Cousin Charlotte,” said Andrew in response to a glance of appeal from his wife. “And pretty hale still. I don’t think he is liable to die for quite a bit yet.”
“The more’s the pity,” said Cousin Charlotte, and Henry, who had been playing with Virginia unobserved in a corner of the room, could contain himself no longer, but burst into a strange snorting sound which was a laugh smothered in Virginia’s hair.
“Put That Boy Out,” ordered Cousin Charlotte, with a venomous glance at Great-Uncle Henry’s godson. “I must say, Andrew, that you showed some sense in making Halliday his godfather. That Boy is exactly like him, and will be more so as he grows older.”
“Outside, Henry, and take Virginia with you,” said Andrew quietly, seeing that Henry was about to engage in argument. Henry, who was beginning to know his father well, rose without a word and made for the door. “And by the way,” added Andrew, “if you go up to the big garret and look in that old black trunk, you’ll find a whole pile of the Illustrated London News of the 1860’s, with pages of American Civil War pictures in them.”
Henry uttered a whoop of delight that caused Virginia to hark and Cousin Charlotte to groan angrily, and rushed from the room, banging the door after him.
“Quite mannerless. A real Halliday,” said Cousin Charlotte with tremendous satisfaction. “Not a trace of Lockhart about him.”
“He’s the living image of my grandfather, old Adam Lockhart,” said Andrew mildly, but to no avail.
“His looks bely him,” was Cousin Charlotte’s reply. “Well, Lucy, I wish you joy of your Great-Uncle Henry, and his visit. I shall go and pack.” And having had the last word, she went grimly away.
“I hope it won’t be out of the frying-pan into the fire,” said Lucy apprehensively. “It does seem hard that we can only get rid of one frightful relative by asking another to stay. Why can’t we be at peace in our own house?”
Andrew’s restraint had become almost perfect since his return, and he forbore to point out that the necessity would never have arisen if Lucy had not chosen to hedge herself about with a family party; but he wondered how Lucy’s memory c
ould possibly be so short where things that went wrong were her own fault. And Lucy, to whom the same thought had reluctantly occurred, could not humble herself enough to admit that it was her doing. With an effort she said: “I really am more grateful to you than I can say, Andrew, for your idea. Cousin Charlotte was preying on my nerves.”
“There’s no need to talk of gratitude between you and me, Lucy,” said Andrew. “And by the way, I think Cousin Charlotte might be driven right in to Edinburgh, and the car can bring old Henry back.”
“Who is to drive her? You?”
“I thought Anne might do it. You know I’m shooting the next four days.”
“Anne! But can she drive? Has she got a licence?”
“Oh, yes. She can, and she has. As a matter of fact, Lucy, Anne is a very good driver. She has your clear head and cool judgment, she knows the rules of the road and sticks to them, and she’s easy on the car—”
“Andrew, I will not have Anne driving my car, understand! I think it is very underhand of Anne to have done all this behind my back, and never said a word about it,” said Lucy indignantly.
“Oh, parents don’t know half of what their children ate up to nowadays,” was Andrew’s most unfortunate reply.
“You seem to know a good deal about all three of them, far more than I do. It’s most unfair that I should always be kept in the dark.”
“No one is keeping you in the dark, Lucy except your own constant disapproval of whatever they do,” said Andrew, a little impatient by this time. “And it’s partly that, as Kate said to me, I’ve come to see the children from an outside point of view, and that’s how I happen to know one or two things about them that the average parent never has a chance of learning.”
“Kate said to you? Do you mean to say that you have been discussing our affairs with Kate?”
“If you think that, you’d think anything,” said Andrew in weary disgust. “Of course I haven’t. Kate wouldn’t anyhow. You ought never to have asked a thing that.”
Lucy, in the wrong, had a habit of instantly seizing on some other point which might in some twisted way help her to prove herself right. She did so now. “So you’re rewarded for having left your children and neglected them for four years, by knowing more about them than I do, who had to be both parents to them during your absence!”
“Lucy, it’s quite impossible to talk to you when you persist in being so utterly unreasonable,” he said. “Of course I don’t know more about the children than you do. It’s more than I deserve to find that I know anything about them at all.”
“It certainly is,” said Lucy in a low tone full of bitter anger.
“Well, anyhow, Anne is to drive Cousin Charlotte in to Edinburgh, and bring Great-Uncle Henry back with her. She can have my car. Until the small one which I have ordered for her is delivered, she can keep her hand in on the Humber.” And before Lucy could find words to disapprove, he swung round and left her.
But his face was drawn with temper and weariness, and he said to himself: “Can I possibly carry on with this? God knows I’m to blame, but unless Lucy can manage to stop reminding me of it every time I speak to her, it won’t be bearable. It’s unbearable now.”
He found some slight consolation in Anne’s pride and delight when, two mornings later, she brought his car round to the door, prepared to drive to Edinburgh. And Lucy, once she had seen the black hat and cape, the old-fashioned boxes and wraps which belonged to Cousin Charlotte, finally disappear round the bend of the drive, offered him as much of an apology as she could ever make.
“Anne does drive very well, Andrew. I’m glad you are going to give her a car of her own. And you must blame Cousin Charlotte if I lost my temper the other day. She really has worn my nerves to shreds.”
Andrew, being Andrew, accepted the explanation with ready courtesy and a rather tired smile. He supposed that Great-Uncle Henry’s effect on Lucy’s nerves would supply her with a reason and an apology for any wounding thing she might say during the next week or so; but after that, what excuse would she have? Then, he decided, she would have to fall back on the original theme of his unworthiness. Anyhow, for the moment the sky was clear again, and he made the best of it.
As Great-Uncle Henry preferred to arrive just in time to dress for dinner, and Cousin Charlotte refused to put off her departure to convenience him, Anne had to spend the day in Edinburgh, and Andrew had returned from shooting Robin Anstruther’s partridges by the time the car was heard coming back.
“Come on, Lucy. I’ll meet him on the doorstep with you,” said Andrew. “It always looks well.”
They went out, and the others, Adam, Henry, Kate, and Mrs. Barlas, took up strategic positions in the hall where they could see the arrival.
The car came slowly round the curve and drew up at the door. Lucy uttered nails into Andrew’s arm.
“It can’t be—” she said.
“It damned well is,” answered Andrew, as he went forward to the car, opened the door, and helped out the too familiar figure of Cousin Charlotte. Beyond her could be seen the Wellingtonian nose and white hair of Great-Uncle Henry, who, refusing Anne’s assistance, climbed shakily out and tottered up the shallow steps. Over their heads Lucy signalled a frantic glance at Anne. She responded with a shrug and a look of helplessness.
“Well, Lucy, no doubt you are surprised to see me back, and not too well-pleased,” said Cousin Charlotte. “I happened to meet Henry in Princes Street, and he had the effrontery to tell me that he was sorry I should not be here during his visit, as he wished to renew his victories over me at chess. His victories, indeed! As if he ever—”
“How do you do, Lucy, me dear,” said Great-Uncle Henry, cutting Miss Napier short as few dared to do with a ruthlessness due partly to deafness and partly to enmity. “It is a long time since I had the pleasure of staying under your hospitable roof. Very kind of you and Andrew to invite an old man to join your happy party on this auspicious occasion. I well remember when I first visited you here. You were a bride, me dear, and a very charming one. You recalled to me a little dear Lady Margaret Gold-Finch, or was it Lady Rosamond? Tut-tut, I forget. I fancy it must have been Lady Rosamond, as I did not have the pleasure of meeting her sister Lady Margaret until later. She married Sir Warren Waveney, and—”
“Stop talking snob, Henry. You’re a walking Debrett,” said Cousin Charlotte, whose indignation, smouldering throughout this speech, now burst into flame. “Let me remind you once again that you have never checkmated me.”
“Only at chess, Charlotte. Only at chess,” said Great-Uncle Henry with a courtly bow and a wheezing chuckle at his own wit. “Which reminds me of the splendid struggles Lord Westwater and I used to have. Many a time they continued for days.”
“I have always been able to beat yon within two hours,” said Cousin Charlotte, flinging down the gauntlet.
“Never!” cried Great-Uncle Henry, picking it up with a flourish. “Never, Charlotte.”
“Well, I have come back for no other reason but to prove that. I am right and you are wrong. After dinner we will start,” said Miss Napier. “Lucy, perhaps you will be good enough to see that the chessboard and men are set out on that solid card-table—nothing rickety or too small, remember—in the billiard-room—”
“Not the billiard-room, Charlotte. The light is not good enough. The parlour,” said Great-Uncle Henry.
“The billiard-room, Henry!”
“The parlour, Charlotte!”
They glared at one another, while the entire family, too stricken for speech, stood dumbly by like an audience at a play.
Finally Great-Uncle Henry, with a bow, waived his claim. “The billiard-room let it be, Charlotte,” he said.
“We can play in the parlour to-morrow, Henry,” said Cousin Charlotte in a voice which was almost a coo.
Together they passed through the hall in happy harmony, and Lucy looked at Andrew. “Two of them!” she whispered.
“My fault. I was too clever,” he answered with
a groan.
“My poor Andrew, how could you foresee this? It is an Act of God.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
“It’s a dashed dirty trick to make us work in the hols., I think,” said Henry gloomily, kicking the stout teak of the garden bench on which he and Kate sat side by side eating half-ripe plums. “Did they set you a piece to learn in the summer holidays when you were at Saint Thimbleine’s, Kate?”
“Far worse than mere learning, Henry. Sickening things like making collections of pressed wild flowers or doing a bit of embroidery. Not that I ever did them. Which doesn’t mean,” Kate added hastily, “that you are to neglect your holiday task, Henry. What is it?”
Henry spat out a plum-stone with vigour, watched it soar over a clump of lavender, and said: “Actually, ours isn’t as rotten as that. But to have to learn the whole of Julius Caesar’s pretty steep, Kate, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a play that you’re bound to know bits of already. How far have you got?”
“As far as that good fat scene between Brutus and Cascara, you know, the ‘let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm’ one. I like it, but it’s dull being both of ’em turn about.”
“If I could have the book, to look up the pieces I forget,” said Kate cautiously, “I might be one of them.”
Henry dragged a mangled copy of Julius Caesar from his pocket and handed it to her. “There’s a bit in the middle where Virginia put her feet after she’d been in the pigsty that’s rather difficult to read,” he said. “But I dare say you can manage.”
‘I dare say, if I don’t have to hold my nose. Is it very piggy?” Kate sniffed suspiciously at the page which bore the imprints of paws, and decided that it was not too bad. “Who do you want me to be?”
“Cascara, it you don’t mind, because I know him best. I’d better have a shot at the noble Brutus.”
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