The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell

by Burchell, Mary

  "That's the boy," Harriet agreed dryly, as she recalled the man who had opened the door to them.

  "Why did you want to know about him?" Maxine inquired, with no more than casual interest.

  "Oh, I just talked to him a bit. That's all."

  "I didn't notice him, myself."

  "No. He left early," Harriet said. And discovered to her surprise that, even to Maxine, she was unwilling to relate the whole story of her embarrassing and silly experience.

  Nothing more was said on the subject, and most of the rest of the day was given over to Harriet's final preparations.

  The following morning—accompanied by Maxine's affectionate good wishes and a reiterated demand that she should return without fail if she found she disliked the new life—Harriet set off on her journey to Fourways.

  The journey was not, in actual distance, a long one. But after Harriet had changed from the main line train to a small local train that was to take her the last fifteen miles.

  she realized that this part of the journey was probably going to take as long as the main journey had done.

  She relaxed, as much as her slightly nervous anticipations permitted, in the corner of the dusty compartment which she had to herself, and allowed herself to indulge in hopeful speculation about her employer.

  / do hope I like her, thought Harriet. And then—Afore important still, I do hope she likes me.

  An unprejudiced observer at that moment would probably have said that at least Mrs. Mayhew should gain a good first impression.

  Harriet, though lacking Maxine's sparkle and obvious entertainment value, made a singularly charming and engaging picture, in her green tweed suit with its matching topcoat. None of her clothes were new, but they were well cut and had been chosen and preserved with care, so that she always gave an impression of being well, though not extravagantly, dressed.

  Her soft dark hair was naturally thick and wavy and though it was never upswept in the eccentric whorls, or brushed back in the exaggeratedly flat planes that Maxine affected, it had a luster of its own, and framed her pale, heart-shaped face very attractively. At the present moment her lips were red, more with excitement than with the lipstick that Maxine had urged upon her, and the shade of her clothes brought out the curious green of her eyes, so that it was hard to believe that they could sometimes look a clear, still gray.

  She wished very much that the next twenty-four hours and the strain of introductions and readjustments were over. But nothing of this showed in her appearance, for her manner was naturally still and calm. And, even when the train drew into Bamdale, she stepped down from the compartment holding her suitcase and looked around her with a self-possessed air, which was not really at all an accurate reflection of her innermost feelings.

  She was the only passenger to descend from the train. Indeed, she rather thought she was the only passenger that the train had contained during most of its run. Ana, as she walked toward the rather ramshackle ticket-office and exit, she realized that Bamdale could hardly be a place of any size, as she had supposed.

  I

  ' The sole functionary poked his head out of the ticket-bffice window and said, '^Thank you/' in a tone that clearly meant, '* Where is your ticket?''

  Harriet surrendered her ticket, glanced out at the deserted country road that ran past the station and asked doubtfully, **is it far to walk to Fourways?'* I "Matter of three or four miles,*' the man informed her.

  "Oh-I can't manage that, with my suitcase."

  He became most humanly interested in her concerns at that point and, deserting his ticket window, came around Ithrough an open doorway and surveyed her afresh.

  "You a visitor?"

  "No. I'm going to Fourways as a companion to Mrs. May hew."

  "Oh, they'll be sending the car for you," the man prophesied confidently. "I think I hear it coming now."

  And sure enough the sound of a rapidly approaching car broke the country stillness around them.

  "Nice old lady. Met her yet?" asked the ticket collector-cum-porter-cum-station master. I ">fo.l haven't met her yet."

  j "You'll like her. Everyone does. Original old party-but I nice."

  This, at any rate, was reassuring.

  The man stepped out into the road and surveyed the approaching car.

  '^Yes. It's from Fourways all right. I expect it'll be Mr. Lindsay Mayhew, the son. He's down here for a day or two. Came yesterday."

  Harriet waited inside the station entrance, reflecting that nothing is more annoying than to arrive late and find someone waiting reproachtully in full view.

  She heard the car stop, and the door open and slam shut again.

  And then into the station came the man who had opened the door to her and Roddy on the previous Saturday evening.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Harriet just had time to give a slight gasp of dismay as well as astonishment, and then Lindsay Mayhew came up to her, held out his hand and said:

  ''I'm terribly sorry. I hope you haven't been waiting long. I had a blowout and had to change the tire."

  "It's—quite all right." She took his hand and was aware of a strong, brief grip. "I haven't been here more than a few minutes."

  "Good. Is this all your luggage?" He picked up her case. And, at her assurance that it was, led the way out to the car once more.

  Harriet followed and, as he held open the door for her, with a slight, not unfriendly smile, the welcome truth dawned on her.

  He was not just permitting bygones to be bygones, or glossing over an awkward situation. He simply did not recognize her—for the moment, at any rate.

  She experienced a sensation of mingled relief and uneasiness. If he never did recognize her, there would be no reason to worry further. But, if it dawned on him later that he had seen her somewhere, and he even managed to recollect where and in what circumstances, then the very fact of her silence would confirm him in the belief that she had reason to be ashamed of the part she had played that night.

  It was all very awkward and embarrassing.

  Harriet remained silent while considering the situation. But he seemed to think the onus of making conversation rested on him. And, as they drove back along the road from the station, he pointed to where two roads branched off

  ahead of them and said, "The road on the right takes you into Barndale, but we go the other way to Fourways.*'

  Harriet roused herself then to ask, with an air of suitable interest, whether Barndale were a large place.

  "No. A fairish-sized market town. Five or six thousand inhabitants, I suppose. But it hasn't changed greatly in size during the last thirty years. Having the railway station a mile from the town dfoesn't make for expansion, you know. And, when you do get to the station, it s only on a branch line, anyway. So Barndale has remained a bit of a backwater. But it's quite a pleasant little town."

  "I suppose there is a bus service from Fourways into the town?"^

  "Yes. But it's rather erratic. And, even in theory, it is only an hourly service." He glanced at her, with a smile. "Do you mind that?"

  "No. I don't think so. I can live without town life," Harriet said, smiling, too.

  "Can you? Most Londoners can't."

  "But I'm not a Londoner!"

  "No? I thought my mother said you came from London."

  "Oh, I was only living there temporarily," Harriet explained. "And not liking it very much," she added, as an afterthought.

  He laughed. "I like it very well when I'm actually there," he told her. "But I'm always glad to get back home."

  "Do you—" she felt a little shy about questioning him, but it was difficult to see what other form of conversation there could be between strangers "—do you work in London?"

  "Most of the time. I'm a partner in a firm of lawyers. We have our original office here in Barndale, but a rather big extension of our practice in London. I attend to most of the London side of things."

  "But you come to Barndale quite often?"

  "Oh, yes. On
ce a month at least. Sometimes oftener. Partly because I know it's lonely for my mother otherwise. My only sister is married and lives a good way away."

  "And your younger brother?"

  He glanced at her sharply. "How did you know I had a younger brother?"

  "Oh—" Her heart gave an uncomfortable thump. Then

  sudden inspiration saved her. "The ... the man at the station was talking about your family while I was waiting. I thought he mentioned another brother.'*

  "Oh. Yes, I have a younger brother. He is very seldom at home, though."

  Harriet made no comment on that. She was taking in the disagreeable fact that, by her scared and hasty improvisation, she had cut herself off from any normal and casual reference to their previous meeting and the mistake that he had made on that occasion.

  Still, if the younger brother were "very seldom at home," it was unlikely that any unfortunate contretemps would arise. And, with that reflection, Harriet dismissed—or very nearly dismissed—the matter from her mind.

  "You can see Fourways from the top of this rise," he remarked at that moment and he pointeo across a stretch of meadow and parkland to a large, rather rambling house, of no particular style of architecture.

  It had neither elegance nor strict symmetry, but it had a sort of solid significance, which was not without charm. The mellowed gray red of its bricks contrasted pleasantly, rather than garishly, with the several ditferent.greens and browns around it, and the afternoon sun was reflected cheerfully from large, wide windows 4hat suggested big, pleasantly proportioned rooms.

  "Oh, I like it!" Harriet exclaimed impulsively.

  "Can you really tell that from here? He seemed amused.

  "Yes, of course. At least—I mean that I like its general character."

  He appeared to understand what she meant. "It's a good house, ne said, as he might have spoken of a good friend. And then they drove on.

  The road sloped sharply downward from the rise, and Fourways disappeared for a while behind the trees. So that Harriet, from studying the house, turned her attention to a guarded study of her companion.

  She had gathered only a hasty—though sharp—impression of him that other time. Now she could fill in the details.

  He was nothing like so dark as Roddy, she realized, and, though his eyes also were blue, they haci none of the restless melancholy of the younger man s. They were light and keen, with that peculiarly penetrating brightness that you

  usually see only in sailors or horsemen. Men who are used to long distances, and quick judgments based on intense observation.

  As tall as his brother, he was much more heavily built. And, whereas one might refer to Roddy either as a boy or a man, according to mood, no one would have macfe the mistake of considering the elder Mayhew a boy.

  / shouldn V think he ever was, reflected Harriet humorously. He would be a school child one week, and nearly a man the next. I shouldn't like to be on the wrong side of him.

  She had, she supposed, been that already, in a superficial way. But there was no need to exaggerate an incident which, though embarrassing, had really been quite trivial, and was certainly capable of explanation if the necessity arose.

  Presently they turned in at an open gateway between two pillars topped by improbable-looking lions, and a short graveled ariveway brought them to the front door of Fourways.

  The house, on closer view, looked even more impressive than from a distance. The kind of place where, in better days, the door would have opened noiselessly with a manservant appearing respectfully to take one's luggage.

  No manservant appeared; on this occasion, however. Lindsay Mayhew took her one suitcase himself, and, opening the door, admitted her to the square, light hall.

  The whole simple plan of the house, Harriet saw, centered around this big, square hall. Doors opened off it on either side, and the staircase ran upward, directly opposite the front door to divide left and right, into galWied passages which, in turn, followed the line of the hall once more, at second floor level.

  Lindsay Mayhew set down her case in the hall and, opening a door on the left, said, "Here is Miss Denby, mother."

  He stood aside, and Harriet entered the large, pleasant room, where her new employer was sitting by an open fire.

  As the old lady raised her head, to direct a keen, but not unfriendly glance upon her, Harriet realized that Mrs. Mayhew's older son was like her and that her younger son was not. It was curious how completely that was so when there was quite a marked, if superficial, likeness between the two brothers.

  The firmness and keenness and air of decision that characterized this very handsome old lady was repeated almost exactly in her older son. The harassed, indeterminate boy with whom Harriet had had to deal the other night completely lacked these qualities—or, at any rate, the appearance of them. But they were so much a part of Mrs. Mayhew that any facial likeness between her and her younger son seemed negligible by comparison.

  "Come here, my dear." She held out her hand and her voice, Harriet noticed, was extraordinarily full and strong for a woman of her elderly and rather frail appearance. "You must be cold after your journey."

  "No, I'm not really." Harriet came forward and took her hand, with a smile. "I was well wrapped up. And, anyway—I was excited."

  Both her companions smiled at that though, as she had her back to Lindsay, she saw only the old lady's amused expression.

  Why were you excited?''

  "Weil, it is very exciting, coming to a first—a new job, you know."

  "So it is your first job?" The old lady had evidently not been put off by the hasty amendment.

  Harriet blushed a Httle. "Yes."

  "Then you mean you were nervous about it?"

  "No. At least—yes. I was a bit nervous, too. But more excited." Harriet clung obstinately to her first wording.

  The old lady laughed. A sound that was a curious mixture of cynicism and kindliness.

  "Very naive," she commented. And then, rather dryly, to her son, "I don't know that we can live up to such expectation^, Lindsay, do you? We could hardly claim that life at Fourways is exciting."

  "Life is what you make it—anywhere," Harriet said quickly, before Mrs. Mayhew's son could reply. Then she blushed—deeply this time—because she felt that sounded dreadfully like a copybook maxim, and she hoped they wouldn't think her smug and insufferably bright.

  "A refreshingly old-fashioned point of view," remarked Mrs. Mayhew. "Most people nowadays think life is what the Government makes—or should make—it. Which usually means a glorious run for other people's money. Now, if you

  will pull that bell beside the fireplace, Priscilla—who is young and unformed, but not unwilling—will show you to your room."

  Harriet obediently pulled the bell, and almost immediately a fresh-faced child of about sixteen bounced into the room and said most expectantly: *'Yes, M 'm?"

  "This is Miss Denoy, Priscilla." Mrs. Mayhew might have been addressing an older retainer instead of a raw httle girl in a blue print frock. "Will you please take her to her room, which I am sure you have prepared very nicely."

  Priscilla grinned from ear to ear, and said, "Yes, M'm. This way, miss," and held open the door as though a procession were about to pass.

  Harriet preceded Priscilla up the wide staircase and found when she reached the top, that there was a good deal more to the house than the square block grouped around the hall. Side passages led off the main passage in a rather inconsequential manner, which accounted, she supposed, for the rambling impression the house had given from a distance. "It's a very big house, Priscilla," she remarked, because the child was obviously bursting to have some sort of conversation.

  "Oh, yes, miss. Much the biggest house in the district," Priscilla said, as though she owned it and was personally responsible for its size and design.

  Harriet smiled.

  "I see you like—are proud of—working here."

  "Oh, yes, miss, indeed! Mrs. Mayhew is a real lady," P
riscilla explained, dismissing the indignity of working for lesser breeds with a scornful gesture of a small, red^and.

  "I could see that," Harriet agreed gravely. And then she was shown, with rather touching pride, into a pleasant room, with windows on two sides. The furniture was massive and old-fashioned and of dark mahogany, but the room was large enough to take it without any impression of undue heaviness or crowding. The curtains anci bedspread were of chintz, printed in shades of wine red and blue, and everything about the room was scrupulously dusted and polished.

  "How very nice everything looks," Harriet exclaimed, remembering Mrs. Mayhew's timely hint about who was responsible for the preparation of the room. "And these are

  beautiful!" She went over and examined a small glass of snowdrops that stood in the exact center of one of the window ledges.

  "I picked them for you yesterday,*' Priscilla explained, evidently a good deal gratified to have them given special recognition.

  "Why, Priscilla, how kind of you—when you didn't even know me!"

  "Mrs. Mayhew says it's the little touches, miss, that make the difference between a tidy room and a welcoming room,'' quoted Priscilla, somewhat self-consciously.

  Harriet suppressed her desire to laugh at the manner of this disclosure and gravely paid tribute to the matter of it.

  "Tea'11 be ready in about half an hour, miss," Priscilla informed her, and then withdrew, closing the door with exaggerated care.

  While Harriet washed and made herself presentable after her journey, she reflected that her lot mignt have fallen in much less pleasant paths than these. After the cramped quarters in which Maxine so sincerely rejoiced, it was wonderful to be able to look around a large room of one's own, and to know that on either side of that room stretched others of equal proportions, and that beyond the house was a garden—Harriet looked out of her window, to regard its untidy, but undoubted, length with satisfaction—and, beyond that, fields and woods and the open country in which one could breathe and be free.