by Dion Fortune
“He is my late husband's second cousin.”
Mrs Macintosh's Scotchman arrived, looking rather like a pocket edition of old Jelkes. While he was examining the patient, Mrs. Macintosh joined Hugh downstairs.
“Mr Paston,” she said quietly. “It would be much easier for me to deal with things if you would tell me frankly what the position is.”
“There's not much to tell, Mrs Macintosh. I came across Mr Jelkes quite by chance when I was feeling rotten after the funeral, and palled on with him, and I've been stopping with him ever since. He pulled me round a pretty nasty corner. I think I'd have gone smash if it hadn't been for him. Miss Wilton is a protegee of hishe's a kind of father confessor to the district, I fancy. She's an artist. I have been setting to work to get another house, and I wanted the furnishing and decorating done, and Jelkes put me on to her for the job. It's her line of work. Then she went sick on our hands. She's got no one to look after her, and we've been doing the best we can for her.”
“I see,” said Mrs Macintosh. What she thought could not be discerned. She was a woman who believed in keeping herself to herself.
A call from upstairs summoned her, and she departed, leaving Hugh to his own thoughts.
He was very distressed indeed about Miss Wilton's illness, blaming himself for it. But even if he took the whole responsibility upon himself, and he could hardly blame himself for fainting, he was distressed far beyond what he reasonably ought to be. He had believed that he had long since reached a point when all emotion passed him by and he simply felt nothing. This recru descence of the power to feel was a decidedly painful affair, like the blood returning to a numbed limb. On the other hand, however, it reassured him that he was still alive; a point he had sometimes come to doubt of recent years. It seemed to him that life was definitely coming back to him, and even if the process were painful, it was a distinctly healthy sign.
He heard the doctor being ushered out, and then Mrs Macintosh returned to him.
“Well?” said Hugh. “What's the verdict?”
“A touch of bronchitis. Nothing serious in the chest. The real trouble with her is malnutrition.”
“What is malnutrition?”
“Insufficient nourishment.”
“What is the cause of that?”
“Lack of money.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Wilton has had no food for the last five days except the chance meals of most unsuitable things that you and Mr ]elkes have given her.”
“But, good Lord alive, what do you mean? Why hasn't she had proper meals?”
“Because, Mr Paston, the girl is out of work and starving, and you and Mr ]elkes have not had the sense to advance her any money to go on with till her wages became due, and she was too proud to ask for it. She has been trying to manage on the one meal a day she has been having with you and Mr ]elkes, and you know the kind of things he gives her—sausages, kippers, cheap cheese. In her condition she can't digest them. They simply upset her.”
Hugh said nothing. There was a dead silence between them, Mrs Macintosh watching him out of inscrutable eyes.
At length he said: “Get whatever is necessary, Mrs Macintosh.”
“Very good, Mr Paston. By the way,” she added, “Miss Wilton has begged that Mr ]elkes should not be told, as she thinks it would upset him so much. She did not want you to be told either, but I thought it was as well that you should know.”
“My God, yes, I am truly thankful you told me. I hadn't a suspicion.”
Mrs Macintosh smiled. “No,” she said, “I don't suppose you would have. You have never seen anything like that before at close quarters, have you?”
Hugh looked at her in surprise. It was the first time he had seen her anything approaching human.
“Do you know,” he said, “I feel as if I had never in my life seen anything really at close quarters. Everything seems to me as if it were on the other side of a pane of thick glass, if you know what I mean.”
“It is a very artificial life you have always led, Mr Paston.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. I didn't realise that, because I have never known any other. Didn't know there was any other. It always seemed natural to me, but I suppose it wasn't.”
“I think it would have killed you if you had gone on much longer. I have watched you going steadily downhill ever since I have been at the house.”
“I say, Mrs Macintosh, did you ever suspect about—about my wife and Mr Wilmott?”
“I knew there was someone, Mr Paston, but I did not know it was Mr Wilmott. They were always most careful. Of course it could not have lasted so long if they had not been.”
“Do you think it was generally known?”
“I could not say. It was a lady who always did the telephoning. Wilkins, who went to the inquest, tells me he thinks it was Miss Wilmott's voice, he recognised it when he heard her giving evidence.”
“Good Lord, fancy that girl being a party to it! And I set her up in her hat-shop!”
“I think if you knew the truth you would find that the hat-shop was a favourite meeting-place.”
“But, my God, have people no decency?”
“It is quite exceptional among the people I have worked for since my husband died, if you will forgive me for saying so.”
“But what is wrong with them?”
“Too many stimulants, in my opinion. The highly-spiced food; the constant alcohol; the women's clothes—no one can stand it and keep their decency. The decent ones withdraw from it; those who remain are—not decent. That is my candid opinion, and I have had good opportunities for forming it.”
“Well, I suppose I can't be particularly decent, for I didn't withdraw from it.”
“Oh yes, you did, Mr Paston. You withdrew completely. You were like a waxwork. This is the first time I have ever seen you look alive.”.
“Do you know, Mrs Macintosh, I believe I have been suffering from malnutrition quite as much as Miss Wilton.”
Mrs Macintosh smiled. “I only hope Mr ]elkes won't feed you on as unsuitable things as he gave to Miss Wilton. He is a very funny old man. He has got some very queer books.”
Hugh gasped. Mrs Macintosh, who evidently thought she had better resume her professional mask, asked his leave to withdraw upstairs to attend to her patient.
The next few days were very boring ones for Hugh. He saw nothing of Mona, whose bronchitis was running its course, and he was of too active a nature to be content to sit indefinitely on old Jelkes' broken-down sofa and talk philosophy. He was not interested in occultism from the philosophical side, as the old man was. He wanted phenomena. Jelkes, discoursing of relative realism and the psychological value of symbolism, left him cold. He got all outstanding legal business through his hands. and then, finding himself at a loose end once more, got out the car and ran down to call on Mr Watney, who was delighted to see him—who would not be delighted to see a client of Hugh's calibre ?—and invited him to lunch.
The conveyancing, it seemed, was going on as well as could be expected.
“Look here,” said Mr Watney in a hushed voice, as if compounding a felony. “You go on and take possession. You've paid your deposit. We can neither of us back out now. Miss Pumfrey isn't to know we haven't finished with the deeds. Unless you get to work at once, you won't be able to make a start on your garden this summer, and—er—while you are having the ground dug, I should very much like to have a look at it.”
Hugh readily acquiesced. Mr Watney was welcome to dig up Australia, if he could get at it, so long as something was going on to fill the endless days.
They parted with what were almost endearments on the part of Mr Watney, Hugh having in his possession an enormous key. It was only three miles to Monks Farm; a mere step in a car. In Hugh's car, one arrived almost before one started. He went round the place at his leisure, and found to his delight that what he had first taken for a second and smaller barn, proved to be a dwelling- house of much more modern structure than the rest o
f the buildings. Fallen plaster littered the floors; rotted window-frames let in the weather, but the main structure appeared to be sound, and he saw that it could fairly speedily be rendered habitable.
He returned to the car and sped down the road to the village at his usual gait. There Mr Huggins received him with open, pink-sleeved arms. Yes, he could recommend a builder, a really reliable man, who worked himself alongside his men. Hugh was led round behind the houses to the most amazing hugger-mugger tumble-down raffle of sheds in a cluttered yard, from which, at Mr Huggins's hail, a bearded elder appeared, who was introduced as Mr Pinker.
Yes, Mr Pinker could undertake the work— “And glad to do so, sir. It's a shame to see a lovely bit of building like that going to rack and ruin. You seen the fan-archin' in the cattle-sheds, sir?”
Yes, Hugh had, and had appreciated it at its proper worth. Mr Pinker was delighted.
“It's a good job you came to me, sir. Now there's many would have spiled that archin' for yeo But I understand ‘clesiastical work. I go all about here, sir, I go right up to close to Lonnon sometimes, wherever there's a bit of old work wants handlin'. It's not every mason that understands old work. They spiles it. They pulls it about as if it didn't matter. You shouldn't do that, you should respec' it.”
Hugh saw that he had to do with a genuine craftsman, and was delighted. He had read of such men but had never met one before, and believed them to be creatures of romance, along with the Mark Tapleys and the like. He saw before him a delightful prospect of long days while the old fellow pursued his leisurely but honest way and the farm gradually returned to its original likeness under his reverent hands. He was immensely cheered by the prospect, and his depression left him.
He loaded the old boy into the car and returned to the farm.
“That's a bit of plain sailin',” said the old man, viewing the dwelling-house. “My son, he'll do the plumbing. But why you want two baths, I don't see. There's only one Saturday in a week. Howsomever, have it as you've a mind to.”
“I dunno what you'll do with this,” said he when shown the rest of the buildings. “Girt big rooms they'll be when all this here boardin' is pulled away. And then them little rooms upstairs. There ain't one will make a decent bedroom. Like horse-stalls, I call 'em. I should knock two or three into one, if I was you.”
“No,” said Hugh, “I don't think we'll do that for the moment. I'll have the big room upstairs made into a bedroom for my own use, and leave the rest of the place alone.”
They climbed up the winding stairs to inspect it.
“That's bin a chapel,” said Mr Pinker. “Sure you don't mind sleepin' in a chapel, sir?”
“Not so long as it's no longer used as a chapel,” said Hugh
“There's some as wouldn't like it,” said Mr Pinker.
“I'm not one of them,” said Hugh.
“Well,” said Mr Pinker reflectively, “they do say as bein' born in a stable don't make ye a hoss, so may be sleeping in a chapel won't affect yeo Anyway, sir, I'll have all the timberin' pulled away forthwith, and when next ye come, ye'll be able to have a reel look at the place.”
“Do you know what I think I shall do?” said Hugh.“I think I shall run back to London and get my gear, and put up in the village till the house is ready. It will be tremendously interesting to see it taking shape. Is there anywhere in the village where I could put up?”
“They'll put ye up at The Green Man, sir, if you ain't too pertickler. It's rough-like, but it's clean. Of course it's only meant for the likes of us. They don't get no gentry, not bein' in the road to nowhere.”
Hugh ran the old man back to the village, the long mile trudge disappearing in a flash under his wheels.
“This be a grand machine you've got,” said Mr Pinker as the super-charged car ate up the ground. “I did be thinkin' of gettin' one meself for use in the business. I 'ad one offered me once for five pun, and I wish I'd taken it now I seen what they can do.”
Arrived at the village, Hugh pulled up in front of the ancient bowed frontage of The Green Man. It was a genuine old hostelry, not one of' Ye Olde 'variety. The landlady, a stout and determined-looking widow, had her doubts about her power to accommodate gentlemen, but a little persuasion on the part of Mr Pinker, who was enjoying refreshment at Hugh's expense, helped to reassure her, and by the time Hugh had asked her to have one with him, and she had been treated to a ladylike port, she was not only sure, but certain. It seemed that in her far-away youth she had been scullery-maid to Miss Pumfrey's mother, so she knew exactly how gentry should be treated. Hugh wondered how she had managed to graduate into the refreshment trade. The Pumfrey ménage did not look a likely jumping-off place.
Everything being arranged to everybody's satisfaction, Hugh went racketing off down the London road. He reached the bookshop to find Mr Jelkes and Mrs Macintosh in conclave. The abrupt break-off of the conversation at his entry told him that he must have been providing the subject-matter.
They discoursed platitudes for a few minutes, Hugh telling of his doings and his plans, and enquiring concerning Miss Wilton's progress during the few short hours he had been away.
“That's what we have been discussing,” said Jelkes. “She's not getting on as well as she should. Got a certain way, and then sticks.”
“Do you think she ought to get away to the sea for a change?” asked Hugh.
“She's not fit for that yet. Her temperature still keeps up.”
“What's the cause of that?”
Jelkes looked at Mrs Macintosh. She grasped the nettle firmly.
“I think, Mr Paston, that when she saw you faint she had a far more severe shock than we realised. She has been a little light-headed, once or twice, and talked about it. She thinks you are going to do spiritualistic experiments, and she is afraid of that also. It is my belief that she is dreading meeting you again, and yet does not want to break with you because she needs the work.”
“I say, I'm frightfully sorry. What can I do about it?”
“The best thing you can do is to go up and see her, and talk to her as if nothing had happened.”
“Right-oh, I'll go as soon as she'll see me.”
“Very good, Mr Paston, supposing you come up after you've had your tea?”
“Hugh,” said old Jelkes, cocking a sandy eyebrow at his guest over a tea-cup, “do you know what it is that has bitten Mona?”
“No good Lord, what is it?”
“Ambrosius.”
“What in the name of glory do you mean?”
“She's scared to death of him. Thinks she'll see his ghost. Keep off the subject, see?”
“Right you are, T. J. But what's made her so scared?”
“Goodness only knows. There's no sense in women.”
“I'm not so sure of that. You know, I've had a very strong impression of Ambrosius several times; but whereas I welcome it, it scares her. It's pretty strong when it comes, and if you didn't like it, as I do, I can quite believe you'd be badly scared.”
“Well, anyway, leave it alone for the present, Hugh, for the love of heaven.”
Having finished his tea, Hugh presented himself upstairs as bidden, and was duly ushered in by Mrs Macintosh, who then withdrew, leaving him to his own devices.
Mona, sitting propped up in bed, a washed-out pink shawl about her shoulders, had that fine-drawn, transparent look that any chest trouble always gives. There was no question whatever about it, she was scared of him all right. He could see it by her eyes and the way she was holding herself together. Hugh, who had never seen any human being scared of him before, and could not imagine how they could be, felt, to his immense surprise, deep down inside him a curious glow ofsatisfaction, even while his one desire was to reassure her and restore her to peace and happiness.
It was an extraordinary thing that Mona, who at first sight looked a very self-willed creature, was really and genuinely scared of him, and had to take her courage in both hands in order to talk to him. There was something in this that
delighted Hugh profoundly, and made him esteem Mona's companionship very highly. Something that gave him the first inkling of the self-confidence he had always lacked.
He sat down in the chair placed in the correct position by the foot of the bed—Mrs Macintosh always did everything correctly—.
“Well, how goes it?” he said.
“Not too badly,” said Mona. “I'm much better than I was.”
“But not as well as you might be?”
“No, I'm afraid I'm not. Tiresome, isn't it? Especially after everyone's been so good to me. I feel it's ungrateful.”
“Don't you worry about that. We'll hang on to you till you're quite all right.”
Silence fell between them. Hugh cast about in every direction for some remark that would prove of interest and not lead round to Ambrosius, and he could not find it. If he spoke of the farm, it led straight to Ambrosius. If he spoke of her work, it led on to the farm, and so to Ambrosius. Suddenly the problem was taken out of his hands. Mona Wilton fixed her eyes on him and said:
“Have you found out anything more about Ambrosius?”
Hugh gasped. “I—I thought you did not like Ambrosius,” he said.
“I never said that,” said Mona. “He made me feel perfectly awful because of his dreadful end, but I never said I didn't like him. As a matter of fact, I—I feel most awfully sorry for him. I think he must have had a rotten time.”
“That's exactly how I feel about him,” said Hugh eagerly, and then stopped hastily, for he knew the subject was a forbidden one, and he had a vision of Mona's already high temperature rising towards boiling-point if it were pursued.
“Tell me about him. Have you found out anything more?”
“Er—no, I haven't been looking for it. But you know I don't think it is very good for you to talk about Ambrosius while you're still seedy. He's rather a harrowing subject, don't you think ? You mightn't sleep after it.”
“He's the best possible subject for me to talk about, and I probably shall sleep after it. I certainly shan't sleep properly till I do. Ambrosius has got on my nerves, you know, and I've got to talk about him to get him off them.”