by Guy McCrone
No. David would be glad to do anything to help. The pattern was unwinding itself. He could not stop it. And he could not hide from himself that he was pleased to have this excuse for going to Lucy Rennie again. Next week she would be gone out of his reach—unless?
“Here you are, then, David. Here’s a short note to Miss Rennie. Oh, here’s Sarah with tea. Mary dear, you’ll wait and have some tea, won’t you?”
Mary, who was making no move, thanked Bel and stayed where she was. “Just when you are at your desk, Bel dear, could you write me the recipe for your chocolate cake? I see Sarah’s brought one up. You’ve always been going to do it.”
But Bel, remembering some other, urgent point about the concert, was in sudden deep talk with David. Phœbe poured out tea, and Mary was foiled again.
III
Lucy Rennie’s morning had been busy with pupils, and she was grateful, having finished lunch, to take a cup of coffee to an easy chair by the fire. Outside it was very cold and a little foggy. A letter received this morning had told her it was mild in London. She was glad to be going back.
But it was not only the weather that made Lucy glad to leave Glasgow. It was time she was gone. In London she had found her niche. That was her world. It was a friendly, easy world, with its own standards. And, if you were tactful, were not infirm of purpose, and were a hard-working artist—all of which attributes Lucy, having long since shed illusion, had acquired, you could make a very good life of it. London was her home now. It was there that she could breathe.
She had been glad to leave Greenhead yesterday. She, her father and her sister had made good-natured attempts to reach each other. But Lucy’s life had thrust them too far apart. Her ways of thought, the education she had picked up, had set up too many barriers. She was better, really, not to see them very much. The thought distressed her a little. It was dreary to face the truth that the bonds between herself and her relatives had fallen away.
But that was not all the reason for her disquietude. There was David Moorhouse. When she had seen him at Duntrafford she had become aware that he was attracted to herself.
Lucy bent over the fire, thinking. It wouldn’t do. She had no intention of starting up a flirtation with David. If it had been someone of her own world, who knew the rules of the game—but with a man of the Moorhouse world, the world she had broken from. … No. Besides, David Moorhouse had always been the little boy of her memory, a part of the picture of her not unpleasant childhood. There had been one or two close friendships with men, since she had grown up. But David would always hold a unique place. He had grown into a handsome man, in no way belying the promise of his boyhood. But she did not want to know this man. Much better to leave as undisturbed as might be the picture of the boy—to leave the grown man to the young woman he had chosen, and go her own ways in peace.
The door was thrown open and the man she was thinking of stood before her.
“David! How are you? Come in. What has brought you at this time of day?”
“It’s about Bel’s concert, Lucy. I can’t stay.”
“You look cold. Take off your overcoat for five minutes, and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
He did as he was told. “Well, only for a minute. I’ve gone into a new business, you know: Grace’s father is taking me into partnership.”
“I know. I heard all about it. Some people have all the luck.”
“Have they?”
“Well, aren’t you having luck, David? I would call you very ungrateful if you said you weren’t.”
“Yes, I dare say I am lucky.”
But the brightness of David’s prospects proved but a flat topic between them. So Lucy took Bel’s letter, read it, and discussed its contents with him.
“Well, I think that’s about everything.” Lucy’s contribution to the concert arrangements had not taken long. And now that she came to think of it, she had done all the talking. She expected David to go now, but he stayed on, making disjointed remarks, unable, it would seem, to take himself away.
He asked her what she did in London; how she lived. She gave him suitable answers. There was something very innocent about all this; dangerously naïve. If she had disliked David it would have been easy to show him the door. Young men at this emotional pitch were not unknown to her, and in the past she had dealt with them clear-headedly, as it had suited her. But she couldn’t do it with David. He was too much a part of memory. And she was beginning to feel that if she were not careful, her own emotions would be caught.
She stood up. “David,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to send you away. But I must go out soon.”
He stood up, too, as it seemed to her, reluctantly. For a moment they were together on the hearthrug. Quickly, Lucy moved away and ran one finger over the keys of her piano as though she were impatient to practise.
“Lucy, can I ask a favour?”
She turned and faced him.
“Will you sing the song you played and sang at Duntrafford? You know, the one you said you would sing at Bel’s concert.”
No. She wasn’t going to help him to an emotional scene. She allowed a smile to spread over her face, and permitted herself a little burst of laughter. “What a sentimental old thing you are, David! You want me to sing that song to you, just because that girl of yours liked it.”
“No, Lucy, I—”
“Here’s your coat, David! I’ll sing it for you all on Saturday. She’ll be there, won’t she?” She held up David’s coat for him to get into.
There was nothing left for him to do but to put it on, say goodbye and go. His face, as he went, had the same embarrassed expression as when, in childhood, they had been caught together at the same forbidden prank and he was being roundly scolded.
She laughed as she went to her window and watched him as his muffled figure receded down the hill. But there was wistfulness and self-distrust in her laughter.
Chapter Sixteen
GRACE was quickly becoming part of the family. Bel sat looking at her with approval over a cup of eleven o’clock tea. Only a day had elapsed since Bel had decided to have Miss Rennie’s concert on Saturday afternoon, and here was Grace up to Grosvenor Terrace this morning already.
Yesterday David had sent her a note by her father. She had come to find in what direction she could be helpful. A strong sympathy was growing up between Bel and Grace Dermott. They were both well-intentioned women, though Bel’s goodness suffered, at times, from a thick overlay of snobbery and petty scheming. Grace was simpler, and had none of that unimaginative unattractive shrewdness, which many comfortable Lowland Scots mistake for common sense. But she had some of her parents’ organising instinct, and she was putting this at Bel’s service this morning.
She sat at the table in the back parlour, pencil in hand, making suggestions and writing down one item after the other. A carpenter to unscrew hinges. The florist. The caterer. She would make inquiries of all sorts, and come back to tell Bel.
Grace’s mother, Bel learnt, had a list of people to whom she was writing at once, telling them that they must attend Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse’s concert and give liberally for the distress in the city. Bel knew Mrs. Robert Dermott well enough to know that these people would regard her letters as royal commands and come, unless their excuses for staying away were very solid. Mrs. Dermott’s list was large and contained many important names in the West of Glasgow. It would all be very gratifying to look back upon. But the thought of these august people at Grosvenor Terrace, and how they should be treated, fussed Bel. Grace must stand beside her, tell her who was who, and see her through. They were, of course, the people Bel wanted in her house. Much more so than the McNairns’ honest City fathers and their wives, who would do well enough if she could do no better. She caught herself wondering if she dare send a note to Mary saying that, very unfortunately, Mrs. Robert Dermott had been over-zealous and had already invited as many people as the room would hold; and would Mary and George please delay inviting anyone until Bel saw how num
bers were going. But even Bel’s nerve failed her before this culminating snobbery. She must take her chance with Mary’s guests.
Everything, then, was satisfactorily arranged, and Bel was settling down with Grace to a final cup of tea when Sophia opened the parlour door and walked in.
“Hullo, dear. How are you? And Grace? This is nice! How are you both? A Happy New Year. I had such a nice bedside book from your mother, Bel, for Christmas. I must write and thank her. I haven’t had time yet. From a Thinker’s Garden it was called. You know. Nice, quiet, wee bits from great writers, just to make you think about life. Splendid to read just before you go to sleep.”
Had Bel not been so full of arrangements, and so resentful of Sophia’s intrusion, the picture of her fussy sister-in-law in bed beside her speechless bear of a husband, reading nice, quiet, wee bits and thinking about life, would have made it hard to keep solemn. Especially if David had been there to wink behind Sophia’s back. But this morning there was too much to be thought about.
“Could I have a cup of tea, dear?” Sophia went on.
With the best grace Bel could muster, she pulled the bell-pull by the fire.
The spate of talk continued: “I was out shopping, and I suddenly had a terrible hunger to see some flowers. I get it sometimes in winter. So I went into the Botanic Gardens and walked through the glass-houses. The bulbs are really lovely, dear. You should go. And just as I came out, I looked across here. I could see your house from up there quite clearly. Wasn’t it funny? It’s because there are no leaves on the trees. And I saw Sarah out at the door. She was polishing the bell and the letterbox. And I thought: ‘I’ll hurry across and walk straight in, and give Bel a surprise!”’
A third cup arrived at this moment, and Bel succeeded in producing something that looked like a wan smile of invitation as she poured out tea. Sensing danger ahead, she would fain have warned Grace to say nothing of the concert arrangements. But before she knew where she was, Grace had innocently told Sophia of Saturday’s doings. The inevitable happened.
“My dears! How interesting! I must tell dozens of people to come! And to think, Bel, that it was through me that you met Lucy Rennie! You remember, on the bridge?”
No; Bel had not remembered that it was through Sophia that she had met Lucy Rennie, and this, having now been pointed out to her, was an inconvenient fact that she could neither deny nor dismiss from her conscience. But with Sophia, what was to be done?
Sophia went on: “You see, I know a lot of nice church people, who would be terribly interested about Lucy, and probably have nothing else to do on Saturday afternoon. I dare say they would be glad to give a sixpence or two; especially if there was a cup of tea.”
It was some support to Bel to see that even Grace’s guilelessness was worried by the implications of Sophia’s offer. Like herself, Grace had no doubt been thinking, not in sixpences, but in five-pound notes. She must rally her forces. As a preliminary, she invited Sophia to have a piece of the chocolate cake of Mary’s coveting.
“It’s very kind of you, Sophia,” she said, assuming what she hoped looked like a grateful expression, “but I have just been worrying about numbers a little, dear. You see, George McNairn is asking some of the baillies and their wives, because it’s a town charity. And Grace’s mother has been very kind and written several people she thinks might give us handsome donations. So if you wouldn’t mind waiting until I let you know—I am so afraid of not having room for everybody. You’ll come yourself with William, of course, won’t you, dear?”
“Oh, of course. I quite see.” Sophia’s face fell. She had hoped to repay some casual entertainment not in her own house, but in Bel’s. “But you will let me know if there is room?”
Like the queen of mendacity she could be, Bel assured Sophia that she would.
II
Presently, and much to Bel’s relief, Sophia rose to go. She explained at length that she still had shopping to do, and must be home to see to the children’s midday meal. Bel’s bad conscience prompted her to kiss Sophia affectionately, and see her with more than usual attention to the door. She opened it with a parting word of guilty endearment, to find Miss Rennie standing on the step outside in the act of ringing the bell that Sarah had so lately polished.
“Lucy! How nice to see you! I’m coming to hear you sing on Saturday! How are you?” Sophia burst out.
Miss Rennie had a bright purposeful smile for both the ladies, and bade them good morning.
For a moment Sophia lingered on the doorstep. It was obvious to Bel that she was considering whether she ought to come back into the house and have a friendly talk with Lucy. But that would be altogether too maddening; when there was so much to arrange; when Grace was there to help with her counsel; and when Miss Rennie had come with the expressed intention of talking business. Bel was well aware that a flicker of an eyelid would have brought Sophia back inside. But guilty conscience or no guilty conscience, her eyelid did not flicker. So there was nothing left for Sophia to do but go down the front doorsteps to the pavement, while Bel’s door was closed behind her.
“See who’s here,” Bel called to Grace as she led Lucy into the parlour and rang for yet more tea. Bel was delighted. She had not expected Lucy; at all events not so soon as this morning. Now they could really push on with arrangements.
Lucy greeted Grace with politeness, trusted she had had a pleasant journey from Ayrshire, and expressed her own opinions as to how pleasant the meetings with old and new friends at Duntrafford had been. “David came to see me yesterday,” she went on. “He brought me your letter, Mrs. Moorhouse. And I thought I had better come up to see you as soon as I could to tell you my arrangements and hear what you were doing.” Lucy accepted a seat and suggested her programme. They then went upstairs, where Lucy ran her fingers over the piano, was tactfully doubtful if it was just the most suitable piano for her accompanist, who would also play pieces, and received Bel’s immediate permission to choose a hired piano and have it sent out from town at once.
Grace had come with them. Bel kept trying to draw her into the discussion. She had been so helpful already this morning. But, somehow, the light had gone out of her. Bel caught herself wondering if, after all, Grace were moody and spoilt. It might be. Though she had shown no sign of it before. As they descended the stairs again, Grace said she must go. She would see to the things she had undertaken to do this morning, and would call back later to let Bel know. Bel did not keep her. But she wondered.
“What a charming girl Miss Dermott is,” Lucy Rennie was saying as she came back into the parlour.
“Yes. We think David’s very lucky,” Bel answered, heartlessly enough.
“Miss Dermott’s very lucky, too, Mrs. Moorhouse. You see, I know David quite well. We were great friends as children. It’s been quite a—what shall I say?—bit of the past for me to see him again.”
“And what do you think of him now?”
“I’ve always thought David was a darling.”
Bel flinched a little at a young woman calling a young man a “darling”. Miss Rennie had picked up this unScottish expression in London, she supposed.
“I shall always be fond of David,” Lucy went on. “I’m glad he’s marrying someone nice.”
It would have taken someone much less alert, much less sensitive to overtones than Bel, to miss linking Grace’s sudden departure with what Lucy said. Had something happened at Duntrafford? Had David’s behaviour to Lucy given Grace cause to be jealous? Or had the mere fact that Lucy claimed the freedom of an old friendship thrown a spoilt only daughter out of temper? But instinctively Bel sided with Grace. Grace was one of the tribe now. This woman was, after all, just a singer—a Bohemian outsider. The Moorhouse family, in addition to David himself, had much to gain from David’s marriage to a Dermott. She must give Miss Rennie a tactful warning.
Bel smiled pleasantly. “Yes,” she said, “I think I can say David’s a special friend of mine, too. You see, he was just a boy when he came to Glasgo
w. In some ways I took the place of his mother. He tells me most things. I know Grace Dermott is everything to him now.” She looked steadily into Lucy’s eyes.
“The Dermotts are very rich people, I hear,” Lucy said solemnly.
Bel fell into Lucy’s trap. “Very. It’s a splendid connection. Dermott Ships, of course. David is to be made a partner.”
“So he’ll be among the great and the mighty. Some people have everything thrown at them, don’t they, Mrs. Moorhouse?” Lucy smiled, looking steadily back at Bel for a moment. Then with a little laugh she added: “While people like myself have to fight for everything.” After a moment’s pause, and as Bel made no reply, she went on: “Now, you were asking about the tuning of the piano. Well, you see—”
Bel felt, somehow, that it was she who had received the warning, as Lucy, serene and sure of herself, went on with the arrangements that had brought her to Grosvenor Terrace.
III
Bel’s concert was arranged for three o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Grace and her mother arrived at two, Grace having promised to see Bel through the final stages of preparation. And as there was nowhere else convenient for her mother to be, she had to bring Mrs. Dermott with her. Grace’s mother was an awkward person to have in the house at such a time. She came in, giving loud instructions that no one was to mind her. But the great Mrs. Robert Dermott was the sort of person one had to mind. Her presence filled every house she entered.
Bel’s children, Arthur, Isabel and Tom, were gathered together, a rather forlorn little group, in the hall, waiting for their Aunt Mary’s nursemaid to call for them and take them to spend the afternoon with their McNairn cousins at Albany Place. Mrs. Dermott demanded of the harassed mother to be introduced to them, asked them their names, and bestowed half-crowns upon them. All of which wasted precious time. For Bel had to make sure that they were being polite, and answering their new Aunt Grace’s mother nicely, while caterers were coming in with trays of cakes and drums of ice-cream, and every other kind of tradesman was coming to the front door instead of going properly to the back, and all sorts of last-minute activity were under way.