by Guy McCrone
III
Mrs. Dermott and Grace had taken David back to Aucheneame. He was bewildered and exhausted. He had not wanted to come with them after the concert, but, until he had decided what he must do, there was no excuse for absenting himself. As he sat in the carriage opposite Grace, he noticed that she, too, seemed tired and out of spirits. This was not perhaps surprising. At Grosvenor Terrace she had been running here, there and everywhere.
Neither of them spoke much. Nor were they required to. Mrs. Dermott, stimulated as she was by any gathering of people, talked without ceasing.
“I do think the whole thing was excellently arranged, David. Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse must be a born organiser. I really must ask her to join us on the Indigent Mothers. There’s a vacancy on the committee.”
“What a beautiful singer Miss Rennie is! She reminds me more of Trebelli-Bettini than anybody. You remember we heard her in London, Grace?”
“I like your sister Sophia so much, David. She seems to me so sincere. Her husband doesn’t say very much, does he?”
“Lady McCulloch was asking where you were going for your honeymoon. I said I hadn’t the faintest idea. I didn’t tell her I had strongly advised you to go to Paris. I didn’t see any reason to pander to her inquisitiveness.”
David was thankful that the chatter in the carriage went on. And he was thankful, too, that the weekend was filled with the same sort of thing. It was the first weekend since he had entered Dermott Ships, and Robert Dermott was forever making excuses to take him aside and talk business. It was unpleasant for David to go on feeling an impostor. But anything was better than being left alone with Grace. It was easier and less contemptible to be acting a part to her father, than to be acting a part to herself.
But he dreaded the hour or two after the Sunday midday dinner, for it was then, usually, in the quiet of the afternoon, that he was left alone with her. Even that, however, he managed to avoid. For after their meal, Robert Dermott was seized with feelings of faintness, and David, having with the aid of a man-servant helped him to his room, undertook to go with a groom in Mrs. Dermott’s pony-trap to seek out and bring back the local doctor. The process of finding him, bringing him, and hearing his pronouncement, that Mr. Dermott was merely suffering from some slight indisposition such as came to men at his time of life, and that he must remember his age and be careful, filled up the hours till tea-time. And beyond even that, indeed, for Mrs. Dermott kept the doctor to tea, and spent a considerable time, now that her anxiety for her husband was allayed, telling him in detail of an attack of pneumatic fever she had had some years ago, how expert his predecessor had been in effecting her cure, and how sorry the district had been to see the former doctor take up practice elsewhere.
In the late evening David came down from Robert Dermott’s room. At the request of the old man, who said he felt well now, but had been counselled to remain at home for some days, David had been sitting, notebook in hand, taking down instructions which he was to carry to the office. He had expected to find Mrs. Dermott with Grace. But Grace sat alone by the fire, a book on her knee.
He went to her, and, as was expected of him, bent down and kissed her. She caught his hand and raised it to her lips. He stood, his back to the fire, fanning out his long coat-tails and looking down upon her. She seemed tired, even a little worn, as she looked up at him.
“Well, Grace?”
“Well, David?”
“Your father’s all right. He’s been ordering me about as if I was the whole office staff of Dermott Ships put together. You haven’t been worrying about him, have you?”
She smiled. “No, not any more. Although anything like that is very unusual with father. I suppose we must accept that he’s getting old.”
David continued warming himself before the fire for some moments, looking in front of him, occupied with his own thoughts.
“David.”
The tone of her voice made him look down quickly. He saw that Grace’s colour had risen, that she was trying to say something.
“Grace? Is anything wrong?”
“Sit down, David. I want to say something to you.”
He sat down upon a stool at her feet. “My dearest, is anything—?”
“Let me say this quickly—mother may come in. David, I just wanted to say that any time between now and March, if you—well, feel you don’t want to go on with our engagement, I want you to know that—that I’m not holding you in any way. I don’t want you to feel bound, because—” Her voice stopped, she could say no more.
He rose to his feet and, bending down, kissed her once again. He felt a great tenderness towards her. His sensibilities were tortured by her own. And yet, in the act of reassuring her, he found himself asking what signs she had seen; how she had come to guess? He felt that had he known passion, rather than tenderness towards her, he might have raged; demanding why she wanted to be free of him, why she wanted to ruin his life? But he dare not ask these questions, for the very asking of them would be untruthful.
But Grace seemed comforted by the reassurance he could give her, and when her mother came to them there was no sign that any storm had been.
IV
In the middle of the following morning Bel received a note from David. It was delivered by hand, and read as follows:
“Please meet me in Ferguson and Forester’s restaurant in Buchanan Street today at one. We can have a private room. I must talk to you. I am in great trouble. Don’t tell anyone that you are meeting me.
“DAVID.”
For Bel, David’s request was highly inconvenient. She was setting her house to rights after Saturday’s disturbance. But Bel was fond of David. She must go to him somehow.
She called to Phœbe, who was going out: “Phœbe dear, I wonder if you would mind staying in this morning. The men are coming to take away the grand piano. And some chairs are to go back. And all sorts of other things. Sarah will tell you.”
Phœbe agreed to remain. Although she could not see what she could do to keep the house from damage if the workmen chose to wreck it.
“I’ve got to go and call on Margaret’s doctor.” A white lie never troubled Bel, and this was her best alibi. No one would be so indelicate as to ask questions about Margaret’s condition.
Bel was not accustomed to having tête-à-tête meals with young men in private rooms of restaurants. She was nothing if not circumspect. The very thought of scandal was abhorrent to her. But every movement and feature of David proclaimed him a Moorhouse, and a brother of her husband. People, if they saw her, might think it unusual, but a midday meal with a brother-in-law could not be accounted fast.
“Well, David? What’s all this about?” she said, pulling off her gloves. David, she noted, was looking pale and as though he had not slept.
“We’ll order dinner, and then I’ll tell you. It was kind of you to come.” He pressed the bell on the wall above their table.
“Did you go to Aucheneame this weekend?” Bel asked conversationally, as they waited.
“Yes.” He told her of Robert Dermott.
“Grace and her mother would be glad to have you.”
“Yes.” His tired eyes did not look at her. They seemed to be glad to fasten themselves on the waiter who presented himself.
When he had gone with his order there was silence.
“Well, David? Tell me.” She felt she must force his confidence. After all, he had brought her here to confide.
“I’m in love with Lucy Rennie, Bel.”
Bel said nothing whatever. She merely sat looking at David, letting the first impact of the words do what they would with her. She must give herself time. Her thoughts turned to Grace Dermott. She liked everything that Grace stood for. A Moorhouse-Dermott alliance was important to all of them. Yesterday the thought of Lucy Rennie had raised Bel to the seventh heaven. She had allowed her own vanity full scope. But Lucy Rennie was a nobody compared to Grace. Now she could feel nothing but anger and disgust against Lucy. And anger, too, with David
for being such a fool. But she must keep her head. For everybody’s sake. Not only for David and Grace. Gradually her thoughts began to clear themselves.
Yes, above all, she must keep her head. David would not have told her this unless he had wanted her help. This meant that she had some power with him. She would not dramatise. She would play the whole thing down. She would not fan the flames of his infatuation, either by resisting him or by offering comfort. If she could stifle this, she must do it.
“David,” she said, “I don’t think you are in love with Lucy Rennie.”
“Why?”
“Listen, dear. Let me tell you what I think. I dare say you’ve got—well, a little carried away. You see, Miss Rennie’s very nice. But she’s the kind of person our family don’t know very much about.”
“I’ve known Lucy Rennie all my life.”
“Not the part of it she spent in London. You see, it’s her stock-in-trade to be attractive. I don’t say she’s doing it consciously with you—”
“How could she? I knew her when she was a child.”
“Perhaps that’s made your friendship a little—well, sentimental, David. It’s the first time you’ve met her as a woman. Does she know how you feel?”
“No, not really. But I’m certain she suspects.”
“As far as Miss Rennie’s concerned, there may be one or two other young men who are ‘certain she suspects’. Young men think all sorts of things when they’re in your state of mind. Especially innocent ones, David.” She saw he did not like this, but she left him to consider for a little, then went on: “You see, David, this isn’t a simple love affair. There’s Grace.”
She saw him flinch, as the waiter threw open the door to bring in their soup. The man wondered at this couple sitting so expressionless and silent. He put the plates down and closed the door behind him.
“Grace offered to free me yesterday evening.”
“Grace!” But she must hold on firmly. “David, have you broken your engagement?”
“No, I hadn’t the strength of mind. Remember, her father was ill. You can think how I felt.”
Again Bel considered. “You love Grace more than you know.”
“I wish I thought so. I was weak, Bel, that’s all.”
“Nonsense, David. I’m glad you didn’t. What does Grace know about you and Lucy Rennie?”
“I don’t know. She can’t know much. There’s nothing to know.”
“Was there anything at Duntrafford?”
“No, I don’t think so. Except—” He stopped.
“Except what, David?”
“Well, except that we saw Lucy there, more than once.”
“You fell in love with her there, you mean?”
“Perhaps.”
“And do you imagine, David—you of all people—that Grace wouldn’t notice?”
He sat thinking, crumbling bread with one hand.
“So that’s why she offered to free me,” he said at length. And then, with a look of distress, he muttered: “Bel, what am I to do?”
Bel sat considering. It would be so easy to plunge into an orgy of womanish emotion with this young man. But if she did, she would merely be indulging herself. And she must remember her own part in this affair. She had, in a sense, encouraged David to engage himself to marry Grace Dermott. She felt some responsibility. And now that she knew Grace, she was sure they were well suited. Both David and Grace were accommodating, easy people. They would do excellently together in the world where they belonged. The pity was that this ridiculous, boyish flare-up hadn’t happened when David was twenty-one instead of thirty-one, just when he was on the eve of being more than suitably settled.
As they stood up to go, she gave him her verdict.
“David, don’t make any break with Grace yet. I’ll think about this, and see you towards the end of the week. At least you owe it to Grace to wait until her father is quite better. It would be very cruel to do anything else. Will you promise?”
“All right, I’ll promise.”
As Bel took her way up Buchanan Street, she found herself wondering if a call on Miss Rennie would serve any purpose. But she decided against it. She had had indication already that Lucy would not take her interference. It might, indeed, rouse her resentment and weigh the scales down on the wrong side.
Chapter Eighteen
THE mid-January sun was shining in through the large, revealing windows of Aucheneame this morning, finding its way through chilly, starched lace curtains and between hangings of tasselled velvet into spacious, tasteless rooms. It found very little dust in any of them, nor could it catch many dust-particles floating in its own slanting rays, for this house, set on a green hill above the River Clyde, received none of the smoke of industry, and its mistress, competent herself, saw to it that her many servants made diligent use of brush and duster. There was nothing cosy about Aucheneame. Yet on a morning such as this it was not uncheerful, filled with the sunshine as it was, and catching the sun’s bright reflection from the winding silver of a river, spotted with the black dots of fussy river craft, steam-tugs and such, as a forest pool is spotted with water-beetles.
But to Grace Dermott it was home, and as she moved about from one bright room to another, doing her Monday-morning household tasks, she was not unhappy.
It would not be true to say that she was quite carefree. But her talk with David last night had lifted most, at least, of the weight that had lain upon her mind since her return from Duntrafford. She was glad she had offered him his freedom. It had been an effort, such as she had never made in her life, but she would not hold him against his will; however much it might cost her.
There was little doubt that David had been attracted by Lucy Rennie. She had some sort of effect upon him that Grace could not understand. She disliked Lucy, but she was not sure that it was fair to blame her. Grace had watched David at Duntrafford. He had flushed and responded to Lucy. He had appeared unnaturally alert when Lucy was present. He had seemed anxious to be in Lucy’s company. Above all, the picture of David’s face as he sat listening to Lucy’s singing on New Year’s night had worried and tormented her. It had driven her to a decision. If Lucy’s spell seemed still to move David at the concert on Saturday, then, Grace determined, she would offer to let him go.
It had been a terrible step, but she had taken it. And she was glad. It would have been easier for her to be weak; to confide in her mother; to confide, even, in Bel. All kinds of aspects of her problem had jostled each other in her mind, but one decision, at least, had resulted. She would do nothing to coerce David, to drive him into the fold beside her. This was a thing between herself and him, and no one else must interfere. She knew all the Moorhouse family were her friends. She had made them so, anxiously and determinedly. But not from any idea of finding support for herself; merely that she should become as quickly as might be one of themselves as David’s wife. Moreover, she had come to realise Bel’s position among them. She knew Bel’s influence was strong. Bel could easily rouse family feeling on her behalf. Join Moorhouse feeling to the outrage of her parents, and a renegade David would be facing something formidable indeed.
But this was the last thing she wanted for him. She had taken her resolve. Whatever happened between herself and David must have the dignity of secrecy.
Bel’s concert, then, had brought things to a head, and Grace had taken her decision. Tremulously jealous, she had watched David, and there had been no mistaking his feelings. Lucy Rennie attracted him. She must offer to let him go.
Grace stood at a window looking out into the winter sunshine. A giant grain-clipper was coming up the river in the tow of what seemed an absurdly small black tug. The bare, spidery rigging showed against the green of the hillside on the far bank. The picture misted a little before her as she smiled to herself.
David had not wanted to be free of her. He had treated her gently, assured her that she was his, and that must be an end of it; that she was worried and overstrung by the illness of her father
, and had begun imagining things. She had not argued with him. She could not. And he had reassured her. Or at least, she had allowed herself to be reassured. She had been foolish. That was all. The Lucy Rennie affair must be wholly superficial—something outside of David’s control. She must remember Lucy was an old friend of David’s, and naturally he must have some affection for her. And she was going back to London this week some time. That would end the matter.
Grace turned to find her mother standing behind her.
“Oh, there you are, Grace,” Mrs. Dermott said. “I think you might go to your father. He’s not feeling very well again this morning. I’m going to send again for the doctor.”
Grace turned and went.
II
Bel’s day was to be a disturbed one. She had made straight for home after quitting David. Yet, full as her head was with problems, there was still room for worry about that was happening in Grosvenor Terrace. Was Phœbe seeing to the tradesmen properly? Was her precious house suffering no damage?
The tram-horses puffed their way up into Hillhead and stopped at Botanic Gardens. As Bel alighted and turned into Grosvenor Terrace she was surprised to see a carriage standing in front of her own door. A groom was holding the horses’ heads; Sarah was standing on the step looking up and down the Terrace. In a moment more Bel recognised the Dermotts’ carriage. What was the matter? Had Grace come to pay a call? But why this unbecoming informality at the door? She hurried her step, and called:
“Sarah, is there anything wrong?”
“It’s a message from Mistress Dermott, Mam.”
Bel was now standing by the carriage. “Good afternoon, MacDonald. I hope there’s nothing wrong,” she said, conducting herself, in spite of the confusion of the moment, with what she considered was becoming dignity before Robert Dermott’s servants.
“The Master is no’ so well, Mam. The Mistress said I was to be giving you this. And be waiting for you.” There was a look of concern in the man’s eyes. He handed her an envelope.