by Sara Seale
“How clever of you, darling!” exclaimed Vanessa. “Here we are with our perfectly good eyes, and you have to find the first egg!”
“Did you cheat, Uncle Dane?” asked Alice, round-eyed. “Did you know where it was hidden?”
“No, I promise you, Alice. Shorty would never give the game away, even to me,” laughed Dane. He seemed absurdly delighted with his find and tossed the bright blue egg from one hand to the other until finally he dropped and smashed it.
“Clumsy ...” he murmured, and stood by after that while the others searched.
Emily wanted to go to him, to give him one of her own eggs to make up, but she knew it would be ridiculous, and perhaps it was only her imagination that his face had worn a crestfallen air when he had dropped the egg. But when Tim and Vanessa had gone home, and Alice for the nightly bath before her supper, Emily sat on the arm of Dane’s chair in the library and rested her cheek against his for a moment.
“Thank you for joining in the hunt, too,” she said softly. “Alice was terribly impressed that you found the first egg.”
He looked up, as though surprised by her gesture. “You’ve worked hard to make a happy Easter, Emily,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve had your reward.”
“And Vanessa,” said Emily, making royal amends for past resentment, “looked quite ravishing in the orchard with all the green and blossom just beginning to bud. I wish you could have seen her, Dane. She wore blue, the exact shade of her eyes, and her hair in the sunlight was like beaten copper.”
“Don’t overdo it, my dear,” he said with a little twisted smile. “I appreciate your generosity, but it isn’t necessary, you know. I’ve seen Vanessa look like that many a time.”
“Yes,” said Emily, slipping off the arm of his chair. “I suppose you have.”
CHAPTER NINE
ALICE had not taken kindly to Tim who, by his attentions to Emily, had been responsible for the first jealousy she had ever experienced in her relationships with human beings; but for Vanessa she conceived a reserved admiration, recognizing, perhaps, an ally who could be relied upon to make mischief which might be turned to her own advantage. Alice was not a vindictive child by nature, but she had come home expecting to have Emily to herself, standing watchfully between her and the guardian whose blindness frightened her, and she was upset by the currents and cross-currents which her sharp, too observant mind picked up unerringly.
Vanessa, for her part, clearly recognized the child’s trouble and took pleasure in fostering the jealousy.
“You mustn’t mind if Emily is rather taken up with Mr. Lonnegan,” she would say. “She was once in love with him, you know...”
“Poor Mr. Lonnegan ... he’s so much nearer Emily’s age ... a pity your guardian stands in the way...”
“Poor Emily ... tied to a blind man she doesn’t love...”
Alice’s resentment began to shift to Dane. She had always been afraid of him and now, here was her dear Emily neglecting her for someone else because she was unhappy with Uncle Dane.
Vanessa had no compunction. She did not care for children and if this not very attractive little girl could be used as a pawn, she was prepared to put up with Alice’s admiration and embarrassing stare, but to Dane she said:
“Plain little thing, isn’t she? How did Ben Carey come to adopt her?”
“I forget the story,” Dane replied. “She was an unwanted child, I believe, and Ben got lonely in his old age.”
“Rather hard on the child being done out of her inheritance by you,” laughed Vanessa. “You never expected to get Pennyleat, did you?”
“No,” said Dane gravely, “but Ben was always fond of me for my mother’s sake. He was a disappointed man all his life, and I think my accident gave him a fellow feeling. There’s money in trust for Alice, you know. She won’t be dependent on me once she comes of age.”
“She doesn’t like you, does she?”
Dane looked suddenly tired.
“My blindness frightens her. I hoped Emily would fill the need that I can’t.”
“But Emily is a little taken up in another direction at the moment, isn’t she, darling?” Vanessa said softly.
It was the first time she had put her hints into words with Dane and she was a little nonplussed when he answered without evasion:
“If you’re referring to young Lonnegan, it was you who introduced him here, my dear.”
“But I wasn’t to know ... I mean, who would credit our mousy Emily with having had a grand affaire du coeur?”
“I scarcely think that the inevitable calf-love of our teens can be described so grandiloquently,” he retorted dryly.
“Perhaps not...” Vanessa’s voice was suddenly deep and soft. “Did I do wrong in bringing them together again, Dane? Emily’s not like other girls—this may have been serious for her. Oh, darling, why did you have to go and marry her? It wasn’t fair ... it wasn’t fair to tie the poor child up when in time, Tim, perhaps, would have come back.”
“Are you suggesting that Emily is tiring of her bargain?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that Tim regrets his mistake, so possibly Emily may be regretting hers.”
“It’s too late for regrets,” Dane said with sudden harshness. “If one deliberately makes a mistake, knowing full well the consequences, then one must abide by it.”
“On the old principle of making your bed and lying on it?”
“Exactly.”
“How hard you sound, Dane.” Her voice was wistful. “Have you never forgiven me for my mistake?”
“Did you make one, Vanessa?”
“Yes, I think I did—when I threw you over.”
“If it’s assurance you want,” he said, “there’s never been a question of forgiveness. I quite understood your reactions to my accident.”
“But it rankled?”
“Naturally it rankled. One’s pride is hurt, if nothing else.”
“And because of that you married the first little girl who was prepared to sell herself in exchange for a home and security... Oh, Dane, how could you be so foolish? What can there possibly be for you both now, with Emily breaking her heart for somebody else and I—I perhaps breaking mine?”
He knew she was bending over him. He could smell the scent she used and feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek.
“It would be better if you stopped coming here, Vanessa,” he said evenly. “I think I told you that before.”
“And Tim, too?”
“And Lonnegan, too. One doesn’t care to be obliged to kick a man out of one’s house.”
When Vanessa had gone on that occasion, he sat for a long time in the library, his fingers pressed against his eyelids. Alice found him there and, not wishing to be left alone with him, was about to make her exit when he spoke.
“Is that you, Alice? Where’s Emily?”
She stood, one hand on the door, regarding him with dislike and a certain trepidation.
“In the orchard with Mr. Lonnegan,” she said. “They were playing tag like two children.”
“Why didn’t you join in?” he asked wearily.
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t want me,” said Alice virtuously. “When Mr. Lonnegan caught Emily she laughed, and once he kissed her, and she laughed again and ran away. They wouldn’t want me at all.”
“I see,” said Dane. “Well, run along and see if tea is nearly ready. We’ll have it by ourselves if they don’t come in.”
But Emily came in alone. She was still flushed and dishevelled from running and Dane could feel the joyousness coming from her.
“Where's Lonnegan?” he asked.
“Gone. He only came to pick up Vanessa but she must have left.”
“Alice saw you at your antics in the orchard. Was kissing part of the game?”
“Kissing?” For a moment she sounded genuinely surprised, then she laughed. “Oh, of course—we were playing forfeits. We tried to get Alice to join in but she wouldn’t.”
“I see.”
>
She was suddenly aware of the displeasure in his voice and some other quality which she had never heard before.
“You don’t mind, do you, Dane?” she said uncertainly. “It was only a game.”
“Was it? When is this young man going to return to work?”
“Soon, I think.”
“Well, until he goes, please be a little more circumspect. Even if I understand these things, it’s highly probable that Alice does not.”
Shorty brought in the tea and Alice walked sedately behind him and carefully avoided Emily’s eye. Emily poured out with a troubled heart. It seemed evident that the child had been making mischief and the thought was disturbing. She was aware that Alice resented Tim, but they had not seen much of him since Easter, and she was unaware of Vanessa’s casual overtures to the child. She must, she thought, try to arrange some little treats for Alice before the holidays ended and try, too, to bridge the gap between the child and her guardian, for she knew that Dane was hurt by his apparent inability to arouse affection in her.
But the days went by and it became apparent to Emily that the uneasy relationship between Dane and his ward now extended to her. They would sit, the three of them, in little worlds of isolation and it was almost a relief when Tim or Vanessa unexpectedly called. Emily took Alice for drives and early picnics when the day was warm enough, but Dane would never come, and it was a little sad eating an alfresco meal with a child who had plainly only come out of politeness.
“I’m failing her these holidays,” she confided to Shorty. “She seems to shut us all out. Why is it?”
Shorty screwed up his monkey face thoughtfully. It was plain to all of them in the kitchen what ailed Miss Alice these holidays, but the gentry seldom saw what was under their noses.
“Too much coming and going,” he said. “The kid’s used to this old house as it used to be. Too much with the grown-ups, that’s wot.”
“But there don’t seem to be any children. I’ve made enquiries.”
“Well, don’t fret yourself, ma’am, she’ll be back at school before long,” said Shorty evasively.
He did not himself like the advent of that young Mr. Lonnegan who was plainly the type to chase married women. It was easy to see what Miss Vanessa Larne was after, even if Mrs. Pride did uphold her, but he had long ago reached the conclusion that Emily, whatever she might understand of the situation, was too nicely brought up to go out after what she wanted and defend her own rights.
“Wimmin!” he said disgustedly to Mrs. Meeker. “They give me a pain in the neck! When they ’ave something they don’t want it, and when they ain’t they do. Can you blame a chap for staying single?”
Just before the end of Alice’s holidays, Dane told Emily he was going to London for a couple of nights. The news was so unexpected and so unlike him that, she was bewildered.
“On business?” she asked.
“Not exactly. I’m taking Shorty with me, but you’ll be able to manage with Mrs. Pride and Mrs. Meeker for that short time.”
“Take me with you, instead,” Emily begged impulsively. “I can do everything for you that Shorty can and—and—well, wouldn’t it be nicer?”
“Much nicer, I don’t doubt,” he returned a little dryly. “No, Emily, I’ve affairs to attend to that don’t concern you, and Shorty knows my ways. Besides, it’s Alice’s last week. We can’t leave her alone with the servants.”
It was no use arguing, Emily saw, but she knew a keen sense of disappointment. She longed passionately to get away with Dane from the confinement and dangerously charged air of Pennyleat.
“Will you stay at a hotel?” she asked wistfully, knowing how much he disliked being stared at by other people.
“No,” he said, “I shall stop with Louisa, and Shorty has plenty of old friends who will put him up. Shall I bring you back a present?”
He did not ask the question very seriously and she turned away.
“No,” she said. “Bring something for Alice.”
II
It seemed a long three days to Emily. She missed Dane unbearably, and even Shorty, with his impudent ways and downright speech. Bella, too, moped and lay beside Dane’s empty chair, refusing to be comforted, her brown, melting eyes fixed reproachfully upon Emily, as if she held her responsible for the master’s absence. Only Alice seemed released and more natural and became, for a time, the polite little girl who offered Emily her shy affection, as in the Christmas holidays, but on the second evening Tim came in unexpectedly after dinner and stayed on well into the small hours of the morning.
Alice sat up as long as she dared, silently hating him. Emily had allowed her licence in the matter of bedtime while Dane was away and she bitterly resented this intrusion. In the end it was Tim who observed pleasantly that it was far too late for little girls to be sitting up with their elders, and Alice went, omitting to kiss Emily good-night, and slamming the door after her, The next day she was distant and aloof and Emily felt thankful that Dane was returning in the evening.
When she heard the car draw up at the door she ran into the hall to meet him, accompanied by Bella who began uttering the little piping cries peculiar to her breed. When Dane came in, Emily would have run unthinkingly to kiss him, so glad was she to see him, but the bitch was first, springing against his chest in an ecstasy of delight, screaming her pleasure, and he spoke to her softly as if hers was the only welcome he expected or wanted.
“Down, Bella!” said Emily sharply. “She’ll hurt you, Dane. She’s too boisterous.”
“She won’t hurt me,” he laughed. “Poor Bella ... poor old girl ... you missed me, didn’t you?”
The bitch squirmed at his feet in frantic subjection and he stooped to caress her again. As once before, Emily, watching, thought: He’s fonder of his dog than he is of me...
“Did you have a successful trip?” she asked, and knew she sounded merely polite; the well-trained secretary enquiring dutifully after her employer’s affairs.
For a moment he looked disappointed, as if he found something lacking, then replied casually, that the trip had been quite satisfactory.
“And how was Miss Pink?”
“Louisa was very flourishing. She sent her love.”
“Was the train crowded?”
“Not unduly. Shorty saw to my comfort.”
Such banal, empty little phrases as they walked together to the library.
“What about food?” asked Emily, glancing at the clock.
“I had dinner on the train, thanks,” he replied.
Alice was waiting to say good-night. She had particularly asked to be allowed to stay up until Dane came home, and Emily, hoping that the child had missed her guardian, had gladly given permission.
“Hullo, Uncle Dane,” she said.
“Hullo, Alice,” he returned with surprise. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“She wanted to stop up to say good-night to you,” Emily said. “I’m afraid we’ve been rather lax the last two nights. Alice has been staying up late to keep me company.”
“And did you enjoy that?” he asked the little girl.
“No,” said Alice unexpectedly. “That horrid Mr. Lonnegan was here all the time.”
Dane’s eyebrows rose and Emily said quickly:
“Oh, Alice! Not all the time. He only came in last night for a bit.”
“And sent me to bed, so that he could kiss you—I know!” said Alice. “He didn’t go till two in the morning. I wasn’t asleep.”
Dane’s mouth tightened.
“That’s enough, Alice,” he said sharply. “If Emily chooses to entertain a guest it’s none of your business—understand?”
The child’s lower lip quivered ominously.
“Yes, Uncle Dane,” she said.
“Very well. Say good-night and be off to bed.”
Alice gave Emily a frightened look of apology but she bade neither of them good-night and ran out of the room, crying.
“Oh, dear,” said Emily rather helplessly, “
I don’t seem to get the right side of Alice these holidays.”
“Have you tried very hard?” asked Dane coldly, and she saw that his mouth was set and hard.
“What do you mean? I made a playroom for her which she didn’t like, and I’ve tried to interest her in outside things. I’ve tried to give her affection, too, but she doesn’t seem to want it.”
“Because she’s jealous.”
“Oh, but, Dane, that’s absurd!”
“Is it? I told you at the beginning of the holidays that it would be a mistake to let your young man monopolize you.”
“But I haven’t seen a lot of Tim. It was unfortunate that he came in last night, but he wasn’t to know the child would still be up.”
“You mean you didn’t ask him?”
“Of course I didn’t ask him!”
“No, I suppose if you’d intended a tete-a-tete well into the morning you would have sent Alice to bed,” he said, and there was such bitterness in his voice that Emily’s hands flew to her mouth.
“I hadn’t realized it was so late, but even so, I think Alice exaggerates,” she murmured.
“We’d better get things straight once and for all,” he said, and she saw that he was controlling a rising anger. “I realize that your life with me is a little abnormal, but young Lonnegan’s attentions are rather too obvious for anyone’s comfort. It’s got to stop.”
Emily had gone white but she kept her voice steady. “You encouraged him to come here at first, if you remember,” she said.
“Oh, yes, I admit that, but also, if you remember, you told me, indirectly, that you no longer cared for him. I wanted to be sure of that, so, as you’ve just pointed out, I encouraged him to come here.”
“Then why—why are you angry now?”
“What you’re implying, I suppose, is that I’ve no right to be angry,” he said bitterly. “I condemned you to a marriage which had no promise of fulfilment and I shouldn’t squawk if you choose to lead your own life.”
“I wouldn’t have denied you fulfilment,” she said gently. “You made your own choice.”