It was, thought Helen, extraordinary. More, it was fantastic. For over ten years she had managed her mother, arranged her affairs, augmented her slender income, tried — not too successfully — to turn her from a tweed-clad little mouse into a well-turned-out townswoman. She had never asked her mother’s advice on any matter whatsoever, and had stood firmly on her own feet since her father’s death. She was young, successful, sought-after and utterly self-sufficient. And her mother still needed to be convinced that she was not doing wrong in going away and leaving her—
Mothers, decided Helen, were impossible.
Chapter 2
Six hours’ sleep served to restore to Mrs. Rome some of the courage which had ebbed the night before. She lay for some time forming a determination to fix her mind upon practical matters, putting away for the present her depression and fears. Her eyes went from the suit-cases packed and ready on the floor, to the clock on the wall, and her face whitened. This was almost the last moment. She looked round the small room and tried to remember that here, years ago, she had suffered the same forebodings, the same feelings of hopelessness at the prospect of adjusting herself to a new life.
She longed desperately for the quality of self-possession that all other women of her acquaintance seemed to possess, and wondered—not for the first time—whether her parents had omitted, as Helen so often asserted, to pour enough stiffening mixture into her composition.
It was too late now. She had faltered through life for more than forty years and she would no doubt go on in the same way—stepping timidly in the shadow of stronger natures. Perhaps if her parents had known more of the world and its—its pushiness, they would have taught her how to battle. She closed her eyes and found her mind drifting back to the days of her childhood…
She had been born and brought up in a quiet, remote country rectory. An only child, and delicate, she had not been sent to school; her father gave her a sound education and her mother taught her that she must serve others, clean her teeth after every meal, breathe through her nose and behave with gentle courtesy to all people at all times.
The country rectory, the gentle parents passed, almost insensibly, into an even more remote rectory in which there was a kind, gentle husband and, soon afterwards, a delightful little daughter. For eleven years Natalie Forrester’s life continued its smooth course. Her husband taught the little daughter—not only her lessons, but to ride, to hunt, to milk cows, judge cattle and even to bowl straight. Natalie taught her to serve others, clean her teeth after every meal and breathe through her nose, and was approaching the more difficult task of making her behave with gentle courtesy when, without warning, her world turned upside-down. Her husband, after only two days’ illness, died, and Natalie found herself with nothing in the world but a small daughter, a smaller income, good teeth, sound lungs, and a shy, retiring manner.
Through the unhappiness and bewilderment of the next few months, she had only two clear ideas. One was to preserve her independence, and the other, to place herself near a good day school to which her daughter could be sent. Both goals proved easy; nobody gave her the opportunity to be dependent, and she soon found an inexpensive cottage near a town with an excellent school.
For a few months, life went on uneventfully in the cottage and then Helen Forrester, who was just over twelve, informed her mother that this, in her opinion, was no way to live and that they must, in future—in fact, immediately—live in some other way. Natalie, looking into her daughter’s intelligent, calm brown eyes and deciding that the child was old enough to be given a share of responsibility in matters which concerned her own future, invited Helen to make some suggestions as to the proposed changes.
It was a turning-point in the relationship between mother and daughter. From that moment Helen, taking the reins of the modest family buggy into her small, capable hands, had driven it where she would.
And how steadily, her mother remembered with pride and affection—how steadily and how swiftly she had driven it. They had moved almost at once into a pretty little house in the middle of the town, the rent of which was covered by the acquisition of two mistresses from the school as paying guests. The next journey was of Helen herself to a boarding school, and three years later the pretty house was given up and Mrs. Forrester found herself in a small flat in London.
The change had not been easy. London frightened her and she longed for the green fields and peaceful countryside they had left behind them. But Helen was driving, and her mother must drive with her or be left behind. Natalie settled down and accustomed herself to the new life, while Helen presented herself at the firm of Maybelle et Cie and was given a post as junior saleswoman in the second salon.
Natalie heard the news with astonishment, which increased as she learnt the steps which led to the appointment. Maybelle, she found, was no other than Mrs. Creech, mother of the odd little Judy Creech who had been Helen’s friend at school for the past three years. It was no surprise to Natalie that Mrs. Creech should employ Helen—anybody who didn’t want anybody as lovely and as capable as Helen in their establishment was certainly out of their senses—but it was a shock to learn that Helen had for years been planning to obtain a foothold at Maybelle’s and had spoken to Mrs. Creech on the matter every time she had visited Judy at school.
It was only, said Helen, a beginning—and so it had proved. At twenty-two, Helen Forrester was holding an important position in the firm and drawing a salary which her mother, whose ideas were not advanced, considered almost too much for a young woman. Natalie, after a time, ceased to think of Helen as a little girl, daughter and grand-daughter of a churchman, and with a love of the country in her blood. There was nothing of the country about Helen except her clear skin and delicate colour; in everything else—perfection of grooming, elegance and finish—she was a townswoman.
It was natural that she should be admired, and Natalie had more than once wept secretly at the despair of young men who loved without hope of return. She was sorry for them, but she had never seen any man who was, in her opinion, worthy of her daughter. Never, until—
Until William Rome appeared.
Helen met him at a large party given by Mrs. Creech to celebrate Judy’s engagement. The bridegroom-elect was a cheerful young lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy, and Captain Rome, in London on business, had agreed to look in for a moment to drink a toast to his lieutenant’s bride. The toast drunk, William Rome threaded his way determinedly through the throng and to the exit, where he found an extremely pretty girl about to take possession of the only taxi in sight. He proposed dropping her at her destination and going on to his own, and Helen agreed, only stipulating that they should call for her mother from her dressmaker’s on the way.
Natalie was called for and in the course of the next fortnight William Rome, his business forgotten, paid daily visits to the little flat. Natalie, from acceptance of the fact that this large, handsome, attractive sailor admired Helen very much, passed to uneasiness at the thought of the difference in their ages and finally became miserable at the conviction that Helen cared nothing for him and was going to break the poor man’s heart. The thought of William Rome wretched gave her a feeling of depression greater than any she had felt for years, and she waited with dread for the outcome of the affair, confused and bewildered at the realization that she would be equally miserable to learn that Helen was to marry a man twenty-five years older than herself—a widower, moreover, with a grown-up son and daughter—or that she was to refuse him and break so manly a heart.
At the end of the fortnight, Captain Rome, after a consultation with Helen, called at the flat, found Natalie alone, and, after a brief but moving expression of affection, asked her to become his wife.
The effect of this proposal on the unprepared Natalie was so shattering that it took all Helen’s and William’s patience and affection to bring her to a point at which she would even consider the matter. She had lived without thought of herself for so long and had followed Helen’s dictates s
o unquestioningly that she had almost lost the power of understanding that she was not merely a widow keeping house for her daughter, but a pretty and still attractive woman whose gentle ways had gone straight to William Rome’s heart.
She admitted to Helen—almost in parenthesis—that yes, of course she loved William. Nobody, she pointed out, could help doing so. But to leave Helen and go to live with William was unthinkable…who would manage the flat…and what would William’s son, Jeremy, and his daughter, Lucille, think of a strange stepmother, and what would William’s father and mother, Sir Jason and Lady Rome, think of some probably designing widow who had enmeshed their only son…
It had been difficult, but William had held on and in the end had his reward. They had married, quietly and with only Helen present, and William had gone on what he intended to be his final voyage. Natalie was to go to his home—Romescourt, near the village of Dummerton in Devonshire—and choose one of the two available cottages which his father was holding for them. Surplus furniture from Romescourt would furnish the cottage, and soon William would return and live with his new wife in their little house.
It was, perhaps, neither William’s pleading nor Helen’s arguments which finally succeeded in overcoming Natalie’s hesitation. William, in a moment of inspiration, had pointed out to her that he had a son—a son who was young, handsome and—so far as his father knew—heart-whole. Jeremy was now living with his grandparents at Romescourt and what, William asked craftily, could be more natural than Helen, on a visit, and meeting Jeremy…well, who knew…probably…
Who knew, indeed? Mrs. Rome, lying and staring at the ceiling on her last morning in London, recalled this heartening possibility and found that it brought comfort and resolution. The parting might, after all, be for a very short time.
Strengthened by the thought, she rose and dressed. The time for her departure came, and she stood in her bedroom ready to go, steadier than she had hoped to find herself.
She heard Helen’s voice and, walking to her dressing-table, gave the last touches to her face and hair. Helen, hurrying in from her own room, peered into the mirror over her mother’s shoulder and turned to flick a few imaginary specks from her skirt. Mrs. Rome looked at her with gentle approval.
“That’s a lovely suit, Helen,” she said. “You oughtn’t to have put it on to come to a smoky station.”
“I wouldn’t, normally,” said Helen. “I wanted you to take away a picture of me looking my most ravishing.” She hurried on to safer topics. “Are you sure you’ve got everything, Mother? Keys? I gave you your ticket—is it in your bag? And that letter with the instructions about how to get there—where’s that? If you haven’t got it, you’ll get lost.”
Mrs. Rome groped inside her bag and produced a sheet of note-paper.
“It’s here,” she said, “but I think I know what it says. Train to Cranmer, change, train to Hunnytor and then I can either get another—”
“No,” said Helen, scanning the page. “You don’t do the last bit by train—it’s longer. You take the bus from Hunnytor to Dummerton West and Lucille’s going to meet you there. It’s time to go, mother,” she went on. “I’ll take your cases into the hall.”
The doorbell gave a shrill, sustained note which lasted until Helen had opened the front door. On the threshold, with one elbow resting against the wall and the forefinger of the other hand held elegantly against the bell press, stood the small, prematurely-aged boy who answered to the name of Slippy and who combined the functions of lift boy, errand boy and general attendant to the occupants of the block of flats.
Helen eyed him with less dislike than usual. His presence would ease the tension of the last moments in the flat. She opened her mouth to issue instructions but Slippy, as usual, was too quick for her and spoke first, in rapid, squeaky tones.
“Coo!” he ejaculated. “Crikey! Another of the noo season’s bargins, combinin’ the beauty o’ the latest line with the elegance of the noo waistline and the flattering ’ip contours. Bit early for spring, ain’t it?” he inquired.
“The suit-cases,” Helen informed him coldly, “are over there.”
Slippy eyed her suit critically. “Why,” he inquired, “don’t choo ever wear yeller or red or some colour that’d tone up this tenement? In a suit of spring green, duchess, you’d look—” He broke off to greet Mrs. Rome, and voiced his sentiments on her impending departure. “Place won’t seem the same without you, Mrs. Rome,” he informed her, “but I’ll tell you something—you’ve made ’istory in the block.”
“I have?” said Natalie, astonished.
“ ’Istory,” repeated Slippy, ushering them into the lift and pressing the ground-floor button. “We’ve ’ad births and deaths—not much murders or vi’lence,” he went on in a disappointed tone, “and quite a lot of weddin’s, but never”—he gave Natalie a look of gratitude—“never a mother gettin’ herself ’ooked up before her daughter. An’ such a daughter,” he ended, rolling his eyes ecstatically at the taxi driver. He put Mrs. Rome into the taxi, accepted her tip with a picturesque salute and held the door wide for Helen. “Horrevor, Miss Forrester,” he said politely. “If any gentlemen call in your absence I shall assemble them in the entrance ’all.”
Helen ignored him, requested the driver to go to Paddington Station, and seated herself beside her mother.
With Mrs. Rome settled comfortably in a carriage by herself, Helen felt that things had not gone too badly. Her mother was cheerful, with only a slight pucker on her brow caused by the fact that Helen had bought her a first class ticket.
“But I always,” protested Mrs. Rome, “go third.”
“That was when you had to pay for yourself,” pointed out Helen. “This is William’s money. Now sit in that corner,” she instructed, “and if anybody tries to come in, glare—doesn’t matter what they look like—just glare.” She screwed her face into a hideous stare and ignored her mother’s remark to the effect that the imaginary intruder had probably paid for a seat.
There were still ten minutes before the train’s departure. Helen took a seat beside her mother.
“Didn’t you have a letter from one of the Romes with some snaps in it?” she asked. “You said—”
“Oh, yes,” said Natalie. “There wasn’t time to show them to you yesterday, but they’re here—” She produced the snapshots and handed them to Helen.
“They’re not very clear,” she said. “That’s the house and—”
“It’s large enough,” commented Helen. “Very country-estate. Isn’t it rather dilapidated?”
“They’ve been in it for three hundred years,” said Natalie apologetically. “It’s—most of it is shut up now, I think. William’s father and mother live in that bit there, and I think that’s Jeremy’s room—but he isn’t going to be there very long.”
“Why not?” asked Helen. “I thought he left London because he wanted to settle at home.”
“That’s what he’s doing,” explained Natalie. “He’s bought a farm about eleven miles away from Romescourt and he’s moving into it soon. The people who were in it before are staying on—they’ll farm it and Jeremy’ll live there and do his painting.”
“What does he call himself?” asked Helen. “An artist or a sign-painter? Is he Art or Commerce?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Natalie. “He’s an artist, of course—I mean, he didn’t dream of painting signs until that first one was such a success. Now I think he’s getting commissions from all over the country. William says that if he goes on, he’ll make a great deal of money and—”
“And restore the old place—is that it?” asked Helen. “Much more to the point if he painted a nice, clear For Sale sign and hung it outside the old oak entrance.”
“Oh, Helen!” Natalie’s voice held as much reproach as she could ever use towards her daughter. “You shouldn’t say—that isn’t the way to talk about William’s home.”
“No, it isn’t,” acknowledged Helen, “and when William’s abou
t, I won’t. Remind me not to, won’t you? Darling, it’s time I went,” she added hastily, rising to her feet as a long warning whistle blew. “Good-bye, Mother. Don’t stay too long in the mouldering mansion—choose your nice cottage and I’ll come and visit you in it. ’Bye, darling.”
“God bless you, darling—take care of yourself.” Natalie, in spite of her resolve to part from Helen without tears, found them coursing down her face. She made no attempt to dry them, in the hope that they would pass unnoticed, and leaned out of the window waving farewell as the train drew out of the station. Helen’s face, young and lovely, Helen’s figure, slender and graceful, were receding—were out of sight.
She was gone, but it was impossible not to hope—it was impossible not to feel that if Jeremy had any eyes in his head at all—
Surely, prayed Natalie, the parting would not be for long.
Chapter 3
The journey to Dummerton, though long, was not tedious. At the first stop, a lady, whose only luggage was a newspaper, got into the carriage, and so fierce was her demeanour that Natalie felt that even Helen’s fiercest glare would have been insufficient to prevent her from entering. There was no conversation; the newcomer produced a pencil, opened her paper, found the crossword puzzle and proceeded to fill up the blanks with an effortless swiftness which filled Natalie with admiration, since the newspaper was The Times and she had long ago been obliged to give up its crosswords as being beyond her mental capacity. Only once did the lady pause and stare abstractedly out of the window for a few moments, after which she filled up the last blank and threw the paper contemptuously on the seat opposite.
“Pah,” she said. “On my head. Infantile. You do them?” she inquired.
On learning that Natalie didn’t, the stranger looked at her with poorly-concealed contempt. A pretty little thing, she seemed to say, but no intellect. No intellect what-so-ever. And spineless, too. One of those helpless creatures—fast dying out, thank God—who thought of men as firm rocks and did limitless harm to the cause of womanhood by clinging to them. So cold did the stare become at this point that Natalie felt her cheeks growing warm, and was deeply relieved when the train reached Cranmer.
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