Family Gathering

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “The orphans wouldn’t have looked at it,” said Jeremy. “I don’t know who looked after Lu’s stuff when she was at school, but she never cared much for clothes, and when she grew up and took over her own dressing—well, you can see what happened. Things were difficult to get, good shops were far away and who wanted to dress, anyway?”

  “Most girls want to dress,” said Helen, “especially girls as pretty as Lucille.”

  “There’s not much the matter with her clothes, when you come to think of it,” said Jeremy. “All she wanted was some hard wear for riding and a dress to put on at night, and she had those, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Helen. “She had those.”

  “Tell me,” said Jeremy, “if you spread out all your apparel in a room—all sorted out like this—how much more of it would there be?”

  Helen thought of her suits, her accessories, her blouses and dresses, shoes, stockings and beautiful underwear, all carefully chosen and lovingly cared for. She had an odd feeling that they belonged to someone else. There was, of course, a reason for having them, but it was hard—gazing at patched jodhpurs and a Confirmation frock—to remember what the reason was.

  “I haven’t,” she said carefully, after a time, “got many hats.”

  “I see—but a pretty good selection of everything else,” said Jeremy. “You’d be an expensive wench to keep, I should say—I’m glad it’s going to be what’s-his-name’s money and not mine.”

  Besides Lucille’s packing, Helen had a good deal to do for her mother and Jeremy. Both were to move shortly; William was due in less than three weeks, and Natalie was anxious to install herself as soon as possible and have the house running perfectly before his arrival. She would have little difficulty in the matter of household help—old Mrs. Batch had watched every detail of the move, questioned Natalie closely about her past, her life with her daughter and her meeting with William and had—after reviewing the evidence—informed the village that the new Mrs. William Rome was one of themselves. Natalie found evidences of good will everywhere, and discovered that this newest home-making was a delightful and friendly business.

  Her happiness was increased by the comradeship which seemed to have sprung up between Helen and Jeremy. Natalie wrote cheerfully to William, describing the growing friendliness of the two, and felt that she was, indeed, a fortunate woman to have found such love and affection for herself and for her daughter. Helen seemed to have shed the dignity of Maybelle et Cie, and was looking more like a pretty schoolgirl than the cool young woman who had left London not so long ago.

  When Lucille’s packing was done, Jeremy appropriated Helen’s services. She helped him to go through his cupboards and shelves, carried piles of his books from one place to another, and went through sheaves of miscellaneous papers which ranged from school examination papers to more sophisticated writings.

  “Don’t destroy any love letters,” instructed Jeremy. “Some of them are quite worth hanging on to. When I get time, I’ll do up the piles with pink and blue ribbons.”

  “This one,” said Helen, scanning it, “needs bright red ribbon.” She read a few more lines. “Purple ribbon,” she amended.

  “Gimme,” said Jeremy, snatching it. “Wheee!”—he read a portion and shook his head slowly from side to side. “I was only eighteen when she wrote that to me,” he said wonderingly. “Girls like that ought to be locked up. ‘Your mouth is all temptation…’ My God, fancy a girl pulling out a phrase like that at—”

  “It isn’t,” corrected Helen, “her phrase. She’s reminding you that that’s what you said to her.”

  “She is? Well, that’s different,” said Jeremy. “Let’s put all these away and clear all those hell-holes of drawers over there. And then we’ve got to sort my shirts—what happens to shirts?—every one I take out has something the matter with it. What I need, in point of fact, is a wife—not a dressy one like you, but a nice sensible girl who’d sew my shirts for me.”

  When the last stage of Helen’s recovery came and she was able to move freely, Jeremy came to her with a pair of Lucille’s oldest jodhpurs over his arm.

  “Look,” he said. “You wouldn’t pack these because of the patches, but I’ve got an idea. Will they fit you?”

  “If you’re thinking of putting me up on one of those—”

  “Go and see if they’ll fit you,” said Jeremy. “I don’t know about something on your feet—you packed the jodhpur boots, but there’s an old pair in Lu’s cupboard—”

  In a pair of jodhpurs that were too tight and a pair of old brown shoes of Lucille’s that were too large, Helen rode for the first time since her childhood. Jeremy drove her out to his farm and there put her up on Starlight, the quietest of the three horses.

  Helen long remembered the delight of that day, and the discomfort of the day after. Stiff and sore, she endured Jeremy’s jeers and her mother’s concern and waited only for flexibility to return to her limbs so that she might ride again and again…

  Time was passing. At the end of the week Sir Jason returned, and it was learnt from his brief utterances that Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Macdonald were settled very happily in the elder Macdonald’s roomy house nine miles from Fort William. It had been the intention of Duncan’s father to move out and leave the young people to themselves, but this scheme had met with great opposition from Duncan and genuine distress from Lucille. The three were now living together in comfort and happiness.

  “Nice old feller,” was Sir Jason’s opinion of Lucille’s father-in-law. “Didn’t talk.”

  “If he didn’t talk, my dear Jason,” said Lady Rome, “and if you didn’t talk, I don’t know how you got anything settled. Is it a large house?”

  “So-so,” replied Sir Jason.

  “And,” proceeded Lady Rome, “are there any servants?”

  Sir Jason couldn’t say. He hadn’t thought of asking, but he had never, he added, seen Lucille doing any work.

  “That doesn’t mean,” said Lady Rome, “that there isn’t any to do. They must have had somebody, of course, to look after the two men before Duncan married. What about horses? Lucille will want to ride.”

  “Forgot to ask,” Sir Jason informed her.

  “What about money?” asked Lady Rome. “Have you settled something on Lucille, or has Duncan got some sort of allowance from his father—you don’t say anything, you know, and it’s all very important—Lucille’s such a silly little thing that she won’t think about money at all.”

  Macdonald senior, Sir Jason told them, thought about money. Pressed for his opinion as to whether Mr. Macdonald had any money to think about, Sir Jason became impatient.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he said. “Very comfortable, very comfortable. Young Duncan property of his own, too.” He paused and added a wistful sentence. “Seem to have fuel,” he said. “Fire in my bedroom. Every night.”

  No more could be extracted from him, but he appeared so satisfied with Lucille’s husband, home and father-in-law that his hearers were content. Lucille’s letters added little to the general information but confirmed the impression of felicity—she was, she said, very happy, and Duncan was sweet and his father was sweet. A reference at the end to Jessie’s sweetness was taken as an indication that there was, at any rate, one maid on the staff.

  Lucille was settled. Natalie was soon to be settled; Jeremy was moving early in the week. Slowly and very reluctantly, Helen faced the fact that she must return to London.

  Natalie came to her daughter’s room on the night of Sir Jason’s return and found Helen standing at her window staring out absently.

  “Darling, you’ll catch cold,” she said gently. “Your dress is so thin and you’ve got that window wide open.”

  Helen closed the window and faced her mother, and Natalie was shocked to see how pale she looked. Helen sat on her bed and asked a question.

  “Are you going to meet William, or will he come straight here?”

  “I want to be at the house,” said Natalie. “He w
ants me to be there, too—I hope to be quite settled, with everything running smoothly.” She paused and looked at Helen for a few moments without speaking. It was never easy for her to express herself, and what she wanted to say now was a little delicate. She sat down on the bed beside Helen and began timidly. “You are,” she asked, “quite happy about marrying Maurice, Helen? I mean—I was worried about you when you came down here, because I was sure you weren’t, somehow, very sure of yourself.”

  “You were quite right,” said Helen. “I wasn’t very sure of myself.”

  “Oh,” said Natalie, “I knew—I knew from something in your voice that you were—I don’t know how to put it—”

  “You were right the first time,” said Helen, with a smile. “I just wasn’t sure of myself, that’s all.”

  “And now”—Natalie looked anxious—“are you quite sure now?”

  “Quite sure,” said Helen, steadily.

  Natalie felt, for some reason, a little shaken. It was the answer she wanted—she could not understand why she felt a little disappointed.

  “Then are you—shall you go back to London?”

  “Of course, Mummy,” said Helen. “There isn’t anything to keep me here.”

  No, there wasn’t, she added to herself. There was nothing. Only Jeremy could keep her here—and Jeremy hadn’t said anything to indicate that he wanted to keep her here…

  “And you’re quite sure about yourself now?” asked Natalie anxiously. “It’s difficult for mothers to probe, Helen, you know. If they ask too much it looks as though they’re prying and yet it doesn’t seem to me—if Lucille’s case is anything to go by—that girls are really capable of managing their own love affairs without any help from anybody, or any advice. I like Maurice, I think, better than any of the young men you liked in London, and if you’re not in doubt any more about what you feel—”

  “No, Mother, I’m not,” said Helen. “I’m glad I came and saw you, and the house and—and everybody. I’ll be able to picture you with William and that’ll be nice.”

  “And will you come to us for Christmas?” asked Natalie. “Earlier, too, of course, but you might find it difficult. Have you talked to Maurice about when you’re going to be married?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Helen. “I’ll write and tell you all about—about everything. Good night, darling.”

  Natalie stooped and kissed her. “God bless you, Helen,” she said. “I do wish you were staying.”

  The door closed softly behind her and Helen stared at her pretty dressing-table. Her gaze seemed to be fixed on a little pink jar of cream, and she addressed it aloud.

  “I,” she said, “wish I were staying, too.”

  But Helen did not stay. Jeremy described himself as desolated, and helped her to pack. He told her that his life would henceforward be empty, and looked up her train times. Finally, he begged her to keep a place for him in her heart, and carried her suit-cases down to his car.

  Natalie’s farewell was gentle and affectionate, Lady Rome’s booming but equally sincere. Sir Jason shook her hand and muttered a cryptic sentence.

  “Shouldn’t be surprised,” he said, “if we saw you again.”

  They were gone. The house, the gardens, the drive, the last gate were behind them. Jeremy turned into the road leading to Hunnytor station.

  “When,” he asked, “are you going to be married?”

  “I’ll write,” said Helen, “and let you know.”

  “Do,” said Jeremy. “It’s a damn shame you can’t stay here and ride Starlight. I shall dream of you up on him—glorious girlhood on magnificent horseflesh. You must get who’s-it to hire a couple of nags and then you can go up and down that narrow bit of fairway they call Rotten Row. You mustn’t wear patched breeches, though—you’ll have to get into something really slap-up, because quite often photographers pop up and take your picture for the newspapers. There’s Dummerton West,” he pointed out. “Remember when you arrived, all in the wet, and we had to put this hood down and you drummed impatiently on the floor with your silly little shoes—remember?”

  “Yes,” said Helen, “I remember.”

  Jeremy drew the car to the side of the wooded road. He switched off the engine and turned to face Helen, his expression more gentle than she had ever seen it.

  “Keep on remembering,” he said. “I’ll remember, too. We’ve had such a lot of fun—and we could have had a lot more, too, only you will insist on rushing back to this bounder of yours. I wonder,” he went on reflectively, “how bounders make love? They’ve had a lot of practice, presumably, but there are fellows who can do quite as well with no practice whatsoever—or at any rate, very little. Take me, for example. If you’d been in love with me—as I am with you—I could have put in some really serious wooing and swept you off your feet. And saying good-bye would have been— well, there would have been more scope. You can’t do your best with a girl who’s on her way to marry some other fellow. But if you’d belonged to me, saying goodbye—just for a short time—would have been a different business altogether. I’d have put one arm round you—like that—and put your hair carefully away because I don’t like eating hair—and then I would have been able to put your head into the best possible position and kiss you—just as much—as I—wanted—to.”

  There was silence. Jeremy’s lips were firmly on Helen’s, and his arms were round her. Soon her hands crept on to his shoulders and from there, stole round his neck.

  He released her and looked for a moment deep into her eyes. Helen, dizzy, helpless, felt herself pressed gently back into her seat. Jeremy put out his hand and switched on the engine.

  “Jeremy—” she said.

  “You see,” said Jeremy, “how wonderful it would have been. I shall always feel that you and I were a wonderful couple—while it lasted. If only you hadn’t been a girl who knew her own mind—”

  “But, Jeremy,” began Helen.

  “Well, what?” said Jeremy gently.

  Helen stared at him. The car moved forward slowly and gathered speed. Hunnytor station was not so far away…

  “Look, Jeremy—” said Helen again. “I—”

  She stopped. There was nothing to say. He was driving steadily, his gaze straight ahead, his attitude one of polite attention. Helen tried to speak and found it impossible. Her throat felt tight and painful and her mouth dry.

  “You were going to say?” prompted Jeremy, guiding the car through the outskirts of Hunnytor.

  “I—no, nothing,” said Helen.

  The car stopped at the station and Jeremy lifted out the cases. The train was coming in; she was on the platform and Jeremy was opening a carriage door.

  “In here,” he said, and put her cases on the rack. He stepped down on to the platform and took her arm as she was getting into the carriage, holding her for a moment.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said, “and don’t forget.”

  “Forget what?” said Helen.

  Jeremy bent down and put his lips on hers.

  “Don’t forget I love you,” he said. “Good-bye.”

  Chapter 19

  Natalie’s home was ready, every cup, every plate, every chair, table and rug was in place, ready for William. He was to come on the following day, and the news of his coming had spread through the village and caused general gladness. Sir Jason and Lady Rome had come down three times during the week and Shearer was looking almost worn. Everybody was in the highest spirits.

  And Jeremy, walking into the little house to have a final word with Natalie before his father’s return, found her seated by the window in the beautiful drawing room, staring out at the garden and weeping bitterly.

  For a few moments Jeremy stared at her incredulously and then went over and stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder and her head pressed against him.

  “My, my, my, my, my,” he intoned. “This is what excitement does to some women. Tell me, Natalie,” he went on, “is this how William’s going to find you?”

&nbs
p; Natalie, unable to speak, shook her head. In a little while Jeremy understood, from a shaky phrase, that it was not William for whom she wept.

  “If it isn’t Father,” said Jeremy, “then it’s Helen.” He took out a clean handkerchief and wiped Natalie’s tears. “Now tell me,” he said.

  “There’s—there’s nothing to tell,” said Natalie shakily. “It’s just her—her letter.”

  Jeremy took the letter from his stepmother’s hand and read quickly through it. He returned it and spoke with a puzzled frown. “I don’t see anything in it to worry about,” he said. “It’s just a—well, it’s just an ordinary letter, isn’t it?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “You ought to know that it isn’t. Is that”—she raised her head and looked at Jeremy—“is that the letter a girl would write when she’s—when she’s happy and engaged to a man she l-loves and is going to m-marry? You know it isn’t. It’s—”

  She stopped, and Jeremy, pulling a small chair close to hers, sat on it and spoke gently.

  “It’s not a bad letter,” he said. “I mean, Helen doesn’t let herself go, exactly, does she?—she wouldn’t write a lyrical sort of letter telling you what she was thinking.”

  “Yes, she would,” said Natalie. “That’s just where everybody is wrong about Helen. They all think she’s cold and domineering and—even you think she’s domineering, don’t you?” she broke off to ask.

  “Yes, I do,” said Jeremy.

  “Well, she isn’t,” cried Natalie, in the fiercest tones Jeremy had ever heard her use. “She isn’t—she isn’t! She may be outside, because of having to manage for the two of us, but I know Helen and I know she’s—she’s good and only a little domineering and—”

  “Look, darling,” said Jeremy, taking her hands, “it’s no use upsetting yourself. If you think Helen’s unhappy, you can write, can’t you, and ask her whether there’s anything wrong and she’ll tell you.”