Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  Tony murmurs something about pistols for two and coffee for one—at dawn—and sweeps me away.

  This unceremonious behaviour is unlike Tony and, as we dance, I tell him he was rude to poor Mr. Morven.

  “Rude to poor Mr. Morven!” echoes Tony scornfully.

  “Well, you were.”

  “This is my dance and it’s nearly over and I didn’t know where you had gone.”

  We finish the dance in silence and retire to an alcove beneath the stairs. Tony is still cross and, as it is unthinkable to quarrel with him, I tell him in contrite tones that I am very sorry I forgot his dance. But, far from being pacified, he becomes crosser than ever and says he wishes he had never thought of giving this wretched party.

  “Tony!” I exclaim. “But what on earth is the matter? You know perfectly well I don’t care a pin for Mr. Morven.” This seems to sooth him considerably. “It wasn’t altogether Morven,” says Tony. “I mean he was just the last straw which upset the apple-cart.”

  “I suppose you mean the last apple which broke the camel’s back?”

  “Something like that,” he agrees. “The fact is I was alarmed. I hunted high and low for you . . . and then I saw you sitting there with Richard Morven, having a good time!”

  “Alarmed!”

  “I thought you had gone home or something. I thought—perhaps—somebody had said something—to upset you.” For a moment I am completely bewildered and then light dawns. “I suppose you’ve been talking to Mrs. Meller?”

  “No, to Miss Carlyle.”

  The implications of this simple statement are extremely complicated, but what strikes me most forcibly is the humorous possibilities of a conversation between Tony and Anne Carlyle and I begin to laugh.

  “What’s the joke?” enquires Tony. “I had to talk to the poor soul. She seemed so—lost. She was frightfully shy at first and then, quite suddenly, she wasn’t shy any longer and said the most amazing things.”

  I am laughing uncontrollably by this time and, laughter being infectious, Tony begins to laugh too.

  “I suppose it is funny,” he admits. “I mean she’s such a mousy little creature that it’s quite startling when she airs her very broad-minded views. Oh well, if you think it’s funny that’s all right. She said you were unhappy and upset and that people were being unkind to you. She seems very fond of you,” adds Tony with a surprised inflexion in his voice.

  “You find that surprising, Tony?”

  “Well—yes, if you want the truth!”

  Tony is now himself again. He teases me about my friendship with Anne Carlyle, asking what we talk about when we are alone and refusing to believe me when I tell him we discuss witchcraft and the art of Landscape Gardening and the benefits of travel. Presently he says, “I must go. I’m dancing this with your beautiful daughter; she kept it for me. Wasn’t it sweet of her?”

  I look at Tony to see if this is a joke but he is perfectly serious.

  “She’s ravishing,” adds Tony. “It’s a delight to look at her.”

  “Wasn’t she ravishing yesterday?” I enquire.

  “Oh!” exclaims Tony. “But yesterday—”

  “Yesterday she wasn’t dressed in satin and net and rosebuds,” I tell him. “That makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

  “No, of course not,” he replies smiling. “At least . . . I suppose it shouldn’t . . . I must fly!”

  After this I talk to Lady Morley for a little and find it difficult, for Lady Morley has always been an alarming personage. She is no less alarming tonight, dressed in black velvet and lace, glittering with diamonds and seated upon an old oak chair which, with its high straight back and carved arms, resembles a throne.

  We talk at cross purposes for a few minutes and I am beginning to entertain a suspicion that Lady Morley has mistaken me for someone else when suddenly she says, “Do you know that Mrs. Christie?”

  I am struck dumb.

  “Everyone’s talking about her,” continues Lady Morley. “Some silly nonsense about her and Tony. Freda says the woman is here tonight.”

  “Yes,” I murmur helplessly. “Yes, but there’s nothing—I mean—”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean—”

  “Point her out to me,” says her ladyship in peremptory tones.

  For a moment I am tempted to point out somebody else to Lady Morley and make my escape, but this course is fraught with peril for obviously Lady Morley must know most of her guests. The only other course open to me is to treat the matter as a joke, so I point to myself and endeavour to smile.

  “What do you mean?” she asks in surprise.

  “I’m Hester Christie,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I thought you knew me.”

  “You’re Mrs. Christie?”

  “Yes.”

  Lady Morley does not apologise for her mistake, nor is she the least embarrassed at having made it. She raises her lorgnettes and looks at me. “How strange!” she says.

  Fortunately the band begins to play “God Save the King” and I am rescued from my predicament. I collect my family, we all say good-bye and go home.

  Betty is so exhausted with her night of pleasure and dissipation that she goes to sleep in the car with her head on my shoulder. She has to be awakened when we arrive at The Small House and put to bed like a baby. As her head touches the pillow she murmurs sleepily that she wishes Uncle Tony would have a dance every night. It’s been simply gorgeous.

  Wednesday, 15th August

  We are all tired after the dance. I am awakened by Mrs. Daulkes shouting lustily beneath my window and I rise very reluctantly and go down to open the door. The others sleep like tops until nearly lunch-time, when they appear looking fresh and fit and perfectly restored.

  Perry is leaving tomorrow and although I am very sorry he is going I have not tried to persuade him to stay. It is natural that his grandfather should want to see him and it is right that Perry should go. As this is the last night of Perry’s visit we are going to have a special supper with cold chicken and ham and a chocolate pudding with jam sauce.

  Everything has been prepared by Mrs. Daulkes and I am in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to the repast when Perry appears at the door. He explains that Bryan and Betty are still playing tennis but he thought he would come back early.

  “You have your packing to do,” I suggest.

  “Yes,” agrees Perry, sitting down upon a kitchen-chair and looking at me with his clear hazel eyes. “Yes, I’ve got to pack, but it won’t take long.”

  “Did you have some good sets?” I enquire.

  “Yes,” replies Perry. “Yes, very good sets. Susan was there.”

  Obviously Perry wants to tell me something and finds it difficult . . . but I have no idea what it is so I cannot help him. Perhaps the best thing is to talk vaguely and give him confidence. “I’m glad Susan was there,” I tell him. “It makes a better game, doesn’t it? And she’s such an attractive creature, so pretty and amusing.”

  “Yes, I suppose she is,” agrees Perry doubtfully. “The fact is I don’t know much about girls. Perhaps it’s because I’ve always been with men. I don’t remember my mother at all . . . and Grandfather is a bit of a recluse.”

  It is difficult to know what to say to this, so I say nothing.

  Perry leans forward with his hands between his knees and, as I am standing above him at the table, I can see the parting in his thick glossy hair. “You know,” says Perry slowly in his low deep voice. “You know the funny thing is I don’t see much attraction in girls . . . except one . . . and attraction isn’t the right word for what I feel about her. I mean it wouldn’t matter what she looked like. I’d love her just the same.”

  This confidence touches me profoundly. This is the real Perry speaking from his heart and I realise that although he is so young in years his feelings are mature—for these are not the words of a boy. Perhaps it is Perry’s nature to feel deeply or perhaps his
strange lonely life has developed his character and made him older and more thoughtful than his contemporaries.

  “Yes,” continues Perry. “She’s beautiful to look at, of course, and I’m glad. But that isn’t why I love her. I love what’s inside her beauty. I love herself. I expect you know the old song, Mrs. Christie; it’s by Thomas Moore and it describes my feelings exactly . . .” He hesitates for a moment and then says in his low deep voice:

  “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms

  Which I gaze on so fondly today

  Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms

  Like fairy gifts, fading away.

  Thou would’st still be adored as this moment thou art

  Let thy loveliness fade as it will . . .

  Perry looks up to see if I understand . . . and of course I do. I understand because I have always wanted to be loved like that, but somehow I think it is a rare sort of love. Perry’s adored is fortunate and I hope she realises her good fortune.

  “That’s how I feel,” continues Perry. “That’s how I’ve always felt.”

  “Do I know her, Perry?”

  He raises his eyes and gazes at me in amazement. “It’s Betty,” he says in a bewildered voice. “I thought you knew! I mean it couldn’t be anybody else.”

  “Betty!”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “But, Perry, she’s just a child . . .”

  “Oh, I know that,” says Perry hastily. “She’s far too young. You needn’t worry. I promise faithfully I won’t say anything. It’s easy to promise that, because I don’t want to say anything. Betty hasn’t the slightest idea of what I feel about her and I don’t want her to know. It would be dreadfully wrong to waken her too soon.”

  “You’re both very young . . .”

  “Yes,” agrees Perry in a doubtful voice. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I mean—of course it’s true. I’ve got to make good before I can think of marriage. I don’t feel young,” says this strange young man. “I feel as if I had lived a long time . . . but I expect you’re laughing at me.”

  “No,” I tell him. “No, I’m not laughing, Perry.”

  “I’ve loved Betty for years,” he continues. “Ever since I came and stayed with you at Donford. I’ve never loved anybody else and I never shall. That’s all, really. I just wanted you to know.” He rises and adds, “I thought—I thought it was the right thing to tell you—the honourable thing.”

  “Perry!” I say rather desperately. “Perry, wait a minute. It’s such a surprise. I never thought for a moment—”

  “Of course not,” agrees Perry.

  “It wasn’t until the other night at the dance that I realised Betty was beginning to grow up.”

  “But that made no difference! Of course I know she looked perfectly beautiful at the dance and everybody was raving about her; but that made no difference to me—none at all. I do want you to understand.”

  “Yes, Perry. I think I do understand.”

  “She’s Betty,” says Perry, as if that explained the whole matter—which perhaps it does.

  “Oh, Perry!” I exclaim. “You are a dear, dear boy. I’m very, very fond of you.”

  “Good,” says Perry with his shy smile.

  I stretch out my hand and he takes it. Somehow I feel as if we were making a solemn pact; I have no idea what the pact is, but Perry knows. “You’ll tell me when the right time has come,” says Perry confidently.

  There is a little silence.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he declares. “You think I may get tired of waiting.”

  “Well, perhaps I was thinking something like that.”

  “I shan’t, ever,” he says—not making a promise but stating a fact. “I shall be there. I shall wait until Betty is ready and then ask her to marry me. It’s quite simple.”

  Yes, it’s quite simple. Dear, good Perry. I realise that if Betty, when she is ready, should want to marry Perry I could ask for nothing better for my darling child.

  Perry has gone to the door but now he comes back. “You won’t worry, will you?” he says. “I know there are difficulties. She may fall in love with someone else. I’ve got to take that risk, of course.”

  “Betty loves you!” I exclaim.

  “Oh, I know,” he agrees smiling rather sadly. “She loves me nearly as much as she loves Bryan, but that’s no use at all.”

  There is no more to be said. We understand one another perfectly.

  There is no more to be said, but there is a good deal to be thought. I find some difficulty in completing the arrangements for supper. I find myself standing with a dish in my hand and no idea as to what I intended to do with it. I find my thoughts racing back to the time when Betty was a tiny baby and then racing forward to the time when—perhaps—Betty may have a tiny baby of her own. I find myself smiling . . . and the next moment my eyes are full of tears. It is rather silly to feel like this, because it is all so vague and Perry and Betty are little more than children. Nothing may come of it. Betty is fond of Perry in a sisterly way but that does not mean she will fall in love with him; Perry—in spite of all he has said—may change his mind. But somehow I don’t think he will.

  Thursday, 16th August

  Miss Stroude turns up this morning and, as Perry is on the verge of departure and we are busy cutting sandwiches for him and helping him to pack, she is even less welcome than usual. Mrs. Daulkes, who has brought me the news of her arrival, suggests that she should be told to go away straight off, but unfortunately I am not the stuff heroes are made of.

  Contrary to her usual custom Miss Stroude has asked to see me so I go down to the drawing room and find her standing in the middle of the room looking more than usually disagreeable.

  She says, without any formal greeting, “I must find that folder, Mrs. Christie.”

  “I wish you could,” I reply in heart-felt tones.

  “The letter is valuable.”

  “Yes, you told me that before.”

  “It is a letter written by Byron to my step-mother’s grandfather.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I must find that letter,” says Miss Stroude firmly.

  “I wish you could,” I repeat.

  Miss Stroude glowers at me. She says, “I have been through all the boxes in the attic so it must be somewhere else—somewhere in the house. As I told you my step-mother was careless and untidy so it may be anywhere. I intend to search the house thoroughly. You have no objection, I suppose.”

  “N-no,” I reply doubtfully. “At least—”

  “I shall start at once,” declares Miss Stroude firmly. “The folder must be found today. The gentleman who wants to buy the Byron letter is going back to America on Monday so there’s no time to be lost. Perhaps you will be good enough to inform your charwoman that I have your permission to search the house.”

  “Y-yes,” I reply doubtfully. “But the only thing is—”

  “Thank you,” says Miss Stroude.

  Mrs. Daulkes takes the news badly but we are all so busy running about the house and collecting Perry’s belongings and helping him to lash them firmly onto his ramshackle steed that Miss Stroude is left to search in peace. I can hear her in the drawing room, opening and shutting drawers and moving the furniture, but it is merely a background noise and does not worry me. Presently Perry announces that he is ready to depart; we all go out and wave as he bumps slowly down the road—Bryan and Betty race him to the corner shouting, “Good-bye!” and “Come back soon!” and other less conventional valedictions.

  When he has gone I return to the house and meet Miss Stroude coming out of the dining room with a grey cardboard folder in her hand.

  “You’ve found it!” I exclaim.

  “This is the folder but the letter isn’t here,” replies Miss Stroude in furious tones. “The Byron letter! It’s gone! Where has it gone?”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “The folder was there,” says Miss Stroude, pointing
to the book-case. “I took out all the books and the folder was there; it had slipped down behind the books—or somebody had hidden it deliberately.”

  “Why should anybody—”

  “Why, indeed,” interrupts Miss Stroude. “Why should the folder have been hidden—unless the letter had been taken out of it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The book-case was locked. Who unlocked it?”

  “I did,” I reply. “The key was in the little brass bowl.”

  “You unlocked the book-case,” says Miss Stroude in cold hard tones. “Perhaps you saw the folder. Perhaps you took the letter out and slipped the folder down behind the books.”

  “Are you accusing my mother of being a thief?” demands Bryan, who has come into the hall while we have been talking, and is now standing in the open doorway. He is very red in the face and breathing quickly, but whether these symptoms are due to rage or to the fact that he has raced Betty all the way back from the corner it would be difficult to say.

  Miss Stroude is somewhat taken aback. She says, “No, of course not. I was only asking your Mother if she had seen the—”

  “You’re quite sure?” asks Bryan. “You’re quite sure you weren’t suggesting that my mother had taken your beastly letter?”

  Miss Stroude seems quite sure.

  “Because,” says Bryan, “because if you were suggesting anything like that you’ve got to reckon with me, and I know exactly what to do about it.”

  The threat, though vague, sounds most alarming . . . and as a matter of fact Bryan’s looks are sufficiently alarming to terrify any but the stoutest heart. Miss Stroude says she must go, and moves towards the door.

  “Good-bye,” says Bryan, standing aside to let her pass.

  Miss Stroude says nothing.

  We watch her walk down the path, get into her car and drive away. Then we look at each other and heave sighs of relief.

  “Bryan,” I enquire in hesitating tones. “What—what would you have done?”

  “Done?” says Bryan. “Oh, you mean what would I have done? Gosh, I don’t know! I mean you can’t take a woman by the scruff and throw her out, can you?”