All this is done in due order and when the envelope is ready Tony puts it in his pocket and says he will now proceed to the Manor House with all speed and deliver it personally.
“Don’t say a word about it to anyone,” he adds as I see him off at the gate. “We want to make certain it’s absolutely watertight.”
Sunday, 19th August
The morning is mild and wet and windy. It is one of those unpleasant English summer days which have nothing to recommend them. In the garden the dripping trees thresh about wildly and the flower-petals are scattered and lie soiled and sodden upon the ground; but I have made up my mind to go to church and to church I shall go. Neither the inclement weather nor Mrs. Meller shall keep me from going to church. I am uncomfortably aware that this is not the right spirit in which to attend divine service, but I feel it is better and more courageous to attend divine service in the wrong spirit than to stay at home.
Susan and I arrive at the lych-gate at the same moment and, as we have arrived early, we chat for little before going in. Susan wants to know if Bryan and Betty went to London yesterday as was arranged, and she lets fall the information that the Mellers are away too: “So there is nobody to play tennis with,” adds Susan rather sadly.
“Have they all gone?” I ask anxiously.
“Yes, all of them,” replies Susan. “They’ve gone to Wales for three weeks holiday.”
Although I am sorry for Susan, bereft of all her young companions at one blow, I cannot be other than delighted on my own account.
“We’re having Mr. Grace this morning,” Susan continues. “He’s the vicar of Chevis Green and such a dear old man. Mr. Meller is very clever of course, but sometimes he makes you feel hot and angry; I think it’s because he gets hot and angry. Mr. Grace talks to you as if he loves you. Come and sit in my pew, Mrs. Christie,” adds Susan. “I’m all by myself this morning; Daddy has gone over to Wandlebury on some mysterious business of his own. He wouldn’t tell me a word about it, but went off in the car looking frightfully important and pleased with himself. Aren’t men funny?”
There is no time to say more for the “hurry-up-bell” has begun to ring, so we go into church together and sit in the Manor pew.
The service is beautiful; we have all my favourite hymns, and Mr. Grace (who is like my idea of Santa Claus but without a beard) talks to us as if he loves us, just as Susan said. He retells the story of the Good Samaritan, making it new and fresh and applicable to modern life. We can all be Good Samaritans, says Mr. Grace. There are plenty of people in trouble who need a friendly hand—or even just a friendly ear—and he knows the desire to help is there. We would all be Good Samaritans if we were not too shy, too afraid of interfering or of appearing to interfere in the affairs of our neighbours. He tells us that Good Samaritans are brave and that the bearing of one another’s burdens brings its own reward, here and now, for it will lighten our own burdens and give us happiness.
It may not be a great sermon, but it is uplifting and comforting and gives one food for thought.
“Isn’t he a lamb?” says Susan as we come out together into the damp churchyard and the drizzling rain. “Isn’t he an absolute pet? He has made me feel good and brave and happy. I want to go and do something for somebody straight off.” She smiles at me as she makes this statement (for Mrs. Daulkes’s favourite expression has become a joke to us all). Susan’s smile is a lovely thing to see. Susan’s smile is like a ray of sunshine in this damp and drizzly world, and I should like to tell her (if I were not too shy) that she can lighten the burdens of her neighbours by smiling at them.
The day passes without any news from Tony about Mrs. Stroude’s Will, but at least I know that something is being done about it. Obviously Mr. Morven’s visit to Wandlebury, which roused Susan’s curiosity by its mysterious nature, is connected with his duties as executor.
All day long the rain continues to fall—it is one of the longest and wettest Sundays I can remember—and it is still raining when I go upstairs to bed; I can hear the drops pattering with dreary monotony on the cupola. Bed is the best place in this sort of weather and I have just settled down comfortably with The Wind in the Willows, to read myself to sleep, when the front-door bell rings.
Can it possibly be Tony arriving at this hour of night? And, if not Tony, whom? Shall I get up and answer it or pay no heed? But the bell goes on ringing and its persistence alarms me, for it seems unlikely that anybody would ring the doorbell and go on ringing it at this untimely hour unless the news they brought was important.
At last I rise and put on my dressing gown and go down to the door. My visitor is Edmond Alston.
“Oh!” says Edmond in a dazed voice. “Oh, had you gone to bed? I’m so sorry—is it late? I didn’t look at the time. I just—wanted to see you, Mrs. Christie.”
I take him into the drawing room and turn on the electric stove. Now that I see him properly I realise that he is wet to the skin. In fact he looks as if he had been in the river. His cap, which he is squeezing nervously between his hands, is like a sponge; water is dripping from his jacket and oozing from his shoes. Edmond seems quite unaware of his condition and for a moment I entertain the unworthy suspicion that he has had too much to drink . . . but I am soon undeceived.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, sitting down near the stove. “But you said to come and see you. I didn’t look at the time. I’ve been walking. I’m afraid my shoes are muddy. I went for a walk.”
“You got lost,” I suggest.
“No,” he says. “At least—yes, I suppose I did get lost. I don’t know where I went.”
His shoes look as if he had been walking through ploughed fields.
“You’re tired, Edmond. You’re working too hard,” I tell him.
Edmond laughs bitterly and says. “Working! I haven’t done any work for days!” He gets up and walks to the door and back and then stands still in the middle of the room. “I’m in love,” he says.
This announcement is made by Edmond as if it were a startling piece of news . . . and he looks at me as if he expected me to be absolutely staggered by it. He is so intense, so serious and has such a wild and distracted air that it is impossible to treat his announcement lightly and, as I do not know how else to treat it, I remain dumb.
“Yes, I’m in love,” says Edmond. “It’s absolute hell.” He sits down and gazes at me with imploring eyes. “What am I to do?” he asks.
For a few moments there is silence and then he repeats, “What am I to do? I can’t work, I can’t sleep. I read and read and when I get to the bottom of the page I have no more idea of what it’s all about than the man in the moon . . . and it’s so frightful, because the only way I could ever hope to—to have anything to offer Susan is by getting an honours degree . . . and there isn’t the slightest chance—I’m done—life is absolutely hopeless.”
“No, no!” I tell him. “You must take one thing at a time. Go to Cornwall as you intended (it will be easier for you to work when you’re there), concentrate on passing your exams and then you’ll have something to offer Susan.”
“Oh yes,” agrees Edmond miserably. “Yes, I know that’s wise advice; but even then—even if I passed—there’s still Mother. I haven’t told her anything and I don’t think she suspects anything or she wouldn’t have gone to London but—but I’m all she’s got, you see.”
“Edmond!” I exclaim. “Mothers can’t stand in the way of their sons’ happiness. She wouldn’t want to, I’m sure.”
“I’m all she’s got,” repeats Edmond. “She keeps on saying it all the time . . . and if she thought there was anyone else . . . I mean if she knew about Susan . . . not that there’s anything to know about Susan, because of course I haven’t said a word to Susan. How can I? But if Mother had the slightest idea of what I feel about Susan it would be awful. I don’t know what Mother would do. Mother has nobody but me. She keeps on saying it all the time—saying we’re alone in the world and nothing matters to her except me—talking about how s
he’s going to make a home for me and how happy we shall be together—just the two of us, she says. She keeps on about it all the time—harping on it—saying she understands me so well, saying she doesn’t mind about anything else except me. And of course it’s true. She thinks of me all the time, doing things for me, watching me. If only she wouldn’t!” cries poor Edmond. “If only she’d leave me alone! It’s driving me mad! It’s too much—it’s such a burden—I can’t bear it! I know it’s awful coming to you like this, but you’ve been so kind and understanding and I must talk to somebody.”
“Yes of course,” I tell him. “I’m glad you came.”
“I don’t know what to do,” says Edmond, twisting his hands.
“What does Susan think?”
“Susan!” he exclaims. “I haven’t said a word to Susan. How could I? It wouldn’t be right. We meet and talk but—but just about other things. Susan is wonderful, she’s as far above me as the stars, she’s so much better than I am in every way. She’s so beautiful—beautiful inside as well as outside—and so brave and good and noble. She’s clever too—and very funny sometimes—dear and funny and sweet. Oh, Mrs. Christie, I’d die for Susan willingly; I’d face mad bulls; I’d do anything on earth to save her a moment’s unhappiness. I don’t think I can go on living without Susan, without seeing her and talking to her. We meet each other and talk nearly every morning and I just crawl through the hours in between. I know it’s wrong to go on meeting her, because nothing can come of it—nothing—it’s quite hopeless. I’m in a sort of trap and there’s no way out. Everything goes round and round. I think about it and think about it and I get nowhere. That’s why I can’t sleep—because all the time I’m trying to find a way out . . . but it’s hopeless. There’s no hope anywhere and my head aches so frightfully. You’ll think I’m mad, coming to you like this and talking like this. Sometimes I think I am going mad . . . sometimes I think it would be nice if I could just lie down and die and not bother about anything anymore.”
Poor Edmond! It is difficult to know how to help him. I am terribly sorry for the creature. I can understand exactly how he feels—and understand all the better because in some ways Edmond is like me. People of strong, bold character can cut their way out of a tangle, but Edmond cannot—and neither could I. To make matters worse it is obvious that he is on the verge of a complete breakdown. What he ought to do is to consult a doctor; but it would not be much good to tell him that. All I can do is to assure him that I understand and sympathise.
“Yes,” he says wretchedly. “It’s awfully kind of you. It does help a bit. You see, don’t you? I mean of course I owe Mother a lot and I don’t know what she’d do if I let her down—and of course I shall let her down, anyhow, because I haven’t a hope of passing my exams. Even if I go away and never see Susan anymore—”
“Listen, Edmond,” I beseech him, breaking into his dreary monologue which, I can see, is starting all over again. “Listen to me and I will tell you what to do. You will go straight home and take off your wet clothes and have a hot bath and go to bed. I will give you two pink tablets which will make you sleep. Meanwhile I shall think about it and try to find a way out.”
“There’s no way out,” Edmond declares. “There isn’t, really. I’ve thought about it for days . . . but still . . . it’s awfully good of you. I don’t know why you should bother.”
“Because I understand.”
“Yes,” says Edmond. “Yes, I know.”
“And you’ll do what I tell you?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
“Remember,” I tell him. “A hot bath—tablets—bed. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, I will, really,” says Edmond nodding.
He goes off with the tablets in an envelope and I retire to bed.
Monday, 20th August
I have spent such a wretched night, worrying about Edmond, that I am late in getting up and Mrs. Daulkes arrives before I have had my breakfast. She asks anxiously if I am poorly and adds that I look very poorly indeed; she thinks I should go back to bed straight off and have a nice rest. For once I refuse to take her advice for I have promised to go and see Edmond this morning, and, although I can think of no way out of his troubles, I must keep my promise. The fact is I am very uneasy about Edmond. He was in such a desperate frame of mind that there is no knowing what may happen.
In addition to this I have my own worries for there was no letter from Tim on Saturday (not even one of his miserable air mail letter-cards) and I am aware that I cannot hope for a letter until the end of the week. The idea that Tim may be feeling angry and upset has become a cloud in the sky. Sometimes I forget about it for a while . . . and then if I am tired or sleepless the cloud grows bigger and darker and the world seems shadowed by it. I have noticed before that, when one has an indefinite trouble like this, ordinary life goes on during it in a perfectly ordinary manner. One goes about one’s ordinary business; one talks, laughs, orders food and has one’s bath. In fact there are very few crises or disasters that upset the tenor of ordinary everyday life.
When I have finished toying with my breakfast Mrs. Daulkes wants to know about food and suggests a nice rabbit for lunch.
“A nice rabbit stewed with onions,” says Mrs. Daulkes in persuasive tones. “That would be a nice change, wouldn’t it? Or a nice bit of boiled cod with parsley sauce?”
In my present condition both suggestions sound equally revolting, but Mrs. Daulkes is so kind and so worried about my wan appearance that I pull myself together and say a nice rabbit would be nice and will she ring up the butcher and order it straight off. This delights Mrs. Daulkes—as I knew it would—for Mr. Higginbotham is an old school-friend of Mrs. Daulkes’s and a telephone conversation between the two, especially if it be on the subject of tails or kidneys, is always enlivened by a little mild banter.
Mrs. Daulkes is still engaged upon the telephone when the front-door bell rings and, opening the door, I find Mr. Morven on the step.
“It’s very early for a call,” says Mr. Morven apologetically. “But Susan said you were an early bird and I know you will be delighted to hear my news so—”
“Hush!” I whisper, pointing to the dining room.
Mr. Morven nods understandingly.
I lead him into the garden—fortunately the morning is fine—and explain that Mrs. Daulkes has an insatiable curiosity about everything that goes on, and if we talk inside the house she will probably glue her ear to the keyhole. I add that the odd thing is she seems unaware that this behaviour is unethical.
“Daulkes,” says Mr. Morven thoughtfully. “She must be Jim Daulkes’s wife, of course. He drives the station motor-lorry. It’s a good steady hard-working family. Jim’s father was under-gardener at the Manor for years; then he married one of the housemaids and, as we had no cottage for them, I recommended him to Lord Ponsonby as head gardener. He did exceedingly well, as I knew he would. They had three children, George and Jim and Elsie—yes, Elsie was the girl’s name—a nice little thing with fair hair. George went to sea, Jim is still here—as you know—and Elsie has a good post in Wandlebury. I don’t know much about Jim’s wife, she wasn’t an Old Quinings girl, but if she is anything like the rest of the Daulkes family you can rely upon her.”
This little bit of old English squireishness enchants me. It enchants me all the more because Mr. Morven looks the part of country squire. His grey hair, his fine eyes, his benevolent smile and his tall erect figure, clad in well-cut riding breeches and a grey tweed coat, all fit the part to perfection.
We sit down together on the oak seat near the viola bed. Mr. Morven smiles and says in a stage whisper, “Are we alone?”
I reply that we have as much privacy as we can hope for. It is possible, of course, that Miss Crease may bob up from behind the wall.
“Miss Crease!” exclaims Mr. Morven, looking at the wall with apprehension. “Great Scott! Of course that’s her garden!”
“We can talk quietly,” I tell him.
>
We talk quietly. Mr. Morven says it’s all very exciting. The Will is as sound as a bell. “I thought it was,” declares Mr. Morven. “I know a little about these things and when Morley showed it to me I was fairly sure it was in order. But yesterday, just to make certain, I went over to Wandlebury and saw Mr. Tyler, who is a very competent lawyer. I caught him coming out of church,” says Mr. Morven with a slightly shame faced smile. “The old chap didn’t mind. He was interested. He advised me to get hold of the two witnesses, which was an easy matter. Everyone knows Edward, the head-waiter at the Apollo and Boot, and the chambermaid was still there, so I saw her too. They both remembered Mrs. Stroude and remembered witnessing her signature. She had told them it was a secret and that she didn’t want anybody to know. Although they didn’t say so, I expect she remunerated them handsomely for their trouble. I asked them why they didn’t come forward when they heard of her death and they said they had never thought of doing so. Mrs. Stroude had told them it was a secret.” Mr. Morven sighs and adds, “Very stupid, but I suppose one can’t blame them.”
“You explained?”
“Oh yes—but it took a good deal of explaining. At first they were determined not to open their mouths, but eventually I managed to make them understand that Mrs. Stroude did not intend them to keep the matter secret forever, but only until her death, and that unless the Will could be proved her wishes could not be carried out. After that it was plain sailing; if necessary they are prepared to go into court and swear that they witnessed the signature . . . but it won’t be necessary. Olivia Stroude would be quite mad to take the matter to court. Mr. Tyler says no lawyer would look at the case.”
“Then it’s true!” I exclaim.
“It’s true,” agrees Mr. Morven smiling at me. “Anne Carlyle will get everything—not a fortune, of course, but enough to make her comfortable. I’m very glad about it not only because Anne needs the legacy and Olivia does not—Olivia is comfortably off already—but also because I was worried when I heard Lorna had left no Will. As a matter of fact I had every reason to believe she had made a Will. Some little time ago she asked me if she might name me as her executor and gave me to understand that she intended to make provision for Anne Carlyle. I told her that she ought to get somebody younger as her executor—her life was as good as mine. She said no more—Lorna never spoke about her ailments—but I suppose she must have known that her heart was in a bad condition.”
Mrs. Tim Flies Home Page 22