“Yes,” he said doubtfully. “I haven’t seen her for years. She might be—upset.” He had been about to say angry, but substituted the other word.
“So you must go away,” said Madame Le Brun, nodding.
“But how is she?” asked Roger. “What’s the matter with her?”
“She ees seek,” replied Madame Le Brun. “When I write she ees vairy seek but now she is a leetle better.”
This information was vague, to say the least of it, but Roger could discover no more; he could not make up his mind whether Madame Le Brun was being vague deliberately or whether the difficulty was due to their inability to communicate with each other—they could not speak the same language. It crossed Roger’s mind that if only he had learnt a modern language at school (if he had spent all the hours devoted to the study of Latin in learning to speak French or Italian fluently) he would not have felt so helpless. He made up his mind then and there that the boys of Summerhills should be taught modern languages which would be of use to them in a modern world.
At last Roger gave up the struggle to get any satisfaction out of Madame Le Brun.
“I must see the doctor and speak to him,” said Roger with a sigh.
Madame Le Brun smiled grimly. “You can see ’im but you not spik to ’im,” she replied.
“Not speak to him?”
“’E not spik Ingleese.”
“Not any English at all?”
“Vairy little. Not good like me. C’est amusant, n’est-ce pas?” she added with a titter.
Roger was not amused. It seemed to him a very poor joke. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I’d like to see him all the same.”
“Eet will be no good.”
“Perhaps not, but I mean to see him. Where does he live?”
Madame Le Brun did not understand—or pretended not to understand—this perfectly simple question and Roger was obliged to repeat it several times before she answered.
At last she said reluctantly, “You see ’im ’ere eef you want to see ’im. ’E come at ten hours of the morning—but eet will be no good.”
Chapter Eleven
1.
When roger got back to the hotel he was informed by the hall-porter that a visitor had called and asked for him and on being told that Major Ayrton was out had left a message to say he would come back after dinner.
“Who was he? What was his name?” asked Roger.
“I think he was your brother,” replied the hall-porter.
This seemed impossible, for Nell had said that Tom was in Bermuda. “Are you sure?” enquired Roger.
“He looked like you,” was the answer.
“If he looked like me he wasn’t my brother,” declared Roger.
This curious statement was perfectly true. Tom was lightly built, with dark hair and brown eyes. The two brothers were quite unlike each other.
“But he looked like you,” repeated the hall-porter.
It was obvious that the man did not understand and Roger saw no object in explaining matters further; he was just turning away when a very beautiful young woman rushed up to the desk and addressed the hall-porter in an unknown tongue (which certainly was not French or German or Italian) and the hall-porter replied to her fluently. Hall-porters were wonderful, thought Roger. How useful to have had one on the Tower of Babel!
By this time Roger was very hungry so he went in to dinner, but as he ate the excellent meal he continued to puzzle over the identity of his visitor. Roger had no friends in Rome. Nobody knew he was here except his own family. Two days ago he had not known he would be here himself. Who on earth could it be?
The mystery was solved when Roger went into the lounge to have his coffee; there was a man sitting by himself in the corner reading the Daily Mail. He looked up as Roger came in and, putting down the paper, rose and came across the room. The man was a large fair Briton, not unlike himself, but a complete stranger.
“Are you Major Ayrton?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh good! I’m Dennis Weatherby. You don’t know me of course, but I’m a friend of Tom’s.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” said Roger, smiling as they shook hands.
“I called before,” said Dennis Weatherby. “The hall-porter didn’t get my name—it’s a difficult name for foreigners—but he said he would tell you.”
“He did. He said you were my brother— said you looked like me—wouldn’t believe me when I told him that if you looked like me you couldn’t be my brother. It was too difficult.”
Dennis smiled. “Certainly you aren’t like Tom. We’re more like each other—both large and fair.”
The hall-porter’s mistake tided them over the slight awkwardness of their meeting. Roger’s coffee was brought and the two large fair young men sat down together at the corner table. They talked about Tom, which was a natural subject for conversation, and Roger discovered that Tom’s friend shared his own views.
“Yes, of course Tom should settle down and practice medicine seriously,” agreed Dennis, “but I don’t think he will, you know. He likes wandering about the world and seeing new places and he loves the sea. Tom ought to have gone into the Navy.”
“I know. He always wanted to,” agreed Roger.
All this time Roger had been wondering how Dennis Weatherby had known he was in Rome. At last he asked the question.
“I’m on my way home,” explained Dennis. “I’ve been out East for three years so I’ve got a good long spell of leave. I’m staying here with some cousins who have a villa up in the hills. You see my mother’s sister married an Italian. I used to spend my holidays with them sometimes when I was a boy, but I haven’t seen them for quite a long time so I thought it was a good opportunity to go and see them on my way home. Of course I’m only staying here for a few days.”
Roger nodded and waited for more. Dennis had explained his presence in Rome but he had not answered the question.
“Nell told me you were here,” added Dennis after a short pause.
“Nell told you?”
“Yes. You see I—er—I rang her up last night.”
“You rang her up!”
“Yes,” said Dennis. “I just thought—it was a sudden idea—and we got a very good connection. I mean it was worth it.” He hesitated again and then added, “When you’ve been abroad for years it’s rather nice to—to talk to people.”
This was true of course, Roger had experienced it himself, but all the same it looked as if Tom were right. It was “nice to talk to people” when you had been abroad for years, but only if you happened to like them in rather a special sort of way.
“Nell told me about your aunt,” continued Dennis. “She suggested I should look you up and see if I could be of any help. You see I know the lingo, more or less.”
“How frightfully good of you.”
“Not a bit. I wanted to meet you. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” said Roger. “At least—I hardly like to ask you. The fact is I’m in a bit of a hole, but I don’t see why you should bother.”
“No bother at all,” declared Dennis fervently.
It was true, thought Roger. No fellow in his senses would volunteer so eagerly to help another fellow out of a mysterious hole unless he were extremely interested in the other fellow’s sister.
“If it’s money I can help you quite easily,” Dennis continued. “I can borrow it from my cousins and you can pay me back when you get home. Nell thought you might be short of money. If you’ve got to pay the doctor or put your aunt into a hospital——”
“I haven’t got round to that yet,” said Roger ruefully. “I haven’t done anything at all. I don’t even know what’s the matter with her and I can’t find out . . .” and he proceeded to tell Dennis the whole story.
“Why don’t you trust the Frenchwoman?” Dennis enquired.
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Probably I’m quite wrong and she’s the soul of honour, but I didn’t like her.” Roger smi
led and added, “She was short and stout and her black dress fitted her so tightly that she looked like an old-fashioned pincushion stuffed with sawdust. She had lots of gold chains round her neck and her eyes were like beads.”
They laughed together over the description.
“I’ll come with you tomorrow,” said Dennis. “I can talk to the doctor and find out the state of affairs. Then we’ll know what to do—whether Miss Ayrton should be moved to a hospital.”
This offer was such a relief to Roger’s mind that his objections and protestations were somewhat half-hearted.
“Of course I’ll come,” said Dennis. “It isn’t a bother at all. I’m longing to see the pincushion. We’ll make a little hole in her and see if the sawdust pours out.”
“It will,” declared Roger with conviction.
Having settled to meet and go to the Pensione Valetta on the following morning, the two young men began to talk of other things. Dennis did most of the talking, and Roger as he listened became more than ever convinced that his new friend was talking with a purpose. It was unusual, to say the least of it, for a casual acquaintance to tell one so much about his affairs. By the time Dennis left, Roger knew all about his background.
Dennis Weatherby’s father had died when he was a child. His mother continued to live at Weatherby Manor. Although it was much too large for comfort she had hopes that someday things would change for the better and her son would be able to take up his residence in his home. Lately it had become increasingly difficult to carry on. The house was some miles from Harrogate and so isolated that Mrs. Weatherby could not get any domestic help, and as it was quite impossible to live in the place alone she had been obliged to shut it up and take rooms in an hotel. Now however she had managed to find a small house in Harrogate with a pleasant garden and Dennis was going to help her to move into it and get settled there.
So far Weatherby Manor had not been sold, it was standing empty; they had had one or two offers for it but the offers were so ridiculous that they could not be considered. Nobody wanted an enormous house, miles from anywhere.
Dennis spoke of his mother with deep affection, he was obviously devoted to her. He told Roger that she was only twenty years older than himself and young for her age. For years she had lived like a hermit in Weatherby Manor, seeing few people and working far too hard, but she was interested in people and he hoped the move into Harrogate would be a success. Already she had made friends with some people in the hotel and was going about and enjoying herself. Dennis did not exactly state his income—that would have been a little too obvious—but he gave Roger to understand that his mother had enough to live on and would have more if they could sell the Manor, and that although he himself had very little beyond his pay he was well on his way to promotion in the Service. There was no mention of Nell, but Dennis was well up-to-date in news of the Ayrton family; he knew about Summerhills and Roger’s plans for the school, and he could not have known all this unless Nell had written and told him . . . so they were corresponding regularly.
If Roger and Dennis had met elsewhere it would have taken them much longer to become acquainted, but meeting here, in a foreign country, produced an intimacy between them in record time. He’s a good fellow, thought Roger as he went upstairs to bed. If he’s the Right One for Nell I shan’t be sorry . . . though what will happen to Amberwell if Nell decides to marry him Heaven alone knows.
Dennis was Tom’s friend, which was strange (thought Roger) for he was not the least like Tom. Tom was a dear fellow; he was amusing and attractive, he could wile the birds off the trees, but you could not call him sound. Dennis Weatherby was sound—if Roger knew anything about men.
Perhaps Roger’s estimate of his new friend was slightly coloured by his relief at finding a fellow countryman in strange surroundings, and a fellow countryman who was eager to help him out of a hole, but Roger was used to people who showed eagerness to be of service to him and could see through them at once. The offer of help could have been made in a very different way; it could have been difficult to accept without a feeling of obligation, but it had been made so naturally and spontaneously that there was no awkwardness at all. The offer of money to tide him over any temporary difficulties had been sensible and businesslike. Roger had not thanked Dennis—there was no need—but he had appreciated it greatly; the more so because it was so unusual. Roger was frequently asked for the loan of money, but he could not remember ever having been offered such a thing before.
This was a small matter, of course (he smiled when he thought of it), but it had its effect . . . and it was quite possible that he would have to take advantage of the offer, for the sum allowed to travellers by the British Government would not go very far if Aunt Beatrice had to be moved to a hospital.
*
2.
Dennis appeared at the hotel punctually the next morning and, as Roger now knew this way to the Pensione Valetta, he was able to lead his friend direct to the somewhat unsavoury entrance in the side street. There were no children here this morning—perhaps they were at school—but there was litter lying about in the form of tins and pieces of torn paper and orange skins. The place looked worse than Roger remembered and he was not surprised when Dennis commented upon it unfavourably.
“I know. It’s horrible,” agreed Roger. “But it’s all right once you get inside.”
Madame Le Brun opened the door to them; she was arrayed as before, tightly and creaselessly in black satin with the gold chains round her podgy neck. It was impossible to imagine her in any other garment or to believe that she removed it when she went to bed. Roger glanced at Dennis and noticed that he was endeavouring to hide a smile. The doctor had arrived before them and was waiting in the hall; he too was short and stout, but he looked more human. He looked as if he were made of flesh and blood—not sawdust.
When everybody had been introduced and had acknowledged the introductions politely they began to talk at once. Dennis had said that he knew the lingo, more or less, and now Roger realised that this statement had been extremely modest. Perhaps he did not talk quite so fast, and certainly he was less lavish of gesture than the other two, but he seemed to be holding his own. They talked for some minutes without stopping for breath and, to the anxious listener, it appeared that they were arguing fiercely and were all very angry indeed, but apparently the anxious listener was wrong.
“It doesn’t sound too bad,” said Dennis at last, turning to Roger and speaking in a rapid indistinct mumble which nobody but Roger could understand. “Doc says she’s had a slight haemorrhage on the brain—a sort of stroke, I suppose. At least that’s what he thought at first, but now he’s not so sure. It’s all pretty technical and I wouldn’t get it in English far less in Italian. He was anxious about her at first and told the pincushion to communicate with her relations, but after a couple of days she was very much better and the improvement has continued. Her arm was paralysed—I think that’s what he means—but that’s better. He’s surprised at the improvement, and I have a feeling he’s trying to save his face by making it all as mysterious as he can. Silly little ass, isn’t he?”
Roger glanced at the silly little ass and saw that he was listening to the interpretation of his remarks with his head on one side and a beaming smile upon his chubby countenance. Madame Le Brun was listening too, she wore a frown and was trying her best to follow the conversation.
“Why you not speaking Ingleese?” she demanded suddenly.
“We prefer Urdu,” replied Dennis slowly and clearly. “You have no objection, I hope.”
“Eet is vairy foony, I sink,” she declared suspiciously.
Roger thought it was “foony” too. He could not help chuckling.
Having made this explanation Dennis turned back to Roger and continued to converse in “Urdu.” “She’s still in bed,” he muttered. “Hasn’t been up at all, but if she goes on like this he’s thinking of letting her up tomorrow.”
“Does she want to see me?”
“They haven’t told her you’re here. Pincushion doesn’t want you to see her. Doc says you can see her if you don’t excite her. My impression is Doc doesn’t want to take the responsibility of sending you away.”
“Well, I don’t know,” mumbled Roger. “You’d better tell him I’ve no idea whether it’ll excite her or not. There was a fearful row in the family and I haven’t seen the old lady for years. Might go off the deep end if I walked in.”
“Better not mention the row. I’ll just say it might excite her.” He turned back to the others and explained.
The argument was resumed and now that Roger held the key he was able to follow it easily—not from the words of course but from the gestures. Madame Le Brun pointed to the door by which the two young men had entered, words poured from her mouth, she waved her arms dramatically and rolled her eyes like a prima donna in an Italian opera. The doctor shook his head violently and pointed to a door at the other end of the hall, which no doubt led to his patient’s bedroom. Dennis had withdrawn from the contest and stood by, watching and listening.
The argument became more and more heated, the voices louder. Roger was convinced that very soon the contestants would come to blows. He seized his interpreter by the arm.
“Look here,” he exclaimed. “I’d better not see her. I don’t want to see her if it’s going to make all this fuss. I only came because the woman wrote to me and I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“You’d better see her. Doc says he’ll take the responsibility. It’s for him to say. Pincushion has nothing to do with it.”
Roger was not so sure. “Let’s go, for goodness’ sake,” he whispered. “Let’s filter out and leave them to it.”
“No. You’d better see her.”
“Why?”
“I think there’s some funny business going on.”
“Funny business?”
“It’s fishy,” explained Dennis. “I mean why doesn’t the pincushion want you to see her? That’s what I’d like to know.”
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 10