“It often is in the early morning,” Dennis pointed out.
“Oh well, never mind. I didn’t intend to do the Real Test today.”
“I thought that was the whole idea.”
“No, I just want you to time some practice runs. I’ll show you exactly what to do. Here’s the stop-watch; this is how you set it——”
“I know how to set it,” said Dennis, taking it out of her hand.
“But I thought you said——”
“I said I had done it before.”
Miss Glassford looked at him doubtfully. “Yes, but I want an accurate timing. It’s so important—but don’t worry, you’ll soon learn,” she added kindly.
Dennis was obliged to admit that the young woman knew what she was doing: the course—or track—or whatever you liked to call it—was carefully laid out and clearly marked and she explained her plans with admirable lucidity. She then removed her sweater and began to prance up and down. She performed this exercise thoroughly and seriously, which made it rather comic. Dennis saw it was comic but did not feel inclined to smile.
“Now we’re ready,” declared Miss Glassford. “You must stand here, Commander Weatherby. Don’t forget to wind the stop-watch.”
“I’ve wound it,” said Dennis.
They did some tests—practice ones of course—and Dennis timed them. He had not seen Miss Glassford running before, and, like Roger, he was impressed by the apparently effortless speed of Atalanta, but unlike Roger it gave him no pleasure at all. I shan’t do this again, thought Dennis, as he watched the long legs flying over the ground. I don’t care what she says. I won’t be dragged out again. She can get somebody else to time her blue-pencil mile. I’ll be rude if necessary.
Having made this desperate decision Dennis felt more amiable (as this was the last time, he might as well be decent and do his best for her), so he did his best and was commended for his efficiency.
“You’re splendid,” declared Miss Glassford a trifle breathlessly. “You’ve been a tremendous help. It’s most awfully good of you.”
“Not at all.”
“Oh yes, it is,” said Miss Glassford nodding. “It’s very kind indeed, but you’ve enjoyed it, haven’t you, Dennis?”
“Er—well . . .”
“You don’t mind me calling you Dennis, do you?”
“No, of course not,” said Dennis without enthusiasm.
“I mean when people work together like this it forms a sort of bond between them, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Dennis without conviction.
“And you’ll call me Georgina, won’t you?”
“Er—yes—if you want me to,” said Dennis reluctantly.
The practice was over now so they walked back to the house together. Georgina, despite her activities, was still full of vim; when they reached the terrace she ran up the steps two at a time and waited for her companion at the top.
“Hurry up, Dennis!” she cried, waving her hand and smiling radiantly. . . . But Dennis had had enough of Georgina. He decided to go round the house and enter by the back door and so escape from her clutches. He waved to her in a perfunctory manner and walked away.
*
4.
The back door stood open and, as Dennis approached, Nell came out with a bucket in her hand and emptied it into the ash-bin.
“Hullo Nell, what are you doing?” asked Dennis in surprise.
“Cleaning out the kitchen stove,” replied Nell shortly.
“But I thought Mrs. Corner did that.”
“She isn’t well.”
Nell turned as she spoke and went into the kitchen.
Dennis followed her. “I wish you’d told me. I’d have done it for you. Here, give me that pail.”
“It’s done. There’s no need for you to bother.”
There was something rather queer about Nell this morning. Dennis had never seen her like this before. He stood and watched while she went into the scullery and returned with a bowl of eggs. She did not speak.
“I say, is something the matter?” he enquired anxiously.
“I’ve told you. Mrs. Corner isn’t well.”
“But I mean—the matter with you,” Dennis explained. “You seem—a bit—worried.”
“I’m not in the least worried.” She put the bowl of eggs on the table and took a large frying pan out of the cupboard in the corner.
“Let me help,” said Dennis eagerly. “I’m awfully good at bacon and eggs.”
“No thank you, I can do it myself.”
“Please let me. I’d like to.”
Dennis tried to take the frying pan from her hand but she clung to it like a limpet, so that without using brute force he could not wrest it from her grasp. There was something the matter, thought Dennis in alarm. There was something very wrong indeed. He abandoned the struggle for the frying pan and, glancing at Nell’s face, saw to his consternation that her eyes were brimming with tears.
“Nell, darling!” he cried. “Darling Nell, what is it? Tell me what’s the matter—darling, darling Nell!”
The next moment she was in his arms, weeping upon his shoulder and Dennis was kissing the top of her head and patting her and making soothing sounds. The frying pan clattered onto the floor unnoticed.
“Oh Dennis!” sobbed Nell. “Oh Dennis!”
“Don’t cry, dearest love. Don’t cry.”
“I can’t—help it . . .”
“Tell me what’s the matter.”
“Nothing,” declared Nell, trying to control herself.
“But darling, there must be something. What is it, Nell?”
“Nothing—at least not now. It was just that I thought—but I was silly. Give me your handkie, Dennis.”
He gave her his handkerchief and she mopped up her tears. “There, I’m better,” she said.
Certainly she looked better—there was even a faint watery smile tilting the corners of her mouth—but he still was not satisfied. He drew her back into his arms and kissed her again. It was not a brotherly sort of kiss, but Nell did not seem to object.
“Darling, is it all right?” asked Dennis anxiously. “I mean you do love me.”
“Of course I love you.”
“And you’ll—you’ll marry me, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Nell.
“Darling!” cried Dennis ecstatically. “Darling, beautiful Nell!”
Presently they remembered breakfast. The other members of Amberwell household would be coming downstairs expecting to find breakfast ready—and there would be no breakfast for anybody. Dennis picked up the frying pan and Nell got out the bacon.
“There’s no time for porridge, it will have to be flakes,” said Nell.
“Have you made the coffee?” asked Dennis as he laid out the rashers of bacon in the pan.
“No,” said Nell. “Oh yes, I have. I’d forgotten. Just see if there’s enough water in the kettle for Mother’s tea.”
“Yes, there’s enough.”
“Dennis,” said Nell in sudden alarm. “You won’t want me to leave Amberwell, will you?”
Dennis had thought of this already and had realised that it would be useless to ask Nell to leave Amberwell—at present. He realised also that Nell would be safer and happier carrying out her usual duties at Amberwell while he was away at sea. Later on, if he got a post ashore, it would not be so good—but Dennis was willing to let the future look after itself. “Of course you needn’t leave Amberwell,” he told her. “You must do just as you like—always.”
“That’s all right then,” said Nell with a sigh of relief.
“Are you feeling quite well now?” asked Dennis in sudden anxiety.
“Of course I’m quite well!”
“You haven’t told me what was the matter.”
“Just silliness, that’s all. Are you going to make the toast or shall I?”
“But you must tell me,” said Dennis earnestly. “I mean we’re going to tell each other everything. Aren’t w
e?”
“You’ll think it silly.”
“No, I shan’t.”
“Well, it was just—I mean I thought—I thought you were beginning—to like—Georgina.”
“Good lord, whatever made you think that?” exclaimed Dennis in amazement.
“I knew you would think it was silly.”
“I don’t,” declared Dennis hastily. “But honestly——”
“Well, you went out and sat in the garden with her for ages—and you never even said goodnight to me!”
“But Nell, how could I say goodnight to you when you had gone upstairs to bed?”
“You could have—knocked on my door,” said Nell, with a little catch in her breath. “You could have—called out to me. I waited—for ages.”
“But Nell——”
“You were sitting in the garden with—with Georgina!”
“But Nell——”
“So of course I thought you were beginning to—to——”
“I simply hate the sight of her,” said Dennis fiercely.
“You hate the sight of her?”
“Absolutely.”
“But you went out with her again this morning!”
“I know,” admitted Dennis ruefully. “I can’t think how it happened. She asked me to time her blue-pencil mile, and of course I meant to say no, but she misunderstood me or something, and——”
“Dennis, look out! The milk’s boiling over.”
“I just couldn’t get out of it,” said Dennis, shifting the pan. “And then of course the whole thing went out of my head until she knocked me up at half past six.”
“Half past six!”
“Yes, she came in looking as fresh as a daisy.”
“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
“I think she’s like a horse,” declared Dennis frankly.
Nell had thought this herself so naturally she was delighted to have her opinion confirmed. “Is the bacon nearly ready?” she enquired.
“Not quite. I like it crisp, don’t you?”
Of course Nell liked it crisp—if Dennis did.
“She’s a frightful woman,” continued Dennis as he shook the sizzling pan. “She called me Dennis and she asked me to call her Georgina. Isn’t it awful?”
“Why is it awful?”
“Because I shan’t be able to. What’s more I don’t want to. That woman is positively—dangerous. I’m not going out with her again.”
“Were you frightened of her?”
“Terrified.”
“Poor darling Dennis!” said Nell with a little giggle of amusement.
Nell was passing Dennis as she spoke—she was on her way to the electric toaster—so it was easy for him to waylay her and kiss her again.
“The toast will burn,” said Nell, trying to free herself.
“Let it burn. Who cares? Oh Nell, I do love you so frightfully!”
“Do you really?”
“Yes, I’ve loved you for three years. I loved you before I even saw you. I fell in love with your voice on the telephone. . . . Yes, honestly! When did you begin to love me?”
“I don’t know, really. It was sort of gradual. It wasn’t a bit like people who fall in love—in books. We’ve been friends for ages, haven’t we? It was lovely having you as a friend . . . and then last night when I saw you sitting on the seat with Georgina——”
“But you understand about that now.”
Nell drew back a little and looked up at him anxiously. She said, “You know Dennis, I don’t think I’m really in love with you.”
“Not in love with me?” asked Dennis, with a sudden cold feeling in his heart.
“I just love you—frightfully. Does it matter?”
The cold feeling vanished. “Not a bit,” declared Dennis with conviction. “It’s perfect—absolutely perfect. Nothing could be better.”
The toast was burning by this time but neither of them noticed. They noticed nothing until the door burst open and Nannie rushed in to find the kitchen full of acrid smoke and the cooks embracing fondly.
“I knew it!” cried Nannie joyfully, as she ran to turn off the toaster. “I knew it all along. I said to Kate Duff—it was the night before her accident—mark my words, I said, there’ll be another marriage at Amberwell before we’re much older.”
At that moment Winnie and Jean arrived and Stephen came in, looking for his breakfast; he was followed by Mrs. Ayrton. After that there was pandemonium in the kitchen, with everybody talking at once and exclaiming rapturously, while Nannie rushed hither and thither trying to save the food from being burnt to cinders.
Oddly enough nobody was surprised and there was no need to explain what had happened. Even Mrs. Ayrton, usually so vague, seemed to have expected this dénouement.
“You’ll be married at St. Stephen’s of course,” said Mrs. Ayrton. “I must look out the veil. Connie was the last to wear it; I think I must have put it in one of those boxes in the attic.”
“You’re pleased, Mother?” asked Nell.
“Yes, of course, dear,” replied Mrs. Ayrton. “I thought Dennis was nice the first time I saw him. Of course I’m pleased.”
Georgina was the last member of the household to arrive upon the scene. She had changed out of her running-gear into slacks and a lemon pullover; she stood at the door gazing round in bewilderment.
“Aunt Nell is going to marry Uncle Dennis!” cried Stephen excitedly. “Then he’ll be a real uncle—not just a pretend. Isn’t it lovely, Miss Glassford? Isn’t it lovely?”
“Yes, it’s splendid,” said Georgina in a tepid sort of voice.
Dennis went over and shook her by the hand. “Thank you very much, Georgina,” said Dennis cordially.
“What for?” asked Georgina in surprised accents.
Chapter Nineteen
1.
When breakfast was over and the excitement had died down a little Dennis walked down to Westkirk to do the shopping and to send a telegram to his mother. The telegram was necessary because the new house was not yet on the telephone and the miserable letter was in the post. Dennis was ashamed of that letter and wished he had not written it. He tried to remember exactly what he had written, but without much success. He had written so much and so quickly and had sealed it up so hastily that he had not even read it over. . . . And so many strange and important things had happened this morning that he could hardly believe it was less than twelve hours since he had sat up in bed and written that miserable wail.
It was a little difficult to decide what to say in the telegram. Dennis would have liked to let himself go and indulge in ecstacies, but he was far too shy to hand a message of this nature to the girl behind the counter in the post office, so he was obliged to control himself and make it cryptic. He spoilt several forms before he could find a satisfactory way of conveying the marvellous news to his mother.
You were right the sky is cloudless please ignore letter love from Den.
Yes, that would do, thought Dennis. She would understand at once, but nobody else would have a clue as to what it meant. (The fact that the weather was deteriorating rapidly and it had actually begun to rain was neither here nor there.) Dennis would have liked to say, please burn letter unread, but he had too much sense. Mrs. Weatherby was the soul of honour—as her son very well knew—and if asked to burn the letter unread she would do so, but being human she would wonder what was in it and would imagine all sorts of curious things.
Dennis handed in his telegram with a nonchalant air and walked back to Amberwell in the rain, basking in his own private sunshine.
The telegram arrived first of course and its recipient had no difficulty in decoding it. She was full of joy at the news, for the most important thing in the world to Mrs. Weatherby was Den’s happiness. She received the letter next morning and (not having been told to burn it unread, but merely to ignore it) she opened it with a good deal of interest. It was a very long letter; there were pages and pages of it. Mrs. Weatherby read it with mixed emotio
ns. In fact, if the truth were told, with a mixture of tears and smiles; tears because it was such a very miserable letter and it was distressing to think that Den had been so unhappy, smiles because the unhappiness was past and the skies were cloudless. Somehow the letter reminded Mrs. Weatherby of the first letter she had ever received from Den when he had gone to his Prep School. He had written to tell her that he couldn’t bare it and would she come and fetch him home tomorrow becaus onnestly he couldent bare it. Yes, it was very much the same sort of letter, thought Mrs. Weatherby as she wiped away her tears.
She had been told to ignore the letter which probably meant she was to destroy it (yes, she supposed she must), but she would keep it for a day or two because it was so very precious. It was precious because Den had turned to her in his trouble and opened his heart; precious because he would never write to her in quite the same way again. No, never, thought Mrs. Weatherby, never in quite the same way again . . . and then she sighed and put the letter in the fire and watched it burn . . . for of course that was what Den had wanted.
*
2.
When Dennis returned from his expedition to Westkirk, he found his future mother-in-law sitting in the morning room and went in to chat to her. Mrs. Ayrton was always at her best with Dennis for he was kind and patient and took the trouble to speak to her slowly.
“Come in, Dennis,” said Mrs. Ayrton. “We must make plans. It would be nice to have a Christmas wedding. Connie and Gerald were married at Christmas-time and the church was so pretty, all decorated with holly and white chrysanthemums.”
“Yes,” said Dennis. He only had a fortnight more leave before his posting to his new ship, which was in the Mediterranean, so he was neither surprised nor disappointed to hear that the wedding was to be at Christmas. What was three months when he had waited three years for his Nell?
“The Admiral is sure to give you leave at Christmas, isn’t he?” continued Mrs. Ayrton nodding complacently. “Everybody gets leave at Christmas.”
Dennis did not contradict her nor point out that if “everybody” got leave at Christmas the Royal Navy would cease to function—he was too polite—he merely said that if the wedding was to take place at Christmas he would be there and all the Admirals in the Royal Navy would not prevent him.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 19