Mrs. Corner would have disbelieved the statement if she could, but she could not disbelieve it; nobody could be in Mrs. Duff’s company for ten minutes without realising that here was a woman who scorned untruth.
Mrs. Corner was forced to believe it. She opened her mouth but no sound emerged, and it seemed to Nannie that her bulky form shrank visibly like a pricked balloon.
“Will you take a wee drop more tea?” asked Mrs. Duff politely. “There’s no scones, I see. Maybe I’ll manage a little baking tomorrow—though it’ll not be very easy with one hand.”
“Oh Kate!” exclaimed Nannie. “That’ll be grand. I’ve not tasted a decent scone for weeks!”
Mrs. Corner was too deflated to resent the insult.
Chapter Twenty-One
1.
Mrs. weatherby had suggested that she should travel north on Tuesday, and that she and Den should spend the night at an hotel in Westkirk. (She pointed out that it was unconventional for a bride and bridegroom to spend the night before their wedding under the same roof.) Her suggestion was received with scorn, it was brushed aside as being not worth listening to, and as she was anxious to see as much of Den’s future relations as possible she accepted the invitation to stay at Amberwell with a good grace.
She arrived on Tuesday afternoon and Dennis met her at Westkirk station. He had wanted Nell to come with him, but Nell had a feeling that Mrs. Weatherby would like to be met by Dennis alone and have him to herself for a few minutes before her future daughter-in-law was presented to her.
Waiting in the hall and listening for the car was a nerve-racking experience for Nell. She walked to and fro like a caged tiger; she was almost sick with fright. Supposing Mrs. Weatherby did not like her? Dennis had assured her over and over again that his mother would love her—but would she? Nell felt certain that any mother with a son like Dennis would be very critical indeed of the girl he had chosen to be his wife. Nell knew that Dennis and his mother had been all in all to each other, that their relationship had been perfect, that they were not only mother and son but friends. Supposing Mrs. Weatherby thought her dull and stupid—not nearly good enough for Dennis?
Perhaps after all it would have been better to go to the station. Perhaps Mrs. Weatherby would think it was rude not to go to the station and meet her when she got off the train. But of course it was too late to think of that now.
Nell had already dressed very carefully for the important meeting but now, catching sight of herself in the hall-mirror, she suddenly decided that the frock she had chosen was a mistake. The blue one would be better. She fled upstairs and changed hastily, and was about to comb her disordered hair when she heard the car coming up the drive. Nell dropped the comb as if it were a hot potato and rushing downstairs arrived, flushed and breathless, in time to see the front door open and the visitor being ushered into the hall.
“Nell, here’s Mother!” exclaimed Dennis excitedly.
“I’ve been longing to meet you,” cried Mrs. Weatherby as she swept Nell into a loving embrace. “Ever since Den told me—and I should have known you anywhere from Den’s description!”
Somehow Nell felt the same. This tall graceful woman with the friendly eyes did not seem like a stranger to Nell.
“I’m glad,” she said simply. Her gladness was not an answer to what Mrs. Weatherby had said, but an expression of her feelings.
They went upstairs together, followed by Dennis with a suitcase in either hand. Mrs. Weatherby’s room had been carefully prepared by Nell. It was the one practical duty she had undertaken. She had put out the best linen, polished the furniture with her own hands and filled the book-trough with her favourite books. Other things did not matter, but Mrs. Weatherby’s comfort was important.
“The house is in rather a muddle,” said Nell apologetically. “It’s my fault, of course. Mother wanted the wedding to be at Christmas. And it’s my fault because I can’t think about food and clothes and things like that. I didn’t want all this fuss. I thought it would be lovely if Dennis and I could just walk down to the church together in our ordinary clothes, and be married—but they won’t let us.”
“No, they won’t let us,” agreed Dennis, putting down the suitcases and loosening the straps. “Apparently you can’t be properly married in old clothes—and you must have flowers and fizz and fuss.”
“Mr. Orme understood what we wanted, and he agreed——”
“But nobody else,” said Dennis regretfully. “Everybody else wanted a beano—so there you are.”
“Well, we know the worst.”
“You don’t! There are new horrors in preparation.”
“New horrors!”
“Yes, I heard Mrs. Lambert talking about confetti—and Arnold said something about an old shoe.”
“Oh Dennis—no!” cried Nell in dismay.
Mrs. Weatherby could not help laughing. She laughed partly because it was really very funny and partly because she was relieved. To tell the truth Mrs. Weatherby had been nearly as frightened as Nell; she, too, had been “supposing.” Of course Den had said there was no need to worry but supposing he was wrong? Supposing her new daughter-in-law did not like her or was the sort of girl she could not love? Supposing she was the sort of girl who would not make Den happy?
When Nell had not been there to meet her at the station Mrs. Weatherby had thought, Supposing she doesn’t want to be friendly with me!
But all these terrifying suppositions had taken flight. They had faded when she saw Nell flushed and breathless running down the stairs to meet her, and had vanished completely when she saw Den and Nell together and heard them discussing the preparations for their wedding. Mrs. Weatherby was now quite certain that everything was going to be all right, quite certain that if she had searched the whole country from Land’s End to John o’Groats she could not have found a girl who would suit Den better.
Dennis watched his mother laughing. “It’s all very well for you to laugh,” he said ruefully. “You aren’t being sacrificed to make a Roman holiday. And incidentally it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Your fault entirely,” declared Dennis. “If it hadn’t been for you, Nell and I would have taken the plunge on Saturday when the Special License arrived and we saw the preparations beginning. I mean we’d just have walked down to the church together in our oldest clothes and got spliced then and there.” He grinned and added, “It would have been fun, but we decided we couldn’t get spliced without you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Mrs. Weatherby smiling. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me but I can’t help feeling glad.”
Arriving like this in the middle of a family party was somewhat bewildering for Mrs. Weatherby. When she came down to the big drawing room it seemed full of people, and although Den had given her a short description of his future in-laws it was difficult to sort them out. Nell’s brother was easy; he was tall and fair and extremely handsome and played the host to perfection, but it was some time before she discovered that the dainty, fairylike woman who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings was not her hostess. Den had told her about Stephen of course, but there were five children in the room—some of them rough and noisy—and there was a tall, fair young woman who looked as if she might be Nell’s sister but had been introduced as “Mrs. Gerald Lambert.” This puzzled Mrs. Weatherby considerably. She felt certain that Den had told her Nell’s sister was Mrs. Selby. There were three other girls—none of them the least like Nell—and there were several men. Was the big, hearty, elderly man Nell’s father? But what was she thinking of? Nell’s father was dead. Den had said so! Altogether Mrs. Weatherby was so bamboozled that she was glad to be rescued by Nell and told she must have a rest before dinner.
“Roger introduced you to everybody, didn’t he?” said Nell as she conducted Mrs. Weatherby to her room.
“Yes, but I’m afraid——”
“Oh, it must be frightfully difficult for you.”
“I’m not very good at remem
bering people’s names when I meet them for the first time.”
“Neither am I,” admitted Nell smiling. “Their names go in at one ear and out of the other.”
“Which was your aunt?” asked Mrs. Weatherby, for having heard so much about the mysterious Aunt Beatrice she was anxious to identify her.
“My aunt? Oh, you mean Aunt Beatrice! We asked her but she didn’t come. It was just as well, really, because there was a row and it might have been difficult. You never know with Aunt Beatrice.”
“There was a thin man with very white hair——”
“Mr. Dalgleish,” nodded Nell. “He’s our lawyer. He’s staying at the hotel in Westkirk, so he won’t be here for dinner. Dinner will be quite peaceful.”
“Peaceful?” asked Mrs. Weatherby in surprise.
“Yes, there will be just ourselves. The others will all go home. The Maddons aren’t relations—just friends—and Connie and Gerald are staying with Poppet—and Mary as well—and the three children. Anne and Emmie live at the Rectory with Mr. Orme—and Georgina has dinner upstairs.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Weatherby untruthfully. The fact was that Nell’s explanation—intended to be helpful—had added to Mrs. Weatherby’s confusion.
“It must be frightfully difficult for you,” repeated Nell sympathetically.
“It is—rather,” admitted Mrs. Weatherby.
Nell wished she could stay and chat to Mrs. Weatherby, but Nannie was waiting to try on her frock.
“Nannie will be cross if I don’t go,” explained Nell, “so I think I had better. Roger and Dennis are going for a walk.” She sighed and added, “Goodness, I wish it were all over! If I’d known it was going to be like this——”
“You wouldn’t have agreed to marry Den?” suggested his mother.
“Oh well,” said Nell smiling reluctantly. “I expect I would—really—but we could have eloped.”
*
2.
Roger had suggested the walk as a means of escaping from the fuss, and Dennis (on finding that Nell had an engagement with Nannie) agreed to accompany him. They set off together directly after tea.
It was one of those still autumn afternoons, mild and misty, with the sun shining from behind a veil of thin white cloud. Coming suddenly from the drawing room, noisy with chatter, the stillness and peacefulness of the outside world was sublime. The crack of a twig beneath Roger’s foot sounded as loud as the report of a rifle. Dennis had expected to talk about plans for the future, but Roger was in no mood for talking so they strode along together in silence.
The leaves were beginning to fall. They fell reluctantly. They hovered in the air and drifted slowly sideways to the damp ground. You would wonder why, having survived days of wind and rain, they should detach themselves now, at this moment of peace. Did they part with the twigs voluntarily? Did they say, “Goodbye, we clung to you when the wind raged, but now our time has come?” Gently and slowly they drifted to the ground making a carpet of brown and gold upon the grass.
It was not often that Roger was imaginative, but this afternoon he was moved to see this gentle fall of leaves as symbolic of his relationship with Nell. Together they had enjoyed sunshine and braved tempest, but now Nell was gently detaching herself from the tree and drifting to an unknown bourne.
Roger was pleased of course. He had often said to himself that Nell ought to get married and have children of her own instead of expending all her mother-love upon Stephen. Nell was the sort of girl who ought to marry . . . and here was an exceedingly nice fellow who was going to marry her tomorrow. You could not find a better fellow if you searched for years—and they were devoted to each other. What could be more delightful? Naturally Roger was delighted—but somehow he did not feel as delighted as he should. There was a draught of air blowing about his heart. It was a queer cold sort of feeling.
Nell had always been a secure refuge. Yes, from the very earliest days of childhood. Looking back down the years Roger remembered her as a little girl in the nursery who had always had a special smile for him. He remembered a hundred adventures shared. Little things and big things shared with Nell. He remembered being sent to bed without his supper—as a punishment for some long-forgotten misdemeanor—and Nell pushing a piece of bread and a bar of chocolate beneath the locked door; he remembered teaching Nell to ride a bicycle; he remembered sitting on her bed and trying to comfort her when Anne disappeared and could not be found; he remembered ringing her up and telling her that Clare had been killed; he remembered coming home to Amberwell after the war and Nell’s rapturous greeting. All these things Roger remembered—and a hundred more—and now here was this stranger, who knew nothing of bygone days, and he was going to walk off with one of Roger’s dearest possessions—Roger’s favourite sister, precious beyond rubies!
For a few moments Roger almost hated Dennis, who was striding along beside him with a ridiculous grin on his face (for Dennis had given up his attempt to converse with Roger and was lost in his own private bliss). The silly owl, thought Roger glancing at him sideways in contempt, and then he thought: But that’s nonsense; of course he’s happy. Who wouldn’t be? I’m the silly owl—and selfish as well.
Having decided that he was a silly owl—and selfish as well—Roger shook himself free of old memories and present worries and began to talk to his companion. They talked about business matters, about Nell staying on and managing Amberwell in the meantime—at least until Dennis got a job ashore—and about the generous settlement which Roger intended to make his favourite sister.
“Perhaps you’ll get married one of these days,” suggested Dennis.
“Well—perhaps,” said Roger uncomfortably. “I mean—you never know—but I don’t think so.”
“You should,” declared Dennis with conviction. “Marriage is a good thing.”
“Only if you can get the right person.”
“Oh, of course.”
They walked on in silence for a little and having come to the big mossy stone at the entrance to the woods they paused and looked back.
“This is one of my favourite haunts,” said Roger. “You can see the whole of Amberwell from here. It’s almost like seeing it from the air.”
“I came here one morning with Tom,” replied Dennis. “It was before I went to Burma.” He hesitated. It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell Roger that he had sat here beside Tom and written a poem to Nell and then torn it up and buried the fragments, but Roger would think it silly.
“Pity Tom can’t be here tomorrow,” Roger said.
Dennis agreed.
They leant against the stone (it was too damp to sit down) and watched the sun declining towards the western horizon. There were banks of cloud fringed with gold over the sea. Soon the sun would disappear behind them and the light would fade.
“Look here, Dennis,” said Roger suddenly. “Don’t say anything about what I told you—I mean that I might perhaps get married—not even to Nell. There isn’t any chance.”
“Are you sure?”
Roger was silent.
“Perhaps I’m interfering,” said Dennis.
“No, of course not. I’d rather like to talk about it,” Roger replied. He would not have liked to talk about it to anybody else, but Dennis was sound. When they had met in Rome, Dennis had given him sound advice so he was willing to take more advice from the same quarter. “Go on,” added Roger. “What were you going to say?”
“Not much really. Just that girls are funny. You never know what they’re thinking. At least that’s my experience. Not that I’ve had much experience,” added Dennis hastily, in case his future brother-in-law should fall into the error of thinking him a Gay Lothario. “I mean that was my experience with Nell. I thought there wasn’t any chance at all.”
“Really?” asked Roger in surprise. “But I thought you and Nell had been friends for years.”
“Friends—yes. But I wanted more than friendship and I was scared stiff of putting it to the touch in case I lost everyt
hing.”
“‘He either fears his fate too much,’” suggested Roger.
“Exactly. I feared my fate so much that I was on the point of going home, and then suddenly I found it was all right. It was like pushing against a door that you expect to be shut and discovering it was open.”
Roger saw what he meant. “But my problem is difficult. You see I don’t really know my own mind.”
“Oh, if you’re doubtful——”
“I don’t mean it like that,” declared Roger. “I just mean I can’t understand myself. I thought all that sort of thing was over for me. I was married before. You know what happened, don’t you?”
“But that was when Stephen was a baby—eight years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, eight years ago, but all the same . . .” Roger hesitated and then added, “I’m all mixed up. I can’t explain, because I don’t understand it myself. I still love Clare. I haven’t forgotten her. For years I was utterly and absolutely miserable, but now it seems as if it had all happened in another life—or as if it had happened in a dream.”
Dennis nodded. “I think I . . . can understand. But life is real, isn’t it? We can’t go on living in dreams. Look here, Roger, supposing you’d been killed in the war would you have wanted Clare to go on being miserable all her life?”
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 21