Sister of the Housemaster (18 page)

Patrick did as he was told. He held Ingrid
’
s two hands firmly, and as her fingers closed tightly about his, a strong, warm stream f
l
owed between them, through their tightly-locked fingers, into the whole of Ingrid
’
s body. She looked in quick alarm at Patrick, and his grey eyes looked into hers for a brief moment before he turned again to Sylvia.

“
Put an arm round, my neck,
”
Ingrid said, and Sylvia did so, and was carried easily into the
h
ouse; but Ingrid could not think any longer of Sylvia. She was aware of a commotion inside her, of a quickening of her heart-beat, a strange breathlessness, that had nothing to d
o
with the burden she was carrying. They put Sylvia on the couch, and she lay back with her eyes closed. As they straightened, Patrick and Ingrid looked at each other, as if they were discovering each other for the first time.

Sylvia moved, and Patrick glanced down at her. He smiled at her, and Ingrid moved away a little.

“
All right now?
”
asked Patrick.

“
I think so,
”
said Sylvia weakly. Ingrid suddenly glanced curiously at Sylvia. Her strange self-absorption had been pierced by the weakness of Sylvia
’
s voice, a weakness so unnecessary, so unwarranted and so obviously assumed, that Ingrid knew certainly in that moment that Sylvia had been shamming. When she saw the curious sidelong glance that Sylvia directed from Patrick to herself and back again, she knew that she was right, and that Sylvia was trying to find out if they had been taken in. Ingrid smiled. Poor Sylvia! How she schemed to ma
ke
things go her way! How determined she was not to be forced into recovery before she wished. But even this had no power to disturb or irritate Ingrid just now. She went a
bout
the rest of her preparations in a somewhat dazed state of mind, while Patrick sat by Sylvia
’
s side and talked to her.

It was Arnold who came into the kitchen after lunch, to help Ingrid with the washing-up. She was thankful for that. Later in the afternoon, she would have the boys
’
tea-party to keep her busy, and Miss Everton was coming in to help her. Before that, perhaps she would have time to slip out for a short walk, to calm herself and think things over. She was walking through the garden to carry out this intention, when Sylvia saw her from the living-room.

“
Ingrid,
”
she called.
“
Where are you going?
”
Ingrid turned her head towards the house. Patrick was standing at the french window, looking at the garden, and he said:

“
Ingrid is running away.
”

Her eyes met his for a moment, and she flushed

“
I won
’
t be long,
”
she called to Sylvia.
“
I’
ll be back to arrange the tea.
”

Ingrid is running away. Ingrid is running away. Why did he say that? What was she running away from? There had been more in his words than the simple meaning they had for Sylvia. Did he imagine that she was running away from him?

The turmoil within her seemed to rise and rise in a crescendo of emotion, as she walked round the quadrangle and entered the long stone corridor. Yes, she admitted at last, she was running away from Patrick. She came into the dimness of cloisters. They were empty in the quiet of the early Sunday afternoon, and very peaceful. Some of their peace entered into Ingrid and the turmoil began to die down. She did not need to ask herself why she should run away. She wa
s
in love with the man.

She sat on the low wall, her back against the pillar of one of the arches, and looked across the square of the cloisters, across the velvety lawn into the opposite shade. The admission gave her a little peace. For a few moments, she did not allow herself to think. She only felt; felt again the powerful current between herself and Patrick as their hands clasped tightly, and knew that, in the moment that their eyes had met, he had felt it too.

Then thought flowed back into her mind. She remembered that Sylvia had said he would marry Pamela; remembered that many women were in love with him, and that she had said she would never be one of the herd; remembered Laurence and his devotion to her. It was not a good thing that had happened to her. She would not give way to it. She would not be in love with him. She would go back and prepare the tea for the boys, and talk to everybody but Patrick, hoping that Laurence would have time to call in for a few minutes.

She need not have worried about Patrick, for Pamela had arrived when Ingrid returned and was occupying all Patrick
’
s attention. And Pamela stayed for the rest of the day, almost one of the family, so that after supper in the evening, Ingrid could not endure to stay in any longer, and rose with alacrity when Arnold suggested a stroll in the garden. She went with him through the garden, and then out into the coolness of the quadrangle and the quiet of the night.

They talked quietly. Arnold was relieved because the examinations were almost finished, and everybody could relax in that direction, and concentrate instead on the Festival. He talked of his older boys, the ones who would leave school this term, and either go on to the University or be taken into the forces for their period of service. Ingrid listened knowing that he would have liked to keep in personal touch with all these boys, knowing that sometimes he liked to talk of them. They were returning to the house, when they passed another stroller, who, seeing that it was Arnold, stopped at once.

“
Ah, Southbrook,
”
he said.
“
I wanted to see you. Have you got a moment? Something I wanted to discuss with you.
”

It was one of the other Housemaster s. Ingrid
said:

“
I
’
ll go on, Arnold.
”

“
Very well, my dear.
”

“
Good-night, Mr. Evans.
”

“
Good-night, Miss Southbrook.
”

Ingrid went through the garden. As she turned on to the path from the bushes by the gate, she heard a sound from the direction of the shrubbery. Automatically, she glanced in its direction, and saw, in the June twilight, two figures disengaging themselves from an embrace because they had heard her coming. She averted her eyes immediately, and hurried on, but her heart was pounding, and the turmoil was back once more. She did not go into the living-room, but went straight into her own small room until she could calm down again. Indignation flared within her, but why should she be indignant? He had a perfect right to hold Pamela in his arms. Wasn
’
t there a probability that they were going to marry? And if they weren
’
t, was he not still at liberty to put his arms about her? Just because Ingrid had been crazy enough to fa
l
l in love with him, had he to fall in love with her?

“
Oh, what madness,
”
she muttered.
“
What an appalling thing to happen. Of all people! A man who has women by the score in love with him
!
”
(She was quite unaware of her exaggeration.)
“
I will not give in to it. I cannot be made unhappy or jealous every time I see him talking to somebody else. I cannot have my life disturbed by him. I must conquer this thing. Oh, how I wish I could go back to the hospital, and work with patients and doctors and nurses again. As soon as I possibly can, I will, and forget all this.
”

Once more, she regained a comparative calm. When Pamela had gone, she went out to help Sylvia to bed, thinking that it was time Sylvia could do this much unassisted. Patrick was talking to Arnold. Both men said good-night to her, but, although she answered, she did not look in their direction.

CHAPTER NINE

PREPARATIONS for the Festival week were well advanced. Full rehearsals of the various events were constantly being called, but small private rehearsals might be discovered going on in class-rooms, in odd corners of common rooms, or in the studies. Everybody was glad that the fateful examinations were past, and boys and staff alike threw themselves with relief and pleasure into this different form of activity. Ingrid, who wa
s
officially assistant stage manager for the Shakespeare play, found herself to be a general factotum, mending costumes from the school wardrobe, altering them to fit the actors who would play the various parts, hearing lines, rehearsing scenes and encouraging the nervous. Tristram, a
bo
y in Arnold
’
s House whose slimness and oval face and delicate complexion made him an attractive Olivia, had some difficulty in memorising his long part, and. finding Ingrid sympathetic, would seek her out, asking:
“
Would you be the clown for a moment, and go through this scene?
”
or,
“
Now, could you be Viola, and do this bit with me?
”
He was an engaging youth, destined, thought Ingrid, for the stage, and took with good grace the teasing of the other boys, who now referred to him as
“
Good Madonna
”
or
“
sweet my mouse of virtue
”
from the pages of the play.

All this occupation was good for Ingrid just then. Since she was unable, for the time being, to get back
to
her work in London, the extra work here prevented her from too complete an absorption in her own affairs. Sylvia progressed, but very slowly, and Arnold had arranged to take her abroad during the long summer holiday on a motoring tour, which would give her a great variety of scene without exertion. Ingrid therefore presumed she would be free from the end of the term, and as she could not leave the school before then, she gladly took on all the varied duties that came her way,

Laurence, as Housemaster, had a great many more responsibilities, and rather less free time. He intensified
his campaign with Ingrid, making
the most of every meeting with her, knowing that soon she would go away. He tried to persuade her into an engagement, using his new position, with its accommodation, as a lever to help him. He knew that she loved the school and the cathedral town, and he told her repeatedly that he could no longer see his future without her. Ingrid began to feel a growing uneasiness on his account.

Sylvia was beginning to be very disgruntled. She was resentful of the time that Ingrid gave to affairs outside the house, yet there was nothing she could complain about, for there was nothing that Ingrid left undone. All was in order, and she carried out all her usual duties swiftly and efficiently, so that she might have time for the activities of the school.

Sylvia complained bitterly to Pamela, overdoing her role of invalid, going very slowly and painfully from one point to another,
”
and sinking wearily into a chair, so that Pamela
’
s eyes were cold and sceptical She knew that Sylvia liked the limelight, and did not like the attention of her intimates to stray away. If it had not been for the need to keep in touch with Patrick, Pamela would not have endured so many of Sylvia
’
s complaints.

Sylvia was, in fact, very much better than anybody knew. Her assumed weariness and exhaustion disappeared when she was alone. She was determined to enjoy Festival week and to be at all the functions, so she walked a little more each day, and the leg seemed perfectly well healed; but when in the company of others, she walked with difficulty and demanded their pity.

One evening, Laurence and Ingrid arranged a few hours of freedom at the same time, and went to a cinema. It had been a cold, wet, summer day,
more like March than June
—
“
the only sort of day,
”
said Ingrid,
“
that reconciles me to the cinema in summer.
”
They went in to find a newsreel in progress: various sporting events, a visiting foreign statesman, the opening of a day nursery, the launching of a new airliner. Various
w
e
l
l-dressed people stood about the wife of a Government official as she named the airliner, and added;
“
and may God bless all who fly with her.
”
There were hand-shakings and congratulations and well-bred smiles towards the camera, and then the voice of the commentator, saying;
“
Mr. Patrick Edgeworth, the designer of the plane, had this to say of her.
”
Suddenly Patrick was there on the screen before her, immaculate and conventional in formal clothes, his blond hair shining, his face serious as he spoke for a minute or two on the plane and its future. As he ended, he gave a brief smile towards the camera, and even in the crowded cinema, from the inanimate screen, the charm came across. The voice of the commentator went on to remind the audience that Mr
.
Edgeworth was, of course, the distinguished wartime air ace, with so many enemy aircraft to his credit. Laurence, who had said:
“
Good lord, Patrick,
”
at first appearance, now looked down at Ingrid, and said softly:
“
I
’
d like to wager that the heart of every girl in the cinema is beating faster on Patr
ic
k
’
s account.
”
He did not, naturally, include Ingrid, but he might well have done,

Ingrid had sat with her eyes fixed immovably on the screen as long as Patrick was on it As soon as he had gone, she shut her eyes to think about him. Self-indulgence, she told herself; and more than that, a jealousy because of the life he led that she knew nothing about. All through the program, she gave scant attention to the screen; her mind was concentrated on Patrick: the strange, formal, charming Patrick that other people knew, the interesting and unknown life that Patrick led.
“
I have no place in that life
,”
she told herself.
“
Why do I not forget him?
”

Forgetting him, however, was extremely difficult, when he continued to visit his sister at weekends; and was even more difficult after the Sunday picnic. This picnic had been arranged for Sylvia
’
s benefit, after she had been discovered weeping bitter tears of self-pity at her family
’
s neglect of her. For on Saturday afternoon, with Arnold engaged with the Headmaster, Ingrid busy at rehearsals for the play, and Patrick and Pamela away on their own pursuits, Sylvia had been left alone for several hours, without tea; and had passed from irritation and anger to a strong sense of injury, and then to self-pity and tears. When Arnold and Ingrid returned together, they met Patrick and Pamela in the courtyard, and all went in together to find a red-eyed Sylvia, wan and miserable, lying on the couch. She turned her face away from them as they came in, and a great deal of concern and anxiety and consolation was necessary before she would sit up, her crying stopped but her dejected countenance a picture of woe. They all protested that they had thought somebody else would be in, and all apologized for neglecting her and causing her to feel so wretched.

Pamela, looking on sardonically, thought it a ridiculous fuss, but wishing to stand well with Patrick, she waited until the brouhaha had died away, and then, with assumed sympathy, suggested the picnic, as a diversion for Sylvia, on a beautiful part of the Orindean estate. She had meant to include only Sylvia and Arnold, Patrick and herself; but as the others took it for granted that Ingrid was invited, she asked Laurence also, hoping that he would monopolize Ingrid.

The following day being fine, with steady sunshine and a light breeze, the two cars with their s
ix
occupants went to the Long Pond, situated on part of the now-dimin
i
shing Orindean estate. A natural lake had been considerably enlarged w
h
en Pamela
’
s forbears had quarried there for gravel for the estate paths and roads, but the quarrying had long since ceased, and grass and bushes had grown again round
the edges of the water, making
t
hat
deep end of the lake very beautiful and secluded.

They chose their site at the wider and shallower end, and settled themselves on the soft grass.

“
This is a delightful and welcome change from an aircraft factory,
”
said Patrick, stretching himself lazily on the turf.

“
It
’
s a delightful change from school
,
”
said Arnold.

“
And from my prison,
”
put in Sylvia.

“
It
’
s just part of the everyday for me,
”
said Pamela.
“
I grew up here. This was one of our favorite spots for camping out, when friends and cousins came to stay with us. We had tents and cooked our food, and fished in the lake
...
”

“
It sounds the sort of childhood that everybody ought to have,
”
said Ingrid.

“
There is a boathouse over there,
”
said Pamela, nodding towards a picturesque wooden building perched at the water
’
s edge a short distance away.
“
We still keep the boats and canoes in order, but hardly anybody uses them. Then, we were always using them, having races, or being Red Indians. If you like, we can get them out after lunch.
”

Ingrid was spreading the cloth and arranging the plates and the food, listening to Pamela and thinking what a carefree childhood she must have had. Ingrid and Arnold had grown up in a country parsonage, but their mother had died when Ingrid was quits young, and, after her death, their father had become continually more quiet and serious, and much of Ingrid
’
s upbringing had been left to the housekeeper.

They started their luncheon. The food was good and the wine excellent, and both were improved by the
good-humoured
conversation. The big flasks of coffee finished off a meal that had tasted the better for being eaten in the open air, and they relaxed in the sunshine after the remains had been packed into the basket.

It did not suit Patrick, however, to be idle for long.

“
What about these boats?
”
he asked Pamela.
“
C
an I go over and have a look at them?
”

“
Certainly.
”

He walked over the smooth grass, watched by the others, to the boathouse.

“
Would you like to go on the water, my dear?
”
Arnold asked Sylvia.

She looked doubtful at first, but soon decided that it would be pleasant on so sunny a day, if the men would help her into the boat. Patrick came back, with the information that there was a rowing boat, a punt, and a couple of canoes, all fit for use. Laurence, who said he had not punted for years, decided to try that, and was advised by Pamela to keep at the shallow end. He was about to ask Ingrid to go with him, when Patrick suddenly said:

“
What about you, Ingrid? What would you like to do?
”

“
I think I would like one of the canoes,
”
she said,
“
if nobody else wants it. I used to be quite handy with a canoe
—
though that was a long time ago.
”

“
All right, I
’
ll have the other and race you,
”
he said calmly. He looked round at the others, smiling.
“
If that is all right?
”
he asked.

It was not all right for Laurence or for Pamela, but they could not very well say so. Laurence wanted Ingrid in the punt, and Pamela wanted to be with Patrick, but it ended with Laurence punting Pamela at the shallow end of the lake, Arnold rowing Sylvia leisurely, while Ingrid and Patrick went off to get the small canoes.

At first, they paddled idly round the other boats, Ingrid getting the feel of it again.
“
All right, Sylvia?
”
she called as she passed the rowing boat.
“
Isn
’
t this fun
?
”

“
Fine,
”
Sylvia called back. The sun had shone steadily all day. Its warmth struck down into the boats, but the light breeze on the water kept them cool. An idyllic day at the end of June; what one always hoped for in the English summer, but too rarely attained.

Patrick caught up with her.

“
What about going to the end?
”
he asked.

“
All right,
”
Ingrid agreed, and they set off, side by side, paddling in a leisurely fashion through the still water. The lake was kidneyshaped, and they had to round a large bend to reach the deep end, where once the quarry had been. They were then out of sight of the others, and Ingrid glanced at Patrick over her shoulder.

“
I
’
ll race you,
”
she challenged, and was off, away from him, faking a rather unfair start. Patrick immediately went after her, paddling fast. She had the advantage of her initial spurt, and she laughed challengingly over her shoulder at him as she went ahead; and because she was not looking where she was going, she did not see the large
i
ron pipe that crossed the lake just under the surface of the water. The canoe hit it, seemed to bounce out of the water, and at once capsized, throwing Ingrid out. It happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Patrick could only stare at the spot where her laughing face had been; but in a second or two, he had shipped his paddle and dived in after her.

“
Ingrid,
”
he called.
“
Ingrid. Here!
”