The Blind Side (28 page)

“Oh, yes, but he's the business secretary. Mr. Dale has a great many business interests. He doesn't want Cathy for that sort of thing. She is to do the flowers and—well, all the sort of things she and Susan used to do for my brother—only of course there will be far more entertaining now. He came to see me about it and was quite charming.”

This was three months ago. Tonight Susan and Lydia took the garden way to the Little House. They came out on to the first of the terraces and saw the whole slope of the hill under a waning moon and a dappled sky, and the lights in the village far below.

Susan stood for a moment and looked. She felt Lydia's hand on her arm.

“I don't know how you can bear it. It isn't his—it's yours. It will always be yours.”

“But I don't want it, Lydia—I never did. I've seen too much of trying to keep up a big place on a small income—” her soft laugh broke in—“or no income at all.”

“I didn't mean that,” said Lydia—“I didn't mean that at all. What about having the income to match the place? Wouldn't you like that?”

Susan laughed again.

“Bill wouldn't. He wants to build everything we live in. He says what's the good of being an architect if you don't. So we shall start in a three-roomed cottage and work up.”

Lydia's eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She said crisply,

“And
when
do you start?”

They had been standing still, but Susan moved now. It was not until they reached the next terrace that she answered Lydia's question.

“It is so dreadfully hard for an architect to get a start. They mustn't advertise, and it's uphill work getting known. The Maynards were awfully pleased with the house he did for them. He proposed to me on the strength of that. But he's only had small jobs since then. People say they're going to build, and then building costs go up, or something like that, and they don't do it. If we had any capital, it would be different, because then he could build to sell or let without waiting for orders, and get known that way.”

“It sounds like waiting a long time,” said Lydia. She paused and added, with the effect of flinging a dart,
“Are you going to wait?”

Susan stopped at the top of the steps to the last terrace. The moonlight stole all her colour, but it wasn't the moonlight which made her look so stern.

“What do you mean? Of course I'm going to wait.”

“Are you?” said Lydia. “Are you?
Are you, Susan?
I wouldn't if I were you. Do you remember how Lolly Smith got engaged to a boy who had just gone into the army, and he went out to India, and they went on being engaged for years and years and years till she'd completely gone down the drain, and then he married a girl of eighteen whom he'd known for a month?”

“Lydia!”

“Well, suppose you both go on waiting. What a look-out! You'll begin to lose your looks, and either he'll get plodding and dull and won't care, or else he'll get worked up and nervy and feel that he's spoiling your life. You can take your pick of which you'd rather have on your hands, but you can bet your life, whichever it is, it'll be hell for you.”

“Lydia!”

“Oh, you don't think so now. Look at me. I was crazy to marry Freddy—we were crazy about each other. And what's the good of it? I'm sitting at home with the parents, and he's in China. I can't go out, and he can't come home. What's the good of it?”

Susan laughed.

“You'd do it again tomorrow.”

Lydia stamped her foot.

“Because I'm a fool! And now you're angry with me—Susan——”

Susan put out a hand and touched her.

“I'm not really. But you mustn't say things about Bill.”

They went down the steps together and across the last terrace. As they began to skirt the tennis courts, Lydia said in something just above a whisper,

“It was seeing you at King's Bourne again, and—and—the pearls. I
wanted
you to have them.”

Susan was so secure that she could let a laugh come into her voice.

“It's no good, Lyddy.”

“You
might
——” Lydia was breathless with her own daring.

“No.”

“What's the good of saying no? He's in love with you—he'd give you anything in the world. He only had those pearls out because he wanted to see them on you.” She broke into sudden laughter. “And I ran off with them! You bet he hated me quite a lot for that. But you can't say he hasn't got good manners. I piled it on on purpose just to see how he'd react, and he bore up nobly. Oh, Susan,
think
of lifting about half an eyelash and having King's Bourne, and a millionaire, and those divine pearls all put down at your feet just waiting for you to pick them up.”

“I should find them too heavy. And I'd much rather not think about it, if you don't mind. And, Lyddy, if you don't want to make me angry, you'll stop. Up to now I've laughed, but I'm not going to go on laughing.”

“Well, I wouldn't like to make you really angry, darling. You know, the only time I did you nearly scared me dead. I believe if you were really roused you might do something rather frightful.”

They passed the tennis courts and took the orchard path.

“You do talk a lot of nonsense, Lyddy,” said Susan.

CHAPTER III

Lydia came in and prattled to Mrs. O'Hara about Freddy, about the climate of China and how dreadful the war was, about Lucas Dale and the drawing-room curtains at King's Bourne, and about the pearls.

“Rows and rows and rows of them—pink ones, and black ones, and white ones—enough to undermine any woman. Wouldn't it be too marvellous if he put them into a lucky bag and let us all have a dip?”

“I had quite a nice little string when I was a girl,” said Mrs. O'Hara in her plaintive voice.

She lay propped up with cushions on the comfortable deep sofa which she had brought from her own room at King's Bourne. When Lucas Dale bought the whole place as it stood he had begged Mrs. O'Hara to take with her to the Little House whatever she needed in the way of furniture. She had protested gracefully and then interpreted her needs with the utmost liberality. The room was full, and overfull. The sofa was too large for it. There were too many chairs, too many knick-knacks, and far too much china. It was obvious that the furnishings of a much larger room or rooms had been crammed into the small space. The walls were crowded too. A dark portrait over the mantelpiece was jostled by sketches which grandmamma had brought from Venice. A reproduction in red of Titian's Assumption hung side by side with The Soul's Awakening in sepia. On another wall an enlargement of her own wedding group was surrounded by some really lovely Chinese paintings of butterflies, birds and flowers.

Mrs. O'Hara herself resembled a faded watercolour. Her hair had not turned grey. It had become dull like her skin, her lips, her eyes. She was not at all unhappy, because she loved Cathy and Susan, and derived a great deal of pleasure from the precarious condition of her health. Her drops, her tonics, her pills, her little bottle of tablets, the sympathetic visits of Dr. Matthews who had been an early admirer—all these stood between her and the actual drabness of her life. She played with them as a girl plays with her dolls. She had seen herself as the admired young girl, the lovely bride, the pathetic widow. Now she was the brave invalid, pale, fragile, interesting. And of course if you are an invalid you do escape life's duller duties—taking the dog for a walk when you would rather sit by the fire, visiting the—sometimes—ungrateful poor, and going to church in the rain.

“Quite a nice little string,” said Mrs. O'Hara. “And Susan's mother had one too. They were a coming-out present from our father. Laura sold hers for the Red Cross—after her husband was killed, you know—but I kept mine until the other day, and it only fetched twenty pounds, though I am sure it cost a great deal more than that. Does Freddy
like
being in China, my dear? And I hope you have good news of Roger. Are they together? Because that would be so nice. I do think it is so delightful that you should have married someone who was such a friend of your brother's. But of course that is how you came to meet Freddy—isn't it? I remember your bringing them both up to King's Bourne, and I thought then what friends they were. Of course, you know, my dear, I always have thought your brother Roger one of the handsomest young men I ever met. And you were all such friends, you, and Roger, and Susan, and Cathy—oh, yes—thank you, my dear—I am always dropping my handkerchief, I can't think why.”

The conversation went on. Susan went away.

Roger Vere certainly was very good-looking. He had a way with him too, a sailor's way, and when he came home on leave he added considerably to the gaiety of the countryside by making love to every girl he met. He had made rather special love to Susan a year ago when she and Cathy were bridesmaids at Lydia's wedding and he was Freddy Hammond's best man. Bill had been jealous. Susan caught her breath as she remembered just how jealous Bill had been. It had really been a thankful day when Roger took his irresponsible charm to the China Station. Hong Kong might have him and welcome as far as Susan Lenox was concerned.

She began to prepare the evening meal, and presently a loud hooting announced the fact that Sir John Vere had finished his sherry and was in a hurry to get home. Susan pushed her soup to the side of the range and went out to the gate with Lydia. It opened straight upon the village street, with the front door almost in reach. Lydia kissed her with a little extra warmth. The door banged. The car moved off.

Susan stood a moment to see the tail-light disappear. The sound of the engine died away. She could hear the water flowing on the other side of the street—the little deep stream which gave the village its name. Each house had its own culvert. Under all these tiny bridges the water flowed ceaselessly, sometimes flooding out into the roadway after heavy rain, never failing through the longest drought. Susan's room looked this way. She loved the voice of the stream, she loved to wake and hear it in the night. She lingered and listened to it now.

She had turned to go in, when she heard another sound, a man's footsteps coming nearer. She stood with the gate in her hand. Bill—but it couldn't be Bill—he would have let her know. And then the dark shape loomed. Warmth and happiness flooded up in her. She let go of the gate and was in his arms.

“Bill!”

“Susan!”

They stood holding one another close. She put up her face and they kissed. It did not matter how long or how short a time it was since they had met, there was always this rush of happiness, this deep contentment when they were together again.

Susan spoke first.

“Oh, Bill—why didn't you ring up? We've got a dreadfully female meal.”

“I knew you lived on buns when I wasn't here.”

“It isn't buns—it's eggs.”

“I'm strong on eggs. And as a matter of fact I did ring up, but they couldn't get any reply.”

“That's Aunt Milly. It's too naughty—she just won't get up off her sofa. And it's no good saying anything, because she's got it firmly embedded in her mind that the telephone means bad news. I did hound her into answering it when we moved down here, and the very first time she did, it was Uncle James' lawyer to say those mining shares of hers were a total loss. I found her having palpitations, and after that she simply wouldn't go near the thing again. Oh, Bill, how did you come?”

“Car. Ted Walters has taken her on. He'll pick me up in the morning.”

“Come along in and help me cook the eggs. Cathy'll be back any time now.”

“Wait a minute. Susan, I've had a nibble. I had to come and tell you about it.”

“Oh, Bill!”

“It's the most wonderful chance if it comes off. But you won't count on it—will you? I mean, it's no good counting on it—not with people who come and talk about building houses anyway. They're all over you one minute, and everything you say goes, and the next thing you know they're as flat as yesterday's beer and you wouldn't think they knew what an architect was for. All the same, listen, Susan. You know the Maynards really are pleased with their house. Well, Mrs. Maynard's got a second cousin, who's got a third cousin umpty-ump times removed, who is married to Gilbert Garnish——”

Susan said in a faint, flabbergasted voice,

“Darling,
who
is Gilbert Garnish?”

“You don't read the papers. Gilbert is a pillar of our Empire trade—things in tins, things in bottles. ‘Mr. Smith will never leave home again now that Mrs. Smith has learned that Garnish's Grand Goods are what keep husbands at home. Do you want to keep your husband at home? Give him Garnish's Turkey in a Tablet on his toast! Give him Garnish's Grand Jams! Give him Garnish's Glorious Jellies! Give him——'”

“Oh, Bill, stop!”

“Well, have you got Garnish?”

“Yes, yes—what about him?”

Bill picked her up and hugged her.

“Well, I hope I've got him too.”

“Oh, Bill—how marvellous!”

“We mustn't count on it, but he did seem awfully keen. He took about three hours telling me what he wanted—and when you're a Garnish time is money. The trouble is he wants something as much like Balmoral as possible. Not quite so big, of course, and the last thing in plumbing, but the date-stamp on his mind is definitely of the Balmoral period.” He began to sing at the top of his voice, “My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here.”

“Bill! The whole village will think you're drunk!”

“I am. I've been bottling it up all the way down, and it's gone to my head with a rush.” A powerful hug took all the breath out of her body. “Susan—oh, Susan, if it comes off, we can get married at once! He's going to let me know on Monday, and I oughtn't to have told you, but I just couldn't keep it in. And it doesn't take more than three days to get a licence, so if it comes off—Susan, if it comes off—we'll get married on Thursday!”