The Fortunes of Springfield (8 page)

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “What
are
you doing up there?”

“I’m cleaning the chandelier,” she said.

“Well, I can see that, but why do it at this time of the evening?”

“I just felt like doing it: I’m so anxious to see it looking as it ought to look. And you never
do
co
m
e into this room in the evening.”

“I wouldn’t have done so now; but I saw the light under the door and thought somebody had left it on. I came in to switch it off. That looks a dangerous position to be in.”

“It isn’t really. It’s quite firm.”

“Can I help you?”

“I don’t think so, thank you, Mr. Springfield. It’s a job needing a lot of patience chiefly. You see how this top piece is looking. It’s going to be quite beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said. “The way it always used to look.” Caroline stepped down off her box, and, standing on the table, sat on the box instead.

“This must have been a lovely house once, Mr. Springfield,” she said.

“It was.”

“This room, for instance. Look at the alcoves now I have painted them and filled them with your mother’s Wedgwood.”

“My great-great-grandmother’s Wedgwood,” he said. “Yes, you have made it look resplendent.”

“And this wonderful chandelier. I can hardly wait to see it sparkle as it should.”

“You know, Miss Hearst, all this kind of work hardly comes into the terms of our contract.
”

“No, I suppose not, but you surely don’t
object
to the house being brought into its own again?”

“Certainly not. It’s what I want. As soon as I get time, I want to tackle the job properly. I know what it was like in my mother’s time: I have memories of the house as elegant and shilling as it ought to be, and as I
w
ant
to see it again. But I don’t expect
you
to slave at it.”

“
But it hurts me, too, to see lovely things dirty and neglected.”

“What I don’t understand,” said David, “is how my brother could care so little. The hall, for instance, which is quite a gem in its way. I’ll show you what I want to do in the hall.”

Caroline got down from her table and went into the hall with him, and from there up the elegant staircase as he showed her how badly it
n
eeded french-polishing again; and then into the upper hall where David intended to replace the original window, which was still in one of the stables. They were both absorbed in their discussion.

“It would be a wonderful house for entertaining,” said Caroline.

“That’s what I want to do,” said David. “You see, Miss Hearst, you’re already fond of the house, and you’ve only known it a few weeks. I have my mind full of pictures of it as it used to be. My mother’s dinner
parties here, the house full of people’s talk and laughter and coming and going. I don’t like to see it shabby. I want once more to fill it with life.”

Of course, thought Caroline, he has thousands of memories. And the people round about must share some of them. Mrs. Close, for instance, and Patricia. They can remember this house as it used to be. They are the kind of people who came to dinner here. They are the people who will come again. Don’t imagine, Caroline, because you are having a hand in its improvement, that you will enjoy it in that way when it is finished. The people in that elegant dining-room, sitting under the many lights in the chandelier, will be Patricia and
Duncan Westcott, Oriel and Jennifer, Mrs. Close and General McFede
rn
, and such neighbours as those. If you, my dear Caroline, are here at all, you will most probably be in the kitchen with Mrs. Davis to help you. It’s as well to remember that, and not to be carried away because Mr. Springfield takes you into his confidence.

CHAPTER FIVE

“HULLO”, said Duncan Wescott. “What are
you
doing on my fields?”

Caroline looked up, startled.

“I didn’t know I
was
on your fields,” she said. “I thought this was still Springfield.”

Duncan came through the wide wooden gate and joined her. It was a brilliant and sunny spring afternoon, and her walk had whipped unusual colour into Caroline’s cheeks.

“Were you coming to see me?” he asked.

“No. What makes you think so?”

“The fact that this direction leads to nowhere but my house. If you weren’t coming to see me, where were you going?”

“Nowhere. I’m just walking. Wandering, I should say; and exploring. And thoroughly enjoying being by myself.”

“Oh. Oh, I say, that is most unkind.”

Caroline hastened to apologize, laughing as she did so. “I didn’t mean that, Mr. Wescott, and I’m sure you knew I didn’t. This is the first afternoon that I haven’t had to dash back to get the children’s tea since I’ve been at Springfield. Mrs. Davis has them all to tea with her little boy this afternoon, so I have some beautiful freedom.”

“Then I insist on your coming back to my house for tea.”

Caroline looked doubtful.

“Please come,” said Duncan Wescott. “I should like to show you my farm and my house. I’m quite alone there — except for my housekeeper, Mrs. Drew; and
she
will be delighted if I tak
e
somebody in for tea. She grumbles because I don’t provide her with enough visitors.”

“I know Mrs. Drew very well,” smiled Caroline. “She used to come in to see Annie and Hilda when she came into town for shopping. But even your nice Mrs. Drew would like a little notice, I daresay.”

“Nonsense. Do come, Caroline.”

“All right,” she capitulated suddenly, and walked beside him across the short grass to a roadway, and then along it to the house.

“You see,” he said, “that it is very different from Springfield.”

“Yes, much older, but how beautiful.”

“Yes, I like it. It’s Tudor, of course. Wonderful timbering. You’re interested in houses, aren’t you? You must see over mine.”

Mrs. Drew welcomed Caroline with pleasure, but scolded Duncan.

“Weeks go by without the sight of a visitor, and then, when you do bring a young lady, you don’t give me half an hour’s notice, so that I can get a batch of fresh scones in the oven.”

“You can have your half-hour, Mrs. Drew, because I’m going to take Miss Hearst on a conducted tour of the house and farm. In fact, you can have three-quarters. It will take us all that time.”

Caroline was charmed by the Tudor house, on which it was quite obvious that Duncan Wescott had spent a great deal of time and money. While all the best old features had been
p
reserved,
modern
plumbing had
been added, the kitchen had been brought up to date for Mrs. Drew, and electric light was obtained from a lighting plant in one of the ba
rn
s. But the living-rooms retained their heavy beams, their wide latticed windows, the vast inglenook fireplaces, although these last were now supplemented by well-concealed radiators. The furniture was in keeping with the building, and the whole effect softened by the carpets and rugs, and the bright chintzes of the covers and curtains. Its character could hardly have been more different from that of Springfield, with its high, light, airy rooms, its spaciousness, and the gleaming mahogany furniture. Yet both were gems of their particular periods, both were houses a woman could take her delight, her pride and her absorbed occupation in.

They were so long in the house that they left themselves only a short time for the farm.

“We’ll just look around the buildings,” said Duncan, “because one or two of them are as old as the house, and have a personality of their own. You’ll like the granary. Come and see it.”

It all fascinated Caroline and she said so. There was quite a jump from one of the platforms on which she found herself, and when Duncan had leaped lightly down from it, he turned to help her. He took her hands as she jumped, and when she landed beside him, he did not let them go. She looked up at him, a little surprised, and he suddenly pulled her towards him and held her in his arms. For an astounded moment or two, she submitted, and then she pulled away.

“No,” she said, confused and startled.

He let her go.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that. As a matter of fact, Caroline, you are so much in my thoughts lately that it seemed to me a natural thing to do. Come, let us go and have our tea or Mrs. Drew will scold me for letting the scones get cold.” They
began to walk, side by side, towards the house. “Caroline, you do look upon me as a friend, don’t you?”

“Yes. I should like to, Mr. Wescott,” she replied.

“And what
I
should like,” he said, “would be for you to look upon me as far more than a friend. Caroline, I am very fond of you.”

“But you hardly know me, Mr. Wescott.”

“I know enough. I always used to notice you at Mrs. Webster’s. Your quiet kind of charm, and that special smile you give people, quite got under my skin. And if I needed any confirmation of what a thoroughly nice person you are, I’ve had it since you were at Springfield, slaving for those children.”

Caroline was astounded. Astounded that he had even noticed her, astounded to hear that she had a “special smile”, astounded that, for one moment, he had thought of her in a personal way.

“Of course,” went on Duncan, “I’m old for you. I realize that. How old are you, Caroline?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And I am forty-five. Twice your age. But I don’t think it matters much these days. I am perfectly fit, and don’t think I’ve got set in any of my ways. But it might matter to you, Caroline. You’re so young and so fresh and so sweet. Do you look upon me as far too old for you?”

“Mr. Wescott,” she began, and then stopped.

“Yes?” he prompted.

She shook her head, and then she smiled up at him. “You must forgive me,” she said, “but you have succeeded in knocking me ‘all of a heap’. I’m so surprised that I can’t even think of it yet. But of course you’re not old,” she added for his comfort; for her first reaction had been that he was too old for her.

“I think I’ve been a bit
cl
umsy about all this,” he said as they went into the house; and until they were settled in the living-room, he let the matter drop. Mrs. Drew
produced her freshly baked scones, and gave them a delicious tea; and then left them to it.

“Caroline,
think
about me a little, will you?” Duncan asked, as she poured out the tea.

“I shouldn’t be able to help myself,” she smiled.

“And think kindly.”

“I couldn’t help that either.”

“I know you are young, with all your life in front of you. Perhaps it isn’t fair to ask you to come and live in a remote farmhouse; especially as David tells me you are anxious to go abroad. But think about it seriously, Caroline. I am not a wealthy man, but I’m well-to-do. You would be mistress of this house and farm, I would buy you a car of your own, so that you need not feel too cut off from your friends; and we have some nice neighbours, Caroline, whom you would enjoy entertaining.”

“Are you actually asking me to come and live in this house?”

“I want to ask you to marry me, Caroline. But I don’t
think
you are ready for that question. You were so astonished to hear even that I was fond of you. But keep it in mind, won’t you? You do like me, Caroline?”

“But, of course.”

“Would you say you are fond of me at all?”

“Mr. Wescott, I’ve never for one moment thought of you in that connection. I’ve not even dared to call you my friend. It’s all much too sudden.”

“All right. We’ll let it rest. We’ll let it simmer gently. But I love you, Caroline. Would you believe it, my dear, this is the first time in forty-five years that I’ve been in love; in love enough, that is, to want to change my state of single blessedness for marriage?”

She smiled at
him
with real affection.

“And now,” he said, “for your sake, I wish that I were younger. But not for any other reason. There isn’t anybody else, Caroline? You haven’t already got a young man?”

“No,” she said. “I am—I always have been—particularly unattached
...
You do know about me, Mr. Wescott?”

“Know about you? Know what about you?”

“That Mrs. Webster took me from a children’s home?”

“Oh, yes, I know all about that,” he said, as if it were of no importance at all.

“Then don’t you think that I might accept your wonderful offer for the sake of this lovely home, and all your beautiful security and permanence?”

“I shouldn’t mind that,” he said, “although, of course,
I would much prefer you to accept the offer for my own sake.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wescott, I don’t
think
I shall accept unless it is for your sake.”

“Couldn’t you call me Duncan?” he asked.

“It doesn’t seem sufficiently respectful,” she smiled.

“There you are,” he cried. “You feel the difference in age.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t. All right, Duncan it shall be. May I give you some more tea, Duncan?”

They smiled at each other in new-found friendship and affection.

Later, as Caroline walked back towards Springfield, she was conscious of a wonderful feeling of elation. The surprise was evaporating, and the elation was caused by the fact that somebody had liked her enough
to lay all his worldly goods at her feet. She had not, at the moment, the slightest intention of accepting them, but that anybody should offer her such a beautiful house, prosperous farm, and apparently unlimited security pleased her exceedingly. For the first time in her life she could have, if she wished, a home of her own: and, moreover, a home that would be envied her by many women brought up to such houses and such comforts. Whether she accepted the offer or not, she was gladdened and her heart lightened by the fact that it had been made.

It stayed with her, the thought of that offer, through everything that she did in the next few days: and by the curiously rapid telegraph system of country districts, it soon became known to a number of people that Duncan Wescott had entertained Caroline Hearst. The story gained a little here, was altered a little there, until by the time it reached Patricia, from Mrs. Drew, through Annie and Hilda, then a friend of theirs and then Miss Weedon, it seemed that Duncan was in the habit of entertaining Caroline and that they were on terms of
intimate friendship.

“Duncan and Caroline?” Patricia pondered aloud in the presence of her mother at lunch-time. “That seems odd, don’t you think?”

“Well, there is certainly a disparity of age,” said her mother, “but, apart from that, I see nothing odd.”

“Well, that is the main thing of, course. We’ve always thought of Duncan as such a settled bachelor. But then, when these bachelors do fall, it’s usually for somebody
quite young.”

“I see a number of points in its favour,” said Mrs. Close, “if Caroline likes him. We all like Caroline, and I
think
it would be a wonderful thing for her to be the mistress of Duncan’s lovely home.”

“We’re getting a bit ahead,” said Patricia. “After all, we only have Miss Weedon’s word for it, and we
know how she exaggerates. There may be nothing in it.

But Patricia remembered that Miss Weedon had thrown out hints of this particular kind of thing once before: only she had included David in those hints. It would suit Patricia very well if Caroline became in any way involved with Duncan and left a free field as far as David was concerned.

Miss Weedon, whose curiosity was boundless, and who had a legitimate excuse for calling at Springfield, since she was selling tickets for a concert, the proceeds of which would buy radio for the old people’s home, hoped to find out some more details of this new association. But Mrs. Davis saw her coming up the drive and hastened into the kitchen to inform Caroline, who was about to make the mid-morning coffee.

“Miss Weedon, jus
t
coming up the drive, Miss Hearst.”

“Oh bother,” said Caroline.

“You skip upstairs, if you don’t want to see her. I’ll soon get rid of her.”

“It seems rather mean, but I was doing Mr. Springfield’s room, and I am busy this
mo
rnin
g
.
”

“Of course you’re busy—too busy to stop and gossip with her. You go off, and I’ll talk to her.”

Caroline went upstairs gratefully, into David’s room, where she busied herself until she thought that Mrs. Davis would have got rid of Miss Weedon. Then, when she thought it safe to go down to make the coffee, she went to the door, opened it a little, and listened for the sound of voices. She could hear Mrs. Davis’s voice, and it seemed to come from the scullery, so presumably Miss Weedon was just going by the back way—the way she always chose to arrive. Caroline, with the door ajar, waited for a moment; and, as she leaned gently against the door, her cheek touched the dressing-gown that was hanging from a hook on it. It was a thick, soft dressing-gown of dark blue with a red plaid collar and it smelled of tobacco and soap, and was essentially a thoroughly masculine garment. It took Caroline unawares and brought David clearly before her. Suddenly a flood of feeling seemed to submerge her, a warm, disturbing, suffocating flood that caused her to gasp. She buried her face in the thick soft folds, and held them in her hands, while her
min
d cried over and over again: David, David, David...

How
lon
g she stood there she did not know. She knew that it was time to make coffee for Mrs. Davis and herself, but her will was subjected to this amazing flood of emotion.

At last, a voice broke through the strange absorption that gripped her.

“Miss Hearst, Miss Hearst,” Mrs. Davis was calling. “She has gone, if you want to come down now.”

“I’m just coming,” Caroline called back, but even then she could not find the necessary strength. She sat on the side of David’s bed, still incapable of coherent
th
o
ught,
still
thinking
only David, David; and gradually she grew a little calmer, and gathered herself together and went to see about the coffee. Fortunately, Mrs. Davis seemed to notice nothing strange about her, though Caroline felt that she must even look different. Mrs. Davis chattered on, chiefly about her dislike of Miss Weedon, and the evils of gossip generally, while Caroline busied herself at the stove.