Who Pays the Piper? (3 page)

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!”

Susan had the strangest feeling of unreality. Bill's arms had been round her like this in so many a dream, his coat rough against her cheek—rough and a little wet. It hadn't been raining. She must have cried to make his shoulder wet like this.

She said in a straining voice, “Don't count on it so much, my darling—
don't,”
and knew that the words went past him.

“Susan—you will—if it comes off. You will, darling, you will!”

A shiver went over her. It was a dream like all those other dreams. She would wake up. It wasn't real. But even in a dream kisses are sweet and love is dear. She put up her lips to Bill and clung to him.

Everything seemed much more real again when they were heating up the soup and scrambling the eggs together. Bill let the soup boil over whilst he went poaching amongst Susan's tins looking for candied peel. In the light he could be seen as a hefty, upstanding young man with dark hair and rather nondescript grey eyes, rather square features, rather a jutting chin, rather the look of a man who likes having his own way but will take it with a due regard for other people just so long and just so far as the bounds set by a hot temper and a cool sense of justice. The temper was hot enough. Susan had seen it directed against other people, never yet against herself. She had seen him fight a carter twice his weight when he was fifteen because the man was lashing a horse that was unfit for work. She had seen him throw a tramp who had frightened Cathy into the middle of the village pond a couple of years later. The temper was there all right, but at twenty-seven he had it under control.

He was sitting on the dresser eating his stolen peel. when Cathy slipped in like a little mouse, with her brown dress, her mousy brown hair, and her soft brown eyes.

“Mummy says are you nearly ready, because——”

“She's going to swoon,” said Bill.

He got down from the dresser with a large piece of green peel in his hand and gave her a sticky kiss.

Susan laughed.

“I shall have to lock everything up when we're married, or he'll ruin us. We're just coming, Cathy. He let the soup boil over.”

They went in processionally, each girl with a soup-plate, and Bill in front with two.

Rather to Susan's dismay, Bill poured out the whole story of Mr. Garnish to the assembled family.

“But, Bill, we mustn't count on it——”

“Who's counting?”

“You are.”

“I'm not. I'm living in the present. If Gilbert comes off, well, it's all right—it's all stupendously right. And if Gilbert doesn't come off, a good time will have been had by all over his castle in the air.” He threw back his head and laughed. “I know a chap who says we're going to be able to photograph thoughts—dreams—things like that. I bet Gilbert's castle in the air would come out something like the result of putting Balmoral and the Regent Palace Hotel and one of those big hydropathics into a cocked hat and shaking them up. And Susan and I are going to be married on Thursday, Aunt Milly. No relations, by request, but you and Cathy can come if you're good. Have some more. Susan scrambles a very good egg—that's why I'm marrying her. Lots of vitamins in scrambled eggs, if you want to get up your strength for the wedding.”

Mrs. O'Hara passed up her plate. She had an excellent appetite.

“My dear boy, how you do run on,” she said in an indulgent voice.

When the meal was over and cleared away there came out of a cardboard cylinder the plans, brought up to date, of the house which they would build if Gilbert came off. Bill had produced the first sketch within twenty-four hours of their engagement two years ago. It had to be as cheap as possible. But it wasn't going to be just like everybody else's house. It was going to be different—it was going to be theirs. Only three rooms to start with—kitchen and good-sized living-room downstairs and bedroom above. The latest sketch, encouraged by Gilbert, had rather let itself go. The squeezed-in bathroom had become comparatively palatial, and the most exciting things had happened to the garden. They sat with their heads together and babbled about cherry trees and lavender hedges.

It was all very comfortable and comforting, but in the middle Susan looked up and saw Cathy looking at them. She had been reading, but her hands had dropped and her book had fallen. She sat on a square brocaded stool with her back to the fire watching Susan and Bill. Her eyes were frightened. Susan looked back quickly at the plans of her little house. But it didn't look real any more. It was just pencil marks on a sheet of drawing-paper.

CHAPTER IV

Bill went off in the morning. Somewhere round about twelve o'clock, when Susan was just going to make a cake, the telephone bell rang. Well, at least it hadn't waited until she had got her hands in the flour. She picked up the receiver and heard Cathy say, “Is that you?”

Susan laughed a little.

“Who else could it possibly be?”

“I know—but you see——” Cathy sounded a little breathless. “Are you very busy? Because Mr. Dale is planning the new lily pool, and he wondered if you could possibly spare the time to come with us and have a look at the place.”

“I'm making a cake,” said Susan, not quite truthfully.

There was an indistinct murmur from the telephone, and then Lucas Dale's voice.

“Miss Lenox, Cathy has told you we are planning the pool. She says you are much better at that sort of thing than she is. You don't know how grateful I'd be if you would come and have a finger in the pie.”

“But I've got to make a cake, Mr. Dale—to say nothing of lunch.”

“I see——” He sounded as if he were considering a point of importance. “Well then—I ought to have thought of that—we must just make it after lunch. How would that do?”

Susan said, “I could come after lunch.”

There was colour in her cheeks as she hung up the receiver. She could not refuse without rudeness, and he had given her no reason to be rude. On the contrary he had been all that was kind and considerate to Aunt Milly, and, she supposed, to her. He paid Cathy three pounds a week for doing very much what she had done for Uncle James without being paid at all. It would be cutting off the family nose to spite her face if she were to offend Lucas Dale, and she really had not the slightest reason for offending him. He had never said or done anything to which she could take exception. All he had done was to look at her rather longer and rather more often than she liked, and the long, frequent looks had said what she did not choose that anyone except Bill should say—“You're lovely. I love to look at you.”

Well, if he got no farther than that.… Other men's eyes had said the same things, but he knew, everyone knew, that she was engaged to Bill. And it would be fun to plan the lily pool. It was fun to plan anything when you could go absolutely all out without having to think what it would cost.

She went up through the garden after lunch. There were snowdrops sheltering among ivy leaves in the orchard bank. The green spikes of the crocuses were pushing through. The air was damp and mild, the sky patched blue and grey.

She came out on the upper terrace, and found Lucas Dale waiting for her. He said, “Cathy had some letters to finish,” and she felt that she had been trapped. He had used Cathy to trap her, and she found that hard to forgive. Her temper stiffened. If he asked for a snub he would get one, and he would have no one but himself to thank for it.

But for the moment no one could have stood in less need of snubbing. They went across the rose garden to the far end where a hedge shut off the view.

“You see, this is what I thought. An archway here, so that you can see down the valley, and beyond the arch—well, that is really what I wanted your advice about. Would you have the pool there, and should the hedge be carried round it?”

Susan considered.

“If you have the pool, I think it would have to be enclosed. It would need a formal setting—you couldn't just put it down in the open. I think we ought to go round to the other side of the hedge and see if there's enough flat ground there.”

They turned, but when they came to where the sundial waited to record a sunny hour Lucas Dale took a step ahead and stopped there right in her path.

“It will do another time,” he said. “I want it to be just as you would like, but just now—I want to talk to you.”

Susan stood and looked at him.