Gates of Dawn (9 page)

Noel gave vent to a curious little half-sigh.

“
Sometimes I think that Uncle Richard is really nice, and then at others—I
’
m not so sure!
”
she remarked oddly.

“
You silly child,
”
Melanie told her, smiling at her humorously.
“
He
’
s doing rather a lot for you, and I think you ought to be really grateful. Look at that new dressing
-
case on the rack! It makes mine look like a poor relation!
”

“
Which is exactly what I am,
”
Noel murmured, staring out of the window at the depressing ugliness
‘
of London before it begins to merge itself with the suburbs.
“
Do you know,
”
she added, with a rather shame-faced laugh,
“
when I was at school, and received a letter from him which was not quite as business-like and formal as some of his letters, I used to let my imagination run away with me and make plans. And the plans were that when the day came that I left school for good I would go and live with him and look after him and act as his housekeeper! You see, I hadn
’
t seen him since I was very tiny, and I had n
o
idea that Uncle Richard was—well, as Uncle Richard is! I pictured him much older, and not nearly so successful and prominent a person.
”

“
Did you?
”
Melanie looked at her gently.
“
But there
’
s plenty of time yet for you to realize your ambition—if it is your ambition! It won
’
t be long before you
’
re quite a sophisticated young lady, and Mr. Trenchard has already bought a most attractive house for you to live in. He probably plans for you to become its mistress, and then you can begin your programme of looking after him.
”

“
With Mrs. Abbie doing the actual running of the place?
”
She smiled sceptically.
“
You heard what he said about Mrs. Abbie. He thinks she
’
s the most wonderful housekeeper in existence.
”

“
Which she probably is. I don
’
t think she would have lasted so long with your uncle if she hadn
’
t the most extraordinary qualifications to commend her.
”

“
That
’
s what I mean,
”
Noel said.
“
He has no time for inefficiency! I couldn
’
t hope to
c
ompete with her, and in
any case he
’
ll probably be getting married quite soon
—”

Melanie was struggling with the rearrangement of their assortment of hand luggage on the rack, and she paused, struck by the shrewdness—and the apparent powers of observation—of the sixteen-year-old.

“
Oh!
”
she exclaimed.
“
Is he thinking of getting married?
”

“
If he isn
’
t, Sylvia Gaythorpe is thinking of marrying him!
”
Noe
l
frowned down at an advertisement in one of the glossy magazines, and then flicked over a page.
“
And she
’
s so beautiful! She really is beautiful, and I can
’
t help admiring her enormo
u
sly, and she was wonderful in that film we saw—but I don
’
t know whether I should like to have her for an aunt!
”

“
If I were you,
”
Melanie advised her, thankful that an attendant was approaching along the corridor and that she could create a diversion by ordering coffee,
“
I wouldn
’
t bother my head about such matters until you have to. There is such a thing as crossing your bridges before you get to them, you know.
”

The afternoon was already closing in when they reached Haveringford, but Noel
’
s questing eyes made out the hilly grandeur on all sides of them. A single shaft of red-gold late afternoon sunlight gilded the piled-up purple distance, and transmuted the shabby vehicle in which they were to travel the last lap of the journey to a temporarily pleasing fiery chariot. But even so it was bitterly cold—a cold which stung like the sharp thrust of knives after the damp, depressing cold of London—and both girls were glad of the rug which was wrapped round their knees. Their luggage made the journey piled up behind them on the luggage grid.

Noel was tired after her long day devoted to travelling, and Melanie was glad, when they finally reached the Wold House, to find that Mrs. Abbie had more than justified her advance journey. She had a huge fire glowing half-way up the chimney in the library, and something more in the nature of a most welcome high tea awaited them after their cold car-ride.

To Melanie
’
s eyes the whole house had been transformed, and was an oasis of comfort and quiet after the prim luxuriousness of Hill Street. When she had seen Noel into bed in the room which conveniently adjoined her own she wandered round it, taking in all the carefully thought out appointments, and the many improvements which, had been made. The bedrooms were airily comfortable, and her own was both tasteful and artistic. She wondered whether the plain green carpet, like a carpet of moss, and the highly-glazed chintz with a tiny pattern
of violets and harebells on a cl
ear primrose ground was the choice of the new owner of the house, or someone whom he had employed. And she particularly admired her magnificent specimen of a walnut tallboy, and the deep, comfortable, tapestry-covered chair which stood, cheek-by-jowl with a handy little low table, drawn up close to the fire.

The lampshades were all new and unusual, shedding a warm amber light over the room, and the bathroom she shared with Noel lacked nothing in its equipment.

Yet the house still retained its atmosphere—its unassailable, reassuring atmosphere of solidity and age which had been the one thing about it which had impressed itself upon both Melanie and Richard Trenchard when they had seen it first. The hall echoed to the solemn tick of a grandfather clock which stood at the foot of the carved oak staircase, and the panelling now had a kind of soft sheen which reflected the bright sparkle of the logs blazing on a wide hearth. Mrs. Abbie had arranged a huge pottery bowl full of purple michaelmas daisies on a black oak dower chest against the farther wall, and this splash of color was duplicated in a beautiful Jacobean mirror which hung directly facing it.

Mrs. Abbie moved softly about the many corridors which
crisscrossed
the house at all angles, jingling her keys and attending to such important items as hot water bottles in beds, and
boiling hot water in the bathroom taps. Melanie joined her on her final round of locking up the house for the night, and it suddenly struck her as intensely strange that she and not Richard Trenchard, should be sampling the delights of an entirely new home while he was still in London.

In the room which he himself had selected as the room in which he would one day work, quite a large number of his favorite books awaited him on the shelves, and there were copies of his own plays, too—alongside Dickens and Thackeray and Scott, of whom he obviously approved. Mrs. Abbie had had a fire lighted to air the room, and she carefully placed a guard in front of it in order that no spark should alight upon the glowing beauties in the Persian rug and set it alight. Then she wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the shining surface of his desk, which looked unnaturally bare and rather bleak, awaiting some evidence of his occupation.

“
It
’
s a pity,
”
Mrs. Abbie observed softly,
“
that the master didn
’
t decide, to come with you today. But he always finds it difficult to tear himself away from London.
”

“
And yet this is a home to be proud of—a home most people would be anxious to take possession of!
”
Melanie offered it as her opinion.

Mrs. Abbie nodded, looking about her with a kind of half-veiled regret in her eyes.
“
It is,
”‘
she agreed.
“
But I
’
m thankful at least that he
’
s got it—somewhere to come to that
’
s a great deal more pleasant than a flat in the West End of London. I
’
ve lived in London all my life, but I
’
m not sorry to leave it behind. And the country round about here is something to do the heart good. If only Mr. Richard would make up his mind to settle here—but he
’
d tell you he couldn
’
t live without the theatre, and plenty of human beings to study. But I know it
’
s because it takes a woman—and children!—to make a home, and this place will never be home to Mr. Richard unless he marries. And somehow I can
’
t see Mr. Richard getting married—no! I can
’
t!
”

So she didn
’
t share the view of his niece concerning Sylvia Gaythorpe, Melanie could not help thinking.

“
Marriage is not for everyone, and it
’
s far wiser to stay single unless you
’
re sure of the right partner.
”

Melanie was inclined to agree with her, but she said,
“
And Mr. Trenchard has other compensations. He might even find it difficult to adapt himself to a domestic life if it conflicted with his other interests.
”

“
He might,
”
Mrs. Abbie agreed,
“
but I don
’
t think so. Not if his wife was a wise woman. Although I
’
ll admit he can be trying at times, and he loses his temper easily. But he
’
s been a good employer to me, and generous to many other people, and I
’
d like to thin
k
that one day
...
”
She went to the window to draw the velvet curtains over it, and the room looked shut in, and warm, and cosy.
“
When I think of all the rooms in this house, and that big, sunny nursery on the first floor!
...
Oh, well, we can
’
t plan other people
’
s lives for them!
”
and with a faint shrug of her neat, black-silk-clad shoulders, she switched off the light and they left the room with the firelight flickering pleasantly on the ceiling, and in the polished depths of the few good pieces of furniture.

In the morning Melanie was awakened by a loud purr and the thud of a heavy body landing on the eiderdown close beside her face. Mrs. Abbie stood beside the bed with a tray of early tea, and busily kneading the top of the sheet with ecstatic paws was a huge smoke-grey Persian cat with eyes like great golden lamps that were regarding her with interest.

“
This is Baxter, Mr. Richard
’
s cat,
”
Mrs. Abbie introduced them.
“
I brought him myself from London, and he
’
s still looking for the master. Which reminds me, there
’
s a present for Miss Noel over at the gardener
’
s cottage, and she
’
d better go and claim it after breakfast.
”

Melanie allowed Baxter to settle down on the eiderdown while she drank her morni
n
g tea, and she wondered whether it was his habit to visit his master at this hour and in this fashion. And after breakfast she and Noel set out for the gardener
’
s cottage, with clear and almost warm sunlight falling from a cloudless northern sky all about them, and making the world seem very fresh and sweet after their recent incarceration in London. And when they reached the cottage, only recently tenanted by a man engaged to restore some sort of order to the gardens of the Wold House, loud yelping noises did something to prepare them for the sight of an overgrown Great Dane puppy—already almost the size of a young colt—all ears and great, fumbling feet and eyes, who was doing his best to drag the kitchen table about the floor of the kitchen, to the delight of the gardener
’
s two children, who had stuffed him to a stage beyond repletion with dog-biscuits.