The Young Intruder

THE YOUNG INTRUDER

Eleanor Farnes

Alison Vale was a welcome addition to the home of her guardian, Peter Malliner
—
welcome to Peter himself and to his brother Douglas who was slowly recovering from an air crash, even, after a time to fussy and fluttery Cousin Priscilla. But to Lydia Peyton, Alison was far from welcome. Lydia intended to become Peter
’
s wife, and she planned to get rid of this obstacle. But she had not bargained for Alison possessing considerable good sense as well as sweetness.

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN Peter Malliner came down to breakfast on that sunny morning of spring, he found a large post awaiting him, but his attention was arrested chiefly by the bulky letter with the Portuguese stamp. The handwriting on the envelope was teasingly familiar, yet he could not place it. He slit open the envelope, and took out the closely-written pages of foreign paper.

His second cousin, Priscilla Malliner, a faded little woman who looked more than her fifty years, poured his coffee and brought him his breakfast. Peter had rescued her from financial worries by bringing her into his house some years ago, and she had taken charge of the housekeeping; but Peter sometimes wondered if she worried still more now, even with a most reliable cook
-
housekeeper under her, for she went round the house with an anxious expression, and an air of having omitted to do something important. He was relieved when, this morning, she begged him to excuse her, so that she could go and talk about meals to the cook, and make sure that Douglas’s tray had gone up to him.

He turned his attention to the letter, looked at the end of it, at the signature, Laura Vale, and remembering her with pleasure, settled down to read; and as he read, his pleasure turned to sadness, and his sadness turned slowly to thoughtfulness.

“Dear Peter,” the letter ran,

“You will, of course, remember us, even though we saw you so seldom after the war; and, I think, only once since my dear husband died. And, my dear friend, if you read this letter, it will mean that we shall never meet again; for I must tell you that it is necessary for me to go to hospital for an operation, and if it is successful and I get better, then this letter will be destroyed. But if, as I fear, the operation is not successful, then this letter will be sent to you—for Alison’s sake.

“My health has never been good. We left England because of it, and when the war chased us out of most of the European countries, we tried South Africa for it; but since Edward died, it has not seemed worth while to cosset myself—life was so much less worth living without him. You know what we were to each other, and not even dear Alison can give my life the light that went out of it when Edward died.

“And it is on Alison’s behalf that I write to you now. Both Edward and I were singularly lacking in family and relations, and if this letter comes to you, it will mean that Alison is left alone—very much alone. I have many friends in many parts of the world—and I know you are one of them; and searching my heart closely, I cannot find anybody I would sooner ask to keep an eye on her than you. You have said many times, dear Peter, that you would do
anything
for me. May I ask you now to do this?
;
to take Alison to England and to keep an eye on her until she can settle down there. Our small fortune was disposed of by the war; since Edward died, we have lived quietly and frugally. Alison will need to have a job, but it may take her a little time. Will you, Peter, look after her until she can get one, until she can find a really good family to live with, until she can accustom herself to an England she has not seen since she was a very little girl? I feel sure that I can rely upon you. I am anxious only about her.

“Perhaps it is because everything that lies ahead of me is so uncertain, that nowadays my thoughts seem continuously to go back into the .past—an interesting, happy, sun-filled past with Edward. I remember how we met you in that little Italian village
—
and what a very young and earnest and serious young man you were then. I remember how we both warmed to you, and what pleasure we all had in the years that followed. And it is in remembering what you were then, and how the years have added to you, deepening and enriching you, that I know
I do the right thing in asking you to help Alison now.

“So goodbye, Peter. For me it is goodbye, I think, to everything: for you, I hope there will still be some days ahead that have the sunlight and the gaiety and magic that the old days had; the festival at Salzburg, the opera at la Scala and at Munchen; the days in the snow and the evenings of singing in the Weinstube in Tirol. What memories I have! And for Alison, I hope there will be the quiet and the settled calm of so many things in England.

“I feel that you will do this for me, Peter, and I thank you with all my heart.

“Laura Vale.”

Peter put the letter down on the table, and sat motionless, his mind going back over the years to his first meeting with the Vales, remembering how they had lived for each other, remembering the aura of happiness that went everywhere with them. No wonder that Laura found the light had gone from her life, without Edward.

There was Alison, however. Alison. He found that he could remember little about Alison, for on those joyous occasions when he had stayed with the Vales, she had nearly always been at school. They had lived such a wandering life that it was better for Alison to be sent away to school. He supposed she must be about sixteen now, but he was as vague about her age as about her appearance, remembering only the two long, thick braids of fair hair that swung backwards and forwards over her shoulders, as she turned her head. He would have to do something about this letter, he decided.

His breakfast finished, he went to Douglas’s room to see his young brother before leaving for his office. Douglas was in bed, his bed table over his thin form, his breakfast tray, replete with many good things, before him. His thin, handsome face broke into a smile as he saw Peter.

“Hallo, Peter. Do you intend to be shut in your stuffy office on this glorious morning of spring?”

“Somebody in this family has to look after the family fortunes,” said Peter. “Time you did something about it yourself.”

“All in good time,” said Douglas, heaping marmalade on to his toast. “What’s this?”

“A letter I had this morning. Read it.”

Douglas read the letter, while Peter walked about the room, and came to rest at the window, looking out at the spring sunshine. Peter thought: No more spring sunshine for Laura.

“I say, that’s a bad show,” said Douglas sympathetically. He did not know the Vales, but he did know what they meant to Peter. He said: “What’s Alison like?”

“I don’t really remember. She must be about sixteen, I think. A fair girl with long pigtails. Probably frightened out of her life at the moment, poor child. I shall have to do something about this, Doug.”

“Of course. What will you do?”

“I suppose I had better fly over and see what actually is happening. It’s a Lisbon address, so that it would be a comparatively easy journey; a straight flight there and back. Bring the child back with me, probably. Anyway, I’ll get off to the office now, and let you know what I decide to do.” Peter pocketed the letter and turned to the door. “Masseur coming this morning?” he asked.

Douglas grimaced.

“You know he’s coming this morning. He comes every morning, doesn’t he? Just to put me through it.”

“How’s it going?”

“Pretty well. I can heave myself in and out of the wheel chair now. Speed the day when I can walk on my own two legs!”

“It won’t be long,” said Peter. “Well, cheerio, boy.”

“Cheerio,” said Douglas, and returned to his breakfast.

During the day, Peter Malliner found time to send a letter to Alison Vale, informing her of his coming. He made enquiries about the journey and booked his passage. He lunched with two of his directors, and returned rather late to his office to be informed that Miss Peyton had telephoned him twice. He called her number, and heard her light voice answering him.

“Ah, Lydia,” he said, “you wanted me, I think.”

“Yes, Peter. The Wainwrights want you for the weekend, down at Haslemere. Can you manage it? They said I was to use all my powers of persuasion on you.”

“Oh, sorry, Lydia. It can’t be managed this coming week-end.”

“Peter, you must come. It will be frightfully dull without you.”

“I would have come with pleasure, Lydia, but something has turned up, which makes it imperative for me to fly to Lisbon later in the week. Some other time.”

“You are a wretch. What are you going to do in Lisbon?”

“I’m going to answer the S.O.S. of an old friend.”

“You are very tantalising. Do I know this old friend?”

“No.”

“Is it a woman?”

“She was a very charming woman. She’s dead now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; but if so, Peter dear, how can you answer her S.O.S.?”

“She wants me to see to her affairs. But there will be other week-ends, Lydia. Tell the Wainwrights I’m sorry, won’t you?”

“Yes, and I can tell
you
that I am sorry. I’m going to endure a very boring week-end there without you.”

“You flatter me, Lydia. But I’m impervious to flattery.”

“I don’t believe any man is impervious to flattery. Not even Peter Malliner. No, but really, Peter, it won’t be so much fun without you. Don’t stay too long in Lisbon.”

“Not more than a few days, I hope. I’ll ring you when I get back.”

“Yes, do that. Well, goodbye then, Peter—safe journey.”

His secretary brought him some papers and letters to sign, and gave him several telephone messages.

“Hand them on to Mr. Smaile,” he said, “and ask him to deal with the telephone messages. I’ll sign the letters—and then I’m off.”

“Yes, Mr. Malliner.”

He left the office, and drove himself back to Mayfair. The tall, narrow house in the secluded street had an air of quiet and serenity over it, as he entered the hall. He listened, but heard no sound of any activity. The servants were downstairs, presumably, and Priscilla probably still resting. But where was Douglas? Peter looked into the dining room, and the small morning room at the back; then he went up the extremely elegant staircase, taking the stairs two at a time, and looked into the drawing room.

He surprised Douglas doing absolutely nothing; and an expression of anxiety went quickly over his face as he advanced into the room. Douglas looked up, and said:

“Hallo. You’re early, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Thought I’d come back and have some tea with you. Haven’t had yours yet, have you?”

“No. I wasn’t going to bother.”

Peter rang the bell.

“Do you good,” he said. “And I brought back a new parcel of books for you—you might find something interesting among them.”

“Thanks,” said Douglas.

“What’s the matter, Doug? Bored?”

Douglas did not reply for a moment. Then he sighed a long, weary sigh.

“Hellish bored,” he said.

Peter, standing beside the wheel chair, put his hand on his brother’s shoulders with a warm reassuring pressure.

“Stick it, lad,” he said. “You’ve done wonders, up to now. Stick it out—it can’t be much longer.”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” said Douglas. “I’ve got to stick it out. Sometimes, Pete, the day’s so damned long.”

“I know,” said Peter.

“Well, let’s forget it. We’ll have some tea. And give me a cigarette, will you? the box in here is empty. And what have you decided to do about the girl in Lisbon?”

“I’m flying over at the end of the week. I shall bring her here—for a while at least. Perhaps she could go to a finishing school, or something. It all depends on the girl herself; what she’s like, what she wants to do, and. so on.”

“Poor old Priscilla will be in a flap, having a schoolgirl added to the household.”

Peter smiled. It was true that Priscilla was very put out about the smallest variation in routine, because she really believed that she ran the household and that it would fall to pieces without her; whereas the servants ran it with complete efficiency, tolerating her interference with quite good grace. When Douglas had returned from the hospital after long, weary months of treatment and operations, following his air crash, Priscilla had almost collapsed with the added responsibility; but the brothers had now decided that they could do nothing for her. She was the type to worry about everything, even the smallest details, and their repeated reassurances did little to console her. If they sent her away for a rest and holiday, she returned quite convinced that she had neglected them, and that everything must have gone wrong during her absence. It was always a surprise and slight shock to her to find household affairs running smoothly.

So that Peter only smiled at the prospect of Priscilla’s anxiety, and began to tell Douglas of some of the old times he had enjoyed with the Vales. They chatted over their tea, and then sat smoking companionably together, and Peter saw that the air of helpless boredom had left Douglas, and that he was much brighter. He made a resolve that the boy should not be left alone more than was necessary; for he still thought of Douglas as a boy, although he was now nearly twenty-five, for the long illness had wasted him, and he was thin where he had been robust, pale where he had been tanned, and immobile where he had been eternally on the move, full of energy and fun and daring.

Alison Vale walked slowly back to the small private hotel where she had been living for almost a year. She did not notice the spring sunshine, or the brilliant flower stalls of the market; did not hear the noise of the traffic or the bustle and chatter of the stallholders and shoppers. She walked apart, absorbed in her grief, pale and tear-stained after nights of sleeplessness and days of loneliness. Her friend and constant companion, her beautiful, interesting mother, was dead; and it seemed to Alison there was no more joy in the sunshine no more life in the day, nothing anywhere to compensate for the terrible blow that had taken away her mother and left her alone.

To-day, Peter Malliner was coming. She had not seen him for years and remembered him very vaguely as a big and handsome man—but that, she told herself, was the impression on a young girl. He was probably not nearly so big or so handsome in reality. He must be kind and good, because Mother had said so, and Mother had known him for a long time; but Alison did not know what he could do to help her. Mother had wanted her to go to England, but A
l
ison felt she knew other places so much better, felt so much more at home in them, that she was reluctant to go to England. When she thought of getting a job, she thought instinctively of towns like Paris or Milan or Salzburg or Zurich
—
never of London. London was unknown and vast, and therefore vaguely frightening. She would do better to stay where she felt comfortable, and this she would tell Mr. Malliner when he came to see her.

She walked into the hotel, and Madame, the proprietress, came to meet her. Madame had not been too pleased about the extra bother and fuss lately, and Alison had felt her displeasure; but to-day Madame was friendly and solicitous and kindly. There was a gentleman to see Miss Vale. He was waiting in the small private sitting room for her; and perhaps Miss Vale would like coffee and refreshments to be sent in.

“Yes, please,” said Alison, walking towards the little sitting room. Madame went away, considerably reassured. The bill that had worried her for days worried her less now. Perhaps it would be all right now,
and
with all the extras too.

Alison opened the door. A tall man rose from an armchair politely. Yes, she thought, but without any feeling, he is just as big and as handsome as I remembered, and she went forward with her hand outstretched.

Peter, however, did not realise that this was Alison Vale. He was waiting for a schoolgirl of about sixteen, possibly with long fair pigtails still swinging to her waist. He was confronted with a slender girl in a simple black dress with a single row of pearls round her neck; a girl whose golden hair was cut short, fitting neatly round her head in a slight natural wave, whose large grey eyes showed signs of much weeping, and whose beautiful mouth, untouched by lipstick, could not even smile now, as she greeted him.

“You are Mr. Malliner,” she said. “I had your letter and your cable.”

“And you must be Alison,” he said, “but I expected you to be younger. You have grown up very fast.”

“I am nineteen,” she said, “nearly twenty.”

“It’s hardly possible, but the years go by so quickly. I can’t say, my dear child, how very sorry I was to have your mother’s letter—and how very sorry for you.”

“Please,” she said quickly, turning away from him, “don’t talk about it. Don’t talk about it.”

He looked at the slender back, turned towards him, and he hardly knew how to comfort her. She looked so defenceless, so vulnerable. He said softly:

“No. We will talk about the future, and what is the best thing for you to do.”

She turned back to him with a wintry smile.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said. “It’s only that I’m liable to start weeping again if anybody mentions Mummy.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

She was blinking back the tears. He held out a hand to her, in sympathy. She took it, and his strong fingers were warm and comforting. He knew that she was fighting a hard battle against tears that threatened to overwhelm her, and his grip on her hand tightened.

“Come and sit down,” he said, “and we will discuss our plans.”

Madame’s maid came into the room with a tray. Alison could busy herself pouring out the coffee, and avail herself of this opportunity to pull herself together. She said:

“I don’t know what was in that letter to you. I only knew I was to post it if ...
if...”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Well, I’d better tell you about it, and we shall know where we stand.” He told her what her mother had written to him. “And you had better tell me how matters stand here. There isn’t any property to deal with, or anything like that?”