To the North (32 page)

Emmeline said irrepressibly: “Don’t let’s talk about that.” She picked up the cigarette-box, now smoked quite empty, and snapped the lid rather disturbingly to and fro. Cecilia saw with amazement her fingertips press themselves white on the shagreen box-lid.

“Emmeline, for heaven’s sake, tell me—”

In the hall, the telephone rang. Emmeline put down the box: for an instant her heart stood still. Cecilia said: “Julian,” smiling; everything was forgotten. Emmeline heard her plug the telephone through to her room and go cheerfully up.

Before midnight the house was asleep; Cecilia unstirring lay happy among her pillows. Emmeline, saying her name softly, crept to her door and listened: no answer; one was alone. Down in the hall like a thief she shut the basement door, all the doors, listened. Then she turned on the light in its gay hanging crystals, approached the telephone-table, looked at the clock: Benito appeared from nowhere and ran round her feet.

Very clumsily, slowly, she dialled a number. Looking through the white hall wall as though it were glass she heard the telephone tingle and dot out its double note in the distant flat. No one came. She still listened, seeing distinctly a room she had known too well or been too happy to see, where the repetitive shrill bell made her in some way present, though there must now be nothing but darkness there. He was out. Having wrung from that silence so stamped with his absence no stir or answer, she hung up at last. She looked round the hall, her throat tightening, then fumbling through the directory came on another number and dialled that.

Mrs. Dolman was disengaged, even affable. “Markie?” she said. “No, I’ve no idea, I’m afraid: I never do know. Is he not up there? No, he wouldn’t be, he was not expected till Monday and they’re half way through cleaning the flat… . Yes, he has been in: very cross. But I heard the front door bang, now I come to think. But we live quite apart.”

“Yes,” said Emmeline.

“Is it anything urgent? It
is
rather late, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, all right; I’m not in bed. By the way, who’s speaking—”

“I don’t think you’d—”

“—Who did you say?”

“Miss Pleach,” said Emmeline.

Mrs. Dolman’s smile was audible on the wire. “Well, I’m sorry, Miss Pleach, I can’t help you—”

“Thank you very much, I—”

“Oh, for nothing. Better luck next time! Here, stop—he’s got some friends somewhere in Maida Vale or St. John’s Wood: Summers: you might try there.”

“I’ve tried there,” said Emmeline.

“Oh, you have?” remarked Mrs. Dolman, smiling again. “Then I really don’t know… .” She ran through some more names, entering with strange gusto into this chase of Markie. “Or there’s a shop,” she concluded, “Kennett, somewhere near Sydney Place.”

“A shop would be shut,” said Emmeline dully.

“Not
this
shop; it’s quite worth trying. K, E, double N—”

“Thank you,” said Emmeline, who had heard. “I don’t think I’d better. It isn’t urgent. Only something he left in a car… .”

“
I
see,” said Mrs. Dolman. “Well, good-night.”

“Goodnight.”

Emmeline turned the lights off and went upstairs. She stood in the dark in her doorway, she did not know for how long. Then she went down again with cheeks burning, turned the lights on, looked at the clock and found Daisy’s number. The receiver felt clammy, her movements were not her own. “Hullo?” said, almost immediately, Daisy’s kind-hearted voice.

“Is Mr. Linkwater there?”

Daisy bounded audibly. “I—I don’t know,” she said. “He may be: I’ll see. Is it urgent?” Emmeline heard her put a hand across the receiver, but small chinks of sound came through. “I say,” said Daisy, over her shoulder, “a woman wants you.”

“
Fool
, I’m not here,” said Markie, quite near the telephone. There were indignant whispers; evidently Daisy was quite a fool.

“I’m so sorry,” said Daisy, uncovering the receiver. “Mr. Linkwater’s not here. Try Sloane 00500.”

“Thank you. Goodnight,” said Emmeline.

“
Good
-night.”

DEAR UNCLE JULIAN,

“Your kind letter made me so happy. It is good of you at this time of your great happiness to be so full of thoughts for me. I congratulate you on your engagement and Dorothea wishes to do the same. We both thought Mrs. Summers so nice, and when I was at Farraways I found out she had a kind heart, also. It is nice to think she is going to be my aunt. I hope we may have many happy times.

“I do not know what else to say except that I hope you will be very happy. Your life must sometimes have been quite lonely, and Mrs. Summers will be a great consolation. You will be pleased to hear that Dorothea and I got ‘Highly commended’ for our garden. If a rabbit had not got in and eaten some of the annuals we might have got the prize, but we are very thankful. The white dress you so kindly gave me to sing in the choir will come in beautifully for your wedding, if it is warm enough. I hope Mrs. Summers will like it. Little did we think, did we, for what happy purposes it would be worn.

“I think that is all, except to send you my best love and Dorothea’s kindest regards.

“Your loving niece,

“Pauline.”

Cecilia read the letter, with several others that Julian had given her, in a taxi, on her way to Rutland Gate. She took taxis all day; she could not get anywhere fast enough. She also re-read, with a smile, a long cable from her mother. She and Julian had now been engaged for some days; it had been announced; the friendly world was upon them. Every day they met to exchange letters; they laughed and talked every night on the telephone.

Lady Waters received Cecilia, whom she had not seen since her engagement, in a glow of maternal importance tempered by slight foreboding. Far more, thought Cecilia, as though one were about to become a mother. She kissed Cecilia on both cheeks. “This,” she said, releasing her gravely, “is, I know, what Henry himself would have wished. You must be certain of that.”

“Julian is so very sorry he couldn’t come.”

“That is quite all right,” said her aunt, “he is dining with us to-morrow; I have been telephoning to him. He and I want a long quiet talk.”

“He’ll love that,” said Cecilia.

At this point Sir Robert came in hurriedly, wrung Cecilia’s hand, seemed to wonder if he should kiss her, and patted her speechlessly on the arm. “Robert,” his wife explained, “is delighted. After Emmeline, Cecilia, you come very near his heart.”

Sir Robert looked deprecatingly at Cecilia, murmured that Julian was lucky and disappeared. He was not to be with them for lunch.

“I cannot pretend,” Lady Waters said, “that this is an entire surprise to me. In fact there have been moments, Cecilia, when I felt tempted to broach the subject, but delicacy prevented me. You are so very much my own niece (when your mother sailed for America she said, you know: ‘I leave Cecilia with you,’) you are so transparent, I could watch Julian winning his way well into your heart. And I admit there were moments when I began to fear things might go astray; one is always alarmed, Cecilia, on behalf of anyone so heart-whole. Well, my dearest child, you are older now than you were, you should bring still more to this marriage. And now, mind, you must not let thoughts of the past stand between you and happiness. You owe this to Julian. He comes to you heart-whole (I think I am right in saying?). No, Cecilia, I see no reason why this should not be a success.”

“Neither do I,” said Cecilia, unclasping her fur. Georgina, she felt, was one of the many reasons why she and Julian should not live in London. All the same, one could not imagine living anywhere else. She stripped her gloves off to show her new emerald ring.

“Very nice,” said her aunt. “You are not superstitious, of course?”

“Oh, no.”

They had quite a nice lunch. Cecilia asked amiably after the Blighs, Tim Farquharson and two or three more of Georgina’s unhappy young friends. Georgina said that the Blighs should still win their way through; they had, however, a rather hard fight still ahead.

“Oh, dear, with each other?”

“No, with themselves. They think now of the Pyrenees… . Frank is rejoining his ship: for the best, I daresay.” She went on to say that Tim Farquharson had been seen driving round the park with a pale young woman in red, and though recessive when taxed with this was no doubt attracted. “I daresay,” she added, “I may hear about it to-morrow, when Tim comes to tea— Oh, and Emmeline will be sorry to hear she has lost a promising client: our vicar is dead.”

“Which vicar?”

“Our vicar at Farraways. I saw he had one of her circulars on his desk.”

“Had he? She never spoke of him.”

Lady Waters impressively cleared her throat. “Cecilia,” she said, “I don’t want to worry you at such a time”—determination to do so glinting on every feature—”but have you thought at all about Emmeline?”

Her niece felt inclined to say: ‘“
Naturally
not!” Instead she said: “Why?”

“There will be, of course, her future to be arranged for, but I am really more anxious about her present. I feel I should tell you. She seems to be taking directions one cannot approve. Without your influence, and with her quiet home life removed, there is no telling, as things are at present, what may become of her. For one thing, as I told you, one gathers on all sides her business is not doing well. She is losing her grip on it. I looked in again for a moment the other morning: she was not there: no one seemed to know where she was. That new secretary, who has a pleasant direct manner, was quite clearly anxious, though she would say very little—for which, of course, I respected her. That young Peter Lewis looked really haggard; I’ve never seen anyone less himself. It is, of course, always possible that his feeling for Emmeline may be changing, in which case their partnership would become difficult. I do not think this likely, from what I know of him, but these things are always possible. Emmeline may be quite unconscious: it might be thoughtful, perhaps, just to drop her a hint.”

“No, for heaven’s sake don’t do that!”

Lady Waters looked at her sharply. “Evidently,” she said, “you do share my anxiety… . Mr. Lewis, however, is quite a minor point. Emmeline is attractive; there were moments when I thought Tim—but I daresay that was for the best. She is remarkably innocent for her age, and makes friends quite without discretion. This brings me up to my point… .”

Lady Waters again cleared her throat. “Yes?” said Cecilia, contracted, nervous and gloomy.

“It is this: I hear on all sides that she’s going about with a young man of whom neither Robert nor I can approve: Mark Linkwater. She was seen dining with him at Devizes some nights ago. And Devizes, Cecilia, is some way from London.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Even Robert is worried; I don’t know what else he may not have heard. Robert would be quite the last, of course, to blame you, Cecilia. But I must say
I
do feel that—owing, of course, to this recent preoccupation, to your interests and your anxieties lying so much elsewhere—you may have been just a little remiss. One must face facts, you know: she was left in your charge when poor Henry died.”

“Henry never said anything. He wouldn’t have dreamed of putting her into anyone’s charge. Henry said nothing, Georgina!”

“Then he meant much to be understood. He would have relied on your taking his place: she had nobody else. He would have relied on your commonsense—”

“—I had no commonsense at that age.”

“A commonsense,” her aunt went on, raising her voice, “that you, rather than Emmeline, seemed liable to develop. Were Henry here now I feel he could only feel—”

This was intolerable. Cecilia put down her fork. Georgina’s rounded periods bounced on her nerves. Was this simply the last of Georgina’s outrages on good taste or abortions of fancy? Might not the nonsense she talked at all times discredit this? This outbreak of real perspicacity seemed preposterous as a seizure. That Georgina—stately buffoon of so many interludes, source of so many laughs between Emmeline and Cecilia— should sit here putting Cecilia wrong on behalf of Emmeline appeared more than fantastic. That Cecilia’s conscience should answer was like a dream. She longed to ask what Sir Robert had heard, if anything; to know if that gentle optimist really were worried, or if Georgina had simply harried him into expressing concern. Her heart went leaden; glancing down at her new ring she longed for Julian. “What do you mean?” she said.

“I am telling you,” said her aunt. “My point is just this: Emmeline is being far worse than simply silly and intellectual: she is doing herself real damage in her own world.”

“Which world?” parried Cecilia.

“There is only one world,” said Lady Waters. “That young man’s reputation is shocking. You may be certain that Robert would never listen to idle gossip, and I, while I have to hear of so much that is painful, am not an alarmist: I realise that up to a point one must live and let live. But how well do you know this young man? Does he come to your house? Have you attempted to put his relations with Emmeline on any regular footing? Myself, I hear nothing good of him.”

Cecilia fell back rather wretchedly on an echo of Julian. “He’s fearfully able; they say he is brilliant. He may be Lord Chancellor, anything… .”

With dignity, and as it were in inverted commas, Lady Waters sniffed. Cecilia’s heart went lower: that sniff was traditional. The fumes subsided, off went the Delphic trappings: here spoke sheer Aunt, empowered by plain good sense. That voice went back through the schoolroom and to the cradle.

“Lord Chancellor? Not for some time. Meanwhile, he is likely to do, in a quite irresponsible way, a good deal of dam-age.”

“But what can one do?”

“I’ll tell you,” her aunt said, with awful readiness. “In fact, Cecilia, it is more than time that you knew this and took a strong line. Evidently you know well what I’m talking about, or you would not look so uncomfortable. Your engagement to Julian puts you in a strong position. Till now, I admit, the extremely promiscuous way you made this young man’s acquaintance yourself has put you at some disadvantage.”