Touch and Go (30 page)

John Hildred went up the hotel stairs with the two girls. At Lucilla's door he said, “I'd like just to make sure that your lock is in order.” And with that he went in.

The door had an ordinary iron lock, and a small brass bolt—not the sort which can be slipped back from outside by a chambermaid with a pass-key, but the old-fashioned kind which can only be opened and shut from within. John looked relieved at the sight of it.

“Now, my dear,” he said, “I want you to latch your window and lock and bolt this door. What about the one into the bathroom?”

“It's locked,” said Sarah. “The chambermaid says there isn't any key.”

He went over and tried the handle, and came back again.

“You'll do that, Lucilla?”

She nodded. Her eyes were fixed on him with a bright inquiring look.

“Good night, Uncle Henry,” she said, and put up her face to be kissed.

Sarah leaned against the closed door and watched them. Her heart was beating rather hard. John Hildred put his arm round Lucilla and said gently,

“I'm not Henry, my dear.”

She drew a little quick breath.

“Who are you?”

“Can't you guess?”

She gazed at him with a look which he found hard to bear. It held a piteous hope. He said,

“Don't, darling—it's all right. I'm your father.” And all at once her weight came so heavily on his arm that he was afraid she was going to faint. Instead she winced sharply, cried out, and flung her arms about his neck.

“Oh, not really—not
really
! Oh, Preserver darling—are you
sure
?”

John said he was quite sure. He was so much moved that he took refuge in his quietest drawl. As for Lucilla, she hugged him, half laughing, half crying, kissed him again, and ran off to fling her arms round Sarah and kiss her too.

“Angel darling, did you know he was my father? You'll be a Step! That's worse than being a govvy, a million times! Oh, let us be joyful—joyful, joyful,
joyful
!” She turned back and caught John's hand. “It isn't really happening, is it? It's just a lovely sort of dream! But please, please,
please
don't let's wake up!”

John put his arm round her again, and again he felt her wince. He said, pressing his hand against her side,

“That hurts? Where his stick got you, isn't it?”

Lucilla pulled away, her breath coming fast.

“Oh!” she cried, and her colour flamed.

“Come and sit down,” said John. “Let's all sit down. Now, my child—here's Sarah on one side of you and me on the other. There's nothing to be afraid of any more. We've got you safe, and we're going to keep you safe. He can't touch you. Don't you think you'd better tell us all about it?”

They were sitting on the bed, Lucilla white as a sheet after her sudden flush, Sarah and John each with an arm about her. She looked from one to the other of them, and was silent. A tremor shook her from head to foot. Then all of a sudden she said,

“You won't believe me. He said nobody would believe me.”

“Lucilla, look at me,” said John. “Now, my dear—Sarah and I will believe you. Have you got that? We shall believe you.”

“He said anyone would think I was mad. He said I should be shut up—and I'd
rather
be dead.”

“And that is why you were afraid to speak? We guessed that. Will you tell us now, Lucilla?”

She was looking at him with a steady, wide gaze that seemed to search, to weigh. Then, quite unexpectedly, she said,

“Why didn't you come home before?”

John Hildred met her look with one as steady.

“Yes, you've the right to ask me that,” he said. “It's too long a story to tell you now, but I lost my memory, and when I got it back, it seemed too late to come home. Your mother had married again—and I thought I had better stay dead.”

Lucilla went on looking at him. She said without any expression in her voice,

“You didn't think about me.”

If he was startled, he did not show it. He answered her quietly and with honesty.

“No, I didn't. I'll try and make it up to you, my dear.”

“They weren't—fond of me.” Her voice was hard and bitter. She looked at him all the time.

“You can't always tell,” said John Hildred.

“Can't you?” said Lucilla. “I can. They only wanted each other. He didn't like me—because of you. I
wish
you had come back.”

“I've come back now.”

“Are you going to be fond of me?”

“Very fond of you. We're going to be friends. We're going to be a very happy family.”

She looked away at last and said in an odd wavering voice, “It's the nicest dream I've ever had—you and Sarah and me, and everything safe.”

Sarah gave her a hug, and John said,

“Now will you tell us the whole thing from the beginning? I can take care of you better if I know just where we are.”

Lucilla pulled away from them and got up.

“Can't do it all three sitting in a row like sparrows on a perch. You and Sarah can stay there, and I'll have the chair which was stuffed with potatoes when Queen Victoria was a child. It ought to be in a museum really.” She pulled it forward as she spoke, an odd dumpy piece of furniture with a spreading seat and a narrow back. Then she sat down, her elbows on her knees, and laughed a little shakily. “You look awfully funny sitting there waiting for me to tell you the story of my life. Where do you want me to begin?”

“Well, I suppose nothing much happened before Henry died. Geoffrey would hardly get going before that.”

A bleak look passed over her face. She said,

“No—that's where it begins. I was at school, you know. They wouldn't let me go back. They said I had tried to set fire to my room.” She looked hard at Sarah. “Did he tell you that?”

Sarah nodded.

“What happened?”

“I don't know. I didn't do it. But they didn't believe me. It happened twice, and the second time they asked for me to be taken away. I really didn't do it.”

John said, “I know you didn't. Would it have been easy for anyone to get into your room?”

“Oh,
frightfully
easy, but nobody seemed to think about that. It was just after the accident, and they said it was the shock. And Uncle Geoffrey came and fetched me away and told me not to talk about it, because people would think I was mad. But
he
told people—he told Dr. Drayton, and Mercer, and the Vicar, and Sarah. And then I was nearly killed out riding.”

She looked at Sarah again.

“You asked me why I didn't ride. Well. that was why. The horse bolted. I don't know why I wasn't killed. Afterwards the groom told Annie—they were walking out together—he told her there was a thorn under the saddle. I told Uncle Geoffrey. He put on his shocked, grieved face and said he would never have believed that I would do such a thing, and how wicked it was, and that people who did that sort of thing were shut up. It was one of Mr. Raimond's horses, and they were all sold just after that. It frightened me. He didn't let me forget about it—he used to say things when we were alone, and—and hint. Then Ricky came down on a visit and began to make love to me. I just laughed, but Uncle Geoffrey rather slacked off and things were easier. I didn't
mind
Ricky, you know. He was a bit of an ass, but I thought he liked me, and he was someone to go about with.”

She paused, frowned, dropped her chin in her hands, and went on again.

“The day Sarah came down to be vetted I went to the gate to meet Ricky. Uncle Geoffrey dropped him there and went on to the house. We were larking about, and all of a sudden he began to make the most awful ass of himself. He talked the most frightful mush, and he tried to kiss me. When I wouldn't, he said he'd make me. And I said if I wanted to kiss white rabbits, I'd keep some up in the stable.” Lucilla giggled reminiscently. “And he simply foamed with rage and went stamping off. And then I heard Sarah starting her car, so I climbed up on to the bank to have a look. It was quite dark, but I thought I'd see her go by, and just before she came I heard someone behind me, and I called out, ‘That you, Ricky?' And the next thing I knew someone hit me in the back and I went down blip in front of The Bomb.”

“Ricky pushed you?” Sarah's voice was sharp with horror.

“I don't know,” said Lucilla. She frowned. “
Someone
pushed me. Ricky had gone away. Perhaps he came back—I don't know.”

“Well?” said John. “Go on.”

She gave a little half laugh.

“The Thing that flapped against my window began that night. I was so frightened that I very nearly did what I suppose they wanted me to do, rush out of my room and scream the house down. It was rather beastly—wasn't it, Sarah?”

“I hated it like poison,” said Sarah frankly.

“So did I. It didn't come every night, but when it did I just went under the bed-clothes and dithered till it went away.” She looked at John intently. “You see, the worst part was not being sure whether there really was anything. It sounds awfully stupid, but I got to think—supposing I was just
hearing
things—I mean, supposing there wasn't anything that anyone else would hear. So when Sarah heard it too, it was like having mountains lifted off me, because then I was sure it was a trick, and I knew it would stop, because they wouldn't want to play tricks on Sarah and have
her
shrieking the house down. It would have rather spoilt the effect.” She laughed again. “Well, that's all, isn't it? You know about the other things.”

“Who put the screws in your pocket?” said Sarah.

Lucilla lifted her head with an impatient jerk.

“I don't know. Perhaps Ricky did. I think he'd have funked taking them off the bicycle. I think Uncle Geoffrey did that at home before we started, and Ricky just put them in my pocket to make it look as if I'd done it myself.”

“And what happened on the stairs at Holme Fallow?” said John Hildred. “I thought there was someone there below you when you fell.”

Lucilla shivered. She said,

“Yes.” And then, “I couldn't help screaming. I was coming across the step to the balustrade, and I didn't know there was anyone there. And then somebody's hands came out of the dark—and caught my ankles—and tipped me off my feet—and I thought I was going to crash—” She jumped up, ran to John, and flung her arms round his neck. “I should have crashed if you hadn't caught me. You
are
my
NOBLE PRESERVER
! Do you mind if I go on calling you that? I like it a lot better than Father. You must be awfully strong, or you wouldn't have been able to catch me and lift me back. I say—
he
must have got away like lightning, mustn't he? And he's strong too—his hands were like iron. I couldn't help screaming.”

“Why didn't you tell us the truth—
then
?” said John with his arm round her.

“Preserver
darling
! And have him fetch Dr. Drayton to say I'd got hallucinations, and how sad it was, but he was afraid I'd have to be put under restraint? That's what he'd have
done
. And we couldn't have proved he'd ever been near Holme Fallow. He's so frightfully clever. Look at this afternoon. How could you get anyone to believe that he tried to push us both under the train, when he was three rows away in a crowd? But he did. And he nearly brought it off.”

“What did happen?” said Sarah.

Lucilla shrugged her shoulders.

“Dunno. I think there was a hole in the crowd. He got his stick through. I just felt the most awful jab in the ribs and I was over the edge. I expect I've got a bruise like a bullseye.” She shivered again, held John tightly, and said in a sort of whisper, “
What do you think he'll do next?
”

A feeling of cold horror came over Sarah. John's quick “It's all finished” failed to reassure her. She wondered if it reassured Lucilla. She became conscious that she was very tired, and that Lucilla looked like a ghost in her black frock. When John kissed them both good-night, she said,

“I wish it was to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

Bertrand Darnac had dined merrily, and supped more merrily still. He had been the life and soul of a gay party. His manner advertised to all and sundry that he had not a care in the world. He paid extravagant attentions to a highly coloured brunette who was as unlike Lucilla as any girl could be. Yet, when the party broke up at about three in the morning, he was conscious of considerable relief. Laughter, music, dancing, pretty girls, and an evening that had gone with a swing, had not only failed to disperse the angry, miserable thoughts which held obstinate place below the surface of his mind, but appeared to have rendered them more aggressive. When he thought of Lucilla, he burned with anger, and with something which hurt more than anger does. When he determined not to think about Lucilla, a condition of so much inward gloom set in that it was only by talking, laughing and joking to an extravagant extent that he could maintain any headway against it. It was a relief not to have to make this sort of effort any more.

He started to walk to his lodging, and as he walked he allowed himself to think angrily about Lucilla, jealously about Lucilla, ferociously and miserably about Lucilla. Sometimes his anger burned so furiously that he found himself running to work it off; sometimes he found himself talking rapidly under his breath, his remarks being alternately addressed to Lucilla and to his own folly.

By the time the night air had had a somewhat cooling effect, he discovered himself to be very far out of his road. His preoccupation with Lucilla had had the effect of deflecting him in the direction of Millington's Hotel. When he pulled himself up at a street corner, hit himself on the chest, and informed an unheeding world that he was a species of imbecile, he was in fact no more than a quarter of a mile away from it.