Through The Wall (3 page)

Cyril Felton came home on the fourth day after the accident. Someone drew his attention to a paragraph in the evening paper, and he took the first train back. Not too pleased to discover that his wife and sister-in-law had gone to London for the day, but Mrs. Deane was in a chatty mood and more than willing to invite him to tea in her sitting-room and tell him all she knew. If it was impossible to regard him as a good husband, she did think him very handsome and romantic, and she derived considerable satisfaction from the fact that she had just done her hair in what her “Why be dowdy?” column called “a queenly style.” She began to get out her best tea-set.

“I don’t know a thing, Mrs. Deane, except what I saw in the paper.”

“Oh, Mr. Felton—fancy their not letting you know!”

“Oh, well, I was moving about. They wouldn’t know where to write. But what’s happened? All I saw was three or four lines about Marian being in an accident just when she’d heard she had come in for some money.”

“Yes, that’s right. That’s just how it was—on Tuesday. She came home with the clothes pretty well off her back, and a bruise on her forehead. It’s gone down nicely now, and you really wouldn’t notice it. Mrs. Felton was in a terrible way, but there wasn’t any real harm done, and they went off at ten o’clock this morning to do some shopping and to see their uncle’s lawyer—something about the house that was left. Down by the sea, it is, and Miss Brand wants to get Mrs. Felton there as soon as possible, the sea air being what they always say would do her good.”

Cyril said sharply, “There must be something more than a house.”

Mrs. Deane put two spoons of tea in the pot.

“Oh, as to that, I’m sure I couldn’t say, Mr. Felton—I’m not one to pry. But no cause to worry, I’m sure. Mrs. Felton’s been so excited ever since it happened, you wouldn’t know her for the same person—singing all over the house, and quite a colour.”

He had time to feel very impatient indeed before his wife and sister-in-law came home.

Ina’s eyes were shining like stars. She had had her hair set. She had bought all the sort of things she had never been able to afford for her face—a whole range of vanishing creams, cleansing creams, night creams, lipsticks, two different and enchanting shades of rouge, a face-powder which was a dream, and several different shades of nail-polish. The girl in the beauty-parlour had showed her just what to do, and she was in a state of quivering pleasure. She looked what she used to look like when she was eighteen—no, better than that, because she had never had any of these lovely things before. She felt like the heroine of a novel, she felt romantic and sophisticated. She was wearing new shoes and stockings, and a coat and skirt which had cost more than she had ever paid for anything in all her life. She rushed into Cyril’s arms and poured the whole thing out, finishing up with,

“Oh, darling, isn’t it marvellous? Just look at me!”

Cyril looked, at first with amazement, then with genuine admiration, and lastly with a good deal of apprehension, because he knew what things cost and he hoped she wasn’t putting too much in the shop window. All very well to have everything new and costing the earth—and he wouldn’t say Ina didn’t pay for dressing; every woman did—but the really important thing was, what did it all amount to in hard cash, and how much of it was going to come his way. In fact Mr. Mantalini had, as it were, taken some very appropriate words out of his mouth a hundred years ago by enquiring “What’s the demd total?”

It wasn’t, of course, the moment to come out with it as bluntly as that. He had to look and admire, and stand with his arm round Ina while she chattered away nineteen to the dozen, for all the world like she used to when she was a schoolgirl.

“Oh, Cyril, isn’t it all simply too marvellous! There’s a house—did I tell you there was a house—and it’s by the sea—in Ledshire—a place called Farne—and we’re going there just as soon as ever we can. I can’t believe it, I really can’t—we’re going to the sea! I have to keep saying it out loud, because it doesn’t seem as if it could be true. The house is really two houses, only Uncle Martin’s grandfather had such a big family he threw them into one and lived there with all his relations. Rather frightful, but people used to. At least, it would be fun if you liked them, and perhaps you would—”

“Darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She rubbed her cheek against his.

“That’s because it’s all so wonderful—it won’t get into words. I’m so thrilled about the house. You see, Mr. Ashton says—”

“Who is Mr. Ashton?”

“Uncle Martin’s solicitor. We’ve been seeing him. He says the house can quite easily be made into two again. It would only mean shutting the doors that were cut through, and we could have an electric stove in the old kitchen, and then we shouldn’t have to turn the relations out, which he says would be frightfully difficult—and of course rather horrid. I mean, you don’t want to start with a family row, and then have to live next door to each other for ever and ever—too, too grim!”

He had his arm round her and he called her darling, but his voice had an edge to it.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, darling.”

Marian had gathered up her parcels and gone into her own room. Like Ina she was wearing a new suit and everything else to match, beautifully cut and very becoming—one of those grey-green shades which are flattering to dark hair and grey eyes. She had said “How do you do?” and taken up her parcels and gone away. At the time he had been pleased, because of course he would get more out of Ina if they were alone. But she didn’t come back, and he was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something rather marked about her not joining in. Nobody could say Marian was stupid. She had a head on her shoulders all right, and she must know perfectly well that he would want to hear just what it all amounted to. Ina’s enthusiasm was like so much whipped cream—all very fluffy and nice, but nothing you could make a meal off. He wanted to know just what Cyril Felton was going to get out of it.

He didn’t listen very attentively whilst Ina told him about the relations.

“Aunt Florence Brand—she’s the widow of Uncle Martin’s brother Alfred, and of course he was my father’s brother too. They both were—Martin and Alfred, I mean—only it seems so funny when we had never heard of them. Alfred married Florence Remington who was some sort of a cousin, and when he died and Uncle Martin’s wife died she came and kept house for him. And he hated her. Her sister, Cassy Remington, came and lived there too. And he hated them both. Then there’s Felix, who is Aunt Florence’s son. He plays the piano—”

Cyril woke up.

“Not Felix Brand!”

“Yes, that’s his name. Do you know him? Oh, Cyril—how exciting!”

His voice became very cold indeed.

“He’s Helen Adrian’s accompanist. He’s got a foul temper. I don’t know him.”

Ina gazed at him in an ecstasy.

“I’ve heard her—on Mrs. Deane’s wireless—she was lovely! Do you suppose he was playing for her then? Darling, it’s almost too romantic! The secret cousin!”

The arm that had been round her dropped.

“Look here, Ina, stop babbling! I’ve had a hell of a time— everything going wrong that possibly could. I’m not in the mood for all this talk. I want some plain facts. You’ve got it all in your head, but I haven’t. Nobody tells me anything. I’ve had nothing but three lines in a paper to go on, and I want to know where we stand.”

Ina continued to gaze, but the ecstasy was a little dashed.

“But I’ve told you. Uncle Martin came down here and called himself Mr. Brook, and pretended he wanted a house, and saw Marian—only of course she didn’t know who he was—”

“He didn’t see you?”

“Oh, no. He went to the office—he was supposed to be looking for houses. He saw Marian, and he went away and made his will.”

“Now we’re getting there. He made a will. I want to know what was in it.”

“But, darling, I told you. He left her everything—just like that.”

Ina drew back a little, because he was looking quite frightening. Not really of course—it was just being on the stage— it was just—

“What was in it, damn you!”

She drew in a sharp breath. He oughtn’t to swear—she hadn’t done anything—she had told him. She said,

“I did tell you. He left everything to Marian.”

“Not to you?”

“No—I keep telling you—to Marian.”

“You don’t get anything at all?”

“No.”

She had gone back another step. He was angry. Of course she could see that it was disappointing for him, but it wasn’t her fault.

He was quite pale with anger. His eyes were light and cold. He said in a hard undertone,

“But she’ll give you some of it. She’s bound to do that in common decency. What has she said about it?”

“She hasn’t—said anything—not about sharing.”

“What has she said?”

“Cyril—don’t!”

“What has she said?”

“She wants me to have—an allowance.”

“How much?”

“A hundred a year.”

“How much does she get?”

“I—don’t—know. Mr. Ashton can’t be sure—till everything is—settled up.”

“He’ll have a damned good idea. What will she get?”

Ina said in a faltering voice,

“He wasn’t sure—he said—about—two thousand.”

“Two thousand clear?”

“That’s what he said—after income tax was paid.”

“And she’ll give you a beggarly hundred! Not much!” He took her in his arms. “Ina, it’s marvellous! No wonder you couldn’t talk sense! It’s—it’s unbelievable! But look here, darling, she’s got to do the square thing—she’s got to give you half. I mean, it’s only decent. She can’t just put all that money in her pocket and leave us to starve.”

It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Marian should open the door in time to hear this last remark. It rang with passionate conviction, but affected her only to the extent of inducing a hope that Cyril really might achieve some success upon the stage. She had changed into an old dress in order to get supper. As she began to lay the table she said in her pleasant voice,

“You won’t starve, Cyril. Supper’s just about ready. ”

He stared, hesitated, and plunged.

“I didn’t mean that. Marian—”

She went through into the slip of a room which served as a kitchenette, and he followed her.

“You’ll do something for us—it’s a lot of money. Ina’s your sister.”

She had soup on a low gas. She began to pour it off into the plates she had set to warm. She was smiling.

“I’ll look after Ina. I always have, haven’t I?”

“But Marian—”

She shook her head.

“I’m tired, and the soup will get cold. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll do something—you will, won’t you? You’ve always been an angel. Don’t think I don’t know what we owe you, because I do.”

She went on smiling.

“There—if you’ll just take your plate and Ina’s. It’s out of a tin, but it’s good.”

He stood with a smoking soup-plate in either hand.

“You don’t know how hard it is to get a footing on the stage—the jealousies—everyone trying to down you. Now if I had a backer I could run my own company and really show what I could do.”

Marian wanted to say, “Nonsense!” but she restrained herself. She said with half a laugh,

“Oh, my dear Cyril!” And then, “Come along! Ina and I had a sketchy lunch and no tea, and I hate cold soup.”

It was no use. You can’t push women. He would have to let her have her head, play up to her a bit. Perhaps it was a mistake to have said anything about running a company of his own. He wasn’t even sure that he wanted to do it. Too much responsibility, and quite an easy way of losing money. He wasn’t sure that he would not do better to stick to his present game—plenty of pickings and very few risks.

He went into the other room and made an excellent supper, maintaining a quite convincing appearance of being interested in Ina’s purchases, and in the plans which she produced in rainbow-coloured succession. What he could see was that she had fairly taken the bit between her teeth and was all out on the spending line. And that had got to be stopped. It was for the man to say how the money was to be laid out. He went on smiling carelessly and feeling angrier and more determined every minute.

There were expensive flowers in the room—tulips, narcissus, lilac. When he thought of what they must have cost— money just chucked down the drain! Ina saw him looking at them. She went on talking in that new excited way.

“Aren’t they heavenly! And do you know where they came from? Mr. Cunningham sent them—Richard Cunningham— the Richard Cunningham! He was in the accident with Marian. They were buried under the piled-up stuff in a ditch for hours together. I got so frightened I nearly died, because of course I knew something must have happened, and I thought of all the dreadful things in the world.” She shuddered and turned pale under the new make-up. “You can’t think how grim it was. And Mr. Cunningham had two ribs broken and had to go to hospital. And he’s going to America as soon as they’ll let him, but he sent those lovely flowers yesterday, and a copy of The Whispering Tree.”

Cyril maintained his role of careless good humour with increasing difficulty.

It was not until he and Ina were alone at last in their own room with the door shut that the smile came off. Ina, at the dressing-table, saw his face come up out of the shadowed glass like a drowned face coming up out of water. Only the bedside light was on, with its frayed green shade. Cyril had bought it once when he won some money on a horse. He said the glare of the overhead light hurt his eyes, so Ina had the bedside lamp for a birthday present. It gave the room an underwater look. Cyril’s face floated up in the glass.

“What a lot of nonsense women talk.”

She turned round with a nervous start. His voice was cutting, the smile quite gone.

“Cyril!”

He made an angry sound.

“Don’t Cyril me! I’ve had enough of your chatter! And don’t start crying and making a noise for everyone to hear. You’ve got to make Marian see reason.”

“But, Cyril—”

“You’ve got to make her see reason. I never heard anything so insulting in my life—she comes in for all that money, and she has the nerve to say she’s going to keep it for herself!”