Grey Mask (11 page)

Having posted a letter to Stephanie on Monday, Greta wrote another on Tuesday:

My dear, I keep on meeting young men. It’s really too thrilling. I must tell you about it. Oh, Stephanie, it is such fun not being at school, and having men simply glaring because you’ve just been polite to someone else. I think Charles must have a most awful temper really, because he glared in the most frightful way you ever saw. I’ve never seen anyone glare like it before, except on the films when they’re just going to murder somebody, or the girl has been carried away by Bad Pete or someone like that. Of course Sheikhs glare nearly the whole time. I think Charles is awfully like a Sheikh really. He would look frightfully handsome in that sort of long nightgown thing they wear and the thrilling thing over their heads that looks like a sheet tied round and round with a twisty, knotty kind of rope. It would suit Charles like anything— only of course Archie is taller. But he wouldn’t make nearly such a good Sheikh, because he’s got rather a funny sort of face and he laughs a lot—and of course Sheikhs don’t. Charles was a Sheikh about Ambrose Kimberley. I’d only just finished my letter to you yesterday, and was putting on my hat to go out and post it, when the bell rang. And when I opened the door, there was a most awfully good-looking man standing there.

And he asked if Margaret was in, and I said she wasn’t ever in till half-past six, and sometimes later. And he said wasn’t that frightfully dull for me? And I said, yes, it was. He was frightfully nice. I think he is a little bit taller than Archie really, and he had the most lovely dark eyes and chestnut hair, and if he had been a girl, he would have had a lovely complexion. And he said might he go and post my letter with me, so we did. And then he said it was such a fine day, wouldn’t I come for a walk? So we walked as far as Kensington High Street, and we looked at the shops. All the skirts are quite full. Ambrose Kimberley was frightfully nice. He said he didn’t often meet a girl like me. And when I said why didn’t he, he said “Because there aren’t any more.” He said a lot of other things too. It is frightfully nice to have people saying things like that and being most awfully admiring and respectful. He said, wouldn’t I have lunch and go to the pictures with him? But I couldn’t, because Charles was coming to take me out. He wasn’t at all pleased about Charles, but I stood firm. I had one fright whilst I was out. I thought I saw Pullen across the road. He’s Papa’s butler, you know, and I don’t want anyone to know where I am, and if it was Pullen, he’d tell Egbert—and I most particularly don’t want Egbert to know. I do hope it wasn’t Pullen.

When I got back to the flat, Charles was there in a most awful temper. He had seen Ambrose say good-bye to me at the corner, and he was ramping and tramping up and down like a tiger. His eyebrows were all twisty, and he sort of barked at me and said, “Who was that?” And I wouldn’t tell him at first, not till we got up to the flat, and then he put on a most frightfully severe sort of voice, and lectured me like anything, and reminded me about Mr. Percy Smith, which was mean—only you don’t know about him, and it’s too long to tell—besides I don’t want to—and I promised Margaret. Charles really made me cry, and then he was sorry and said I mustn’t. Madame’s scoldings were pretty fierce, but Charles was worse, only he said he was sorry afterwards, and of course Madame never did that. And he took me out to lunch, and we went to Hindhead in his car and had tea in Guildford, and didn’t get back till after Margaret did. I don’t think Margaret likes Charles to like me so much. She doesn’t say anything. I think she doesn’t like Charles very much really, though she’s known him for simply ages. We’re dining with Mr. Pelham to-morrow. It’s frightfully difficult to call him Freddy. We’re dining at his house, and we’re going on to the theatre—instead of Saturday. Mr. Pelham came round last night and fixed it up. Charles is coming too. I don’t know about Archie.

Margaret came home a little earlier than usual. Business had been slack and she had got away punctually—a thing which did not very often happen. Greta came in full of conversation, full of Ambrose Kimberley, full of Charles and their run to Hindhead.

“Where is Charles?” asked Margaret.

“He wouldn’t come in. But he’s coming to-morrow, and he’s going to teach me to drive his car. He did teach me a little bit to-day, only every time I met something I was so frightened I just threw the wheel at him, and he says his nerves won’t stand the strain for more than about a quarter of an hour at a time. I said I didn’t mind going on a bit, and he said it was frightfully brave of me.”

Greta was looking alarmingly pretty. She glowed and shone in the little room. She made Margaret feel dingy and drab and old, with that dreadful sense of age which is only possible when one is under five-and-twenty. Everything had gone by her—home, friends, leisure, looks. She did not say to herself that she had lost Charles Moray; but perhaps this one loss included all the others.

She cleared away supper, made up the fire, and sat down with idle hands. Grey Greta prattled on about Archie, about Charles, about whether Archie was better looking than Charles, or Charles better looking than Archie, or whether Ambrose Kimberley wasn’t better looking than either of them, and did Margaret like blue eyes or grey ones best, or did she prefer brown?

“Yours are brown, so you ought to marry someone with blue eyes, oughtn’t you?”—Greta’s voice was earnest—“or grey ones. Archie has blue eyes—hasn’t he? Of course they show a lot because of his not having very bushy eyelashes. Now Charles—what colour would you say Charles’ eyes were?”

“Grey.”

“I thought they were. I said so in my letter to Stephanie, but afterwards I thought perhaps they weren’t. His eyelashes being so black makes it sort of confusing. You’re sure they’re grey?”

Margaret looked into the fire.

“Quite sure.”

She saw Charles’ eyes looking into hers, looking smilingly, teasingly, earnestly; looking love—all gone—all past—all dead—never to come again.

Greta went on in her soft childish voice.

“I do like dark eyes—in a man. Don’t you? No, you wouldn’t, because yours are dark. Margaret, have you ever been engaged?”

Margaret got up.

“What a lot of questions!”

“It must be such fun,” said Greta. “I should like to be engaged a lot of times before I got married, because you can’t ever go back and get engaged again—can you?”

Margaret’s eyes stung.

“No, you can’t go back.”

“So you might just as well be engaged to plenty of people while you can. Do you think Charles would be nice to be engaged to?”

“Quite,” said Margaret. She was standing with her back to Greta arranging the music in a little stand.

“That’s what I thought. I don’t think I should mind being engaged to Charles. You see, he’s got a car, and he could teach me to drive, and I think that’s rather important—isn’t it?”

“‘Essential,” said Margaret, in an odd dry voice.

“Of course I think he’d be simply terrifying to be married to. Don’t you?”

Margaret lifted the parcel which she had brought from her old home on the night she first met Margot Standing. She held it stiffly at arm’s length. She spoke a little stiffly too:

“Has he asked you to marry him?”

Greta giggled.

“Oh, not yet. Archie hasn’t either. I want to have lots of fun first. Florence, one of the girls at school, says her sister has been engaged fifteen times. She’s a simply frightfully pretty girl called Rose Lefevre, and she says Rose always says it’s a great mistake to let them rush you, because really the most amusing time is just before. Rose says they get uppish almost at once after you’ve said ‘Yes.’ And she says if they’re like that when they’re engaged, what will they be like when you’re married to them? That’s why she doesn’t ever stay engaged very long. She says about three weeks is enough really. But Florence says once it was only three days—only then there was a row, and her father said he wouldn’t have it and Rose was a scandal. But she’s been engaged a lot more times since. Which do you think would be most fun to be engaged to—Archie, or Charles?”

Margaret came over to the table. She put her parcel down on it and began to remove the paper wrapping.

“I shouldn’t get engaged to either until you’re quite sure.”

“Oh, but I want to be engaged! I want to have a ring and write and tell all the girls. I don’t want to wait. You see I could easily be not engaged if I didn’t like it—couldn’t I? You didn’t say if you were ever engaged. I expect you must have been. What sort of ring did you have? I just can’t make up my mind about the ring. Sometimes I think a sapphire, and sometimes I think all diamonds. I don’t think fair girls ought to wear rubies. Do you?”

Margaret folded up the paper which she had taken off the parcel. It crackled a good deal. She put it away in the bottom drawer of an old walnut bureau before she spoke. Then she said,

“Wait till you’ve quite made up your mind.”

“Oh!” said Greta; it was a quick, sudden exclamation. She jumped up, ran to the table, and caught with both hands at the desk which Margaret had just unpacked.

“Margaret! Where did you get it from?”

Margaret turned in astonishment. Greta was flushed and excited.

“Margaret, where did you get it?”

“It’s mine—it was my mother’s.”

“Oh!” said Greta. She looked down at the desk. “It’s— it’s—do you know I thought it was mine—I did really. And it gave me a most frightful start, because I couldn’t think how you’d got it.”

Margaret came up to the table. The desk stood between her and Greta. It was covered in green morocco with a little diagonal pattern stamped on it; the corners were worn shabby; there was a brass handle over a sunk brass plate; and between the plate and the front of the desk were the initials E.M.B. in faded gold.

Greta touched the leather.

“I thought it was mine! It’s—exactly like mine.”

“All these old desks are alike.”

“They don’t all have the same initials on them. Mine—no, how silly of me!—mine has M.E.B. on it—not E.M.B. —but it’s awfully, awfully like this one.” She slid her finger to and fro over the initials. “Is this your mother? What was her name?”

“Mary Esther Brandon.”

Greta gave a little shriek.

“Esther Brandon? Margaret—not really! Oh, Margaret, how thrilling! Weren’t you frightfully, frightfully surprised when you asked me what my name was, and I said it was Esther Brandon? Margaret—is that why you brought me home? Oh, Margaret, do you think we’re relations?”

Margaret had a most curious sense of shock. Greta, with both hands on the desk, leaning towards her, talking nineteen to the dozen—asking if they were relations. She felt afraid. She said quickly,

“You told me you called yourself Esther Brandon because you found a bit of a torn letter with my mother’s signature. It may have been written to your father or mother.”

“It was signed Esther Brandon.”

“That was my mother’s name before she married my father.”

“You said Mary Esther.”

“She never used the Mary.”

“But it was her initial—she was M.E.B.?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But that’s what there was on my desk—there was M.E.B. in gold. This is E.M.B.” she prodded the E with a little vicious dig. “This is E, Margaret—E.M.B. It’s mine that’s M.E.B.—not yours.”

Margaret gave herself a mental shake. It was like a ridiculous argument in a dream. It meant nothing; it could not possibly mean anything. She laughed a little.

“I don’t really know which of her names came first; but these are her initials, and this is her desk.”

“What’s in it?” said Greta.

“It’s empty. I’m going to put it away.”

“Margaret, do open it! I want to see if it’s like mine inside. Mine opened like this.”

She slid the lock to one side, and the lid came up as she pulled at it.

Margaret came round the table.

“There’s really nothing in it, Greta—just a pencil or two.”

The pencils were plain cedar pencils. Only one had been cut. Margaret lifted out the tray.

“You see, there’s nothing more.”

Greta bent closer.

“Mine had a little drawer down here—a little thin drawer, in under the place where the ink goes. That’s where my letter was—the bit with Esther Brandon on it, you know. I shouldn’t have found my little drawer, only I dropped the desk carrying it down, and a bit of the wood broke, and I saw there was a drawer. And I hooked it out with a hairpin, and there was a tiny little scrap of scrooged up paper wedged in under it. It came out when I got the drawer out. Margaret yours has got a drawer there too—I can feel it wobble! Ooh! It’s coming out! Margaret, there’s something in it!”

Margaret pushed her aside. The little drawer had started from its place. There was a folded paper in it. She pulled the drawer right out.

The paper was a long envelope, doubled to fit the drawer. The minute her fingers touched it, the fear came back. She stood looking at the wrong side of the envelope, dreading to turn it around.

“What is it?” said Greta. “Margaret, do look—do look quickly!”

Margaret Langton turned the envelope. It was of thick yellowish paper. It had a long crease down the middle, and three creases running across it. At one end there was an endorsement in a bold, clear hand:

“Our declaration of marriage.

E.S.”

“Oh!” said Greta. She pinched Margaret violently. “Oh, —Margaret! How thrilling!”

Margaret frowned at the bold, clear writing. It was utterly strange to her. Who was E.S.? Esther Brandon had become Esther Langton, and then Esther Pelham. Who was E.S.? It wasn’t her mother’s writing at all. She hardly felt Greta’s clutch on her arm.

“Margaret—Margaret! It’s my father’s writing!”

She said, “Nonsense!” in a deep, loud voice that filled the little room and made an echo there.

Greta let go of Margaret’s arm and snatched the envelope.

“It is! It is! It’s poor Papa’s very own writing. It is really! And it’s his initials too—E.S. for Edward Standing.”

Margaret put a rigid, steady hand on the paper.

“Give it back to me, please.”

“It says ‘Our declaration of marriage.’ Margaret, it’s my father’s writing! Open it—open it quickly! Don’t you see how frightfully important it is? It’s what Mr. Hale was looking for. It really is Papa’s writing. Do—do open it!”

“Hush,” said Margaret.

Greta flung her arms about her; and it was only when those warm arms touched her that Margaret knew how cold was. She was very cold, and very much afraid.

Greta hugged her.

“Oh Margaret darling, it was your mother’s desk! Oh, Margaret, wouldn’t it be thrilling if we were sisters?”

Margaret pushed her away with violence.

“You little fool! Hold your tongue!”

Greta stared, most innocently aggrieved.

“Why, I’d love to be your sister. Do—do open it!”

Margaret lifted the flap of the envelope. It had been stuck down, but only very lightly; the flap came up without tearing.

The envelope was empty.