Sad Cypress (2 page)

Nurse Hopkins said:

“These girls nowadays—I've no patience with 'em—don't know what they want, most of them—and can't do a decent day's work.”

“Mary Gerrard's a nice girl,” said Nurse O'Brien. “I really don't know what Mrs. Welman would do without her. You saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, she's a lovely creature, I will say, and she's got a way with her.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“I'm sorry for Mary. That old father of hers does his best to spite the girl.”

“Not a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon,” said Nurse O'Brien. “There, the kettle's singing. I'll wet the tea as soon as it comes to the boil.”

The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two nurses sat with it in Nurse O'Brien's room next door to Mrs. Welman's bedroom.

“Mr. Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down,” said Nurse O'Brien. “There was a telegram came this morning.”

“There now, dear,” said Nurse Hopkins. “I thought the old lady was looking excited about something. It's some time since they've been down, isn't it?”

“It must be two months and over. Such a nice young gentleman, Mr. Welman. But very proud-looking.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“I saw
her
picture in the
Tatler
the other day—with a friend at Newmarket.”

Nurse O'Brien said:

“She's very well-known in society, isn't she? And always has such lovely clothes. Do you think she's really good-looking, Nurse?”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Difficult to tell what these girls really look like under their makeup! In my opinion, she hasn't got anything like the looks Mary Gerrard has!”

Nurse O'Brien pursed her lips and put her head on one side.

“You may be right now. But Mary hasn't got the
style!
”

Nurse Hopkins said sententiously:

“Fine feathers make fine birds.”

“Another cup of tea, Nurse?”

“Thank you, Nurse. I don't mind if I do.”

Over their steaming cups the women drew a little closer together.

Nurse O'Brien said:

“An odd thing happened last night. I went in at two o'clock to settle my dear comfortably, as I always do, and she was lying there awake. But she must have been dreaming, for as soon as I got into the room she said, ‘The photograph. I must have the photograph.'

“So I said, ‘Why, of course, Mrs. Welman. But wouldn't you rather wait till morning?' And she said, ‘No, I want to look at it now.' So I said, ‘Well, where
is
this photograph? Is it the one of Mr. Roderick you're meaning?' And she said, ‘Roder-ick? No.
Lewis.
' And she began to struggle, and I went to lift her and she got out her keys from the little box beside her bed and told me to unlock the second drawer of the tallboy, and there, sure enough, was a big photograph in a silver frame.
Such
a handsome man. And ‘
Lewis
' written across the corner. Old-fashioned, of course, must have been taken many years ago. I took it to her and she held it there, staring at it a long time. And she just murmured. ‘
Lewis—Lewis.
' Then she sighed and gave it to me and told me to put it back. And would you believe it, when I turned round again she'd gone off as sweetly as a child.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Was it her husband, do you think?”

Nurse O'Brien said:

“It was not! For this morning I asked Mrs. Bishop, careless-like, what was the late Mr. Welman's first name, and it was Henry, she told me!”

The two women exchanged glances. Nurse Hopkins had a long nose, and the end of it quivered a little with pleasurable emotion. She said thoughtfully:

“Lewis—Lewis. I wonder, now. I don't recall the name anywhere round these parts.”

“It would be many years ago, dear,” the other reminded her.

“Yes, and, of course, I've only been here a couple of years. I wonder now—”

Nurse O'Brien said:

“A
very
handsome man. Looked as though he might be a cavalry officer!”

Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said:

“That's very interesting.”

Nurse O'Brien said romantically:

“Maybe they were boy and girl together and a cruel father separated them….”

Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh:

“Perhaps he was killed in the war….”

III

When Nurse Hopkins, pleasantly stimulated by tea and romantic speculation, finally left the house, Mary Gerrard ran out of the door to overtake her.

“Oh, Nurse, may I walk down to the village with you?”

“Of course you can, Mary, my dear.”

Mary Gerrard said breathlessly:

“I
must
talk to you. I'm so worried about everything.”

The older woman looked at her kindly.

At twenty-one, Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a kind of wild-rose unreality about her: a long delicate neck, pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep vivid blue.

Nurse Hopkins said:

“What's the trouble?”

“The trouble is that the time is going on and on and I'm not
doing
anything!”

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

“Time enough for that.”

“No, but it is so—so unsettling. Mrs. Welman has been wonderfully kind, giving me all that expensive schooling. I do feel now
that I ought to be starting to earn my own living. I ought to be training for something.”

Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically.

“It's such a waste of everything if I don't. I've tried to—to explain what I feel to Mrs. Welman, but—it's difficult—she doesn't seem to understand. She keeps saying there's plenty of time.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“She's a sick woman, remember.”

Mary flushed a contrite flush.

“Oh, I know. I suppose I oughtn't to bother her. But it
is
worrying—and Father's so—so
beastly
about it! Keeps jibing at me for being a fine lady! But indeed
I
don't want to sit about doing nothing!”

“I know you don't.”

“The trouble is that training of any kind is nearly always expensive. I know German pretty well now, and I might do something with that. But I think really I want to be a hospital nurse. I do like nursing and sick people.”

Nurse Hopkins said unromantically:

“You've got to be as strong as a horse, remember!”

“I am strong! And I really
do
like nursing. Mother's sister, the one in New Zealand, was a nurse. So it's in my blood, you see.”

“What about massage?” suggested Nurse Hopkins. “Or Norland? You're fond of children. There's good money to be made in massage.”

Mary said doubtfully:

“It's expensive to train for it, isn't it? I hoped—but of course that's very greedy of me—she's done so much for me already.”

“Mrs. Welman, you mean? Nonsense. In my opinion, she owes
you that. She's given you a slap-up education, but not the kind that leads to anything much. You don't want to teach?”

“I'm not clever enough.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“There's brains and brains! If you take my advice, Mary, you'll be patient for the present. In my opinion, as I said, Mrs. Welman owes it to you to help you get a start at making your living. And I've no doubt she means to do it. But the truth of the matter is, she's got fond of you, and she doesn't want to lose you.”

Mary said:

“Oh!” She drew in her breath with a little gasp. “Do you really think that's it?”

“I haven't the least doubt of it! There she is, poor old lady, more or less helpless, paralysed one side and nothing and nobody much to amuse her. It means a lot to her to have a fresh, pretty young thing like you about the house. You've a very nice way with you in a sickroom.”

Mary said softly:

“If you really think so—that makes me feel better… Dear Mrs. Welman, I'm very,
very
fond of her! She's been so good to me always. I'd do
anything
for her!”

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

“Then the best thing you can do is to stay where you are and stop worrying! It won't be for long.”

Mary said, “Do you mean—?”

Her eyes looked wide and frightened.

The District Nurse nodded.

“She's rallied wonderfully, but it won't be for long. There will
be a second stroke and then a third. I know the way of it only too well. You be patient, my dear. If you keep the old lady's last days happy and occupied, that's a better deed than many. The time for the other will come.”

Mary said:

“You're very kind.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Here's your father coming out from the lodge—and not to pass the time of day pleasantly, I should say!”

They were just nearing the big iron gates. On the steps of the lodge an elderly man with a bent back was painfully hobbling down the two steps.

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

“Good morning, Mr. Gerrard.”

Ephraim Gerrard said crustily:

“Ah!”

“Very nice weather,” said Nurse Hopkins.

Old Gerrard said crossly:

“May be for you. 'Tisn't for me. My lumbago's been at me something cruel.”

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

“That was the wet spell last week, I expect. This hot dry weather will soon clear
that
away.”

Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old man.

He said disagreeably:

“Nurses—nurses, you'm all the same. Full of cheerfulness over other people's troubles. Little
you
care! And there's Mary talks about being a nurse, too. Should have thought she'd want to be
something better than
that,
with her French and her German and her piano playing and all the things she's learned at her grand school and her travels abroad.”

Mary said sharply:

“Being a hospital nurse would be quite good enough for me!”

“Yes, and you'd sooner do nothing at all, wouldn't you? Strutting about with your airs and your graces and your fine-lady-do-nothing ways. Laziness, that's what
you
like, my girl!”

Mary protested, tears springing to her eyes:

“It isn't true, Dad. You've no right to say that!”

Nurse Hopkins intervened with a heavy, determinedly humorous air.

“Just a bit under the weather, aren't we, this morning? You don't really mean what you say, Gerrard. Mary's a good girl and a good daughter to you.”

Gerrard looked at his daughter with an air of almost active malevolence.

“She's no daughter of mine—nowadays—with her French and her history and her mincing talk. Pah!”

He turned and went into the lodge again.

Mary said, the tears still standing in her eyes:

“You do see, Nurse, don't you, how difficult it is? He's so unreasonable. He's never really liked me even when I was a little girl. Mum was always standing up for me.”

Nurse Hopkins said kindly:

“There, there, don't worry. These things are sent to try us! Goodness, I must hurry. Such a round as I've got this morning.”

And as she stood watching the brisk retreating figure, Mary Gerrard thought forlornly that nobody was any real good or could
really help you. Nurse Hopkins, for all her kindness, was quite content to bring out a little stock of platitudes and offer them with an air of novelty.

Mary thought disconsolately:

“What
shall
I do?”

M
rs. Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her eyes—eyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor, looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a handsome, hawklike profile. Pride and determination showed in her face.

The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by the window. They rested there tenderly—almost wistfully.

She said at last:

“Mary—”

The girl turned quickly.

“Oh, you're awake, Mrs. Welman.”

Laura Welman said:

“Yes, I've been awake some time….”

“Oh, I didn't know. I'd have—”

Mrs. Welman broke in:

“No, that's all right. I was thinking—thinking of many things.”

“Yes, Mrs. Welman?”

The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender look come into the older woman's face. She said gently:

“I'm very fond of you, my dear. You're very good to me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Welman, it's
you
who have been good to
me.
If it hadn't been for you, I don't know what I should have done! You've done
everything
for me.”

“I don't know… I don't know, I'm sure…” The sick woman moved restlessly, her right arm twitched—the left remaining inert and lifeless. “One means to do the best one can; but it's so difficult to know what is best—what is
right.
I've been too sure of myself always….”

Mary Gerrard said:

“Oh, no, I'm sure you
always
know what is best and right to do.”

But Laura Welman shook her head.

“No—no. It worries me. I've had one besetting sin always, Mary: I'm proud. Pride can be the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too.”

Mary said quickly:

“It will be nice for you to have Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. It's quite a time since they were here.”

Mrs. Welman said softly:

“They're good children—very good children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know I've only got to send and they'll come at any time. But I don't want to do that too often. They're young and happy—the world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and suffering before their time.”

Mary said, “I'm sure they'd
never
feel like that, Mrs. Welman.”

Mrs. Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than to the girl:

“I always hoped they might marry. But I tried never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so contradictory. It would have put them off! I had an idea, long ago when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart on Roddy. But I wasn't at all sure about
him.
He's a funny creature. Henry was like that—very reserved and fastidious… Yes, Henry…”

She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband.

She murmured:

“So long ago…so very long ago… We had only been married five years when he died. Double pneumonia… We were happy—yes, very happy; but somehow it all seems very
unreal,
that happiness. I was an odd, solemn, undeveloped girl—my head full of ideas and hero worship. No
reality
…”

Mary murmured:

“You must have been very lonely—afterwards.”

“After? Oh, yes—terribly lonely. I was twenty-six…and now I'm over sixty. A long time, my dear…a long, long time…” She said with sudden brisk acerbity, “And now
this!
”

“Your illness?”

“Yes. A stroke is the thing I've always dreaded. The indignity of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do anything for yourself. It maddens me. The O'Brien creature is good-natured—I will say that for her. She doesn't mind my snapping at her and she's not more idiotic than most of them. But it makes a lot of difference to me to have
you
about, Mary.”

“Does it?” The girl flushed. “I—I'm so glad, Mrs. Welman.”

Laura Welman said shrewdly:

“You've been worrying, haven't you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. I'll see to it that you shall have the means to be independent and take up a profession. But be patient for a little—it means too much to me to have you here.”

“Oh, Mrs. Welman, of course—of
course!
I wouldn't leave you for the world. Not if you want me—”

“I do want you…” The voice was unusually deep and full. “You're—you're quite like a daughter to me, Mary. I've seen you grow up here at Hunterbury from a little toddling thing—seen you grow into a beautiful girl… I'm proud of you, child. I only hope I've done what was best for you.”

Mary said quickly:

“If you mean that your having been so good to me and having educated me above—well, above my station—if you think it's made me dissatisfied or—or—given me what Father calls fine-lady ideas, indeed that isn't true. I'm just ever so grateful, that's all. And if I'm anxious to start earning my living, it's only because I feel it's right that I should, and not—and not—well, do nothing after all you've done for me. I—I shouldn't like it to be thought that I was sponging on you.”

Laura Welman said, and her voice was suddenly sharp-edged:

“So that's what Gerrard's been putting into your head? Pay no attention to your father, Mary; there never has been and never will be any question of your sponging on me! I'm asking you to stay here a little longer solely on my account. Soon it will be over… If they went the proper way about things, my life could be ended here and now—none of this long-drawn-out tomfoolery with nurses and doctors.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Welman, Dr. Lord says you may live for years.”

“I'm not at all anxious to, thank you! I told him the other day that in a decently civilized state, all there would be to do would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it, and he'd finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. ‘And if you'd any courage, Doctor,' I said, ‘you'd do it, anyway!'”

Mary cried:

“Oh! What did he say?”

“The disrespectful young man merely grinned at me, my dear, and said he wasn't going to risk being hanged. He said, ‘If you'd left me all your money, Mrs. Welman, that would be different, of course!' Impudent young jackanapes! But I like him. His visits do me more good than his medicines.”

“Yes, he's very nice,” said Mary. “Nurse O'Brien thinks a lot of him and so does Nurse Hopkins.”

Mrs. Welman said:

“Hopkins ought to have more sense at her age. As for O'Brien, she simpers and says, ‘Oh, doctor,' and tosses those long streamers of hers whenever he comes near her.”

“Poor Nurse O'Brien.”

Mrs. Welman said indulgently:

“She's not a bad sort, really, but all nurses annoy me; they always will think that you'd like a ‘nice cup of tea' at five in the morning!” She paused. “What's that? Is it the car?”

Mary looked out of the window.

“Yes, it's the car. Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick have arrived.”

II

Mrs. Welman said to her niece:

“I'm very glad, Elinor, about you and Roddy.”

Elinor smiled at her.

“I thought you would be, Aunt Laura.”

The older woman said, after a moment's hesitation:

“You do—care about him, Elinor?”

Elinor's delicate brows lifted.

“Of course.”

Laura Welman said quickly:

“You must forgive me, dear. You know, you're very reserved. It's very difficult to know what you're thinking or feeling. When you were both much younger I thought you were perhaps beginning to care for Roddy—too much….”

Again Elinor's delicate brows were raised.

“Too much?”

The older woman nodded.

“Yes. It's not wise to care too much. Sometimes a very young girl does do just that… I was glad when you went abroad to Germany to finish. Then, when you came back, you seemed quite indifferent to him—and, well, I was sorry for that, too! I'm a tiresome old woman, difficult to satisfy! But I've always fancied that you had, perhaps, rather an intense nature—that kind of temperament runs in our family. It isn't a very happy one for its possessors… But, as I say, when you came back from abroad so indifferent to Roddy, I was sorry about that, because I had always hoped you two would come together. And now you have, and so everything is all right! And you
do
really care for him?”

Elinor said gravely:

“I care for Roddy enough and not too much.”

Mrs. Welman nodded approval.

“I think, then, you'll be happy. Roddy needs love—but he doesn't like violent emotion. He'd shy off from possessiveness.”

Elinor said with feeling:

“You know Roddy very well!”

Mrs. Welman said:

“If Roddy cares for you just a
little
more than you care for him—well, that's all to the good.”

Elinor said sharply:

“Aunt Agatha's Advice column. ‘
Keep your boyfriend guessing! Don't let him be too sure of you!
'”

Laura Welman said sharply:

“Are you unhappy, child? Is anything wrong?”

“No, no, nothing.”

Laura Welman said:

“You just thought I was being rather—cheap? My dear, you're young and sensitive. Life, I'm afraid,
is
rather cheap….”

Elinor said with some slight bitterness:

“I suppose it is.”

Laura Welman said:

“My child—you
are
unhappy? What is it?”

“Nothing—absolutely nothing.” She got up and went to the window. Half turning, she said:

“Aunt Laura, tell me, honestly, do you think love is ever a happy thing?”

Mrs. Welman's face became grave.

“In the sense you mean, Elinor—no, probably not… To care passionately for another human creature brings always more sorrow
than joy; but all the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience. Anyone who has never really loved has never really lived….”

The girl nodded.

She said:

“Yes—you understand—you've known what it's like—”

She turned suddenly, a questioning look in her eyes:

“Aunt Laura—”

The door opened and red-haired Nurse O'Brien came in.

She said in a sprightly manner:

“Mrs. Welman, here's Doctor come to see you.”

III

Dr. Lord was a young man of thirty-two. He had sandy hair, a pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw. His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue.

“Good morning, Mrs. Welman,” he said.

“Good morning, Dr. Lord. This is my niece, Miss Carlisle.”

A very obvious admiration sprang into Dr. Lord's transparent face. He said, “How do you do?” The hand that Elinor extended to him he took rather gingerly as though he thought he might break it.

Mrs. Welman went on:

“Elinor and my nephew have come down to cheer me up.”

“Splendid!” said Dr. Lord. “Just what you need! It will do you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs. Welman.”

He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration.

Elinor said, moving towards the door:

“Perhaps I shall see you before you go, Dr. Lord?”

“Oh—er—yes, of course.”

She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr. Lord approached the bed, Nurse O'Brien fluttering behind him.

Mrs. Welman said with a twinkle:

“Going through the usual bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What humbugs you doctors are!”

Nurse O'Brien said with a sigh:

“Oh, Mrs. Welman. What a thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!”

Dr. Lord said with a twinkle:

“Mrs. Welman sees through me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs. Welman, I've got to do my stuff, you know. The trouble with me is I've never learnt the right bedside manner.”

“Your bedside manner's all right. Actually you're rather proud of it.”

Peter Lord chuckled and remarked:

“That's what
you
say.”

After a few routine questions had been asked and answered, Dr. Lord leant back in his chair and smiled at his patient.

“Well,” he said. “You're going on splendidly.”

Laura Welman said: “So I shall be up and walking round the house in a few weeks' time?”

“Not quite so quickly as that.”

“No, indeed. You humbug! What's the good of living stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?”

Dr. Lord said:

“What's the good of life, anyway? That's the real question. Ever read about that nice mediaeval invention, the Little Ease? You
couldn't stand, sit or lie in it. You'd think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks. Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage, was released and lived to a hearty old age.”

Laura Welman said:

“What's the point of this story?”

Peter Lord said:

“The point is that one's got an
instinct
to live. One doesn't live because one's
reason
assents to living. People who, as we say, ‘would be better dead,' don't want to die! People who apparently have got everything to live for just let themselves fade out of life because they haven't got the energy to fight.”

“Go on.”

“There's nothing more. You're one of the people who really
want
to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body wants to live, it's no good your brain dishing out the other stuff.”

Mrs. Welman said with an abrupt change of subject:

“How do you like it down here?”

Peter Lord said, smiling: