Sad Cypress (3 page)

“It suits me fine.”

“Isn't it a bit irksome for a young man like you? Don't you want to specialize? Don't you find a country GP practice rather boring?”

Lord shook his sandy head.

“No, I like my job. I like
people,
you know, and I like ordinary everyday diseases. I don't really want to pin down the rare bacillus of an obscure disease. I like measles and chicken pox and all the rest of it. I like seeing how different bodies react to them. I like seeing if I can't improve on recognized treatment. The trouble with me is I've got absolutely no ambition. I shall stay here till I grow side-whiskers and people begin saying, ‘Of course, we've always had
Dr. Lord, and he's a nice old man: but he
is
very old-fashioned in his methods and perhaps we'd better call in young so-and-so, who's so very up to date….'”

“H'm,” said Mrs. Welman. “You seem to have got it all taped out!”

Peter Lord got up.

“Well,” he said. “I must be off.”

Mrs. Welman said:

“My niece will want to speak to you, I expect. By the way, what do you think of her? You haven't seen her before.”

Dr. Lord went suddenly scarlet. His very eyebrows blushed. He said:

“I—oh! she's very good-looking, isn't she? And—eh—clever and all that, I should think.”

Mrs. Welman was diverted. She thought to herself:

“How very young he is, really….”

Aloud she said:

“You ought to get married.”

IV

Roddy had wandered into the garden. He had crossed the broad sweep of lawn and along a paved walk and had then entered the walled kitchen garden. It was well-kept and well-stocked. He wondered if he and Elinor would live at Hunterbury one day. He supposed that they would. He himself would like that. He preferred country life. He was a little doubtful about Elinor. Perhaps she'd like living in London better….

A little difficult to know where you were with Elinor. She didn't reveal much of what she thought and felt about things. He liked that about her… He hated people who reeled off their thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was always more interesting.

Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look at, witty to talk to—altogether the most charming of companions.

He thought complacently to himself:

“I'm damned lucky to have got her. Can't think what she sees in a chap like me.”

For Roderick Welman, in spite of his fastidiousness, was not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that Elinor should have consented to marry him.

Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soon—that is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps she'd rather put it off for a bit. He mustn't rush her. They'd be a bit hard up at first. Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that Aunt Laura wouldn't die for a long time to come. She was a dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for holidays, always interested in what he was doing.

His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death (his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness). He didn't like to visualize anything unpleasant too clearly… But—er—afterwards—well, it would be very pleasant to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to keep it up. He wondered
exactly how his aunt had left it. Not that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didn't care enough about money to make too much of it.

He thought: “No, there's nothing to worry about—whatever happens!”

He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees.

Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him—a rippling of his previous placidity. He felt: “There's something—something I haven't got—something I want—I want—I want….”

The golden green light, the softness in the air—with them came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden impatience.

A girl came through the trees towards him—a girl with pale, gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin.

He thought, “How beautiful—how unutterably beautiful.”

Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy!

The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fishlike, his mouth open.

She said with a little hesitation:

“Don't you remember me, Mr. Roderick? It's a long time of course. I'm Mary Gerrard, from the lodge.”

Roddy said:

“Oh—oh—you're Mary Gerrard?”

She said: “Yes.”

Then she went on rather shyly:

“I've changed, of course, since you saw me.”

He said: “Yes, you've changed. I—I wouldn't have recognized you.”

He stood staring at her. He did not hear footsteps behind him. Mary did and turned.

Elinor stood motionless a minute. Then she said:

“Hello, Mary.”

Mary said:

“How do you do, Miss Elinor? It's nice to see you. Mrs. Welman has been looking forward to you coming down.”

Elinor said:

“Yes—it's a long time. I—Nurse O'Brien sent me to look for you. She wants to lift Mrs. Welman up, and she says you usually do it with her.”

Mary said: “I'll go at once.”

She moved off, breaking into a run. Elinor stood looking after her. Mary ran well, grace in every movement.

Roddy said softly: “Atalanta…”

Elinor did not answer. She stood quite still for a minute or two. Then she said:

“It's nearly lunchtime. We'd better go back.”

They walked side by side towards the house.

V

“Oh! Come on, Mary. It's Garbo, and a grand film—all about Paris. And a story by a tiptop author. There was an opera of it once.”

“It's frightfully nice of you, Ted, but I really won't.”

Ted Bigland said angrily:

“I can't make you out nowadays, Mary. You're different—altogether different.”

“No, I'm not, Ted.”

“You are! I suppose because you've been away to that grand school and to Germany. You're too good for us now.”

“It's not true, Ted. I'm not like that.”

She spoke vehemently.

The young man, a fine sturdy specimen, looked at her appraisingly in spite of his anger.

“Yes, you are. You're almost a lady, Mary.”

Mary said with sudden bitterness:

“Almost isn't much good, is it?”

He said with sudden understanding:

“No, I reckon it isn't.”

Mary said quickly:

“Anyway, who cares about that sort of thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!”

“It doesn't matter like it did—no,” Ted assented, but thoughtfully. “All the same, there's a
feeling.
Lord, Mary, you
look
like a duchess or a countess or something.”

Mary said:

“That's not saying much. I've seen countesses looking like old-clothes women!”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black, bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said:

“Afternoon, Mrs. Bishop.”

Mrs. Bishop inclined her head graciously.

“Good afternoon, Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary.”

She passed on, a ship in full sail.

Ted looked respectfully after her.

Mary murmured.

“Now, she really is like a duchess!”

“Yes—she's got a manner. Always makes me feel hot inside my collar.”

Mary said slowly:

“She doesn't like me.”

“Nonsense, my girl.”

“It's true. She doesn't. She's always saying sharp things to me.”

“Jealous,” said Ted, nodding his head sapiently. “That's all it is.”

Mary said doubtfully:

“I suppose it might be that….”

“That's it, depend upon it. She's been housekeeper at Hunterbury for years, ruling the roost and ordering everyone about and now old Mrs. Welman takes a fancy to you, and it puts her out! That's all it is.”

Mary said, a shade of trouble on her forehead:

“It's silly of me, but I can't bear it when anyone doesn't like me. I want people to like me.”

“Sure to be women who don't like you, Mary! Jealous cats who think you're too good-looking!”

Mary said:

“I think jealousy's horrible.”

Ted said slowly:

“Maybe—
but it exists all right.
Say, I saw a lovely film over at Alledore last week. Clark Gable. All about one of these millionaire blokes who neglected his wife; and then she pretended she'd done the dirty on him. And there was another fellow….”

Mary moved away. She said:

“Sorry, Ted, I must go. I'm late.”

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going to have tea with Nurse Hopkins.”

Ted made a face.

“Funny taste. That woman's the biggest gossip in the village! Pokes that long nose of hers into everything.”

Mary said:

“She's been very kind to me always.”

“Oh, I'm not saying there's any harm in her. But she talks.”

Mary said:

“Goodbye, Ted.”

She hurried off, leaving him standing gazing resentfully after her.

VI

Nurse Hopkins occupied a small cottage at the end of the village. She herself had just come in and was untying her bonnet strings when Mary entered.

“Ah, there you are. I'm a bit late. Old Mrs. Caldecott was bad again. Made me late with my round of dressings. I saw you with Ted Bigland at the end of the street.”

Mary said rather dispiritedly:

“Yes….”

Nurse Hopkins looked up alertly from where she was stooping to light the gas ring under the kettle.

Her long nose twitched.

“Was he saying something particular to you, my dear?”

“No. He just asked me to go to the cinema.”

“
I
see,” said Nurse Hopkins promptly. “Well, of course, he's a nice young fellow and doesn't do too badly at the garage, and his father does rather better than most of the farmers round here. All the same, my dear, you don't seem to me cut out for Ted Bigland's wife. Not with your education and all. As I was saying, if I was you I'd go in for massage when the time comes. You get about a bit and see people that way; and your time's more or less your own.”

Mary said:

“I'll think it over. Mrs. Welman spoke to me the other day. She was very sweet about it. It was just exactly as you said it was. She doesn't want me to go away just now. She'd miss me, she said. But she told me not to worry about the future, that she meant to help me.”

Nurse Hopkins said dubiously:

“Let's hope she's put that down in black and white! Sick people are odd.”

Mary asked:

“Do you think Mrs. Bishop really dislikes me—or is it only my fancy?”

Nurse Hopkins considered a minute.

“She puts on a sour face, I must say. She's one of those who don't like seeing young people having a good time or anything
done for them. Thinks, perhaps, Mrs. Welman is a bit too fond of you, and resents it.”

She laughed cheerfully.

“I shouldn't worry if I was you, Mary, my dear. Just open that paper bag, will you? There's a couple of doughnuts in it.”

II

Immediately on receipt of the telegram Elinor had rung up Roddy, and now they were in the train together bound for Hunterbury.

Elinor had not seen much of Roddy in the week that had elapsed since their visit. On the two brief occasions when they had met, there had been an odd kind of constraint between them. Roddy had sent her flowers—a great sheaf of long stemmed roses. It was unusual on his part. At a dinner they had had together he had seemed more attentive than usual, consulting her preferences in food and drink, being unusually assiduous in helping her on and off with her coat. A little, Elinor thought, as though he were playing a part in a play—the part of the devoted fiancé….

Then she had said to herself:

“Don't be an idiot. Nothing's wrong… You imagine things! It's that beastly brooding, possessive mind of yours.”

Her manner to him had been perhaps a shade more detached, more aloof than usual.

Now, in this sudden emergency, the constraint passed, they talked together naturally enough.

Roddy said:

“Poor old dear, and she was so well when we saw her the other day.”

Elinor said:

“I do mind so terribly for
her.
I know how she hated being ill, anyway, and now I suppose she'll be more helpless still, and she'll simply loathe that! One does feel, Roddy, that people ought to be set free—if they themselves really want it.”

Roddy said:

“I agree. It's the only civilized thing to do. You put animals out of their pain. I suppose you don't do it with human beings simply because, human nature being what it is, people would get shoved off for their money by their fond relations—perhaps when they weren't really bad at all.”

Elinor said thoughtfully:

“It would be in the doctors' hands, of course.”

“A doctor might be a crook.”

“You could trust a man like Dr. Lord.”

Roddy said carelessly:

“Yes, he seems straightforward enough. Nice fellow.”

III

Dr. Lord was leaning over the bed. Nurse O'Brien hovered behind him. He was trying, his forehead puckered, to understand the slurred sounds coming from his patient's mouth.

He said:

“Yes, yes. Now, don't get excited. Take plenty of time. Just raise this right hand a little when you mean
yes.
There's something you're worried about?”

He received the affirmatory sign.

“Something urgent? Yes. Something you want
done?
Someone sent for? Miss Carlisle? And Mr. Welman? They're on their way.”

Again Mrs. Welman tried incoherently to speak. Dr. Lord listened attentively.

“You wanted them to come, but it's not that? Someone else? A relation? No? Some business matter? I see. Something to do with money?
Lawyer?
That's right, isn't it? You want to see your lawyer? Want to give him instructions about something?

“Now, now—that's all right. Keep calm. Plenty of time. What's that you're saying—Elinor?” He caught the garbled name. “She knows what lawyer? And she will arrange with him? Good. She'll be here in about half an hour. I'll tell her what you want and I'll come up with her and we'll get it all straight. Now, don't worry any more. Leave it all to me. I'll see that things are arranged the way you want them to be.”

He stood a moment watching her relax, then he moved quietly away and went out on the landing. Nurse O'Brien followed him. Nurse Hopkins was just coming up the stairs. He nodded to her. She said breathlessly:

“Good evening, Doctor.”

“Good evening, Nurse.”

He went with the two of them into Nurse O'Brien's room next door and gave them their instructions. Nurse Hopkins would remain on overnight and take charge with Nurse O'Brien.

“Tomorrow I'll have to get hold of a second resident nurse. Awkward, this diphtheria epidemic over at Stamford. The nursing homes there are working shorthanded as it is.”

Then, having given his orders, which were listened to with reverent attention (which sometimes tickled him), Dr. Lord went downstairs, ready to receive the niece and nephew who, his watch told him, were due to arrive at any minute now.

In the hall he encountered Mary Gerrard. Her face was pale and anxious. She asked:

“Is she better?”

Dr. Lord said:

“I can ensure her a peaceful night—that's about all that can be done.”

Mary said brokenly:

“It seems so cruel—so unfair—”

He nodded sympathetically enough.

“Yes, it does seem like that sometimes. I believe—”

He broke off.

“That's the car.”

He went out into the hall. Mary ran upstairs.

Elinor exclaimed as she came into the drawing room:

“Is she very bad?”

Roddy was looking pale and apprehensive.

The doctor said gravely:

“I'm afraid it will be rather a shock to you. She's badly para
lysed. Her speech is almost unrecognizable. By the way, she's definitely worried about something. It's to do with sending for her lawyer. You know who he is, Miss Carlisle?”

Elinor said quickly:

“Mr. Seddon—of Bloomsbury Square. But he wouldn't be there at this time of the evening, and I don't know his home address.”

Dr. Lord said reassuringly:

“Tomorrow will be in plenty of time. But I'm anxious to set Mrs. Welman's mind at rest as soon as possible. If you will come up with me now, Miss Carlisle, I think together we shall be able to reassure her.”

“Of course. I will come up at once.”

Roddy said hopefully:

“You don't want me?”

He felt faintly ashamed of himself, but he had a nervous dread of going up to the sickroom, of seeing Aunt Laura lying there in-articulate and helpless.

Dr. Lord reassured him promptly.

“Not the least need, Mr. Welman. Better not to have too many people in the room.”

Roddy's relief showed plainly.

Dr. Lord and Elinor went upstairs. Nurse O'Brien was with the patient.

Laura Welman, breathing deeply and stertorously, lay as though in a stupor. Elinor stood looking down on her, shocked by the drawn, twisted face.

Suddenly Mrs. Welman's right eyelid quivered and opened. A faint change came over her face as she recognized Elinor.

She tried to speak.

“Elinor…”
The word would have been meaningless to anyone who had not guessed at what she wanted to say.

Elinor said quickly:

“I'm here, Aunt Laura. You're worried about something? You want me to send for Mr. Seddon?”

Another of those hoarse raucous sounds. Elinor guessed at the meaning. She said:

“Mary Gerrard?”

Slowly the right hand moved shakily in assent.

A long burble of sound came from the sick woman's lips. Dr. Lord and Elinor frowned helplessly. Again and again it came. Then Elinor got a word.

“
Provision?
You want to make
provision
for her in your will? You want her to have some money? I see, dear Aunt Laura. That will be quite simple. Mr. Seddon will come down tomorrow and everything shall be arranged exactly as you wish.”

The sufferer seemed relieved. The look of distress faded from that appealing eye. Elinor took her hand in hers and felt a feeble pressure from the fingers.

Mrs. Welman said with a great effort:

“You—all—you…”

Elinor said: “Yes, yes, leave it all to me. I will see that everything you want is done!”

She felt the pressure of the fingers again. Then it relaxed. The eyelids drooped and closed.

Dr. Lord laid a hand on Elinor's arm and drew her gently away out of the room. Nurse O'Brien resumed her seat near the bed.

Outside on the landing Mary Gerrard was talking to Nurse Hopkins. She started forward.

“Oh, Dr. Lord, can I go in to her, please?”

He nodded.

“Keep quite quiet, though, and don't disturb her.”

Mary went into the sickroom.

Dr. Lord said:

“Your train was late. You—” He stopped.

Elinor had turned her head to look after Mary. Suddenly she became aware of his abrupt silence. She turned her head and looked at him inquiringly. He was staring at her, a startled look in his face. The colour rose in Elinor's cheeks.

She said hurriedly:

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

Peter Lord said slowly:

“What was I saying? I don't remember. Miss Carlisle, you were splendid in there!” He spoke warmly. “Quick to understand, reassuring, everything you should have been.”

The very faintest of sniffs came from Nurse Hopkins.

Elinor said:

“Poor darling. It upset me terribly seeing her like that.”

“Of course. But you didn't show it. You must have great self-control.”

Elinor said, her lips set very straight:

“I've learnt not—to show my feelings.”

The doctor said slowly:

“All the same the mask's bound to slip once in a while.”

Nurse Hopkins had bustled into the bathroom. Elinor said, raising her delicate eyebrows and looking full at him:

“The mask?”

Dr. Lord said:

“The human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.”

“And underneath?”

“Underneath is the primitive human man or woman.”

She turned away quickly and led the way downstairs.

Peter Lord followed, puzzled and unwontedly serious.

Roddy came out into the hall to meet them.

“Well?” he asked anxiously.

Elinor said:

“Poor darling. It's very sad to see her… I shouldn't go, Roddy—till—till—she asks for you.”

Roddy asked:

“Did she want anything—special?”

Peter Lord said to Elinor:

“I must be off now. There's nothing more I can do for the moment. I'll look in early tomorrow. Good-bye, Miss Carlisle. Don't—don't worry too much.”

He held her hand in his for a moment or two. He had a strangely reassuring and comforting clasp. He looked at her, Elinor thought, rather oddly as though—as though he was sorry for her.

As the door shut behind the doctor, Roddy repeated his question.

Elinor said:

“Aunt Laura is worried about—about certain business matters. I managed to pacify her and told her Mr. Seddon would certainly come down tomorrow. We must telephone him first thing.”

Roddy asked:

“Does she want to make a new will?”

Elinor answered:

“She didn't say so.”

“What did she—?”

He stopped in the middle of the question.

Mary Gerrard was running down the stairs. She crossed the hall and disappeared through the door to the kitchen quarters.

Elinor said in a harsh voice:

“Yes? What is it you wanted to ask?”

Roddy said vaguely:

“I—what? I've forgotten what it was.”

He was staring at the door through which Mary Gerrard had gone.

Elinor's hands closed. She could feel her long, pointed nails biting into the flesh of her palms.

She thought:

“I can't bear it—I can't bear it…it's not imagination…it's true… Roddy—Roddy I
can't
lose you….”

And she thought:

“What did that man—the doctor—
what did he see in my face upstairs?
He saw something…
Oh, God, how awful life is—to feel as I feel now. Say something, fool. Pull yourself together!
”

Aloud she said, in her calm voice:

“About meals, Roddy. I'm not very hungry. I'll sit with Aunt Laura and the nurses can both come down.”

Roddy said in alarm:

“And have dinner with
me?
”

Elinor said coldly:

“They won't bite you!”

“But what about you? You must have something. Why don't
we
dine first, and let them come down afterwards?”

Elinor said:

“No, the other way's better.” She added wildly, “They're so touchy, you know.”

She thought:

“I can't sit through a meal with him—alone—talking—behaving as usual….”

She said impatiently:

“Oh, do let me arrange things my own way!”