The House of Discontent (18 page)

That would be the only comfort she would have when she found out for certain that Anthony didn’t care—the comfort of realizing that nobody knew, and that nobody therefore could pity her or offer her any sympathy.

Mary was soon back from the post office, relieved that she had sent off her telegram.

“I may get an answer this evening,” she said.

“But don’t forget you’ve got to write to him,” Patricia reminded her.

“Goodness, so I have! I was thinking I had done everything now. You will have to help me. What shall I say?”

“Just tell him the truth. Tell him that you care for someone else. Say how frightfully sorry you are, but you are sure he will agree that it is best to tell him at once. Say that if he still wants to see you, you will be delighted, and will always be willing to be his friend.”

“Must I tell him about sending the wrong photograph?”

“I think it would be much wiser to be completely honest, and it might disillusion him about you a bit, which would be a good thing.”

“But I don’t think I want him to be disillusioned!”

“Oh, Mary!” Patricia exclaimed, half laughing. “How typical that is of you—and of ninety-nine girls out of a hundred. You want to be free of him because you are in love with Johnny, and yet you still want him to be in love with you—you still want to keep him on a string.”

“Do you think that’s very wicked of me?”

“I think it’s very
human
of you. It’s not so much wicked as unkind and selfish.”

“Yes,” Mary said. “I agree it’s horrible of me. I’ll tell him about the photograph then. I’ll even send him one of my own. That ought to cure him if anything does! ... But what if Johnny doesn’t really care after all!”

“Then you’d be left without anyone, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Now I think you are really being horrible, though again terribly human. I’m sure few things cause more misery in human relationships than that attitude. You cling on to the person you don’t really love because you are afraid the person you do love doesn’t love you, and you are frightened of being left without anyone at all. I think it’s so despicable, and yet how often it is done! And then if, and when, you find out that the person you care for cares for you in return, you let the other one down with the most frightful bump. You hurt him far more than you would have done if you had told him outright in the beginning that you could never care for him. It is terrible to hurt people selfishly and unnecessarily ... I’m afraid I’m talking like an awful prig.”

“No, you’re not,” Mary said. “I wish I had as nice a nature as you. You make me feel, awfully cheap.”

“On the contrary,” Patricia replied, “I haven’t got nearly as nice a nature as you, but I do hate hurting people—probably because I do so hate being hurt myself! I can’t imagine anything so awful as a man I cared for pretending that he was fonder of me than he really was, just because he wasn’t sure of getting the girl he was really in love with and didn’t want to fall between two stools.”

“Yes, that would be frightful,” Mary agreed.

“And as I should hate it so much myself I couldn’t bear to put anyone else in that position,” Patricia went on.

“But supposing he discovered that the girl he was really in love with was in love with someone else,” Mary began doubtfully. “Or, anyway, whether she was in love with someone else or not, that she would never marry
him
—then he might fall back on the other girl (the one he had been keeping on a string as you call it), and they might marry and be very happy together; whereas if he had told her in the beginning that he didn’t care for her, she might have gone off and they might miss a very happy life together.”

“Yes, they
might
,” Patricia agreed. “But how I should hate it, wouldn’t you? To feel that I was just being taken as second best?”

“It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t know it,” Mary said.

“But I should know it all right if I did it to someone else, and that’s why I could never do it. I should hate to humiliate any man in that way—all the more
so
if he didn’t know it. I don’t agree with the saying, ‘What the mind doesn’t know the heart needn’t grieve over.’ I think it is just like saying, ‘What is not seen need not be clean,’ and to my mind what is not seen should be all the cleaner. That is why I believe that one’s thoughts matter almost as much, if not just as much as one’s actions, and that to do someone a dirty trick is not excusable just because he will never find out about it. In fact, I think it makes it worse. I don’t like the idea of doing things behind people’s backs. I don’t like underhandedness and meanness. I detest people who are nice to my face and then say horrible things about me behind my back, and I hate it just as much when they say them about other people, especially when I have just heard them being very nice to their faces. And another type of person I hate is the one who comes to you and says, ‘My dear, I really think it’s my duty to tell you ...? and then repeats something unkind that someone has said about you. There are too many of those, and I am afraid that a lot of them really
are
convinced that it is their duty.”

“You have very high standards,” Mary put in.

‘Yes, I have ... Goodness, how solemn and priggish I am being and what a long way we have, got from your letter to Jim. How did it all begin?”

“It began through my saying that I didn’t really want Jim to be disillusioned about me.”

“Yes, and you said, ‘What if Johnny doesn’t really care after all?’ I thought you knew absolutely for certain that he did care?”

“Oh, I do really. At least I think I do. I do when I see him. I suppose it’s tempting providence terribly to say that am sure. I oughtn’t to have said that. I shan’t really, really feel sure till I am married to him. I have thought out every detail of our wedding. I suppose that’s tempting providence, too, but if one doesn’t dream what is there left? It’s the only luxury that costs nothing.”

“Dreaming isn’t a luxury,” Patricia said. “It’s a necessity.”

“Do you feel that?” Mary exclaimed eagerly. “I’m so glad you feel that, too.”

“Yes, It’s such a necessity that if anyone tried to put a price on it there would be a revolution.”

Mary suddenly clutched hold of Patricia’s arm. “There’s Jim over there,” she whispered excitedly, “with
Camilla
!”

“Where?”

“Over there—by the door. They’ve just come in.” Patricia looked towards the door. She saw Camilla, and, at her side, a tall good-looking young man. She watched them sit down at a free table by the door.

“Are you sure it’s he?” Patricia whispered back.

“Yes, absolutely. Or if it isn’t, it’s his double. They haven’t seen us, thank goodness.”

“No, they probably won’t see us from there, and, besides, they are too absorbed in each other to see anyone.”

“But how did she get to know him?” Mary said in a puzzled voice. “I never knew she knew him. She couldn’t have been writing to him, too, could she?”

“It must be someone else,” Patricia said. “They look as if they know each other quite well, and that wouldn’t be possible if he has only just arrived in England.”

“Perhaps she knew him before,” Mary said. “Before he went out there. Perhaps he came here to see me and they just happened to run into each other by chance; or perhaps,” she added in rather an awed voice as a thought suddenly struck her, “—perhaps it is the photograph!”

“You mean he might have run into her by chance and thought it was you?” Patricia said.

“Yes ... but then she would have told him, wouldn’t she?”

“He might have gone up and spoken to her, and they might have made friends on the strength of his mistake.”

“Oh, look,” Mary cried suddenly, in great excitement, “he’s taken out his notecase, and he’s brought a photograph out of it which he is showing her. It must be
the
photograph. Oh, dear, I wish I could see. I wish I knew what they were talking about ... Wouldn’t it be awful to sit here and watch this if I still cared for him?”

“Even so, I believe you mind a little bit,” Patricia said.

“Yes, I do rather. I feel he belongs to me, and it’s rather annoying that Camilla should talk to him before I do. But I don’t really mind, and I shan’t mind a bit tonight, because I’m going to see Johnny. Nothing really matters to me now but what concerns Johnny. I shall see Camilla there, too, and I’ll be able to ask her all about what is happening now.”

“We shall have to wait here till they go, I suppose,” Patricia said. “They are almost bound to see us as we go out, and that might be very awkward for you if Camilla introduces you.”

“Oh, that would be simply frightful. But we can go out the back way if you like, through the service door. You’re not supposed to, but Mrs., Gush knows me, so it will be all right.”

“Then let’s go, shall we?” Patricia asked. “I’m rather tired of sitting here, and there are one or two things I simply must get—and then we’ll walk back to The Knowle.”

“All right,” Mary said. “I find it very difficult to drag myself away, though. They do seem to have a lot to say to each other. I wish I could eavesdrop. Isn’t it awful of me, but I almost believe I would if I could. I wouldn’t be able to resist it. It’s too tantalizing. Camilla looks quite different now, doesn’t she? She appeared to be so bored and cross this afternoon, but now she looks as if she were enjoying herself like anything. With my young man, too! I do think it’s a bit hard!”

“Come on,” Patricia said. “It’s high time I dragged you away, or you will be wanting him for yourself again.”

“Not really. I don’t want anybody but Johnny. By the way, there’s no point in writing to Jim now that he is here, is there? What had I better do now?”

“He’ll probably ring you up this evening.”

But Patricia was wrong there. Jim did not ring up that evening. Nor did he come to call.

When they got back to The Knowle, Patricia found, as she had hoped, that Aunt Dorothy was not there. She had gone out to tea, and would be going straight on to the meeting. Patricia and Mary had the house to themselves until Uncle Peter came back from the office. He was delighted to see Patricia, and told her that it was much too long since he had seen her.

Soon after seven Lady Brierleigh rang up and asked to speak to Patricia. “My dear,” she said, “you are going to think me most awfully rude and ungracious, but you will not scold me if I put you off for dinner this evening? I have been asked to dine out by a very old friend of mine whom I met at the meeting, and she won’t let me say no.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Patricia said warmly, though as a matter of fact she did mind a great deal, as when she was alone with Lady Brierleigh she always steered the conversation round to Anthony, and the prospect of being able to talk about him for most of the evening had been an extremely pleasant one. She was not in the least offended, however—only disappointed. “Of course you must dine with your friend,” she said. “If you didn’t feel you could put me off, I should never feel that I could propose myself to come and see you.”

“You dear child,” Lady Brierleigh said. “That is very nicely put. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t dream of putting you off if I didn’t know they would be delighted for you to stay and dine at The Knowle. I’ll pick you up there after dinner, or if you want to get home early I shall send the car for you. I may be a little late, as we are sure to play bridge, and I know you won’t want a late night. I’ll give you the telephone number where I am dining, and you just ring up when you are ready to go home, and if I’m not ready I will send the car for you.”

Mary was delighted when she heard. “Now you must come and dine at the White House,” she said.”

“But I haven’t been invited,” Patricia protested.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter a bit. Mrs. Grey will be enchanted. She’s the most hospitable person in the world. I’ll get on to her now. She’s always asking why I never bring you to see her. This is a wonderful opportunity, and you will be able to hear all about Camilla and Jim at first hand ... The only thing is, Johnny is coming to fetch me in his car. Do you mind sitting at the back?”

“Of course not, but I’ll spoil your
tete-a-tete
.”

“No, you won’t. It doesn’t matter going. And you won’t have to go back with us, will you? You can ring up Lady Brierleigh and ask her to come and pick you up at the White House.”

Patricia laughed. “All right, I’ll do that,” she said. “I wouldn’t spoil your
tete-a-tete
for the world!”

Mary rang up Mrs. Grey, who said that she would be delighted to have Patricia for dinner. “All it means is laying another place, and we should simply love to have her. Will you tell her?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JOHNNY came to fetch them at half-past seven. When they arrived at the White House, Johnny led the way in and took them straight through to the drawing-room. Mrs. Grey was sitting on the sofa, and standing with their backs to the mantelpiece were Camilla and the young man whom they had seen having tea with her that afternoon. Mary gripped Patricia’s arm as they advanced into the room.

It was Camilla who made the introductions.

“Do you know Captain Ossory?” she said. “Miss Norton and Miss Leslie—and my brother.”

As Mary shook hands with Jim Ossory they looked at each other searchingly.

“So this is really you, Mary,” he said.

Patricia held her breath. What would happen next?

As is so often the case, it was the unexpected that happened. Mary and Jim both suddenly burst out laughing. The situation was saved.

Mrs. Grey looked puzzled. “Do you two know each other, then?” she asked.

Jim Ossory turned to her. “Mary and I have been writing to each other for a long time,” he said. “We are what is called pen-friends.” He paused and smiled. “But this is the first time we have actually seen each other. I came here today to see her. I arrived by train this afternoon, and I was just about to telephone her when I ran into her—or what I thought was her—in the square. It turned out that it wasn’t Mary at all, but your daughter. But when you see this, I think I may be excused for making such a mistake.”