The Shadow of the Lynx (34 page)

“There was nothing arranged.”

“He had asked her. She was considering. It was just before Mamma’s death. Poor Dr. Hunter!”

“Has it occurred to you that his depression may be due to the fact that his proposal has not been accepted?”

“I still think it has something to do with Mamma’s death.”

“Minta, it’s time you grew up. I wish you would. That would be desirable in many ways.”

I guessed then that he was thinking that when I showed more maturity he would ask me to marry him; and into my mind there flashed a picture of that scene on the lawn with Stirling lolling, somewhat ungracefully, in the chair, talking about Australia and Whiteladies.

And I thought: No, I’ll not grow up yet. My immaturity is a kind of protection.

A few mornings later a rather disturbing incident occurred. I was in the flower-room splitting the stalks of some bronze-coloured chrysanthemums when Mrs. Glee burst in.

“I’d like a word with you, Miss Minta,” she said. Her face was red and her little eyes like pieces of black jet. She didn’t have to tell me she was angry.

“Certainly, Mrs. Glee. Come into the library.”

“There’s no need for that. I’ll tell you here and now. I’ve had orders to go and I’d like to know why, because these orders have come from a certain quarter and I’ve yet to learn that I take orders from that direction.”

“From Miss Maryan?” I said.

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Glee, we have become much poorer in the last few years and we have to cut our expenses in some ways.”

“And I’m chosen as the victim, eh?”

“Not a victim, Mrs. Glee. It’s simply a matter of necessity.”

“Now, miss,” she said, “I’ve nothing against you. You’re innocent of all this. A blind man could see that. But if people ought to leave this house—and I’d be the first to admit it mightn’t be a bad thing if they did—there’s some you could do better without than me.”

“It’s very sad to have to do without anyone, and only a matter of finance.”

“You’ve had the words put into your mouth. Miss Minta. There’s some funny things going on in this house. I could tell you …”

“What things?”

Mrs. Glee pressed her lips together with an air of martyrdom.

“Things it’s not my place to mention. You’re the mistress of the house now your poor mother’s gone, and it’s not for you to take a step back and let others help themselves to what’s yours by rights.”

“I shan’t do that, Mrs. Glee.”

“You might be forced into it. I don’t like the way things are going in this house and it’s not all that sorry I’ll be to pack my bags and be off. But I’m sorry for you. Miss Minta.”

“How kind of you. I’m sure I don’t deserve your sympathy.”

It was evidently the right line for her anger calmed considerably; she was changing rapidly from virago to prophet of doom.

She took a step closer to me and said: “Your poor Mamma going off like that, and that Lizzie. What of her, eh? If anyone should go, she should. The way she talked to that poor dead soul. Shouting and screaming they were, the night before. I heard your poor mother say that Lizzie was to go. It was her last wish, you might say. And now Lizzie’s to be kept on and I’m told to go. I, who never had a cross word with the dear dead lady. You see. Miss Minta, it’s a funny state of affairs, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hardly funny,” I said.

“Lizzie was very fond of my mother and my mother of her. Their quarrels meant nothing.”

The last one did. But it’s not so much Lizzie. She’s nothing. It’s Other People. “

“Which people?”

“Well, Miss Minta, have you ever thought you might soon be having a new Mamma?”

No. “

“You see!” She folded her arms across her ample chest.

“I’m telling you. Miss Minta. It’s not that I care for myself. I’ve had enough of service anyway. I’m going to my cousin once removed down Dover way.

Very comfortably off she is and her rheumatics are crippling her. She wants someone to look after her, be a companion to her, and she’ll leave me the cottage and a little bit to keep me going. So I’m not concerned for myself. But I says: There’s that innocent young lady.

And there’s some funny things going on in Whiteladies. And that’s why I’m warning you. “

“I’m so pleased, Mrs. Glee, about your cousin.”

“You’re a sweet young lady. Miss Minta, and I’ve often said so. But I’ll repeat this: There’s something peculiar going on and you should know of it. There’s someone who wants to run this household. There’s someone who has the trap set and there’s innocent people who will walk right into it. And I’m to go. Why? Because I see a bit farther than my nose.”

I sighed and picking up the pot carried it out of the flower-room. I looked over my shoulder and said: “I’m sure your cousin will be pleased to have you, Mrs. Glee.”

She stood shaking her head prophetically and I went through into the library. I put the pot down as soon as I comfortably could because my hands were shaking. I was quite upset, and relieved too, when, a few days later, declaring that she would not stay a minute longer than was necessary where she was not wanted, Mrs. Glee accepted a month’s wages and departed.

Her absence made no difference to the running of the house. Lucie was busy, but then she always had been. My mother had never been interested in household affairs, and Mrs. Glee had been mainly occupied in keeping the maids in order and preserving a certain dignity in the servants’ quarters. Lucie

did this and much more besides. The maids were glad to be rid of the formidable Mrs. Glee and readily accepted Lucie in her place. I saw less of Lucie, but my father saw more of her.

I was always waiting for Lucie to confide in me about Dr. Hunter, but she didn’t. She was in my father’s study for an hour in the morning and again after tea.

“I’m urging him to get on seriously with the book,” she told me.

“It’s the best thing for him. It keeps his mind off the tragedy.”

Lizzie took her tea in the morning just as she had taken Mamma’s, and Lucie kept her busy doing her room and Papa’s, and all sorts of sewing for the household at which Lizzie was very good.

Two months passed in this way. Christmas came and went. We celebrated it very quietly. Franklyn and his parents came to dine with us on Christmas Day and they stayed to supper. We played a quiet game of whist—Papa and Lady Wakefield, Franklyn and I; and Lucie was there sitting quietly by the fire chatting with Sir Everard and at appropriate times making sure that the servants brought in refreshments and performed those duties necessary to our comforts.

I recalled the Christmas before when we had dined in the great hall under bunches of holly and mistletoe, and how one of the most merry members of the party had been Dr. Hunter. Mamma had been at one end of the table enjoying talking to the doctor of her ailments. Lucie, of course, had been present, unobtrusive and competent. I remember she had worn a dress the colour of mauve orchids and how elegant she had looked in spite of the fact that she had made the dress herself. Now Lizzie made clothes on Lucie’s instructions—Lude designing, Lizzie stitching. It was an excellent combination.

After the guests had gone and everyone had retired for the night I slipped on my dressing-gown and went along to Lucie’s room.

“Do you mind?” I said.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

She offered me the chair with the mulberry cushions and she sat on the bed.

“I kept thinking of last Christmas,” I said.

“Poor Minta, you miss your mother.”

I frowned. I didn’t want to be hypocritical. I had loved Mamma, but she had made life uncomfortable from time to

time and I couldn’t forget that last scene in the dimng-room and the look of abject misery I had seen on my father’s face.

I said quickly: “What about you and Dr. Hunter, Lueie? You were considering marrying him.”

“Who said I was? Do you want me to go?”

“How can you ask such a thing! We should be lost without you. But I think poor Dr. Hunter is in greater need of comfort and as you love him .”

“You jump to conclusions, Minta. I’m fond of the doctor. I’m fond of you all here, and when your mother died I seemed to be needed.”

“But you mustn’t make such a sacrifice.”

“It’s willingly made … if such it is.”

“But I’m so sorry for the doctor. I think he’s very unhappy and you could help him. He feels he didn’t do the right thing … for Mamma.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“It’s obvious. He thought she was pretending and it turned out she wasn’t. Perhaps if he had believed she was really ill he would have treated her case differently. Perhaps that was what she needed.”

“But you are accusing him of incompetence!”

“I’m not. I know he’s competent. But people make mistakes.”

“Doctors can’t afford to. For heaven’s sake, don’t talk of this to anyone.”

“I wouldn’t to anyone but you … and Franklyn, who doesn’t count.”

“Not to anyone,” she said fervently.

“Promise me.”

I thought: She does love him then? I promised readily.

“And forget it, Minta,” she went on.

“Put it right out of your mind.

It’s . unhealthy. Your mother died of a stroke. It could happen to anybody. I have heard of people, healthy people, being struck down suddenly, and your mother had impaired her constitution by her invalidism. “

“I know, Lucie, I know.”

“Your mother is dead and buried. We must try to go on from there.”

I nodded.

“Don’t forget,” she added gently, ‘that I am here to help and comfort you. Wasn’t it always like that, from the time of our schooldays? “

^77 I agreed that it was.

“But you shouldn’t make sacrifices, Lucie. We can look after ourselves. And you wouldn’t be far away at the doctor’s house.”

Lucie shook her head.

“I don’t think I shall ever be at the doctor’s house,” she said.

“I believe my place is here … in Whiteladies.”

“I repeat, Lucie, you must not sacrifice yourself.”

“Martyrs are tiresome people,” she said with a smile.

“I have no intention of being one. This is where 1 want to be, Minta. This is where I want to stay.”

I should have seen it coming but it was a shock when it did.

It was May—six months after my mother’s death—a lovely day, almost summer, with the birds singing their delighted chorus and the buds sprouting everywhere, the chestnuts in blossom and the orchard a mass of pink and white and in the air was that unmistakable feeling that life is wonderful and happiness is just round the corner. This is the miracle of the English spring.

I had been for a ride after luncheon as far out as the Wakefield estates and had come in thinking how pleasant a cup of tea would be.

It wanted another quarter of an hour to four o’clock, so I went and sat under the chestnut tree.

And there Lucie joined me. I watched her walking across the lawn. She was very different from the school teacher she had been when I first met her. There had been an air of defiance about her then. Now she walked with a springy step and the new gown which Lizzie had made to her instructions became her well. She was what the French call une jolie laide. Taken feature by feature she was decidedly plain, but there was an unusual charm in the complete picture which almost amounted to beauty.

“I want to talk to you rather specially,” she said.

“Come and sit down, Lucie.”

She did. I looked at her profile—the too long nose, the jutting chin.

“I have something very important to say to you and I am unsure how you will take it.”

“You look sure that I am going to like it.”

“I wish I were.”

“Why do you keep me in suspense? Tell me quickly. I’m impatient to hear.”

She took a deep breath and said: “Minta, I am going to marry your father.”

“Lucie!”

“There! You are shocked.”

“But … Lucie!”

“Does it seem so incongruous?”

“Well, it’s so unexpected.”

“We have been fond of each other for a long time.”

“But he’s years older than you, Lucie.”

“You are finding excuses to oppose us.”

“I’m not. It’s true that you are half his age.”

“What of it? I’m serious for my years. Don’t you agree?”

“But you and the doctor …”

“You imagined a great deal about that affair.”

“But he did ask you to marry him.”

“And I didn’t accept him.”

“And now you and Papa …”

“Does it worry you that I shall be your stepmother?”

“Of course not. And how could I not want you to be a member of the family? You are in any case. It’s just that …”

“It seems unsuitable?”

“It’s just that it hadn’t occurred to me.” I thought then: This is what Mrs. Glee was referring to. So it must have been obvious to others if not to me.

She went on: “We have grown very close during the last months when I have tried to comfort him. He reproached himself a little—unnecessarily, I have constantly to assure him. I think we shall be very happy, Minta. But I feel I want your approval. I couldn’t be happy without it.”

“But what I say is of no importance, surely?”

“It’s of the utmost importance to me. Oh Minta, please say you will welcome me as your stepmother.”

For my answer I stood up and put my arms about her.

“Dearest Lucie,” I said, ‘it’s a wonderful thing for Papa and for me.

I was thinking of you. “

She stroked my hair.

“You are so romantic. You decided that the doctor was for me and you built up a pretty picture of my launching him to success. Well, it’s not to be. What appears to be romantic does not always bring happiness. I am happy now, Minta. I want to be here. You and your father are my dear ones. This is my home. Go to your father now. Tell him I have told you the news and impress on him how happy it has made you.”

^

So Lucie and I went to Papa and I told him that it was wonderful news;

and he was happy as I had never seen him before.

“We shall have to wait for the full year to pass,” said Lueie, ‘or people will talk. “