Who Pays the Piper? (5 page)

The woman leaned right in with her head and shoulders in the room and said,

“Lucas at home?”

Cathy was startled and showed it. She was a little bit of a thing, and the woman leaning in at the window was a haggard, strapping creature with big black eyes and bare sinewy hands. A lot of black hair in untidy loops and braids, and a bright handkerchief at her throat like a gipsy woman. If she hadn't used Dale's Christian name in the way she had, that is just what Cathy would have taken her for—one of those women who come swinging round to the back door, basket on hip, trying to sell rubbish to the maids and tell their fortunes. Maids don't like to send them away.

Cathy wouldn't have liked to send this woman away. She had on an old black cloth coat with a collar of draggled fur, and a black hat with a scarlet feather. There was a red dress under the coat, and the silk handkerchief was as bright as a parrot's wing. Long gold earrings bobbed and swung amongst the untidy braids. She laughed jeeringly at Cathy's dismay, and said in a deep voice that was sometimes harsh and sometimes musical,

“Come—I won't eat you. Where's Lucas? I want to see him.”

Cathy collected herself. The woman had probably come to beg. Or had she? Her clothes were shabby, all except the coloured handkerchief, which was shiny and new. But she had said “Lucas ”—

Cathy drew her chair back a little.

“I don't know if Mr. Dale is in. And—and—he doesn't see anyone without an appointment. Is he expecting you?”

“I don't know,” said the woman. “He might be. He ought to have got my letter yesterday, but I don't suppose he'd tell you about it. He can be pretty close when it suits his book.” She laughed a little. “He'll see me all right—you don't need to worry about that. Oh, yes, yes—he'll see me.” She straightened up and took a look about her, left, right, over her shoulder, and back into the room again. “He's got a nice place here—I'll say that for it.”

She had some kind of an accent which Cathy couldn't place. It would be very strong, and then it would fade right out. It was very strong as she spoke now.

“What's anyone want with a place like this? It wouldn't be my choice, I can tell you. What's he want it for?”

“You could ask him,” said Cathy.

She got a sharp look. Her lips trembled unwillingly into a smile. The woman said quick and hard,

“Are you the girl?”

The smile vanished. Cathy's head lifted.

“I am one of Mr. Dale's secretaries. I will find out if he is in.”

But before she could rise from her chair the woman said,

“What are you taking offence about? If you're the girl, you can say so, can't you? And if you're not, well, I suppose you can give a civil answer to a civil question.”

“I think you had better put your questions to Mr. Dale,” said Cathy. She crossed the room and rang the bell.

She was watched as she went and came again. There was a frown for her return.

“What's that picture over there above the chimney-piece?”

Cathy looked round, because although she knew it so well, she could always look at it again with a secret pleasure and emotion. The picture hung upon the jutting chimney-breast. It had hung there for as long as Cathy could remember. Two young girls in white dresses looked out from it at the room—at the unknown. One of them was dark and pale, with her hair in a mist about her face. The other was fair and golden, with deep dreaming eyes. Both had beauty. She said,

“It is Lazlo's portrait of my mother and her twin sister.”

“Not much alike for twins.”

“No—they were not at all alike.”

“The dark one's your mother, I suppose. You don't favour her much.” She gave a short laugh.

Cathy blushed and was glad to see the door open. The butler came in. She said with relief,

“Oh, Raby, is Mr. Dale in the house, do you know? “This lady——She turned to the woman. “What name shall he say?”

A card was produced, rather to Cathy's surprise. She would not have expected that such a gipsy-looking woman would have a card, but if she had one, it would be like this, very large and square, with a wild flourish of ornamental lettering. She glanced at the name as she handed it to Raby—Miss Cora de Lisle. And under that in pencil, Theatre Royal, Ledlington.

Before Raby had crossed to the door Miss de Lisle was back at the portrait.

“If that's your mother, why has Lucas got the picture?”

“It's valuable,” said Cathy simply. “Mr. Dale bought all the pictures with the house.”

“He can buy anything he's got a fancy for these days, or he thinks he can,” said Cora de Lisle. “What about the other girl—the fair one?”

“She died a long time ago—in the war.”

“Married?”

“Oh, yes. Her husband was killed.”

“Any family?”

Cathy felt that she ought to be able to stop this inquisition. The woman gave her a helpless feeling. She said,

“My cousin Susan Lenox is her daughter.”

And then she wished she hadn't answered. The haggard, sallow face waked up suddenly. It had a moment of fierce beauty as Cora de Lisle repeated the name Cathy had just spoken.

“Susan Lenox—that's the girl—that's the one I've been hearing about! What's she like?”

Cathy hoped earnestly that Raby would not be long. There was no harm in Miss de Lisle's questions, she supposed, but they made her feel dreadfully nervous. She said in a stumbling voice,

“Oh, Susan is fair.”

“Like that girl in the picture?” Cora de Lisle laughed angrily. “Lucas would fancy that all right! And he'd fancy having her picture stuck up there where he could look at it. Come on—give us an answer, can't you! Is that what she's like?”

Cathy said “Yes” in a small, displeased voice. She felt offended, but too nervous and inadequate to check the woman's impertinence. Susan would have been able to do it—Susan——

Cora de Lisle said harshly, “If Lucas wants anything he gets it. If he wants that girl he'll get her, and she'll be as sorry for it as I was.”

Cathy plucked up a little trembling courage.

“Please——”

“Well?”

“You mustn't say things like that.”

“And who's going to stop me? I've got the free use of my tongue, and I'll say what I like with it to Lucas, and to you, and to Miss Susan Lenox!” She repeated the name with a sort of mocking music. “Miss Susan Lenox—and as pretty as a picture. He likes them pretty. I wasn't so bad myself. And now it's Miss Susan Lenox!” She laughed derisively. “I wonder how she'll like my cast-off shoes. I wouldn't fancy another woman's leavings myself.”

Cathy was as white as a sheet. She thought Miss de Lisle had been drinking though it was so early in the day. She had always been terrified of anyone who drank. She got up and did her best to be brave.

“Please stop talking about Susan. I don't know what you've heard, but it's not true. She is engaged to someone else.”

Cora de Lisle stared at her.

“Oh lord—so was I!” she said. “What difference does that make?”

“I don't know who you are,” said Cathy, “but—oh, please go away!”

“I was Mrs. Lucas Dale for five years—and damned miserable ones too,” said Cora de Lisle.

Cathy said, “Oh!”

And then she heard the sound she had been waiting for, the door opening and Raby coming in. He came right up to them and said in a low, respectful voice.

“Mr. Dale has gone out in the Daimler. He left word that he would not be back till late.”

CHAPTER VII

Susan woke in the night and heard a cry. It must have been the cry that waked her, and just for a moment her heart beat strongly. Then she knew what it was—Cathy calling out in her sleep as she had often done in their nursery days when anything had happened to disturb or frighten her. She jumped out of bed, caught up her dressing-gown without stopping to put it on, and ran barefoot into Cathy's room.

There were just the three bedrooms in the Little House, and because they had no maid they could have one each. When Bill stayed he got the drawing-room sofa, and said it spoilt him for his hard London bed. Cathy's room looked to the garden. The window stood wide to a cloudy sky and a soft, damp air.

Susan shut the door behind her and felt her way to the bed. She had reached the foot, when she heard a smothered sob. She was on her knees in a moment, holding Cathy close and speaking her name.

“Cathy—what is it? Are you ill?”

The little figure trembled. A shaky voice said, “Oh, Susan!” and was choked by another sob.

“My lamb, what is it? Tell Susan——”

“It—it—was a dream—a horrible dream——”

Susan had both arms round her, rocking her like a baby.

“Silly little thing! A dream isn't anything to be frightened about. It's gone. You've waked up, and I'm here. Everything's all right. Would you like the light?”

“Not with you——” There was a long quivering breath. “Lovely to wake up. But oh, I wish I didn't dream.”

“You haven't done it for a long time, have you? And it's not true—it's never true, darling.”

“It's just as bad while it lasts,” said Cathy. She sat up and clutched at Susan. “It was a most horrid dream about being in a cage. I was locked in, and I couldn't get out, and they came and pointed at me through the bars. It was just as bad as if it was true, because as long as you don't wake up it
is
true in the dream.”

She shook so much that the whole bed shook too.

Susan said “Nonsense!” in a brisk voice. She leaned sideways, found a box of matches, and lit the candle. It showed Cathy very much as the nursery candlelight had showed her when she was eight years old and afraid of the dark, like a little white ghost with her hair damp on her forehead and her hands clenched together under her chin.

“There—that's better,” said Susan. “You don't wake right up in the dark. Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

“No—don't go——” There was another of those long breaths. “I'll be all right again soon, but—stay a little. I don't want it to come back.”

Susan said, “It won't.”

She put on her blue dressing-gown and came and sat on the bed, her hair loose on her neck and golden in the candlelight. She had been lying on her side before she woke, and that cheek was warmly flushed. Her eyes were very kind, and soft with sleep. Cathy looked at her and said,

“I don't want you to be cold. It's going away. Stay just a little.”

“I'm not cold,” said Susan.

“It's really going. I think that woman frightened me. She wasn't like anyone I've ever talked to before. There was something fierce about her. I expect that's what made me have that dream.”

Susan said, “Silly little thing——” in a warm, sleepy voice. The candlelight flickered in her eyes, the flame had a halo round it. She blinked, and heard Cathy say as if from a long way off,

“Did you know he was married, Susan?”

It was like cold water in her face. The drowsy feeling left her. She said,

“Oh, yes—he told me. But they are divorced.”

Cathy said, “Oh!” The frightened feeling touched her again. She said in a whisper,

“When did he tell you that?”

“Day before yesterday, when I came up about the lily pond.”

“Why did he tell you?” said Cathy, still in that whisper.

There was no sleep in Susan now. She said in a clear, reserved voice,

“I suppose he wanted me to know.”

“She wrote to him,” said Cathy. “She said so. She wrote and said she was coming. He must have had the letter that morning before he asked you to come up and talk about the pool. If he told you then——Susan, why did he tell you then? I don't like it—it frightens me.”

It didn't frighten Susan, it displeased her. She said,

“It doesn't matter, Cathy. If he knew she was coming he might have thought he would rather tell us himself that he had been married.”

“He didn't tell
us
, he told you. Why did he do that?”

Susan made no answer.

All at once Cathy leaned forward and caught her wrist.

“He's in love with you—that's why he told you. It frightens me.”

“I think you're being silly,” said Susan. Her voice changed suddenly. “Cathy! You mustn't say things like that!”

“It's true.”

Susan stood up.

“That's all the more reason for not talking about it,” she said.

CHAPTER VIII

That was Friday night, the night between Friday and the Saturday morning which Susan was never to forget—a soft, cloudy night, with Cathy's dream of being in a cage set in it like a frightening picture.

The morning came up in a mist. Cathy came down to breakfast rather paler than usual and with dark smudges under her eyes, but she said no more about her dream or about being frightened, and went off up to King's Bourne at her usual time.

Susan took up Mrs. O'Hara's tray, washed up the breakfast things, made her own bed and Cathy's, and ran down to the gate to meet the postman. He was a very nice old man called Jeremiah Hill, and he was almost as pleased as Susan when he could bring out her letter with a flourish and say, “Morning, Miss Susan—here 'tis.”

There was a letter this morning, but not a fat one. She took it into the kitchen and read it with sparkling eyes. There was the loveliest colour in her cheeks. There wasn't much in the letter, but there was enough good news for twenty letters. And it was short, because Bill had had only five minutes to catch the post.

“Garnish has just rung up, and I'm to come and see him in his London office first thing on Monday morning. He said he'd made up his mind to let me have a go at it. Said he thought a man did his best work when he'd got his way to make, and was bound to go all out if he wants to get anywhere at all. Said that's how it had been with him, and he expected it to be that way with me. Oh,
Susan
——”