A Little Treachery

19

Catherine opened the door and uttered an exclamation, and heard Emmy, coming up behind her, say quickly, ‘Oh, lord, what is it?’

‘A letter? At this hour? Through the post, too?’ They decided that it must have gone astray and been held up at some neighbour’s since the morning. She picked it up with a qualm of misgiving and stood holding it to the light, hating its irruption, wishing it had never come; and saw that it was from Margaret Forrester.

Yes, a long letter, at last an answer to her own; and it would be kind, no doubt, although she was undeserving, with her unfriendliness in the past. She could count on its being kind in spite of its tardy appearance as an answer. Margaret was not one to wait for an apology before granting forgiveness. But she felt a dread of opening it, experiencing not only the usual apprehension which made every letter in her hands tremble, but a moment of panic lest her angry enigma should have been deciphered. Thinking hurriedly, she was hardly able to recall what she had written, but she remembered all too well her wild state of mind. The contrast between that extreme state and her present one was brought back to her now, and more sharply than while she was in the garden, and was now utterly despoiled of its hint of salvation, which stood revealed as nothing but a fair mask cunningly arranged on an evil countenance. Her present calm glared forth as outrageous. She was shamed and sickened.

But she forced this impression away from her – she would not be made to return to that raving woe, even though it now showed as the only adequate response, the only true one.

‘How are you? How are you both?’ Margaret began. ‘I was saddened when I opened your letter and found still no good news. You know that my heart aches for Clem – I would rush to see her any day if you thought it fitting. But you tell me she doesn’t want to see me, and I saw myself that my few visits did her no good –’

‘Stop, stop! Silence! Oh, the cruelty!’ Catherine thought indignantly, with hands trembling so much that she had to turn from Emmy. Suddenly, all deranged, she realized how little saved she was. And she ran flinching eyes over a few more lines to find something more endurable.

She was arrested by the words ‘Still, you do sound a little more cheerful, more interested in things –’ What perverse, undreamed-of effects a letter can produce! And mercifully diverted by the gentle, unconscious irony of this, she started again a few lines lower, with growing calm.

‘But, first, what must you think of me, my dear Cathy, for having sent you no answer all this while? Well, it’s all due simply to some idiotic, unlucky oversight on the part of the old woman who has been keeping the house aired and dusted for us – somehow your letter was caught up with some circulars and put aside instead of being forwarded – only a wonder that it was not destroyed. But I should have begun by explaining that I’ve been staying at Mentone with poor Prudence, my cousin, who had a severe operation in the winter, while Henry has been putting up with his brother in London. And so our house was shut up. We are now back, for good, I hope, although Prudence is still so far from fit that I’m quite taken up with her.

‘But really I feel much concerned about you, for yesterday Henry came out with a piece of information which troubled me. As you may remember, I did once venture to enquire how you were placed for means, but supposed all was well, since you gave me no answer. But yesterday Henry revived the question, having heard something of the legal management of such a situation as yours, and suggested that you might be in a bad position financially. Now, is that the case? Do, do be frank and tell us if it is, and let us see if we can put our heads together and find some solution.

‘Meanwhile, your little enquiry about Martin Hungerford has resulted in giving me an idea which may be of some temporary assistance – But, really, dear Cathy, you are much too scrupulous! Yes, really, almost funnily so! Martin himself, I feel sure, must quite have forgotten his trifling service to you. However, if you really wish to repay any little debt you feel you owe him, here’s my plan – one which would do the Hungerfords a kindness and also – more to the point – one by which you would benefit.

‘Now, it so happens that the Hungerfords are, just for the moment, in a small quandary.

‘I think I’ve often given you to understand that things have never been quite the same between Martin and ourselves since his second marriage? Not that we don’t like Olive well enough, only of course it was dear Jessica who was our great friend, and Olive is so very much younger than ourselves, just a girl. And, besides, at the time we felt it rather badly, poor Jessica having been dead barely a year – Not that I mean to criticize Martin, he was a good deal younger than Jessica, as perhaps you’ve heard, and still young when he lost her. I mention all this merely because I’m not sure whether I’ve ever told you that there is now a small child as well as Jessica’s boy. Here at last we come to the crux of the matter!

‘The boy, poor little fellow, has become rather difficult of late and is making a little trouble over the baby, as so often happens in such cases. He’s jealous, very jealous, perhaps after having had Olive for a short while all to himself. For whether his own mother’s death upset him in the first place, although he was so small – But I must get to the point.

‘Well, now, Martin, as I believe I told you, is gone to Scotland and will be there possibly for as much as six months on some big commission, and Olive and the baby are to go to her parents shortly. But the boy was to have remained with friends in London while they were gone. So Martin had arranged. But now it turns out that these people are quite unable to have him owing to the sudden illness of the lady who was to have cared for him. This happened, most unexpectedly, after Martin had left. And Olive, as I can see, does not at all wish to have the boy with her at her parents’ home, as I suppose Martin may expect her to do in the circumstances.

‘Now, how would you like to take the child on? Really he is a dear little fellow – you must not think of him as a problem child, heaven forbid! He’s merely a little precocious and sensitive (Martin’s own temperament, you know, the artistic) and has probably suffered from a fancy that he’s not wanted. I would so willingly have taken him myself, as Olive wished me to do, only that, as I’ve told you, I have Prudence on my hands at the moment, and she is still quite an invalid, and really I could not have a small boy capering about the place. So then I suggested you.

‘We should not need to trouble Martin himself about the arrangement; Olive has heard me speak of you and Clem so often and knows everything about you, and knows that the child could not be in more trustworthy hands. And in a way it would be ideal for him to run in the country for the summer – far better than being left in town, I should say. And Olive agrees. As it happens, their doctor has recommended freedom from lessons for the time being. So everything fits in.

‘Well, how does the proposal strike you, I wonder? Wouldn’t it be cheerful for you? Companionship? Of course, he’s only six, but such a bright, intelligent little fellow. He did stay with me last year for a few weeks, so I speak from experience. I was quite charmed. I envy you! I found him most companionable – though not a child to be sized up at a glance – dreamy, a little unusual – but you would perhaps have time for him. Oh, I do advise you to take him, it would cheer you. And there would be your return to Martin! Martin, I know, is intensely fond of his little boy – so much so, in fact, that I sometimes feel Olive resents it, just a tiny bit.

‘The Hungerfords would, according to Olive, make you the most generous return for your trouble.

‘Just let me know if it appeals to you – and then Olive will write to you –’

Here a sigh of relief escaped Catherine and she put the letter down, thanking heaven that Emmy was a sufficient excuse. A girl she might have considered; but a boy, no!

At this moment, Emmy looked in from the kitchen and Catherine told her what had been suggested.

Emmy looked at her with a questioning air in which a keen little touch of calculation was perceptible. This expression was gradually exchanged for a very roguish one. She was amazed, she scornfully protested, at the nerve of some people.

Catherine explained. ‘Oh, Margaret knows nothing about it, she thinks the house is all right, we didn’t like to tell her. And of course we can only suppose that Olive Hungerford knows nothing, either.’ Emmy, taking this in, made big eyes. ‘What a situation, isn’t it! Oh, it’s a good situation, you know – it would play. Gosh, wouldn’t it play, though! I mean, it would act.’ And she relapsed into an instant’s thoughtfulness. ‘Well, why don’t you take it on? You might as well squeeze what you can get out of friend Hungerford, I should have thought. They won’t cut it so fine, I dare say, that you can’t make a bit on the kid? Won’t hurt him to rough it rather more than’s expected.’

‘Oh, but,’ Catherine protested, ‘a boy?’ And she looked at Emmy in such simple astonishment that the young woman was moved to laughter. ‘I should have thought it would be rather fun! But, there – it’s your home.’

‘Well, but, Emmy, I don’t understand small boys.’ ‘Well, it’s time you did.’ ‘I mean, I feel it wouldn’t be fair to the child – my not understanding him. One oughtn’t to experiment with children, it’s dangerous.’ ‘Lord, a boy isn’t a tiger!’ cried Emmy, astounded at all this heart-searching about such an ordinary object as a small boy – a creature which, in her experience, was almost self-subsisting.

‘Well, but do you understand them? Well, I suppose you do.’

‘Heavens, near enough,’ Emmy cried feelingly, with a martyred air. ‘Haven’t I got two young brothers?’ But it had already been made plain that Emmy did not think too ill of her little fellows, of whom indeed she often spoke fondly and proudly. ‘Leave him to me,’ the girl said easily. ‘I’ll see he’s no trouble.’

Catherine was silent, considering, surprised at her own inclination to take the little boy. Of course she would never have thought of it but for Emmy. Suddenly she saw how felicitous was Emmy’s presence in her house. She would have fancied herself to make such a dreary companion for a poor child; whereas Emmy could hardly have been bettered. Surely she could not? Gay, good-tempered, young enough to romp with him, and yet, with it all, having both common sense and experience. Catherine felt she would have dreaded the continual company of the child too much, could not have put up with it; but if Emmy took him off her hands to a large extent, as she promised, she herself could see to his material wants, she supposed.

Of course she would keep an eye on them.

Besides the whole situation was merely provisional. A lively, quick scene would open, be played a little for her diversion, and then soon, very soon, she would be alone again.