Sad Cypress

CHAPTER 2

Mrs Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her eyes—eyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor, looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a handsome, hawk-like profile. Pride and determination showed in her face.

The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by the window. They rested there tenderly—almost wistfully.

She said at last:

‘Mary—’

The girl turned quickly.

‘Oh, you’re awake, Mrs Welman.’

Laura Welman said:

‘Yes, I’ve been awake some time…’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’d have—’

Mrs Welman broke in:

‘No, that’s all right. I was thinking—thinking of many things.’

‘Yes, Mrs Welman?’

The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender look come into the older woman’s face. She said gently:

‘I’m very fond of you, my dear. You’re very good to me.’

‘Oh, Mrs Welman, it’s you who have been good to me. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what I should have done! You’ve done everything for me.’

‘I don’t know… I don’t know, I’m sure…’ The sick woman moved restlessly, her right arm twitched—the left remaining inert and lifeless. ‘One means to do the best one can; but it’s so difficult to know what is best—what is right. I’ve been too sure of myself always…’

Mary Gerrard said:

‘Oh, no, I’m sure you always know what is best and right to do.’

But Laura Welman shook her head.

‘No—no. It worries me. I’ve had one besetting sin always, Mary: I’m proud. Pride can be the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too.’

Mary said quickly:

‘It will be nice for you to have Miss Elinor and Mr Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. It’s quite a time since they were here.’

Mrs Welman said softly:

‘They’re good children—very good children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know I’ve only got to send and they’ll come at any time. But I don’t want to do that too often. They’re young and happy—the world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and suffering before their time.’

Mary said, ‘I’m sure they’d never feel like that, Mrs Welman.’

Mrs Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than to the girl:

‘I always hoped they might marry. But I tried never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so contradictory. It would have put them off ! I had an idea, long ago when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart on Roddy. But I wasn’t at all sure about him. He’s a funny creature. Henry was like that—very reserved and fastidious… Yes, Henry…’

She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband.

She murmured:

‘So long ago…so very long ago… We had only been married five years when he died. Double pneumonia… We were happy—yes, very happy; but somehow it all seems very unreal, that happiness. I was an odd, solemn, undeveloped girl—my head full of ideas and hero-worship. No reality…’

Mary murmured:

‘You must have been very lonely—afterwards.’

‘After? Oh, yes—terribly lonely. I was twenty-six…and now I’m over sixty. A long time, my dear…a long, long time…’ She said with sudden brisk acerbity, ‘And now this!’

‘Your illness?’

‘Yes. A stroke is the thing I’ve always dreaded. The indignity of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do anything for yourself. It maddens me. The O’Brien creature is good-natured—I will say that for her. She doesn’t mind my snapping at her and she’s not more idiotic than most of them. But it makes a lot of difference to me to have you about, Mary.’

‘Does it?’ The girl flushed. ‘I—I’m so glad, Mrs Welman.’

Laura Welman said shrewdly:

‘You’ve been worrying, haven’t you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. I’ll see to it that you shall have the means to be independent and take up a profession. But be patient for a little—it means too much to me to have you here.’

‘Oh, Mrs Welman, of course—of course! I wouldn’t leave you for the world. Not if you want me—’

‘I do want you…’ The voice was unusually deep and full. ‘You’re—you’re quite like a daughter to me, Mary. I’ve seen you grow up here at Hunterbury from a little toddling thing—seen you grow into a beautiful girl… I’m proud of you, child. I only hope I’ve done what was best for you.’

Mary said quickly:

‘If you mean that your having been so good to me and having educated me above—well, above my station—if you think it’s made me dissatisfied or—or—given me what Father calls fine-lady ideas, indeed that isn’t true. I’m just ever so grateful, that’s all. And if I’m anxious to start earning my living, it’s only because I feel it’s right that I should, and not—and not—well, do nothing after all you’ve done for me. I—I shouldn’t like it to be thought that I was sponging on you.’

Laura Welman said, and her voice was suddenly sharp-edged:

‘So that’s what Gerrard’s been putting into your head? Pay no attention to your father, Mary; there never has been and never will be any question of your sponging on me! I’m asking you to stay here a little longer solely on my account. Soon it will be over… If they went the proper way about things, my life could be ended here and now—none of this long-drawn-out tomfoolery with nurses and doctors.’

‘Oh, no, Mrs Welman, Dr Lord says you may live for years.’

‘I’m not at all anxious to, thank you! I told him the other day that in a decently civilized state, all there would be to do would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it, and he’d finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. “And if you’d any courage, Doctor,” I said, “you’d do it, anyway!”’

Mary cried:

‘Oh! What did he say?’

‘The disrespectful young man merely grinned at me, my dear, and said he wasn’t going to risk being hanged. He said, “If you’d left me all your money, Mrs Welman, that would be different, of course!” Impudent young jackanapes! But I like him. His visits do me more good than his medicines.’

‘Yes, he’s very nice,’ said Mary. ‘Nurse O’Brien thinks a lot of him and so does Nurse Hopkins.’

Mrs Welman said:

‘Hopkins ought to have more sense at her age. As for O’Brien, she simpers and says, “Oh, doctor,” and tosses those long streamers of hers whenever he comes near her.’

‘Poor Nurse O’Brien.’

Mrs Welman said indulgently:

‘She’s not a bad sort, really, but all nurses annoy me; they always will think that you’d like a “nice cup of tea” at five in the morning!’ She paused. ‘What’s that? Is it the car?’

Mary looked out of the window.

‘Yes, it’s the car. Miss Elinor and Mr Roderick have arrived.’

Mrs Welman said to her niece:

‘I’m very glad, Elinor, about you and Roddy.’

Elinor smiled at her.

‘I thought you would be, Aunt Laura.’

The older woman said, after a moment’s hesitation:

‘You do—care about him, Elinor?’

Elinor’s delicate brows lifted.

‘Of course.’

Laura Welman said quickly:

‘You must forgive me, dear. You know, you’re very reserved. It’s very difficult to know what you’re thinking or feeling. When you were both much younger I thought you were perhaps beginning to care for Roddy—too much…’

Again Elinor’s delicate brows were raised.

‘Too much?’

The older woman nodded.

‘Yes. It’s not wise to care too much. Sometimes a very young girl does do just that… I was glad when you went abroad to Germany to finish. Then, when you came back, you seemed quite indifferent to him—and, well, I was sorry for that, too! I’m a tiresome old woman, difficult to satisfy! But I’ve always fancied that you had, perhaps, rather an intense nature—that kind of temperament runs in our family. It isn’t a very happy one for its possessors… But, as I say, when you came back from abroad so indifferent to Roddy, I was sorry about that, because I had always hoped you two would come together. And now you have, and so everything is all right! And you do really care for him?’

Elinor said gravely:

‘I care for Roddy enough and not too much.’

Mrs Welman nodded approval.

‘I think, then, you’ll be happy. Roddy needs love—but he doesn’t like violent emotion. He’d shy off from possessiveness.’

Elinor said with feeling:

‘You know Roddy very well!’

Mrs Welman said:

‘If Roddy cares for you just a little more than you care for him—well, that’s all to the good.’

Elinor said sharply:

‘Aunt Agatha’s Advice column. “Keep your boy friend guessing! Don’t let him be too sure of you!”’

Laura Welman said sharply:

‘Are you unhappy, child? Is anything wrong?’

‘No, no, nothing.’

Laura Welman said:

‘You just thought I was being rather—cheap? My dear, you’re young and sensitive. Life, I’m afraid, is rather cheap…’

Elinor said with some slight bitterness:

‘I suppose it is.’

Laura Welman said:

‘My child—you are unhappy? What is it?’

‘Nothing—absolutely nothing.’ She got up and went to the window. Half turning, she said:

‘Aunt Laura, tell me, honestly, do you think love is ever a happy thing?’

Mrs Welman’s face became grave.

‘In the sense you mean, Elinor—no, probably not… To care passionately for another human creature brings always more sorrow than joy; but all the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience. Anyone who has never really loved has never really lived…’

The girl nodded.

She said:

‘Yes—you understand—you’ve known what it’s like—’

She turned suddenly, a questioning look in her eyes:

‘Aunt Laura—’

The door opened and red-haired Nurse O’Brien came in.

She said in a sprightly manner:

‘Mrs Welman, here’s Doctor come to see you.’

Dr Lord was a young man of thirty-two. He had sandy hair, a pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw. His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue.

‘Good morning, Mrs Welman,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Dr Lord. This is my niece, Miss Carlisle.’

A very obvious admiration sprang into Dr Lord’s transparent face. He said, ‘How do you do?’ The hand that Elinor extended to him he took rather gingerly as though he thought he might break it.

Mrs Welman went on:

‘Elinor and my nephew have come down to cheer me up.’

‘Splendid!’ said Dr Lord. ‘Just what you need! It will do you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs Welman.’

He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration.

Elinor said, moving towards the door:

‘Perhaps I shall see you before you go, Dr Lord?’

‘Oh—er—yes, of course.’

She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr Lord approached the bed, Nurse O’Brien fluttering behind him.

Mrs Welman said with a twinkle:

‘Going through the usual bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What humbugs you doctors are!’

Nurse O’Brien said with a sigh:

‘Oh, Mrs Welman. What a thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!’

Dr Lord said with a twinkle:

‘Mrs Welman sees through me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs Welman, I’ve got to do my stuff, you know. The trouble with me is I’ve never learnt the right bedside manner.’

‘Your bedside manner’s all right. Actually you’re rather proud of it.’

Peter Lord chuckled and remarked:

‘That’s what you say.’

After a few routine questions had been asked and answered, Dr Lord leant back in his chair and smiled at his patient.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’re going on splendidly.’

Laura Welman said: ‘So I shall be up and walking round the house in a few weeks’ time?’

‘Not quite so quickly as that.’

‘No, indeed. You humbug! What’s the good of living stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?’

Dr Lord said:

‘What’s the good of life, anyway? That’s the real question. Ever read about that nice mediæval invention, the Little Ease? You couldn’t stand, sit or lie in it. You’d think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks. Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage, was released and lived to a hearty old age.’

Laura Welman said:

‘What’s the point of this story?’

Peter Lord said:

‘The point is that one’s got an instinct to live. One doesn’t live because one’s reason assents to living. People who, as we say, “would be better dead”, don’t want to die! People who apparently have got everything to live for just let themselves fade out of life because they haven’t got the energy to fight.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s nothing more. You’re one of the people who really want to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body wants to live, it’s no good your brain dishing out the other stuff.’

Mrs Welman said with an abrupt change of subject:

‘How do you like it down here?’

Peter Lord said, smiling:

‘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.’

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 fish-like, 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 lunch-time. We’d better go back.’

They walked side by side towards the house.

‘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.

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.’