The Native Heath, page 5
Hands off missionaries, Harriet said to herself; and once again she was struck by the change that had come over her friend. Though serious by nature, Marian had been ready enough in the past to laugh at Harriet’s jokes and to talk freely about everything. There had been no reproachful looks, no suggestion that certain subjects were sacred, or—worse still—beyond Harriet’s comprehension. The change could be dated from the fatal day when she became engaged to Hubert.
Few people would have cast Hubert for the role of evil genius, but that was how Harriet pictured him. He wasn’t, of course, evil in himself, but only in the effect he had had, and was having, on Marian. He was developing her worst qualities, making her smug, solemn, and intolerant, a fitting wife perhaps for a missionary (Harriet’s views on Foreign Missions were strongly influenced by her aunt), but a poor sort of human being. It was a great, great pity; and something ought to be done about it.
Harriet was young, and she believed in action. She was impulsive and warm-hearted, and she seldom paused to consider whether her friends really wanted to be rescued from entanglements or prevented from taking false steps. It was enough for her that they stood in need of help.
But the notion of rescuing Marian from Hubert’s evil genius was new, and she had not yet thought how it could be done.
“You’d better come with me,” Lady Finch said suddenly, breaking a silence that had become a little strained.
“But where?”
“To call on those people at Belmont House. They might be nice friends for you.”
“So they might,” Harriet agreed. “Especially the nephew, if he doesn’t waddle.”
It was at that moment that she had her great idea.
CHAPTER IV
Prompt as Lady Finch was in the performance of her social duties, she was not the first caller at Belmont House. Miss Pope got there in the morning; but then, as she made haste to explain, she was not a ‘real’ caller.
“I just thought I’d pop in,” she said, “to see if you wanted any help. I do feel one ought to be neighbourly, especially when you’re strangers in a strange land.”
Miss Pope was tall and thin—so thin that her legs looked like sticks and her long, scrawny neck appeared to contain more vertebrae than other people’s necks. But she had a beaming smile and a loud, cheerful voice; not a bit like a parson’s sister, thought Julia Dunstan, who pictured the sisters of the clergy as meek, diffident women dressed in grey or pastel shades.
Unlike these wraiths Miss Pope wore a bright blue cotton frock and did not lack self-confidence. She had already introduced herself, and without plainly asking to come in had contrived to enter the house. Perhaps her long experience of parish work had taught her how to gain admittance; anyway, they were now in the morning-room. Julia apologized for its untidiness, and Miss Pope replied that she could see they were not yet straight, and renewed her offer of help.
“There’s always such a lot to find out, when you come to a new place. Now, how about tradesmen—and milk? You ought to get your milk from Scott’s Dairy, and your rations—”
“Oh, Mr. Duffy arranged all that for us,” Julia said hastily. Mr. Duffy was the builder and decorator who had been renovating Belmont House.
“Duffy’s quite a useful man,” said Miss Pope. “But I wouldn’t trust him too far. He’s hand-in-glove with some rather undesirable—er—racketeers.” She produced this word with an air of pride, and Julia Dunstan looked suitably impressed—though she could hardly believe that racketeers were numerous in Goatstock.
“We’re camping out at present,” she said. “We brought lots of tinned food with us, and we’re living on that.” They were also living on eggs, supplied by the useful Mr. Duffy, but it obviously would not do to say so.
“Have you got any help? You’ll need it, in a house like this. I must say I was surprised when I heard you were coming here. It seems such a big house for two women.”
“But my uncle left it to me. It’s so wonderful to have something left to you. I’ve never had a home of my own—and it seemed as if it was meant.”
“Yes . . . I see,” said Miss Pope, puzzling over the remark. Mrs. Dunstan was a widow, and apparently quite well off. How did it come about that she had never had a home of her own?
If Julia had been questioned she would have had to admit that she had had several homes. But they were all rented flats or bungalows in foreign lands, which was not at all the same thing as owning a house. She felt this strongly, though she found it hard to convince other people that the distinction existed. Moreover, she had never expected to inherit Belmont House and the legacy had fired her imagination, which, if it had a fault, was too readily inflammable. She heard mysterious overtones in the legal phrases of a will; she saw the hand of Fate guiding her to Goatstock.
There were many things to support this romantic fancy. The fact that, at the time of her uncle’s death, she was looking for a house; the fact that her cousin Dora had had to give up her job and was at a loose end; the fact that her own doctor had advised her to live in the country. All these facts, and several others, were at the back of her mind when she declared to Miss Pope that it was meant.
With any encouragement she would have said more; but Miss Pope’s puzzled smile checked the confidences. Miss Pope was clearly a practical woman who had come to offer practical help, and references to telepathy or the hand of Fate might antagonize her.
“But we shall certainly need some help in the house,” Julia said, striving to be practical too. “We haven’t got anybody yet, except my old nurse who lives with me—of course she’s rather past work, poor dear, but she does what she can.”
Miss Pope did not belong to the stratum of society that has old nurses at its beck and call, but she nodded comprehendingly.
“I expect she likes to feel she’s of use,” she said.
“Yes,” Julia said, rather doubtfully. Of course, Nanny was useful, and no doubt enjoyed feeling useful, but her usefulness was embarrassingly concentrated on her employer. Sometimes she seemed to be pretending that Dora did not exist.
“My cousin is a great help, too,” she said. “But I don’t want her to slave away at housework. I can’t believe she really likes it, though she pretends she does.”
Miss Pope was too polite to ask the question that hovered on her lips. Was Miss Duckworth sharing the house—or was she perhaps a paid companion, a secretary or housekeeper? Julia gave her no help, though she went on to speak of her cousin in a way that showed they were tremendous friends.
“I don’t know what I should do without her,” she said.
A little later, she was leaving the house, Miss Pope encountered this paragon of a cousin. They met on the doorstep. Mrs. Dunstan introduced Miss Duckworth and explained that she was a keen gardener; but Miss Pope hardly needed the explanation, for she could recognize a fellow enthusiast when she met one. She herself had little time for gardening, she said, but she simply loved it. Dora Duckworth replied that she loved it too. Her earth-stained hands showed that she had already been at work.
There was only time to exchange a few words, and then Miss Pope had to fly. She had stayed longer than she meant to, and Alaric wanted lunch early that day because he had to go to Reddrod on the two-o’clock bus. But they must come to tea, she said, and see her garden—not that it was much to look at—and meet one or two of their neighbours. How about Tuesday next week?
The ladies accepted her invitation, raising their voices to do so because Miss Pope, by then, was nearly at the gate. “Half past four,” she called over her shoulder. They nodded and smiled; they were newcomers and did not realize that the tail-end of every conversation with Miss Pope was always conducted in shouts while she hurried off to her next duty.
“. . . look forward to seeing you!” screamed Miss Pope. Her long thin legs bore her out of sight. Julia stepped back into the hall and Dora followed, shutting the door behind her.
“I’m sure she’s very nice,” Julia said. “It’s lucky we’re both Church of England, isn’t it? She quite took it for granted. It would have been awkward if we hadn’t been.”
Julia was so clever at dealing with awkward situations that she sometimes amused herself by imagining hypothetical ones and thinking how she would handle them. But Dora could not see the fun of this; her way of dealing with an awkward situation in real life was to ignore it altogether, and she was laughingly scornful of people who were hurt or offended by what she called ‘trifles’.
“I liked her,” she said firmly.
“Oh, so did I,” Julia agreed. “But I’m not sure whether she liked me. I think she liked you best, anyway. It wasn’t till she’d seen you that she asked us to tea.”
Her voice was wistful; it mattered a good deal to Julia that people should like her.
“Of course she liked you,” Dora said. “Don’t worry, Julia, you’ve got lots of charm. People always like you.”
Julia was reassured, though less by her cousin’s words (‘lots of charm’ hardly sounded an asset, when Dora mentioned it) than by a sudden inward conviction that she and Miss Pope had something in common. What it was, she could not yet determine; but she wondered if Miss Pope was really as practical as she looked.
Her musing was interrupted by Nanny, who came into the hall and asked accusingly if Mr. Robert was back yet with the fish or if she was to do eggs again for lunch.
Until fairly recently, Nanny’s name had been Gladys. In the more distant past she had been house-parlourmaid to Julia’s Mamma, and had combined this task with acting as nurse to Julia when there was no one else available. She was genuinely devoted to her charge and had continued to send her Birthday and Christmas cards long after they parted, to which Julia had responded by sending presents from the eastern country where she had spent her married life. This generosity had been unexpectedly rewarded; for when, after her widowhood, she returned to England, she found Gladys, elderly but still active, panting to serve her. To Julia’s romantic mind only one thing was lacking; and with a touch of creative genius she turned Gladys the house-parlourmaid into Nanny the dear old family nurse.
Even Dora, when it was explained to her, accepted the metamorphosis; partly because Nanny, out of loyalty to Julia, refused to answer to the name of Gladys.
In reply to Nanny’s enquiries Dora said they had better have eggs, as Robert had a lot to do in Reddrod and would probably be late.
“Would you fancy eggs, Miss Julia?” Nanny asked, exactly as though Dora had not spoken. “Or will you wait for the fish?”
“Eggs, I think, Nanny.”
Nanny retreated into the back premises. Dora looked at her cousin. “I must learn to hold my tongue,” she said lightly. “It isn’t a bit of good my saying anything when you’re here.”
“Poor Nanny, she doesn’t mean it. You see, it’s just because she was my old nurse, and so she spoils me. You mustn’t mind, Dora.”
“I wasn’t minding, I was laughing,” Dora protested.
Julia felt slightly disappointed. Difficult situations, jealousy and hurt feelings, were things she could cope with; after all, if people minded it proved, in a way, that they were fond of her. But if they didn’t mind—if they simply laughed—it didn’t prove anything.
Perhaps, however, Dora was simply pretending not to mind. She would have to have a talk with her some time, and find out what she really thought about Nanny.
She would also have to have a talk with her nephew, Robert, and explain how important it was to her not to be kept waiting for meals. ‘It’s this stupid gastric tummy of mine’, she would say; for she wouldn’t like Robert to think she was just being fussy.
But even as she rehearsed this talk to herself her nephew Robert opened the front door and thrust his way into the hall, somewhat encumbered by parcels, a double-crown size portfolio, and a bounding dog on a lead.
“Sorry,” said Robert, missing his aunt by inches. “I didn’t know you were just inside. Could you let Taffy off the lead—it’s twisted round my wrist. . . . That’s better.” Taffy, to celebrate his freedom, ran round in circles barking. Robert propped the portfolio against the wall and offered Julia a damp parcel, wrapped in newspaper and rapidly disintegrating. “Only haddock, I’m afraid,” he said. “But it’s beautifully fresh.”
Robert was her late husband’s nephew, and like all the Dunstans he was tall and good-looking. For this Julia could forgive him a lot. She took the parcel and explained smilingly that it was too late to cook the fish for lunch today, so he would have to put up with eggs again. Robert said that didn’t matter at all; the fish was so fresh that it would certainly keep till tomorrow, or else they could have it for supper.
This was not quite what he had been meant to say. An apology for his lateness, a hope that all these eggs would not disagree with his aunt, would have sounded better. But Julia again forgave him. She remembered how important it was to think good thoughts; and she remembered too that her cousin Francis Heswald was coming to see her that afternoon. Lunch must not be further delayed or she might not have time for the post-prandial rest, the change into more becoming attire, and the careful new make-up, all of which were essential to the success of this reunion.
Francis Heswald had been one of her earliest admirers; and she had not seen him for nearly twenty years.
Heswald was a village some miles to the north of Goatstock and well beyond the fringes of industrialism. It had no main road, no hourly bus-service, no church, in fact it was merely a collection of cottages, one or two farms, and a small general shop. At the end of its narrow street were the lodge gates of Heswald Hall, and close beside them the bailiff’s house, now inhabited by Francis Heswald and the competent married couple who looked after him. Since he had managed to let his ancestral home, at a fair rent, to the county council—who used it as a home for Deprived Children—he was able to live in comfort, if not in luxury.
Everyone said it was quite absurd of Francis to go on living at Heswald. True, he still owned the land, but the farms and the Hall were let; he had nothing to do. He was a bachelor. He belonged to historical and antiquarian societies and was supposed to be writing—or perhaps to have written—a book about early rent-rolls or some other abstruse mediaeval subject. Few of his local acquaintances believed that this task was either necessary or profitable. Even if he should find a publisher for it, they said, he was not likely to find readers.
Mr. Heswald had been much surprised to receive a letter from Julia Dunstan, informing him of her return to Belmont House, and inviting him to come to tea with her and Dora. His interest in remote family history did not extend to contemporary relatives and he had long ago lost touch with his cousin Julia and his cousin Dora, who used to stay at Belmont House when they were young girls. He knew that his old uncle had bequeathed the house to Julia, but he had not expected that she would come to live there, since he believed her to be married to a rich businessman and living in Calcutta or possibly in Colombo. But it appeared that she was now a widow.
He arrived at Belmont House rather earlier than he had meant to, and a good deal before he was expected. The door was opened by a small, elderly female in a drab-coloured dress, and for a moment he supposed that this must be either Dora or Julia, prematurely aged by a hard life or tropical sunshine. But before he could question her the elderly female said the ladies were in the drawing-room, and turned to lead the way across the hall.
As it happened, only Dora was in the drawing-room; Julia was upstairs getting ready. This time Francis Heswald made no mistake; and indeed Dora, in spite of grey hair and a complexion which had been left wholly to nature, was still easily recognizable as the Dora of twenty years ago.
The first moments were a little awkward; neither of them knew how to talk to a first cousin who was almost a total stranger. Dora felt it would be a mistake to rush straight into reminiscences of the past, and after the first greetings she said the garden was in a dreadful state but she was going to enjoy living at Belmont House.
Francis Heswald asked politely if she meant to live there permanently.
Of course the house belonged to Julia, Dora explained, but they were going to share it.
At this point she paused for a brief struggle with her conscience. ‘Sharing the house’ suggested that they were sharing the expenses; whereas in fact Julia was paying for everything. But if she mentioned that, it made her sound like a poor relation, a mere hanger-on, which of course she wasn’t. She hated to think of herself as a hanger-on.
“I mean, the house is really too big for Julia, so she asked me to live with her,” she said hurriedly. This was true, and her conscience felt easier. Pausing no longer she began to tell Francis about Robert, who was Julia’s husband’s nephew and a recently qualified engineer; but whether he lived permanently at Belmont House would depend, of course, on whether he could get a job in the neighbourhood.
“Of course,” Francis Heswald agreed, mesmerized by the phrase. He said no more, for he was unaccustomed to making conversation and while he sought for a subject Dora was off again. She told him about the dry rot in the attic and the way the rain came in under the scullery door; she told him about the immersion heater and the electric cooker. She just stopped herself from telling him about the pale pink bath and other fittings in Julia’s new bathroom, because it occurred to her that these were not the sort of things one mentions to unknown cousins. But it did not matter; there were plenty of other things to talk about, and by now she was beginning to feel more at home with Cousin Francis.
Francis Heswald, however, was far from feeling at home with his cousin Dora. He seldom paid social visits, and although he sometimes went to tea with the head librarian in the county town, or with one of his fellow antiquarians in London, the talk on these occasions was formal and scholarly. Dora’s conversation, by comparison, was like the chattering of chimpanzees at the zoo.
