Cards of Identity (4 page)

‘Indeed I do. My brother and I always rub along.’

‘Exactly; that is just the phrase. And, consequently, of course, we easily mistake youthful vitality for bad manners – though, I must say, the two characteristics are often hard to distinguish.’ He added, after a pause: ‘The boy has lost his mother.’

‘You have done wonders without her,’ said Miss Paradise, unable to resist another quick look round the splendid room.

‘Thank you. And yet, he needs more than either I or his excellent stepmother can provide. An overwhelming love; something all-embracing
and tender: if I could find it for him, in one form or another, I would welcome it with open arms. However, I shall tell Beaufort that at least one discerning person has shown approval of him.’

They exchanged warm, understanding looks, as befits people who are sharing an excursion into the deeper elements of living. Indeed, Miss Paradise was by now wishing that this lovely, old-fashioned chat could drag on interminably – that at nightfall a butler would enter and draw-to the heavy curtains, shutting both her everyday self and the outside world out of existence. At that moment the captain bent forward and felt her pulse again. ‘Our little moment of distraction has done you good, I think,’ he said, as if he had cleverly planned the whole direction of their conversation. ‘The police must, of couse, be informed, but perhaps are you now in a state to give me a few details about your brother. Meanwhile, a little tea would soothe both of us, I think,’ and he pressed a bell. ‘Is he a tall man?’

‘Oh no: quite short. Not a dwarf, of course.’

‘Ah. Not a dwarf. And dressed, you say, in riding-clothes? A horse?’

‘Not actually with him, no.’

‘He could not have fallen off it?’

‘Impossible.’

‘Ah. Clean-shaven?’

‘To a large extent. There
is
a moustache, but he keeps it cut so flat and allows it so little spread that it is easily overlooked.’

‘Ah. Now, what about moles or birthmarks?’

‘No birthmarks and few moles – not where a stranger would notice them, anyway.’

‘Ah, well. We can pursue that point later should any question of identity arise. Ah … What kind of
manner,
may I ask? Vigorous? Apathetical? Nondescript?’

‘Both vigorous
and
nondescript, I would say.’

‘I think I know. Friendly? Fond of visiting?’

‘He chooses his friends carefully, but once he has done so he sticks very closely to them.’

‘Ah. Is he
inclined
to absence and disappearance? How can I put it without being rude? Do nights pass without him? Is he, shall we say, not always quite
there
after a convivial evening with friends?’

‘Sometimes it has seemed so to me. He is always
there,
of course, I’m sure; just absent from me.’

‘Yes, yes. It is hard to know exactly, isn’t it, who is and who isn’t? Is he by any chance a little free-handed with money?’

‘Oh, never that. Never, never.’

‘Ah. Inclined rather the other way?’

‘Much more.’

‘What people who didn’t understand him might call close-fisted? Tell me now, if I am not impertinent, have you on account of this thrifty bent of his ever had
differences
with him? I find that so many tussles between people who otherwise love each other dearly can be traced to money. It is astonishing when you think of it how much people will put up with in the way of duplicity, disloyalty, even broken-heartedness, and yet become most unforgiving where a banknote is in dispute. Do not hesitate to silence me, my dear Miss Paradise, if you find I am too personal.’

‘I am finding it most helpful,’ said Miss Paradise frankly. ‘The only thing that is troubling me is that I have never thought of my brother in the way I have described him. He seems like two persons now, and I’m afraid that you would never recognize the real one if you saw the described one. Or do I mean it the other way round?’

‘We are trying, you see, to
discover
which is the right way round, Miss Paradise. If we hit on the right way, we are pretty sure to find the right man at the end of it, regardless of any wrongness that may have crept into his description en route. I’m sure you see that. Now, here is a very blunt question indeed which may take us a step farther. Has your brother, despite the fact that you “rub along”, ever suggested breaking off connexions? To put it cruelly, have you ever thought that he might suddenly walk off, taking the cash-box with him?’

At this, Miss Paradise turned quite faint. ‘There have been times,’ she said at last in a cracked voice, ‘when we have quarrelled and …’ But she said no more: panic was making her eyes bulge.

‘Of course, were he to do so,’ said the captain easily, ‘the tragedy would be purely an emotional one. A little loose cash would be neither here nor there, since your
capital
would be safely in the bank.’

‘No! No!’ screamed Miss Paradise: ‘not safely at all! It’s a joint account!’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the captain, quite losing his calm. ‘Now that is
quite
another matter!’

‘I am destitute!’ she screamed, filling her lungs to the full to give her emptiness true measure.

‘Not as long as I live, by God!’ he answered, suddenly striking his fist on his knee.

But Miss Paradise had ceased to be impressionable. Not the captain, not the palatial room, not the fairy-dream of having escaped from her ordinary self were as horrifying as the sudden conviction that reality had escaped from her. Seizing her bag, she made a rush for the door.

‘Miss Paradise!’ cried the captain, springing after her.

‘Bank! Police! Let me go!’

‘Not in this condition! Why, none of this may be true of your brother!’

‘It
is
true! Some sixth sense tells me! I know! I know!’

‘That your brother is a thief?’

‘Yes! Yes! Instinct tells me! He is
worse
than thief! He has murdered me! He has always wanted to. I have always known. Let me go this minute. I will see him in prison!’

‘Let Beaufort drive you,’ exclaimed the captain, gripping her wrist. ‘Don’t you see it will be
quicker
?’

‘Then
get
him,
get
him!’

The captain released her and ran to the speaking-tube. As he raised it, slow, steady footsteps sounded outside the door.

A butler entered with a silver tray. Gently, he advanced across the room, and with each step he took, Miss Paradise’s frantic face drew tighter and tighter. When he was past her, she gave a plaintive, incredulous cry:
‘That’s
him, isn’t it? Henry?’

‘Tell Master Beaufort to bring the car round immediately,’ said the captain into the speaking-tube. ‘We are going after a bank-robber. No delay, please: he is probably miles away already.’

The butler, having laid down his tray, turned and began slowly his march back to the door. Clearly, he was well-fitted for his office, for though Miss Paradise’s eyes ran up and down him madly and one trembling finger pointed straight at his face, he continued his sober walk unmoved.

‘Who are you?’ screamed Miss Paradise suddenly.

The butler halted, as if such a question was more than flesh could bear, and looked hopefully to his master. ‘A little sal volatile, Jellicoe,’
said the captain in a low voice. ‘Just knock on the door and leave it outside.’

The butler bowed. ‘Beaufort will be ready in five minutes,’ said the captain to Miss Paradise; ‘then we will scour all England.’ He rubbed his hands briskly.

The butler again passed before Miss Paradise, moving to his exit like a ghost who has played its part. As a ghost she saw him, and her own fingers stretched out to take him by the shoulder. But she was no longer able to judge his distance from her, so that he passed a full foot beyond her reach; nor was she able to encompass his whole name, and could only say: ‘Hen…. Hen!’ She saw the door close behind him, and the captain standing out in front of her: she heard his voice say firmly, but pleadingly, ‘Miss Paradise! Try to listen! Try to be yourself!’

‘But it was Hen…’

‘So will everyone be Hen, Miss Paradise, till we have tracked Hen down. Here now, this deep chair.’

‘Have I lost my wits?’

‘Only the outer eye, Miss Paradise – the unimportant eye.’

‘I know
you;
I can see
you
.’

‘Because you trust me, Miss Paradise. You trust I am not Hen.’

‘Don’t speak of him! To think I gave him a Woodbine to cheer him on! Oh!’

‘Can you see this cup?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then drink it up, Miss Paradise. We have a long way to go and you must be strong and well if you are to perform your proper duty.’

*

‘Dear Florence,’ said Mrs Mallet in her soft voice. ‘Our one and only Florence. Do you feel any more yourself? I am going to draw back the curtains, so you must tell me if the light is too blinding.’

She drew half the curtain back, revealing a comfortable, homely room. Miss Paradise’s cuckoo-clock ticked on the far wall; on her dressing-table lay her brushes, comb, and pin-bowl. On the wall at the foot of her bed was her favourite photograph of Henry, pointing his stick at one of Sir Malcolm’s cows. Miss Paradise surveyed it all with the equable look that marks lunatics and the newly-risen: the world
(her look said) is furnished with many sightly shapes; it is not for me to try and name them.

‘See, here,’ said Mrs Mallet, pointing, ‘your own little clock, Florence, to tell you the time as it has always done. And your pretty own things, to use every day, to tell you where you are. And your pretty old mirror, to see yourself. We have brought them all here.’

‘You talk too much,’ said Miss Paradise crossly, vexed by being urged to leave the restful state of non-recognition.

‘Oh, Florence, I am sorry!’ said Mrs Mallet. She took Miss Paradise’s hand, squeezed it gently and said no more.

‘So, it’s me, Florence,’ said Miss Paradise in an aggrieved tone, after a long pause.

‘Yes, you are Florence,’ replied Mrs Mallet gently, giving her a look of congratulation.

This look had a strong effect on Miss Paradise. Though almost all her mind was stall dead, one faculty suddenly became shrewdly alive – that of how to win compliments. ‘That’s my clock,’ she said pointing.

‘Oh, yes, Florence, you clever dear; it
is
your clock!’

‘An’ ’at’s my brush an’ comb an’ whatsisname.’

‘Right again, Florence, dear!’

‘’S my brother an’ cow on th’ wall.’

‘How fast you are coming back!’

Vanity having thus led the way to the surface, towing behind it the faculty for recognizing any object that would please it, Miss Paradise might now be said to be conscious. But she was still rebellious, she still required to be self-convinced, and Mrs Mallet seemed to know this. ‘I have been asked, Florence,’ she said, ‘to remember to give you all sorts of messages from downstairs. The captain, of course, sends his love, and says that nothing will induce him to let you start work again until you are absolutely yourself. Master Beaufort sends you a big hug: don’t ever tell him I told you, Florence, but he went to his room in tears, when he heard … And Jellicoe presents his compliments and wishes you a quick recovery: “The best housekeeper in England, madam,” he said; and there were tears in
his
eyes, too.’

Miss Paradise gave an approving grunt. Rivers of tears, explosions of love; this was life as it should be. ‘He brought me tea on a silver tray,’ she said, giving Mrs Mallet a shrewd look.

‘You even remember
that,
Florence? But that’s wonderful.’

‘I remember
everything,’
said Miss Paradise boastfully.

‘Everything,
Florence?’

‘Why not? I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘But Florence, dear, the doctor said it might be weeks before your poor mind began to grasp things again.’

‘Doctors! What do they know?’

‘Do you remember the old lawyer who tried to be so sweet to you?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And how we fetched you from the lodge?’

‘Everything.’

‘You know we didn’t mean to be unkind?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, you
are
a marvel, Florence. But then, of course, you stood up to everything so wonderfully at the time that nothing about you can surprise me any more. I think that if they hadn’t pushed you just a bit too far by reading the will you would never have collapsed at all.’

‘That’s just what I think,’ said Miss Paradise in a resentful voice, not minding her perplexity so much, however, on learning that another was responsible for it.

‘The captain understood at once. “A brave soul,” he said to me afterwards, “can endure any loss without flinching. What brings its collapse is to learn that, as a result of loss, it has obtained material gain.”’

‘Henry’s gone, hasn’t he?’ asked Miss Paradise suddenly.

‘That’s what I meant, Florence, dear. The thought of benefiting by his going …’

A hammering began in Miss Paradise’s chest. She would have liked, without knowing why, to burst into tears, tears of mingled loss and ignorance. But, having proudly laid claim to perfect remembrance, she could not bear the thought of renouncing it. And as she lay, tormented by sadness, curiosity, and conceit, there was a light tap on the door and a boyish, handsome face popped through.

‘Beau! You are a naughty boy!’ said Mrs Mallet sharply.

‘I simply
had
to come,’ he answered simply, and crossing the room with quick steps he bestowed on Miss Paradise the sweetest, most loving smile she had ever received. Then, bending down, he slipped one arm under her neck, gave her a passionate buss on each cheek, and
muttered: ‘Hurry up and get well, Florrie-Porrie! This old barn is like the grave, without the sound of your keys.’

‘
Beaufort
,’ said Mrs Mallet, biting her lips at his tactless mention of the grave.

But he was out of the room immediately: the two women heard his footsteps running quickly down the passage.

‘Poor boy!’ said Miss Paradise in a gratified tone. ‘His eyes are full of tears.’ What pleased her about her situation was that although she couldn’t understand it, it was so sensible and right. Her feelings of loss were matched at every point by all manner of reward: certainly, she never remembered being loved so much by everyone. And as she had always believed she was the most lovable of women, the present situation, however puzzling, seemed to fit her so well that she was in no mood to question it.