Dorothy Eden (14 page)

“And I’m no saint,” said Paul violently. His angry excitement worried her. What
had
Uncle Jonathan in his fumbling earnest way said? She had to try to soothe him.

“And how do you think I’d like being married to a saint?” She was almost going to say she preferred the complexities of several attractive women about the house. But that would make Paul’s mood worse. “Don’t worry about it, darling. I wish you hadn’t burnt that letter. I’d like to know what the silly old man did say.”

Paul’s eyes glinted with a sudden almost uncontrollable excitement.

“Would you, then,” he muttered. “I’m afraid you never will.”

“Paul it’s your vanity that’s been hurt.” He began to laugh in his sudden, loud, nervous way. “That’s what it is,” he admitted. “Do you think I won’t make you happy?”

Before she could answer he was bending over her, holding her hurtingly and pressing his lips against hers.

“God, I want you!” he muttered. “And I’m going to have you. Nothing will stop me.”

“Paul darling! Of course you are. What are you talking about?” She was a woman soothing a refractory child. She was also ever so faintly frightened.

Uncle Jonathan’s letter to her was upsetting only in one way. The old man said that he had very little time left to live. He said, “Write to me as soon as possible. I want to hear all about your new life. Tell me about Paul. Will he make you a good husband? Be quite sure of that before you marry him, my dear. I believe that happiness can be assisted by sensible and practical behaviour, but it also must have its base on a firm foundation. From what I knew of Paul when he was in England with us I am sure that foundation will be there. Nothing will give me a greater satisfaction than to hear you confirm this belief. And now—some news of Heriot Hills, and my dear Georgina. Does she remember me? What does she say? I know she will be very old. Appearances are nothing to me now. It is the heart and the spirit that matter. Write soon, my darling child. It is your future that is my constant concern.…”

No, there was nothing there to arouse anger. All Julia could feel was a great sadness that the man who had been a father to her, and who had always loved her devotedly, would soon no longer exist. She could not imagine the world without Uncle Jonathan.

She wanted to sit down and answer his letter at once. But it was too difficult. How could she tell him about Georgina? “They say she is crazy. She imagines her grandson Harry is in the house, and Harry is dead. She snuffles like a little animal. She is flesh and blood and no more at all…” How could she tell Uncle Jonathan that? Julia sat on the windowsill watching the thickening snowflakes and pondering sadly on the gradual and inexorable death of earthly love. One day she and Paul would grow to be like that. She would feel no sensation at all when his lips touched her. How could so vivid a sensation die?

What could she tell Uncle Jonathan? “Paul has grown very vain and he behaves badly with girls, he flatters them and no doubt makes love to them and means nothing. All kinds of complications arise, but still I forgive him and forget the unpleasant happenings, so I must love him in the way you mean.…”

She could write none of those things. Could she say, “What did you put in your letter to Paul to make him so angry? You must have offended his vanity. It is the privilege of the old to be frank, but I think, my darling uncle, that you must have overstepped that privilege a little.”

The thoughts fluttered through her head like the whirling snowflakes outside. It was the premature darkness and the silence that was making her depressed and lonely. It wasn’t because she imagined she had made the sad discovery that one could go on being lonely even with the man one loved.

It was Timmy’s waking that roused her from her depression. Once before Timmy’s plump little arms round her neck had comforted her. She loved the little boy whom Nita cared for but emotionally seemed to ignore. Perhaps he reminded her too much of his father. She picked him up from his cot and changed him and carried him downstairs to the fire, where Georgina was gently nodding and murmuring to herself.

Georgina’s filmy eyes seemed to clear slightly at the sight of Timmy.

“What a beautiful baby, Julia dear. But I didn’t know you and Harry had been married so long.”

Timmy held out his hands and cooed to the funny little white bundle in the chair. Georgina nodded and smiled.

“So wonderful,” she said. “Almost as if Jonathan and I had been married after all.”

Julia was on the point of correcting her. Then it didn’t seem worth while. For probably one day what the old lady imagined would be true. Or true with the exception that the baby would be Paul’s and not Harry’s.

The thought filled her with excitement and something almost approaching dread.

Then, as if Paul had been aware of her thoughts, he suddenly came in. He sat down on the hearthrug beside Timmy and began rolling him about until the child screamed with laughter. He looked up at Julia under his thick golden lashes.

“How about us having one of these?” “Perhaps.”

“Quickly. Don’t let’s waste any time.”

She felt the excitement and dread stirring in her. “Paul, I didn’t know you were so crazy about children.”

“I would be about ours.”

Neither of them had noticed Nita come in. She seemed to swoop over Timmy suddenly like a jealous and angry bird.

“You get your own,” she said to Julia. “This one’s mine.”

Julia had not noticed before that when Nita was excited about something her eyes had a very slight cast. She noticed it now, and it accounted for the illusion that Nita, as she spoke was not looking at Timmy, but at Paul.

“Paul,” she said, as Nita went out, “I’ve never seen a photograph of Harry. Are you very like him?”

“Probably. Why?”

“Sometimes I think Nita is falling in love with you.”

He put back his head and gave his derisive hoot of laughter.

“Darling! It’s a constant embarrassment to me, but all the girls seem to do that. And
I
love only you.”

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “I think you’re never serious. Why, you don’t even take Heriot Hills seriously. Look at the state you have let it get into. You used not to be like that.”

“I’ve been ill,” he said. “I told you that.”

“But since then, Paul. You had your operation a long time ago. Didn’t you?”

He lifted his eyes and they were wide with that innocent choir-boy look that was so irresistible.

“What makes you think that?”

She touched his face lightly. “This scarring is almost invisible. You must have expected me to know that would take some time.”

He dropped his eyelids. “I was still ill,” he muttered.

“Oh, Paul!” She was full of contrition. “What was the matter?”

“Oh, a kind of a breakdown. I’d worried too much. My frightful conceit.”

She was nearly in tears.

“Paul, you should have told me this.”

“I was afraid if I told you you mightn’t love me as much,” he said simply.

“How utterly ridiculous! You great stupid.”

The confidence began to come back to his face.

“I can see that now. For a while there I wanted every girl I met to fall in love with me, just to prove I could make them.”

“You should have told me all this sooner,” Julia said.

“I suppose I should. It’s still hard to talk about it. Will you be a bit understanding in the future, darling?”

“You mean about getting anonymous letters and things? Of course I will. I’ll just be sorry for the person who’s writing them, poor thing.”

She was very happy for the rest of that day. Everything was clear to her now and she could write to Uncle Jonathan at last

“Will you be careful, please, Uncle, dear, not to put anything in your letters to Paul that might hurt him, because he is extremely sensitive. He has had a bad experience with his illness and it has made him so afraid that I might not go on loving him. And I thought he was over-confident!”

Even Paul’s fuming that because of his bad ankle he was still unable to get out and help Davey and Tom Robinson with the ewes and newly born lambs made her happy. Not even Davey could criticise that attitude.

Again that night Julia was the last to go to bed. She had gone down to Davey’s cottage to feed the lamb and to see if Davey were in, and she had lingered on the way back because, apart from the sharp cold, it was a lovely night, the moon shining through drifting white clouds so that the patterned sky was a reflection of the snow-patterned ground. She would grow to love this place, Julia thought. The chill dominance of the mountains would no longer frighten her, and the loneliness of the sheep-sprinkled hills would become a friendly thing. She was determined to be happy.

It was as she came up the path beneath the trees to the front door that she saw the two figures, Davey and a strange woman.

Davey called to her. “Miss Paget, this is Miss Carmichael. Do you think she could have a bed for the night? Her car skidded and upset in a ditch.”

The woman came forward. She was a stout little person full of bustle and apology.

I’m not a bit hurt, Miss Paget, but this gentleman assures me nothing can be done about my car until daylight. I do so hate to be a trouble. Just a little dry corner anywhere where I can curl up will do splendidly. And please don’t arouse the household. It’s awfully late.”

Julia thought quickly. The best thing to do would be to let Miss Carmichael have her room, and she could sleep on the couch downstairs, or in the little room where Timmy had spent his first night.

She opened the door and said welcomingly,

“You must be upset after an accident like that. Do come in.”

“Just a little chilly,” the woman admitted. “I was on my way to Mt. Cook. So annoying.”

“I’ll make you a hot drink,” Julia offered. “Supposing I take you upstairs. I’ll bring you a drink in bed. Davey—I think Lily has gone to bed. Then I won’t need to disturb anybody.”

When, a little later, she had settled the profusely apologetic lady in her room and had come downstairs, she found Davey had put out cups and made cocoa.

“Sorry about this,” he said as she came in. “I couldn’t leave the poor thing stranded.”

“Of course you couldn’t. I think I’ll give her a couple of aspirins to settle her nerves. She’s in a state of jitters.”

“Don’t go giving her your room,” Davey said.

Julia was touched by his thoughtfulness. “Oh no, there’s plenty of room,” she said lightly. Then added,; “Davey, where were you last night? Were you in here?”

He looked at her in some bewilderment. She noticed that his face was drawn with fatigue and that his eyelids were so heavy he almost had to prop them up with his fingers.

“In the kitchen? Last night? I may have been, at some stage. I can’t remember.”

“But you must remember!” she insisted impatiently. “It’s important. Do you usually come in?”

“Yes, Lily makes me a drink if I’m not too late. But I don’t think I came in last night. There were too many lambs dying in the snow. Honestly—it’s silly—I don’t think I can remember.”

Julia wanted to shake him awake. It was too exasperating that when she might have had a simple answer to her problem Davey was too stupid with fatigue to give her one. Or was he simulating that extreme tiredness so as to avoid answering her question?

“Davey, there was someone out here and I must know who it was. It’s important.” (She couldn’t say, “I know it’s fantastic, but I must assure myself that Harry, who is dead, isn’t in this house. I must be absolutely sure that Kate and Paul are telling the truth. Why should they lie? Why should they hide Harry? It doesn’t make sense, but I must be
sure.”)

Davey gave her his blank stare. “If it was me,” he said in his blurred voice, “I can assure you it wouldn’t be Lily. She doesn’t stay up till midnight for me.”

The unspoken question was in Julia’s eyes. Then for whom does Lily stay up until midnight? She couldn’t say that either. She had already talked too much to Davey. If Lily had been accustomed to stay up for Paul, that was over now. She understood about that. But if it were, by some fantastic chance, Harry…

“The cocoa’s getting cold,” Davey said mildly.

Julia picked up a cup and hurried upstairs with it. Miss Carmichael, wrapped in the warm dressing-gown Julia had lent her, was prowling about the room.

“Thank you
so
much, dear,” she said effusively. “I can’t tell you how kind you are. But I’m devastated at your giving me your bed. I shouldn’t sleep a wink, but I just know I’m going to.” She yawned, and took the hot cocoa from Julia, and thanked her with extravagant repetition. At last Julia got out of the room. Davey
must
remember about last night, she was saying to herself as she hurried downstairs.

But Davey’s dark head lay on the kitchen table. His eyes flickered open as Julia came in.

“Thanks—for feeding—the lamb,” he murmured.

Julia stood over him helplessly.

“Davey, you can’t sleep here.” She stared at his unmoving head. It was awful to think he was going to sleep uncomfortably like that all night. She couldn’t let him. She went into the living room and got a cushion which she tried to put under his head.

He stirred. “Don’t worry. I can sleep anywhere. Be all right soon. The snow gets them. They die of cold.” He was mumbling in his sleep. Thanks—Queen of Sheba.”

Julia crept away, full of remorse. She must tell Paul that he was working Davey to death. When the poor boy couldn’t even remember whether or not he had come in for a hot drink the previous night it proved that he was shockingly tired. But
could
he remember? Davey’s dark, watchful eyes were never quite readable.

Some time in the small hours of the morning Julia, chilly on the living-room couch, wondered what the exuberant Miss Carmichael would do if she found one of those charming little
billet-doux
under her door in the morning. Then she thought of Lily finding Davey asleep in the kitchen and she began to chuckle sleepily.

When, much later, after light had filtered through the drawn curtains, she heard the scream, she rolled tiredly off the couch, realising that Lily had found Davey. But there was no need for the silly girl to scream.