Sad Cypress (5 page)

“Sometimes I wish she wasn't… You and I, Elinor,
belong.
We do belong, don't we?”

Slowly she bent her head.

She said:

“Oh, yes—we belong.”

She thought:

“If Mary wasn't there….”

N
urse Hopkins said with emotion:

“It was a beautiful funeral!”

Nurse O'Brien responded:

“It was, indeed. And the flowers! Did you ever see such beautiful flowers? A harp of white lilies there was, and a cross of yellow roses. Beautiful.”

Nurse Hopkins sighed and helped herself to buttered teacake. The two nurses were sitting in the Blue Tit Café.

Nurse Hopkins went on:

“Miss Carlisle is a generous girl. She gave me a nice present, though she'd no call to do so.”

“She's a fine generous girl,” agreed Nurse O'Brien warmly. “I do detest stinginess.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Well, it's a grand fortune she's inherited.”

Nurse O'Brien said, “I wonder…” and stopped.

Nurse Hopkins said, “Yes?” encouragingly.

“'Twas strange the way the old lady made no will.”

“It was wicked,” Nurse Hopkins said sharply. “People ought to be forced to make wills! It only leads to unpleasantness when they don't.”

“I'm wondering,” said Nurse O'Brien, “if she
had
made a will, how she'd have left her money?”

Nurse Hopkins said firmly:

“I know
one
thing.”

“What's that?”

“She'd have left a sum of money to Mary—Mary Gerrard.”

“Yes, indeed, and that's true,” agreed the other. She added excitedly, “Wasn't I after telling you that night of the state she was in, poor dear, and the doctor doing his best to calm her down. Miss Elinor was there holding her auntie's hand and swearing by God Almighty,” said Nurse O'Brien, her Irish imagination suddenly running away with her, “that the lawyer should be sent for and everything done accordingly. ‘Mary! Mary!' the poor old lady said. ‘Is it Mary Gerrard you're meaning?' says Miss Elinor, and straightaway she swore that Mary should have her rights!”

Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully:

“Was it like that?”

Nurse O'Brien replied firmly:

“That was the way of it, and I'll tell you this, Nurse Hopkins: In my opinion, if Mrs. Welman had lived to make that will, it's likely there might have been surprises for all! Who knows she mightn't have left every penny she possessed to Mary Gerrard!”

Nurse Hopkins said dubiously:

“I don't think she'd do that. I don't hold with leaving your money away from your own flesh and blood.”

Nurse O'Brien said oracularly:

“There's flesh and blood and flesh and blood.”

Nurse Hopkins responded instantly:

“Now, what might you mean by
that?
”

Nurse O'Brien said with dignity:

“I'm not one to gossip! And I wouldn't be blackening anyone's name that's dead.”

Nurse Hopkins nodded her head slowly and said:

“That's right. I agree with you. Least said soonest mended.”

She filled up the teapot.

Nurse O'Brien said:

“By the way, now, did you find that tube of morphine all right when you got home?”

Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said:

“No. It beats me to know what can have become of it, but I think it may have been this way: I
might
have set it down on the edge of the mantelpiece as I often do while I lock the cupboard, and it
might
have rolled and fallen into the wastepaper basket that was all full of rubbish and that was emptied out into the dustbin just as I left the house.” She paused. “It
must
be that way, for I don't see what else could have become of it.”

“I see,” said Nurse O'Brien. “Well, dear, that must have been it. It's not as though you'd left your case about anywhere else—only just in the hall at Hunterbury—so it seems to me that what you suggested just now must be so. It's gone into the rubbish bin.”

“That's right,” said Nurse Hopkins eagerly. “It couldn't be any other way, could it?”

She helped herself to a pink sugar cake. She said, “It's not as though…” and stopped.

The other agreed quickly—perhaps a little too quickly.

“I'd not be worrying about it any more if I was you,” she said comfortably.

Nurse Hopkins said:

“I'm
not
worrying….”

II

Young and severe in her black dress, Elinor sat in front of Mrs. Welman's massive writing table in the library. Various papers were spread out in front of her. She had finished interviewing the servants and Mrs. Bishop. Now it was Mary Gerrard who entered the room and hesitated a minute by the doorway.

“You wanted to see me, Miss Elinor?” she said.

Elinor looked up.

“Oh, yes, Mary. Come here and sit down, will you?”

Mary came and sat in the chair Elinor indicated. It was turned a little towards the window, and the light from it fell on her face, showing the dazzling purity of the skin and bringing out the pale gold of the girl's hair.

Elinor held one hand shielding her face a little. Between the fingers she could watch the other girl's face.

She thought:

“Is it possible to hate anyone so much and not show it?”

Aloud she said in a pleasant, businesslike voice:

“I think you know, Mary, that my aunt always took a great interest in you and would have been concerned about your future.”

Mary murmured in her soft voice:

“Mrs. Welman was very good to me always.”

Elinor went on, her voice cold and detached:

“My aunt, if she had had time to make a will, would have wished, I know, to leave several legacies. Since she died without making a will, the responsibility of carrying out her wishes rests on me. I have consulted with Mr. Seddon, and by his advice we have drawn up a schedule of sums for the servants according to their length of service, etc.” She paused. “You, of course, don't come quite into that class.”

She half-hoped, perhaps, that those words might hold a sting, but the face she was looking at showed no change. Mary accepted the words at their face value and listened to what more was to come.

Elinor said:

“Though it was difficult for my aunt to speak coherently, she was able to make her meaning understood that last evening. She definitely wanted to make some provision for your future.”

Mary said quietly:

“That was very good of her.”

Elinor said brusquely:

“As soon as probate is granted, I am arranging that two thousand pounds should be made over to you—that sum to be yours to do with absolutely as you please.”

Mary's colour rose.

“Two thousand pounds? Oh, Miss Elinor, that
is
good of you! I don't know what to say.”

Elinor said sharply:

“It isn't particularly good of me, and please don't say anything.”

Mary flushed.

“You don't know what a difference it will make to me,” she murmured.

Elinor said:

“I'm glad.”

She hesitated. She looked away from Mary to the other side of the room. She said with a slight effort:

“I wonder—have you any plans?”

Mary said quickly:

“Oh, yes. I shall train for something. Massage, perhaps. That's what Nurse Hopkins advises.”

Elinor said:

“That sounds a very good idea. I will try and arrange with Mr. Seddon that some money shall be advanced to you as soon as possible—at once, if that is feasible.”

“You're very,
very
good, Miss Elinor,” said Mary gratefully.

Elinor said curtly:

“It was Aunt Laura's wish.” She hesitated, then said, “Well, that's all, I think.”

This time the definite dismissal in the words pierced Mary's sensitive skin. She got up, said quietly, “Thank you very much, Miss Elinor,” and left the room.

Elinor sat quite still, staring ahead of her. Her face was quite impassive. There was no clue in it as to what was going on in her mind. But she sat there, motionless, for a long time….

III

Elinor went at last in search of Roddy. She found him in the morning room. He was standing staring out of the window. He turned sharply as Elinor came in.

She said:

“I've got through it all! Five hundred for Mrs. Bishop—she's been here such years. A hundred for the cook and fifty each for Milly and Olive. Five pounds each to the others. Twenty-five for Stephens, the head gardener; and there's old Gerrard, of course, at the Lodge. I haven't done anything about him yet. It's awkward. He'll have to be pensioned off, I suppose?”

She paused and then went on rather hurriedly:

“I'm settling two thousand on Mary Gerrard. Do you think that's what Aunt Laura would have wished? It seemed to me about the right sum.”

Roddy said without looking at her:

“Yes, exactly right. You've always got excellent judgement, Elinor.”

He turned to look out of the window again.

Elinor held her breath for a minute, then she began to speak with nervous haste, the words tumbling out incoherently:

“There's something more: I want to—it's only right—I mean,
you've
got to have your proper share, Roddy.”

As he wheeled round, anger on his face, she hurried on:

“No,
listen,
Roddy. This is just bare justice! The money that was your uncle's—that he left to his wife—naturally he always assumed it would come to you. Aunt Laura meant it to, too. I know she did, from lots of things she said. If
I
have
her
money,
you
should have the amount that was
his
—it's only right. I—I can't bear to feel
I've robbed you—just because Aunt Laura funked making a will. You must—you
must
see sense about this!”

Roderick's long, sensitive face had gone dead white.

He said:

“My God, Elinor, do you want to make me feel an utter cad? Do you think for one moment I could—could take this money from you?”

“I'm not
giving
it to you. It's just—fair.”

Roddy cried out:

“I don't want your money!”

“It isn't mine!”

“It's yours by law—and that's all that matters! For God's sake, don't let's be anything but strictly businesslike! I won't take a penny from you. You're not going to do the Lady Bountiful to me!”

Elinor cried out:

“Roddy!”

He made a quick gesture.

“Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying. I feel so bewildered—so utterly lost….”

Elinor said gently:

“Poor Roddy….”

He had turned away again and was playing with the blind tassel of the window. He said in a different tone, a detached one:

“Do you know what—Mary Gerrard proposes doing?”

“She's going to train as a masseuse, so she says.”

He said, “I see.”

There was a silence. Elinor drew herself up; she flung back her head. Her voice when she spoke was suddenly compelling.

She said:

“Roddy, I want you to listen to me carefully!”

He turned to her, slightly surprised.

“Of course, Elinor.”

“I want you, if you will, to follow my advice.”

“And what is your advice?”

Elinor said calmly:

“You are not particularly tied? You can always get a holiday, can't you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then do—just that. Go abroad somewhere for—say, three months. Go by yourself. Make new friends and see new places. Let's speak quite frankly. At this moment you think you're in love with Mary Gerrard. Perhaps you are. But it isn't a moment for approaching her—you know that only too well. Our engagement is definitely broken off. Go abroad, then, as a free man, and at the end of the three months, as a free man, make up your mind. You'll know then whether you—really love Mary or whether it was only a temporary infatuation. And if you are quite sure you
do
love her—well, then, come back and go to her and tell her so, and that you're quite sure about it, and perhaps then she'll listen.”

Roddy came to her. He caught her hand in his.

“Elinor, you're wonderful! So clearheaded! So marvellously impersonal! There's no trace of pettiness or meanness about you. I admire you more than I can ever say. I'll do exactly what you suggest. Go away, cut free from everything—and find out whether I've got the genuine disease or if I've just been making the most ghastly fool of myself. Oh, Elinor, my dear, you don't know how truly fond I am of you. I do realize you were always a thousand times too good for me. Bless you, dear, for all your goodness.”

Quickly, impulsively, he kissed her cheek and went out of the room.

It was as well, perhaps, that he did not look back and see her face.

IV

It was a couple of days later that Mary acquainted Nurse Hopkins with her improved prospects.

That practical woman was warmly congratulatory.

“That's a great piece of luck for you, Mary,” she said. “The old lady may have meant well by you, but unless a thing's down in black and white, intentions don't go for much! You might easily have got nothing at all.”

“Miss Elinor said that the night Mrs. Welman died she told her to do something for me.”

Nurse Hopkins snorted.

“Maybe she did. But there's many would have forgotten conveniently afterwards. Relations are like that. I've seen a few things,
I
can tell you! People dying and saying they know they can leave it to their dear son or their dear daughter to carry out their wishes. Nine times out of ten, dear son and dear daughter find some very good reason to do nothing of the kind. Human nature's human nature, and nobody likes parting with money if they're not legally compelled to! I tell you, Mary, my girl, you've been lucky. Miss Carlisle's straighter than most.”