Sad Cypress (7 page)

E
linor Carlisle came out of the King's Arms on the morning of Thursday, July 27th, and stood for a minute or two looking up and down the main street of Maidensford.

Suddenly, with an exclamation of pleasure, she crossed the road.

There was no mistaking that large dignified presence, that serene gait as of a galleon in full sail.

“Mrs. Bishop!”

“Why, Miss Elinor! This
is
a surprise! I'd no notion you were in these parts! If I'd known you were coming to Hunterbury I'd have been there myself! Who's doing for you there? Have you brought someone down from London?”

Elinor shook her head.

“I'm not staying at the house. I am staying at the King's Arms.”

Mrs. Bishop looked across the road and sniffed dubiously.

“It is
possible
to stay there, I've heard,” she allowed. “It's clean, I
know. And the cooking, they say, is fair, but it's hardly what
you're
accustomed to, Miss Elinor.”

Elinor said, smiling:

“I'm really quite comfortable. It's only for a day or two. I have to sort out things at the house. All my aunt's personal things; and then there are a few pieces of furniture I should like to have in London.”

“The house is really sold, then?”

“Yes. To a Major Somervell. Our new Member. Sir George Kerr died, you know, and there's been a bye-election.”

“Returned unopposed,” said Mrs. Bishop grandly. “We've never had anyone but a Conservative for Maidenford.”

Elinor said:

“I'm glad someone has bought the house who really wants to live in it. I should have been sorry if it had been turned into a hotel or built upon.”

Mrs. Bishop shut her eyes and shivered all over her plump aristocratic person.

“Yes, indeed, that would have been dreadful—quite dreadful. It's bad enough as it is to think of Hunterbury passing into the hands of strangers.”

Elinor said:

“Yes, but, you see, it would have been a very large house for me to live in—alone.”

Mrs. Bishop sniffed.

Elinor said quickly:

“I meant to ask you: Is there any especial piece of furniture that you might care to have? I should be very glad for you to have it, if so.”

Mrs. Bishop beamed. She said graciously:

“Well, Miss Elinor, that is very thoughtful of you—very kind, I'm sure. If it's not taking a liberty…?”

She paused and Elinor said:

“Oh, no.”

“I have always had a great admiration for the secretaire in the drawing room. Such a
handsome
piece.”

Elinor remembered it, a somewhat flamboyant piece of inlaid marqueterie. She said quickly:

“Of course you shall have it, Mrs. Bishop. Anything else?”

“No, indeed, Miss Elinor. You have already been extremely generous.”

Elinor said:

“There are some chairs in the same style as the secretaire. Would you care for those?”

Mrs. Bishop accepted the chairs with becoming thanks. She explained:

“I am staying at the moment with my sister. Is there anything I can do for you up at the house, Miss Elinor? I could come up there with you, if you like.”

“No, thank you.”

Elinor spoke quickly, rather abruptly.

Mrs. Bishop said:

“It would be no trouble, I assure you—a pleasure. Such a melancholy task going through all dear Mrs. Welman's things.”

Elinor said:

“Thank you, Mrs. Bishop, but I would rather tackle it alone. One can do some things better alone—”

Mrs. Bishop said stiffly:

“As you please, of course.”

She went on:

“That daughter of Gerrard's is down here. The funeral was yesterday. She's staying with Nurse Hopkins. I did hear
they
were going up to the Lodge this morning.”

Elinor nodded. She said:

“Yes, I asked Mary to come down and see to that. Major Somervell wants to get in as soon as possible.”

“I see.”

Elinor said:

“Well, I must be getting on now. So glad to have seen you, Mrs. Bishop. I'll remember about the secretaire and the chairs.”

She shook hands and passed on.

She went into the baker's and bought a loaf of bread. Then she went into the dairy and bought half a pound of butter and some milk.

Finally she went into the grocer's.

“I want some paste for sandwiches, please.”

“Certainly, Miss Carlisle.” Mr. Abbott himself bustled forward, elbowing aside his junior apprentice.

“What would you like? Salmon and shrimp? Turkey and tongue? Salmon and sardine? Ham and tongue?”

He whipped down pot after pot and arrayed them on the counter.

Elinor said with a faint smile:

“In spite of their names, I always think they taste much alike.”

Mr. Abbott agreed instantly.

“Well, perhaps they do, in a way. Yes, in a way. But, of course, they're very tasty—very tasty.”

Elinor said:

“One used to be rather afraid of eating fish pastes. There have been cases of ptomaine poisoning from them, haven't there?”

Mr. Abbot put on a horrified expression.

“I can assure you this is an excellent brand—
most
reliable—we never have any complaints.”

Elinor said:

“I'll have one of salmon and anchovy and one of salmon and shrimp. Thank you.”

II

Elinor Carlisle entered the grounds of Hunterbury by the back gate.

It was a hot, clear summer's day. There were sweetpeas in flower. Elinor passed close by a row of them. The undergardener, Horlick, who was remaining on to keep the place in order, greeted her respectfully.

“Good morning, miss. I got your letter. You'll find the side door open, miss. I've unfastened the shutters and opened most of the windows.”

Elinor said:

“Thank you, Horlick.”

As she moved on, the young man said nervously, his Adam's apple jerking up and down in spasmodic fashion:

“Excuse me, miss—”

Elinor turned back. “Yes?”

“Is it true that the house is sold? I mean, is it really settled?”

“Oh, yes!”

Horlick said nervously:

“I was wondering, miss, if you would say a word for me—to Major Somervell, I mean. He'll be wanting gardeners. Maybe he'll think I'm too young for head gardener, but I've worked under Mr. Stephens for four years now, and I reckon I know a tidyish bit, and I've kept things going fairly well since I've been here, single-handed.”

Elinor said quickly:

“Of course I will do all I can for you, Horlick. As a matter of fact, I intended to mention you to Major Somervell and tell him what a good gardener you are.”

Horlick's face grew dusky red.

“Thank you, miss. That's very kind of you. You can understand it's been a bit of a blow, like—Mrs. Welman dying, and then the place being sold off so quick—and I—well, the fact of the matter is I was going to get married this autumn, only one's got to be sure….”

He stopped.

Elinor said kindly:

“I hope Major Somervell will take you on. You can rely on me to do all I can.”

Horlick said again:

“Thank you, miss. We all hoped, you see, as how the place would be kept on by the family. Thank you, miss.”

Elinor walked on.

Suddenly, rushing over her like the stream from a broken dam, a wave of anger, of wild resentment, swept over her.

“We all hoped the place would be kept on by the family….”

She and Roddy could have lived here!
She and Roddy
… Roddy would have wanted that. It was what she herself would have
wanted. They had always loved Hunterbury, both of them. Dear Hunterbury… In the years before her parents had died, when they had been in India, she had come here for holidays. She had played in the woods, rambled by the stream, picked sweetpeas in great flowering armloads, eaten fat green gooseberries and dark red luscious raspberries. Later, there had been apples. There had been places, secret lairs, where she had curled up with a book and read for hours.

She had loved Hunterbury. Always, at the back of her mind, she had felt sure of living there permanently some day. Aunt Laura had fostered that idea. Little words and phrases:

“Some day, Elinor, you may like to cut down those yews. They are a little gloomy, perhaps!”

“One might have a water garden here. Some day, perhaps,
you
will.”

And Roddy? Roddy, too, had looked forward to Hunterbury being his home. It had lain, perhaps, behind his feeling for her, Elinor. He had felt, subconsciously, that it was fitting and right that they two should be together at Hunterbury.

And they
would
have been together there. They would have been together
here—now
—not packing up the house for selling, but redecorating it, planning new beauties in house and garden, walking side by side in gentle proprietary pleasure, happy—yes,
happy
together—but for the fatal accident of a girl's wild-rose beauty….

What did Roddy know of Mary Gerrard? Nothing—less than nothing! What did he care for her—for the real Mary? She had, quite possibly, admirable qualities, but did Roddy know anything about them? It was the old story—Nature's hoary old joke!

Hadn't Roddy himself said it was an “enchantment?”

Didn't Roddy himself—
really
—want to be free of it?

If Mary Gerrard were to—die, for instance, wouldn't Roddy some day acknowledge: “It was all for the best. I see that now. We had nothing in common….”

He would add, perhaps, with gentle melancholy:

“She was a lovely creature….”

Let her be that to him—yes—an exquisite memory—a thing of beauty and a joy forever….

If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard, Roddy would come back to her—Elinor… She was quite sure of that!

If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard…

Elinor turned the handle of the side door. She passed from the warm sunlight into the shadow of the house. She shivered.

It felt cold in here, dark, sinister… It was as though Something was there, waiting for her, in the house….

She walked along the hall and pushed the baize door that led into the butler's pantry.

It smelt slightly musty. She pushed up the window, opening it wide.

She laid down her parcels—the butter, the loaf, the little glass bottle of milk. She thought:

“Stupid! I meant to get coffee.”

She looked in the canisters on a shelf. There was a little tea in one of them, but no coffee.

She thought: “Oh, well, it doesn't matter.”

She unwrapped the two glass jars of fish paste.

She stood staring at them for a minute. Then she left the pantry and went upstairs. She went straight to Mrs. Welman's room. She
began on the big tallboy, opening drawers, sorting, arranging, folding clothes in little piles….

III

In the Lodge Mary Gerrard was looking round rather helplessly.

She hadn't realized, somehow, how cramped it all was.

Her past life rushed back over her in a flood. Mum making clothes for her dolls. Dad always cross and surly. Disliking her. Yes, disliking her….

She said suddenly to Nurse Hopkins:

“Dad didn't say anything—send me any message before he died, did he?”

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully and callously:

“Oh, dear me, no. He was unconscious for an hour before he passed away.”

Mary said slowly:

“I feel perhaps I ought to have come down and looked after him. After all, he
was
my father.”

Nurse Hopkins said with a trace of embarrassment:

“Now, just you listen to me, Mary: whether he was your father or not doesn't enter into it. Children don't care much about their parents in these days, from what I can see, and a good many parents don't care for their children, either. Miss Lambert, at the secondary school, says that's as it should be. According to her, family life is all wrong, and children should be brought up by the state. That's as may be—just a glorified orphanage, it sounds to me—but, anyway, it's a waste of breath to go back over the past and sentimentalize.
We've got to get on with living—that's our job and not too easy, either, sometimes!”

Mary said slowly:

“I expect you're right. But I feel perhaps it was my fault we didn't get
on
better.”

Nurse Hopkins said robustly:

“Nonsense.”

The word exploded like a bomb.

It quelled Mary. Nurse Hopkins turned to more practical matters.

“What are you going to do with the furniture? Store it? Or sell it?”

Mary said doubtfully:

“I don't know. What do you think?”

Running a practical eye over it, Nurse Hopkins said:

“Some of it's quite good and solid. You might store it and furnish a little flat of your own in London some day. Get rid of the rubbish. The chairs are good—so's the table. And that's a nice bureau—it's the kind that's out of fashion, but it's solid mahogany, and they say Victorian stuff will come in again one day. I'd get rid of that great wardrobe, if I were you. Too big to fit in anywhere. Takes up half the bedroom as it is.”

They made a list between them of pieces to be kept or let go.

Mary said:

“The lawyer's been very kind—Mr. Seddon, I mean. He advanced me some money, so that I could get started with my training fees and other expenses. It will be a month or so before the money can be definitely made over to me, so he said.”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“How do you like your work?”

“I think I shall like it very much. It's rather strenuous at first. I come home tired to death.”

Nurse Hopkins said grimly: