Vanishing Point (2 page)

He found himself sharing her mood, instead of being able to stand back from it and criticize. They were being ridiculously intense. All right. And so what? He supposed he had it in him to be intense as well as the next man. He said, speaking with deliberation,

“I can’t tell you what you want to know, because, as I have already said, these things fizzle out. But I don’t see why that should trouble you. There isn’t anything that could be published now. All that you’ve got to do is to let her have her head—let her go on writing. She will anyhow, until she finds out—we all find out—whether she can make a good job of it, or whether she can’t. Meanwhile see that she has the right things to read— don’t let her fritter away her taste on trash. I suppose there’s a library in a house like this?”

She gave him a rueful smile.

“Very old-fashioned.”

He laughed.

“Scott—Dickens—and the other Victorians!”

“She won’t read them.”

“Starve her till she does. Stop the rubbish. If she doesn’t get it she’ll be hungry enough to fall to on wholesome food. By the way, what does she read? No, you needn’t tell me—I know. ‘He pressed a long burning kiss upon her lips.’ ‘My love, my love!’ she cried’. All that sort of thing!”

The dark blue eyes widened.

“Oh! Did she write that?”

He grinned.

“And a lot more like it, only in one place she made it a bitter kiss. And there was something about ‘tears salt on the lips’. That mightn’t have been copied.”

“But—she oughtn’t to be writing about things like that. I mean, if it’s just copying, it doesn’t matter so much, but if she thought of that for herself—”

He had another of those unpredictable spurts of anger. Her look of distress had been poignant. What did she know about kisses washed in tears?

She said doubtfully,

“I suppose you had better see her.”

They came out into the hall again and across it to a long dark passage. The light which Rosamond switched on was up in the ceiling and as faint as candle light. There was no sound anywhere, until quite suddenly an electric bell buzzed, and went on buzzing. The sound came from behind a door on the left. It was perfectly plain that somebody wanted something and would go on ringing until the want was supplied. Rosamond stood still and said in a low voice, “It’s my aunt. I must go. I won’t be any longer than I can help.” And upon that was gone. The infernal buzzing stopped. He heard a harshly-pitched voice, and a murmuring low one which presently ceased, while the other voice went on. He thought Rosamond Maxwell was being scolded, and that either from habit or discretion she took her scoldings in silence. He found himself disliking the owner of the scolding voice.

He walked away from it, and had almost reached the end of the passage, when the door which faced him was jerked open and a girl in a green dress looked out at him. She had one hand on the door, and with the other she leaned across and clutched the frame. A long faded shawl in a mixture of colours now practically extinct hung from her shoulders and trailed upon the floor. Above it there were features which would have been pretty had they been less pinched, eyes of a startling blue, and a shining auriole of hair. The face was a child’s, but the eyes were harder than a child’s eyes should be. He had never seen anything like the hair in his life. It was the colour of bright bronze. It stood away from her head in springing waves and curled into delicate tendrils about the temples and ears.

He said, “Miss Jenny Maxwell?” and she took her hand from the door to catch at her shawl and said,

“Yes, of course. But who are you?”

There was neither shyness nor discomposure. He said,

“Your sister was bringing me to see you.”

“Where is she?”

“A bell rang. She went into a room about half way along the passage.”

Jenny nodded.

“Aunt Lydia’s bell. It rings all the time, and she can’t be kept waiting a minute. She is Miss Crewe, and this is her house. I suppose you know that.” She took a halting step backwards. “If you were coming to see me you had better come in.”

Everything in the room was shabby. Curtains frayed at the edges. A carpet with a disappearing pattern. Old sagging chairs. A Victorian sofa darned where the upholstery showed, but for the most part hidden by the rug which Jenny had thrown back and by a litter of books and papers. She sat down, pulled the rug over her, and pointed.

“You had better have that chair. The springs want mending, but I don’t suppose you’ll go through.”

“I hope not.”

The brilliant eyes watched him with interest. They were not soft and deep like Rosamond’s. They had the brightness and glitter of sea water under the sun. After surveying him at her leisure she said,

“I suppose you are a doctor. I have seen so many of them. At first they thought I was going to die. They didn’t say so, but of course I knew. Now they say I’m a Remarkable Case. It’s a bore being an invalid, but you meet some very interesting people, and it’s nice to be a Remarkable Case.”

“I shouldn’t think it would make up for not being able to run about. But you are going to be able to do that too, aren’t you?”

She pursed up her mouth.

“I expect so. You haven’t told me your name. Are you one of the famous ones? The last man who came to see me was. He came over from Paris on purpose, and I can’t remember his name, because I think it was Russian. It sounded like a sneeze, and the Russian ones do, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a doctor at all.”

“Oh? Then why did you want to see me?”

“Well, I was passing—”

“How did you know there was anything to pass, or anyone to come and see? Did you know my father and mother? If it was my father, Aunt Lydia wouldn’t be at all pleased. She has always been angry because my mother was a girl, and because my father wouldn’t change his name when he married her. If he had, we should have been Crewes and carried on the family, and now there’s no one. It makes her wild to think of Maxwells living in Crewe House, so perhaps she’ll just leave it to the nation, and Rosamond and I won’t have anywhere to go—like Vera Vavasour and her child in Passionate Hearts. Have you read Passionate Hearts? It’s by Gloria Gilmore.”

“I don’t think I have.”

“Oh, you would know if you had. It’s marvellous! I cried so much over the seventeenth chapter that Rosamond took it away. But she had to give it back again, because I wouldn’t stop crying until she did!”

He controlled his face.

“Why do women always like something that makes them cry?”

He had nearly said girls, but perceived that it would have been a mistake. Jenny was preening herself. His last minute substitute couldn’t have gone down better. As she continued to discourse upon her favourite books, he was conscious of disappointment. The Heart’s Awakening, Lady Marcia’s Secret, A Sister’s Sacrifice— If these were Rosamond’s choice—He said,

“That’s the sort of thing you like?”

She was flushed and eager.

“Oh, yes! Haven’t you read any of them?”

He shook his head.

“They’re not very much in my line.”

“What a pity! They’re lovely! But it’s so funny, Rosamond doesn’t care for them. She wants me to read dreadfully stuffy things, and why should I if I don’t like them? When I’ve got a Gloria Gilmore I just don’t care about anything in the world— not about my back or anything. Then there’s Mavis la Rue. She’s marvellous, but Rosamond has got a regular down on her, I can’t think why. She makes you feel as if even dreadful things could be beautiful, if you know what I mean. Rosamond didn’t. And she took Passion for Two away from me even after I’d told her that. I didn’t think she would be so unkind, but she was. And I believe she had a row with Nicholas about letting me have it, because the books haven’t been nearly so exciting ever since.”

So Rosamond was not responsible for Gloria Gilmore. He experienced a ridiculous sense of relief. As he enquired, “Who is Nicholas?” Jenny made a casual gesture.

“Cunningham,” she said briefly. “He works at that place the other side of the village, Dalling Grange. Experiments for aeroplanes, you know—or perhaps you don’t, because it’s all frightfully secret. Aunt Lydia says they’ll blow us all up some day, but I expect she’s thinking about atom bombs. Anyhow I asked Nicholas, and he only laughed and said his lips were sealed.”

“He is a friend of yours?”

She sat up straight and pulled in her chin.

“I used to think he was, but now I’m not so sure—because of his giving in to Rosamond like that. He’s in love with her, you know. At least I suppose he is, because he looks at her that way, and it’s all right in a book. Gloria Gilmore and Mavis la Rue make it sound lovely, but when it’s someone you thought was your friend, and then you find out he is nothing but a trampled worm, it just looks sloppy.”

So Nicholas was sloppy about Rosamond. Craig was finding Miss Jenny Maxwell quite informative. The theme fascinated him. He pursued it.

“There’s a general consensus of opinion that people in love are apt to look silly—except to each other.”

“Rosamond isn’t in love,” said Jenny with the extremity of scorn. “She wouldn’t have time, for one thing. It’s Nicholas who is in love with her. I don’t suppose she even notices it. Aunt Lydia adores him, so he comes in and out a lot. The aunt he lives with is one of her oldest friends. They both adore Nicholas. The Cunninghams are just next door. Much too close for another house really, but it used to belong to the Crewes—a dower house for the old ladies of the family, with a way through to the garden so that they could come in and out and the family could drop in and visit them. People didn’t seem to get bored with their relations as much as they do now, and everyone thought it was a very nice arrangement. But when the money began to go wrong Aunt Lydia’s father sold the Dower House, and of course Aunt Lydia minded dreadfully. She would mind if she had to sell a pebble off the drive, so you can imagine what she felt like when it was a whole house absolutely bang next door where she could see strangers going in and out. So it was just as well that she made friends with Miss Cunningham, wasn’t it? There was a brother too, and she fell in love with him—like Romeo and Juliet, you know. And then something happened. I don’t know what it was, because people won’t tell you. That’s one of the really horrid things about being young, and it’s no good their saying it’s the best time of your life, because it’s very— very—” She cast about her for a word and came out with “frustrating!”

Craig laughed.

“Cheer up—it will pass! ‘Youth’s a stuff will not endure’.”

She made a child’s face at him.

“That’s what people always say about the things they don’t have to put up with themselves! What was I saying? Oh, about Henry Cunningham. Nobody knows what happened—at least if they do they won’t tell. But he went away for more than twenty years, and Aunt Lydia never got over it. It’s frightfully difficult to think of anybody as old as Aunt Lydia ever having been in love, isn’t it? And very depressing too, because there’s a picture of her in the drawing-room quite nice-looking, and she’s pretty frightful now.”

It was at this rather embarrassing moment that Rosamond Maxwell opened the door. Her quiet manner held, but it had been shaken. She was even paler than she had been. He guessed at the effort which steadied her voice as she said,

“My aunt would very much like to see you, Mr. Lester.”

Jenny made an abrupt movement.

“What on earth for! He’s come to see me, hasn’t he!”

“I’ll bring him back, Jenny. You can go on with your talk afterwards. I think Aunt Lydia would like to see him now.”

Jenny’s spoilt-child expression warned him that he had better get out of the room as quickly as possible. Her protests followed him as she shut the door.

A little way along the passage he stopped.

“She seems to think I’m a doctor.”

Rosamond said, “Oh—” And, “You haven’t talked to her then?”

“Oh, yes, we’ve talked.”

He wondered what she would say if she knew how frank that talk had been.

“But not about her writing—”

“Mostly about how much she admires the great works of Miss Gloria Gilmore.”

Rosamond threw up a hand.

“What can I do! She does love them so, and they are really quite harmless. It is Nicholas Cunningham who brings them. His aunt has shelves and shelves of them, but I’ve told him not to bring any more of the la Rue woman’s stuff. Broken Vows and Passion for Two! Jenny was so cross when I took them away, but they were really nasty. I don’t think the others will do her any harm.”

He made a wry face.

“Children like sugar.”

Her smile came and went. It was a little tremulous.

“Don’t say that to Jenny.” Then, on an urgent note, “We mustn’t stand here talking. Aunt Lydia doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

She took him along to the door which she had opened before, went a little way in, stood aside for him to pass her, and said,

“Mr. Lester, Aunt Lydia.”

He was never to forget his first impression of Miss Crewe’s room. At a glance two things emerged—it was grey, and it was crowded. He was to discover later on that the original colour of the hangings, the striped wall-paper and the faintly patterned carpet had been a delicate shade of blue. Under this light and lapse of years they were now as grey as dust. And so was Miss Lydia herself.

She sat in an upright chair, a hand on either of its massive arms, and dominated the scene—tall, stiff, with thick iron-grey hair taken back relentlessly from a high, narrow brow and bony features. He found himself wondering what she could have looked like when she was young. The bones were all good. With bloom and colour there might even have been beauty there. The thin, stiff figure might have had its curves—it had none now. The right hand lifted and was extended to him. Stones flashed in half a dozen rings—diamond, emerald, ruby, sapphire. The fingers that wore them were as cold to the touch as bone. She said,

“How do you do, Mr. Lester? I understand that you have come down to see my niece. Pray sit down.”

It was definitely alarming. No, that was wrong, the word should have been indefinitely. He wasn’t a boy, to be intimidated by an old woman who had outlived her world and retreated into a solitude of her own making. Absurd to have any feeling except compassion. For her—or for Rosamond Maxwell? His former anger rose in him as he took the chair to which she had pointed and said,

“I happened to be passing. But I must apologise for troubling you at this hour. I must confess I lost my way, and then when I was so near—”

There was an overhead chandelier bright with faceted lustres. The electricity so sparely used in the rest of the house blazed from it upon a room full of old and undoubtedly valuable furniture, upon the bookcases and cabinets which lined the walls, upon every description of chair and every kind of small occasional table, upon the china which filled the cabinets, the innumerable small objects which littered the tables, and upon Miss Lydia herself in a grey velvet wrap lifting the hand with the sparkling rings and saying,

“You came to see my niece. I am told that you are in a publishing firm. I believe she amuses herself with scribbling, but you will not ask me to believe that you take that sort of thing seriously.”

Her tone affected him in a singularly unpleasant manner. It carried so final a dismissal of Jenny’s childish ambitions. They might have no value in themselves, and yet mean all the world to a crippled child.

“She had no business to trouble you,” said Lydia Crewe.

He achieved a smile.

“Well, that is what we are there for. I didn’t know how young she was. Of course there could be no question of publishing any of her work at present, but I thought I should like to see her, and perhaps give her a little advice. She obviously loves writing, and since she isn’t very strong, it is probably a great pleasure to her. It is much too soon to say whether there is any real talent.”

“And so you came down here to say that. Very obliging of you, I am sure. Can we offer you some refreshment?”