XXVII

“Monkey, I think you’re absolutely weak about Evelyn.”

Lacy’s flute-like voice was a little plaintive. She felt herself justly aggrieved. To begin with, it was a very fine day and she would have enjoyed the drive. Why then should Monkey have insisted on her remaining at home—really insisted—when all she had ever suggested was that she should sit in the car and keep him company whilst Evelyn went to see Frau Blum?

“You can say what you like, Monkey, but it would have been much better if I had come with you as I suggested. Suppose Evelyn had fainted, or anything like that?”

“She didn’t faint, thank the Lord.”

“She might have fainted—you never know. And if she had fainted, why, then I should have been there. And anyhow I should have insisted on hearing what had happened, whereas, as far as I can make out, you let her come back looking like a ghost, and didn’t ask her a single question.”

“My child, what a dramatic mind you’ve got! I didn’t say Evelyn looked like a ghost; I said she looked as if she’d had a trying scene with Anna. And when she got into the car and said, ‘You won’t ask any questions, Monkey,—will you?’, well, I naturally didn’t ask any. And what’s more, Lacy, you’re not going to ask any either.”

Lacy smiled and dropped him a little curtsey.

“Really?” she said. “And how are you going to stop me, Monkey darling?”

Manning put a hand on her shoulder. All the lines on his face deepened.

“I’m serious.”

She twisted away from him with a pettish laugh.

“And so am I serious. Evelyn’s my very own cousin, and I shall ask her as many questions as I like.”

Manning went out of the room and banged the door behind him.

A little later Lacy had an opportunity of putting her questions. She spent the whole of the evening alone with Evelyn, but she did not get much farther than:

“I hope your visit to Frau Blum went off all right.”

“Oh, yes, quite all right,” was the very composed reply.

“You won’t want to go again now, will you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Did you get anything out of her?”

There was a little silence. Evelyn looked up from the letter she was writing.

“I’m so sorry—what did you say?”

“I asked whether you got anything out of her. Monkey says she’s as close as wax.”

“I’m frightfully sorry for her,” said Evelyn.

She went on writing, and Lacy began to realize that her question had been left unanswered for the second time. She returned to the charge with obstinate sweetness:

“You didn’t get anything out of her, I suppose?”

“Her? Oh, Frau Blum. Sorry, Lacy, I’m rather in the middle of this letter.” Then, after a pause, “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”—after which there was really no more to be said.

Evelyn returned to town with the Mannings. Manning had leave before taking up his appointment, and he and Lacy went straight to Laydon Manor in response to a rather urgent invitation from Sir Cotterell.

Evelyn went back to her flat to pick up a few things. She had spent a fortnight at Laydon Manor in May every year for the last nine years. This year’s visit loomed rather terrifyingly in her thought, since Laydon would as a matter of course be there, and to live under the same roof with him, move with him amongst the old remembered places, was an ordeal from which she shrank. The Mannings had been asked in order to make the situation a little easier. Lacy, gratified and important, was already very much the chaperone.

“Because, of course, Evelyn darling, it’s a very, very delicate position; and I’m not at all sure it wouldn’t be wiser for you to give up your visit this year.”

Evelyn surveyed her with a smile.

“Lacy, or the dragon!” she observed. “It’s frightfully edifying, but it’ll give you lines and turn you into a frump if you go on with it.”

“All the same, Evelyn darling,——”

“Come right off it,” said Evelyn. “I’m not taking any.”

It was whilst Evelyn was considering whether she would pack her green tea-gown that the front door bell rang. Ponson, pausing at her door, inquired whether she was at home, and Evelyn, after saying “No,” suddenly changed her mind and said “Yes.”

It might, of course, be Cotty or Mrs Cotty. But on the other hand it might be Marcia Lane, whom she really wanted to see—or it might be Laydon. The bare possibility was enough to make her revoke her “No.”

She went into the drawing-room and waited, furious with herself because her cheeks were hot. She bent over the fire to provide them with a legitimate excuse, and heard behind her the sound of the opening door and Ponson’s voice, very carefully restrained:

“Mrs Albert Laycock.”

The door was shut again, and Evelyn found herself gazing spell-bound at Pearl Palliser in mourning garb so deep that it fairly took her breath away. She had on a dress which was almost covered with rustling crape and a long widow’s veil. Her hands were encased in black kid gloves, and she wore the widest and most noticeable of lawn collars and cuffs. A jet chain hung to her knees.

Evelyn found herself shaking hands.

“Well, dear,” said Miss Palliser, “you see how it is.”

“Mr Laycock?”

“Gone,” said Miss Palliser. Her voice was cheerful, but she raised her eyes perfunctorily to the ceiling. “The cable came whilst you were real away. Very prompt, I’m sure, and only goes to prove what I’ve always said, that it’s a real blessing to be living in up-to-date times, where you’re not kept waiting months and years to hear a bit of news.”

She paused to take breath, and settled herself comfortably in a chair by the fire.

“Well, dear, I’m a widow this time, and no human doubt about it. And you’ll be pleased to hear that my banns are put up to marry Henry Cowdray a month from to-day.”

“Oh, I hope you’ll be happy,” said Evelyn. She tried to keep her fascinated gaze from the black kid gloves and the folds of the widow’s veil.

Miss Palliser nodded comfortably.

“You’re looking at my mourning. Nice, isn’t it? Makes me look slim too. A bit extravagant perhaps, but I said to Henry straight away when the cable came, ‘All right, Henry,’ I said, ‘poor Albert’s gone, and I’ll marry you as soon as you can get the banns put up; but I’m not going to be done out of my weeds for you, or for anyone else either, and that’s that.’ You see, dear, I never got a chance to wear them for Ted Edwards, because he just kind of faded away, and when I did really hear from that Australian parson—well, I was married to Jim Field, or thought I was, and it’d have looked a bit queer if I’d come out a widow—a bit sudden as you might say. Then when Jim Field and Jack Laydon were missing—I don’t know, I didn’t seem to have the heart to bother about it. You may believe me or not just as you like, but I did cry my eyes out over those two boys, and I didn’t seem to have the heart to think about being dressy.” She took a stiff new handkerchief with a black border and applied it to her eyes.

Evelyn found herself unable to think of anything to say. She gazed sympathetically at Miss Palliser, and after a moment the black-gloved hand withdrew the handkerchief and disclosed Miss Palliser’s naturally cheerful expression.

“Well, I’m a fool to cry, to be sure,—and when a drop of water’s ruin to crape and all. Well, where was I? Oh, I was talking about being extravagant. Henry had a lot to say about it. But don’t you think I was right, dear,—not to give way I mean? It isn’t as if it’d all go to waste either. The gloves, and the collar and cuffs, and the crape I grant you; but there’s a friend of mine that’ll be glad enough to have them. And as to the rest, I told Henry he didn’t know what he was talking about. I can put a touch of colour on the dress and wear it out in the afternoon as easy as easy. And I rather thought of putting that nice large paste ornament I had on the other day right across the front of the hat. But there, dear, men are obstinate, and the less they know about a thing, the more fuss they kick up.”

She stopped, displayed a momentary embarrassment, fidgeted with her handkerchief, and then said rather abruptly,

“I suppose now, you wouldn’t come and see me married, would you?”

“Oh, yes, I would,” said Evelyn. “I will if I’m in town.”

“Of course if it hadn’t been for a kind of accident, as you may say, you might have been coming to my wedding as a connection so to speak. But as I was married to Albert Laycock, why, then of course I never was Mrs Jack Laydon, though I thought so at the time and for ten years after. But of course I’m not asking you to come for that because I’m not a family connection any more, and never was. It’s just a fancy I’ve got, to have you there, dear. And it’ll be in church, as I told you, and all very proper and respectable, Henry being a sidesman and taking round the bag on Sundays.” She went off into deep chuckling laughter. “Now, dear,” she said, “I’m coming to business. I didn’t come here to talk about myself, but to tell you I’d had Nosey Parker round again.”

“Mr Abbott?”

“Mr Nosey Parker Abbott. Oh, Lord, he is a nosey one too! And I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me, dear; but he worried me into it.”

“Into what?” Evelyn’s tone was alarmed.

Miss Palliser nodded ruefully.

“He worried me into it. I told you as like as not he would. And he did. First thing I knew, I had a pen in my hand signing my name.”

“Oh, Miss Palliser, don’t! What did you sign?”

“A paper,” said Miss Palliser in tones of gloom. “He took it down, and wrote it out, and put the pen into my hand, and next thing I knew I was signing my name. And he asked me as sharp as a ferret,’ Is that your legal name?’ and I said ‘Lord knows,’ for the cable hadn’t come.”

“Oh, Miss Palliser, what did you sign?”

“Well, seeing it was all so uncertain, I put Pearl Palliser.”

“No, no. I mean what was in the paper?”

“Don’t ask me, dear.”

“But you must know.”

“Can’t say I do. But it was something about recognizing you know who, and being sure he was Jim Field the first time I saw him.”

Evelyn bit her lip. It was no good being angry.

Miss Palliser got up reluctantly.

“Well, so long,” she said. “Henry’s waiting for me to go and choose a carpet with him, and I’d rather he was in a good temper for it. It might make as much as five pounds difference in the price—you never know. I’ll send you a card about the wedding. And here’s luck to you.”

She went towards the door, but turned as Evelyn touched the bell.

“Look here, dear,” she said, “I don’t mind telling you now that, honest, I don’t know which he is. Sometimes I’ve thought he was one, and sometimes another. That’s the gospel truth. And now, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care. See? He may be Jim Laydon, or he may be Jack Laydon, or he may be Jim Field, which I’ve put my name to. Whichever of the three he is, he’s not my husband, thank goodness, for I want to settle down comfortably with Henry. And you’re free to take your pick, dear. Well, cheery-o!”

She opened the door, waved affably, and, encountering Ponson, became with startling suddenness a figure of majestic woe. Even the fact that the coat which she had left in the hall was both old and shabby did not impair her dignity. She assumed the garment after the manner of a tragedy queen, and departed full of inward satisfaction.

Evelyn stood in the middle of the room, quite still. “You’re free to take your pick.” An anger that was like ice and a pride like fire fought in her.