A knock on her door came from very far off and she took some seconds to answer it.
“If you please, Miss Marianne, Fletcher says there’s a lady downstairs asking for Mr. Usher. She’s in the drawing-room and we can’t find anybody. Her ladyship’s gone over to Brassing.”
“Can’t they find Mr. Usher?”
“No, Miss. Fletcher saw him in the garden with Miss Upward, about an hour ago, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere about. And Lady Le Fanu has gone over to Brassing too. The lady said she’d wait.”
Marianne groaned and shut her book.
“Thank you. I’ll come. Tell them to go on looking for Mr. Usher.”
She knew that it was part of her business to entertain callers if Laura or her grandmother were out of the way. So she changed her shoes and stockings, pulled on a white pleated skirt, tucked her blouse in neatly, and pummelled her head severely with a brush. Remembering her nose, she rushed back to the glass to powder it, got to the door again, ran back to remove nearly all the powder, swung downstairs. Good drilling had cured her of some of her shyness. She knew what she had to do. She would walk this woman round and round and round the garden until somebody came.
But the drawing-room, with its open doors and windows, seemed, at the first glance, to be empty. She could not see anybody, though she was aware of a curious pause, a stillness in the long, shadowy room. Amid the airy spaces and motionless bowls of flowers some eye was watching her intently. She advanced a little way among the chairs and sofas and then came to a standstill, startled and confused, the smile of civility frozen on her face. A slight movement made her jump. In the darkest corner of the room, by the little table where the visitors’ book was kept, somebody had turned a page. The book was quickly shut and a short, brown woman came into the light, saying in a voice that was odd and friendly:
“How do you do? Do you recognise me?”
Marianne did recognise her. It was the woman she had seen with Hugo before lunch.
“I …” she began confusedly. “I …”
But the woman had come closer to her and interrupted:
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see. I thought it was Laura.”
“I’m so sorry they’re out,” said Marianne. “My grandmother will be very sorry. She …”
“I didn’t come to see her,” said the lady. “Or Laura either for that matter. So it doesn’t matter. I want to see my son. Ford Usher. My name is Mrs. Usher.”
“I think he’s in the garden,” said Marianne.
“So they tell me. But they don’t seem to be able to find him.”
“Perhaps he’s gone for a walk.”
“Perhaps.”
“Could I … can we give him a message … or …”
“No. You can’t give him a message.”
The lady sat down with a very determined air and added:
“I’ll wait. I suppose I may wait?”
“Oh yes,” said Marianne. “I’m sure he’ll be back quite soon. Wouldn’t you … would you care to walk round the garden?”
“No thanks. I’ve walked quite enough to-day.”
Marianne sat down too because that seemed to be the only thing to do. The lady looked so angry that it hardly seemed safe to talk to her. And it was very strange that she should speak of Laura by her Christian name. It looked like impertinence, and Marianne knew how to deal with that in a general way. But it might not be. It might be a form of shyness.
A long silence ensued during which the stranger examined her young hostess from head to heels most attentively, and then stared about the room. Presently she said:
“You’re not out yet, are you?”
Marianne stared at her. What did the woman mean? Out?
“You haven’t been presented?”
“No. Oh no,” said Marianne, beginning to understand.
“When shall you come out?”
“Next spring, I believe.”
“Really? You’ll be presented then, I suppose?”
“I suppose so.”
“How old are you?”
Marianne wanted to say thirty, but contented herself with twenty-one. Mrs. Usher looked surprised and then suspicious.
“That’s very old to come out.”
“Is it?”
“Older than most girls. Are you looking forward to it?”
Marianne drew herself up and began to reply very coldly. But Mrs. Usher went on. She asked if Marianne had been to school, and if she meant to take up a career and if she did not think it splendid the way girls took up careers nowadays, and if most of her girl friends had taken up careers, and if she thought modern freedom was a good thing, and if she despised post-war young men, and if she was going to grow her hair, and whether her grandmother would give a dance in London for her next year.
At last Marianne could stand it no longer. Murmuring something about telling them to bring tea, she made her escape into the hall where she found Hugo loitering among the dogs.
“There’s a most extraordinary person in the drawing-room,” she told him. “I think she must be a reporter or something. But she says she is Ford Usher’s mother.”
“She’s both,” said Hugo. “And I’m afraid I brought her here. I had to. I met her in the village and she wants to see Ford. Did she ask you a lot of questions?”
“Yes. She was very rude. But Hugo …”
“I know … I know …”
He looked at her to see how much she also knew. But she was merely puzzled.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“I’m afraid she won’t go until she has seen Ford. So the thing to do is to get hold of him as soon as we can. I’ve been all over everywhere, and nobody has seen him apparently.”
“I think he’s gone for a walk with Solange. Must I go on talking to her till he comes?”
“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t tumble to it, till we were actually on the doorstep, that she was …”
He paused and looked nervously at the drawing-room door.
“But is she always so very queer?”
He shook his head.
“The fact is, I’m terribly afraid … you see I lunched with her …”
“I know.”
“Did you? How did you know?”
“I saw you with her in the garden and you didn’t come in to lunch, so I concluded you were lunching with her.”
“Holmes, you’re … wonderful!”
So at least one person had noticed his absence. They had not all taken it for granted that he should fade away as soon as Aggie has ceased to find him amusing. He could not keep himself from asking anxiously:
“I suppose it was all right?”
“What?”
“Your grandmother didn’t mind my lunching with them? She didn’t think it rude?”
“Oh no,” Marianne assured him. “I don’t think she knew. Lunch went on a long time because the golfers came in late. I think I was the only one who …”
She stopped and flushed. Hugo was relieved but a trifle resentful. Remembering his triumphant exit from the Acorn yesterday he felt that Marianne ought not to have been the only one. But there was something that he wanted to ask her.
“I say,” he said impetuously, “I’m quite mad, but do you know I don’t know your surname. I suddenly realised it this morning.”
“Fleming,” said Marianne. “But about Mrs. Usher?”
“Oh yes. Mrs. Usher. I’m afraid she’s rather … upset.”
“Has she got bad news for Ford?”
“Something of the sort.”
“I see. Well, I’ll ply her with tea and keep her soothed till he’s found.”
“No,” said Hugo. “I’ll give her tea. And you look for Ford. I expect I’ll manage her better.”
He pulled himself together and went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Usher was still sitting as though she defied anyone to remove her. She glared up at him and said truculently:
“You think I’m drunk, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Hugo. And then: “No. Not really. But you aren’t quite yourself, you know. I think you braced yourself up a bit too much at lunch. If I were you I shouldn’t see Ford just now. You won’t do any good. Go away and have it all out with him when you’ve thought it over.”
“Go away? What a hope! Go away? Now that I’ve got here? I suppose you’re ashamed to be seen with me. Oh yes. I daresay they would like to get me out of the house. I know too much, don’t I?”
Her voice was rising to a pitch of uncontrolled fury. It rang and jarred through the spacious quiet of the room, until three rose petals fell from the bowl behind her as if the shaken air had disturbed them. They floated slowly to the carpet and Hugo picked them up. He made no further protest, but the silence, when she had finished speaking, was like a rebuke. She seemed to feel it and she drew herself in with a suspicious glance behind her. The disadvantages of her position were dawning on her clouded mind and her next remark showed a vacillation of purpose.
“You’d do the same if you were me, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t quite know what it is that you want to do.”
“I want to save him … from her.”
“Yes. But how? You won’t do it simply by making a scene. And are you quite sure what it is that you’re afraid of? You say she’ll waste his time and make a fool of him. But at the bottom of your heart you’re wondering …”
“What?”
“If she doesn’t still care for him.”
“Oh no!” said Mrs. Usher quickly. “That’s impossible.”
“Are you sure?”
She was not sure, and that was why she had forced her way into Syranwood.
“You mean I’ve come here to see her, not him?”
“I think you’d better make up your mind which you’ve come to see, and what it is you want to find out.”
She shook her head, and said that she could not make up her mind about anything. She was too much upset.
“When that girl came in I thought she was Laura.”
“Did you? Marianne? How strange!”
“She’s very like Laura.”
“Not a bit,” said Hugo crossly.
“Very like Laura ten years ago. She’s her niece, I suppose. Not so pretty, but she has the look. Only Laura was always more … what’s the word? … voluptuous or something. Came dashing into the room like a cavalry charge and then pulled up and wondered where she was. I thought: ‘Here’s our Laura.’ That sounds funny, but it’s quite true. ‘Our Laura,’ I thought. As if there was nothing to worry about. And there wouldn’t be if she was …”
Fletcher came in with tea for two and set it on a little table in front of the sofa where they were sitting. Hugo poured out and induced her to eat a cress sandwich. And when Fletcher was gone he distracted her mind by describing all that he could remember of the domestic arrangements of Syranwood. He felt that time was everything and still hoped to get her away without a scene. Her truculence had quite disappeared. She drank three cups, listened to his gossip with a sombre attention, and at length accepted a cigarette.
“But you’re being nice to me,” she said suddenly, as he lighted it. “I think you’re being very kind. You’re so sympathetic.”
“Am I?”
“I mean you understand.”
“Not the same thing,” said Hugo grimly.
She looked at him quickly. Her mind was growing clearer.
“No,” she agreed. “You understand with your head and sympathise with your heart. But you can do both, Hugo. That’s why everybody likes you.”
“Does everybody like me?”
“Oh now! Don’t fish! You’re the most popular …”
She was shaking a playful finger at him, but he gave her a look so grave that she left off laughing and said soberly:
“Well, anyhow, you’ve been an angel to me. Because you really think I’m quite in the wrong, don’t you? You think I oughtn’t to interfere.”
“I think it’s too late. You can’t live his life for him, you know.”
“I want him to be happy,” she cried.
Hugo leant back in his chair and shut his eyes. They ached and his head rang with all the jokes and giggles that had gone on at the Ullmer Arms. Also he could listen sympathetically if he was not looking at her. That voice, speaking in the darkness, had accents of grief which convinced him that she suffered. But sitting before him he could only see Mrs. Dulcibel Usher, whom he had so often mimicked, and who wanted to pinch Mélisande’s job. Those pepper and salt tweeds, that greedy mouth, were too impenetrable a disguise.
“He might have been happy,” toiled on the sorrowing voice. “He was happy before she came. I had a premonition … yes, a premonition. That first night. I knew. I was working very late with my serial. And when I went to bed I saw a light under his door. I suppose, at the back of my mind, I was afraid of her. I don’t know. I didn’t think anything specially, but I felt frightened.”
There was a pause and Hugo murmured:
“Umhum?”
“I looked in. He was asleep. He’d fallen asleep reading a score. He used to read scores in bed. I … I looked at him … and I was so unhappy. I felt as if I could never do anything for him really. As if all that I was doing was no good. I don’t know. It … was …”
Her voice trailed off as though she had found no words adequate to the emotion which she was attempting to describe. She could never lay bare to another mind that picture of her son, lying asleep among his scores, so lost, mutinous and young, his clumsy boy’s hands flung out empty across the counterpane. His bare little room rose up before her, and the deal table where he worked, with a shelf of scores above it and a picture of the Himalayas which he had torn out of the Illustrated London News and pinned up on the wall. And once more she saw his life as she had seen it then, not as a thing which she had made but as having travelled already far beyond her keeping. She knew, even then, that he was looking forward to a time when he should get away from her. And she would let him go.
“I was determined to give him the life he wanted. Not to let him set up as a G.P. when he was through with his exams., but to pay for him to specialise if I could. But we had such heart-breaking disappointments. You see, when he’d got his diploma he got quite a good post at Goddard and Cabells’ research laboratories at Dorking. But he threw it up because he wanted to get on to tropical diseases. So he went as medical officer to a plantation in Siam, thinking he’d have more opportunities for experience. But it wasn’t what we’d expected, nothing but poulticing coolies and dosing them with castor oil. So after a few months he came back, and then of course his job at Goddard and Cabells’ wasn’t open any longer. But we thought he might have a chance for one of the Sandemann travelling scholarships, and that would just have suited him, because then he could have got to Yeshenku. But as luck would have it, the scholarship was given to the man who’d taken his job at Goddard and Cabells’: so if he’d stuck on there and not gone to Siam he’d have had a better chance. So then he got into the Guthrie Institute as a sort of bottle-washer, and I slaved and scraped for three years, and we got the money together to send him to Yeshenku ourselves. You say I can’t live his life for him, but I say that I have.”
Still Hugo said nothing. He was floating away on the tides of sleep and the word Yeshenku boomed emptily about in his head. But he knew that this was rude, and struggled back to consciousness with an effort. She was saying:
“They’ve gone back in the car. But I can take the bus from Ullmer Cross into Basingstoke.”
He opened eyes that were glazed with sleep and stared at her. For she was getting up. She was going. He jumped to his feet.
“But how very noble of you,” he exclaimed.
She laughed and brushed the crumbs off her skirt.
“Let’s hope it’s all chalked up somewhere. We don’t get our rewards in this world, that’s certain. But perhaps it’ll all turn out better than I fear. Where’s my gloves? Oh, there! Well, good-bye, Hugo. And thank you for that excellent lunch. I don’t think we ought to have let you pay.”
“Oh, not at all. I enjoyed it.”
“No, you didn’t. You’re looking very seedy. If you’ll take my advice, as an old friend, you’ll take a long sea voyage or something. You’re overdoing it. Good-bye.”
She moved towards the door and then drew back, for there was a sound of talking and bustle in the hall.
“Can’t I get out by those French windows?” she asked. “I’d rather get away without seeing any of them.”
Hugo looked out on to the terrace and saw that the garden was empty. He knew that a path went from a small gate just below the yew parlour and that she could get to Ullmer Cross that way by crossing a couple of hayfields. So he conveyed her out on to the terrace and hustled her through the garden into the pleached alley.
“They’ll never know how much they owe me,” he thought. “They’ll never guess what a scene I’ve spared them.”
The alley was delightfully cool, and as they were by now out of sight of the house they both began to walk more slowly. The green arch at the far end of it framed a picture of fields and downs too vivid, in the strong light, to be quite real. But when they had got halfway towards it the picture was blotted out. Somebody had come in from the yew parlour. She walked quickly towards them, bending a burnished golden head under the roof of leaves. Hugo pulled up with a jerk of dismay and looked behind him. But there was no escape.
“Here is Laura,” he said in a low voice.
“No,” said Mrs. Usher, clutching his arm. “No …”
Laura came on towards them. They met in the middle of the leafy tunnel.