BUT IT WAS rather dreary, for Betty was worried about Richard and Vartouhi now, in addition to her worry about Mr. Fielding’s proposal and its unfortunate results; and although she would have liked to talk to Kenneth about the trouble Vartouhi was causing Richard, she felt unable to do so because she suspected (in spite of her incredulous words to Miss Fielding) that her old friend was himself attracted to the trouble-maker. And as the car approached Sunglades Kenneth’s own manner became silent and restrained, as does that of the prisoner who returns to the prison house after one day out on parole, and Betty felt quite cross with him.
It’s utter nonsense, she thought vigorously, as she let herself into the hushed, dimly lit, warm house, while Kenneth was putting the car away. The presences of the three elderly inmates (though they had presumably retired to rest) could be felt therein as disapproving entities.
What has it got to do with Connie and Frances if Mr. Fielding proposes to me? thought Betty. It isn’t even as if he lived at home and his remarrying would upset their lives. No; it’s because they live in such a backwater that they have an exaggerated sense of the importance of their own affairs; and Connie has this absurd notion about no one in the family marrying. Heaven alone knows why, for she isn’t in the least morbid or neurotic. She’s just selfish to the bone, and she would fight to the last ditch to keep her life running along in the smooth easy comfortable way it always has. I suppose (she smiled guiltily to herself as she went upstairs) in a way she and I agree; we both think strong feelings are a nuisance. But I don’t go so far as to want other people not to marry! I wish Rick would marry somebody civilized and sensible who’d know the right way to look after him. He looked desolate to-night, poor pet, though he is so sensible about it all; and she gave a little sigh.
She opened her bedroom door, and then stopped short, for there was a light in the room and the stove was burning. By it, clad in a silk dressing-gown inappropriately embroidered with the calm and lovely water-lily, sat Miss Fielding.
“Ah, there you are,” said Miss Fielding, quite unabashed and in a severe voice. “No doubt you are surprised to see me here.”
“No, not very,” answered Betty and went over to the dressing-table and dropped her hat on it and glanced at herself in the glass.
Miss Fielding nodded.
“I felt sure that you must have suspected from my manner earlier in the evening that I intended to have a talk with you,” she went on.
Betty sat down on the bed and opened her cigarette case. She was more tired and depressed than angry, and she glanced surreptitiously at the clock. It was half-past ten. She held out her case to Miss Fielding with an inquiring look.
Miss Fielding surprised her by accepting one; she seldom smoked. She lit it from a spill at the stove, and then went on, between the ungraceful puffs of the rare smoker:
“Have you anything to tell me, Betty?” in a sepulchral voice which Betty found so absurd that she was unable to repress a giggle. Miss Fielding raised her eyebrows. I know what it is, thought Betty, staring at her fascinatedly, she’s never grown out of being the Straightest Girl at St. Agatha’s. Right now, she’s tackling the Senior Prefect who’s been caught using scent, and she’s smoking herself to put the Senior Pre. at her ease. Poor old Con. But really, it’s too much; I can’t play.
“Only that your father asked me to marry him to-day and I said ‘no,’” she answered, with disarming mildness.
“So I suspected,” said Miss Fielding, compressing her lips and nodding.
“Suspected I’d said no?”
“Yes. Father has been so strange in his manner all the afternoon that I Guessed.”
“Oh. Well. That’s all right, then, isn’t it,” said Betty, hiding a small yawn. “I’m very sorry if he’s upset, of course, Connie. I felt bad about it. But it really isn’t my fault—”
“Yes, Betty, it is your fault,” interrupted Miss Fielding, in a deliberate tone. “Both Frances and I consider that this undignified and painfully embarrassing situation would never have arisen if you had not encouraged Father.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly!” cried Betty, losing her temper and standing up. “I never did a thing! If you and Frances think I enjoyed having him stringing along wherever I went, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“A woman should be humbled by a man’s devotion,” said Miss Fielding, in a reproving tone and with maddening illogicality, “and grateful. After all, it is the greatest honour a man can pay a woman.”
Though she deplored the situation which had arisen, she was not going to let Betty deprecate the value of Mr. Fielding’s devotion, for Mr. Fielding was her father, and as such, however deprecatable his own qualities might be, he was to be highly valued.
“I am grateful! Of course I am. But it was not my fault.”
“Your manner was thoughtless, Betty. You laughed and joked with him more than was necessary. Frances and Kenneth and I all remarked on it.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Betty, violently, for her, “I don’t want to be catty, Connie, but if you put a susceptible man down in a houseful of women and three of them sit on him and the other one doesn’t, what do you expect to happen?”
“I was not aware that I ‘sat on’ my father, Betty. Nor, I am sure, did Frances intend to do so. And as for Vartouhi——”
“She took her tone from you and was off-hand with him.”
“Better off-hand, Betty, than flirtatious. As a matter of fact, bearing Father’s and Kenneth’s unfortunate weakness in mind, I dropped a word of warning to Vartouhi.”
“I thought you must have. She isn’t usually rude to anyone,” said Betty with a little bitterness, “except Richard.”
“I told her to avoid lingering in conversation with Father as in England it was not considered respectful for the young to monopolize the attention of the old. But that is beside the point. As you are such an old friend—and I speak from my heart, Betty, when I say that I hope you will remain one—I can say things to you that I could not say to a stranger. I am sure you will agree with me that in the circumstances it would be far better if you left us, at least for a little while.”
“Of course,” said Betty, sitting down on the bed again. “I’d been thinking that, too.”
“It will save embarrassment for everybody,” said Miss Fielding, looking relieved and relaxing the severity of her facial muscles.
“It will be an awful bore, though, Connie,” sighed Betty, delicately ruffling her hair. “I wish I needn’t.” Her anger, always as short-lived as a starry firework, had gone out.
“It will be better in the long run. We must take the Long View,” said Miss Fielding.
“I’ve been so marvellously comfortable here.”
“Sunglades is comfortable.” Miss Fielding’s tone was a little softer with housewifely pride as she glanced about the pretty bedroom. “And the old simple virtue of hospitality is very dear to me. As you know, I would never refuse anyone bread and salt.”
“Oh, I know,” murmured Betty.
“It grieves me very much to have to make this suggestion to you. I know that it would have grieved Our Mother too. Although things are sadly changed here since the war, we still know how to make life pleasant at Sunglades.”
“Yes, indeed.” Another murmur.
“And now for the time being your sojourn with us is over,” said Miss Fielding, rising from her seat and swaddling herself in the water lilies, while a look of playful affection replaced her former disapproval. She could afford to be playful. To-morrow she would tackle Father, and if she did not persuade him that it was best that he also should leave them, her name was not Constance Fielding. “But we shall see you often, I hope, and of course I will leave no stone unturned to find you some ‘digs’ in the town.”
“I don’t want to live under a stone,” muttered Betty frivolously, beginning to unbutton her dress as a gentle hint.
“It will be so much better for us all,” Miss Fielding promised her, moving towards the door. “Father will become his old self again, and I shall get over this little feeling of resentment I have against you, you naughty girl! and you will have an easier journey to work.”
“And there will be less for Vartouhi to do,” murmured Betty, from under the cloud of dark hair she was brushing over her eyes. “Such a comfort.”
“Yes, indeed! Oh, it will be a better plan all round!” cried Miss Fielding blithely. “We will talk it over properly in the morning. Good night, old girl!”
“Good night,” said Betty pleasantly; and as the door closed upon the victor she added, “old beast.”
Miss Fielding went along the landing as if tramping upon air. How easy it was to deal with people if only you knew your own mind and stuck to your guns! She had always done that; and hence she had what some military correspondent has called the habit of victory.
As she approached her father’s bedroom door a thought struck her. Why not begin to work upon Father this very night? She would not say anything very definite or tell him that Betty was going to leave them, but she would sound him as to his future plans and drop a hint or two about the amount of work that his presence there made for Vartouhi, and make a casual reference or so to her own failing health and that of Frances. It could do no harm; it would prepare the ground for future attacks; and she believed in acting while her vibrations were in harmony and she was charged with energy, as she was to-night.
Without pausing to think further, she knocked briskly upon his bedroom door.
There was no answer.
After waiting for a moment Miss Fielding opened the door a few inches. The room was in darkness, but she could just make out the smooth empty bed. Curious! She had certainly seen him go upstairs an hour ago, looking dejected and pleading tiredness (which deceived nobody) as an excuse for his early retirement. Tiresome old man, he must have gone downstairs again to speak to Kenneth, or perhaps he was still monopolizing the best bathroom.
Miss Fielding swept downstairs.
The house was quiet. It was a quarter to eleven; the chimes struck musically from the clock as she crossed the hall.
Kenneth was sitting by the drawing-room fire with the evening paper and glanced up as she opened the drawing-room door.
“Hallo, Con. Thought you were asleep long ago.”
“Have you seen Father, Kenneth?”
“Not since before I went out. Isn’t he in bed?”
“No, he isn’t!” Miss Fielding, tying the water-lilies tightly round herself as if taking action stations, gazed at her brother with dawning surprise.
“Oh well, he’s probably in the bathroom or the——” Miss Fielding frowned loftily, so he ended, “I shouldn’t worry, anyway,” and returned to his paper.
Miss Fielding retorted, “I am not worrying, Kenneth,” and moved about for a minute or two, fiddling with various objects, in an aimless way; then she went out of the room.
The kitchen was dark, and she supposed Vartouhi must be in bed. But as she crossed the hall, glancing keenly about her (“for no reason that I could name, Frances, it was pure instinct—and how thankful I am that I did”), her gaze happened to linger on the kitchen door, and suddenly her heart gave an uncomfortable jump, for slowly it began to open.
Miss Fielding stood quite still for a second. Then (for she was no coward) she strode silently forward, laid her fingers upon the handle, and gave the door a good push.
There was a gasp and a cry of pain and Vartouhi stood revealed by the light from the hall, with her hand up to her nose.