Dear Trustee (18 page)

Late in the afternoon Cecile and Gregory took their departure. And Cecile was faintly comforted by the fact that Uncle Algernon whispered importantly to her, as he said goodbye:

“Leave it to me.”

“Why was the old man looking so conspiratorial?” Gregory wanted to know, as they drove away. “Are you and he hatching something together?”

“No, not really. But he did promise to do something for me, if he could. Sometimes I think he is quite kind, in his strange way. At others, I think his malicious desire to play a hand in other people’s affairs is his chief driving force.”

“If he is your friend, he is a good one,” Gregory agreed. “If not
—
I’d say he could be as dangerous as a malicious child.”

From that Cecile drew what comfort she could. But nothing could make her look anything but tired and dejected during the journey home.

Gregory, noticing this perhaps, did not trouble her with much conversation.

He kissed her when he left her at the flat, and once more she thanked him for her visit to his mother. But something of her preoccupation seemed to have communicated itself to him by now, and, though he gave her an anxious glance, he did not suggest that they should prolong their time together.

To be alone seemed now to Cecile to be the most desirable thing on earth. And when she entered the silent flat she could have groaned aloud with relief. She flung herself down on the sofa and reviewed the events of the day. But when she came to that conversation with Felicity, she could not rest, but got up and walked about the place.

Could she have handled it better? Should she somehow have been able to deflect Felicity’s wrath? Had she failed Laurie? And had she really been wise to call in the aid of Uncle Algernon? Even if she had secured his utmost goodwill, was there really anything he could do about it?

These were the questions with which she tormented herself for most of the evening, and they went with her when she went to bed. It was not surprising, therefore, that she was still wide awake when Laurie came in about midnight.

Usually, if there were no light in Cecile’s room, she did not call out. But this evening she came to the door and said softly, “Are you awake, Cecile?”

“Yes, of course.” Cecile leaned up on her elbow and switched on her bedside lamp.

Immediately Laurie came into the room and sat down on the side of the bed, and even in the half-light it was possible to see how her eyes shone and her face glowed.

“Did you have a lovely time?” she asked.

“Yes, wonderful. And you?” Cecile leaned forward arid smiled indulgently at her mother, in spite of all her anxiety. “You look as though you’ve been having a wonderful time too.”

“Well—yes. I suppose one might put it that way. Look—” She spread out her thin, beautiful hands, and Cecile saw that a splendid diamond sparkled upon the left one.

“Oh, darling—” she sat up and threw her arms round Laurie—“how lovely! I’m so happy for you.”

But she thought, “I’m so terribly, terribly frightened for you, too.” For now it seemed to her that all Laurie’s happiness stood poised on the very knife-edge of danger.

“You do really like him, Cecile, don’t you?” Laurie sounded as eager as a girl with her first admirer. “He thinks you’re a darling, and he wants you to look on our home as yours absolutely.”

“Why—yes—of course. How kind of him. I always should.” In a pathetic way, this all sounded quite unreal to her. As though they were planning for something which might never take place.

“Until you get married, of course,” added Laurie, as an afterthought.

“One marriage in the family is enough for the moment,” Cecile managed to say lightly. “We’ll enjoy this one first.”

Laurie laughed.

“I never thought I could feel like this, at my age. But I’m happy—just like some silly little girl. It’s like coming out of a long tunnel into the light again.”

“I’m so glad, darling,” said Cecile, hoping that she was not repeating herself, or sounding as though none of this were real to her.

It took every last bit of resolution she possessed to go on talking and listening—letting Laurie have her glorious moment of recounting and reliving her joy. This was her right, and this she should have, Cecile told herself fiercely, if all the heavens fell tomorrow.

It was over at last. Laurie glanced at her watch, exclaimed at the time, and kissed Cecile goodnight.

“We want to have a quiet little celebration supper one night next week. Just you and me and Theo and Gregory,” she said, standing by the bed and smiling down at Cecile.

“Gregory?”

“Why, yes. You’d like him best, to complete the foursome, wouldn’t you? Besides—” Laurie smiled and pushed back her hair with that characteristic gesture—“he has been so good over—everything. It would be a sort of acknowledgment that we have accepted him into our intimate circle of real friends.”

It was so obvious that she wanted to make this generous gesture in her turn, that Cecile could only say helplessly,

“I’m sure he would love it.”

Then Laurie went away
,
and Cecile was left to her fears and her hopes once more.

The next days Cecile never forgot as long as she lived. Somehow, she had thought she would hear from Uncle Algernon within twenty-four hours or so. She had visualized Felicity making an appearance as soon as she and Gregory had left the house, and Uncle Algernon tackling the situation then and there.

But she heard nothing. Yet surely he must either have succeeded or failed. Then why did he not telephone?

She made excuses to stay in the flat, and when she had to go out, she tore back again at the earliest possible moment. She even pleaded sickness and refused to go to the business college on the Monday. But when Tuesday came she could not maintain a pretence of illness any longer, and she had to go.

When she returned home, her first question was about telephone calls, and she could hardly believe it when Laurie said that no one had rung up.

“
No
one?”

“No. Were you expecting a call?”

“Not exactly.” With difficulty Cecile kept from wringing her hands. “Perhaps it’s too early.”

“We’ve settled the celebration for tomorrow evening.”

“What celebration?”

“Cecile!” Laurie looked dumbfounded.

“Oh—the
celebration
.
” She had to pretend she had not quite heard aright. “How—how splendid. Did you get hold of Gregory?”

“Theo did. He seemed pleased to be asked, Theo said.”

“I’m sure he would be,” Cecile agreed absently.

“Cecile, is something the matter?”

For a wild moment, Cecile had an almost uncontrollable impulse to tell Laurie the whole story—to prepare her in some way for the blow which, it seemed to her now, must fall at any minute.

But then her hopes forced themselves obstinately uppermost, and she thought she must have been mad even to contemplate such a thing. So she managed to smile and say, “No, of course not. I had a beast of a day at the college. That’s all.”

During the evening, when she was alone, it was all she could do not to telephone to Uncle Algernon and demand at least a sentence—even half a dozen words. But her instinct told her that he was not a man to be hurried or prompted. He would either do the thing his own way or not at all.

When nothing had happened during the whole of the next day, Cecile thought she must somehow get out of going to the celebration supper. To sit there and smile and talk and make merry, knowing what she did and feeling as she did, seemed an utter impossibility.

But this was not the first time impossibilities had been demanded of her—and met. And so, when it came to the point, she put on her prettiest dress, made up carefully to hide her pallor and her shadowed eyes, and was ready when Gregory came to fetch her.

“It was uncommonly nice of Laurie to include me in this family party,” he said. “She made me feel, if not one of the family, at least,” he held her hand for a moment and smiled at her, “one who might have hopes of becoming so.”

“She was very anxious to have you,” Cecile agreed, without taking up the further implication. “We were lucky to get you at such short notice, weren’t we?”

“Oh, no. I’m very busy just now and I am not going out much in the evenings,” he assured her.

As they drove to the restaurant which Theo Letterton had chosen, it suddenly came to Cecile that she might ask Gregory a question about Felicity. Not that it was likely that he knew anything. His whole attitude would have been different, if she had already spoken to him. But—

“Gregory, I’ve thought a lot about that unfortunate appearance of Felicity’s at Uncle Algernon’s place,” she said, as carelessly as she could. “You didn’t—hear anything from her, I suppose.”

“Funny you should ask that.” Her heart took a downward lurch which made her feel sick. “She telephoned me earlier this evening, as a matter of fact, and asked if I could see her about something.”

“She—she did?” Cecile moistened her suddenly dry lips.

“What—did you—say?”

“That I had a previous engagement, of course. I told her why, what’s more.”

“You didn’t?” cried Cecile, and her horror was so palpable that he turned his head and looked at her in astonishment.

“I certainly did. I thought—” he set his mouth rather grimly—“that it was a good opportunity to make the position clear—to let her know the strength of our ties. I told her that I was going to the Gloria with you and Laurie and her future husband, for a family celebration.”

“Just like that?” said Cecile despairingly.

“Have you anything against it?”

“No,” said Cecile, for there was nothing on earth she could say which would arrest things now. Either Uncle Algernon had succeeded and all these deadly agonizing fears were groundless, or danger was so close that it was breathing down the back of her neck.

CHAPTER XII

T
hey arrived at the restaurant before Gregory had time to question Cecile further. And somehow, in spite of her mood of black despair, she contrived to look normal and even almost cheerful.

Laurie and Theo Letterton were already there, and Cecile did take a tiny crumb of comfort from watching the air of real friendship with which Laurie and Gregory clasped hands.

“This is the big moment of my life, Cecile,” said Theo Letterton beside her. “And I have the feeling that I owe at least part of it to you.”

“Oh, no—you mustn’t give me any credit for it!”

“Well, at any rate I give you credit for bringing my Laurie into a mood of happy confidence where she felt she would chance the future with me.”

“I’m glad.” Cecile managed to smile at him. And she thought wistfully what a happy occasion this would have been if only the shadow of Felicity had not hovered in the background.

It was a delightful meal, and, in the ordinary way, Cecile would have enjoyed it immensely. But, as it was, she found herself counting off the minutes, chafing secretly at the leisurely tempo of proceedings, and hoping against hope that the evening would be allowed to pass off safely, and the ever-present danger be postponed for a few hours longer.

When at last they had reached the coffee and dessert without any sign of interruption, Cecile dared to feel some optimism. But then, almost as though to rebuke her for presuming to entertain hope, the blow fell.

One or two late arrivals were just entering the restaurant, and Cecile watched them eagerly. As she did so, one figure detached herself from the rest and came slowly up the room, apparently looking for someone. And, with a sensation of fatality, Cecile saw that it was Felicity.

As the absolute refinement of cruelty, Felicity stopped to speak to someone at another table, and Cecile heard her mother say,

“What is it, Cecile? Are you feeling faint?”

"A little. It’s nothing—it’s passing.” Mechanically she drank some water, while the other three looked at her in concern.

Cecile did not look back at any of them. She watched Felicity. And, after a moment, Felicity nodded to her other acquaintance, and came on deliberately to their table. As she did so, Cecile saw, as though in a dreadful inescapable dream, that she carried carelessly in her hand a loosely tied bundle of letters.

This was the moment when Gregory first saw her. And, though her presence could hardly be anything but embarrassing, he hid the fact admirably. It was he who said quite pleasantly, “Why, hello, Felicity.”

“Don’t let me interrupt the party.” Felicity smiled round, not very kindly, on them. “But I have something here which I think will interest you all—”

“No!” Cecile gasped desperately, and for a moment her companions transferred their astonished glances to her.

“She—she has some letters which don’t belong to her. She wants to make mischief. I beg you not to read them—any of you—”

“Cecile, what’s the matter?” Laurie leaned over and touched her hand gently, while, from the other side, Gregory put his arm round her.

“Are they your letters, Cecile?” Theo asked, and he gave Felicity a glance of acute dislike.

Cecile shook her head wordlessly. And, at that moment, Felicity carelessly abstracted three of the letters from her small packet. One she put in front of Gregory, one in front of Theo Letterton, and the third, with a slight smile, she spread put before Laurie.

“What is this nonsense?” Theo glanced distastefully at his. “I haven’t the slightest wish to read someone else’s letters!”

“Nor I,” agreed Gregory heartily.

“Nor I,” said Laurie. But something about the letter evidently attracted her attention, for she picked it up and glanced at it in a puzzled way.

“That objection does not apply to Miss Cavendish,” Felicity said with calculated malice. “The letters happen to be hers.”

A very slight sound escaped Cecile, and she wished she could have turned her head away so that she should not see the horrified realization break over Laurie’s face. But she went on staring at Laurie. They all looked at Laurie now.

Then Cecile saw her mother look calmly at Felicity and say, “You’re mistaken. So far as I know, I’ve never seen this letter in my life.”

“Mother—?” For a moment Cecile thought Laurie must be acting—with the superb defiance of someone fighting with her back to the wall. Then she saw that the puzzlement was absolutely genuine.

She gave another of those wordless little sounds and, leaning forward, she snatched up the letter which lay before Gregory.

And then she saw that the small, neat, very feminine handwriting had no resemblance whatever to Laurie’s bold scrawl.

She burst into tears at that point. Although she was in a public restaurant, she leaned her head on her hands and cried and cried.

She knew vaguely that the others gathered round her, to shield her from observation. She knew that Gregory had his arm round her and that Theo had poured some wine and was trying to make her drink it. But the only thing which made a crystal-clear impression on her was her mother’s voice, saying coolly and with absolute authority,

“Thank you, Miss Waring. I’ll take the rest of those letters. It was good of you to bring them. I see now they were written to a very old friend of mine—but not by me. Don’t let us keep you. I think Cecile isn’t very well, and I’m going to take her home now.”

“I’m sorry,” Cecile was whispering to Gregory. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a scene. I’ve been so frightened—so desperate. I thought—I thought—”

“All right, my darling. Stop crying now.” His voice was infinitely tender. “We are all going back to the flat now, and you shall tell us what you like. There’s no need to cry or to be frightened any more. It’s all over. You’re safe—and so is Laurie. And I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered. “I love you more than anything else in the whole wide world.”

“Then nothing else matters, so far as I’m concerned. Look up, my beloved.”

She looked up then—pale and hollow-eyed, so that her mother exclaimed aloud. But the hysterical tears were over.

Fortunately they had been at a corner table, partly shielded by a bank of plants and flowers, and in fact only a few people seemed to have realized that the pale girl in the corner was not very well.

“We can go now,” Theo Letterton said, with a blessed lack of fuss. And Cecile saw that the waiter was moving off with the bill, and also that there was no sign of Felicity.

“Where is Felicity?” she asked, in a small, hoarse voice.

“Gone,” said Gregory grimly.

“And the—the letters?”

“I have them here,” Laurie said, still in that tone of quiet authority. “Come, darling, we’re going home.”

Tm sorry. I’ve spoilt everything.”

“No, you haven’t. We had all finished anyway. And now what needs to be said can best be said at home.”

Together they went out to Gregory’s car, by a side exit, so that they did not have to pass through the restaurant again. Cecile heard Gregory say quietly to the other man, “Come in front with me. I think it’s her mother that she wants just now.”

So the two men went in front, and Cecile sat in the back, leaning against her mother, her heart most strangely at rest, although she could not yet understand at all what had happened.

When they reached the flat, Gregory said, “Laurie, do you really want me in on this, or would you prefer me to take myself off?”

“No. Please come up too. I think you, of all people, have a right to hear what is said.”

“Thank you.”

It was he who took Cecile's arm then, and she was glad of his support on the way upstairs, for she felt strangely weak and unstrung. But, once they were upstairs and seated in the pleasant room where she had first made her decision to come and live with her mother, she began to feel better.

“Now—” it was Theo Letterton who looked round with a slight sm
i
le—“I don’t think
I’
m more curious than the next fellow, but if someone doesn’t explain soon exactly what has been happening, I think I’ll have a stroke.”

“Pour some drinks, dear, and give me just five minutes to glance at these,” Laurie said. And, while Theo carried out her instructions, Laurie took the letters out of her bag and slowly read one of them—then another.

“It’s enough,” she said, half to herself. “There’s no need to read any more—ever.”

“Oh, Mother—” Cecile went over and knelt beside her—“they’re not yours, are they? They’re not yours?”

“No, darling. Go and sit comfortably by Gregory, who is longing to have his arm round you, and I’ll try to explain to Theo, who has been very patient.”

So Cecile went and sat by Gregory, in the circle of his arm, and Laurie, still holding the worn and faded letters in her hands, began to speak slowly, as though choosing her words with care.

“The first part isn’t unknown to Cecile and to Gregory,” she said, “and I don’t know how much of it was known to you, Theo, Many years ago, when Cecile was a very small girl, I left my husband and my home, because I had stage ambitions. The man who had some interest in me and my work was called Hugh Minniver. But I must ask you all to take my word for it—there is nothing else to support it—that he was never my lover.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Theo said,

“I take your word for it, my dear, absolutely.”

“And I,” Gregory added, tightening his arm round Cecile.

“I did flirt with him, Theo. I did encourage his admiration, in order to make him use his influence on my behalf. It doesn’t sound nice, said in cold blood—but the truth has to be admitted at this point
.
”

“It was a long time ago,” replied Theo philosophically. “Who am I to judge?”

“Thank you, my dear.” Laurie smiled at him. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she went on resolutely,

“He was married—”

“Oh!”

“To Gregory’s sister, Anne.”

“Good Lord!” Theo turned and looked at Gregory, who inclined his head but said nothing.

“He pressed for a divorce—”

“Because of you?” asked Theo sharply.

“Everyone always thought so. I have always been afraid so. Unt
il
tonight.” She gripped the letters rather nervously in her thin hands. “His young wife was—horrified. Do you want to tell this part of the story, Gregory?”

“No.” Gregory was rather pale. “I accept your version of it. Go on.”