"Everything?"
"Well, we haven't talked
of absolutely everything, of
course, "
he admitted; "Only the old bitterness and misunderstanding seem quite
gone. He's much, gentler and more tolerant. I felt like a boy again! And it
made me remember things I'd forgotten for years."
"What things?" She stood smiling at him, indescribably
happy in his new happiness.
"How we were good friends in the school
holidays, "
Geoffrey said slowly.
"And he used to show off a bit
to his friends because I could draw
and paint better than their kids could. Oh, it all sounds rather silly and
trivial, but such a lot of one's early life is made up of such things, I
suppose."
"But of course! And a lot of any parent's
happiness is made up of such things, too, I imagine."
"I guess so. He was so happy to talk of old
times." Geoffrey smiled again, as though recalling something that had
pleased him immensely. "He isn't allowed to
talk much at a time, of course. But I think it did him
good to
have me recall things. And now, Beverley, he wants to see you."
"To see me?" She was a little taken
aback. "Does he?"
"Well, of course. I told him I was engaged to
be married, and he was delighted and said he must see you for himself before, well,
anyway, " Geoffrey amended hastily, "he naturally wants to see the
girl
I'm going to marry."
"How, nice." She smiled slowly, and she
felt a
warmth in her heart where there had
been a chill ever since Aunt Ellen's words of the previous evening. For, somehow,
the idea that Geoffrey's father wanted to see her, and, even more, that
Geoffrey had spoken so positively of her as the girl he was going to marry, carried
more reassurance with it than even his actual proposal had done.
"When does he want me to come?" she
asked.
"Now. Or, at least, as
soon as you can, " Geoffrey explained. "He was resting when I left, but
he said he hoped to see you during the day. I thought that, if you could come
back with me now, you'd be available
whenever
he did feel like seeing a visitor."
"Yes, of course. Sit down, Geoffrey, and Aunt
Ellen will bring you some coffee. I won't be more than a few minutes getting
ready."
Beverley went first into her
mother's room and ex
plained briefly
what had happened, and then went to her own room to change into something
suitable for a visit to one's future father-in-law.
Here Aunt Ellen came to her, having supplied
Geoffrey with her invariably excellent coffee.
"So you're going to meet Geoffrey's father at
last?"
She was agog at the news. "It will be an
important meeting, Beverley. You want to make a good impression, if you're not
to undo all the good this reconciliation, has done."
"I hope to make a good impression, "
replied Beverley a trifle dryly, as she slipped out of her morning-dress,
and opened the wardrobe to consider what she would
wear.
"Something quiet, dear, " urged Aunt
Ellen behind
her. "In keeping with the
seriousness of the situation.
But not black. That always
seems so, previous, as one
might say."
"I don't intend to wear black, " Beverley
assured her.
"I shall wear my grey
dress, with the white collar and
cuffs."
"Grey?" Aunt Ellen shook her head
doubtfully.
"Half-mourning, you know. Doesn't it look a
little, well, ?"
"No, it doesn't, " retorted Beverley
firmly. But, almost hypnotized by Aunt Ellen's views on decorum in dress,
she added a scarlet belt which could in no way be classed
as half-mourning.
"That's better, " declared her aunt, in
as nearly a satisfied tone as she ever produced. And Beverley went downstairs
again, ready to accompany Geoffrey.
It seemed strange to step into a sumptuous car with
Geoffrey, and to have a respectful chauffeur calling him "Sir" and
evidently regarding him, as an important person. For so long Geoffrey had been
the slightly
bohemian, easy-going figure in
her life. Now he was,
willy-nilly, being invested with a sort of dignity
and importance which made him seem a little like someone
else.
It was nearly an hour's drive into Castleton, and
Geoffrey had plenty of time to tell her more of the meeting between his father
and himself. How the estrangement of years had melted in the warmth of a real
reconciliation, and how his father had even gone so far as to ask with some
eagerness about his progress
in the world of
art. A subject which, in the old days,
had been absolutely taboo.
"I told him about the exhibition Franklin
Lowell is arranging, " Geoffrey recalled with a smile. "And he seemed
quite annoyed that anyone else should do something for me. He said something to
the effect that there was no need for Lowell to interfere, and that he would
'see to all that' himself."
"But we couldn't be so ungracious as to fling
back Franklin's offer at him now, " protested Beverley anxiously.
"No, no, of course not." Geoffrey brushed
that off
easily. "There is always a way
of explaining these things.
What is important is that the old man showed
clearly that he wanted to give me any support that is necessary.
And if he recovers, " Geoffrey stopped for a
moment, and Beverley quickly put a reassuring hand over his. "He may well
recover, my dear. He has already rallied so well."
"Yes, I know. I keep on telling myself that.
And there's much more will to live in him, now
that
things are all right between us."
"Of course."
"If he recovers, "
repeated Geoffrey, more confidently this time, "I think he means to take
an active interest in whatever I am doing. And if I really pulled off a successful
show of my pictures, he is in the mood to lap
the whole thing up and enjoy it as much as myself."
Beverley smiled and said he
could hardly ask more.
"It's difficult to take
in how everything has changed, in a matter of hours." Geoffrey passed his
hand over his face, as though brushing off something which had obscured his
vision until now. "This time yesterday,
all the horizons were limited. And now, " he laughed
and gave himself a little shake, "I'm only
just begin
ning to take in what this could mean."
She said nothing. She wondered in just what terms
he saw his horizons widening, and if Sara Wayne
had suddenly entered the picture of the unexpected future that stretched before
him. But there was no possibility
of finding out anything about that, and,
in any case, they arrived just then at their destination.
The chauffeur hurried round
and opened the door of the car, and Beverley stepped out and stood for a
moment regarding the solid, handsome house which
had once been Geoffrey's home. There was a
slightly old-fashioned air about it, but there was no doubting
that it
was the home of very prosperous people.
Again it was incongruous to
imagine Geoffrey in connection with this place, just as it had been to see him at
ease in the luxurious car. And, as Beverley entered
the house, she was aware of a sort of nervousness mingling
with her natural interest.
"Come, darling, " Geoffrey led her into
what
she took to be a morning-room, which
was furnished in a pleasant, if rather solid style. And here, a good deal to
her surprise, she was presented to a handsome, but
severe-looking lady
with grey hair.
This is my aunt, Mrs. Mercer, "
Geoffrey explained,
and Beverley found
herself being greeted politely rather
than
cordially.
With difficulty, she bit back the exclamation, "I
never even knew you had an aunt!" And suddenly she thought how little she
really knew of Geoffrey's family background, in spite of all the years they had
been friends. In those early days, the whole subject of the family estrangement
had been too painful for her to ask many
questions,
and, although Geoffrey had poured out his
hopes and fears to her, somehow
he had never given her a clear picture of the home and family he had left.
Now, in some strange way, he seemed to be slipping back
into a scene which to her was quite alien, and in this unfamiliar scene even he
seemed unfamiliar.
With an effort, Beverley controlled her rising
nervousness, and while Geoffrey went to see if his father were ready to receive
them, she made what conversation was possible with a complete stranger who
showed no special wish for them to become any better acquainted.
It is difficult, of course, to assess the wheels
within wheels which exist in any family. But Beverley thought it not improbable
that Mrs. Mercer had been the most important person in her brother's life
during recent years, in which case she was not particularly likely to welcome
anyone else, either her nephew or his fiancée , if she thought they might upset
an arrangement which
was to her own
advantage.
The exchange of civilities was becoming rather
uphill work by the time Geoffrey returned, with the news that his father was
awake and ready to receive Beverley. "It won't be more than a short visit,
" he explained, "because he tires easily. But he is very anxious to
meet you, Beverley."
Together they went up the wide, handsome staircase to
a room with double doors. Geoffrey knocked softly, and a nurse in a stiffly
starched uniform admitted them.
It was a large room, handsomely furnished but curiously
impersonal. There was nothing impersonal, however, about the grey-haired man
propped up in the bed. Although he obviously was, he dominated the scene, and
the penetrating glance which he directed upon Beverley as she crossed the room
missed absolutely nothing about her, she felt sure.
In some indefinable way, he was extraordinarily
like
Geoffrey.
But a far more decided, clearly drawn version of Geoffrey. The family
resemblance was unmistakable,
but the
difference in temperament was unmistakable too.
"So you're the girl Geoffrey is going to
marry?" He took Beverley's hand and looked at her searchingly.
"Yes, Mr. Revian, " Beverley said.
"Well, you're pretty enough." That was a
plain
statement rather than a compliment, she
saw.
Beverley smiled.
"He knows prettier girls than I am, " she
assured
Geoffrey's father. "I don't
think that's his principal reason for wanting to marry me."
"No?" The man in the bed smiled too then.
"What is, then?"
"I don't know. You would have to ask Geoffrey
that. I only know my own reason for wanting to marry him."
"And that is?"
"That I love him, " Beverley said simply.
At which Geoffrey came and put his arm round her.
"She looks a good child, " the old man
said to his son. And then, to Beverley, "So you think you can manage my
boy?"
"As much as anyone should be managed by
another person, " Beverley conceded, again with a smile.
"Hm, he's difficult, you know. He's my son, so
he is
almost bound to be, " he added, with
pride rather than regret, Beverley thought.
"We're all difficult, Mr. Revian, until
someone finds the key to us, " Beverley replied gravely.
"Quite a student of human nature, eh?" he
said, but not unkindly. "Who are your people?"
"No one very special, " Beverley told him,
without embarrassment. Then she explained briefly about her
father and mother, and old Mr. Revian frowned
thoughtfully.
"Then your grandfather must have been Angus Trenton?"
"Yes, he was."
"I remember him when he was Vicar of St.
Stephenin-the-Woods. Best man in the pulpit that I ever heard, and a grand
worker in the parish too. If you have half his good sense and character, you'll
do very well for my boy. Better than anyone with a fancy name and not much
between the ears."
"Oh, thank you!" Beverley smiled and
blushed. "I won't make any special claims, on the strength of being the
granddaughter of Angus Trenton. But I will do my best to be a good wife to
Geoffrey, on my
own account."
"No one can promise more, " replied the
man in the bed, and raising his hand, he patted her cheek. "You'll have to
go now." His hand fell back slackly on the counterpane, as though even
that slight effort had been too much for him. "I tire easily. But I'm glad
to have seen you. And I hope to see you again. Who
knows, ?"
But he shut his eyes after that. And, with a light touch
on his hand, which was half a goodbye, and half a caress, Beverley turned away.
Geoffrey accompanied her out of the room and down the
stairs once more. And, on the way, he put his arm round her and gave her an
approving hug.