Felix and Penny shared his views. Neither of them had heard a sound, yet on dropping back from that light kiss and giving Felix’s sleeve a small persuasive tug Penny was aware of Cassy Remington on the mat at the foot of the stairs, her head cocked, her blue eyes bright and sly. Felix had already seen her. He jerked his arm away and ran down the remaining steps as Cassy said,
“You haven’t had any breakfast. I was coming to find you. Eliza will be furious if no one eats her herrings.”
Penny came down sedately.
“Felix will eat two, and Mactavish and I will have one between us.”
I’ve not made up my mind,” said Eliza Cotton.
A slant of sunlight came in through the window. The fire burned bright in the range. The cat Mactavish sat in front of it with his chin resting upon the oven trivet, which was pleasantly warm. He was full of fish, and he found it agreeable to listen to the voices of Penny and Eliza.
Penny sat on the kitchen table in what she had begun to call their side of the house and swung her legs. She was wearing grey slacks and an old white sweater which had belonged to Felix in his middle teens and had now shrunk several sizes and turned yellow with washing.
Eliza was tall and as flat as a board. She could never have been handsome, but she had probably always had a very competent look. The bone of her nose was high, and the eyes on either side of it appeared to have two of the qualifications ascribed by Mr. Wordsworth to his perfect woman—they were admirably fitted to warn and to command. The poet, it will be remembered, inserts “to comfort” between these rather formidable attributes, but there was nothing about Eliza’s appearance to suggest that this might apply to her. She was mixing something in a basin. She beat hard at a grocer’s egg, looked at Penny in a masterful manner, and repeated what she had just said.
“I haven’t made up my mind. And sitting on my kitchen table is a thing I don’t hold with, so you can just get down.”
Penny leaned sideways, picked up a Sultana, and put it in her mouth.
“Darling Eliza, don’t be cross. When are you going to make it up?”
“When I’m ready. And I’ll say now and nobody’ll get me from it, it wouldn’t take me long if I hadn’t given my word to Mr. Brand.”
“Did you tell him you’d stay?”
“No I didn’t, nor he wouldn’t ask me. What’d there be to stay for, with Mr. Felix all set to marry in haste and repent at leisure? And if you were to tell me you’d be here more than five minutes after that, I’d not believe you, not if you took your Bible oath.”
Penny shook her head.
“I shouldn’t waste a Bible oath on it. I’d go like a flash of lightning. We could go together, darling, and have two rooms, and take in washing or something.”
Eliza beat the egg.
“What I promised Mr. Brand was that I’d wait and see. If Miss Marian Brand was to come here, I was to wait and see how we’d get on. He said likely enough she’d be put on if I didn’t, and he’d like her to get a fair start.”
Penny took another Sultana.
“Electric stoves are all right when you’re used to them,” she said.
“I don’t hold with them. That range on the other side ’ud be all right if it was took in hand.”
Penny caught her breath. Eliza was really thinking about staying. The Sultana began to taste good.
“Mactavish likes the kitchen on the other side,” she said.
“That’s because there’s mice there, which there wouldn’t be if it was used.”
“He might hope they were going to come back.”
“There’d be no good his hoping. I don’t hold with mice. What he likes or don’t like is neither here nor there.”
Penny let this go. She took another Sultana, and was snapped at.
“If I’m to make a plain cake, better have said so to start with and no pretence made. Are you meeting that train or not?”
Penny nodded.
“I thought someone had better. Rather grim, coming to a new place and nobody wanting you.”
“Then you can’t go in those clothes, and high time you was changing.”
“Eliza, you’re a bully.”
“You’ll put on your brown tweed skirt, and a decent jumper, and your tweed coat. The wind’s in the north for all you don’t feel it here. Is Felix going?”
“Eliza—darling!”
“Saving himself to meet her!” said Eliza with a formidable toss of the head.
Penny said, “Of course.” Then she jumped down from the table and got behind Eliza, because all of a sudden she had come over all shaky.
“I don’t know what everything’s coming to,” said Eliza grimly. She had beaten the egg until it was pure froth. She now began to dowse it with sugar. “What Felix wants is to keep a hold of himself, or that temper of his’ll be getting him into trouble some day. It was bad enough when he was a boy, and he’d ought to have been broken of it, and could have been if it hadn’t been for some I could mention that never could leave him alone. If a child’s got a fancy for playing the piano, well, why not let him be? It’s not my fancy, but it takes all sorts to make a world, as they say, and set on music he is, and always will be. Then what’s the sense of nattering after him all the time? ‘Felix, you ought to be out on the beach’—or posting a letter, or going on an errand, or anything except what he’s doing. And, ‘You didn’t ought to practise so much,’ and, ‘Why can’t you play something with a nice tune to it?’ Enough to spoil any child’s temper if you ask me, and done to be aggravating! Puts me in mind of Mactavish with a mouse, and when it’s a poor dumb animal you don’t blame them, but when it’s a yuman being that calls itself a Christian and goes to church regular, then there are things I could say, only I know my place.”
Behind her back Penny said in a small soft voice,
“He’s so unhappy—”
Eliza jerked.
“He gives away to it. He’ll need to watch that temper. Look at the things he’s said! Only this morning Mrs. Bell asks me where she shall start, and I told her, ‘You take and give the front hall and the stairs a good doing,’ and she comes back and tells me she daresn’t. And when I ask why, she can tell me that Felix was on the stairs saying damn his Uncle Martin, and damn someone else that he didn’t go so far as to name, but easy enough to tell it was Miss Marian Brand, and a pity she hadn’t got killed in that railway smash she was in. And, ‘What a way to talk!’ she said. And I sent her over to do the old kitchen. It’s clean enough, for I saw she did it out myself so soon as ever I heard Miss Brand would be coming, but I thought it would get her out of the way, and the men had been in fixing that electric. She went off grumbling—she could see I’d more use for her room than her company. But she’s right, it’s no way to talk nor to let people hear you doing it, and where you’ve got a daily help you’ve got someone that’ll fetch and carry with everything that goes on, and put a bit on to it for good measure.”
Penny said, “He doesn’t mean it.”
Eliza turned round sharp and quick.
“Then he didn’t ought to say it, and you’d better tell him so! Is it true he went so far as to talk about giving Miss Marian Brand a push over the cliff and see if that’d drown her?”
Penny had flushed to the roots of her hair.
“He didn’t mean it. He doesn’t mean anything at all when he says things like that. It’s like screaming out when someone stamps on your foot. The aunts had been stamping about Helen Adrian and—and he can’t bear it.”
Eliza said, “He isn’t the only one. There’s plenty of things we’ve got to bear whether we like it or not. And no call to talk like a murdering lunatic. There’s a piano he can go and bang on if that’s what he feels like, and no harm done. And if you want to catch that train you’d better run.”
Penny ran.
After all, Penny hadn’t time to change. She took one look at the clock, snatched her bicycle, and coasted down the hill into Farne, which used to be a fishing village, but managed during the years between the wars to collect a good many rows of small houses, a distressing eruption of bungalows, and a hideous but comfortable hotel. The houses were always cram full. They had been built to let, and let they did at fantastic prices, since the demand was constantly greater than the supply. There was an aerodrome three miles inland, and a consequent run on all possible accommodation within a five-mile radius.
Penny got to the station just half a minute before the train, flung her bicycle against a wall, ducked under a porter’s arm, and saw Marian Brand and Ina Felton get out of the third carriage from the engine. She hadn’t the slightest doubt as to who they were, because she had seen them both before.
There was a portrait of Ina hanging in the drawing-room at this minute with a Leghorn hat tied on over her dark curls and a white muslin dress, only the name under it was Isabella, not Ina, Brand. And a miniature of Marian had always stood on the top of Uncle Martin’s chest of drawers—his mother, painted at the time of her marriage when she was just eighteen. So that was why he had left her the money. Penny thought it was very romantic.
She ran up to them all flushed and friendly and said,
“I’m Penny. You are Marian and Ina, aren’t you?”
They collected luggage and got everything on to a taxi, including Penny’s bicycle, because she wasn’t going to pound up that hill and let them arrive alone. They packed in somehow. The friendly glow persisted. Penny chattered.
“I’m not a cousin. I’m something on the Remington side. I hadn’t any other relations, so the aunts took me. It was very good of them.”
Her tone betrayed that this was dictated by conscience. After that it brightened again.
“Uncle Martin was sweet to me. And Eliza—oh, Marian, what are you going to do about Eliza Cotton? Because you’d better have it all ready and say it straight away. She’s a simply angel cook.”
Marian said, “Who is Eliza?”
Penny couldn’t believe her ears. The life of the house revolved round Eliza—it always had. Her eyes went quite round with surprise, but she could only get hold of the most inadequate words.
“She was Uncle Martin’s housekeeper.”
Marian looked troubled.
“But your aunts will want her, won’t they? I couldn’t—”
Penny clutched her with a little brown hand.
“She isn’t theirs—she’s yours. Mr. Ashton said so. He said she was in your service, and she would have to give you notice if she didn’t want to stay. You won’t let her, will you?”
“Perhaps she won’t want to stay with us.”
“She hasn’t made up her mind. But she will when she sees you. She adored Uncle Martin, and she wants to stay because of Mactavish, and Felix, and me. Mactavish is the cat—he was Uncle Martin’s cat. A Scotch friend of his sent him all the way from Edinburgh in a basket with his name tied around his neck on a label. Eliza adores him. If Mactavish likes you, she will stay. You will have her, won’t you?” She dropped her voice to a confidential note. “I think she has really practically made up her mind, because she has had the sweep, and the kitchen on your side done out twice, and she says there’s nothing wrong with the range except not being used.”
“Oh—” Marian looked anxious. “Mr. Ashton said he was arranging about an electric stove.”
Penny nodded.
“Yes, that’s all right—it’s in. But Eliza doesn’t hold with electrics. Look here, you’ll have to be firm. If Eliza says she’ll stay, the aunts will suggest sharing meals, and her cooking for everyone. Well, she’ll do it for a day or two, but she won’t go on. Just as soon as Eliza has made up her mind, she won’t so much as cook a potato for our side of the house.”
Marian began to feel appalled.
“But, Penny—I can’t—”
“You won’t have to. And you needn’t feel bad about it either. Eliza wouldn’t stay with the aunts if they paid her millions. But she’d like to stay with Mactavish and Felix and me. You see, if she’s next door, and you didn’t mind frightfully, I could come in and see her and Mactavish. He doesn’t really like our side of the house, and I couldn’t bear not seeing him. Anyhow, he wouldn’t leave Eliza, and he does like the kitchen on your side. Eliza says it’s because of mice, but I think he just likes it. She’s got rather a mouse complex, you know. Honestly, she’ll do you awfully well if she makes up her mind to stay. And you don’t need to have a conscience about it, because Mrs. Bell will go on coming to us, and she’s got a sister who can cook and who will come in every day except Sunday, so we’ll be perfectly all right. Look! Just round this next corner you’ll see the house.”
They turned the corner, and Marian saw Cove House standing waiting for them. There was a wall of heaped stones between it and the road, and two rough pillars to mark the entrance. A few hard-bitten trees and shrubs were huddled low against the wind. Behind them the straggling white house, two stories high and a slanting attic floor above. There were two front doors painted bright blue, with identical knockers and old-fashioned iron bellpulls. Late narcissus were dying off amongst the wallflower in a narrow bed on either side.
As the taxi stopped, the right-hand door opened and Eliza Cotton loomed up. Marian got out and came forward. That feeling of being in a dream which she had had off and on for more than a month now was strong upon her. Her house— her own house. It didn’t seem as if it could be real. Now— now—now it must break round her. But whilst the dream lasts you bear your part in it. She shook hands with Eliza, encountered a strong searching look, said something about the fine day, and turned back to pay the taxi. There was a bustle of luggage coming in. The driver was very obliging.
Penny had a despairing feeling that Felix ought to be there, and that if he were, nothing that she could do or say would be in the least likely to make him behave tolerably. And the aunts would be sharpening every tooth and claw they had.
She followed up the stairs and heard Eliza ahead of her.
“This was Mr. Brand’s bedroom. I considered you would wish to have it. And the one next door for Mrs. Felton. They have both got the view of the sea.”
The room was not large, but very pleasant. Between the windows and on either side old-fashioned shutters were folded back into the walls. They were painted the same bright blue as the front door.
Ina and Marian stood side by side and looked out at an enchanting view. First came the small walled garden. There were fruit trees trained against the walls. A bright pink froth of apple blossom showed here and there on nectarine and peach. Then steps going down to a wide terraced ledge. More steps, another ledge, and another, dropping to the little cove from which the house took its name. It faced south and the cliffs sheltered it on either side. The terraced gardens were full of spring flowers—wallflower and tulip, fruit blossom and early clematis, aubrietia, polyanthus, and arabis. The colours were as bright as jewels under the spring sun. Beyond and below, a long narrow stretch of shingle, and beyond that the sea, as clear and blue as the sky above it. When they turned back into the room it seemed dark. All that colour and brilliance outside, but the plain white walls, the plain old furniture, the short blue and white curtains which matched the bedspread, had a charm of their own. They were simple and restful.
The bathroom was next door, and then Ina’s room. It had the same blue shutters and curtains, but there was an old-fashioned wall-paper with pink roses on it, and the ewer and basin on the bow-front marble-topped washstand had a rose pattern instead of the blue and white in Marian’s room.
Ina had hardly spoken at all. She said, “Yes,” when she was asked if she liked her room, and, “No,” when she was asked if she was tired. She had become so pale that the delicately applied colour which had been so becoming when she started now showed up like a patch on the white skin. When they went to see the rest of the house she contrived to remain behind.
Penny went on doing showman.
“The rooms are the same on both sides—four bedrooms on this floor, and an attic room above. And there is a linen-cupboard on each side. It really was two houses to start with. That’s the door through to our side—there’s one on each floor. Eliza sleeps in your attic, so the other two bedrooms are spare. Then downstairs there are three sitting-rooms, and the kitchen, and things like that—the same both sides. You’ve got the dining-room, and a little room that hasn’t been used much, and Uncle Martin’s study, which I think is the nicest room in the house. And on our side there’s the breakfast-room, and the drawing-room, and a room the aunts have always had for themselves. No one ever goes into the drawing-room except Felix—because of the piano, you know. It’s a lovely Bechstein grand. He really does play beautifully. And he composes. He ought to be doing that all the time, instead of going round playing people’s accompaniments.”
Marian wasn’t stupid. There was an emphasis on “people”—Penny’s eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She remembered that Felix Brand was Helen Adrian’s accompanist, and that Helen Adrian was, from her pictures, a very pretty woman. There was no need to say anything. They were coming into the study, and when they were really there all she could do was to draw a long satisfied breath and say, “Oh!”
It was the most comfortable room she had ever seen. All the strangeness went out of her as she looked at it. It wasn’t until afterwards that she could notice and admire the pair of Chippendale bookcases with their curved horns and diamond lattice-work, or the writing-table with its pigeon-holes and little drawers, and the brass handles which were the colour of very pale gold. At the time she only knew that it was a beautiful room, and that she loved it.
Penny squeezed her arm and pulled her over to the window. The view was the same as from the bedroom above, but you saw more garden and less cover. There was a narrow bed of forget-me-nots under the three windows, set with May-flowering tulips just coming into bloom, the long pointed buds still green but flushed and streaked with rose, and purple, and scarlet, and yellow. The middle window was a door with two shallow steps going down to a flagged path beyond the flowers. You only had to turn a handle and step out. There was a pink cherry in bloom away to the left.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Penny. She was still holding Marian’s arm. Eliza had vanished. They were alone.
Marian said, “Yes,” with a deep sigh of content, and all at once Penny felt that she could say anything. Her hand squeezed harder. The words came tumbling out.
“Marian—you won’t want to take the piano, will you? I don’t know what Felix would do without it, and it wouldn’t be right in here—not a bit. The aunts have been saying you’d want it, and the drawing-room furniture. And of course it’s all yours, but you’d hate it really—nasty gilt spindly stuff, and the sort of shiny brocade you can only sit on in your best evening dress. You wouldn’t really want to spoil this room with it—would you?”
“I should hate it. And of course I won’t take the piano away from Felix.”
The door behind them was open. Eliza came through it with a tea-tray. The cat Mactavish followed, walking delicately, like Agag. Having set down the tray, Eliza straightened herself. Penny became aware that the moment was a fateful one. There were persons so uninstructed as to address a princely Persian as “puss.” There were ill-mannered vulgarians who attempted to lay an uninvited hand upon him. There were those who knew how to treat him. Eliza was undoubtedly waiting to see into which category Miss Marian Brand would fall. She said,
“I thought you would like a cup of tea after the journey.”
And Marian said, “How lovely,” and “Thank you,” and sat down in front of the table which held the tray.
The critical moment impended. Mactavish advanced, his tail fluffed out to its fullest extent, his topaz eyes wary upon the stranger.
Marian said, “Oh, how beautiful!” on what was felt to be a very proper note, and then, “What is his name?”
Eliza noted the pronoun with approbation. She had a biting contempt for people who alluded to all cats as her.
“His name’s Mactavish.”
Marian gazed admiringly.
“Will he come to me?”
“He’ll please himself.”
Mactavish pleased himself. The tone of this person’s voice satisfied a fastidious ear. He was aware of being admired, not fulsomely, but in a well-bred manner. When the voice addressed him by name he advanced and sniffed at a respectfully extended hand. Considering that it had been an agreeable smell, he rubbed his head against it and permitted himself to be delicately stroked behind the ear. Then, before the astonished eyes of Penny and Eliza, he leaped on to the stranger’s lap and settled there.
As the sound of a faint purr became audible, Eliza made up her mind. If anyone had told her that Mactavish would have taken such a fancy, she wouldn’t have believed them. Few indeed were the chosen laps upon which he would condescend to sit—Mr. Brand’s, Felix’s, and Penny’s. If lifted up by Mrs. Alfred Brand or Miss Cassy, his eyes flamed with fury and he removed himself with all possible haste. He had been known to kick, to scratch, and even to bite. He always washed himself all over afterwards. And now just to look at him, with his paws doubled under and purring like a teakettle! If that wasn’t a sign, Eliza didn’t know one. She said,
“My goodness, gracious me!” and went out of the room in a hurry.
Upstairs in her new bedroom Ina was leaning out of the window. It was all lovely, and she was very unhappy. Cyril was behaving very badly indeed. When it happened right under your eyes like that, it was no good going on trying to pretend any longer. He didn’t want to work—he never had wanted to work. He wanted all the things you can’t get without working for them. He wanted Marian to give him half the money. And she wouldn’t. Ina had said whatever Cyril had wanted her to say. And still Marian wouldn’t. Deep down inside her there was something which said that Marian was right. Since the last really dreadful row Ina found herself unable to close her thought to that voice. It told her that all Cyril ever wanted with money was to spend it on having a good time, and that when it was spent he would want more, and more, and more. She was finding it impossible to drape this Cyril any longer in the garments of romance. He was beginning to emerge as a selfish, emotional young man who could see no reason why everything should not give way to him. He had not come down with them to Cove House because, after the last row two days ago, he had flung out of the house and banged the door behind him. She didn’t know where he was, or when she would see him again.