The Chinese Shawl Page 4

  “Laura! Laura!”

  She reached out and held him.

  “Don’t mind like that! Oh, Carey, please!”

  “I’m a fool—I’ve no right—”

  She shook him a little, or tried to.

  “You’re not to talk like that! I won’t have it! You’ve got to be sensible and give yourself a chance. Why, it isn’t any time yet. You’ve been worried—strung-up. You haven’t given yourself a chance.” But in her heart she was saying, “Tanis hasn’t given him a chance.”

  She came very near to hating Tanis then. It was like coming near to the open mouth of a furnace. The heat rushed out. It took her breath and blinded her. She shrank in the wind of it, and was afraid.

  Carey felt her tremble. She put up her face to his, and when he touched it it was wet. She said through tears,

  “Please, Carey, please! It’s going to be all right.”

  CHAPTER 7

  COUSIN SOPHY WAS on her sofa in the drawing-room in a panoply of shawls. There was one from Galloway in shades of blue and green. It was really more of a rug than a shawl, and was dedicated to covering her to the waist. “I took such a fancy to it when I was travelling with my dear father, and it has worn remarkably well—such pure wool, and of course only vegetable dyes. It always reminds me of the colour of the sea and the hills—such a wild coast—just the same blue and green.” There was another shawl at the slender waist, a wisp of violet and grey, and a grey silk shawl with a knotted fringe for the frail shoulders. There was also a supplementary one of heavy pale blue wool, crocheted by Miss Sophy herself, and one rather smaller in white wool to put over the head when a window was opened to air the room.

  From all this shawlery Miss Ferrers extended a pair of eager, fluttering hands.

  “Oh, my dear Laura—I am so glad! Have you enjoyed yourself?”

  Laura said, “Yes, very much.” She had the feeling that she stood in a cloud of joy—a glowing cloud, bright with the sun.

  “I am so glad you have come in, and so glad you have enjoyed yourself too. But oh, my dear, Agnes Fane has been telephoning. She wants you to go down there—tomorrow, I think. She says Tanis Lyle is taking down a party of young people, and she thought it would be a pleasant way of making your acquaintance.”

  The brightness failed suddenly. Laura didn’t know why. She felt cold without it. The little fluttering hands were reaching out to her. She went forward to the sofa and sat down on the edge of it. Cousin Sophy went on talking in an excited thread of a voice.

  “I think you ought to go, my dear. She was very nice about it. Rather grand in her manner, but then Agnes always was rather grand. I knew her very well when she was a girl, before the quarrel. I am older than she is of course—let me see—ten—no, twelve years older. But the Ferrers and the Fanes saw a lot of each other at that time. My grandfather John Ferrers and Mary Ferrers who married Thomas Fane and was Agnes’s grandmother, and of course your father’s too, were brother and sister, so Agnes and I are second cousins. And she was very polite, asking about my health and saying she was afraid I must feel the cold weather and the bombs, which everybody doesn’t trouble about when it’s a long-distance call. My dear father always said that when everybody had a telephone nobody would have any manners, because there wouldn’t be time for them. And of course he was perfectly right, because by the time it has clicked on and clicked off, and you’re not sure how many minutes you’ve had, and you’re not sure if you’ve said what you were going to say, even the politest person is apt to find that they are being a little abrupt.”

  Laura smiled. She loved Cousin Sophy, and it was restful not to have to talk. You didn’t have to with Cousin Sophy. She loved an audience, and sooner or later she got everything said.

  “I haven’t seen Agnes for twenty-two years, but her voice hasn’t changed. She must be fifty-seven—or is it fifty-eight— I’m really not quite sure—but her voice hasn’t changed. She had a contralto singing voice too, very deep and striking, but my dear father considered that she had too dramatic a style for an amateur. He had no objection to singing as a drawing-room accomplishment—it was still fashionable when I was a girl—but there was something about the way in which Agnes sang Infelice and Tosti’s Goodbye which he considered inappropriate to the family circle or a concert at the village hall. I remember she used to look very handsome and proud when she was singing, and she always looked at your father, which was just a little embarrassing, because—well, you won’t know either of those songs, my dear, they’ve really gone quite out of fashion. But they were—well, I don’t quite like to say so, but there really isn’t any other word for it—quite passionate.”

  Laura had a sudden picture of Agnes Fane singing passionately to the Vicar, the village, and Oliver Fane. It came across the years, sharp and bright, and painful with an old pain which had never been forgotten.

  Cousin Sophy flowed on.

  “My brother Jack used to say, ‘If Agnes rides such a high horse she’ll be getting a fall one of these days.’ He was inclined to be in love with her, and it would not have done at all, because they both had terrible tempers. They were always quarrelling and making it up. And then one day they quarrelled and they didn’t make it up. And Jack was killed in the last war, so if she had married him Agnes would have been a widow all this time. But of course she never really thought of anyone except your father.”

  It was just on seven o’clock when the new young parlour-maid opened the door and began to say, “Will you see Miss Lyle—” She had been specially told to say ma’am by Beecher, Miss Sophy’s maid who had been with her for thirty years, but she never got it out, because Tanis Lyle walked right past her into the room.

  “You will, won’t you, Cousin Sophy?” she said in a clear, ringing voice, and before there was time for anyone else to speak, there she was, touching Miss Sophy’s hand and slipping out of a fur coat.

  Laura found herself taking the coat like a lady-in-waiting. Lovely fur—so light and soft. She put it down over a chair and turned to see Tanis, bareheaded in a short, slinky black dress. Immediately she felt that her own dress was too bright a green, too thick, and much, much too countryfied. She had a perfectly clear conviction that no matter what she wore, Tanis would always make her feel like that, and that if she lay down under it now she would never get up again. “After all, I do live in the country,” she told herself, and felt better.

  Cousin Sophy was speaking.

  “Well, my dear, we dine at half past seven, because I have to go to bed early. Mary may not like to ring the dressing-bell. I am afraid it sounds very inhospitable, but Beecher will be waiting to dress me, and it does not do for me to be hurried. It upsets her dreadfully.”

  Tanis stood there, smiling down at her. She looked younger, less sophisticated. The smile was a charming one.

  “But, Cousin Sophy, of course I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. Perhaps I could go up and talk to Laura while she dresses. I am full of messages from Aunt Agnes, and this seems to be the only time. I had to go to the Theobalds’ cocktail party, and I’m dining out.”

  When Beecher had been rung for and Laura and Tanis were on the stairs together, Tanis laughed softly and said,

  “Does she really dress for dinner?”

  Laura nodded.

  “Oh, yes. She puts on what she calls a tea-gown, and a white China crepe shawl instead of the grey one, and Beecher does her hair with little curls at the side. It’s the curls that take the time. They’re sweet.”

  They came into the bedroom. If Laura had ever disliked anything in her life, it was the prospect of having to dress with Tanis watching her. But she wasn’t giving in to it. Tanis was an underminer, but people can’t undermine you if you don’t let yourself be undermined.

  Tanis sat down on the bed, pulling the pillows round to make herself a back.

  “Well, Aunt Agnes said she’s been ringing Cousin Sophy up, so I expect you know she wants you to go down and stay at the Priory.”

  Laura was hanging
up her coat. Without turning round she said,

  “Yes.”

  “She’s been trying to get me all the afternoon, but of course I was out. I had to ring her up as soon as I got in. She’s set her heart on your coming.”

  Laura unhung the dress she was going to wear—her old black velvet. She knew exactly what it was going to look like to Tanis, and she told herself she didn’t care. She hung it over the rail of the bed and took, off her hat.

  Tanis was looking at her with an effect of eager charm.

  “I do hope you’re going to come.”

  “It’s very kind of Cousin Agnes.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t. It’s what she ought to have done years and years and years ago. What’s the good of quarrelling? And then to keep it up all this time—as if anything in the world was worth a fuss like that! Too archaic! Of course I’m very fond of the aunts—by the way, they’re only cousins really, but I’ve always called them Aunt. They like it, God knows why. It’s about the most hideous word in the English language, but it pleases them, and I’m all for pleasing people when I can.”

  She produced a platinum cigarette-case with a diamond initial, offered it to Laura, who said, “Not whilst I’m dressing,” and then lighted a cigarette herself. A little curl of smoke went up between them.

  Laura went over to the wash-stand.

  “One gets filthy in London. Don’t you want to have a bath?”

  Laura would have liked to say, “Yes, I do,” but to strip, to be naked and defenceless before an enemy—that touched something very old, very primitive. She said,

  “There won’t be time if you want to talk. I can’t keep Cousin Sophy waiting. I can have one when I come to bed.”

  The water splashed in the old-fashioned flowered basin. Tanis waited until she came back to the dressing-table. Sitting there, Laura could see the reflection of the bed, her own black dress thrown down across the foot, and Tanis against the fat white pillows at the head. The smoke went up between them. The cigarette described a sudden graceful movement.

  “Well, Laura, I hope you’re coming.”

  Laura said, “Why does she want me to come?”

  “I suppose because she thinks this idiotic quarrel has gone on long enough.”

  Laura felt that she had been ungracious. She said, still looking into the mirror,

  “It’s very nice of her—I do feel that. It isn’t easy to put a stop to something that has been going on for a long time. I do think it’s very nice of her.”

  “Then what’s the matter with coming?”

  Laura swung round on the low chintz-covered stool, comb in hand, black hair ruffled.

  “You know she wants to buy the Priory?”

  Tanis’s lids came down and veiled her eyes. She said,

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to sell,” said Laura bluntly.

  The lids rose. The eyes looked out, very much alive, very green.

  “Well?”

  A note of distress came into Laura’s voice.

  “Of course I wouldn’t ever turn her out—I couldn’t do that. But I don’t want to sell unless I simply have to. I may have to—I don’t know—in which case it would be better for it to go to Cousin Agnes. But I haven’t made up my mind. I want to think it over.”

  The green eyes went on looking at her. A faint smile came, and slipped away.

  “Well?”

  “Don’t you see, if I go down there I’m afraid Cousin Agnes will think I’m saying yes, and I haven’t made up my mind. It wouldn’t be fair to let her think that I was going to say yes.”

  There—she had got it out, and it was easier than she had expected. The sense of dealing with an enemy had gone. She felt ashamed that it had ever been there between them. She turned back to the glass and straightened the ruffled hair. Tanis’s reflection smiled with a sudden bewildering charm.

  “Scrupulous person, aren’t you? Well, you’ve got it off the chest. Now listen! You can come down without prejudice. It won’t commit you to anything at all. It won’t be a meeting between a prospective buyer and seller. It won’t be anything except the aunts wanting to see you and put an end to the quarrel.”

  The smoke between them had spread into a faint blue haze. Laura thought, “I’ve been a beast. They want to be friends. I must go down.” She jumped up and came to the foot of the bed. As she picked up her dress she said gravely and frankly,

  “Thank you, Tanis—if it’s like that, I should like to come. Shall I ring Cousin Agnes up?”

  “Yes—she’d like that. We can go down tomorrow afternoon.”

  Laura pulled her frock over her head. If she was careful she could do it without disarranging her hair. She emerged successfully and was smoothing down the long, straight blackness, when Tanis said,

  “It ought to be quite a good party. We’ll get the end of the Maxwell boys’ leave, and there’ll be you, and me, and Petra, and Carey.”

  Laura turned back to the glass. Her heart beat hard. The dress needed a brooch. She picked up an old-fashioned circle of pearls and fingered it. Tanis’s voice came from behind her, lightly, sweetly.

  “Carey’s a charmer, isn’t he? But don’t take him seriously. He’s taken a fancy to you, but he’s never serious. It’s just the way he’s made—if he likes a girl he can’t help making love to her, but it doesn’t mean a thing.”

  Laura was pinning her brooch. The little white circle looked nice against the dead black velvet. The dress might be an old one, but it was very becoming. She turned round and said in the same grave way that she had spoken before,

  “You’re not engaged to him, are you, Tanis?”

  Simplicity is always disconcerting. Tanis was disconcerted, but not for any time long enough to be measured. In a flash she was adjusted and striking back with a suave,

  “Well, not exactly.”

  Laura looked at her. Her eyes said steadily, “What’s the good of saying that sort of thing to me?” Then she turned to the door.

  “Shall we go down? I think Cousin Sophy will be ready.”

  CHAPTER 8

  LAURA RANG UP THE PRIORY as soon as the meal which Miss Sophy still called dinner had been disposed of. The stately repasts of the eighteenth century, the heavy banquets of the Victorian age, had dwindled to a cup of clear soup and a lightly poached egg surrounded by spinach. The ale, the strong waters, the fine claret, the Madeira which had made the journey round the Cape, the sherry, and the port, were gone away to a flagon of orange-juice and a jug of barley-water. The transition to the dining-room was too risky for an invalid, so there was a comfortable low table drawn to the side of the couch in the drawing-room. But Miss Sophy still dined.

  As soon as Mary had removed the last traces of the meal the business of telephoning began. Miss Sophy superintended. It was the most interesting thing that had happened for a long time. It was a rapprochement—it was the end of the family feud. Oliver’s daughter and Agnes! Miss Sophy’s colour rose and her eyes shone. She fairly fluttered with excitement.

  Laura would much rather have waited until Cousin Sophy had gone to bed. She could have borne to wait for ever. She felt an extreme reluctance to call across that twenty-year gulf and hear Agnes Fane answering her. It was naturally not the slightest use to feel like that. She put through the call whilst Miss Sophy poured out reminiscences, and almost at once, before she was expecting it, there was a voice on the line—what Laura would mentally call a suet-pudding voice.

  “This is the Priory. Miss Adams speaking.”

  Cousin Sophy’s hearing was very acute. She plucked Laura’s sleeve and whispered,

  “Your Cousin Lucy—”

  Laura said, “It is Laura Fane, Cousin Lucy,” and waited.

  There was a sound as if the receiver had been jerked. The voice said “Oh—” just like that, without any expression. Laura found it rather daunting. There was a pause, a murmur of voices too low to be caught. She thought the receiver had been set down or muffled.

  Cousin Sophy whi
spered, “Don’t take any notice of Lucy. She is a very stupid woman.”

  And then another voice was speaking in a deep, firm tone. If Laura had not known that this was Agnes Fane she would not have been quite sure that it wasn’t a man.

  “Is that Laura?”

  Laura said, “Yes, Cousin Agnes. It is Cousin Agnes?”

  The deep voice said, “Yes.” And then, “I hope you are coming to stay with me.”

  Laura thought, “She knows I’m coming. Tanis must have rung her up.” The voice was dominant and assured, a voice that was accustomed to being obeyed.

  This feeling persisted through her polite thanks and Miss Fane’s reply. The conversation was as short, as formal, as devoid of emotion as if there had never been a passionate Agnes who had sung lnfelice, and a reluctant Oliver who had loved somebody else.

  Miss Sophy heaved a sigh as Laura rang off.

  “Well, my dear, that’s over. And a little disappointing, don’t you think? Things so often are, you know. When your father ran away with your mother they were having a fete at the Priory—Primrose Day—no, it couldn’t have been that, because it was in the summer, really a very hot day—but it was something to do with the Primrose League. Very inconsiderate of Oliver and Lilian, but of course they were very much in love, and when young people are in love they don’t think of anyone except themselves. The grounds of the Priory are very beautiful, and Agnes was pouring out tea under the big cedar, when one of the footmen, a very foolish young man, brought her Oliver’s note on a salver. Of course he never meant her to have it like that—it was a most stupid mistake. But she opened it, and read it, and put it away in her bag, and went on talking to the Lord Lieutenant and pouring out tea. No one would have known there was anything wrong. But when everyone had gone she took her horse, Black Turban—such a curious name I always thought—and rode out on him. And when she didn’t come back they sent out a search party, and there she was at the bottom of the quarry, and the poor horse was dead.”

  Laura was speechless. She gazed white-faced at Cousin Sophy, whose pretty pink colour had not faded at all. It was just an old story to her, but to Laura it felt like all the terrible and unhappy things and all the unkindness in the world brought to a focus.