The Fortunes of Springfield (15 page)

It was a most successful picnic. They all ate hugely of the delicacies that Caroline had prepared, and they all drank the somewhat smoky tea, although the children soon deserted tea for fruit juices. Terence saw to the putting out of the fire afterwards, and David organized some games, among them hide-and-seek and a wheelbarrow race in which Terence was his wheelbarrow, Jimmy was Caroline’s and Wendy Patricia’s. When David walked off with Patricia later, he left behind him a group of happy children. Caroline packed up all the remains and looked round to see that no pieces of paper were left behind. Babs came up to her, wanting to carry some of the gear, and Caroline gave her something to carry and Wendy something.

“Wasn’t it a lovely picnic?” asked Wendy.

“Yes,” agreed Babs.

“We never used to have picnics. Only since Miss Hearst came to look after us.”

“I know,” said Babs, and turned to give Caroline a kiss. Since she had discovered kissing, she was rather addicted to it, and Caroline submitted because she did not want to stop the flow of the child’s affection. Wendy followed suit, and Caroline, laughing, said.

“Now that is quite enough of that. We must get back to the house.”

She passed Terence, still dealing
w
ith the remains of the fire. She raffled his hair lightly, saying:

“Want any help, Terence?”

He moved away from her touch roughly.

“Don’t fuss me,” he said rudely.

“Do you want any help?” she repeated.

“Don’t fuss me,” he shouted. “Go and fuss those silly, snivelling, kissing girls.”

“Oh,” said Wendy, shocked.

“Come,” said Caroline. “Let us go and leave him. He will come when he has finished with the fire.” But as she walked across the grass, she still felt the shock of surprise, for she had suddenly and blindingly realized that Terence was jealous. He was jealous of the bond of affection that had grown up between Caroline and the girls, whether he knew it or not. In her preoccupation with this latest aspect of Terence, she forgot to worry too much about the very obvious
liking
which existed between David and Patricia.

CHAPTER NINE

CAROLINE leaned back in the long, comfortable settee and sighed luxuriously.

“It’s so nice to be lazy,” she said, “and so nice to be here, Duncan.”

“You could come much oftener,” he said.

“I couldn’t. I don’t have time. Perhaps that is what makes it so specially nice when I can.”

“Have some more coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then we’ll get rid of this.” He pushed the low coffee table away and seated himself in the opposite
corner
of the settee. “And you tell me what you would like to do with the rest of your free day.”

“There isn’t much more of it left,” said Caroline. “I think Terence and Wendy will be home from their school outing at about six, and Mrs. Davis will send Babs back at about the same time. So I must be back by then.”

“I was hoping you would stay to dinner.”

“That would be fine, but it can’t be done, Duncan. I’m sorry. I would like to stay.”

“I wish you would say that you would like to stay permanently. I know you think that I harp on this question, Caroline, but I hope that I shall persu
a
de you.”

“You are so impatient.”

“Of course I am. Who wouldn’t be impatient to get the woman he loves to live with him all the time?”

“I would always have a guilty conscience about you, Duncan, because I don’t love you in the same way.”

“But you admit you are fond of me.”

“Oh yes, very. But it isn’t enough.”

“Here we go, back on the same old theme. I tell you, Caroline, it would be enough for me; and with everything else in our fav
o
ur, I think it would be a most successful marriage. You like my home, and my farm, and me. I could give you security and a pleasant life; and I am sufficiently well provided for to give you anything you want, within reason.”

“I know.” She smiled at him and then sighed. “You would spoil me. I expect it would be very bad for me.”

“Don’t you believe it—a little spoiling is good for anybody who has worked as hard as you have. It would give me the greatest possible happiness to be able to indulge you. We would go abroad together, Caroline, you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I should love it.”

“Well, where shall we go for our honeymoon?”

“You are premature, my dear.”

“Well, let us pretend that I am not premature, that we are pl
anning
our honeymoon. Where shall we go?”

“Oh, you are insidious,” said Caroline. “If I don’t watch carefully, I shall find myself in a Paris-bound train with you, wondering what I am doing there.”

He laughed.

“Paris?” he said. “Yes, well, Paris will do for a start, but not by train. We will fly there. Have you flown before, Caroline?”

“Of course not. I’ve never done anything.”

“Then I shall have all the more enjoyment in showing you everything. Plane to Paris then first. I know where we will stay there, and we will spend a few days there, before we go on to—where? Rome, Monte Carlo, Madrid?”

“No,” said Caroline, joining in the game. “I want to see the mountains.”

“All right then. Switzerland, or the French Alps or Austria? I think, after all, we won’t fly to Paris. We’ll take the car, and make an extended tour of Europe.”

“Oh, get thee behind me, Satan,” said Caroline.

He smiled into her eyes.

“You’d love it, Caroline. Let’s do it.”

“Yes, I’d love it, but what would happen to the farm while you were away?”

“It couldn’t disappear. Martin can manage perfectly well. He can get in the harvest—and the hay is finished.”

“Which harvest?” she asked gently.

“This one. Next month and the month after.”

“Harvest next year perhaps,” she said.

“Caroline, Caroline, how can you torment me so? Why should you make me wait so long?”

“Seriously, Duncan—without any more pretence— you mustn’t take anything for granted. And you certainly mustn’t think of this year. I couldn’t leave the children.”

“You could leave them, Caroline. There are other people who would care for them.”

“But not quite yet. I feel in my bones that another change for them just now, when they are beginning to
feel secure, would be bad. Don’t
think
I’
m
making too much fuss about this, will you,
or that
I
think
I’m important to them? It’s only that it takes such a little time for things to go wrong, and such a long time to put them right again. I haven’t got Terence right by any means.”

“You have too much conscience, Caroline.”

“Well, I can’t help that, if it is true. Be my friend, Duncan, a little longer. Give me time.”

“I am always your friend, but I want to be your lover.”

She looked very sad, and he reproached himself.

“I shouldn’t be dividing you in this way,” he said. “I will give you time. But don’t keep me at arm’s length, my dearest Caroline, don’t shut me away.”

“I don’t,” she said, surprised.

“You do. I want to touch you, to hold you in my arms, but I can’t get near you.”

“I never mean to shut you away,” she said.

He rose and held out a hand to help her to her feet. “Come out and see the roses,” he said. “The day is too lovely to stay indoors, and I want to cut a bunch of them for you to take back. Put them in your room, and think of me every time you see them.”

“I will,” she promised, and as they went into the garden, she slipped her hand through his arm companionably. Mrs. Drew saw them from the kitchen and smiled sympathetically.
Although she liked her life as it was, she was fond enough of Mr. Wescott to want him to have the wife he had chosen.

T
hey walked in the garden, Duncan assuring her that she could alter anything she wished to alter, and Caroline insisting that it was beautiful as it was. They returned to the house for tea, but when Duncan would have driven her back to Springfield in the car, she said that she would like the walk across the fields. He escorted her and they went through the sunny afternoon of high summer until they came to David’s house. They stood on the terrace to say good-bye, as David came along the drive. David was about to call out to them, when he saw Duncan take Caroline into his arms, and he stopped at once, wondering whether to retrace his steps and disappear. He saw that Caroline smiled up into Duncan’s face, and he saw Duncan lean down and kiss her cheek. He did not wait for more. He had no wish to intrude on Caroline’s private affairs. He turned and went back the way he had come, thinking furiously.

When he next saw Caroline, she was getting the little girls to bed. She had a wonderful way with these children, he thought, and once more wondered what he would do if she left Springfield. The person who came first to his mind was Patricia, who was always professing her willingness to come and look after them when Caroline went out, and who seemed to be very attached to Springfield itself—and, he thought a little reluctantly, to its owner. He supposed he should marry; all
h
is circumstances seemed to demand it; and he wondered if it was simply the habit of years, the bachelor habit, that made him somehow reluctant to contemplate such a step with Patricia. As long as Caroline would stay here, maintaining the present easy routine, he would be content; but it seemed that she might not stay.

It was Patricia who took the control of affairs into her own hands. She was impatient of the headway she made with David. She had reached the stage where he filled all her waking thoughts. She went ov
er
everything they said to each other, every expression that accompanied his words; she day-dreamed of him continually, and invented excuses all the time for going over to Springfield, for inviting him to her home. She was so preoccupied by him that when Duncan called upon her mother, and Patricia found them at tea together, she almost forgot to enquire about the state of his own affairs; and it was only when he was leaving and she accompanied him to his car, that she asked:

“
Well, Duncan, one doesn’t have to congratulate you yet?”

“Caroline, you mean?”

“Naturally, Caroline. Mrs. Drew was full of it to Mother. According to her, the whole thing was practically signed and sealed.”

“Unfortunately, no. She feels she can’t leave those children.”

“Duncan, really? Oh, but what nonsense! You surely don’t admit that as a reason?”

“Caroline
thinks
it a very good reason, so I have to.”

Patricia was thoughtful. Duncan said:

“I have told Caroline that I shall have to see that David is married off quickly to somebody,
so that she can be free.”

Their eyes met. Patricia smiled.

“Duncan, you aren’t really very much of a diplomat. “What are you trying to say?”

“Well, you ask if it is time to congratulate me; but it seems to me that I should ask you that. Why don’t you marry David?”

“He hasn’t asked me, Duncan.”

“But you would?”

“Would I not? But I can’t take the initiative.”

“Then see that David does. After all, what could be more convenient all round? If you marry David, Caroline will be free of her obligation, and then perhaps she will marry me — though goodness knows why she should.”

“You are too modest; you have lived too long without
making
some woman happy. I think Caroline would be a very, very lucky girl.”

“You don’t think I’m too old for her?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Well, that is how matters stand at the moment.”

She pressed his hand reassuringly.

“We shall have to see what we can do between us.” And what she did at the earliest possible
moment
was to go to Springfield once more to see David.

It was early evening and he asked her to stay to supper. She protested that it might put Caroline out, but Caroline, questioned by David, said of course it would not; so that Patricia and David sat at the small table by the open window of the dining-room, looking out over the garden which was slowly being brought into shape.

Patricia was at peace, because she was with David, because she could
s
it opposite
him
and watch
him
while she listened to his voice, watch the play of expression on his dark, mobile face, the slow curve of his smile, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed. She thought she would never ask more than to live in this house with David.

Caroline brought them their dessert and cheese. “Where would you like your coffee?” she asked.

“Let us have it in the garden, David,” suggested Patricia.

“Garden, please, Miss Hearst,” said David. “You bring the tray here and I’ll ca
rr
y it out.”

“Thank you,” said Caroline and went away to the kitchen.

Patricia
watched her go. She said:

“I suppose Duncan hasn’t said anything to you about Caroline?”

“No. Why should he?”

“Apparently,” said
Patricia
slowly, “the only reason that she won’t ma
rr
y Duncan is that she won’t leave the children here.”

David looked up at her quickly.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

“Duncan told me. He is naturally impatient, but she says she cannot leave here.”

“He is too old for her,” said David.

“Nonsense, how can you say that Duncan is old?”

“I didn’t say he is old
—
but he is too old for Miss Hearst. Why, she’s a mere girl. Why should she be in a hurry to marry?”

“That isn’t the point,” said Patricia. “She
would
marry if she were not tied to the children.”

“She is not tied to them. No more than anybody who does a job. She can leave at any time if she really wants to.”

“She doesn’t think so. She feels obligations, I suppose.”

David was silent. After a while, Patricia asked: “What is making you so thoughtful? Would you be sorry if she went?”

“Of course I should. She has taken the whole burden of the children—I haven’t had to worry about them. I can’t imagine how I should replace her.”

“It shouldn’t be difficult, David.”

“I think it would be.”

“David, you intend to stay here at Springfield, don’t you? At least until the children are older. And you have made this into such a wonderful house. You know what is missing, don’t you? If you married, the house would come into its own, and the children would be cared for —quite apart from any advantages to yourself.”

He was again silent. Caroline brought in the coffee tray, and Patricia smiled at her, but David did not even seem to notice that she was there. When she had gone, David looked up, across the table, into Patricia’s eyes.

“Patricia,” he said, “when I marry, I shall not do so for
the
sake of the house or the children. That would not be fair to myself or to the woman I chose. I shall be old-fashioned enough to marry for love and not for any
sort of expediency—and that isn’t a thing I want to rush. I’ve had a lot to do here, Patricia, pulling Gerald’s chestnuts out of the fire, as you know pretty well; and perhaps I’ve concentrated too much on work and not enough on other things. There is time enough; I am still, after all, twelve years younger than Duncan who is only now occupying himself with such things
...
If Caroline wishes to go, she must go; and I must try to find somebody as good, though that will be difficult.”

“I will help you, David,” she said.

He smiled at her.

“I shall be very glad of your help. I’m sure that you and your mother, between you, would be able to find me somebody to replace Miss Hearst.”

Patricia could have wept with disappointment at his words. Why was he always so impersonal when she gave him plenty of chances not to be? As they went into the garden for their coffee, she thought over his words, trying to extract a little comfort from them, among the general disappointment. Did he mean that when the affairs of the farm were straightened out, he would think of marriage? She said:

“I have an idea that Caroline won’t go unless somebody is here—and probably somebody she approves of.”

“Let us selfishly hope she doesn’t,” said David.

He gave a great deal of thought, however, to what had been said, later that same evening and all next day. He knew that he did not want Caroline to leave Springfield. She was much too useful, and he knew that the little girls loved her and that even Terence was getting used to her. Also, in his mind, there was no doubt that Duncan
was too old for her. But that was only his opinion, and he had to try to look at it from her point of view. No doubt she was very much attached to him, perhaps even in love with him; and it was understandable enough that Miss Hearst’s youth and freshness should make a great appeal to Duncan. Also, David had to remember her past history, which, by all accounts, had been far from rosy. An orpha
n
age first, and then a household job which had slowly developed into one more interesting; and then a transfer to Springfield to take on the arduous task of housekeeper there and of
looki
ng after the children. Could she be blamed if she reached out a hand towards security? Duncan with his wealth, his property, his genial good-nature, must be a great temptation to her. He decided that he would have
to speak to her.

The first opportunity arrived after supper, and he went to the kitchen to find her. The kitchen was very tidy with the kind of tidiness that meant all the children were in bed and that Caroline had been round after them. There were flowers on the window-sills and a big bowl of roses on the centre table spilled fragrance through the whole room. Caroline was standing at the ironing board with a pile of children’s clothes beside her, and the sweet smell of newly washed and ironed linen mingled with the fragrance of the roses.

He said:

“I wanted to have a word with you, Miss Hearst. Is now a convenient time?”

She put her iron on the stand.

“Certainly. As a matter of fact, I was coming to speak to you as soon as I had finished my ironing.”

“All right,” said David. “Let’s have yours first.” Caroline switched off the iron, and walked towards the open window.

“Mine,” she said, “is about Terence.”

“Ah,” said David, who had presumed it would be about Duncan. “Well?”

“It appears,” said Caroline, “that he has been playing truant from school.”

David smiled.
“
A
perfectly normal boyish crime,” he said.

“Yes, just now and then; but it has gone farther than that with Terence.”

“Yes? Tell me.”

“I first heard of it from Miss Weedon, who has seen
him
several days when he should have been at school, doing quite other things. She asked me why I
w
as keeping him from school and I naturally replied that I wasn’t, that he went regularly every day. She is now convinced that I can’t manage the children and is telling everybody else so—but that is beside the point. I asked Terence, and he said he went to school every day; so, to settle it, I telephoned Miss Burke and she said that he was most irregular and that she was about to get in touch with you about it. I got a list from her of the days he did not go, and it is a formidable one. So once more I tackled Terence, who maintained that he went every day. I asked Wendy, privately, and she at once began to cry; and I got out of her that when they set off for school, Terence left her, telling her that if she told anybody he would cut her in little pieces.”