The Fortunes of Springfield (17 page)

“Let us open it in the study.”

In the study, a beautiful arrangement of delphiniums and pink roses stood in the empty fireplace, and a comfortable settee was drawn up near it. A round table held drinks and boxes of cigarettes and cho
c
o
l
ates, it being one of Mrs. Close’s ma
xims
that if one wanted to sit
o
ut, it was nice to do it in comfort. Patricia sat on the settee and patted the place beside her in invitation to David. She unwrapped the paper, to find inside a gold bracelet beautifully wrought.

“Oh, David, what a wonderful thing,” she said. “You have chosen beautifully.”

“I’m afraid you didn’t give me time to buy anything new,” he said. “So when I had your invitation I looked through my mother’s things and found that. She had a great deal of jewellery and it was
divided between Gerald and myself: Gerald’s share is being saved for Wendy and Babs, of course.”

“And you have given me this beautiful piece of your share. I do appreciate that, David, I appreciate it enormously.” She held out her hand so that he could put it on for her, and he bent his head over the difficult clasp. When he lifted it, his face was very near hers, and she tilted back her head to give him the kiss of gratitude. He touched her
li
ps lightly with his own, but when hers clung and did not want to be released, he suddenly flung his arms about her and held her closely to him.

The door opened, and a young man came in with Oriel. Oriel said:

“Bother, there’s somebody here already. Oh, it’s Pat and David. Terribly sorry, you two, charging in like this. Come on, Peter, let’s try the garden.”

They went away as quickly as they had come, but the spell was broken. David released her and Patricia sat back, smiling at David, but inwardly cursing Oriel. “I’m very glad that you like it,” said David.

“I adore it,” said Patricia, settling herself as if she had no intention of leaving the study.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said, standing by the table. “We will drink to the birthday girl.
”

After that, there was no getting back to the personal footing that Patricia wanted, and later they went back to the dancing. Somebody whirled Patricia away and David found himself sitting beside Mrs. Close. After a few polite preliminaries, she said:

“David, I am very much concerned at various things I hear about the children. Is it true that Caroline cannot manage them?”

David looked immediately angry.

“Caroline? Miss Hearst? Not manage the children? Who has been saying that?”

“Don’t be angry, David. I am fond of you all, and concerned about you all. A lot of people are saying it; even nice people like Miss Burke who has a lot to do with them. She says Terence is quite unmanageable; and, of course, everybody knows about his playing truant. For weeks apparently, without anybody at home knowing about it.”

“Terence has always been unmanageable—before Miss Hearst came to us.”

“But not as bad as he is now. Please don’t think I am blaming Caroline. She is a very nice girl and I have always been fond of her. But she is so young, David. She could not be blamed if she did find Terence beyond her. You see, I am worried about him. If you would like me to look about for a really responsible person—perhaps a little older than Caroline—for you
...
Because, of course, we all know that she will probably marry Duncan, anyway.”

“You are very kind, Mrs. Close. If and when Miss Hearst marries Duncan, I shall be glad to take advantage of your offer, and of your experience in these things. But until then, I should certainly not dream o
f
replacing her. She is doing a very good job.”

“Are you sure of that, David?”

“Of course I’m sure. A more conscientious person never existed.”

“Ah, I don’t doubt that. But conscientiousness isn’t everything. She needs wisdom and tact and understanding—and perhaps a few more years. That’s
asking
a
lot of a young girl, David.”

David made his escape, but only to be caught a few minutes later by another elderly woman, who said:

“Now come and spare a few words to an old woman, David, and tell me what you have been up to at Springfield.” He sat down beside her. “I hear you’ve been spending a lot of money doing it up, and I’m sure it needed it, after the shameful way that Gerald neglected it.”

David
o
utlined to her some of the alterations and redecorations.

“You must ask me over to see it one day,” she said. “I used to spend a great deal of my time at Springfield when your mother was alive. I envied her from the bottom of my heart because she had children and I hadn’t; and that little blue room at the top of the stairs was considered mine.”

“It
is still blue,” he said,
smiling.

“Well, now you have made it so nice, you must get a nice sensible wife to manage those obstreperous children of your brother’s. I hear they are quite out of hand.”

“And where did
you hear that?” asked David.

“I don’t remember exactly who mentioned it first, but it seems to be generally known. That little girl you have there now doesn’t seem to be up to the job.”

“I think Miss Hearst manages splendidly.”

“It’s good of you to be so
loyal; but what you want is somebody a shade older. Now, why don’t you marry Patricia? What is causing all the delay?”

“When I want a wife,” said David grimly, “I feel quite confident of my ability to choose one for myself.”

“Well, well. Don’t you get uppish with me, my dear David. I was a friend of your mother before you were
born
; and if I didn’t rock your cradle, I certainly pushed your pram round the garden more than once. I’m not choosing a wife for you. I thought that was already done, and I wasn’t alone in that. And you ought to be married. It isn’t suitable for a young girl like that Caroline Hearst to be in the house. A respectable, middle-aged housekeeper is one
thing
. Caroline is quite another.”

“Is this another thing that is generally thought?” asked David.

“Of course it is. You know what country communities are like: and it isn’t a bit of good for you to be angry, because you won’t change human nature. But, my dear David, I don’t want to make you cross. If I have, forgive me. Perhaps it is just malicious gossip started by somebody. Forget all about it.”

That was what David could not do. He did not enjoy the rest of the evening. Miss Hearst had given the best of herself to the three children for months, and all she reaped for her efforts was condemnation and gossip.
Patricia
found him strangely gloomy and unyielding.

For a few days David went about the work of the farm and the finishing of the harvest with a new thoughtfulness and a new grim line about his mouth. And then the morning post brought him a letter from Caroline, and as he read it, his perplexity deepened.

Dear Mr. Springfield (he read),

This letter is to tell you that I
think
we should come home. It is probably not convenient for you to
fetch us by car, so, when I have your permission, I will arrange to bring the children home by train. To stay here any longer is useless. I had high hopes of this holiday, chiefly for Terence’s sake, but everything has gone wrong from the beginning. Wendy and Babs were as good as gold at first, but Terence has caused trouble from the outset, and the naughtiness has spread through all the children, the Evertons as well as Springfields, until Janice and I are at our wit’s end.

In the early summer, although Terence did not actually co-operate with the twins, he suffered them; and I hoped that he would go on from there and become friends with them, and that this would help to put
h
im
straight. But the twins, after their first term at school, were inclined to be superior and talk down to him, and that upset the applecart. He has been as naughty, as wilful, as mischievous, as he can possibly devise; the twins have fought back; the girls have taken sides; Janice and I have managed to stay good friends, but even that could not survive the general strain. And, in any case I cannot subject the good, kind Evertons to this trouble any longer. Please let us come home, and I hope that when we get to Springfield, I shall be able to find out just what it is that is eating at Terence and making him such a nuisance.

I am sorry about this. I would not interrupt the holiday if I were not almost distraught. And I am sure Janice will be glad to see the back of us, and have some peace in her house.
I hope the harvesting went well—you had the right weather for it—and that it hasn’t been terribly inconvenient for you to have us away. Also, I haven’t quite enough money for all the train fares, and do
not w
is
h to borrow from Janice, so would you please be so kind as to send a little money.

Yours sincerely,

Caroline Hearst.

David frowned over the letter for a long time. The first doubts appeared in his mind.
Was
Caroline going the wrong way about this job?
Was
it possible that the management of the children was a task beyond her? Why was it that Terence became more and more unmanageable all the time? Was she handling him wrongly? She was adequate with the little girls, but
T
erence was a boy, and nearly nine years old. Was it possible that he needed a stronger hand than hers? David thought about it all carefully and exhaustively.

Next morning he got the car out and drove down to the Evertons’ seaside house. He lunched on the way, to cause no inconvenience, and arrived to find James, Janice and Caroline on the terrace having their coffee.

“Oh,” said Caroline, blushing furiously as he appeared, “you shouldn’t have raced over here to us at the first moment. It must have been so inconvenient to you.”

He greeted James and Janice.

“Your letter,” he said, turning back to Caroline, “sounded rather an urgent SOS.”

“Yes, it was,” she admitted. “Janice is very sweet, but our being here is slowly driving her mad.”

“Oh, no,” protested Janice. “It isn’t as bad as all that.” Then she gave David a smile. “But it very nearly is,” she added. “These children have the devil in them.”

“Or Terence has,” said Caroline.

“I don’t think mine have been angels,” said Janice. “Let me give you some coffee, David.”

“I’m going right away to pack,” said Caroline, “and then we can get the children home not too late.”

“Well, give David time to catch his breath,” said James. “Surely after tea would do.”

“It will take me until then to pack,” said Caroline, and disappeared into the house. She found Wendy in the hall, and said: “Your Uncle David is here to take us home. We shall be going after tea. Find the others and tell them.”

She packed all their belongings, and then she called the children indoors, packed their sun suits or swimming trunks, and dressed them, ready for tea. The fact that Uncle David had come to fetch them, and they realized they were leaving in disgrace, had had a sobering effect. The young Evertons also sobered down, and it was six very subdued children who made their appearance on the terrace for tea.

“My goodness,” said Janice. “Peace at last. Isn’t it nice, Caroline, to be able to hear ourselves speak?” Caroline looked at her across the table and smiled. Her smile was rather a pleading one. It said: “Don’t let all this make any trouble between us, Janice. I know you’ve been cross and irritable with us, I know I haven’t been able to control Terence, I know we’ve grossly abused your hospitality; but don’t let it affect our friendship, please.

And perhaps Janice was clever enough to read all that into Caroline’s pleading smile, for she smiled back, pausing in what she was doing to look into Caroline’s wide eyes for long seconds.

The Everton family came to see them off, when the car was loaded with luggage and children. Julian and John, the twins, capered round the car while David said good-bye to their parents.

“I do
think
you’re jolly lucky,” said Julian, “to have a farm.”

“We wish we could live on a farm,” added John. “We are only going to have a house.”

“Do you have horses?” asked Julian. “And cows and pigs and ducks?” added John. “And dogs?” asked Julian. “Gosh,” said John, “I don’t know why
we
can’t have a farm.”

Caroline was saying good-bye to James. She happened to glance at Terence while the chatter of the twins was going on, and suddenly her attention was riveted on hi
m.
For Terence was sitting in the front seat, looking utterly astounded. The words of the twins seemed to have deprived him of reason. He just sat and stared at them in astonishment. And quite suddenly, an idea flashed into her mind.

She had not time to
think
it out then. She whirled round to where Janice was standing.

“Janice,” she whispered, “do you think you could come to stay with us, at Springfield? Later, towards the end of the holidays?”

Janice stared at her.

“My dear Caroline, have you gone out of your mind?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ve just had an idea. It may be a mad idea.
I
don’t know, I’ll write to you about it. It may be all nonsense.”

“It sounds to me like nonsense,” said Janice, smiling doubtfully at Caroline’s confused attack.

“Well, I’ll write. And thank you for everything, and I’m sorry, we’ve been such awful nuisances.” She was getting into the car, and David was taking the driver’s seat. Amid wavings and callings and last messages, they set off for Springfield, but uppermost in Caroline’s mind was the astounded expression that Terence had worn when he heard the twins talking about the farm.