South Riding (72 page)

“Five shillings fare, sir. But I charge for waiting.”

He wished he dared trust Hicks to drive the car yet; but Geordie, though willing, was a slow learner. He had been too long with horses to acquire rapidly the mechanical sense desirable in chauffeurs.

The old chap was chuffing and hemming. Finally he decided to take the car. Tom pulled on his coat and shouted to Hicks. Odd that though Lily had been in hospital for nearly four months, and dead for nearly three weeks, he still looked for her as he passed by the kitchen window.

The Sunbeam was running well. Tom knew how to drive her. Steel and wire wore better than flesh and blood; they were more easily repaired.

Smoothly they swooped round the illogical turnings of the road; they swung into the drive of Maythorpe Hall. The hedges were bare as broomsticks. A cock pheasant whirred clucking from the thick bramble-bound undergrowth; trailing its splendid tail like a comet, it sailed overhead.

“Preserve game here?” asked the passenger.

“They say the late Mr. Carne was a grand shot.”

The drive needed weeding; hedge parsley and dead nettle frilled its deep ditches; fallen trees drew acute angles among the vertical lines of beech, ash and birch. Suddenly the road turned and widened; Tom brought the Sunbeam round with a sweep in front of the pillared porch.

The old man climbed out stiffly. He saw the crumbling steps, the gaping blank oblongs of window, the flowering currant bush that dropped its bright pink blossoms like bunches of exotic grapes on to the lichen-covered tiles.

“Is this the place?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Looks empty.”

“They left the maid as caretaker, I think, sir.”

The stranger mounted the steps; a squatting toad flopped down from one of the cracks and stared up at him, bright jewel-eyed.

“Cheerful,” muttered the old man.

He put out his hand and tugged at an iron knob beside the door. It pulled outward, screeching hideously. Far away, a bell tinkled through empty passages. There was no reply.

He pulled again.

“Humph, humph,” he grumbled.

“It’s not the slightest use,” said a clear high voice above their heads, “pulling that bell, because they can’t hear you upstairs, and the front door won’t open.”

At the sound, the old man started back, and both he and Tom saw, hanging over the stone balustrade above the porch, outlined against the white racing clouds of the turquoise sky, a child’s thin face and slender shoulders. Her straight hair fell in elf-locks beside her cheeks; her wide brown eyes were scornful.

“What the devil!” gasped the old man.

“Hallo, Sawdon,” said the girl. “If it’s a reporter you’ve brought, you can take him away again. If it’s an agent, it’s no use, ’cause the lawyers are settling everything and we’re probably sold already to the county council. And if it’s someone who wants Mrs. Beddows she’s upstairs and this door’s jammed. You have to get in through the drawing-room window.”

“And who the devil are you?” roared the old man.

“Miss Carne of Maythorpe,” replied the girl, with hauteur. “Who the devil are
you
?”

He started, staring at her, but pulled himself together.

“That’s my business. I want to see Mrs. Beddows.

“Is she expecting you?”

“She wrote to me.”

“All right. I’ll come down and let you in.”

With a whisk of brown tunic and grubby white blouse, she was gone. The old man stood rubbing his nose with his finger. He turned to Tom.

“Do you know that young woman?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Is that true? She’s Miss Carne?”

“That’s right. Every one round here knows her.”

“What sort of child is she?”

“All right, sir. A bit wild.”

Tom thought he heard a kind of wintry chuckle; but Midge had reappeared round the corner of the house.

“I’ve told granny. She said you were to come in. This way.”

She led him round the south face of the Hall. To their left was a flowering wilderness, sheltered by old brick walls on which fruit trees straddled. There had been lawns here, and beds and borders. Now daffodils waved among the unmown grass and primulas grew below the tangle of unpruned roses. Over a weed-grown rockery splashed white arabus and tiny saxifrage.

A french window opened on to the broad flagged path.

“This way. This was the drawing-room,” said Midge proudly.

She led him into the empty sun-washed shell of a room. Painted cupids flaked petals of gilt and pink from the ceiling; the candelabra had been torn from the elegant panelled walls. In one corner lay a broken harp, its strings coiling out from its ruined frame.

The old man gave a sort of gasp as though he recognised something.

Midge led him through the door into the dark hall. Its dim rich illumination came through the drawing-room and the stained glass of the front door; it danced on a delicate golden sea of dust. Piles of packing cases, bundles and picture frames obstructed all free passage. The old man stood blinking, like a grand yet mangy eagle among the debris.

He was watching Mrs. Beddows descend the stairs. Her round face was red with exertion. She wore a white apron, none too clean; but the brooch Carne gave her sparkled and glowed at her throat.

“I am Mrs. Beddows,” she said in her cordial Yorkshire voice. “Did you want to see me?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Who are you, please?”

“My name’s Sedgmire.”

She did not at first catch it.

He handed her a card. She had to pull down the pince-nez pinned to her dress and stare at it, puckering her face. Midge stood gaping, the colour ebbing and flowing under her transparent skin.

“Lord Sedgmire?” faltered Mrs. Beddows, frowning.

“Grandfather!” screamed Midge.

“That remains to be seen,” growled the old man. “I want to talk to you.” He turned to Mrs. Beddows.

“Of course. Come into the dining-room. This is Midge Carne.”

“So I see. So I see. And you’re her guardian. I got your letter.”

“I didn’t expect you here.”

“I thought I’d better come and see for myself, eh?”

They went into the dining-room. It still bore its air of shabby grandeur. The crimson curtains had gone, but the big oak table, where twenty guests could sit without any crowding, lay with a bloom of dust on its polished surface. The silver cups had gone, but the armchairs still stood on the threadbare carpet before the fire. The painted terra-cotta walls showed darker squares where the family portraits had hung; but from above the mantelpiece there still looked down with wonder and pride and scorn, as though she had preserved those emotions through twenty-five years since she last saw her father, the wild strange loveliness of Muriel Carne.

“Ah,” breathed the old man, and stood still, facing it.

“A good likeness?” he inquired at length.

“Yes. Robert had it done five years after their marriage.”

He looked at it, nodding his head several times, then glanced from the portrait to Midge. The resemblance was unmistakable.

“Wouldn’t you like some tea? How did you get here?” asked Mrs. Beddows nervously, rubbing her plump, work-soiled hands.

“Bus to Maythorpe. Had to take a taxi. Oh, there’s a man outside.”

“Midge, go to Elsie and tell her to get us some tea, will you?”

“The man’s Sawdon,” said Midge.

“Well. Give him some too. He’s a great friend of ours,” explained Mrs. Beddows. “Poor fellow. Just lost his wife. We all like him. Go along, Midge. Your grandfather wants to talk to me.”

The child made a grimace, but she obeyed. One obeyed Mrs. Beddows.

Yet somehow she felt that she had been defrauded.

All her life she had dreamed that some day the Sedgmires would appear and bear her off to her rightful place and splendour, to a castle, to parks, to rose gardens, peacocks and titles. But since darling Daddy’s death the vision had been infinitely more compelling. There was no question now of Mummy’s return. Maythorpe was lost—lost in some strange way before Daddy’s death. Midge was a prisoner in the dull security of Willow Lodge. She had not even gone back to school for the summer term. These excursions to Maythorpe, upon which she had insisted, to help Granny Beddows pack and sort the things, had been her one excitement—they cast the sole glow of drama on the monotonous days.

And now here suddenly Lord Sedgmire had arrived. And glory had not blinded her. He was an old man who looked like a gamekeeper, in Tom Sawdon’s hired car. And when he saw her, he sent her to the kitchen.

Instead of going immediately to Elsie and asking for the tea, she rushed upstairs to her old room and flung herself weeping on the floor.

Down in the dining-room Lord Sedgmire laid his tweed cap cautiously on the dusty table.

“Do sit down,” said Mrs, Beddows.

He did so, with creaking joints, and stared at her.

“You’re an alderman?”

“Yes. A county alderman.”

“Bless my soul. Can’t keep pace with these new-fangled ideas. Women in my time . . .” his barked dry utterances faded. “My—er—son-in-law left you guardian to this child.”

“Yes. But of course all the legal business is held up. The body hasn’t been found. We can’t get probate.”

“So I understand. Most unfortunate. Think the fellow’s dead?”

She turned aside for a second, then, with an obvious effort, answered, “Yes.”

“Humph. Suicide, I suppose. Got himself in a bloody mess, insured his life and killed himself. Hummph.” He pursed his lips with frowning speculation. “No near relatives?”

“There’s a younger brother. An architect at Harrogate. Nothing wrong with him, but not much use, and the wife’s no good. Not for a child. All fish and finger-bowls and no common sense.”

“Which you have, eh?”

She answered his challenge, her brave head lifted, the white bib of her apron rising and falling to her quick breath.

“Robert Carne trusted me.”

“You knew him well?”

“Ever since Muriel’s illness.”

“Ah.”

It was the old man’s turn to fight emotion.

“I understand that now there’s trouble with the insurance company,” he said dryly. “They’re not satisfied. Prefer to know he’s dead before they pay up, eh?”

“That’ll make no difference to my husband and me. We’re not paupers.”

“What I can’t see is why you should do this, Mrs. Beddows. I’ve made a few inquiries. I know they think well about you here. You’ve got nothing to gain. The girl’s a handful, I can see, and delicate, I understand. You’re not a young woman. What d’you get out of this?”

“You never knew your son-in-law, did you, Lord Sedgmire?” asked Emma Beddows.

Her blood was up. She could fight now—not only Carne’s father-in-law, but all his enemies. She had fought lawyers and bank managers and the insurance company. She had fought her husband who had objected to her assuming responsibility for Midge. She had fought her own fatigue and disinclination for fighting. Suddenly, since Carne’s accident, she had known herself to be an old woman and tired. The thought of coping with Midge, her tempers and her moods, secretly appalled her. But Robert had trusted her. That was her glory. She would never let him down.

“You never knew Robert Carne much, did you?” she repeated.

“Can’t say I did. Can’t say I wanted to.”

The old man gave his dry chuckling cough.

“When a common farmer takes advantage of your daughter in the hunting field, follows her home, rushes her off her feet, carries her back to his place, drives her into an asylum and then chucks himself over a cliff to leave the mess he’s made for other people to cope with—you’re not exactly inclined to make friends with him.”

“So that’s what you think.”

“What would
you
think, madam?”

“I’ll tell you not what I think, but what I know,” said Emma Beddows. “Your son-in-law was the finest man I ever met. He loved your daughter. And she loved him, don’t doubt it. He wasn’t just what you call a common farmer. The Carnes owned Maythorpe for five hundred years. It was one of the show places in the South Riding. When I was a child we all looked up to the Carnes like Gods. They mightn’t have a title, but they were gentry; they took the burdens of gentry on them. Their name was a power. Robert Carne was the best looking of the lot; he’d been well educated. Isn’t St. Peter’s, York, a good old school for you? He was a sports-man. There wasn’t a girl—farmer or county class—in the Riding wouldn’t have had him.”

“He oughtn’t to have married my daughter, Mrs. Beddows.”

It was a cry from the heart, but it did not touch her.

“You mean your daughter should not have married him. There’s no taint in the Carne blood—man or woman. You know—oh, forgive me—but you know, Lord Sedgmire, where, if anywhere, there was bad heredity.”

“I never asked him to mix up with it,” said the old man proudly. “I forbade the marriage.”