§ 4
Jenny soon wearied of the drawing-room, even when freshened by Dr. Mount. She always found a stifling quality in Conster’s public rooms, with their misleading show of wealth, and escaped as early as she could to the old schoolroom at the back of the house, looking steeply up through firs at the wooded slope of Brede Eye.
This evening the room was nearly dark, for the firs shut out the dregs of twilight and the moon that looked over the hill. She could just see the outlines of the familiar furniture, the square table on which she and Gervase had scrawled abusive remarks in the intervals of their lessons, the rocking chair, where the ghost of Nurse sometimes still seemed to sit and sway, the bookcase full of children’s books—“Fifty-two Stories for Girls” and “Fifty-two Stories for Boys,” the “Girls of St. Wode’s” and “With Wallace at Bannockburn”—all those faded gilded rows which she still surreptitiously enjoyed.
Now she had an indefinite feeling that someone was in the room, but had scarcely realised it when a shape drew itself up against the window square, making her start and gasp.
“It’s only me,” said an apologetic voice.
“Gervase!”
She switched on the light and saw her brother standing by the table.
“When did you come?”
“Oh, twenty minutes ago. I heard you all gassing away in the drawing-room, so thought I’d come up here till you’d finished with Peter.”
“How sociable and brotherly of you! You might have come in and said how d’you do. You haven’t seen him for a year.”
“I thought I’d be an anti-climax—spoil the Warrior’s Return and all that. I’ll go down in a minute.”
“How was it you and Peter didn’t arrive together? There hasn’t been another train since.”
“I expect Peter came by Ashford, didn’t he? I came down on the other line and got out at Robertsbridge. I thought I’d like the walk.”
“What about your luggage?”
“I left that at Robertsbridge.”
“Really, Gervase, you are the most unpractical person I ever struck. This means we’ll have to send over tomorrow and fetch it—and Appleby has something better to do than tear about the country after your traps.”
“I’ll fetch ’em myself in Henry Ford. Don’t be angry with me, Jenny. Please remember I’ve come home and expect to be treated kindly.”
He came round the table to her and offered her his cheek. He was taller than she was, more coltish and less compact, but they were both alike in being their mother’s children, Kenyons rather than Alards. Their eyes were soft and golden-brown instead of clear Saxon-blue, their skins were pale and their mouths wide.
Jenny hugged him. She was very fond of Gervase, who seemed specially to belong to her at the end of the long, straggled family.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she murmured—“come for good. Though I suppose you’ll be off to a crammer’s before long.”
“I daresay I shall, but don’t let’s worry about that now. I’m here till February, anyway. Who’s at home?”
“Everybody except Mary, and she’s coming after Christmas.”
“I wish she’d come before. I like old Mary, and I haven’t seen her for an age. Is Julian coming too?”
“I don’t suppose so. He and Father have had a dreadful row.”
“What about?”
“He wouldn’t lend us any of the money he profiteered out of those collapsible huts.”
“Well, I call it rather cheek of Father to have asked him.”
“It was to be on a mortgage of course; but I quite see it wouldn’t have been much of an investment for Julian. However, Father seems to think it was his duty as a son-in-law to have let us have it. We’re nearly on the rocks, you know.”
“So I’ve been told a dozen times, but the place looks much the same as ever.”
“That’s because Father and Mother can’t get out of their grooves, and there are so few economies which seem worth while. I believe we need nearly fifty thousand to clear the estate.”
“But it’s silly to do nothing.”
“I don’t see what we can do. But I never could understand about mortgages.”
“Nor could I. The only thing I can make out is that our grandfather was a pretty awful fool.”
“He couldn’t read the future. He couldn’t tell the price of land was going down with a bump, and that there would be a European war. I believe we’d have been all right if it hadn’t been for the war.”
“No we shouldn’t—we were going down hill before that. The war only hurried things on.”
“Well certainly it didn’t do for us what it did for Julian—Seventy thousand pounds that man’s made out of blood.”
“Then I really do think he might let us have some of it. What’s Mary’s opinion?”
Jenny shrugged.
“Oh, I dunno. He’s had a row with her too.”
“What?—about the same thing?”
“No—about a man she’s friends with. It’s ridiculous really, for he’s years and years older than she is—a retired naval officer—and awfully nice; I lunched with them both once in town. But it pleases Julian to be jealous, and I believe poor Mary’s had a hideous time.”
“Lord! What upheavals since I was home last! Why doesn’t anyone ever write and tell me about these things?”
“Because we’re all too worried and too lazy. But you’ve heard everything now—and you really must come down and see Peter.”
“I’m coming in a moment. But tell me first—has he changed at all? It’s more than a year since I saw him.”
“I don’t think he’s changed much, except that he’s got stouter.”
“I wonder what he’ll do with himself now he’s home. Is there really a rumour, or have I only dreamed, that he’s keen on Stella Mount?”
“Oh, I believe he’s keen enough. But she hasn’t got a penny. Father will be sick if he marries her.”
She switched off the light, and the window changed from a deep, undetailed blue to a pallid, star-pricked grey, swept across by the tossing branches of trees.