Green money, p.14
Green Money, page 14
“But, Cathy . . .” he began, and hesitated.
“Well, what?”
“I didn’t mean anything. I just meant—”
“You just meant that I oughtn’t to be slacking,” said Cathy, with an edge to her voice. “Other people can do what they like—they can stroll about and sulk as much as they please; but I’ve got to keep on doing all the silly little jobs that nobody else wants to do. I can’t sit down for five minutes without you coming and moving me on—like a policeman—”
“Are you—are you feeling quite well?”
“Quite well, thank you. Perhaps you’d like to see my tongue,” said Cathy furiously. “Perhaps you’d like to take my temperature and feel my pulse.”
It was all very silly, of course, and an outsider would probably have thought it extremely funny; but neither Cathy nor Peter was in a condition to see the humour of it.
“What on earth’s the matter?” Peter demanded.
“You’re the matter!” cried Cathy, rising from the step in her wrath. “You’re selfish and rude and horrible. You’re simply unbearable. I suppose you think it’s nice for us to have you here. . . . Well, it isn’t. You snarl and snap at everybody. You think you’re so wonderful—and all the time you’re just a horrid, bad-tempered little boy—you ought to be smacked.”
Peter was so taken aback by this outburst that he quite forgot to be angry. “I say . . .” he began. “I say, Cathy.
“I can’t stand you any more!” she exclaimed. “No, I can’t. You’ve done nothing but sulk for days, and your manners are absolutely foul. It was bad enough when you snapped and snarled at all of us—and a frightfully bad example to the children—but how dare you be beastly to George? George hasn’t done anything. You don’t deserve to have a friend like George—”
“You don’t know what George—”
“I do know,” Cathy cried. “I know that George is kind and good and wouldn’t hurt a fly. George hasn’t done anything, and yet you treat him like dirt—and it hurts him. You’re a stuck-up beast. . . . I’ve tried to bear you because I was sorry for you, but I shan’t bear you any longer . . .” and, so saying, she turned and fled, for she was aware that she was going to cry. She fled upstairs and locked herself into her room, and Peter was left standing on the steps with his mouth open and his heart full of angry words and nobody to listen to them.
A quarrel begun and abandoned is the worst sort of quarrel that can afflict a family, for the protagonists are obliged to consume their own smoke. Peter and Cathy did not reopen their quarrel, but it smouldered silently. They did not address each other unless it was absolutely necessary, and they were idly polite to each other at meals. There was a feeling of strain in the air; even Mrs. Seeley felt the strain, and was disturbed by it.
The Seeley family was used to quarrels, of course—most large families are—Peter often quarrelled with the twins, and the twins frequently fell out with Dan; but Cathy had never been known to take any part in these embroglios except the part of a peacemaker. The Seeley family was shocked and astounded at the spectacle of its peacemaker at war.
It was very much easier to start a war than to call a truce, so Cathy and Peter found, and before long they had both decided that this quarrel was a perfect nuisance, and they would have been glad of an excuse to patch things up. Cathy was a little ashamed of her outburst, but she comforted herself by the reflection that Peter had richly deserved it, and that it had done him good—he was not nearly so disagreeable now, and his manners had improved a good deal. She was also ignobly amused by the attitude of the family; by the way they all chatted pleasantly at meals to cover any embarrassing silences. She was aware of their eyes gazing at her speculatively, and turning away when she happened to look round. I believe it’s good for them, Cathy thought. I’ve always been the buffer. . . . I’ve always tried to make things pleasant and easy for them . . . and now it’s their turn. Perhaps it would have been better for them if I hadn’t always tried to smooth things over, perhaps I’ve been too bufferish. . . .
This was such a strange thought that she fell into a reverie over it and awoke to find Jim proffering her the mustard with an ingratiating smile.
Peter took a little longer than Cathy to arrive at the conclusion that the quarrel was a nuisance, for Cathy had said her say and Peter had had no opportunity of saying his. He was furious with Cathy, but all the same her words had made an impression on him. Of course, Cathy had not known what he was suffering (she had no idea of the misery and wretchedness which filled his heart), and she had exaggerated his rudeness and bad temper out of all proportion; but afterwards, when he considered the matter in cold blood, Peter was forced to admit to himself that her accusations were based on fact. He had been gloomy and difficult, and he had been a bit off-hand with poor old George. Poor old George was a perfect fool, of course, and a very annoying fool, but it was not George’s doing that they had gone over to Highmoor House. . . . It was my doing, thought Peter wretchedly.
I made him go—in fact, I took him—I filled him up with the idea that it was his duty to take an interest in Elma. . . . It isn’t George’s fault.
Having come to this conclusion, Peter searched for some means of propitiating Cathy without losing face, but he could find no means. A button came off his shirt and a hole suddenly appeared in the heel of his favourite pair of socks, and Peter was helpless. It never occurred to him to ask his mother to darn the sock or to sew on the button—Cathy was the person who did these things. Peter put the offending garments in the bottom of the drawer and searched harder than ever for material to heal the breach.
CHAPTER XIX
Practising Magic
Thunderclouds were brooding over Rival’s Green, but Swan House was bathed in sunshine. George had no idea, of course, that his visit to his friends had caused so much hostility, so much inconvenience, so many heart-burnings. He had ridden home quite cheerfully after his soothing talk with Cathy and had put in a good day’s work in the stables. Then he had dined with his parents as usual and had discussed Elma Green’s visit to Bournemouth. Mr. and Mrs. Ferrier did not know Elma, but they were interested in her, and they liked to hear any little items of news that were going.
“She’ll be there now,” said George, glancing at the clock, “and I only hope she has the sense to appreciate the food.”
“Why shouldn’t she, the creature?” Paddy inquired.
“Girls don’t appreciate decent food,” replied George. “You take them to a top-hole restaurant and spend pounds on a succulent repast, and half the time they don’t know what they’re eating.”
Mrs. Ferrier was immediately in arms for her sex, but Mr. Ferrier sided with George, and the argument lasted until dessert was put on the table. The gentlemen were two to one, but Paddy was more than a match for them. She was so agile and fiery and so amazingly illogical that you never knew where you were—so to speak—and Mr. Ferrier and George presently retired from the unequal battle feeling thoroughly bamboozled.
There was silence for a few moments, and then Paddy smiled at them tenderly. “But you’re right. I shouldn’t wonder,” she declared. “Men are such greedy creatures—it would be no wonder at all if they knew more about food.”
“That’s what I said,” murmured George feebly.
“And you were right, darling,” Paddy declared. “It’s myself knows how right you are, for I’ve lived me whole life amongst the creatures, and I’ve always found it paid to feed them like fighting cocks.”
After dinner George inveigled Paddy into his study with the mysterious announcement that he “wanted to show her something.” He was aware that Paddy would rise to the bait, and he was not disappointed.
“But what is it, then?” she demanded, pricking up her ears like a terrier.
“Ah!” said George, smiling in a secret sort of way.
Paddy was vastly intrigued. She followed him up the stairs, pestering him with questions. “Would it be a hedgehog, George, darling?” she inquired. “Because if that’s what it is—”
“No, it isn’t a hedgehog.”
“Well, what, then?”
“I’ll show you,” George said firmly, and he would say no more. And soon Paddy was sitting in one of the ancient basket-chairs waiting to be shown, and there was an expression of eager and child-like anticipation on her small bright face which was pleasant to see.
“Now, then, Paddy,” said George. “Now, then, are we all ready? Here goes. . . . Take a look at this box, will you? Nothing odd about it, is there? Just an ordinary box, eh?”
“Yes,” said Paddy, “a neat box, it is.”
“Quite ordinary?” inquired George anxiously.
“It is, indeed,” said Paddy—this was obviously what he wanted her to say.
“Quite ordinary,” said George with relief. “Now we’ve got to have a coin—here’s a half-crown—take a good look at it, please. Now put it in the box and shut the box—that’s right. I put the box on the table—so—I cover it with a handkerchief and I wave my wand—abracadabra!” said George with profound gravity. “Abracadabra. . . . Now open the box.”
Paddy leant forward and opened the box. “George, where is it?” she exclaimed. “George, it really is magic!”
“Pretty good, isn’t it?” he agreed with becoming modesty, though secretly he was enchanted with his success.
“It’s amazing!” she declared.
“Yes,” said George. “Of course, I really ought to find the half-crown down your neck, or something, but I’ll have to practise that. D’you think they’ll like it?”
“Who?”
“Dan and Co., of course.”
“George . . . yes . . . what a good idea! Of course they’ll like it. Have you got anything else?”
“Heaps of things,” he replied. “I’ve got a magic coin—a thing like a half-crown with a little hook on it—that does all sorts of queer things, and some paper strips, and an odd sort of double handkerchief, and a ball on a string, and a cigarette-case—where is it? Ah, here it is. Have a cigarette?” (He opened the cigarette-case, and it was empty.) “See that?” he asked.
“It’s empty,” she said, “and that’s not surprising. It usually is empty—your cigarette-case—when you offer me a cigarette.”
“Ah, but look here!” he adjured her. “Look here, Paddy. I put this empty cigarette-case down on the table—I wave my wand—I open it—and there you are!”
The cigarette-case was full.
“Have one,” he said.
Paddy accepted one doubtfully. “Is it real?” she inquired. “I mean, it won’t go off with a bang or anything?”
“It’s perfectly real,” George assured her, taking one himself to give her confidence. “As a matter of fact, it’s the neatest thing of the lot—that cigarette-case—so astounding, and yet as simple as ABC.” And he proceeded to lay bare the mystery to Paddy and to show her how the empty drawer—a sort of false bottom—could be pulled out, leaving the real drawer full of cigarettes inside.
He showed her some more tricks, and they were all successful, more or less, for George had the long, flexible fingers of a born conjuror, and after the display was over he put his treasures away in a drawer and sat down on the window seat.
It was dark now and the sky was full of stars, and the narrow lamp-lit room seemed as if it were floating above the tree-tops in space.
“I don’t wonder Dad’s keen on stars,” said George after a little silence. “Wonderful things, they are.”
“Yes,” said Paddy. But she was not thinking about stars; she was thinking about something nearer at hand. She had been thinking about it for several days, and now seemed a good time to speak of it. “Have you ever thought of giving up this trustee business?” she asked.
George hadn’t thought of it.
“That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want you to spend the money,” she continued. “You could refuse the money and give up the whole thing. It’s worrying you, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t only the money,” said George. “I promised, you see.”
“I know; but you didn’t realise what you were letting yourself in for.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. He was silent for a few moments, and then he continued earnestly: “You see, Paddy, it’s all so queer. It started in such an odd way—such a chancy way—and now it’s suddenly got so important. What I mean is, I only met the old boy once, by accident, and I only saw him for a few hours, and most of the time I was half-tight—at least,” amended George with a praiseworthy attempt to avoid the slightest exaggeration, “at least I wasn’t really half-tight, I was just happy—everything seemed rather far away and I didn’t care if it snowed.”
“You were half-tight,” declared Paddy. “That explains it. I’ve often wondered why you took it on.”
“I wasn’t, honestly. How could I have been? We had a bottle of hock for lunch,” said George reminiscently, “and very good, it was. Afterwards when I told him it was my birthday he was quite vexed and said we should have had fizz—rather nice of him, I thought. We had hock, and then port, and then we had brandy with the coffee. I couldn’t possibly have been tight.”
“I would have—” Paddy began.
“Why, of course you would,” said George, smiling at her tenderly. “One cocktail, and all your inhibitions vanish—not that you have many inhibitions at the best of times—”
“Indeed!” said Paddy, bridling.
“But the point is, I wasn’t,” George rushed on, for he was anxious to keep strictly to the matter in hand and not to be led away by an argument over Paddy’s reactions to strong drink. “I wasn’t. I took on the job when I was in my sane and sober senses; and, now that I’ve put my hand to the plough, I can’t turn back.”
Paddy chuckled involuntarily, for the simile amused her.
“Why are you laughing?” he inquired.
“I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I know it’s all very serious. Go on, George, darling.”
“Well,” said George. “Yes—where was I? Oh, yes. You see, I feel I’ve got to do what the old boy wanted—that’s what I feel—and the thing is, what would he have wanted? If I hadn’t been happy I might have got a better idea of what he really wanted me to do. He must have wanted me to do something or he wouldn’t have chosen me, would he? He knew jolly well I wouldn’t be any use at the money part of the business. Of course, if I’d known this was going to happen so soon, and that I should never see the poor old blighter again, I wouldn’t have taken the brandy. I’d have said ‘no’ (well, I did say ‘no’ at first, but I’d have stuck to ‘no’) and I’d have tried to find out exactly what was in his mind. I’d have asked him all sorts of questions.” George paused for a moment and then added with a sigh: “If only I’d known—or if he could come back . . .”
“We always feel that,” said Paddy, quite serious now. “When anybody dies we always wish we could have them back—even if it was only for an hour—just to ask them something, or to tell them how much we liked them.”
“I did like him, Paddy. I feel as if I’d known him quite well. He was a funny old boy and awfully fussy and fumy, but I liked him quite a lot.”
“Then you probably know what he would like you to do,” said Paddy promptly.
“Yes,” said George. “That’s just it. There was something he said—and I believe I do know what he wanted.”
Paddy had the sense to remain silent. She waited patiently.
“It’s about Elma, you see,” continued George. “She’s such a lonely sort of creature, and it really is a frightfully dull life for a girl, shut up in that big gloomy house with a dry-as-dust old maid, miles from everywhere, seeing nobody from one month’s end to another.”
“She sees you,” Paddy pointed out.
“I know,” said George, and he blushed.
“George!” cried Paddy in alarm. “George, you’re not going to marry her!”
“No,” he burst out. “At least—well—that’s the whole thing. Somebody’s got to marry her, because she won’t be safe until she’s safely married—she’s so lonely and defenceless—and I believe the old boy would like me to marry her. I believe that was in his mind, somehow.”
“But you’re not in love with her!” Paddy cried.
“I’m not sure,” said George. “She’s very sweet, you know, and very, very beautiful, and there’s something so appealing about her—she’s so unusual—not like other girls at all—old fashioned and quaint and innocent as a child . . .”
“You’re not in love with her,” cried Paddy. “You’re not. Oh, George, don’t do anything silly. If you were in love with her, it’s not like that you’d be talking. You wouldn’t be wondering whether the father wanted you to marry her. . . .”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you wouldn’t care whether he wanted it or not—or (if you cared at all about what he wanted) you’d be busy deluding yourself into the belief that he did want it. It’s the wrong way round you’re looking at it,” cried Paddy, her eyes flashing with earnestness and with the effort to explain what it was she really meant. “Oh, George, don’t you see that if you loved her you’d look at it from the other end—from her end? The girl would come first, and all the rest of it wouldn’t matter a hang.” There was silence for a moment and then Paddy added with conviction, “You may be sure he wouldn’t want you to marry her unless you love her.”
George saw that this was true. “I must be sure first,” he agreed thoughtfully. “But Elma isn’t like other people, and I’ve got to make up my mind before I go any further. How can I be sure? There are so many girls, and I like them all. Am I ever going to like one best of all?”
“My dear, of course you are,” said Paddy gently.
George smiled at her. “But I think you’d like Elma,” he said. “I really think you would.”
Paddy was sure she would not like Elma, but she was too wise to say so.
Part II
