HALCYON DAYS
It was the prettiest white cottage imaginable, approached from the road by a flight of irregular steps and a steep little garden, now gay with chrysanthemums.
“It’s like one of those toy ‘weather houses,’” said Roger as they mounted the steps. “Does a little lady come out on fine days and a little man on wet ones?”
“I don’t know anything about a little man, but you’ll see the little lady directly—at least, I hope so. She’s just like the cottage; you couldn’t imagine anyone else owning it! Oh! did I warn you that she’s a regular Mrs. Malaprop, bless her? She loves using long words, French for preference, and they’re invariably the wrong ones, but she does it with an ineffable air of gentility, and is dreadfully offended if anyone laughs, so be careful! Oh! and be sure you wipe your shoes as you go in, and she’ll love you for ever. S-sh!”
The green door, adorned with brilliantly polished brass handle, knocker, and letter box, was opened by a small, spare, trim little woman, who might have stepped out of the pages of “Punch” some forty years ago. She wore her white hair in a closely curled “fringe,” neatly held in place by a fine net, with an absurd little butterfly bow of black lace perched on the crown of her head, presumably as a sort of apology for a cap. The skirt of her long, skimpy gown of black merino was trimmed with a series of tiny frills of the same stuff, and had quillings of snowy net at the neck and wrists, and her black silk apron was artfully adjusted to accentuate the slimness of her tiny waist. Through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez her mild blue eyes scanned her visitors inquiringly.
“How are you, Miss Culpepper?” said Grace, extending her hand. “I wonder if you remember me?”
“I ought to do, I’m sure,” said the little old lady graciously. “But at the moment—why, of course, it’s Miss Armitage! How often I have thought of you and your dear father. I trust Mr. Armitage is in good health.” She glanced at Roger, and Grace blushed and smiled.
“Quite, thanks. But I’m not ‘Miss Armitage’ now. May I introduce my husband, Mr. Roger Carling? You see, we are taking a—a little holiday, and made up our minds all in a hurry to come over and ask whether you could put us up for a week or two.”
“Dear me—married—how romantic!” Miss Culpepper chirruped. “Permit me to tender my congratulations, my dear, to you both. And pray step in.”
She led the way into the parlour on the right—a cosy and charming little room, spotlessly clean and bright.
“I shall be delighted to accommodate you, to the extent of my very humble menace. As you may remember, my dear Miss—I mean, Mrs. Carling—I retain no domestic during the winter months, when I so seldom have any guests, though I am very glad when they do come, like you and Mr. Armitage. And, do you know, I still think of that delicious jambon he sent me for Christmas, just after you left. As I wrote to him at the time, a more delicious bird was never brought to table! Now perhaps you would like to see the sleeping apartment—the large one over this; it is not quite ready, of course, as I did not expect you, but can be dérangered in a very few minutes.”
“We don’t want to put you about in the very least,” Grace explained. “We can go and get lunch somewhere in the village—we shall have to find a garage for the motor-car anyhow; it’s waiting there in the road—and we can come back at any time you like. Oh, you darling! Why, is this Cæsar?”
A magnificent black Persian cat stalked into the room, and stared gravely at Grace with its inscrutable amber eyes.
The question seemed to embarrass little Miss Culpepper, who, after a deprecating glance at Roger’s back—he was looking out of the window—mysteriously beckoned Grace out of the room.
She followed, cuddling the cat, which she had picked up, and which lay quite quietly in her arms without evincing any emotion whatever.
“It’s the same animal, my dear, whom you were so fond of as a kitten,” Miss Culpepper explained in a discreet whisper; “but unfortunately she proved to be a—a female; very embarrassing! So she is now inconnu as ‘Cleopatra.’ Perhaps I should not have said unfortunate though, for a lady near possesses a most beautiful Persian with whom Cleopatra—er—mates; and the provender are exquisite, and provide quite a nice little source of additional income. She has two now, that I expect to dispose of for quite a large sum, though I do hate parting with them; it seems so sordid.”
“Oh, do let me see them,” Grace pleaded, and was graciously invited into the kitchen, where the two kittens, an adorable pair, pranced to meet them. Cleopatra jumped down and crooned over her offspring, and Grace promptly sat on the floor and gathered all three of them into her lap.
“Most extraordinary,” murmured Miss Culpepper, “Cleopatra evidently remembers you, after all this time. As a rule she never allows anyone but myself to caress her or the kittens; in fact, she usually swears at and attempts to bite any stranger who has the timidity to approach her. So unladylike!”
“I feel quite honoured,” laughed Grace. “Of course you remember me and love me, don’t you, Cleopatra, darling? And you’ll let me have one of your babies. We must take one home with us, Miss Culpepper, if it’s old enough.”
“Oh, yes, quite old enough, just three months to-day; indeed one has already gone—Cæsarion—to the clergyman who was staying here when they were tiny, and bespoke him at once. It was he who named them. This is the other—er—male, ‘Dear Brutus.’ Why ‘Dear’ I really don’t know, though naturally he is very dear to me. And his sister is Semiramis, because she is so melligerent. The Rev. Smithson—such a learned man, my dear Mrs. Carling—said she would certainly grow up into a warrior queen. They are beautiful names, I consider—pathological, of course.”
“Historical,” Grace suggested, and instantly repented. For Miss Culpepper drew herself up and spoke, gently indeed, but in a tone that conveyed a subtle reproof.
“I consider ‘pathological’ the more correct. It is as well to be accurate even in the smallest matters, and I believe it is very doubtful if the originals of the names ever really lived.”
“She’s priceless!” Grace declared, when she repeated this to Roger, as she accompanied him back to the car, with a perfect imitation of the old lady’s manner. “And the dearest, kindest old soul in the world. Aren’t you glad we came? She’s going to give me all sorts of household tips, as she did when I was here with daddy. She’s a wonderful cook. So hurry back when you’ve garaged the car, and we shall have lunch ready.”
“Good!” said Roger heartily. “I’m as hungry as a hunter. So long, darling.”
When he returned he found Grace, enveloped in one of Miss Culpepper’s big cooking aprons, and with Dear Brutus perched on her shoulder, busily putting the finishing touches to the table, while a delicious fragrance of omelette was wafted from the kitchen.
A very dainty meal the resourceful old lady managed to serve at such short notice, and how they enjoyed it!
For the time the shadow had passed from them. London and the Rawsons, all the tragedy and trouble, had receded into the far distance, and life seemed very fair, very joyous. They were not callous—far from it; they were only a pair of lovers, rejoicing in each other, in the sunshine, in “the delight of simple things, and mirth that hath no bitter stings!”
It was a wonderful week-end, halcyon days of sheer, unalloyed happiness; an abiding memory to dwell on in the time to come, when the world was dark indeed, and even hope seemed dead.
It was amazing how swiftly the hours sped. There was a shopping expedition down the village in the afternoon to order supplies, when the crowning glory of the purchases was a noble dish of big pink prawns, caught that very morning, and still steaming hot from the pot. They carried them back and had them for tea—a real square-meal tea, and ate them all, except such as were demolished by Cleopatra, Semiramis, and Dear Brutus, who attended the feast and exhibited an appreciative appetite for fresh prawns nicely peeled and proffered.
And how snug it was, how peaceful in the little parlour, with the lamp lighted and the curtains drawn, when Roger lounged happily in the easy chair beside the fire, and Grace sat at the little mellow-toned old Broadwood piano, and sang old songs, played snatches of old melodies, grave and gay, finishing up with Sullivan’s tender and wistful love duet:
None shall part us from each other,
One in life and death are we,
and Roger came to her side and sang Strephon’s part, quite softly, for her ears alone, though if he could have sung with like expression on the stage, and to order, he would have made his fortune!
After that there was such a silence that little Miss Culpepper considered it advisable to be seized with a fit of coughing and to make quite a business of opening the door when she brought the supper-tray.
A chill breath from the world they had left behind swept over them indeed for a few brief minutes next morning, when Roger went down to the garage to fetch the car, and brought back three London papers—all he could get in the village.
“Very little about it at all,” he said. “And nothing fresh.... The inquest was merely opened and adjourned for a week; and they say, ‘The police are following up a clue’; but they always say that.”
“How is Sir Robert?” asked Grace.
“Improving steadily. I heard that from Thomson. I rang him up from the hotel. He says the funeral is fixed for Tuesday, at noon, and I really think I ought to go up for it, darling. I’m sure Sir Robert would like to see me, if he’s allowed to see anyone by then, and I could get back at night.”
“Of course,” Grace assented gravely. “It’s right that you should go. Poor Sir Robert! My heart aches for him; and I—I feel almost ashamed of our happiness, Roger, when I think of his crushing sorrow.”
“I know. But, after all, it wouldn’t do him any good—or her either, poor soul!—if we were to try to be as miserable as anything. Come along, sweetheart, let’s get out into the sunshine. The car’s a regular peach, isn’t she? And what weather! Perfect ‘Indian summer,’ by Jove! Might have been made on purpose for us.”
So they set forth for another glorious day in the open, over the downs and through the weald, splendid with the gracious, wistful beauty of late autumn; and back by the coast, to arrive as dusk was falling at their peaceful retreat. How invitingly homelike the little room was with its cheerful fire, and Miss Culpepper and the cats coming out to the porch to welcome them.
“And what’s the programme for to-morrow?” asked Roger after supper, as they sat together in lazy content on the couch drawn up by the fire, Cleopatra and Semiramis ensconced on Grace’s lap, Dear Brutus snuggling on Roger’s shoulder.
“I want to go to the early Celebration in the morning,” said Grace. “I nearly always do, you know, and to-morrow——”
“Me too, beloved,” he answered softly; and she slipped her hand in his.
There was no need for further speech; on this great point there had long been perfect understanding, perfect sympathy between them.
And so, in the fresh, sweet dawn of an exquisite morning, they went up the hill together to the little church, and with full hearts made their “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.” As they knelt before the altar, I am sure they silently renewed those solemn vows they had made three short days before; as I am very sure also that Grace’s gentle soul sent up a fervent prayer for that of Paula Rawson, the beautiful woman whose fate had been so strange and sudden and terrible.
The glory of the risen sun shone on their happy faces when they came forth, and life was beautiful beyond words. They would have liked to share their happiness with the whole world. As that was impossible they shared it with little Miss Culpepper, and took her, snugly sandwiched between them, in the car to Canterbury. It was Roger’s idea, joyfully acclaimed by Grace.
“She’d love it; she told me yesterday she had never been in a motor-car in her life, and I thought then we must take her for some runs. She may think Sunday excursions wicked; but we’ll ask her.”
Never was an old lady more gratified by an invitation.
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling and Mr. Carling, there is nothing, I assure you nothing, would give me greater pleasure!” she cried; “but”—Grace glanced at Roger as one who would say “I told you so”—“but I am torn between inclination and duty. The cathedral! It is so many, many years since I visited that beautiful vane; it would indeed be a privilege to do so once more, and in such a positively uxorious manner. But your dinner—there will be no one to prepare it!”
So that was the only objection, easily disposed of.
“We’re going to dine at Canterbury, of course,” said Roger; and Grace reminded her that the pheasant would keep till to-morrow and there was plenty in the house for supper.
Her housewifely scruples set at rest, in what a delightful flutter of excitement she retired to “dress,” reappearing enveloped in quite an assortment of ancient shawls and a long ostrich feather “boa,” the floating ends of which, with those of the gauze scarf adjusted around her “toque,” flapped across Roger’s eyes horribly when they started, till Grace twined them snugly round the old lady’s neck and tucked the ends in securely.
Good it was to see Miss Culpepper, proudly erect, beaming with benevolent condescension on such pedestrians as they met; good to hear the ecstatic comments she chirped into their sympathetic ears; to note, when they reached the cathedral just in time for the service, the superb dignity with which she advanced up the aisle, visibly fortified with the consciousness that she had “come in a motor-car.”
Verily she had the time of her life that sunny Sunday, as she told Grace, with tears in her kind old eyes, after dinner at the hotel, when Roger had gone to bring round the car for the homeward run.
“I’ve never had such a treat in all my long life before!” she cried. “And nobody has ever been so good to me as you two dear young people. I don’t know how to begin to thank you, only—God bless you both and send you the rich happiness you deserve all your lives!” Grace hugged her, and between smiles and tears Miss Culpepper continued: “Do you know there’s only one little thing in this happy, happy day I’d have wished different, and you’ll think it silly of me. But, though the lovely music in the cathedral thrilled me, I did wish they had chosen another anthem. ‘Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline Thine ear, consider my complaint,’ is most beautiful, but I couldn’t really echo it to-day, for I hadn’t any ‘complaint’ to make to Him. I’d have liked them to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, and I believe I should not only have stood up, but have joined in!”
Happy, happy day, with never a cloud to mar it!
Next morning the storm broke.
Roger went down the village to fetch the papers, and on returning saw, with some surprise, a taxi-cab standing in the road below the cottage.
In the tiny hall, almost blocking it up, stood a big, burly man, whom he instantly discerned as a policeman in plain clothes, and who greeted him with a civil “Good morning.”
He had the impression that Miss Culpepper was fluttering nervously in the background, by the kitchen door, with Cleopatra beside her, staring with her big, luminous eyes at the intruder.
“Do you wish to speak to me?” he asked.
The man merely motioned towards the half-open parlour door, and, with a curious sense of impending disaster upon him, Roger entered.
Grace was standing there, her fair face as white as the big cooking apron she had donned, and with her was a little, wiry man, a stranger.
“This is my husband, Mr. Carling,” said Grace quietly. “Roger, this gentleman wishes to speak to you.”
“Just so—and alone, if you please, ma’am,” said Snell.