Sad Cypress Read online

  Have you seen that new picture with Myrna Loy? I saw it was coming to Maidensford this week. No cinema anywhere near here! Oh, it’s awful to be buried in the country. No wonder they can’t get decent maids!

  Well, goodbye for the present, dear, write and tell me all the news.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eileen O’Brien

  Letter from Nurse Hopkins to Nurse O’Brien, July 14th:

  Rose Cottage

  Dear O’Brien,—Everything goes on here much as usual. Hunterbury is deserted—all the servants gone and a board up: For Sale. I saw Mrs. Bishop the other day, she is staying with her sister who lives about a mile away. She was very upset, as you can imagine, at the place being sold. It seems she made sure Miss Carlisle would marry Mr. Welman and live there. Mrs. B. says that the engagement is off! Miss Carlisle went away to London soon after you left. She was very peculiar in her manner once or twice. I really didn’t know what to make of her! Mary Gerrard has gone to London and is starting to train for a masseuse. Very sensible of her, I think. Miss Carlisle’s going to settle two thousand pounds on her, which I call very handsome and more than what many would do.

  By the way, it’s funny how things come about. Do you remember telling me something about a photograph signed Lewis that Mrs. Welman showed you? I was having a chat the other day with Mrs. Slattery (she was housekeeper to old Dr. Ransome who had the practice before Dr. Lord), and of course she’s lived here all her life and knows a lot about the gentry round about. I just brought the subject up in a casual manner, speaking of Christian names and saying that the name of Lewis was uncommon and amongst others she mentioned Sir Lewis Rycroft over at Forbes Park. He served in the War in the 17th Lancers and was killed towards the end of the War. So I said he was a great friend of Mrs. Welman’s at Hunterbury, wasn’t he? And at once she gave me a look and said, Yes, very close friends they’d been, and some said more than friends, but that she herself wasn’t one to talk—and why shouldn’t they be friends? So I said but surely Mrs. Welman was a widow at the time, and she said Oh yes, she was a widow. So, dear, I saw at once she meant something by that, so I said it was odd then, that they’d never married, and she said at once, “They couldn’t marry. He’d got a wife in a lunatic asylum!” So now, you see, we know all about it! Curious the way things come about, isn’t it? Considering the easy way you get divorces nowadays, it does seem a shame that insanity shouldn’t have been a ground for it then.

  Do you remember a good-looking young chap, Ted Bigland, who used to hang around after Mary Gerrard a lot? He’s been at me for her address in London, but I haven’t given it to him. In my opinion, Mary’s a cut above Ted Bigland. I don’t know if you realized it, dear, but Mr. R—W—was very taken with her. A pity, because it’s made trouble. Mark my words, that’s the reason for the engagement between him and Miss Carlisle being off. And, if you ask me, it’s hit her badly. I don’t know what she saw in him, I’m sure—he wouldn’t have been my cup of tea, but I hear from a reliable source that she’s always been madly in love with him. It does seem a mix-up, doesn’t it? And she’s got all that money, too. I believe he was always led to expect his aunt would leave him something substantial.

  Old Gerrard at the Lodge is failing rapidly—has had several nasty dizzy spells. He’s just as rude and cross-grained as ever. He actually said the other day that Mary wasn’t his daughter. “Well,” I said, “I’d be ashamed to say a thing like that about your wife if I were you.” He just looked at me and said, “You’re nothing but a fool. You don’t understand.” Polite, wasn’t it? I took him up pretty sharply, I can tell you. His wife was lady’s maid to Mrs. Welman before her marriage, I believe.

  I saw The Good Earth last week. It was lovely! Women have to put up with a lot in China, it seems.

  Yours ever,

  Jessie Hopkins

  Post-card from Nurse Hopkins to Nurse O’Brien:

  Fancy our letters just crossing! Isn’t this weather awful?

  Post-card from Nurse O’Brien to Nurse Hopkins:

  Got your letter this morning. What a coincidence!

  Letter from Roderick Welman to Elinor Carlisle, July 15th:

  Dear Elinor,—Just got your letter. No, really, I have no feelings about Hunterbury being sold. Nice of you to consult me. I think you’re doing the wisest thing if you don’t fancy living there, which you obviously don’t. You may have some difficulty in getting rid of it, though. It’s a biggish place for present-day needs, though, of course, it’s been modernized and is up to date, with good servants’ quarters, and gas and electric light and all that. Anyway, I hope you’ll have luck!

  The heat here is glorious. I spend hours in the sea. Rather a funny crowd of people, but I don’t mix much. You told me once that I wasn’t a good mixer. I’m afraid it’s true. I find most of the human race extraordinarily repulsive. They probably reciprocate this feeling.

  I have long felt that you are one of the only really satisfactory representatives of humanity. Am thinking of wandering on to the Dalmatian coast in a week or two. Address c/o Thomas Cook, Dubrovnik, from the 22nd onwards. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.

  Yours, with admiration and gratitude,

  Roddy

  Letter from Mr. Seddon of Messrs Seddon, Blatherwick & Seddon to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 20th:

  104 Bloomsbury Square

  Dear Miss Carlisle,—I certainly think you should accept Major Somervell’s offer of twelve thousand five hundred (£12,500) for Hunterbury. Large properties are extremely difficult to sell at the moment, and the price offered seems to be most advantageous. The offer depends, however, on immediate possession, and I know Major Somervell has been seeing other properties in the neighbourhood, so I would advise immediate acceptance.

  Major Somervell is willing, I understand, to take the place furnished for three months, by which time the legal formalities should be accomplished and the sale can go through.

  As regards the lodge keeper, Gerrard, and the question of pensioning him off, I hear from Dr. Lord that the old man is seriously ill and not expected to live.

  Probate has not yet been granted, but I have advanced one hundred pounds to Miss Mary Gerrard pending the settlement.

  Yours sincerely,

  Edmund Seddon

  Letter from Dr. Lord to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 24th:

  Dear Miss Carlisle,—Old Gerrard passed away today. Is there anything I can do for you in any way? I hear you have sold the house to our new MP, Major Somervell.

  Yours sincerely,

  Peter Lord

  Letter from Elinor Carlisle to Mary Gerrard, July 25th:

  Dear Mary,—I am so sorry to hear of your father’s death.

  I have had an offer for Hunterbury—from a Major Somervell. He is anxious to get in as soon as possible. I am going down there to go through my aunt’s papers and clear up generally. Would it be possible for you to get your father’s things moved out of the Lodge as quickly as possible? I hope you are doing well and not finding your massage training too strenuous.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Elinor Carlisle

  Letter from Mary Gerrard to Nurse Hopkins, July 25th:

  Dear Nurse Hopkins,—Thank you so much for writing to me about Father. I’m glad he didn’t suffer. Miss Elinor writes me that the house is sold and that she would like the Lodge cleared out as soon as possible. Could you put me up if I came down tomorrow for the funeral? Don’t bother to answer if that’s all right.

  Yours affectionately,

  Mary Gerrard

  Seven

  Elinor Carlisle came out of the King’s Arms on the morning of Thursday, July 27th, and stood for a minute or two looking up and down the main street of Maidensford.

  Suddenly, with an exclamation of pleasure, she crossed the road.

  There was no mistaking that large dignified presence, that serene gait as of a galleon in full sail.

  “Mrs. Bishop!”

  “Why, Miss Elinor! This is a surp
rise! I’d no notion you were in these parts! If I’d known you were coming to Hunterbury I’d have been there myself! Who’s doing for you there? Have you brought someone down from London?”

  Elinor shook her head.

  “I’m not staying at the house. I am staying at the King’s Arms.”

  Mrs. Bishop looked across the road and sniffed dubiously.

  “It is possible to stay there, I’ve heard,” she allowed. “It’s clean, I know. And the cooking, they say, is fair, but it’s hardly what you’re accustomed to, Miss Elinor.”

  Elinor said, smiling:

  “I’m really quite comfortable. It’s only for a day or two. I have to sort out things at the house. All my aunt’s personal things; and then there are a few pieces of furniture I should like to have in London.”

  “The house is really sold, then?”

  “Yes. To a Major Somervell. Our new Member. Sir George Kerr died, you know, and there’s been a bye-election.”

  “Returned unopposed,” said Mrs. Bishop grandly. “We’ve never had anyone but a Conservative for Maidenford.”

  Elinor said:

  “I’m glad someone has bought the house who really wants to live in it. I should have been sorry if it had been turned into a hotel or built upon.”

  Mrs. Bishop shut her eyes and shivered all over her plump aristocratic person.

  “Yes, indeed, that would have been dreadful—quite dreadful. It’s bad enough as it is to think of Hunterbury passing into the hands of strangers.”

  Elinor said:

  “Yes, but, you see, it would have been a very large house for me to live in—alone.”

  Mrs. Bishop sniffed.

  Elinor said quickly:

  “I meant to ask you: Is there any especial piece of furniture that you might care to have? I should be very glad for you to have it, if so.”

  Mrs. Bishop beamed. She said graciously:

  “Well, Miss Elinor, that is very thoughtful of you—very kind, I’m sure. If it’s not taking a liberty…?”

  She paused and Elinor said:

  “Oh, no.”

  “I have always had a great admiration for the secretaire in the drawing room. Such a handsome piece.”

  Elinor remembered it, a somewhat flamboyant piece of inlaid marqueterie. She said quickly:

  “Of course you shall have it, Mrs. Bishop. Anything else?”

  “No, indeed, Miss Elinor. You have already been extremely generous.”

  Elinor said:

  “There are some chairs in the same style as the secretaire. Would you care for those?”

  Mrs. Bishop accepted the chairs with becoming thanks. She explained:

  “I am staying at the moment with my sister. Is there anything I can do for you up at the house, Miss Elinor? I could come up there with you, if you like.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Elinor spoke quickly, rather abruptly.

  Mrs. Bishop said:

  “It would be no trouble, I assure you—a pleasure. Such a melancholy task going through all dear Mrs. Welman’s things.”

  Elinor said:

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bishop, but I would rather tackle it alone. One can do some things better alone—”

  Mrs. Bishop said stiffly:

  “As you please, of course.”

  She went on:

  “That daughter of Gerrard’s is down here. The funeral was yesterday. She’s staying with Nurse Hopkins. I did hear they were going up to the Lodge this morning.”

  Elinor nodded. She said:

  “Yes, I asked Mary to come down and see to that. Major Somervell wants to get in as soon as possible.”

  “I see.”

  Elinor said:

  “Well, I must be getting on now. So glad to have seen you, Mrs. Bishop. I’ll remember about the secretaire and the chairs.”

  She shook hands and passed on.

  She went into the baker’s and bought a loaf of bread. Then she went into the dairy and bought half a pound of butter and some milk.

  Finally she went into the grocer’s.

  “I want some paste for sandwiches, please.”

  “Certainly, Miss Carlisle.” Mr. Abbott himself bustled forward, elbowing aside his junior apprentice.

  “What would you like? Salmon and shrimp? Turkey and tongue? Salmon and sardine? Ham and tongue?”

  He whipped down pot after pot and arrayed them on the counter.

  Elinor said with a faint smile:

  “In spite of their names, I always think they taste much alike.”

  Mr. Abbott agreed instantly.

  “Well, perhaps they do, in a way. Yes, in a way. But, of course, they’re very tasty—very tasty.”

  Elinor said:

  “One used to be rather afraid of eating fish pastes. There have been cases of ptomaine poisoning from them, haven’t there?”

  Mr. Abbot put on a horrified expression.

  “I can assure you this is an excellent brand—most reliable—we never have any complaints.”

  Elinor said:

  “I’ll have one of salmon and anchovy and one of salmon and shrimp. Thank you.”

  II

  Elinor Carlisle entered the grounds of Hunterbury by the back gate.

  It was a hot, clear summer’s day. There were sweetpeas in flower. Elinor passed close by a row of them. The undergardener, Horlick, who was remaining on to keep the place in order, greeted her respectfully.

  “Good morning, miss. I got your letter. You’ll find the side door open, miss. I’ve unfastened the shutters and opened most of the windows.”

  Elinor said:

  “Thank you, Horlick.”

  As she moved on, the young man said nervously, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down in spasmodic fashion:

  “Excuse me, miss—”

  Elinor turned back. “Yes?”

  “Is it true that the house is sold? I mean, is it really settled?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Horlick said nervously:

  “I was wondering, miss, if you would say a word for me—to Major Somervell, I mean. He’ll be wanting gardeners. Maybe he’ll think I’m too young for head gardener, but I’ve worked under Mr. Stephens for four years now, and I reckon I know a tidyish bit, and I’ve kept things going fairly well since I’ve been here, single-handed.”

  Elinor said quickly:

  “Of course I will do all I can for you, Horlick. As a matter of fact, I intended to mention you to Major Somervell and tell him what a good gardener you are.”

  Horlick’s face grew dusky red.

  “Thank you, miss. That’s very kind of you. You can understand it’s been a bit of a blow, like—Mrs. Welman dying, and then the place being sold off so quick—and I—well, the fact of the matter is I was going to get married this autumn, only one’s got to be sure….”

  He stopped.

  Elinor said kindly:

  “I hope Major Somervell will take you on. You can rely on me to do all I can.”

  Horlick said again:

  “Thank you, miss. We all hoped, you see, as how the place would be kept on by the family. Thank you, miss.”

  Elinor walked on.

  Suddenly, rushing over her like the stream from a broken dam, a wave of anger, of wild resentment, swept over her.

  “We all hoped the place would be kept on by the family….”

  She and Roddy could have lived here! She and Roddy… Roddy would have wanted that. It was what she herself would have wanted. They had always loved Hunterbury, both of them. Dear Hunterbury… In the years before her parents had died, when they had been in India, she had come here for holidays. She had played in the woods, rambled by the stream, picked sweetpeas in great flowering armloads, eaten fat green gooseberries and dark red luscious raspberries. Later, there had been apples. There had been places, secret lairs, where she had curled up with a book and read for hours.

  She had loved Hunterbury. Always, at the back of her mind, she had felt sure of living there permanently s
ome day. Aunt Laura had fostered that idea. Little words and phrases:

  “Some day, Elinor, you may like to cut down those yews. They are a little gloomy, perhaps!”

  “One might have a water garden here. Some day, perhaps, you will.”

  And Roddy? Roddy, too, had looked forward to Hunterbury being his home. It had lain, perhaps, behind his feeling for her, Elinor. He had felt, subconsciously, that it was fitting and right that they two should be together at Hunterbury.

  And they would have been together there. They would have been together here—now—not packing up the house for selling, but redecorating it, planning new beauties in house and garden, walking side by side in gentle proprietary pleasure, happy—yes, happy together—but for the fatal accident of a girl’s wild-rose beauty….

  What did Roddy know of Mary Gerrard? Nothing—less than nothing! What did he care for her—for the real Mary? She had, quite possibly, admirable qualities, but did Roddy know anything about them? It was the old story—Nature’s hoary old joke!

  Hadn’t Roddy himself said it was an “enchantment?”

  Didn’t Roddy himself—really—want to be free of it?

  If Mary Gerrard were to—die, for instance, wouldn’t Roddy some day acknowledge: “It was all for the best. I see that now. We had nothing in common….”

  He would add, perhaps, with gentle melancholy:

  “She was a lovely creature….”

  Let her be that to him—yes—an exquisite memory—a thing of beauty and a joy forever….

  If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard, Roddy would come back to her—Elinor… She was quite sure of that!

  If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard…

  Elinor turned the handle of the side door. She passed from the warm sunlight into the shadow of the house. She shivered.