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“No, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You haven’t had any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eat last night, and what with the shock and all, you’ll be getting ill yourself, and you’ll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left.”
Symmington said in a toneless voice:
“You’re very kind, Miss Holland, but—”
“A nice cup of hot tea,” said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage on him firmly.
Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. He looked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and looking up at Elsie Holland:
“I can’t thank you for all you’ve done and are doing, Miss Holland. You’ve been perfectly splendid.”
The girl flushed and looked pleased.
“It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all I can to help. Don’t worry about the children—I’ll see to them, and I’ve got the servants calmed down, and if there’s anything I can do, letterwriting or telephoning, don’t hesitate to ask me.”
“You’re very kind,” Symmington said again.
Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into the hall.
“Isn’t it terrible?” she said in a hushed whisper.
I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind, competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes were just faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softhearted enough to shed tears for her employer’s death.
“Can we speak to you a minute,” asked Joanna. “We don’t want to disturb Mr. Symmington.”
Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the dining room on the other side of the hall.
“It’s been awful for him,” she said. “Such a shock. Who ever would have thought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now that she had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought it was her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing really wrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days you wouldn’t know just how to take her.”
“What we really came for,” said Joanna, “was to know whether we could have Megan for a few days—that, is if she’d like to come.”
Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.
“Megan?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I mean, it’s ever so kind of you, but she’s such a queer girl. One never knows what she’s going to say or feel about things.”
Joanna said rather vaguely:
“We thought it might be a help, perhaps.”
“Oh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, I’ve got the boys to look after (they’re with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmington—he really needs looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. I really haven’t had time to see much to Megan. I think she’s upstairs in the old nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away from everyone. I don’t know if—”
Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the room and upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened the door and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behind and the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced the road they were decorously drawn down.
Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divan set against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified animal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.
“Megan,” I said.
I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adopt when you want to reassure a frightened animal. I’m really surprised I didn’t hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.
She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.
“Megan,” I said again. “Joanna and I have come to ask you if you would like to come and stay with us for a little.”
Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.
“Stay with you? In your house?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, you’ll take me away from here?”
“Yes, my dear.”
Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very moving.
“Oh, do take me away! Please do. It’s so awful, being here, and feeling so wicked.”
I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.
“I’m an awful coward. I didn’t know what a coward I was.”
“It’s all right, funny face,” I said. “These things are a bit shattering. Come along.”
“Can we go at once? Without waiting a minute?”
“Well, you’ll have to put a few things together, I suppose.”
“What sort of things? Why?”
“My dear girl,” I said. “We can provide you with a bed and a bath and the rest of it, but I’m damned if I lend you my toothbrush.”
She gave a very faint weak little laugh.
“I see. I think I’m stupid today. You mustn’t mind. I’ll go and pack some things. You—you won’t go away? You’ll wait for me?”
“I’ll be on the mat.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m sorry I’m so stupid. But you see it’s rather dreadful when your mother dies.”
“I know,” I said.
I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful look and disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.
“I found Megan,” I said. “She’s coming.”
“Oh now, that is a good thing,” exclaimed Elsie Holland. “It will take her out of herself. She’s rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be a great relief to feel I haven’t got her on my mind as well as everything else. It’s very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she won’t be a nuisance. Oh dear, there’s the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isn’t fit.”
She hurried out of the room. Joanna said:
“Quite the ministering angel!”
“You said that rather nastily,” I observed. “She’s a nice kind girl, and obviously most capable.”
“Most. And she knows it.”
“This is unworthy of you, Joanna,” I said.
“Meaning why shouldn’t the girl do her stuff?”
“Exactly.”
“I never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,” said Joanna. “It arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?”
“Crouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle.”
“Poor kid. She was quite willing to come?”
“She leapt at it.”
A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan an
d her suitcase. I went out and took it from her. Joanna, behind me, said urgently:
“Come on. I’ve already refused some nice hot tea twice.”
We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suitcase in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldn’t do any athletic feats.
“Get in,” I said to Megan.
She got in. I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.
We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room.
Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with the hearty fervour of a child—bawled, I think, is the right word. I left the room in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, I think.
Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice:
“I’m sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic.”
Joanna said kindly, “Not at all. Have another handkerchief.”
I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room and handed Megan a brimming glass.
“What is it?”
“A cocktail,” I said.
“Is it? Is it really?” Megan’s tears were instantly dried. “I’ve never drunk a cocktail.”
“Everything has to have a beginning,” I said.
Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over her face, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Can I have another?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“In about ten minutes you’ll probably know.”
“Oh!”
Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.
“I really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myself howling away like that. I can’t think why. It seems awfully silly when I’m so glad to be here.”
“That’s all right,” said Joanna. “We’re very pleased to have you.”
“You can’t be, really. It’s just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.”
“Please don’t be grateful,” said Joanna. “It will embarrass me. I was speaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and I have used up all our conversation. We can’t think of anymore things to say to each other.”
“But now,” I said, “we shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discussions—about Goneril and Regan and things like that.”
