Lady with Carnations Read online

  “I see,” said Katharine.

  But actually she found herself more confused than ever by this new aspect of what she now admitted as an unusual and unsettling personality. All sorts of conflicting thoughts stirred within her mind, and, experiencing a certain mild exasperation, she descended the staircase with him in silence. Outside a blue landaulet stood waiting.

  “I hope you’ve no objection,” he said quickly. “Nancy told me you’d laid up your own car, so I brought this along.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Why no,” he answered, as if surprised. “I hired it.”

  In spite of herself Katharine’s lips drew in. “ It certainly looks opulent,” she murmured ironically.

  She regretted the words the moment she had spoken them. But he took no notice, as if he had not heard.

  The car ran smoothly, and the driver knew his way. Through St James’s Park they went, past Victoria and along the embankment, where a smoky sunset threw a lovely yellow glow on the brimming river. Madden leaned a little forward in his seat, bareheaded, his soft hat crushed between his knees, absorbing the changing panorama with his eager yet collected gaze.

  “This is awfully interesting to me,” he remarked at length. “It’s mighty different from Cleveland. I get a real kick out of it.”

  “You seem to get a kick, as you call it, out of a number of things, Mr Madden.”

  He waited before answering. “ Yes, I suppose I seem pretty raw to you, but the fact is, for the last fifteen years I’ve been up to my neck in business with hardly a chance to breathe, let alone use my eyes. When my old man died after the War, it was pretty tough for me for a bit. And when things got going, I had to keep going with them. You don’t know how a man’s job can catch hold of him, Miss Lorimer, and cut out the chance to see a sunset like this and—well, if I might say it, the chance to meet a girl like Nancy.”

  “Perhaps I do understand.” A spark of communicative sympathy awoke in Katharine, but she damped it by adding: “I hope you’re not going to be disappointed in the chances of this week-end.”

  “Oh, no, I like meeting people. Especially Nancy’s folks and,” he added with simple politeness, “yours!”

  Katharine smiled a trifle bleakly. “ That’s just where I feel I ought to warn you. You may find Mother and me extremely dull. We are very middle class, Mr Madden, and horribly suburban. Don’t be misled by any glamour attaching to my work. I may meet a few important people in the way of business now and then, but don’t forget that I began life as a typist at fifteen shillings a week. And I carried my lunch in a paper bag. Believe me, I’m no different now.”

  “No?” Turning, he made sure that she was in earnest, then he nodded his head gravely. “Well, for the first time you begin to go up in my estimation.”

  She could not help it; she had to laugh, for his reply got right under her dignity. “At least,” she thought, “he has the saving grace of humour.” And yet, at the back of her mind, she still was dubious. He saw it, too, with the extraordinary perception which stamped him, and after a moment he said quietly:

  “You don’t know a lot about me, do you, Miss Lorimer? I guess it worries you.”

  For some reason she flushed. She said sincerely: “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not thinking of the obvious things. It’s the man himself, the man who is going to marry Nancy, who matters to me.”

  There was silence. Oddly touched by the sympathy her words implied, he had the temptation, repressed with difficulty, to explain once and for all his position, at least to define those obvious things to which she had referred. He realized that from the outset she had completely mistaken him, an error which, from his habitual simplicity, modesty of habit, and carelessness of dress, was of frequent occurrence and which now caused him less annoyance than amusement. He hated, and had always hated, ostentation. Fashionable clothes, smart restaurants, de luxe hotels, the whole panoply and trappings of modern luxury, served merely to repel him. He had, for instance, crossed to Europe on a tramp steamer and wandered across the continent with less pretension than an ordinary tourist, putting up at out-of-the-way inns, travelling third class to mix with the people, content often to dine on a sandwich and a glass of wine.

  Perhaps this asceticism derived partly from his antecedents, in particular his mother, Susan Emmet, a Vermont woman gifted with a tender, yet Spartan, sense of duty. His father, too, a Virginian, had all the candour and none of the indolence of the South. A spare, lanky, bearded man with a dry humour and a deep-set eye, Seth Madden had been a small yet sagacious trader, setting up in Cleveland as maker and retailer of a special brand of paste adhesive which he named Fixfast. The fortunes of the tiny Fixfast plant, though stable enough, had never risen high, but with the death of Seth in 1917, while Chris was in the War, they suffered a serious relapse. It was a rocky little business which young Madden took over when back in Cleveland fresh from his demobilization. Yet, bent on regeneration and expansion, he had thrown himself into work.

  That was fifteen years before. How great a change those years had brought, a miracle of contrast between then and now, had to be seen to be believed. Madden never fussed or bragged, yet his quiet manner concealed a rigid strength. He brought out a new, quick-hardening, cherry gum. Its success was immediate. The business developed by leaps and bounds. He began carefully to buy in the smaller companies in the adhesive industry, together with their patents, to scrap their obsolete factories and centralize the whole in Cleveland. The parent company’s capital doubled, trebled, then ran into millions. Madden was rich beyond even the wildest of his boyhood dreams. But money meant little to him except when he lavished it upon his mother, to whom he was sincerely attached. He bought her, in 1929, a small but lovely Colonial house at Graysville, her native village in Vermont.

  Madden, president of International Adhesives, Inc., was one of the best known men in Cleveland. Yet his simplicity remained, and all his quiet, unassuming brevity. He was thirty-five and had worked like a slave for nearly fifteen years. Now that he was on top, he felt it time to call a halt. In the previous spring he had lifted his head from his desk and run away to Europe for a rest.

  Something of this retrospect flashed through Madden’s head as he sat by Katharine’s side, and again he was tempted to reveal it. But he did not. And before he could change his mind they were at Beechwood, by which truly rustic name old Mrs Lorimer chose to designate her home. Already it was nearly five, and the trim outlines of the little villa were almost lost in the gathering darkness. Madden sent the car away and, carrying his own bag and Katharine’s parcels, followed her up the short path between low bushes of privet into the house. They entered the drawing room, where, rocking impatiently in a chair at the fireside, sat Mrs Lorimer in person.

  “What an age you’ve been!” she exclaimed immediately with a brisk irritation and no semblance whatsoever of a greeting. “Another minute, and the tea would have been ruined!”

  She was a short, plump little woman of seventy with a restless birdlike eye and a combative set to her head. Her dress was of silk material and black, as she had not gone out of mourning for the death of her husband nine years before. Upon her hair, which was still free from grey, she wore a white lace cap, and this, added to her age, demeanour, and general appearance—in particular the tiny pouches into which her cheeks sagged—gave her a remarkable resemblance to the late Queen Victoria, a fact she did not fail to recognize and one from which she drew a secret complacent pride.

  At present, however, she was not complacent but very much the martinet. Barely acknowledging Madden with a noncommittal nod, she at once attacked her daughter with a bombardment of questions relating to the execution of her commissions and to Nancy’s indisposition. Only when Katharine had satisfied her did she rise and lead the way abruptly into the dining room.

  Here the square mahogany table was set for an ample but extraordinary meal. It was not tea, nor supper, nor dinner, but a curious combination of all three. There was bread, both bro
wn and white, nicely cut and buttered, cake of two kinds, a fine wedge of cheese flanked by celery, and a little silver barrel of biscuits. In the middle, under the chandelier, a blancmange shape quivered pinkly beside a crystal dish of stewed prunes. Finally, a large steaming hot fish pie was placed at the head of the table by Peggy, the diminutive maid, and behind it a majestic tea service on an enormous tray. Seating herself in state, old Mrs Lorimer poured the tea and served the pie. She took an ample helping for herself, cleverly masking it to make it seem smaller, tasted a forkful with her head critically to one side, and by a slight relaxation of her features expressed approval. Only then did she take time to look at Madden. Yet though belated, her scrutiny was sharp. And her remark was sharper.

  “So you’re going to marry Nancy. Well, young man, I warn you you’ll have your hands full.”

  He answered equably: “Nancy and I will pull along all right, Mrs Lorimer.”

  “Maybe,” declared the old lady stringently. “ But it’ll be a long pull and a strong pull. And heaven help you, young man, if you let go!”

  This was the first of a series of remarks, proverbs, texts, and aphorisms aimed straight at Madden’s head. The old lady, rigid, puritanical, and an egoist to the core, was always intimidating, but now, fortified by strong tea and the moral of her subject, she was in rampant form.

  Katharine knew her mother and had learned to tolerate her most exacting moods. As she made pretence of eating the odious fish pie, which from her childhood she had loathed, she studied Madden seriously while he received her mother’s fire. Frankly, his quiet good temper, or rather—she quickly corrected herself—his perfect assumption of the quality, amazed her. It was, of course, a pose, since he must be hopelessly at sea under such diverse and unknown currents of conversation and custom. Yet even so it was engaging. He listened with apparent interest, ate with apparent relish.

  By the time the prunes were finally disposed of Katharine was aware that Madden, whether he wished it or not, was making a conquest of her mother. When they returned to the drawing room, where the fire had been rebanked and now cast an inviting glow on the bearskin rug, the Victorian furniture, the china and little knick-knacks on the chiffonier, Mrs Lorimer sighed contentedly.

  “Sit down in that chair, Mr Madden,” she indicated. “You’ll find it comfortable. It was my dear husband’s, and, mark you, I don’t let everyone sit in it. You can look on while Katharine and I have our game of patience.”

  This double patience to which she referred—an unexpected concession from her Nonconformist principles—was, next to the radio, which she adored, the old lady’s greatest passion.

  She played it indomitably and ruthlessly with Katharine on the occasions of her week-end visits. Madden glanced interrogatively at Katharine, and perhaps he read her face, for he said persuasively:

  “Your daughter looks awfully tired, Mrs Lorimer. How about a little game with me?”

  “Humph! Katharine’s usually tired when it comes to doing something for her old mother.”

  “No, but I’d like a game,” Madden said. “And let me tell you I’m pretty smart at it.”

  “Oh, you are?” said Mrs Lorimer, scenting battle. “Smart, indeed! I like that! Well, come away, and I’ll give you a pretty smart beating.” She glanced at the clock. “We’ve got a good half hour. There’s a splendid play on the wireless at eight—The Black Pearl. We must listen to that!”

  They sat down to the game at the green baize table before the fire while Katharine, glad of the respite, installed herself in the sofa and watched with a sense of rising expectation. She knew from long experience that unless Madden’s individuality were wholly negative, trouble, serious trouble, must ensue.

  Mrs Lorimer began well. She won the cut and dealt good cards, her spectacles nicely settled and her bag of sugar almonds conveniently by her side. She made an excellent run and sat back with a satisfied sigh while Madden discarded only a few cards, then failed. Mrs Lorimer got in again with another long run, and for a while her good fortune continued. Then, unexpectedly, the luck changed, and Madden, playing confidently, commenced a series of runs which placed him well in the lead.

  At this point, as Katharine had anticipated, her mother began to cheat. The old lady had in fact this one frightful foible. She could not endure to be beaten. Never, never. Come what may and at all costs, she must win. Whether or not it was the blind spot on her conscience made no odds; the fact remained that rather than suffer the ignominy of defeat she would cheat flagrantly, mercilessly.

  Madden, of course, saw the cheating at once, and Katharine, her dark eyes on the players, awaited the dénouement. If he protested, there would be a scene; if he said nothing, he would be a humbug. But Madden, it seemed, was steering a different course. With a solemn face he began to aid the old lady in her cheating, subtly at first, then with increasing intention, giving her back good cards instead of bad, failing stupidly to take his turn, and generally inciting her to greater, and still greater, fraud. At first Mrs Lorimer chuckled and took the gifts which the gods were offering, but gradually her expression changed. She darted one or two doubful glances at him, then suddenly when within an ace of winning, she hesitated, faltered, and blushed.

  “Why do you look at me like that?” she demanded hotly.

  “Gee, Mrs Lorimer,” he answered gravely, “I was just admiring the way you play. I’ve been all over the States and Europe and the rest of it, and I never saw playing like that anywhere before.”

  “What!” she ejaculated.

  “No, ma’am.” His voice took on a Southern drawl. “ That’s the best sure-fire card playin’ I ever saw in all my born days.”

  Her bright eyes nearly popped from her head. She took a long, pugnacious breath and drew herself up, ready to destroy him. And then, all at once, she began to laugh. She laughed unrestrainedly, scattering the cards, upsetting her almonds; Katharine had never seen her laugh like that before.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” she gasped at last. “That’s the funniest thing. The best card playing—did you hear him, Katharine?—in all his born days.”

  “Why, certainly, ma’am,” he went on. “ I sure.…”

  But, rocking helplessly, tears of merriment running down her cheeks, she stopped him with one weak hand. “Don’t,” she wheezed, “you’ll be the death of me. My dear young man, it’s too funny. The best card playing—and me cheating you all the time!”

  It was a grand joke, perhaps the best ever heard in the stuffy little room. But when it ended, the old lady recollected herself with a start.

  “My goodness!” she declared, wiping her eyes and peering suddenly at the clock. “If we’re not missing the play on the wireless!” And, more spryly than one would have believed, she went over to the radio and switched it on.

  A moment’s hesitation, then the instrument buzzed to life. True enough, the play had begun. A girl was speaking.

  Madden looked at Katharine sharply, to find that Katharine was staring at him. In a moment, too, old Mrs Lorimer’s eyes widened, darted from one to the other. The girl went on speaking.

  “It can’t be,” said Madden suddenly.

  No! Surely it could not be. Nancy was in bed with a temperature. Nancy hadn’t said a word about this. Nancy was ill, unable to get up.

  “Well, I declare!” exclaimed the old lady in genuine wonderment.

  “There must be some mistake,” said Katharine in a bewildered tone.

  But there was no mistake. The voice coming so plainly over the air was Nancy’s voice.

  Chapter Three

  All that day Nancy had remained in bed, her head throbbing, her limbs weighed down by an influenzal ache. She loathed being laid up, and that made her more restless still. Though she was not seriously concerned over Moonshine in Arcady, since the play was well advanced and no rehearsal had been called for over the week-end, her nature resented even this temporary interference with her nicely ordered little life. Nancy, indeed, had a disconcerting veneer of egoism which som
etimes inclined her towards petulance when things did not go all her own way. Perhaps, in spite of Katharine’s disclaimer, the affection which had been lavished upon her had slightly spoiled Nancy. She took so many things for granted. Someone, explaining this idiosyncrasy, had said of Nancy that she had still to grow up.

  To-day, however, she would have protested that she had been irreproachable in her behaviour. She had taken her quinine faithfully every four hours and submitted to the diet, restricted to hot fluids, with which Mrs Baxter, her daily maid, had steamingly supplied her, During the forenoon, propped up on her pillows, she wrote a few letters that had long been outstanding. This duty done, she let her thoughts dwell pleasantly on Madden until she fell asleep for about an hour. Afterward she took up a book from beside her bed and tried to keep her mind on it.

  The book that Nancy held was unexpected in the hands of so ingenuous an invalid, who might reasonably have sought distraction in a swift detective tale or the mild vacuity of a light novelette. For it was the plays of William Shakespeare. A glance at the adjoining bookshelves was even more illuminating. These were filled almost entirely with plays, at least with those plays which might be accounted classic: Marlowe, Congreve, Ibsen, Molière, Sheridan, Shaw—all were there. And in addition there were interspersed various biographies of famous personalities of the drama. It was an amazing library for a frivolous young actress of the modern stage.

  Yet a glance round Nancy’s bedroom would have induced an even greater perplexity. There were none of the expected fripperies. No exotic telephone covers or overdressed dolls. The room was austere as a monastic cell and as rigorously ordered. Only two photographs stood upon the chest of drawers—one of Madden and the other of Katharine—while on the walls, which were simply painted white, there hung a single picture, a large and beautiful drawing of the famous Eleonora Duse. This portrait of one of the greatest actresses the world has ever known undoubtedly contained the clue which solved the puzzle of Nancy’s room and the even greater enigma of Nancy herself.