TACTICS
It was a fortnight since Hugo Tancred arrived at Wren's End, and Jan had
twice put off Peter's visit.
During the first few days Hugo's temperature remained so high that she
grew thoroughly alarmed; and in spite of his protestations that he was
"quite used to it," she sent for the doctor. Happily the doctor in his
youth had been in the East and was able to reassure her. His opinion,
too, had more weight with Hugo on this account, and though he grumbled
he consented to do what the doctor advised. And at the end of a week
Hugo was able to come downstairs, looking very white and shaky. He lay
out in the garden in a deck-chair for most of the day and managed to eat
a good many of the nourishing dishes Hannah prepared for him.
It had been a hard time for Jan, as Hugo was not an invalid who excited
compassion in those who had to wait upon him. He took everything for
granted, was somewhat morose and exacting, and made no attempt to
control the extreme irritability that so often accompanies fever.
When the fever left him, however, his tone changed, and the second
stage, indicated by Tony as "sad," set in with severity.
His depression was positively overwhelming, and he seemed to think that
its public manifestation should arouse in all beholders the most
poignant and respectful sympathy.
Poor Jan found it very difficult to behave in a manner at all calculated
to satisfy her brother-in-law. She had not, so far, uttered one word of
reproach to him, but she _would_ shrink visibly when he tried to discuss
his wife, and she could not even pretend to believe in the deep
sincerity of a grief that seemed to find such facile solace in
expression. The mode of expression, too, in hackneyed, commonplace
phrases, set her teeth on edge.
She knew that poor Hugo--she called him "poor Hugo" just then--thought
her cold and unsympathetic because she rather discouraged his
outpourings; but Fay's death was too lately-lived a tragedy to make it
possible for her to talk of it--above all, with him; and after several
abortive attempts Hugo gave up all direct endeavour to make her.
"You are terribly Scotch, Jan," he said one day. "I sometimes wonder
whether anything could make you _really_ feel."
Jan looked at him with a sort of contemptuous wonder that caused him to
redden angrily, but she made no reply.
He was her guest, he was a broken man, and she knew well that they had
not yet even approached their real difference.
Two people, however, took Hugo's attitude of profound dejection in the
way he expected and liked it to be taken. These were Mr. Withells and
Hannah.
Mr. Withells did not bear Jan a grudge because of her momentary lapse
from good manners. In less than a week from the unfortunate interview in
the nut-walk he had decided that she could not properly have understood
him; and that he had, perhaps, sprung upon her too suddenly the high
honour he held in store for her.
So back he came in his neat little two-seater car to call at Wren's End
as if nothing had happened, and Jan, guiltily conscious that she _had_
been very rude, was only too thankful to accept the olive-branch in the
spirit in which it was offered.
He took to coming almost as often as before, and was thoroughly
interested and commiserating when he heard that poor Mrs. Tancred's
husband had come home from India and been taken ill almost immediately
on arrival. He sent some early strawberries grown in barrels in the
houses, and with them a note conjuring Jan "on no account to leave them
in the sickroom overnight, as the smell of fruit was so deleterious."
Hannah considered Hugo's impenetrable gloom a most proper and husbandly
tribute to the departed. She felt that had there been a Mr. Hannah she
could not have wished him to show more proper feeling had Providence
thought fit to snatch her from his side. So she expressed her admiration
in the strongest of soups, the smoothest of custards, and the most
succulent of mutton-chops. Gladly would she have commanded Mrs. Earley
to slay her fattest cockerels for the nourishment of "yon poor
heartbroken young man," but that she remembered (from her experience of
Fay's only visit) that no one just home from India will give a thank-you
for chickens.
Jan had cause to bless kind Mr. Withells, for directly Hugo was able for
it, he came with his largest and most comfortable car, driven by his
trustworthy chauffeur, to take the invalid for a run right into
Wiltshire. He pressed Jan to go too, but she pleaded "things to see to"
at home.
Hugo had seen practically nothing of Meg. She was fully occupied in
keeping the children out of their father's way. Little Fay "pooah
daddied" him when they happened to meet, and Tony stared at him in the
weighing, measuring way Hugo found so trying, but Meg neither looked at
him nor did she address any remark whatever to him unless she positively
could not help it.
Meg was thoroughly provoked that he should have chosen to turn up just
then. She had been most anxious that Peter should come. Firstly,
because, being sharply observant, she had come to the conclusion that
his visit would be a real pleasure to Jan, and secondly, because she
ardently desired to see him herself that she might judge whether he was
"at all good enough."
And now her well-loved Jan, instead of looking her best, was growing
thin and haggard, losing her colour, and her sweet serenity, and in
their place a patient, tired expression in her eyes that went to Meg's
heart.
She had hardly seen Jan alone for over a week; for since Hugo came
downstairs Meg had taken all her meals with the children in the nursery,
while Jan and Hugo had theirs in the rarely-used dining-room. The girls
breakfasted together, as Hugo had his in his room, but as the children
were always present there was small chance of any confidential
conversation.
The first afternoon Mr. Withells took Hugo for a drive, Meg left her
children in Earley's care the minute she heard the car depart, and went
to look for Jan in the house.
She found her opening all the windows in the dining-room. Meg shut the
door and sat on the polished table, lit a cigarette and regarded her own
pretty swinging feet with interest.
"How long does Mr. Tancred propose to stay?" she asked.
"How can I tell," Jan answered wearily, as she sat down in one of the
deep window-seats. "He has nowhere to go and no money to go with; and,
so far, except for a vague allusion to some tea-plantation in Ceylon, he
has suggested no plans. Oh, yes! I forgot, there was something about
fruit-farming or vine-growing in California, but I fancy considerable
capital would be needed for that."
"And how much longer do you intend to keep Mr. Ledgard waiting for _his_
visit?"
"It would be small pleasure for Mr. Ledgard to come here with Hugo, and
horrid for Hugo, for he knows perfectly well what Peter ... Mr. Ledgard
thinks of him."
"But if friend Hugo knew Mr. Ledgard was coming, might it not have an
accelerating effect upon his movements? You could give him his
fare--single, mind--to Guernsey. Let him go and stay with his people for
a bit."
Jan shook her head. "I can't turn him out, Meg; and I'm not going to let
Mr. Ledgard waste his precious leave on an unpleasant visit. If I could
give him a good time it would be different; but after all he did for us
while we were in Bombay, it would be rank ingratitude to let him in for
more worries at home."
"Perhaps he wouldn't consider them worries. Perhaps he'd _like_ to
come."
Jan's strained expression relaxed a little and she smiled with her eyes
fixed on Meg's neat swinging feet. "He _says_ he would."
"Well, then, take him at his word. We can turn the excellent Withells on
to Hugo. Let him instruct Hugo in the importance of daily free
gymnastics after one's bath and the necessity for windows being left
open at the top 'day and night, but _especially_ at night.' Let's tell
that Peter man to come."
Jan shook her head.
"No, I've explained the situation to him and begged him not to consider
us any more for the present. We must think of the maids too. You see,
Hugo makes a good deal of extra work, and I'm afraid Hannah might turn
grumpy if there was yet another man to do for."
Meg thoughtfully blew beautiful rings of smoke, carefully poked a small
finger exactly into the centre of each and continued to swing her feet
in silence.
Jan leaned her head against the casement and closed her eyes.
Without so much as a rustle Meg descended from the table. She went over
to Jan and dropped a light kiss on the top of the thick wavy hair that
was so nearly white. Jan opened her tired eyes and smiled.
This quaint person in the green linen frock and big white apron always
looked so restfully neat and clean, so capable and strong with that
inward shining strength that burns with a steady light. Jan put her arms
round Meg and leaned her head against the admirable apron's cool, smooth
bib.
"You're here, anyway," she said. "You don't know how I thank God for
that."
Meg held her close. "Listen to me," she said. "You're going on quite a
wrong tack with that brother-in-law. You are, Jan--I grieve to say
it--standing between him and his children--you don't allow him to see
his children, especially his adored daughter, nearly enough. Now that he
is well enough to take the air with Mr. Withells I propose that we allow
him to _study_ his children--and how can he study them if they are never
left with him? Let him realise what it would be if he had them with him
constantly, and no interfering aunt to keep them in order--do you
understand, Jan? Have you tumbled to it? You are losing a perfectly
magnificent opportunity."
Jan pushed Meg a little away from her and looked up: "I believe there's
a good deal in what you say."
"There's everything in what I say. As long as the man was ill one
couldn't, of course, but now we can and will--eh, Jan?"
"Not Tony," Jan said nervously. "Hugo doesn't care much for Tony, and
I'm always afraid what he may say or do to the child."
"If you let him have them both occasionally he may discover that Tony
has his points."
"They're _both_ perfect darlings," Jan said resentfully. Meg laughed and
danced a two-step to the door.
"They're darlings that need a good deal of diplomatic managing, and if
they don't get it they'll raise Cain. I'm going to take them down to the
post-office directly with my Indian letters. Why not come with us for
the walk?"
* * * * *
Hugo quite enjoyed his run with Mr. Withells and Mr. Withells enjoyed
being consulted about Hugo's plans. He felt real sympathy for a young
man whose health, ruined by one bad station after another, had forced
him to give up his career in India. He suggested various ameliorating
treatments to Hugo, who received his advice with respectful gratitude,
and they arranged to drive again together on Saturday, which was next
day but one.
Hugo sought the sofa in the drawing-room for a quiet hour before dinner
and lit a cigar. He had hardly realised his pleasantly tired and rather
somnolent condition when his daughter entered carrying a large
Teddy-bear, two dolls, a toy trumpet and a box containing a wooden
tea-set. She dropped several of these articles just inside the door.
"Come and help me pick up my sings," she commanded. "I've come to play
wis loo, Daddie."
Hugo did not move. He was fond of little Fay; he admired her good looks
and her splendid health, but he didn't in the least desire her society
just then.
"Poor Daddie's tired," he said in his "saddest" tone. "I think you'd
better go and play in the nursery with Tony."
"No," said little Fay, "Tony's not zere; _loo_ mus' play wis me.
Or"--she added as a happy alternative--"loo can tell me sumfin
instastin."
"Surely," said Hugo, "it's your bed-time?"
"No," little Fay answered, and the letters were never formed that could
express the finality of that "no," "Med will fesh me when it's time.
I've come to play wis _loo_. Det up, Daddie; loo can't play p'oply lying
zere."
"Oh, yes, I can," Hugo protested eagerly. "You bring all your nice toys
one by one and show them to me."
"'At," she remarked with great scorn, "would be a velly stupid game. Det
up!"
"Why can't Meg play with you?" Hugo asked irritably. "What's she doing?"
Little Fay stared at her father. She was unaccustomed to be addressed
in that tone, and she resented it. Earley and Mr. Burgess were her
humble slaves. Captain Middleton did as he was told and became an
elephant, a camel, or a polar bear on the shortest notice, moreover he
threw himself into the part with real goodwill and enjoyment. The lazy
man lying there on the sofa, who showed no flattering pleasure in her
society, must be roused to a sense of his shortcomings. She seized the
Teddy-bear, swung it round her head and brought it down with a
resounding thump on Hugo's chest. "Det up," she said more loudly. "Loo
don't seem to know any stolies, so you _mus'_ play wis me."
Hugo swung his legs off the sofa and sat up to recover his breath, which
had been knocked out of him by the Teddy-bear.
"You're a very rude little girl," he said crossly. "You'll have to be
punished if you do that sort of thing."
"What sort of sing?"
"What you did just now; it's very naughty indeed."
"What nelse?"
Little Fay stood with her head on one side like an inquisitive sparrow.
One of the things she had not dropped was the tin trumpet. She raised it
to her lips now, and blew a blast that went through Hugo's head like a
knife.
He snatched it from her. "You're not to do that," he said. "I can't
stand it. Go and pick up those other things and show them to me."
"Loo can see zem from here."
"Not what's in the box," he suggested diplomatically.
"I'm tah'ed too," she said, suddenly sitting down on the floor. "You
fesh 'em."
"Will you play with them if I do?"
She shook her head. "Not if loo're closs, and lude and naughty and ...
stupid."
Hugo groaned and stalked over to collect the two dolls and the
tea-things. He brought them back and put them down on one end of the
sofa while he sat down at the other.
"Now," he said, "show me how you play with them."
His cigar had gone out and he struck a match to light it again. Little
Fay scrambled to her feet and blew it out before he had touched his
cigar with it.
"Adain," she said joyously. "Make anozer light."
He struck another match, but sheltered it with his hand till he'd got
his cigar going, his daughter blowing vigorously all the time.
"Now," she said, "you can be a nengine and I'll be the tlain."
Round that drawing-room the unfortunate Hugo ran, encouraged in his
efforts by blasts upon the trumpet. The chairs were arranged as
carriages, the dolls as passengers, and the box of tea-things was
luggage. None of these transformations were suggested by Hugo, but
little Fay had played the game so often under Meg's brilliant
supervision that she knew all the properties by heart.
At the end of fifteen minutes Hugo was thoroughly exhausted and audibly
thanked God when Meg appeared to fetch her charge. But he hadn't
finished even then, for little Fay, aided and abetted by Meg, insisted
that every single thing should be tidily put back exactly where it was
before.
At the door, just as they were on the point of departure, Meg paused.
"You must enjoy having her all to yourself for a little while," she said
in honeyed, sympathetic tones such as Hugo, certainly, had never heard
from her before. "I fear we've been rather selfish about it, but for the
future we must not forget that you have the first right to her.... Did
you kiss your dear Daddie, my darling?"
* * * * *
Through the shut door Hugo heard his daughter's voice proclaiming in
lofty, pitying tones, "Pooah Daddie velly stupid man, he was a velly bad
nengine, he did it all long."
"Damn!" said Hugo Tancred.
* * * * *
During dinner that night Jan talked continually about the children. She
consulted Hugo as to things in which he took not the smallest interest,
such as what primers he considered the best for earliest instruction in
reading, and whether he thought the Montessori method advantageous or
not.
As they sat over dessert he volunteered the remark that little Fay was
rather an exhausting child.
"All children are," Jan answered, "and I've just been thinking that
while you are here to help me, it would be such a good chance to give
Meg a little holiday. She has not had a day off since I came back from
India, and it would be so nice for her to go to Cheltenham for a few
days to see Major Morton."
"But surely," Hugo said uneasily, "that's what she's here for, to look
after the children. She's very highly paid; you could get a good nurse
for half what you pay her."
"I doubt it, and you must remember that, because she loved Fay, she is
accepting less than half of what she could earn elsewhere to help me
with Fay's children."
"Of course, if you import sentiment into the matter you must pay for
it."
"But I fear that's just what I don't do."
"My dear Jan, you must forgive me if I venture to think that both you
and your father, and even Fay, were quite absurd about Meg Morton. She's
a nice enough little girl, but nothing so very wonderful, and as for her
needing a holiday after a couple of months of the very soft job she has
with you ... that's sheer nonsense."
There was silence for a minute. Hugo took another chocolate and said,
"You know I don't believe in having children all over the place. The
nursery is the proper place for them when they're little, and school is
the proper place--most certainly the proper place, anyway, for a boy--as
soon as ever any school can be found to take him."
"I quite agree with you as to the benefit of a good school," Jan said
sweetly. "I am painfully conscious myself of how much I lost in never
having had any regular education. Have you thought yet what preparatory
school you'd prefer for Tony?"
"Hardly yet. I've not been home long enough, and, as you know, at
present, I've no money at all...."
"I shall be most pleased to help with Tony's education, but in that case
I should expect to have some voice in the school selected."
"Certainly, certainly," Hugo agreed. "But what I really want to know is
what you propose to do to help me to attain a position in which I _can_
educate my children as we both should wish."
"I don't quite see where I come in."
"My dear Jan, that's absurd. You have money--and a few hundreds now will
start me again...."
"Start you again in what direction?"
"That's what we've got to thresh out. I've several propositions to lay
before you."
"All propositions will have to be submitted to Mr. Davidson."
"That's nonsense. You must remember that I could contest Fay's will if I
liked--it was grossly unfair to leave that two thousand pounds away from
me."
"She left it to her children, Hugo, and _you_ must remember you spent
eight thousand pounds of her money."
"_I_ didn't spend it. Do you think _I_ benefited? The investments were
unfortunate, I grant you, but that's not to say I had it."
"Anyway that money is gone."
"And the sooner I set about making some more to replace it the better,
but I must have help."
"It takes every penny of my income to run things here."
"Well, you know, Jan, to be quite candid, I think it's rather ridiculous
of you to live here. You could let this place easily and for a good
rent. In a smaller house you'd be equally comfortable and in easier
circumstances. I'm not at all sure I approve of my children being
brought up with the false ideas they will inevitably acquire if they
continue to live in a big place like this."
"You see, Hugo, it happens to be my house, and I'm fond of it."
"No doubt, but if you make a fetish of the house, if the house stands in
the way of your helping your own flesh and blood...."
"I don't think I've ever refused to help my _own_ relations."
"Which means, I suppose, that your sister's husband is nothing to you."
Jan rose. "You are rather unjust, I think," she said quietly. "I must
put the children first."
"And suppose you marry----"
"I certainly wouldn't marry any man who would object to my doing all I
could for my sister's children."
"You think so now, but wait till a man comes along. You're just getting
to the age, Jan, when a woman is most apt to make a fool of herself over
a man. And, remember this, I'd much rather my children were brought up
simply with my people in Guernsey than that they should grow up with all
sorts of false ideas with nothing to back them."
Jan clenched her teeth, and though outwardly she was silent, her soul
was repeating, "I _will_ not fear," over and over again.
"Perhaps you are right, Hugo," she said quietly. "You must arrange as
you think best; only please remember that you can hardly expect me to
contribute to the keeping of the children if I am allowed no voice in
their upbringing. Have you consulted your parents as to their living
with them in Guernsey? Shall we go out? It's such a beautiful evening."
Hugo followed her into the hall and out into the garden. Involuntarily
he looked after her with considerable admiration. She held herself well,
that quiet woman. She waited for him in the drive, and as she did so
Tony's words came back to her: "I used to feel frightened inside, but I
wouldn't let him know it, and then--it was funny--but quite sunnly I
wasn't frightened any more. You try it."
* * * * *
Jan had tried it, and, again to quote Tony, "it just happened."