Rosy, fresh, and just chilled enough by the cold air blowing through the
bedroom windows to be very ready for hot coffee.
“Nippy.” That was Geraldine’s word as she buttoned on her orange coat
with pink-washed fingers. “Don’t you find it decidedly nippy?” And her
voice, so matter-of-fact, so natural, sounded as though they had been
married for years.
Parting his hair with two brushes (marvellous feat for a woman to watch)
in the little round mirror, he had replied, lightly clapping the brushes
together, “My dear, have you got enough _on_?” and he, too, sounded as
though well he knew from the experience of years her habit of clothing
herself underneath in wisps of chiffon and two satin bows.... Then they
ran down to breakfast, laughing together and terribly startling the shy
parlour-maid who, after talking it over with Cook, had decided to be
invisible until she was rung for.
“Good-morning, Nellie, I think we shall want more toast than _that_,”
said the smiling Geraldine as she hung over the breakfast table. She
deliberated—“Ask Cook to make us four more pieces, please.”
Marvellous, the parlour-maid thought it was. And as she closed the door
she heard the voice say, “I do so hate to be short of toast, don’t you?”
He was standing in the sunny window. Geraldine went up to him. She put
her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. How pleasant it was to
feel that rough man’s tweed again. Ah, how pleasant! She rubbed her hand
against it, touched it with her cheek, sniffed the smell.
The window looked out on to flower beds, a tangle of michaelmas daisies,
late dahlias, hanging heavy, and shaggy little asters. Then there came
a lawn strewn with yellow leaves with a broad path beyond and a row of
gold-fluttering trees. An old gardener, in woollen mitts, was sweeping
the path, brushing the leaves into a neat little heap. Now, the broom
tucked in his arm, he fumbled in his coat pocket, brought out some
matches, and scooping a hole in the leaves he set fire to them.
Such lovely blue smoke came breathing into the air through those dry
leaves; there was something so calm and orderly in the way the pile
burned that it was a pleasure to watch. The old gardener stumped away and
came back with a handful of withered twigs. He flung them on and stood
by, and little light flames began to flicker.
“I do think,” said Geraldine, “I do think there is nothing nicer than a
real satisfactory fire.”
“Jolly, isn’t it,” he murmured back, and they went to their first
breakfast.
Just over a year ago, thirteen months, to be exact, she had been standing
before the dining-room window of the little house in Sloane Street. It
looked over the railed gardens. Breakfast was over, cleared away and done
with ... she had a fat bunch of letters in her hand that she meant to
answer, snugly, over the fire. But before settling down, the autumn sun,
the freshness had drawn her to the window. Such a perfect morning for the
Row. Jimmie had gone riding.
“Goodbye, dear thing.”
“Goodbye, Gerry mine.” And then the morning kiss, quick and firm. He
looked so handsome in his riding kit. She imagined him as she stood
there ... riding. Geraldine was not very good at imagining things.
But there was mist, a thud of hooves and Jimmie’s moustache was damp.
From the garden there sounded the creak of a gardener’s barrow. An old
man came into sight with a load of leaves and a broom lying across.
He stopped; he began to sweep. “What enormous tufts of irises grew in
London gardens,” mused Geraldine. “Why?” And now the smoke of a real fire
ascended.
“There is nothing nicer,” she thought, “than a really satisfactory fire.”
Just at that moment the telephone bell rang. Geraldine sat down at
Jimmie’s desk to answer it. It was Major Hunter.
“Good morning, Major. You’re a very early bird!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Howard. Yes. I am.” (Geraldine made a little
surprised face at herself. How odd he sounded!) “Mrs. Howard, I’m coming
round to see you ... now ... I’m taking a taxi.... Please don’t go out.
And—and—” the voice stammered, “p-please don’t let the servants go out.”
“_Par_-don?” This last was so very peculiar, though the whole thing had
been peculiar enough, that Geraldine couldn’t believe what she heard.
But he was gone. He had rung off. What on earth—and putting down the
receiver, she took up a pencil and drew what she always drew when she sat
down before a piece of blotting-paper—the behind of a little cat with
whiskers and tail complete. Geraldine must have drawn that little cat
hundreds of times, all over the world, in hotels, in clubs, at steamer
desks, waiting at the Bank. The little cat was her sign, her mark. She
had copied it from a little girl at school when she thought it most
wonderful. And she never tried anything else. She was ... not very good
at drawing. This particular cat was drawn with an extra firm pen and even
its whiskers looked surprised.
“Not to let the servants go out!” But she had never heard anything so
peculiar in her life. She must have made a mistake. Geraldine couldn’t
help a little giggle of amusement. And why should he tell her he was
taking a taxi? And why—above all—should he be coming to see her at that
hour of the morning?
Then—it came over her—like a flash she remembered Major Hunter’s mania
for old furniture. They had been discussing it at the Carlton the
last time they lunched together. And he had said something to Jimmie
about some—Jacobean or Queen Anne—Geraldine knew nothing about these
things—something or other. Could he possibly be bringing it round? But
of course. He must be. And that explained the remark about the servants.
He wanted them to help getting it into the house. What a bore! Geraldine
did hope it would tone in. And really, she must say she thought Major
Hunter was taking a good deal for granted to produce a thing that size
at that hour of the day without a word of warning. They hardly knew him
well enough for that. Why make such a mystery of it too? Geraldine hated
mysteries. But she had heard his head was rather troublesome at times
ever since the Somme affair. Perhaps this was one of his bad days. In
that case, a pity Jimmie was not back. She rang. Mullins answered.
“Oh, Mullins, I’m expecting Major Hunter in a few moments. He’s bringing
something rather heavy. He may want you to help with it. And Cook better
be ready, too.”
Geraldine’s manner was slightly lofty with her servants. She enjoyed
carrying things off with a high hand. All the same Mullins did look
surprised. She seemed to hover for a moment before she went out. It
annoyed Geraldine greatly. What was there to be surprised at? What could
have been simpler? she thought, sitting down to her batch of letters, and
the fire, and the clock and her pen began to whisper together.
There was the taxi—making an enormous noise at the door. She thought she
heard the driver’s voice, too, arguing. It took her a long moment to
clasp her writing case and to get up out of the low chair. The bell rang.
She went straight to the dining-room door——
And there was Major Hunter in his riding kit, coming quickly towards her,
and behind him, through the open door at the bottom of the steps she saw
something big, something grey. It was an ambulance.
“There’s been an accident,” cried Geraldine sharply.
“Mrs. Howard.” Major Hunter ran forward. He put out his icy cold hand and
wrung hers. “You’ll be brave, won’t you?” he said, he pleaded.
But of course she would be brave.
“Is it serious?”
Major Hunter nodded gravely. He said the one word “Yes.”
“Very serious?”
Now he raised his head. He looked her full in the eyes. She’d never
realized until that moment that he was extraordinarily handsome though in
a melodrama kind of way. “It’s as bad as it can be, Mrs. Howard,” said
Major Hunter simply. “But—go in there,” he said hastily and he almost
pushed her into her own dining-room. “We must bring him in—where can we——”
“Can he be taken upstairs?” asked Geraldine.
“Yes, yes of course.” Major Hunter looked at her so strangely—so
painfully.
“There’s his dressing-room,” said Geraldine. “It’s on the first floor.
I’ll lead the way,” and she put her hand on the Major’s arm. “It’s quite
all right, Major,” she said, “I’m not going to break down—” and she
actually smiled, a confident brilliant smile.
To her amazement as Major Hunter turned away he burst out with, “Ah, my
God! I’m so sorry.”
Poor man. He was quite overcome. “Brandy afterwards,” thought Geraldine.
“Not now, of course.”
It was a painful moment when she heard those measured deliberate steps in
the hall. But Geraldine, realizing this was not the moment, and there
was nothing to be gained by it, refrained from looking.
“This way, Major.” She skimmed on in front, up the stairs, along the
passage; she flung open the door of Jimmie’s gay living breathing
dressing-room and stood to one side—for Major Hunter, for the two
stretcher-bearers. Only then she realized that it must be a scalp
wound—some injury to the head. For there was nothing to be seen of
Jimmie; the sheet was pulled right over....
THE END