Patricia Brent, Spinster Part 39

"Rang who up, father?" enquired Mrs. Bonsor.

"Lady Tan," said Mr. Triggs, watching his daughter to see the effect of the diminutive upon her.

"Was she annoyed?" enquired Mrs. Bonsor.

"Annoyed!" echoed Mr. Triggs. "Annoyed! She was that pleased she's asked me to lunch to-morrow. Why, she introduced me to a d.u.c.h.ess last week, an' I'm goin' to 'er place to tea."

"I wish you would bring Lady Tanagra here one day, father," said Mrs.

Bonsor. "Why not ask her to lunch here to-morrow?"

"Not me, 'Ettie," said Mr. Triggs wisely. "If you want the big fish, you've got to go out and catch 'em yourself."

There was a pause. Patricia hid a smile in her handkerchief. Mr.

Bonsor was deep in a speech upon the question of rationing fish.

"Well, A. B., what 'ave you got to say?"

"Dear fish may mean revolution," murmured Mr. Bonsor.

Mr. Triggs looked at his son-in-law in amazement.

"What's that you say?" he demanded.

"I--I beg your pardon. I--I was thinking," apologised Mr. Bonsor.

"Now, father," said Mrs. Bonsor, "will you come into the morning-room?

I want to talk to you, and I'm sure Arthur wants to get on with his work."

Mr. Triggs was reluctantly led away, leaving Patricia to continue the day's work.

Patricia now saw little of Mr. Triggs, in fact since Lady Tanagra had announced that Bowen would no longer trouble her, she found life had become singularly grey. Things that before had amused and interested her now seemed dull and tedious. Mr. Bolton's jokes were more obvious than ever, and Mr. Cordal's manners more detestable.

The constant interrogations levelled at her as to where Bowen was, and why he had not called to see her, she found difficult to answer.

Several times she had gone alone to the theatre, or to a cinema, in order that it might be thought she was with Bowen. At last the strain became so intolerable that she spoke to Mrs. Craske-Morton, hinting that unless Galvin House took a little less interest in her affairs, she would have to leave.

The effect of her words was instantly manifest. Wherever she moved she seemed to interrupt whispering groups. When she entered the dining-room there would be a sudden cessation of conversation, and everyone would look up with an innocence that was too obvious to deceive even themselves. If she went into the lounge on her return from Eaton Square, the same effect was noticeable. When she was present the conversation was forced and artificial. Sentences would be begun and left unfinished, as if the speaker had suddenly remembered that the subject was taboo.

Patricia found herself wishing that they would speak out what was in their minds. Anything would be preferable to the air of mystery that seemed to pervade the whole place. She could not be unaware of the significant glances that were exchanged when it was thought she was not looking. Several times she had been asked if she were not feeling well, and her looking-gla.s.s reflected a face that was pale and drawn, with dark lines under the eyes.

One evening, when she had gone to her room directly after dinner, there was a gentle knock at her door. She opened it to find Mrs. Hamilton, looking as if it would take only a word to send her creeping away again.

"Come in, you dear little Grey Lady," cried Patricia, putting her arm affectionately round Mrs. Hamilton's small shoulders, and leading her over to a basket-chair by the window.

For some time they talked of nothing in particular. At last Mrs.

Hamilton said:

"I--I hope you won't think me impertinent, my dear; but--but----"

"I should never think anything you said or did impertinent," said Patricia, smiling.

"You know----" began Mrs. Hamilton, and then broke off.

"Anyone would think you were thoroughly afraid of me," said Patricia with a smile.

"I don't like interfering," said Mrs. Hamilton, "but I am very worried."

She looked so pathetic in her anxiety that Patricia bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

"You dear little thing," she cried, "tell me what is on your mind, and I will do the best I can to help you."

"I am very--er--worried about you, my dear," began Mrs. Hamilton hesitatingly. "You are looking so pale and tired and worn. I--I fear you have something on your mind and--and----" she broke off, words failing her.

"It's the summer," replied Patricia, smiling. "I always find the hot weather trying, more trying even than Mr. Bolton's jokes," she smiled.

"Are you--are you sure it's nothing else?" said Mrs. Hamilton.

"Quite sure," said Patricia. "What else should it be?" She was conscious of her reddening cheeks.

"You ought to go out more," said Mrs. Hamilton gently. "After sitting indoors all day you want fresh air and exercise."

And with that Mrs. Hamilton had to rest content.

Patricia could not explain the absurd feeling she experienced that she might miss something if she left the house. It was all so vague, so intangible. All she was conscious of was some hidden force that seemed to bind her to the house, or, when by an effort of will she broke from its influence, seemed to draw her back again. She could not a.n.a.lyse the feeling, she was only conscious of its existence.

From Miss Brent she had received a characteristic reply to her letter.

"DEAR PATRICIA," she wrote,

"I have read with pain and surprise your letter. What your poor dear father would have thought I cannot conceive.

"What I did was done from the best motives, as I felt you were compromising yourself by a secret engagement.

"I am sorry to find that you have become exceedingly self-willed of late, and I fear London has done you no good.

"As your sole surviving relative, it is my duty to look after your welfare. This I promised your dear father on his death-bed.

"Grat.i.tude I do not ask, nor do I expect it; but I am determined to do my duty by my brother's child. I cannot but deplore the tone in which you last wrote to me, and also the rather foolish threat that your letter contained.

"Your affectionate aunt, "ADELAIDE BRENT.

"P.S.--I shall make a point of coming up to London soon. Even your rudeness will not prevent me from doing my duty by my brother's child.--A. B."

As she tore up the letter, Patricia remembered her father once saying, "Your aunt's sense of duty is the most offensive sense I have ever encountered."

One day as Patricia was endeavouring to sort out into some sort of coherence a sheaf of notes that Mr. Bonsor had made upon Botulism, Mr.

Triggs entered the library. After his cheery "How goes it, me dear?"

he stood for some moments gazing down at her solicitously.