This, in a way, was a relief. Verity, for once, was pleased by Sybil’s prescience. “Well, yes,” she said, “they are. And honestly, Syb, there doesn’t seem to me to be anything against it.”
“In that case,” said Sybil, all cordiality spent, “why are they going on like this? Skulking in the car and sending you to soften me up: If you call that the behaviour of a civilized young man! Prue would never be like that on her own initiative. He’s persuaded her.”
“The boot’s on the other foot. He was all for tackling you himself.”
“Cheek! Thick-skinned push. One knows where he got that from.”
“Where?”
“God knows.”
“You’ve just said you do.”
“Don’t quibble, darling,” said Sybil.
“I can’t make out what, apart from instinctive promptings, sets you against Gideon. He’s intelligent, eminently presentable, obviously rich—”
“Yes, and where does it come from?”
“—and, which is the only basically important bit, he seems to be a young man of good character and in love with Prue.”
“John Swingletree’s devoted to her. Utterly devoted. And she was—” Sybil boggled for a moment and then said loudly, “she was getting to be very fond of him.”
“The Lord Swingletree, would that be?”
“Yes, it would and you needn’t say it like that.”
“I’m not saying it like anything. Syb, they’re over there waiting to come to you. Do be kind. You won’t get anywhere by being anything else.”
“She’s under age.”
“I think she’ll wait until she’s not or else do a bunk. Really.”
Sybil was silent for a moment and then said: “Do you know what I think? I think it’s a put-up job between him and his father. They want to get their hands on Quintern.”
“Oh, my dear old Syb!”
“All right. You wait. Just you wait.”
This was said with all her old vigour and obstinacy and yet with a very slight drag, a kind of flatness in her utterance. Was it because of this that Verity had the impression that Sybil did not really mind all that much about her daughter’s engagement? There was an extraordinary suggestion of hesitancy and yet of suppressed excitement — almost of jubilation.
The pampered little hand she raised to her sunglasses quivered. It removed the glasses and for Verity the afternoon turned cold.
Sybil’s face was blankly smooth as if it had been ironed. It had no expression. Her great china-blue eyes really might have been those of a doll.
“All right,” she said. “On your own head be it. Let them come. I won’t make scenes. But I warn you I’ll never come round. Never.”
A sudden wave of compassion visited Verity.
“Would you rather wait a bit?” she asked. “How are you, Syb? You haven’t told me. Are you better?”
“Much, much better. Basil Schramm is fantastic. I’ve never had a doctor like him. Truly. He so understands. I expect,” Sybil’s voice luxuriated, “he’ll be livid when he hears about this visit. He won’t let me be upset. I told him about Charmless Claude and he said I must on no account see him. He’s given orders. Verry, he’s quite fantastic,” said Sybil. The warmth of these eulogies found no complementary expression in her face or voice. She wandered on, gossiping about Schramm and her treatment and his nurse. Sister Jackson, who, she said complacently, resented his taking so much trouble over her. “My dear,” said Sybil, “jealous! Don’t you worry, I’ve got that one buttoned up.”
“Well,” Verity said, swallowing her disquietude, “perhaps you’d better let me tell these two that you’ll see Prue by herself for a moment. How would that be?”
“I’ll see them both,” said Sybil. “Now.”
“Shall I fetch them, then?”
“Can’t you just wave?” she asked fretfully.
As there seemed to be nothing else for it, Verity walked into the sunlight and waved. Prunella’s hand answered from the car. She got out, followed by Gideon, and they came quickly across the lawn. Verity knew Sybil would be on the watch for any signs of a conference however brief and waited instead of going to meet them. When they came up with her she said under her breath: “It’s tricky. Don’t upset her.”
Prunella broke into a run. She knelt by her mother and looked into her face. There was a moment’s hesitation and then she kissed her.
“Darling Mummy,” she said.
Verity turned to the car.
There she sat and watched the group of three under the orange canopy. They might have been placed there for a painter like Troy Alleyn. The afternoon light, broken and diffused, made nebulous figures of them so that they seemed to shimmer and swim a little. Sybil had put her sunglasses on again so perhaps, thought Verity, Prue won’t notice anything.
Now Gideon had moved. He stood by Sybil’s chair and raised her hand to his lips. “She ought to like that,” Verity thought. “That ought to mean she’s yielding but I don’t think it does.”
She found it intolerable to sit in the car and decided to stroll back toward the gates. She would be in full view. If she was wanted Gideon could come and get her.
A bus had drawn up outside the main gates. A number of people got out and began to walk up the drive. Among them were two men, one of whom carried a great basket of lilies. He wore a countrified tweed suit and hat and looked rather distinguished. It came as quite a shock to recognize him as Bruce Gardener in his best clothes. Sybil would have said he was “perfectly presentable.”
And a greater and much more disquieting shock to realize that his shambling, ramshackle companion was Claude Carter.
vi
When Verity was a girl there had been a brief craze for what were known as rhymes of impending disaster — facetious couplets usually on the lines of: “Auntie Maude’s mislaid her glasses and thinks the burglar’s making passes,” accompanied by a childish drawing of a simpering lady being man-handled by a masked thug.
Why was she now reminded of this puerile squib? Why did she see her old friend in immediate jeopardy: threatened by something undefined but infinitely more disquieting than any nuisance Claude Carter could inflict upon her? Why should Verity feel as if the afternoon, now turned sultry, was closing about Sybil? Had she only imagined that there was an odd immobility in Sybil’s face?
And what ought she to do about Bruce and Claude?
She pulled herself together and went to meet them.
Bruce was delighted to see her. He raised his tweed hat high in the air, beamed across the lilies and greeted her in his richest and most suspect Scots. He was, he said, paying his usual wee Saturday visit to his puir leddy and how had Miss Preston found her the noo? Would there be an improvement in her condeetion, then?
Verity said she didn’t think Mrs. Foster seemed very well and that at the moment she had visitors to which Bruce predictably replied that he would bide a wee. And if she didna fancy any further visitors he’d leave the lilies at the desk to be put in her room. “She likes to know how her garden prospers,” he said. Claude had listened to this exchange with a half-smile and a shifting eye.
“You found your way here, after all?” Verity said to him since she could scarcely say nothing.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Thanks to Bruce. He’s sure she’ll be glad to see me.”
Bruce looked, Verity thought, as if he would like to disown this remark and indeed began to say he’d no’ put it that way when Claude said: “That’s her, over there, isn’t it? Is that Prue with her?”
“Yes,” said Verity shortly.
“Who’s the jet-set type?”
“A friend.”
“I think I’ll just investigate,” he said with a pallid show of effrontery and made as if to set out.