Like the Persian rugs it had been a present from Mrs. Lessiter-or so nearly a present that no one was likely to dispute it. Mrs. Mayhew would remember hearing Mrs. Lessiter say, “I’m letting Mrs. Welby have those rugs and the little desk out of the Blue Room.” She had added, “They might as well be used.” But there would be no need for Mrs. Mayhew to remember that, nor would she do so unless encouraged, and it wasn’t Catherine Welby who would encourage her. Nearly all the furniture in the Gate House had come to her on the same slightly debatable tenure. She meant to make no bones about it with James Lessiter. It was, in fact, one of the reasons why she was now expecting him to coffee. The contents of the Gate House were to be exhibited to him in the guise of his mother’s gifts.
She looked round her with gratitude and appreciation. Aunt Mildred had certainly meant her to have the things. Why, the curtains had been cut down from an old put-away pair dating from goodness knows when-faded, but what a heavenly brocade, with its dim rose background and formal wreaths just touched with blue and green. There had been enough of it to cover chairs and sofa, and the cushions repeated the colouring of the wreaths.
Catherine dressed to the room. A mirror over the high mantelshelf reflected her dull blue house-gown, her pretty hair, the turn of her head. All at once she heard the step she was waiting for. She went out into the narrow space at the stair foot and threw open the front door.
“James-come in! How nice! Do let me look at you! We mustn’t say how many years it is, must we?”
He was bare-headed, in a dark suit without coat or scarf. As she went before him into the lighted room, he laughed and said,
“It mightn’t be any years at all so far as you are concerned. You haven’t changed.”
She had a radiant smile for that.
“Haven’t I?”
“You’re prettier, but I expect you know that without my telling you. What about me-do I get anything?”
She looked at him with genuine amazement. He had been a goodlooking boy. At forty-six he was a much handsomer man than anyone could have expected. The photograph Aunt Mildred had been so proud of really hadn’t lied. She went on smiling and said,
“I expect you’ll do very well without any more conceit than you’ve got.” Then, with a ripple of laughter, “Oh, James, it is nice to see you! Just wait one moment and I’ll fetch the coffee. I only have a morning girl, you know.”
He looked about while she was out of the room. Very familiar stuff, all this furniture-some of it good. He supposed his mother had put it in for her. He’d have to see Holderness and find out where he stood from the legal point of view. If he was going to sell the place, the Gate House would go with it, and he would have to give vacant possession. But if Catherine had it unfurnished and paid rent for it, it might not be possible to turn her out. The bother was, there was probably no set agreement, and nothing to show whether the presence of the Melling House furniture constituted a furnished let. If it did, he could give Catherine notice, but if his mother had given her the furniture, he probably couldn’t. Pretty woman Catherine-prettier than she had been twenty-five years ago-a little too plump in those days. He wondered about Rietta. Just on the cards she might have put on weight-those statuesque girls did sometimes. She must be forty-three.
Catherine came back into the room with the coffee-tray and the name on her lips.
“Have you seen Rietta?”
“No-not yet.”
She put the tray down on a little table with a pie-crust edge. A valuable piece-he remembered it. He thought Catherine had done herself pretty well, and a little more than that.
“It would be fun if we could get her to come over, wouldn’t it? I think I’ll try. There’s one thing, she won’t be out.”
“Why?”
Catherine laughed.
“My dear James, you must have forgotten what Melling is like. It hasn’t changed.”
She was lifting the receiver as she spoke. He came across and stood by her side, heard the click as the receiver was taken off, heard Rietta’s voice-like Melling, quite unchanged.
“Yes?”
“It’s Catherine. Listen, Rietta-James is here… Yes, right beside me. And we both want you to come over-and if you’re going to make Carr and that girl of his an excuse, I shall know exactly what to think, and so will James.”
Rietta again, quietly.
“I shall be pleased to see James again. Don’t keep any coffee for me-I’ve had mine.”
Catherine rang off and turned a laughing face.
“I thought that would fetch her! She wouldn’t want you to think she minded meeting you.”
“Why should she?”
“No reason in the world. It’s funny neither of you has married, isn’t it?”
He said rather abruptly, “I’ve had neither the time nor the inclination. One travels much faster alone.”
“You’ve travelled fast?”
“Tolerably.”
“Got where you wanted?”
“More or less. There are always new horizons.”
She gave him his coffee with a sigh.
“You must have had wonderful times. Do tell me about them.”
Rietta Cray came into the little square space at the foot of the stair and laid her coat across the newel. She was angry because Catherine had trapped her into coming. She had said “No,” and she had meant “No,” but to say it again with James Lessiter listening was just one of the things she couldn’t do. It must be as plain to him as to everyone in Melling that she met him with friendly indifference. She glanced at her reflection in the old wall mirror. Anger had brought the colour to her cheeks quick and bright. She had come over just as she was, in the old red dress she wore at home. The shade was becoming, the long classic folds suited her. She opened the sitting-room door to hear Catherine say,
“How marvellous!”
James Lessiter got up and came to meet her. He said,
“Well, Rietta?”
Their hands touched. She felt nothing. The anger went out of her, the tightness relaxed. Because this wasn’t a ghost come back out of the past to trouble her-it was a stranger-a handsome, personable, middle-aged stranger.
He and Catherine had been sitting one on either side of the hearth. She took the chair between them and sat down, an alien figure in Catherine’s pastel room. All at once it had a crowded look-too many small things lying about, too many pale, delicate colours. She said,
“I’ve only just come over to say how do you do. I mustn’t stop. I have Carr and a friend of his staying with me.”
“Carr?” He picked up the name as any stranger might.
“Margaret’s boy. You remember she married Jock Robertson. They left Carr with me when they went out East, and they never came back, so I brought him up.”
“Carr Robertson-” It was said as you might say any name. “I’m sorry to hear about Margaret. How old is the boy?”
“Beyond being called one. He’s twenty-eight.”
“Married?”
“He was. She died two years ago.”
“Bad luck. I seem to be asking all the wrong questions.”
She said, “These things happen.”
Catherine leaned sideways to put down her coffee-cup.
“You needn’t mind, James. None of us really knew Marjory-she wasn’t interested in Melling. I don’t suppose Rietta saw her a dozen times. And as for Carr, I think we may say he is in process of being consoled. The friend whom he has brought to stay is a particularly dazzling blonde.”
Rietta said, “That’s cheap, Catherine.”
Her old downright voice, her old downright anger. Pallas Athene disdaining a mortal. A handsome creature Rietta, probably not too comfortable to live with. He began to ask about people in the village.
Some twenty minutes later when she got up to go he said,
“I’ll walk round with you.”
“There’s no need, James.”
“Pleasant things are not always necessary. I’ll come back if you’ll let me, Catherine, so I won’t say goodnight.”