Pause.
“To my consternation, she said she had had tea. Then, mercifully, she added that she hoped I would have tea before I went. I regret to say that I wolfed everything in sight, including a Bath bun, which Beau Nash would have recognised. After this orgy, we went to Gertrude’s sitting-room—a very precise shining-clean sitting-room. There was nothing on the mantelpiece—except a photograph of a girl. I indicated it, then looked enquiringly at her. She nodded her head. Something in her manner made me think that, for Gertrude, the girl in the photograph was the reality—not the woman behind the curtain.”
Pause.
“Well, as I waited for a bus to take me to the station, I began to wonder why, in the inscrutable mystery of things, I had had this meeting with Mrs. Norton. After all, everything is meaningless, or it isn’t. And, if it isn’t, then why had I come to Hove? Perhaps I should end up like that—minus Gertrude. At this point, however, a bus appeared. One passenger alighted—the conductor shouted: ‘Full up!’—leaving me on the pavement in a darkening world.”
I think Mervyn was about to elaborate on the ethical standards of bus drivers, conductors, and queues—when the front-door bell rang.
“Heavens! That’s certain to be for me. I’m like the man who said he had no more privacy than a roller towel. You see who it is, Max. If it’s a man with a club-foot and a cast in his left eye—tell him I’m in Scotland. If it’s a woman with midnight blue hair—tell her I’m suffering from loss of memory.”
Chapter Four
DOMESTIC CRISIS
More or less prepared for anything, I opened the front door—to find myself confronted by a girl of about seventeen. A glance convinced me that she did not belong to the tribe of Mervyn’s women friends; but, as I knew we had not met before, I was puzzled by the fact that she seemed remotely familiar.
Although she wore drab war-time clothes, she invested them with individuality. Whether this was effected by an exceptionally attractive figure, or resulted from magical knowledge known only to initiates, I had not the least idea. She was neither pretty nor beautiful, but the expression of the rather irregular features had a unique appeal; as humour, zest for life, and an indefinable moving quality were so intimately blended that none predominated. The sharply defined arched eyebrows gave expectancy and naïveté to the face, but this impression was somewhat modified by a resolute chin.
We continued to study each other with frank curiosity, then, just as I had made a discovery, she asked:
“Are you Mr. Max Arnold?”
“I am. And you—are Drina.”
“Heavens! D’you think I’m like him?”
“Not physically, of course.”
“Well, in what way, then?”
“That’s not too easy to say, but there is a definite resemblance. Perhaps your auras are alike.”
She stood motionless, looking up at me with a spellbound expression as if I were a magician. There was no hint of embarrassment—no trace of self-consciousness—nothing, but total surrender to surprise.
“Bit frightening,” she said at last, “that you knew who I am. Of course, he may have described me to you, but his descriptions aren’t worth much, because he exaggerates so frightfully.”
The voice had a rich quality which made you listen almost as much to the sound as you did to the actual words.
“I do think it was awfully decent of you to take him in, particularly as you knew what he’s like. A lot of people take him in, thinking that he’s more or less a normal person. Then they discover that it’s not too easy to get him out.”
“How did you find out that he’s living here? He told me that none of his family knows where he is.”
“We don’t. I had an awful job finding him.”
“Better come in—and tell us all about it.”
“He is here, then?”
“He’s here all right. Been here for some little time.”
“Good! I was terrified that he’d have gone—or been thrown out.”
She hesitated, then added:
“You see, it’s important—awfully important.”
We went into the hall, then I said:
“I’ll go to my room, then you can talk to him alone.”
“Oh, no, please don’t do that! It will bore you, I’m afraid, but I would like you to hear it all. It’s not his fault, but he’s not much help. And—well—something’s got to be done this time.”
“All right. We’ll talk it over.”
“Thank you. It does seem odd that I’m with you. I read a lot about you in the papers just after the Chelsea murder, but never thought I’d meet you. And I certainly never dreamed that you’d take Mervyn in.”
At this point, however, a voice was heard from the sitting-room:
“Who is it, Max?”
“It’s Drina.”
A second later Mervyn appeared in the doorway.
“Drina! Before any greetings or endearments are exchanged, tell me this: Is your mama with you?”
“Of course not!”
“Does she know I am living here?”
“No!”
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Don’t be so absurd, Mervyn!”
He crossed to her, then took her in his arms.
“It’s marvellous to see you! Simply marvellous! I’ve missed you. You’re about the only person I do miss. But I knew you’d find me if you really wanted me.”
“Well, I do—really—want you this time.”
“So something’s happened?”
“Yes.”
“To one of the family?”
“To me.”
“Well, you look all right.”
“I am all right, but, all the same, something’s happened.”
“How on earth did you discover that I’m here?”
“That’s quite a story.”
For some moments, they gazed at each other. Mervyn’s expression showed that he cared more for Drina than he did for any one else; while hers denoted affection and—incredulity. Evidently, she found it difficult to believe that such a being as Mervyn really existed.
At last I said:
“Better go into the sitting-room, don’t you think?”
Having had a good look at Major Black’s furniture, Drina pointed to the huge sofa, then asked:
“Do you spend a lot of time, Mervyn, lying flat on that?”
“That,” Mervyn replied with heavy dignity, “is my bed.”
“Heavens! You would take the best room! Did you find the sofa here, or did you bring it?”
“I attracted that sofa to me by certain occult methods, which I am not allowed to disclose to the uninitiated.”
He placed an arm-chair for her near the fire, then leaned against the mantelpiece and regarded Drina with proprietorial satisfaction. I sat, watching them, feeling as if the curtain had just risen on a promising scene in a play.
“You really might turn up at home sometimes, Mervyn, I haven’t been living there for about three months, but I do show the flag occasionally. There’s a mountain of letters waiting for you, and every one of them is marked ‘Urgent.’ And there’s a swaying pile of reply-paid telegrams.”
“It’s pleasant to know one is not forgotten. Now, tell me something. No need for elaborate details. All I want is a direct answer to a direct question. And this is it: Is your mama her normal self?”
“Yes—only more so. Never has a second, day or night. She’s on hundreds of committees. People turn up at all hours. No time for meals. Her Savings Group was mentioned on the radio. She says the Russians will invade England—and she’s unearthed a Red fifth column, which meets every Friday in a basement. Your mother telephones every other day, and they have huge conversations about you.”