She made a fluttering movement with her hands.
“I can’t tell you what she wrote me. I’d break down, if I tried to. You see, when he—died—I made up my mind I wouldn’t tell people what it meant to me. After all, it’s happening to everyone—everywhere. So I tried to go on as I used to. That’s why I fooled about when I first came here.”
Almost immediately, she went on:
“At the end of her letter, she asked if I thought there would be a child. Later, I cabled saying there is going to be a child.”
“That’s ridiculous, Drina! You’re only a child yourself.”
“There is going to be a child. That’s why I’m here.”
She rose, then wandered about the room.
“You mustn’t mind if I get a bit muddled. I’m only seventeen, you know, and it’s not been easy.”
“I think you’ve done pretty well.”
“So do I, Max. I told you she had initiative.”
“For one thing,” Drina went on, “I had to describe to his mother the land of family I’ve got. And that isn’t easy.”
“Impossible, my dear child—quite impossible.”
“I wanted to be fair, but I had to explain why I didn’t tell mother what has happened, and that meant writing a whole letter describing mama. It was rather a long letter.”
“It must have been! Practically a book! I hope you explained that all Ella wants is to simmer blissfully in bubbling self-satisfaction.”
“I didn’t say that, exactly, but I did make it clear that she’s so immersed in committees, A.R.P., Fire Fighting, Savings Weeks, and Red Plots, that she takes no interest whatever in the family. Then I explained that my father had been invalided out of the army, and has troubles enough of his own.”
“And how true that is!”
“So, one way and another, I’ve had to write her some rather peculiar letters—and it tells you how marvellous she is that she’s done everything—everything!—to help me. If there are many like her in America, the sooner I get there the better.”
“Yes, yes! But now, my dear child, tell me how things stand between you now. I mean, what are you going to do?”
“She sent a long cable when she got my letter saving there is going to be a child. She asked if I had everything I wanted and that, when the time came, I must go to the best nursing home and have the best doctor. She also said that, directly it’s possible, I must go to America. And she said we should both find John again in the child. Then she asked if I needed money.”
“Ah!”
“I couldn’t ask for money. I couldn’t. After all, I have a family. I don’t want her to think we’re all mad people. She may have to know one day—but not yet. Heaven knows I’ve given her enough shocks already! But, on top of everything else, to write and say I want money, really would be a bit too much.”
“Now, there, my dear Drina, there, I think you made your first mistake.”
“I—couldn’t!”
“Is she rich?”
“Yes, very rich.”
Mervyn sighed deeply, but, as it was evident that his attitude disturbed Drina, I said quickly:
“I think you were right.”
“You—do?”
“Perfectly right. You had a difficult enough situation to explain without having to ask for money.”
“Well, you may both be right,” Mervyn said slowly, “but I don’t think you are. I’m afraid you’re taking up rather a selfish attitude. It might have given her great satisfaction to send a considerable sum of money to the head of the Maitland family. It would also have helped England’s war effort, by providing additional dollars to finance purchases in the States. That apart, however, I think it’s wrong not to provide people with an opportunity to gratify their generous impulses. Very wrong! Still, you didn’t see it that way—so there’s no good talking now. It comes to this, Drina: How are you placed?”
“Well, Kitty Tremayne only has a one-room flat and she can’t keep me any longer, because Alec has a job in London. He returns to-morrow. So I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go—and I’ve half a crown.”
“Half a crown,” Mervyn echoed, in a tone which implied that this sum might possibly represent financial loaves and fishes which could be mysteriously multiplied. “Well, in my day, I’ve often had less than half a crown.”
“I’ve got to find somewhere to live to-morrow. But one thing’s certain: I can’t go home and tell mother what’s happened.”
“Of course not! That’s unthinkable! Your mama is the last person to know.”
Drina stopped near me, then said:
“You see, I can’t have a lot of fuss—and there would be a lot of fuss—no end of fuss—if I told her what’s happened. You’ve got to understand that mama parades on a highly moral background. And she’s managed to keep it up, in spite of Mervyn. She tells everyone he’s engaged in secret affairs.”
“And how right she is!”
“But,” Drina went on, “her highly moral background certainly would collapse if her seventeen-year-old daughter returns home to have an illegitimate baby.”
“She might think so, but it wouldn’t,” Mervyn announced judicially. “Illegitimate babies receive a rapturous reception in the Island Home nowadays. The government dish them out plum purée directly they’re born.”
Drina returned to her chair, sat down, then looked at Mervyn. For some moments, father and daughter regarded each other with expressions in which affection and bewilderment were almost ludicrously blended.
Mervyn stretched lazily, then advanced a series of solutions for the problem presented by Drina. His first was that an Appeal should be inserted in the Personal Column of The Times. He proposed that it should be worded in these terms:
Young woman, lady, about to have infant through no fault of her own, requires long-term loan. Repayment guaranteed by her ex-officer father. American papers, please copy.
He went on talking, but I ceased to listen. Mervyn’s attitude was final proof that he could not face a problem of this kind—even when it concerned the person dearest to him. I had long suspected this, but now I knew it.
Something definite had to be done, however, for Drina was obviously depressed by Mervyn’s total inability to be serious, so I interrupted him and said:
“I don’t see that there’s any problem. Drina can come here—and she can come to-morrow.”
“Oh, that’s marvellous of you! It’s impossible, of course, but——”
“Nothing simpler. You can have my room and——”
“No, no, Max! She’ll have the little room. I’ll prepare it for her. You won’t recognise it when I’ve finished. That decorative Mrs. Dalrymple keeps offering to lend me a bed and anything else I want. Her flat’s so crammed with furniture that the mice have complained—more than once. I assure you that, in twenty-four hours, you won’t recognise that little room.”
A long discussion followed. It took some time to convince Drina that she would not be a “fearful nuisance” in the flat, but, eventually, it was arranged that she would come the next day.
Finally, I said to her:
“It’s all perfectly clear: you will come to-morrow and Mervyn will have the room ready for you. And here you’ll stay, till it’s time for you to go to a nursing home. You don’t have to bother any more. You’ve carried too much on your own for too long.”
“Why do you do this for me?”
“There are several reasons, and one day I may tell you some of them. Anyway, that’s what’s going to happen—and we’re not going to argue any more about it.”
“I can’t believe it! I shall sleep to-night.”
She rose hurriedly, picked up her coat, and was about to go, when Mervyn exclaimed: