Yours to Command Page 2

  There was an astounded pause, during which Sydney wished that the muddy path would open and swallow her up. Then Lucas Manning said, in a curiously gentle tone, “Were you, my dear? I’m so sorry. Then his coming must be something of a shock?”

  “Y-yes. A bit. I’d only just heard when you first spoke to me. It was to have been someone else, you see. And then a change was made.” As they trod the sodden paths of the grounds together she found herself pouring it all out to him, as though he were not a stranger and a famous man. “Now that it is Hugh, I—I don’t know what I can do. I can’t leave at the very beginning of term...”

  “I should think not! That would be rather drastic, particularly as I’ve just committed my nephew to your care.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “Is this piece of your past quite impossible to live beside?” her companion enquired as though it really mattered to him.

  “It will be—difficult.”

  “You mean he married someone else?”

  “Oh—oh, no.” She recalled Mrs. Dingley’s emphatic assertion on that point. “We—quarrelled badly.”

  “Oh, come!” Lucas Manning laughed; the laugh which one rather extravagant reviewer had once described as ‘good for a six months’ run without anything else to back it.’ “A quarrel is never final, you know. It could be quite a good thing that your old flame is coming to be Head of the School. Famous reconciliations have been founded on less, my dear child.”

  She hardly dared even to form the hope to herself. And as, at that moment, they arrived at the white door of the Sanatorium, she had no opportunity to do so, in any case.

  Sister Matron received them cheerfully, and, having already seen Lucas Manning in his current success, Yours to Command, at a matinee during the Christmas holidays, she had no difficulty in recognizing him and greeting him with becoming interest. She conducted them into a very white, bright room, where Edward was lying in bed, looking small and appealing. But he grinned sheepishly as his uncle said, “Hello, old chap. Been knocking yourself out already?”

  Edward murmured something unintelligible about the wardrobe. “Yes, I heard about it from Miss—Miss—”

  “She’s Matron,” said Edward, ashamed of his uncle’s ignorance in trying to give Sydney any other identity.

  “Of course,” agreed the man whose word was law throughout the Olympic Theatre. “Well, I’m glad she’s going to look after you.”

  “Sister Matron does that until I’m well,” explained Edward, a bit snobbish about titles and duties.

  Sister Matron intervened at this point to say that we mustn’t get excited and, now that Uncle had kindly come and seen for himself that all was well, we must rest quietly.

  Both uncle and nephew accepted this dictum, and, bidding Edward and Sister Matron good evening, Sydney and her companion withdrew.

  “Thank you very much,” Lucas Manning said, as they stepped out into the grounds again. “I’m glad to have seen him. And now I must get back as quickly as I can.”

  “There’s an exit just a short way from here, with a path that will take you right down to the station in less than ten minutes,” Sydney explained. “Shall I show you the way?”

  “Won’t it be a close thing?” Sydney asked, as she accompanied him to the gate.

  “Well, I don’t come in until the end of the first act.”

  “Don’t you?” She glanced at him, “isn’t that unusual for the principal character?”

  “Rather—yes. But it’s a terrific entrance when it comes,” he added, without false modesty. “Haven’t you seen the show?”

  “No,” Sydney confessed. “I wasn’t in London during the holidays.”

  “Then later in the term when you have some free time, you must let me know,” he said with careless good humour, “and I’ll see you have tickets.”

  “How kind of you,” Sydney exclaimed, while secretly wondering in what circumstances she was likely to come under Lucas Manning’s personal notice again.

  He seemed to have worked it all out, however, because just as they were parting at the gate he took her hand and said, with that air of confidential earnestness which always made the Upper Circle lean forward in a body, “don’t think me fussy, but would you send me a line about Edward’s progress? I gather that visits are not encouraged during the first few weeks.”

  “Of course I will,” Sydney promised. “But don’t worry. I shall be letting you know of his complete recovery in a few days.”

  “Thank you.” His strong, rather beautiful fingers pressed hers briefly and were withdrawn. “And at the same time let me know when you have time to come and see the show.”

  “I will,” Sydney said. “And—thank you.”

  “For what?” he asked, with a quick, amused, but not unkindly glance.

  She blushed, and hoped the lamplight was too dim for him to notice that she did.

  “For not being either outraged or embarrassed when I—I confided in you so—so indefensibly.”

  “My dear girl, almost nothing either outrages or embarrasses me,” he assured her. “Go in and win your academic Romeo, and may an uncle’s blessing rest upon your remarkably pretty head.” Saying which, he raised his hand to her in half-mocking salute and went off into the darkness, leaving her a little put out, and a good deal amused.

  A bicycle light came wobbling along the path towards her and someone dismounted and said, in the jaunty tones which betoken a slightly uneasy conscience, “oh, hello, Matron. I was just going to put my bike in the shed.” And then, very casually, “Can I come and speak to you about blankets?”

  “About blankets, Saunders?” Sydney peered through the gloom and recognised in the tall, rough-haired boy before her one of the nicest, but one of the most forgetful, of the seniors.

  “Well, Matron, you see—”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve forgotten to bring the top blanket you’re supposed to bring from home.”

  “Why, Matron—yes!” He sounded respectfully impressed by her powers of deduction.

  “You astound me,” Sydney said, with friendly irony. “All right. Come to me later and I’ll issue you an extra one. And write home tomorrow about the missing one for sure.”

  “I will, Matron,” Saunders promised, and passed on his way. But his introduction of mundane matters into Sydney’s thoughts had successfully switched her mind once more from her private to her professional affairs.

  One way or another there was a great deal to do, especially at the beginning of term. And when Sydney finally reached her own rooms that night, she felt too tired and dull to think much about her own affairs to ponder on the fact that Hugh would be here the day after tomorrow.

  School opened formally the next day, under the quiet but firm handling of Mr. Dingley, and word went round that the following day the new Head would arrive.

  “The school will assemble in the afternoon,” Mr. Dingley informed them, “and Mr. Lulworth will say a few words to you all.”

  “After that,” Mrs. Dingley informed Sydney, “the staff are being entertained to tea at the Head’s house, so that he can meet us all personally. You will be coming, of course?”

  “Oh, I—don’t think so.” The idea of their first meeting taking place before the rest of the staff appalled her. “I expect only the teaching staff are meant to go.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone is expected, and everyone must go,” Mrs. Dingley laid down. “What’s the matter? You surely aren’t shy after nearly a year here?”

  “No, no—I’m not shy,” Sydney declared, anxious not to draw Mrs. Dingley’s acute attention to anything unusual in her attitude.

  “Then you must be sure to come. I shall look out for you,” Mrs. Dingley declared.

  Until the last minute on the afternoon in question, Sydney pretended to herself that she was not going either to assembly, or to the tea-party. But Sister Matron, as well as Mrs. Dingley, took a hand. She met Sydney in the grounds and hailed her in a friendly way.

  “You’re goin
g across to the Hall now, I suppose? So am I.”

  “I—I wasn’t thinking of coming,” Sydney said. “It’s more a class assembly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I daresay. But I must say I’m curious to see the new Head. We can slip in at the back and hear what he has to say. First impressions are always important, I think. Come along.”

  Fascinated by the prospect of seeing Hugh, even from a distance, perhaps, in the circumstances, particularly from a distance, Sydney allowed herself to be persuaded. With a curious sense of delightful nervousness she accompanied Sister Matron to the main body of the school, from the assembly hall of which there already issued an immense undertone of voices and scuffling feet.

  “We’re just in time,” Sister Matron declared, leading the way in at the back of the hall, where already the other four house matrons had found places.

  “I don’t think there’s room—” began Sydney, overwhelmed by a sudden stricken desire to retreat. But Carstairs, the justly popular head boy, came forward and dislodged two fourth-formers from a window-sill, thus making a small space for Sydney and her companion.

  “Here you are, Matron. Breathe in, and you’ll make it.”

  “Thank you, Carstairs,” said Sister Matron. But Sydney could only smile palely at him, for her voice had quite deserted her.

  The assembly hall at Fernhurst was a beautiful, almost a stately place, and here the dignified past and the vociferous present met in curious harmony.

  Along the sides of the hall prefects and junior masters were ranged, with here and there a master’s wife among them. The senior masters, Sydney supposed, would come in with the new Head. With Hugh!

  And, even as she thought it, there was a stir at the platform end of the hall and silence fell progressively, beginning with the observant seniors and ending with the last treble squeaks of unnoticing juniors.

  She stood up when the others stood, but mechanically, and for a moment or two her view of the platform was blotted out by heads in front. Then everyone settled down again and she could see him quite well. Hugh, in his master’s gown, the central figure in a group of not undistinguished masters.

  “He hasn’t changed!” she thought eagerly. And then—“He has only grown more outstanding. Or had I forgotten how tall and fine—and significant he really is?”

  Then he stepped forward and began to speak, easily, with friendliness, but with authority.

  She knew from that wave of feeling that sometimes passes almost visibly over a crowd of individuals in agreement that he was holding the attention of both boys and masters. The willing attention.

  He spoke briefly, about the school itself and his own pride and pleasure in coming to be its Head, and about the boys and the masters from whom he confidently expected co-operation and support which would enable them to make Fernhurst even more justly renowned. He was serious without being pompous, humorous without being facetious, and in the first few sentences he established that sense of natural leadership which is the prerequisite of all successful headmasters.

  “He’ll do,” whispered Sister Matron, on a note of genuine satisfaction.

  And—“He’ll do!” thought Sydney, warm with pride and joy and the fresh realisation that the qualities for which she had loved him were truly there. She had loved him most, of course, for his tender and romantic love for herself. But, beneath all that, there had also been his rocklike integrity, this easy mastery of situations and people. Oh, he was wonderful!—and he was free. The long, long separation was almost over. It was like coming out of a tunnel into the sunshine.

  Then the group on the platform dispersed, and boys started to stream in orderly confusion out of all the exits.

  Along with Sister Matron, Sydney made her escape with now no thought in her mind of avoiding the tea-party. On the contrary, she could hardly wait for the moment when she should speak to him again. No one could keep his anger hot for a year or more. He could not be anything but delighted to see her.

  “We’re due at the Head’s house in half an hour,” Sister Matron said on parting. “Are you dressing up for it?”

  “Mildly so,” Sydney replied, thinking of the slate-blue wool suit which matched her eyes. “It would be—nice, I think, don’t you?”

  “I daresay you’re right. I got a good impression, didn’t you?”

  “Very,” agreed Sydney, with such a lilt in her voice that Sister Matron looked after her with some surprise as she almost ran off towards Park House.

  “He always liked me in blue,” Sydney thought, as she changed rapidly in her room. At school it had not been her habit to think very much about her appearance, provided she was looking neat and trim. But now she approached her mirror almost anxiously and scanned her reflection, trying to see herself as he would see her.

  Her face was a trifle thinner perhaps, but she remembered that one of the nice things her new stepmother had said about her was that the line of her cheek and chin was classically excellent—whatever that might mean. Her eyes were the same clear slate-blue as her suit, and the dark fringe of her lashes and arch of her eyebrows framed them well.

  “And he always loved my hair,” she whispered, smoothing back the bright, corn-coloured waves. “Please, God, let him love it still. And me—and me!”

  Suddenly, she was quite calm as she went downstairs and out of Park House. Most of the boys were already in their respective dining-rooms having tea, but a few stragglers pelted past, and in the distance as she crossed the grounds, she could see two of the masters and the wife of one of them mounting the steps to the Head house.

  She had timed it well, she would not be either first or last. She wished she could have warned Hugh beforehand, but that was not possible. And, in any case, she thought his self-possession would be equal to most tests.

  A smiling maid admitted her and said, “It’s all very informal, Matron. No one’s being actually announced. Just go straight in and one of the masters, or their wives, will introduce you.”

  So Sydney, thinking how pleased everyone seemed to be about the new appointment, went on into the large, attractive drawingroom where a large number of people seemed already to be gathered together.

  For a moment she stood near the door, watching the scene. Hugh was undoubtedly the centre of it all. He was laughing just then and saying something to Mr. Dingley who stood beside him, while behind and on either side were grouped masters and wives and—

  Suddenly, a frightful chill of nameless apprehension invaded Sydney, for, also prominent in the group, was a familiar yet alien presence. As though some strange dislocation of time had taken place she felt she must be back at that very first meeting with Hugh in Marcia Downing’s drawing-room. For there, very charming and very much at home with everyone, was Marcia herself.

  In an instinctive movement of flight, Sydney turned aside. But, even as she did so, Mrs. Dingley came up and took her by the arm.

  “Hello, my dear, there you are!” She was obviously in an excellent humour. “Come along and meet them both.”

  “Both?” said Sydney rather faintly. “Both?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dingley said with a chuckle. “It seems our bachelor Head is not going to be a bachelor for long. That is Miss Downing, his fiancée, with him. He brought her down to meet us all so that she wouldn’t seem a stranger when he married her. Such a surprise for us all, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT seemed to Sydney that there was quite a long pause. Then she heard herself say, “Yes—such a surprise!”

  She thought that her voice must sound flat and strange, that her face must have gone pale and her whole personality dull and stupid. She felt as though a light had been put out within her, and it was incredible that all could not see this strange and terrible phenomenon.

  But everyone went on talking around her. Even Mrs. Dingley seemed unaware of anything strange about her. She only said, after a moment, “You’re looking a bit washed out, my dear. Not sickening for ‘flu, I hope? We don’t want to start anything
of that sort in the first week of term.”

  “Of course not,” Sydney agreed wearily.

  And then he saw her.

  She knew the exact moment when he did because his eyes widened suddenly, and then narrowed slightly, as though he had received a shock and was immediately thinking how to sustain it. He touched Marcia’s arm and said something to her quietly. And Marcia glanced up and, with a really admirable air of cool friendliness, came across the room with outstretched hand.

  “Why, Sydney—” she exclaimed, at the same moment as Mrs. Dingley began, “This is the Matron of Park House.”

  “But I know her!” Marcia assured Mrs. Dingley in the pleasantest tone possible. “We used to be good friends some years ago, but we lost sight of each other. Come and speak to Hugh, Sydney. He’ll be glad to see you again.”

  Glad to see her again! Just like that. As though she were a casual social acquaintance out of the past.

  Sydney believed she made a suitable conventional reply, for something deep within her, a sort of self-protection much deeper than any social discipline, prompted the right words, tone and smile. And then she too was crossing the room, with Marcia at her side, to shake hands with Hugh and greet him, not as her lover returned to her, but as the new Head of Fernhurst whom she had once known.

  She had been right in supposing that his self-possession was equal to most tests. Or perhaps he really did not mind much about meeting her again. Perhaps he felt no more than a passing embarrassment, and even this he hid well. He simply took her hand briefly, smiled in an irreproachably friendly manner, and said, “Marcia and I didn’t expect to find an old friend here.”

  Neither expected it nor wished it, she had no doubt! For, however good a face they were putting on it, the situation could hardly be one that either of them would have chosen.

  She would have to find a way out of the tangle. All the time she was talking and smiling and being social, she was telling herself that this could not go on—that it was for her to find the solution.