Vanishing Point

CHAPTER 22

Mrs. Hubbard would not arrive until eight o’clock, and since Nicholas must be got down to his breakfast by then, Miss Cu

She went to the head of the stairs and looked down. The cord had marked the balustrade, but no one else would notice a stray mark on the old paint. It had been tied very tightly, and it had had to take her weight when she stumbled. Oak would not have marked, but the balustrade was made of a softer wood. It had dented where the cord had pulled on it. She could see the dent every time she went up and down the stairs. She went down now to unlock the back door and get Nicholas’s breakfast.

There was no need for her to go and wake Henry. He had views about sleep, and considered it injurious to interfere with what should be a natural process. If you had had enough sleep you woke up. If you had not had enough, it was harmful to be roused. It was, of course, extremely inconvenient never to know when he would want his breakfast, but when you had a man in the house you had to put up with things like that. Papa had had views about early rising, and as long as he lived they had breakfasted at seven. Lucy Cu

There were a couple of sausages left from supper. She heated them on the small oil stove, since the fire was out and would be left for Mrs. Hubbard to see to. Meanwhile she took the milk and the butter out of the larder and across the hall to the dining-room. Everything else was there already, since she always laid the table before going up to bed. She stood now and checked the things over just to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. Two packets of cereal-Henry sometimes liked the kind that always reminded her of little straw mattresses, but Nicholas wouldn’t touch it. Brown sugar, marmalade, a fresh pot of mustard. Oh, the bread-

As she was bringing it through the hall, Nicholas came ru

Nicholas caught her about the shoulders.

“Hold up, Lu! What are you doing? Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes.”

He laughed and bent to pick up the knife.

“Well, don’t go throwing things about! Here, you’d better let me have that bread. I really like it better when it hasn’t been on the floor.”

She turned back to fetch his sausage, whilst he went on. When she came into the dining-room he gave her a laughing, affectionate glance.

“You know, you do look a bit wonky. You weren’t by any chance sitting up to watch for the wanderer’s return, were you? I’m the one who ought to be looking pale, not you.”

She had not meant to speak, but everything in her was shaking. The words came of themselves.

“Were you very late?”

He was tipping wheatflakes into a soup-plate and pouring milk on them.

“Oh, fairly. I got a lift, so I didn’t have to depend on the bus. Did you hear me come in?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ve got to hurry now-I was very nearly late yesterday. Old Burlington has got a complex about punctuality. And he doesn’t care for me much. There’s nothing he’d like better than to catch me out.”

“Why doesn’t he like you?”

“Odd, isn’t it? Darling, pour me out a cup of tea. He thinks I’m frivolous. Not one of our blither spirits!”

When she had poured out his tea she went away and came back again. There was a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. He looked at it across his cup.

“Where did you get that?”

“There was a hole in the pocket of your brown tweed jacket. It had slipped down between the stuff and the lining. I found it last night when I was mending the pocket.”

He put out his hand for it and took it.

“Thanks, Lu.”

He was still smiling, but there was something-some change. It was as if the temperature had suddenly dropped whilst the sun was shining, a thing quite apt to happen in an English spring. Lucy Cu

Nicholas put the paper into an i

Mrs. Hubbard was busy lighting the fire, which was being contrary. Presently she would help Miss Cu

There are ways of letting people know when they are not wanted. It came home to Lucy Cu

All the time she was getting his hot plate and the sausage she had been keeping warm the thoughts in her head went round and round-Henry or Nicholas-Nicholas or Henry. She had watched them both come down the stairs, and neither of them had so much as glanced at the step where she had stumbled, or at the balustrade where the trip-cord had been stretched. Nicholas had come down in his usual rush, and Henry in his own deliberate way. Neither of them had done anything at all that was different from what she had seen them do year in, year out all the time that they had been together-Nicholas tearing down as a schoolboy, Henry, young and in love with Lydia Crewe, moving as if he had come only half way out of a dream. It might have been any day as long ago as that or in the years between.