CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE next month passed uneventfully for Poppy. She received one letter and several happy post-cards from Erika, each bearing the stamp of a new country, but giving no address where Poppy could write to her. Poppy’s own life for that month seemed to be under a cloud. She struggled against her depression and managed never to show it in public, but it weighed her down like some physical malaise. She felt so tired all the time that it was an effort to do anything. She confessed to Dr. Francis that she was feeling a bit under the weather and he prescribed for her a tonic which did her no good at all. She liked to pretend to herself that her depression was physical but she was not really deceived. She knew that it was due to this overwhelming upheaval which had taken place in her life. How much more understanding she would be in future of people who could not shake themselves out of an unhappiness. She had never realized before to what an extent the mind and the body react upon each other.
Although she knew that Romilly did not bring his car to London, her heart turned over several times a week when she thought she saw it, and once or twice she had seen a figure which looked like his walking in front of her or across the road, and she had experienced an uncomfortable rush of blood to the head and sense of freezing at her heart.
At the beginning of September she received an invitation to the Private View of an exhibition of Fennimore Walker’s pictures. Fennimore Walker was the young artist who had painted her, and he had sent her the invitation himself with a note on it to say that her portrait would be one of those on show. He had also sent an invitation to Dr. Francis, who urged her to go, but she said that she would prefer to go some other time because she would feel so self-conscious at the Private View.
Dr. Francis went himself, though not until the gallery was almost on the point of closing, and he reported to her next day that the exhibition had been a great success
Judging from the number of pictures that already bore the little round red mark, indicating that they were sold, and that her portrait was one of those with such a mark on it.
“Who on earth could want to buy it?” she asked. “Do you know who bought it?”
“No,” the doctor replied. “Fennimore had gone by the time I arrived or I would have asked him.” He gave her the catalogue to look at and pointed out her picture which was listed simply under the title “Poppy.”
She could not help being interested to know who had bought her picture, and she made up her mind to ring up the artist some time and ask him, but oddly enough Fennimore Walker himself rang up five minutes later.
She was alone in her little office when he telephoned. “Did you come yesterday?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. Thank you so very much for asking me, but I was too shy. I’d like to go another time when there won’t be so many people there. But the doctor went. Do you wish to speak to him? He’s not engaged at the moment.”
“No, it’s you I want to speak to. I wanted to tell you that someone bought your portrait.”
“So the doctor told me. Who was it?”
“I thought you might be able to tell me. I wondered if it was an admirer. Have you any idea?”
“None at all. Haven’t you? Didn’t he give a name?”
“No. I wasn’t there. I’d just left. I’m told that he rushed in about half an hour before the gallery closed. He was particularly noticed because it was nearly empty by then. He already had a catalogue, so it looks as if he must have been there earlier on, and he went straight up to your picture—didn’t look at any of the others. Said at once that he would have it. Paid a deposit in cash; wouldn’t sign the book or give his name. Said he’d send the balance by post. If he sends it by cheque we shall know who he is.”
“How extraordinary.”
“He must have fallen in love with your face. As a rule a portrait is the most difficult thing in the world to sell unless it’s bought by a friend or relation ... Do come along soon.”
“Yes, I will. The doctor tells me that you have sold a great many already. I’m so pleased.”
“Not as pleased as I am. I may be able to pay a few of my bills now!”
Poppy was completely mystified and naturally curious. The next morning, Fennimore Walker rang her up again. “The plot thickens or perhaps it’s thinning,” he said. “Your unknown admirer wants to know who you are.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“He rang me up last night. Had, of course, got my address from the gallery. He didn’t give his name. Said he was the person who had bought the portrait in my exhibition entitled ‘Poppy’, and would I please tell him who Poppy was.”
“And did you?”
“Yes, why not? I gave him your name, and then he wanted to know you address, but I don’t know that myself so I told him where you work. I hope you don’t mind. I sensed a budding romance for you.”
Poppy couldn’t help feeling a little angry that he had told this unknown man who she was without asking her permission, but he was so naive about it, so sure that he might have done her a good turn, that she did not want to show her annoyance, so all she said was, “I don’t want a romance, thank you.”
“He sounded very nice. Very cultivated voice. I asked him why he had bought the picture, because as a rule a portrait is so difficult to sell to a stranger, and he said, ‘Why did you paint it?’ I told him that it was because you had one of the most paintable faces I had ever come across, and he said, ‘Yes, that’s why I bought it.’ I thought that must mean that he was an artist himself and wanted you to sit for him, but when I asked him this he said that he wasn’t—he wished he were. So then I asked if he would give me his name and he replied very nicely that he would rather not if I didn’t mind—and of course I had to say that I didn’t mind because the customer is always right! So then he thanked me for giving him your name and rang off.”
“And now I must ring off,” Poppy said. “I don’t know how many of the doctor’s patients have been waiting to get him while we have been talking. I shall lose my job.”
For one wild moment while Fennimore had been talking, it had crossed Poppy’s mind that the unknown man might be Romilly, and then she dismissed the idea as absurd. For one thing what would Romilly, who was so hard-working, be doing at a Private View in the daytime, and for another thing, why on earth should he buy a portrait of her? If he had seen the picture he might, out of curiosity, have asked the artist who it represented, but he would not go to the length of buying it. Fennimore had had no right to give her name. If he had asked her permission she would certainly have refused it. There was some chance that Philippa, who was interested in pictures, might see it and find out from Fennimore who she was, and then all her careful precautions that the Hanbridges should never know her identity would be wasted.
Struck by this thought she scribbled a hasty note to Fennimore begging him not to give her name away to anyone else, though not blaming him for having already done so.
She wondered whether the unknown man would try to get in touch with her. It might be an awful bore if he did. He was probably elderly, rich and lonely and might want her to go out with him. She had nothing against elderly men but when they were rich and lonely there must be something wrong with them, she argued—and that something was usually that they were crashing bores. It was only occasionally that she found herself indulging in these harsh judgments and then she was invariably ashamed of herself afterwards. The truth was that Fennimore had annoyed her considerably by giving away her name, and as she could not vent her annoyance on him she was venting it on this unknown man of whom she was building up a most unattractive picture in her mind. Had she not been so angry she might well have built him up into something much more romantic.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHEN, however, the days went by and she heard nothing from the stranger, she began to feel a little bit piqued. The truth was that she would have welcomed any adventure just then to take her out of herself.
All her happiest thoughts now we
re centred in Mary’s baby—she spent a great deal of time with Mary—and when she was overcome with remorse at the terrible deception she had practised on the Hanbridges, which was often the case, she comforted herself with the thought that if she had not done what she had done the baby would almost certainly have been born under a cloud.
She tried to take an interest in the young men she knew, one or two of whom were only too willing to take her out, but, as she had suspected, Romilly had spoilt her for all other men. They seemed so insipid in comparison, to say the least of it. She even tried to “batter herself into a warm affection,” as the poet Burns was said to have done, for a quite attractive young man who was introduced to her about this time and who seemed very ready to be interested in her, but she was merely disgusted with herself after she had been out with him a couple of times, and fearful lest she had encouraged him to get fond of her. The next time she went out with him she confessed that she cared for someone else although her attachment was hopeless, and to her infinite relief and to the amusement of them both, he confessed in his turn that he too was in love with someone else who had turned him down and that he had also been afraid that she, Poppy, might be getting too fond of him. This became the basis of a real and lasting friendship between them.
Although she believed that she was trying her best to forget Romilly, she scanned The Times every morning in the doctor’s waiting-room for an announcement of his engagement.
And then one evening towards the end of September, as she was walking down Eaton Place on her way to catch her bus home, she heard footsteps behind her. They gained on her; they fell into step beside her and a voice said quietly,
“Good evening, Miss Duncan.”
There was no need to look round to see who it was. The sudden wild beating of her heart told her that it was Romilly.
“Are you in a hurry?” he asked, “or shall we go somewhere and have a talk?”
“I was just going home.” Her face was flaming and her heart was beating so hard that it was almost suffocating her, and she had the greatest difficulty in getting out these few words.
“Then you are not in any particular hurry? ... Good. Let’s go to the Royal Court Hotel and have a drink.”
She did not think she would have had the strength to resist him even if she had wanted to; nor, she imagined, would he have allowed himself to be resisted. He had quietly but firmly taken complete charge. Never had his masterfulness been more apparent.
They walked the rest of the short distance to Sloane Square in silence. She was so completely unprepared for this meeting that she would have had no defence to offer for herself even if she could have found words. As it was, not only was she tongue-tied but her mind was blank.
“What will you have?” he asked when they were seated in the hotel lounge.
“Anything.”
He ordered two dry Martinis. She longed to be able to take out her flapjack and look at herself in its little glass. She felt sure that she must be looking a sight. It was rather a cold day and she was wearing an old camel hair coat over an old woollen dress, and a fawn beret. She wanted to take off her coat but somehow felt paralysed. She could only sit there with her hands tightly clasped waiting for him to speak. In moments of weakness, usually just upon waking, when she had allowed herself to think about him, she had sometimes imagined their meeting again—but it had never been like this. In imagination she had always had plenty to say for herself and she had always been looking her best. It could not have been more unfortunate, meeting him like this when she was tired after a hard day’s work, when she had on her oldest clothes and when her face needed new make-up.
She knew that her hands would be shaking too much to pick up her drink when it came, so she left it untouched on the table in front of her. He did not touch his either, but he took out his cigarette-case and offered her one and then said, “Oh, but of course you don’t smoke. The real Erika smokes like a chimney, I find.”
“How did you know my name?” she suddenly found herself asking.
“I got it from the artist, Fennimore Walker.”
“Then it was you ...?”
“Who bought your picture? Yes. Are you disappointed?” His tone was crisp and cold.
“But how? Why?”
“Why did I buy it? I was anxious to find out who you were. If I had not bought the picture the artist would probably not have told me. You would like to know how I came to see it? I am quite willing to satisfy your curiosity. Philippa went to the Private View in the morning, recognized you at once and rang me up to tell me about it.”
“Oh, so that was it.”
“Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, will you perhaps satisfy mine? Why did you do what you did?”
“Erika told you. I needed money—desperately.” She could not look at him.
“Was there no other way you could have raised it? Wouldn’t the doctor you work for have lent it to you?”
“He was away on his holiday and it was very urgent.”
“Can you tell me what it was for?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”
There was silence between them again for what seemed an eternity, and then she managed to bring out at last, “I couldn’t think of any other way. I hated doing it. I felt dreadful—dreadful. You can’t imagine how awful I felt. Especially after I had met you all. I’ve never felt so cheap and hateful in my whole life.” She had found her tongue at last. “I tried to tell you how sorry I was that day we went for the picnic on the Downs, do you remember?”
“I remember very well. Afterwards I remembered a great many things you had said ... May I ask you one question? Did you need the money for yourself?”
“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. “I wouldn’t have done it if it had only been for myself. As a matter of fact it was for my sister, but I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“Then you have a sister?”
“Yes.” A tender expression crossed her face. “A younger sister. She is married. She is expecting her first baby next month.”
“I see.” He picked up his drink. “Aren’t you going to have yours?”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to pick it up,” she said with a sudden smile. “I’m too nervous.”
“You’ve got shaky little hands. I noticed that the first day I met you. Here, I’ll hold it for you,” and he picked up her glass and held it up to her lips so that she was able to take a sip.
She suddenly felt more at her ease, less completely paralysed. She was able to slip her arms out of her coat and even take her flapjack out of her bag and open it. “I must be looking awful,” she said.
“You look all right,” he said.
She was pleased to see that she did look all right. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant and she did not need any powder. She felt her confidence welling back. “It was unfair to catch me just out of work like this, at such a disadvantage,” she said.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t know your home address. You are not in the telephone book.”
“I shall be in the new one. I have only been in my present flat a few months.”
“And I didn’t know whether you would like to be rung up at work.”
“I hate it as a matter of fact ... How are your parents and how is your sister, if I have a right to ask?”
“They are all very well. Pip’s engagement to Dennis is going to be announced next week.”
“Oh, I am glad.”
“That was all due to you, as it happens. It was you who first told me that she was in love with him, do you remember? I realized that he looked on her as a mere child because I did, so then I began to treat her differently, talked to him about her in a different way, paid her compliments in front of him. He gradually came to see her as she really is, not just as my little sister...”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” Poppy said again. “She must be very happy.”
“They both are—simply radiant. And we are rather expecting another romance as a result of
that week. Timmy has been over to France to stay with Nicole’s people and Nicole has been writing Pip particularly happy letters.”
“It will be exciting if that comes off too.” Poppy longed to ask him about Arthur Bingle and Daphne Cunningham but she did not dare. Instead she said, “I suppose you were all very disgusted with me when you found out?”
“We were hurt.”
This word made her feel worse than anything. To anger them, to disgust them, was bad enough, but to have hurt them ... It was almost more than she could bear. “Can I do anything, anything, to atone?” she asked miserably. “Would it be any good if I wrote to your mother or would it only make things worse? I have so longed to write to her. She is so wonderful and understanding. If only she was angry with me ... But to think I have hurt her, after all her kindness to me...”
“I think she would like it if you wrote,” he said.
“Then I’ll do it at once, tonight.”
“There has been one other direct repercussion from your visit,” he said slowly. “Daphne Cunningham and Arthur Bingle are married.”
“But what has that got to do with me?”
“She only married him because she was jealous of you.”
“Then I have indeed hurt you,” she said involuntarily.
“Hurt me? Why especially me?”
“Didn’t you...” She hesitated.
“Want to marry her myself? Oh, no, I assure you, you haven’t hurt me in that way—but have you hurt him? That’s what I ask myself. I have no particular liking for him. I only know him as a neighbor of short standing, but I don’t think he deserves a wife who has only married him to make sure that you—or rather the rich Miss Erika Hanbridge—shall not get him.”
“Is that really why she did it? I didn’t see anything about it in the papers.”
His assurance that he was not hurt by Mrs. Cunningham’s marriage had not altogether convinced her. His voice was too studiedly cold for disinterestedness, his tone too sarcastic.
Once You Have Found Him Page 18
