The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell

by Burchell, Mary

  Life at the office was certainly not easier after that. She

  had a nervous dread that something—she was not sure what—would happen that would put Lucas in a still worse light.

  Her mood of anger, though it returned from time to time, was by no means constant. There were moments when she forgot all about being angry and indignant, and thought that nothing in the world could matter, if only she could have Lucas again as he had been.

  At times like this, one cowardly part of her suggested that the moment was almost bound to come when he and Sophie would grow tired of each other again. Then her pride would indignantly remind her that a man who could change so often and so rapidly was not worth any girl's respect.

  In other words, the sooner she forgot Lucas, the better, for he certainly seemed to have forgotten her.

  More than once, Leoni told herself, she had reason to be thankful that she worked in such a big office. No one so junior or so unimportant as herself was ever called to take dictation from the actual heads of the firm, and any communications from real authority were made either through the private secretaries or through the chill and sterilizing channel of Miss Robinson. Consequently, Leoni had no fear—or hope—of meeting Lucas unawares.

  There was, of course, always a slight chance of an encounter on the stairs or in the elevator, but Leoni's usual times of arrival and departure were very different from his and, from experience, she knew she was unlikely to repeat that meeting in the entrance hall.

  In fact, as time went past, Leoni came slowly to the painful conclusion that her association with Lucas had just broken off in ragged ends. There would be no awkward contretemps to set a final seal on the end of their friendship. And equally there would be no explanations that might lessen the pain of loss or the sense of injustice. The chapter in her life that contained Lucas had simply come to an inconclusive and unsatisfactory end.

  Conscientiously, she applied herself with even more earnestness to her work, in the hope of keeping unhappy thoughts at bay. And if this did not exactly result in the removal of heartache, at least it earned the grudging approval of Miss Robinson, who did not scruple to profit from

  this fortunate mood by giving Leoni even more than her share of work.

  One bright, windy evening in March—when the light was Ungering unusually late for that time of year—Leoni stayed behind to finish a lone report which, according to Miss Robinson, must be on the desk of one of the managers first thing in the morning. No one else had been at all anxious to stay overtime to do the job, and Leoni had good-naturedly offered to do it. She was not really any fonder of overtime than anyone else, but she had been restless and miserable all day and dreaded, rather than treasured, the idea of a little time to herself when she got home before the evening meal would be ready. If she stayed to finish the report, she would just be able to rush home in time to join the Dagram family circle around the supper table, and then there would be little chance for melancholy thoughts.

  It was very quiet in the big typing room except for the crisp chatter of her own typewriter keys, and free from distractions, Leoni found that she was getting through the work more quickly than she had expected. The actual typing took her less than an hour and, once that was finished, she switched on her own desk lamp—an oasis of light in the now darkening room—and settled down to read the work through.

  So immersed was she in what she was doing that it was a moment before she realized that the door had opened and someone had come into the room. Then she looked up sharply.

  The bright light from her lamp made it difficult to see clearly into the shadowy part of the room and, leaning sideways, she shaded her eyes with her hand.

  Then she saw. The man who had come into the room was Lucas.

  It was she who first found words—and oddly enough they took no account of the oflfice surroundings, or of the fact that in this particular situation he and she were more or less employer and employee.

  Why, Lucas, she said reproachfully, but with a certain

  fentleness, which she could hardly have explained even to erself, "why have you been so long in coming to speak to me?"

  Take Me With You J 65

  He came rather slowly forward until he stood within the ring of light shed by her lamp.

  She saw then that his face was dark and somber, and there was an air of strained weariness about him that made her vaguely glad that she had spoken gently just now.

  '*I didn*t know you were here," he said, without answering her question.

  *'Oh—you didn't come here to—find me then?"

  **No. I came—" He glanced around impatiently, as though he had actually forgotten what had brought him there. "Oh, it doesn't matter. There're some papers I want. Tell me—why are you working here so late?"

  She explained about the report, but though he listened, she knew that neither he nor she considered the report of any importance beyond the fact that it was the cause of their meeting at last. And when she had finished speaking there was a short silence.

  Then, because she was afraid that one precious opportunity of explanation might slip away unused, she said again, "Lucas— she wondered if she ought to call him Mr. Morrion in the office "—why didn't you ring me up or see me? Why haven't you told me anything of—of what's happened since I last saw you?"

  He thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned against the side of her desk.

  "I'm ... sorry, Leoni, if I seemed ... rude or ... cavalier. But please believe me when I say there was nothing elselcoulado."

  He spoke slowly and rather as though he were groping for his words, and irresistibly, she was reminded of him as a young man, years ago, when he was not quite sure of himself or of what he was going to do next.

  Quite absurdly, it seemed to her in that moment that she was the elder of the two, and that the situation that had

  Eassed beyond his management could only be set right by er.

  Leaning forward, she put her hand on his arm—gently, but with the confidence of a much older person.

  "Don't be silly, dear. It doesn't matter about being rude or cavalier, and you know it. I've seen you both too often for it to worry me at this date." She saw the faintest smile pass

  over his face at that. '*What does matter is that you won't explain.'*

  "I can't explain." That sounded final, but to Leoni's ears it sounded like the finality of despair, and she refused to accept it.

  "Don't you think I'm entitled to some explanation, Lucas?"

  "My dear, won't you believe that it's best for all of us— and most of all for you yourself—that there shouldn't be any further discussion?"

  "No," said Leoni flatly.^"! won't. No one is entitled to decide what is best for me except myself. Lucas, I'm not a little girl on the other side of the gate anymore. I'm grown up and I can think and act and judge for myself If you refuse me any sort of explanation, you're treating me either as a child or an enemy. Do you really think I'm either?" Eagerness had made her tighten her fingers until they gripped his arm, and the anxious blue eyes that were raised to his were not entirely without a suspicion of tears.

  "Don't, darling," he said abruptly, and turned away.

  If he had used any other form of address she might have accepted her dismissal from his life then. But "darling" was not a word that slipped from Lucas with casual ease. Springing to her feet, Leoni came around and stood in front of him, so that he could not ignore her.

  "I'm sorry, Lucas, if I'm hurting you with my insistence. But don't you realize that you're hurting me, too? Much, much more than you'd hurt me with any unpalatable truth. Please tell me—have you gone back to Sophie because you want to or because for some reason you think you have to? I'll believe you whichever you tell me, but—" She took both his hands as though something in that clasp were symbolical. Then he glanced up again, and spoke quite calmly and deliberately.

  "No, my dear, you're right. You deserve the truth, and not the unwished-for protection of some sort of silly, quixot
ic silence. Sophie's terms were these: if I tried to divorce her she would bring a counterclaim, citing you as correspondent. And when I gave way to her on that point she added the additional proviso that I should stop seeing anything of you and make myself agreeable to her. I thought an explanation of the miserable situation would

  Take Me With You J67

  distress and scare you more than any silence could. But in that, I see now, I did your courage less than justice.'* And raising the hands he was holding, he kissed them one after the other.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Startled and a good deal moved, Leoni stared down at his bent head for a moment in silence. Then indignant and determined protest rushed to her Ups.

  *'But it*s ridiculous! There's no question of her counter-claiming in any divorce suit. There isn't a grain of evidence against us. She's simply blackmailing you."

  "Of course she's blackmaiUng me," he said impatiently.

  *'Then, why on earth—"

  "Listen, Leoni dear. It's perfectly true she has nothing that would make up much of a case—perhaps just enough to defeat any case I brought, but certainly not more—"

  "Then-"

  "Wait a moment." He smiled faintly at her eagerness to interrupt, and caught and held the hand with which she had made an impatient gesture. "There are some facts and half facts that can be twisted into a horrid and plausible tale. The type of lawyer Sophie employs would make some pretty nasty story out of the fact that I took you out—'made a habit of taking you out' would be how he would put it—without anyone in the office knowing about it. And then, on top of that, comes the damnable business of her finding us at that cottage together.''

  "But, Lucas, it's—it's a frame-up! There isn't any truth in it. You say yourself that it wouldn't make up a case."

  "Yes, my dear. But what do you suppose it would make of your reputation by the time we were through? "

  "Oh!" She put the back of her hand against her mouth and stared at him in dismay.

  "Do you imagine you could stay on in the office after

  that? It would be an absolutely impossible position far you."

  Leoni thought about Miss Robinson and knew it would indeed. She was silent for a moment, then she set her mouth.

  ''But it isn't right that your—your freedom should be sacrificed to my interests. I—I'd get another job."

  "With that story hanging around your neck?" He smiled and gently touched her nair, as though her eagerness made her, for a moment, into a very dear child again. "And how would you look in the eyes of your friends—or enemies, if you have any?"

  Irresistibly Leoni recognized the truth of all this, but still she refused to accept the conclusion he had drawn.

  "But you can't just refuse to take your freedom, simply because—"

  "I wouldn't get it, my dear. And no one knows that better than Sophie. If I tried to divorce her she would, as she says, bring a counterclaim, and she's got enough to upset any case of mine. The net result would be that I would be no nearer a divorce than I've ever been—and you wouldn't have a shred of reputation left. There would be the kind of publicity you can t even imagine—the sort of experience that would go a long way toward spoiling, your life for you. I'm simply not going to allow it to happen. I knew you would want to argue fcr what you thought was for my good, and that's largely why I thought it best to keep you out of the whole thing. Perhaps I was wrong but—"

  "Of course you were wrong." Leoni smiled at him suddenly, in spite of everything. "I'd much, much rather know the truth like this than be as miserable as I have been during the last few weeks."

  "Oh, child! Have you been very miserable?"

  "Um-hm. Horribly."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It doesn't matter now. The thing that really matters is— what can we do?"

  "But I've told you!" He seemed astonished at her insistence. "There's nothing we can do. We simply have to accept—"

  "You don't really suppose I'm going to accept a situation which makes you perfectly miserable, do you?'

  He laughed—an affectionate, incredulous laugh.

  "Of all the sublime obstinacy! '*

  But she was hardly listening to him.

  *'Listen, Lucas. I want this quite clear. You don't think-as things are—that there's aay chance of your getting a divorce against her?''

  "Such a slight chance that it's certainly not worth risking what I've described."

  "Than it's got to be done the other way around."

  "What other way around? What do you mean?"

  "She's got to divorce you, of course.

  "But there isn't any evi—"

  "Lucas—suppose we accepted her story against us as being the truth. Suppose we didn't oppose it—went even further and invitea her to use the story. She'd almost certainly do it, you know, because then she'd get heavy ahmony."

  "What on earth are you talking about?" He spoke almost roughly. "Are you suggesting that you should play correspondent in a filthy divorce suit, when all the time you're as innocent as—as Julia's silly little friends?"

  "I am one of Julia's silly little friends," murmured Leoni, but he took no notice of that.

  "It's a monstrous idea—a ridiculous idea! Why on earth should you, anyway? As things are, there isn 't the least need for a breath of scandal agamst your name, and now you suggest you should deliberately take your good name and throw it away. There isn't a single reason for it."

  "Oh yes, there is." She put her hands behind her and clasped them tightly, because somehow that helped her to remain calm and determined. Even so, she contrived to sound rather childishly obstinate. "There's one perfectly good and simple reason. I want to see you happy, and I—I never have."

  "You want—"

  For a second she thought he was simply angry. Then suddenly she saw his whole expression change. The hard composure cracked—disintegrated—and was gone. And in its place was such a radiance of love and tenderness as she ' haa never imagined she would see on his face.

  With a slight exclamation, which sounded strangely like some sort of surrender, he caueht her in his arms, and the next moment was kissing her all over her face.

  *'You silly, silly little fool,'* he said. And she knew perfectly well in that moment that he loved her.

  "Lucas—'* she was returning his kisses, almost without knowing she did so, though she was to remember every one of them later with a sort of wistful rapture "—Lucas, you'll let things be arranged that way, won't you? It's the only way of doing it. You will agree, won't you?

  "I'll do nothing of the sort." He held her and smiled down at her, as though he saw her almost for the first time, and only now realized how dear and absurd and lovely she was. "Do you suppose I'd let such a thing happen to you for anything on eartn? Certainly not for your dear, idiotic sentimentality."

  "Oh, but Lucas, why not? I-"

  "Because I love you much too much."

  He was not smiling anymore. He said that with a sort of grim simplicity, and Leoni had a feeling that further argument was disposed of. For a few heavenly moments she allowed the very thought of argument—or indeed of any struggle—to slip away from her and she rested, as it were, on the strange, sweet security of his having actually said that he loved her. ^

  "I love you too, you know," she said, with the same unvarnished simplicity. And he kissed her again—but with a sort of lingering regret that told her that her moments of security were over.

  "I know, darling. At least, I hoped—or feared—as much. That too was why I thought it best to try to end things without the misery of explanations. I imagined that if you heard no more, and had every reason to think me a boor, it might hurt for the moment, but you would get over it. Now—" he touched her cheek with anxious fingers "—I've spoilt all that, and left you with the same futile regrets as myself."

  "I'd rather have it that way. And, anyway—" She stopped and bit her lip.

  Anyway?" He prompted her gently.

  She nervously fingered a button
on his coat. " Lucas-don't you—don't you think it would be worth all the unpleasantness of a divorce on—on the lines I suggested, if we could—be together afterward?"

  "No, dear. Not as far as you are concerned."

  "But—don't you think I might be allowed to decide that for myself?"

  "You're so young, my darling. No—" as she made a little movement of protest "—don't think I'm underestimating either your love or your judgment. But you have so little worldly experience. It's impossible that you could have a true and balanced sense of values about such a hateful situation. I know perfectly well I ought never to have let you in on this at all. I don't know now how I came to tell you the real situation—"

  "I insisted," murmured Leoni, and he smiled slightly at the interruption.

  "Very well. You insisted. But I ought to have been able to counter that. Still, the mischief—if it is rnischief-is done now, and you know the full state of affairs. But I beg you, for your own happiness—and, if you like, for my peace of mind too—to try ana get over this. I won't say forget it, because, of course, one never quite forgets. But don't think I'm being smug and trite when I tell you that, however much it hurts now, you will get over this."

  She didn't answer that. To tell the truth, she was hardly listening—perhaps because she was not in a mood for words of consolation just then, however tenderly spoken.

  "Lucas-"

  "Yes?"

  "I hadn't thought about that business of my being so young. But I suppose, if I were correspondent in a divorce suit, it would look pretty black against you, wouldn 't it?"

  "Orphan under twenty—in my own employ? Hm, not very nice, is it?"

  " Th-that's what they'd say? "

  "That's what they'd say, 'he agreed.

  There was a rather long silence and, in the glare from her office lamp, Leoni slowly Tost her color.