But Not For Me

by Mary Burchell

  “What is it?” She didn’t turn round.

  “Please come back here.”

  She said “No.” But at his repeated “Please,” she turned and came back slowly, her head still bent, however, and her lashes down.

  He put out his uninjured hand, and, catching one of hers, drew her down almost impatiently on to the side of the bed.

  “I’m sorry. I was terribly ungracious. I—Why, you’re crying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But there are tears in your eyes.”

  There was rather an appalled silence. Then he struggled into a sitting position, wincing a little as he moved his arm.

  “You mustn’t do that.” He sounded cross as well as worried. “You mustn’t be so silly.”

  “I’m sorry. I think—I’m still—rather weak.”

  “Oh—” Amazingly, he put his left arm round her, a little awkwardly. “And it’s because of what you did for me that you are so weak. I’m sorry, child. I’m really sorry. It’s I who should be doing all the apologizing.”

  “It’s all right.” Ariane fumbled for her handkerchief, but as she failed to find it, he gravely offered her the corner of the sheet instead. She laughed a little at that, and he looked relieved. “Ariane, I am grateful, you know. Only—”

  “Only you hate being made to say so,” she suggested, smiling faintly.

  “Well, all right, I do. Though that’s a disgustingly unworthy admission to make.”

  “It’s understandable,” Ariane said slowly.

  “Is it?” He too smiled grimly at that.

  “Yes. I suppose the truth is that you hate being under an obligation to anyone—”

  “Quite right.”

  “Still less do you like being under an obligation to a Dobson. And least of all do you like being under an obligation to someone who has already annoyed you.”

  “Correct in every particular,” he assured her calmly.

  “And since you have practically no manners at all,” finished Ariane thoughtfully, “you’re quite unable to hide all that.”

  She waited for an indignant denial, or perhaps a sarcastic comment, but neither came.

  “Have I really no manners?” he said thoughtfully after a moment.

  “Well—practically none.”

  Ariane was even faintly amused at this unexpected attitude. Then one glance at his dark, troubled face told her what he was thinking. All at once, she wanted to smooth his tumbled hair and say: “But that wouldn’t worry Marta Roma, you know.”

  She couldn’t say that, of course. So she said impulsively instead:

  “But you are rather nice, all the same.”

  “Nice!” He gave a contemptuous laugh. “I’m not in the least nice. I think ‘nice men’ are revolting.” And he dropped back against the pillows again with a sudden exhaustion that reminded her of his drooping against her in unconsciousness.

  There was a pause, and then she said a little nervously, “Well, I must go.” She got up. “Are you quite comfortable like that?” She moved one of the pillows gently.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said a little irritably.

  “Then good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  It was lovely to be home again.

  Frank drove her down in the big, slightly ostentatious car which was more or less for family use, and, at Mrs. Dobson’s invitation, he stayed to tea.

  He was evidently at considerable pains to please, and Ariane noticed that her father as well as her mother, seemed very well impressed.

  But somehow she was a little relieved when finally he went. Not that he wasn’t a dear, she told herself guiltily. Not that he wasn’t most eagerly attentive to her. But—well, perhaps it was good just to be home again, away from all the Muldanes.

  After this enforced connection with the Muldanes, it seemed only natural that Frank should call in almost every day. Sometimes he brought formal inquiries after Ariane’s health from his father, and, if actually asked, he would report on Harvey’s progress. But never once did he bring any inquiry or message from the invalid himself.

  Very often Frank took both Ariane and Julie driving. He and Julie got on famously together, but perhaps it was only human of him not to join in her fervent lament that holidays were coming to an end and soon she would not be able to accompany Ariane.

  “Never mind, Julie,” he consoled her. “If your mother will let us, we’ll drive you all the way to school at the beginning of term, and you needn’t go by train at all.”

  Julie, who attended a well-known (and very expensive) boarding-school about seventy miles away, and only came home for occasional week-ends during the term, was delighted at this suggestion.

  “Oh yes, I’d like that. Wouldn’t it be funny if the other girls thought you were my parents?” she added.

  “On behalf of Ariane and myself, I protest against the implied libel on our personal appearance,” Frank said firmly. “Do I—and, still less, does Ariane—look like the parent of a bumptious, overgrown schoolchild?”

  Julie giggled delightedly.

  “No. Only it’s just the idea of your both coming, you know. Being classed together, so to speak.”

  “Being classed together.” Frank suddenly smiled brilliantly at Ariane. “Very well, Julie, the rest is forgiven for the sake of that very nice last phrase.”

  Ariane said nothing. But that didn’t prevent her thinking all the more, of course.

  And when, in the end, it was arranged that she and Frank should be allowed to take Julie through to school by car, she had the oddest feeling of apprehension. Something as though she had been shown a prison door a long, long way off.

  Deepest gloom had settled on Julie by the time they actually reached the school. But the sight of one or two intimates who had already arrived created a miraculous rise in spirits.

  “There’s Susie Phillips! She’s got her hair off! My goodness, how extraordinary she looks. And Jennifer Ralph. Good old Jenny! Hello, hello!”

  By the time Ariane had formally handed Julie over to authority, she had scarcely more than time for a hasty kiss and the briefest of farewells.

  “I think I feel more depressed than Julie now,” Ariane declared, when they were once more on their way.

  “Oh no, Ariane, you mustn’t feel depressed,” Frank told her. “Not today.”

  “Why not today?”

  And then Ariane could have bitten her tongue.

  Or was this what was meant by playing your cards well?

  In any case, she couldn’t pretend even to herself that it was anything of a surprise when Frank drew the car to the side of the road and stopped.

  He was not nervous—only terribly in earnest—and as she looked at his absorbed, boyish face, she thought:

  “I ought to like him—I do like him. But oh, I don’t want to marry him.”

  He didn’t attempt to put his arm round her or even to take her hand as he said:

  “Ariane dear, I don’t know how one makes a state proposal, and I don’t care, but I think you must know that I love you and—Darling, will you marry me, please?”

  The last words came in a rush, which added an almost touching sincerity to what he was saying.

  She could not find her tongue to reply at once. She was thinking passionately: “I will do my best by him. He’s such a good, decent boy that I must make him happy. Why shouldn’t I learn to love him and be happy too? I’m lucky that I haven’t got to marry some revolting man years older than myself. That’s usually the way in these cases. I’m lucky, lucky, lucky.”

  She went on repeating the meaningless word to herself, and then became aware of the fact that he was watching her anxiously and waiting for her answer.

  Without any effort, she put her hand into his. It was a little cold, but why should anyone notice that?

  “I expect you know the answer,” she said in a low voice. “It’s ‘yes’, of course.”

  She didn’t feel so awful putting it that way as she would if she had had t
o make lying protestations about loving him. It satisfied him, obviously. And anyway, perhaps she would learn to love him. Perhaps—”

  She was in his arms now, quite unresisting. She had supposed, the second before it happened, that his touch would mean nothing to her at all.

  But she was wrong. She was perfectly still, but not with the stillness of indifference. It was the stillness of appalled self-revelation.

  It was impossible to say why that single movement told her, but she knew now what it was that had been struggling in the back of her mind, making the whole situation seem ten times more tragic than appeared on the surface.

  It was not Frank’s arm she wanted round her—it was an indifferent arm which had been carelessly round her only a few days ago. It was not Frank’s mouth she wanted to feel on hers—but a mouth which had only smiled at her in amused contempt.

  It was not Frank Muldane she could ever learn to love.

  It was Harvey who had already put a careless hand round her heart.

  CHAPTER IV

  “Ariane, what is it? Why don’t you kiss me?”

  She kissed him then.

  She must do better than this. In spite of her fantastic discovery, she must manage to play up, to conceal from Frank, and indeed from everyone else, what she was really thinking.

  “It’s all right, isn’t it? You are—happy about things?” Frank was looking at her a little doubtfully now.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled at him. For the sake of everyone, she must still smile and pretend that everything was all right.

  “Then let’s drive straight to your place and tell your mother.”

  Ariane felt trapped. Every word was dragging her further into the tangle. But she had to go on.

  “Yes, we’ll go and tell Mother. She’ll be awfully pleased.”

  “And your father? Will he mind very much, do you think?”

  “No,” Ariane said mechanically. “No, Daddy won’t mind if he knows I’m going to be happy. Besides, he listens a good deal to what Mother says, and she likes you very much.”

  Frank smiled contentedly.

  “I’m so glad.”

  “But what will your father say? Perhaps he won’t be too pleased.”

  “Oh, he can be talked round,” Frank assured her airily. “And anyway, you’re rather a favourite of his, you know. He may bark a bit at first, but he said once that he thought you a darned pretty girl who had lots of common sense. It’s his highest form of compliment.”

  “Is it?” Ariane smiled faintly. “I’m very glad if he likes me.”

  “He does.” Frank was positive. “There won’t be any trouble with Father. The sticky one will be Harvey. And of course, it simply isn’t his business.”

  “Of course not.” Ariane’s voice was quite expressionless. She hadn’t wanted to have his name mentioned. It gave her a queer little shock simply to hear the word and realize the madness she associated with it now.

  But she would have to get used to that. And, anyway, hadn’t she some sort of sense? Enough, surely, to remind her that whatever feelings Harvey had were wrapped up in his strange, extravagant devotion to Marta Roma.

  It was a long drive home again, but she managed to keep up an appearance of happy interest in all the plans that Frank outlined.

  Each aspect of the engagement had to be carefully considered and every detail must appear to have its importance and its thrill.

  By the time they reached home, Ariane felt physically exhausted. But there was still one more scene of pretence to be gone through. Mother must be told, and her surprised congratulations be offered and accepted.

  At last, however, even that miserable farce was over, and Frank—the happy and excited fiancé to the life—took his departure to inform his family.

  Ariane was glad that her own father had not been at home, and Mrs. Dobson undertook to tell him the news and put it in its correct light.

  “Don’t worry, Frank.” She had spoken with an admirable air of kindly assurance. “He is too fond of Ariane to put anything in the way of her happiness. I’ll speak to him first, and then you shall have a chat with him yourself.”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you how happy I am!”

  And indeed, Frank’s delight was so obvious that Ariane’s chilled heart warmed a little, and she told herself again: “I must make him happy. He’s such a dear boy. Surely he shouldn’t be difficult to learn to love.”

  Perhaps the same idea was in her mother’s mind, because, when they were at last alone together, she said a trifle nervously : “Ariane dear, what a nice boy he is. I should think you—you could scarcely help being fond of him.”

  A little mechanically, Ariane assured her that—yes, of course, it was impossible not to be fond of him. And then at last she escaped to her own room. Absently, she wandered round, picking up the various things which Julie had scattered about in the final frenzy of departure.

  So it was done!

  In a remarkably short space of time she had accomplished what they had hoped. She was engaged to Frank Muldane and, to all intents and purposes, the fortunes of Dobson’s—and therefore the happiness of her family—were on a much more secure foundation.

  She ought to be very happy about it. Everyone else was happy. Only Harvey would be “sticky,” Frank had said.

  And Harvey did not matter.

  During the next few days, Ariane felt absurdly like someone in a dream. There was the elaborate pretence between herself and Mother that everything was all right. There was the ridiculous task of convincing Daddy that only by marrying Frank could she find happiness at all. And there was the artificial scene in which she had to tell Caroline how happy she was.

  Julie’s letter in reply to the announcement of the engagement struck a refreshing note.

  “Dear Ariane,” she wrote, in rather square handwriting on fiercely blue paper, “I am awfully glad about you and Frank. It’s really awfully nice. Do you think you could make Mother let me have a week-end at home so as to selebrate? It seems so unkind to you if I don’t selebrate at all. I told the girls you were going to marry a million heir (I know Frank isn’t quite a million heir, but near enough). They are awfully thrilled and we drank your health in cocoa.

  “Please do have your wedding right in the middle of a term, because it will make a nice break. It would be such a waste to have it in the holidays. Anyway, I’m awfully thrilled about it, and you can give Frank a kiss for me. (I suppose you do kiss him now.) Lots of love.—Julie.

  Ariane laughed over the letter, and somehow felt a little better.

  And then, that same afternoon, when—according to her faithful promise—she was taking Julie’s puppy for a run, she came face to face with Harvey.

  He was obviously absorbed in his own thoughts, and had come right up to her before he saw her. This time, however, there was no question of his ignoring her.

  “Good afternoon.” He raised his hat, without smiling, and she thought he still looked rather pale and ill.

  “Good afternoon. I’m glad to see you’re well enough to be out again.” She was nervous, but she must manage not to show it. Before she could think of anything else to say, however, he spoke again.

  “Well, Ariane,”—he was smiling slightly now, but not very kindly—“so the white dress did its work, after all.”

  For a moment she didn’t realize his meaning. Then she saw and flushed deeply.

  “Exactly what do you mean?” she said coldly.

  But he was more than equal to that form of snub.

  “I see that you understand,” he said almost carelessly. And there was an awkward little silence.

  She ought to have left it at that, of course, but she could not. On sudden impulse she put her hand on his arm.

  “Harvey, why must we spar like this? Since we are going to be relations, can’t we be reasonably friendly?”

  For a moment he stared down at her hand in silence.

  Then—“I have no wish to be either related to you or friendly
with you,” he said slowly.

  “But it’s not fair of you to speak like that!” Ariane’s lip quivered, but she steadied it by clamping down her teeth fiercely on it. “Why should you take it on yourself to resent Frank’s marrying me?”

  He gave that haughty little frown of his, which she privately thought rather absurd but somehow attractive.

  “I don’t specially want to discuss the subject at all,” he told her coldly. “But since you insist—I think any sort of alliance between your family and ours would be a very uneasy one. And—pardon my frankness—it is we who stand to lose from the business point of view, not Dobson’s.”

  Ariane was dumb for a moment through sheer dismay at his clear-sightedness.

  “But must we drag business matters into our personal affairs?” She spoke quickly and nervously.

  “Do you think it’s possible to leave them out?” he countered dryly. Then, as she was silent: “In any case, will you answer me one question quite truthfully?—Are you or are you not marrying Frank primarily for his money?”

  Quite unjustifiably, Ariane felt furious and insulted.

  “I’ll answer that if you’ll answer me one question,” she retorted sharply.

  “Well?” He looked surprised and a trifle amused.

  “Do you really suppose Marta Roma is after anything but your money?”

  The amusement was wiped from his face in one second, and his expression of dark anger made Ariane step back.

  “How dare you! What damned business is it of yours what there may be between Marta Roma and me?”

  “No business whatever. That’s the point—” Ariane spoke curtly in her turn. “No more than it’s your business what there may be between Frank and me.”

  She saw that the argument was not without effect, but he only said coldly:

  “The cases are not parallel.”

  They were not entirely, of course, and, in any case, Ariane was a little startled to find that she had classed herself with a woman like Marta Roma.

  “And who, may I ask, has been gossiping to you about Marta and me?” Harvey went on suddenly.

  “Oh—” Ariane was rather nonplussed. “Well, I heard more than once that you—that you—” She stopped, finding, all at once, that her anger had entirely melted. “Look here, I’m awfully sorry!” she exclaimed with sudden frankness. “It wasn’t in the least my business, of course, and I’m really rather ashamed of myself for saying anything so petty.”