“It’s a pity Mr. Muldane takes just that line,” she said at last. “I don’t believe it works at all with Harvey. In spite of his hardness I think he’s a bit highly-strung.”
“Highly-strung! My dear Ariane!” Sally laughed incredulously. “Harvey highly-strung? Why, he’s the most crudely insensitive creature possible. You can’t know much about people who are genuinely highly-strung.”
Ariane was silent, partly from sheer irritation, partly because she greatly feared that with the faintest encouragement Sally would embark on a description of how highly-strung she herself was.
In any case, it had been a most ridiculous statement to make to anyone like Sally. Much better keep such thoughts to herself.
Ariane had only a moment alone with Harvey before they left for the Ventnors’, and that was actually in the car. She had come down ready first, and he was seated in the driving seat of the big saloon car, smoking.
As she got in, he tossed away his cigarette and turned to speak to her with quite a friendly expression.
“I was sorry not to see you again in London, Ariane. I found I couldn’t make it.”
“No,” Ariane said. “That was all right. I guessed that business had prevented your looking us up.”
She could always say quite calmly the sort of thing which Sally invested with a certain amount of spite.
But perhaps he found her sincerity harder to bear than Sally’s sarcasm, because just for a moment his eyes fell.
“You don’t look very well to me, Harvey,” she said kindly. “Have you been tiring yourself?”
“Oh no.” He made an impatient little gesture, and she thought again unhappily how very different he looked from his appearance on the afternoon when she had almost dared to hope he was breaking loose from Marta’s chariot wheels. “I’ve been sleeping badly,” he confessed abruptly.
“Have you? I’m so sorry. It’s a rotten thing to suffer from. I had a bout of it some while ago. But—” she hesitated a moment, and then added a trifle diffidently one does get over it, Harvey.”
She didn’t dare to make any more definite reference to the state of affairs than that. And even that displeased him a little.
“Does one?” he said curtly. And nothing more was said until the others came out to join them.
“You might drop us first at the Ventnors’,” Sally said calmly. “And then fetch your—friend afterwards.”
“Is that quite necessary?” Harvey’s colour rose.
“Not necessary, but much more satisfactory,” Sally replied imperturbably. “I have no intention of arriving with the lady, in any case.”
Harvey said no more, but he gave her a glance of such hate that Ariane was frightened. And, curiously enough, the fear was for him, not for Sally.
They drove without further question to the Ventnors’ house, where Caroline welcomed them with so much of her old, irrepressible gaiety that Ariane thought afresh how glad she was that this, at least, showed signs of a normally happy ending.
As the two girls went off together, arm-in-arm, Ariane found an opportunity to whisper:
“All right! Explanations have been made and accepted, and there’s nothing for you to worry about now.”
“Thank you, darling. I think that between us we’ve evolved a marvellous technique for making and breaking engagements,” remarked Caroline. And although Ariane laughed protestingly, she was delighted to realize that Caroline’s flippancy was a sure indication of her return to carefree happiness.
After that she felt a good deal happier too and more inclined to enjoy the afternoon and evening. Most of her friends were there, and it was pleasant seeing them again, even after so short an absence. And not until Harvey and Marta appeared on the scene did she feel the inevitable shadow fall on her spirits.
“In any case,” Ariane told herself with grim candour, “half of your gloom is for the unworthy fact that she’s looking much lovelier than you ever could.”
Which was true, of course. For Marta, in cream silk, with a great drooping hat of scarlet, was enough to chill the heart of my rival.
At the end of a strenuous set, Ariane went over to speak to her. It was only with an effort that she persuaded herself to do so, for embarrassment and dislike were almost equally mingled in her feelings towards the actress. But she knew that Harvey would notice if she omitted any greeting, and she thought he had suffered enough hurt resentment for one afternoon.
“Ah—Frank’s little fiancée!” said Marta in a tone of malicious gentleness, and she gave Ariane that lovely, lazy smile as she held out her hand.
Ariane took the hand with some appearance of cordiality.
“I hear that you are going to America tomorrow.” She made her voice sound as natural as she could.
“Yes. Already, I begin to wonder if it is worth the homesickness I shall feel,” Marta said, and her great dark eyes rested on Harvey for a moment in a sort of unspoken appeal.
“Bitch!” thought Ariane suddenly, as she saw Harvey’s hand clench convulsively. “She’s refusing to leave him alone even now. Oh, how I wish she were gone!”
She was not quite sure why she felt so unreasonably frightened for him. She only knew that until the Atlantic lay between them she would never cease to worry about Marta’s influence on him.
“And perhaps not then,” thought Ariane with a sigh, as she wrenched back her thoughts to the conversation in hand.
“How well you play,” Marta was saying with careless generosity. “I have been watching you, and I find you the typical British sports girl.” The words were harmless enough, but the tone would have destroyed any possible interest in the typical British sports girl. “Don’t you think so?” she appealed to the silent Harvey.
“Ariane plays very well,” he said with rather gloomy abstraction, and the topic languished for lack of support.
“Do you—do you leave here tonight or tomorrow?” Ariane asked. She didn’t really care which it was, but one had to do one’s best with this difficult conversation.
“Tomorrow. But very early. So it is tonight that I say goodbye to all my friends.”
“I see. And—and you’re going for a good while, I suppose?”
“Must you take this ghoulish interest in the details of Marta’s departure?”
Ariane gasped incredulously. Even Harvey had never said anything quite so rude and unreasonable, and the blow was entirely undeserved, in any case.
Tilting up her chin with a defiance she was far from feeling, she looked from one to the other.
“I think,” she said, in a voice that shook slightly, “I think there’s no point in saying anything else. I hope you have an awfully good time in America, Miss Roma. Good-bye.” And she turned and walked away rather quickly towards the house.
She felt sick with anger and bewilderment, and a furious sense of injustice. What did he mean—speaking to her like that? Did he suppose she had wanted to make conversation with that woman? It was simply for his sake. She wished she had never done it. She wished, come to that, she need never see either of them again. She was not at all sure that she didn’t wish herself dead, if Harvey could actually speak to her like that.
With an unsteady hand she pushed open the door into the library. No one would disturb her in there. She could sit there quietly and recover some degree of calmness.
But she found that her thoughts refused to let her do that. She sprang up again almost at once and walked restlessly up and down.
She was still doing that when Harvey entered the room and came up behind her.
“Ariane, I’m sorry—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
“It’s not an excuse. It’s an apology. There is no excuse.”
“I’m glad you realize it.” She refused to turn and look at him.
“Won’t you turn round?”
“No. I don’t want to speak to you. You think you can do and say the most unpardonable things to me—things that are quite unprovoked—and then pass it
all off with a careless ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“It wasn’t careless. I meant it.”
“And I suppose you meant the horrible thing you said to me just now. Or was that just an innocent little bit of fun?”
“God, I can’t do more than apologize, can I?” He stopped suddenly, realizing that his voice had risen unpardonably. “I’m sorry—for that too. Won’t you understand? I hardly know what I’m saying. It’s this damned sleeplessness.” He turned away suddenly and dropped into a chair, pressing his hands over his eyes.
She turned then, too, and took a step towards him.
“Harvey!” It was scarcely more than a frightened whisper and he seemed not to hear it. At any rate, he didn’t raise his head.
She came slowly over to his side, and nervously touched his tumbled dark hair.
“Don’t, Harvey—I’m sorry. I’m sorry too.”
“You have no need to be.”
“Oh yes, I have. I ought to have understood.” She put her arm round him a little timidly. “I do understand now—really.” She felt him stiffen at her touch and almost draw away from her. Then suddenly he yielded to the pressure of her arm, and, without a word, turned and buried his face against her.
CHAPTER VIII
Whatever Ariane had expected it was not this, and she was conscious of an overwhelming sense of dismay.
That time before, when he had fainted—drooped against her in reluctant unconsciousness—it had been sheer physical collapse which had conquered him. That was understandable, even in Harvey. A weakness which he might resent but could scarcely combat.
But this surrender, however momentary! It frightened her to think what an agony of despair and unhappiness there must be behind it.
It was some seconds before she even found her voice, and then it was only to say his name again. He replied by the very slightest movement against her, and Ariane tightened her arm comfortingly.
“Listen to me.” She put her bright head down near his, rather as though she were consoling a child. “It’s never as bad as this for long, you know. After—after she’s gone and you can’t go on tormenting yourself, you’ll find you are sleeping better. And then things won’t seem so black, and—and by and by you’ll begin to feel happier. One does, Harvey. One has to.”
She scarcely knew how she chose her words. There was no time to be very logical, but perhaps the tone helped even more than the hastily assembled sentences.
He looked up and pushed back his hair.
“I’m sorry to be such a fool,” he said curtly. Then, perhaps at the anxious expression on her face, he smiled faintly and added, just as he had once before: “You are a good child. Your resentment never lasts as long as it should.” And leaning forward, he very lightly and gently touched her serious mouth with his.
It was the merest touch. The sort of kiss that any brother-in-law might give. Although, of course, he was not a brother-in-law now—not even a future one, she reminded herself absurdly.
“I’m a beast, Ariane. I won’t ask you to say it’s all right, because—”
“It is all right,” she burst out. “You’re forgiven, if that’s what you want me to say.”
“I suppose that was what I wanted,” he admitted slowly, and then frowned as though he were surprised at the discovery himself. “Thank you. It’s more than I deserve.”
“Don’t.” She put out her hand and took his impulsively. “You don’t really have to say these things. I understand. And anyway, you do so hate abasing yourself, don’t you?”
“Loathe it,” he assured her, with that faint smile again. “But I suppose it’s good for whatever soul I have.”
“Only very occasionally,” Ariane said soberly.
And at that he laughed and squeezed her fingers rather hard. “Come along. We’d better go back to the others. It must be something like tea-time, and they’ll wonder where we are.”
They went out of the room together, and as they crossed the hall, Ariane noticed that Lady Ventnor was speaking agitatedly on the telephone.
“Yes, Mrs. Dobson,” she heard her say. “I’ll tell her as gently as possible. Yes, of course. At once. I’m most dreadfully sorry. There’s so little one can do, but, of course, if there is any thing—”
Ariane stopped dead.
“Harvey.” Her face had gone very white. “Harvey, it’s some sort of bad news for me.”
He didn’t say anything, but as Lady Ventnor came towards them, with a pale and troubled face, he instinctively took Ariane’s arm.
“My dear—” Lady Ventnor was evidently extremely upset, “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid there is rather bad news for you. Your mother wants you to go home at once.”
“Is it Daddy? Is he worse?” Ariane’s voice was unusually sharp.
“I’m afraid so, Ariane.”
“Much worse?”
Lady Ventnor nodded. She seemed to have some difficulty in finding any other words.
“He’s not—he’s not—”
“My dear, I hate to have to tell you. It’s dreadful, but—”
“You mean—Daddy—is dead.”
There was silence. A silence which answered much more eloquently than words. And Ariane stood there with what colour there was slowly leaving her face.
Then she caught her breath in a painful little gasp.
“I must—go home. At once.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll order the car.” Lady Ventnor was only too eager to agree.
“Let me drive you down. The car is just outside.” Harvey’s voice was almost as curt as ever, but there was an unusual warmth in it.
“Thank you, Harvey.” She leant on his arm rather heavily for a moment, but there was no sign of her composure giving way.
And then he remembered something they had both forgotten.
“Perhaps, though, you would rather Frank—?” He broke off inquiringly.
“Frank? No, not Frank because—” She stopped in her turn and passed her hand over her eyes. “Wait a moment. There’s something else.”
Both Harvey and Lady Ventnor watched her in silence.
Then she took her hand down, and they saw that her expression was peculiarly determined.
“Lady Ventnor, where are all the others? At tea?”
“Yes, dear. But there is nothing for you to worry about. I’ll break the news. You mustn’t bother about anything.”
“It’s not that I’m—bothering. Only there’s something I must say.”
She dropped Harvey’s arm and crossed the hall quite unfalteringly.
Puzzled and a little disturbed, Lady Ventnor—and then, more slowly, Harvey—followed her into the big, crowded lounge, where groups of people were standing or sitting about, drinking tea and discussing the afternoon’s game.
At the first moment their entrance made no difference. And then perhaps the whiteness of Ariane’s face, or something in her expression, arrested attention, and a gradual silence came over the room.
“I’m awfully sorry to—to interrupt things,”—Ariane’s voice was low but perfectly clear—“but I’ve had bad news and have to go home. My—my father has just died suddenly, and—” Sympathetic exclamations broke out at that, but she went straight on. “What I wanted to tell you was that before this happened, Frank and I had mutually decided to break off our engagement. We remain the very best of friends, but we made an honest mistake about wanting to marry each other, and so we have done the only commonsense thing and cancelled the engagement. If I hadn’t told you this now, and the announcement had been made after the news of—of Daddy’s death, Frank would have been in a horrid and quite undeserved position—open to all sorts of unkind suggestions and hints. As it is, I—I feel you all know the exact truth, and nothing more need be said.”
She turned away quickly, but before she could reach the door, Frank sprang forward and caught her arm.
“Ariane! My dear, how unspeakably generous to think of my feelings at such a time. I’m more sorry than I can say about your fathe
r.”
“Thank you.” She smiled wanly.
“No,” he said, in a very much moved voice. “Thank you.” And then: “May I take you home now?”
“It’s all right, Frank. Harvey is taking me.”
“Harvey!”
“Exactly—Harvey,” said his brother’s voice dryly. “Don’t keep her any more now. She’s had enough.” And, quite calmly taking command of the situation, he warded off the eager offers of sympathy which were obviously such a strain on her, and led her out to the car.
In spite of her murmur of protest, he lifted her in, and, reaching for a rug, put it round her.
“It’s quite warm, really,” she said absently.
“I know. But you’re very cold.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“One always is after a bad shock.”
She wondered a little how he knew that too, but was beyond saying anything else. It seemed to her that she had said all the words she could think of in that scene just now.
They drove in silence, Ariane trying to stave off the full realization of what had happened, because she didn’t want to weep in front of Harvey.
It was strange, she thought dully—he had seen her cry more than once for what must have seemed very little reason. Now, when real disaster had overtaken her, she somehow succeeded in remaining calm. He must think her rather a stupid, ill-balanced person, she supposed.
“Ariane.” He spoke her name quite quietly.
“Yes?” She turned her head to look at him, but his gaze was determinedly fixed on a point far ahead down the road.
“How did you find the courage to do it?”
“What—do you mean? My speaking to them just now?”
“Yes. Why did you do it?”
“Well—I had to.” She spoke slowly, because, somehow, with the terrible knowledge of her father’s death weighing on her mind, it was very difficult to translate her thoughts into words. “It would have been dreadfully difficult for Frank if I hadn’t.”
But Not For Me Page 11
