But Not For Me

by Mary Burchell

  “Was life so easy for her, then?”

  “Well, I mean more that she—knew things, you know—fitted in,” he explained a trifle vaguely. “Mrs. Dobson would have liked her,” he added—rather artlessly, Ariane thought. “She never did the wrong thing.”

  “Well, you and Harvey do lots of ‘right things’ that no one else would ever dream of doing!” exclaimed Ariane warmly.

  And, on sudden impulse, she flung her arms round the old man and hugged him as Julie might have.

  “There, there.” He pinched her cheek very hard but very affectionately. “You’re a good child. Harvey’s a lucky fellow.” And he pushed her away rather hastily, to show he was not really at all affected.

  It amused and very much touched Ariane, this half-nervous determination not to be caught out in any softer moments. And then she thought, with a sigh in her turn, that that too had been inherited by Harvey. Or was he genuinely averse to anything emotional, except where one woman was concerned?

  Fortunately, everyone in Norchester had grown to associate him with a slightly grim, undemonstrative coolness, so that no one seemed to expect him to indulge in the usual romantic signs attaching to a man in love. And Ariane, for her part, tried very hard to give the impression of a commonsense though happy girl who refused to take too sentimental a view of things.

  She could only hope that, between them, they made a fairly convincing picture that would satisfy the gossip and curiosity which invariably surrounded the interesting topics of births, marriages and deaths in Norchester.

  On the evening before their wedding, she and Harvey walked over to inspect the plot of ground where building of their new home had already actually begun.

  It was a lovely stretch of land on the outskirts of Norchester, with two or three beautiful old trees which were to be incorporated in the garden later.

  The house was to be built looking away from the town, across to the open country beyond, and, as she stood there, watching the whole scene slowly take on a mellow glow from the warm light of the late August evening, Ariane thought what a beautiful home it was going to be.

  Perhaps he was thinking the same thing, because, putting his hand lightly round her arm in that characteristic way of his, he said: “I hope you’re going to be happy here, Ariane.”

  “Oh, I shall be! I’m sure I shall,” she declared earnestly.

  “Because, although we can’t make the—well, the usual romantic plans and promises that most couples do, I want you to feel—”he frowned, with a certain degree of embarrassment and that unusual flush was there again—“I want you to know that I’ll—do my best to make you happy. If I’m frightfully difficult and—”

  “Don’t, Harvey!”

  He stopped and looked almost startled.

  “I was only trying to explain—to reassure you,” he said with an odd little touch of sulkiness that somehow caught at Ariane’s heart.

  “But you don’t have to, you know.” She very gently patted the hand that was on her arm. “I don’t need reassuring. I know that I shall be in good hands—kind and understanding hands—when I’m married to you.”

  He caught hold of her then and kissed her, with a sort of boyish fervour and impetuosity—something quite different from the kiss they had exchanged in the library at home.

  “I’ve often—been—anything but kind and understanding to you, Ariane,” he said a little jerkily. “It’s generous of you to put it like that.”

  Ariane smiled—a very sweet and reassuring smile, for perhaps, after all, it was Harvey who needed the reassurance.

  “I seem to remember coming to your house on one occasion, very scared and nonplussed, and finding you remarkably kind and understanding.”

  “Oh, that—” He dismissed it with an impatient movement of his hand, but she saw that he looked most unusually pleased and happy.

  “I wonder,” thought Ariane, “if Mrs. Muldane ever bothered to make him look like that, or if she was altogether too busy being the charming woman that Sally insists she was.”

  And, for the very first time, she allowed herself to hope that, if nothing interfered and she were allowed just a little time, Harvey’s happiness and hers might, miraculously, become the same thing.

  It was that tremulously happy thought which accompanied her to bed on the last night before her wedding.

  “Do wake up, Ariane I It’s really quite late, and it’s a marvellous morning.”

  Ariane stirred sleepily, recalled to consciousness by the persistent chatter of Julie.

  “Very well. I’m awake really,” she murmured drowsily, and, rolling over, buried her head comfortably in the pillow. “Go away, you little nuisance, and commune silently with your own spirit or something.”

  “I don’t know how to,” cried the literal Julie. “And anyway, how can you go on dozing? It’s your wedding day!”

  Ariane was perfectly still. Not that she was drowsing any longer. She was startlingly wide awake. Today—in a very few hours—she was to marry Harvey. The unknown man she had detested on sight at the Ventnors’ that first night; the man who had lain helplessly in her arms all those long, cold hours when she had found him thrown from his horse; the man who really loved Marta Roma; the man who had kissed her last night and explained a little clumsily that he would be good to her.

  They were all Harvey—her Harvey—and today she was to marry him.

  The wedding was to be quiet in view of the recent death of Mr. Dobson. But Julie’s earnestly expressed opinion that “that isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t look nice” had not been ignored, and as Ariane stood ready before her mirror, she knew that Harvey’s bride was not unworthy of his own remarkable good looks.

  The perfectly simple lines of her oyster-white dress, the delicate cloud of her long tulle veil, the splash of colour made by the velvety crimson roses which Harvey had sent—they all went to make a picture of Ariane at her loveliest.

  When Mrs. Dobson had seen the roses she had said:

  “Hm, a little too dark to be bridal.” But Ariane liked their tender, sweet-scented warmth.

  “Anyway, you know what red roses mean, don’t you?” Julie said in a hushed voice.

  “No,” Ariane admitted. “What do they mean?”

  Julie wagged her head impressively.

  “ ‘I love you.’ ”

  “Do they, really? How do you know?” her sister asked curiously, suppressing her desire to laugh.

  “I read it the other day—in a paper.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t expect Harvey reads quite the same papers as you,” Ariane said gravely.

  “No, I don’t expect he does.” Julie was willing to concede that. “But anyway, he means that, even if he didn’t choose red roses on purpose.”

  There was no answer.

  “Doesn’t he, Ariane?”

  “Why yes, of course,” Ariane said calmly, and gathered up the discussed roses in her hands as her mother and Julie hurried off to get ready.

  The short drive in the sunshine, the quick glimpse of interested faces as she crossed from the car to the porch, the old rather dim church which she had known all her life, the swelling sound of the organ that, in her childhood, she had vaguely supposed came from heaven. None of them seemed very real to Ariane on her wedding day.

  The church was crowded for, however quiet the wedding might be, there were a good many people who were interested to see Ariane married to the eldest and richest of the Muldane brothers.

  Many of them were her friends—looking at her with the kindly good-will which she quite naturally aroused. Some of them were mere acquaintances, drawn there by curiosity over a marriage which united two big business rivals in rather unusual circumstances. A few were nothing more than the idle gazers which any wedding attracts.

  But to Ariane they might all have been the same. Friends and strangers had merged into one. They were simply the indistinguishable blur on either side as she walked down the aisle to meet Harvey.

  He was smiling very
slightly as she came up to him, and his mouth had that touch of grimness which probably meant a certain amount of nervousness.

  Ariane smiled at him, much more tenderly than she knew. She wanted to make him feel everything was quite all right, but perhaps he saw from the faint trembling of the dark red roses that Ariane was not entirely free from nervousness herself.

  The grimness relaxed, and the smile deepened.

  “You look lovely,” he whispered. “I’m very proud of you.”

  Ariane used to wonder afterwards if it were very wicked of her to find that much the most important moment of all. But she couldn’t help it. He might have meant it half teasingly—in fact, he probably did—but that didn’t matter. The thrilling new relationship had been established by that sentence.

  Only one person now had the right to be proud of her, and that was her husband—Harvey.

  It was over at last.

  “Such a pretty wedding. Doesn’t she look sweet?” “Nothing ever lodes nicer than a white wedding.” “He’s good-looking, too, isn’t he?” “Yes, but they say he—”

  Ariane was sharply aware of the snatches of remarks on every side as she came back along the aisle, this time on Harvey’s arm. It was as though everything were all the more clear-cut in contrast to the vagueness before.

  She wished she could have heard the end of the last sentence—known what it was that “they” said about Harvey. But at that moment they came out into the sunshine once more, there was a little burst of cheering and good wishes, a cloud of confetti—and then they were in the car once more, driving rapidly homewards.

  “All right?”

  “Yes, thank you. Quite all right.”

  “Did you find it much of a strain?”

  “Well, no—not really, thank you.” It was a funny way, she thought, to be speaking of one’s wedding. And then, conscientiously: “Did you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not after you arrived and steadied my pulse with a most reassuring smile,” he told her teasingly.

  “Oh—” She coloured slightly, and then glanced down at her bouquet. “Thank you for the roses, Harvey. Did you choose them yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’re beautiful. I like them much better than any conventional pinks and whites.”

  “Do you? I’m glad. I chose them because they’re like you.”

  “Like me!” Ariane turned to look at him in surprise. “But there’s nothing dark and colourful about me. I couldn’t be much fairer.”

  “Oh, in looks, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s your disposition. Warm and—deep and—I suppose ‘gracious’ is the word, although, of course, you’re much too young to have that used of you.”

  “Harvey!” She scarcely knew what to say in reply. “How—how very nice of you.” She tried to make her voice as light and casual as possible, but without much success. It was much the most personal thing he had ever said to her, and it touched her deeply.

  Ariane was silent for the rest of the short drive, but her heart was really telegraphing little messages to her mind: “It’s going to be all right ... He isn’t hard and indifferent really. He likes me and trusts me ... It’s only a matter of time ... After all, I’m here and Marta is not ... Men get over these things—they do—they do—”

  After that, everything seemed to move very quickly. So many congratulations and good wishes, and kisses and handshakes. It was almost no time before Caroline came over and whispered, “Isn’t it time you slipped away to change?”

  Ariane nodded.

  “I won’t be very long, Harvey. If you’ll just have the car ready—We don’t want to prolong the good-byes.”

  “All right.”

  Up in the bedroom, Ariane changed quickly to the soft blue suit with the cuffs of smoke-grey fox.

  “Funny how it always seems so sudden in the end, isn’t it?” Caroline said. “That’s why people always howl at weddings. They’re a bit like funerals in that way.”

  “Thanks for the happy observation.” Ariane pulled on the blue hat that was the colour of her eyes.

  “Well, as a future bride to a present one, I feel I can be frank,” Caroline said unconcernedly. “I’m sure I shall feel about as happy as a corpse at the exact moment I leave home. It’s the afterwards that makes up for it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Where’s Julie?”

  “Of course I’m right, though most brides won’t admit it. Julie’s downstairs, sampling champagne and giving her views on matrimony in general.”

  “Oh heavens! I hope someone will keep an eye on her. She says such a lot, even without champagne.”

  “That’s all right. Frank had her in hand. He’ll see she doesn’t have more than three sips before he switches her off on to lemonade.”

  “Thank goodness for Frank. She’ll be all right if he’s there.”

  “Yes. The Muldanes aren’t a bad lot, after all, are they?” Caroline smiled reflectively.

  “No. I’m satisfied with my share of them.”

  “I, too. You’re really happy, Ariane, aren’t you?” Caroline kissed her affectionately.

  “Oh yes, more than happy.” Ariane returned the kiss. And as they went downstairs, she thought it was perfectly true. She was happy. There was a feeling of hope and security in her heart which had not been there for a long, long time. Not, she supposed, since Harvey had come into her life, bringing such perilous happiness and disturbing misery.

  As she had intended, the good-byes were not prolonged. A very heartfelt embrace for her mother, another for Julie, a few determinedly gay farewells to her new in-laws, and she was running down the steps to the car.

  Harvey was holding the door for her, and, as she got in, a telegraph boy came pedalling furiously up the drive.

  “Another telegram for you, Mr. Muldane. Just in time!” he panted triumphantly. He had already brought several that morning and knew quite well which Mr. Muldane was concerned.

  “Thanks.” Harvey put it into his pocket, and got into the car. “More congratulations. I didn’t know so many people took a kindly interest in us,” he added a little ironically.

  It was pleasant and extraordinarily soothing here in the car, Ariane thought. She didn’t feel it was necessary to talk, and for an hour they drove almost in silence.

  Then at last Harvey spoke.

  “Is it very unromantic for a bridegroom to feel disgustingly hungry, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know. But I feel it’s very natural for a bride to be the same. Let’s stop at the next likely looking place, shall we?”

  “I see, Ariane, that we’re going to agree remarkably well.” He gave her a friendly, amused look that warmed her heart. And a minute or two later he drew up the car outside a hospitable-looking inn.

  It was considerably after lunch-time, but if they didn’t mind waiting a little, it seemed, a meal could easily be got ready.

  They didn’t mind waiting. Time was really not very important. They didn’t propose to get specially far that day on their way to the Cornish coast.

  Nobody else was in the pleasant, raftered room, and they sat down at a table in the window to wait while their meal was prepared.

  “Would you like a cigarette?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I really scarcely ever smoke. But you have one if you want it.”

  He put his hand in his pocket, and drew out his cigarette-case and the final telegram together.

  “Oh, let’s see who else is wishing us well.” He slid his thumb under the flap, with a slight smile.

  She watched idly while he took out the flimsy sheet of paper. But, after glancing at it, he just pushed it into his pocket again.

  “Not congratulations, after all,” he said.

  “Just business?” She was not really curious, but the question came quite naturally.

  “No.” There was a short pause. “It’s from Marta, as a matter of fact.”

  “Marta!” It was as though a warning gong had sounded in her
brain. Something which gave her the same thrill of fear as a fire-alarm or an ambulance-bell. “I didn’t know Marta knew we were being married.”

  “She didn’t. It’s a cable from New York. She’s on her way home.”

  Ariane didn’t say anything. She stared hard at the table. He mustn’t think she was surprised or curious. It was the kind of crisis in which she must show her coolness and tact. She didn’t want him to feel she thought she had a right to see that message from Marta.

  Apparently, however, he did feel so, because, after a second or two, he drew the crumpled telegram out of his pocket again.

  “You can see it if you like. It means nothing at all now. And you’ve every right to see it.” He jerked out the words doggedly, and she saw that the sheet of paper was shaking very slightly as he spread it out in front of her.

  She understood why. She was shaking a little too as she read the printed words.

  “On my way home, darling. Everything here a washout. Meet me Heathrow Thursday, 4 pm. All my love.

  Marta.”

  CHAPTER XII

  Ariane didn’t raise her eyes for a moment.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Her voice sounded extraordinarily calm and matter-of-fact.

  “Do? Nothing, of course. What did you think I should do?”

  “I don’t know. If she’s expecting you, it’s a little—odd, I suppose, to do nothing at all.”

  “Oh no. She’s probably sent the same wire to half a dozen other men. Some of them are bound to turn up.” His voice was hard and ironical.

  She laughed faintly at that, but there was no answering laugh from him.

  And then suddenly Ariane knew that if anything were to be done about this crisis it must be she herself who did it. He was past handling the situation. It was simply there like a deadweight between them, forcing them apart, just when she had dared to hope that things were going to be all right.

  She looked up. He was gazing abstractedly out of the window, that dark, slightly sullen look showing the degree of strain.

  “Harvey—”

  His eyes came back to her face.

  “We didn’t expect to come up against it so soon, of course, but it was a situation we knew we should have to face sometime.” She wondered whether he were resenting the “we,” but it was too late to take it back now. “Don’t think I don’t know it’s ghastly for you, but once this is over, you’ll see ahead much more clearly. It would always have been there, you know, as a vague cloud in the future and—”