Love Him or Leave Him

by Mary Burchell

  It was going to be very difficult—perhaps impossible—to balance between saying nothing and telling everything.

  Once more, she veered round to the idea of leaving things as they were.

  He was staying only one day more. A casual meeting was almost out of the question. And to seek him out specially, in order to make accusations against Deborah, was really more than she could undertake.

  Perhaps, if a chance presented itself—Perhaps, if she thought of a not too brutal way of doing it—

  Anne’s plans and thoughts began to become a little hazy and confused. And presently, without having made any real decision, she lay down and slept.

  The next morning dawned so clear and bright that, long before Anne’s usual hour for Sunday rising, the sun had woken her and tempted her from bed.

  She dressed quickly and went quietly downstairs, so as not to wake Mrs. Thurber. Then, after a glass of milk and a word with Horatio, Mrs. Thurber’s superior black cat, she let herself out of the cottage into the radiant, dew-spangled beauty of the early morning.

  Anne was not quite sure what sentimental impulse moved her to do so, but, without hesitation, she turned her steps in the direction of Loughrigg Fell, and the path where she had met David on that first morning walk she had taken so many weeks ago.

  The subtle change in the landscape, from late spring to first faint breath of early autumn, imparted a certain difference to the experience. But so clearly did each turn of the path recall her previous visit that she almost recaptured her previous feelings, too, and remembered for a moment how angry she had felt with him, and how ardently she had wished that anyone other than the odious Mr. Jerome should have rescued her from her precarious position on the hillside.

  How strange a thing was human nature, thought Anne, in quite philosophical mood. How quickly and completely one could change. If anyone had told her, on that morning, that one day she would be deeply and romantically in love with David Jerome she would have laughed the idea to scorn.

  Possibly there would come a time when she would look back on the present day, and smile to think that she had once loved him. Time, as Miss Haskin so solemnly observed, was a great factor. Possibly the very fact that she could even think of such a thing was proof that the first release from bondage—the first move towards a different and happier connection—was already taking place. Possibly when she next saw him, the pain and the excitement would be less—

  And then he came striding round a turn in the path—to confound all these possibilities, and make nonsense of them. Because, at the very sight of him, her heart gave a great leap, and then began to beat in an absurd, uncontrolled way.

  He seemed almost startled to see her, and exclaimed:

  ‘Hello! What made you choose this path this morning?’

  ‘I don’t—really know.’ The knowledge that this was not quite true raised her colour. ‘It’s—it’s a favourite walk of mine.’

  ‘Then I’m glad I chose it too. Are you going to walk on a little farther?’

  ‘Yes—no—At least—’

  ‘Because, if so, I’ll walk with you.’ And he turned and fell into step beside her.

  ‘I thought—I’d walk to the top of the next rise,’ she explained, hurriedly rearranging any vague plans she had had.

  ‘Good. The view from there is wonderful this morning. Then we can take the side path down into the village, unless you’re in any hurry to get home for breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, no. Breakfast isn’t very early on Sundays.’

  ‘Are you comfortable at Mrs. Thurber’s?’

  She was surprised that he actually remembered the name of her landlady.

  ‘Yes, very, thank you. I like her immensely.’

  ‘And you’re happy in your office? Robin’s office, I mean.’

  ‘Yes—certainly.’

  ‘Happier than under your more familiar tyrant?’ he inquired, with a laugh.

  ‘I was very happy working for you,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Oh, come! You had to reprimand me personally, if you remember,’ he teased her.

  She flushed.

  ‘I meant—after that. While you were here. At least, until—’ She stopped, dismayed and surprised that they had arrived back at the perennial topic so quickly.

  ‘Yes, I wanted to speak to you about that,’ he put in coolly. ‘That’s one reason why I’m glad I met you this morning. There was very little chance to talk last night, and I’m afraid that my plain and unvarnished injunction not to worry couldn’t have had much effect upon you.’

  She smiled slightly.

  ‘No, it didn’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s natural. As I think you said yourself, I probably shouldn’t think much of you, if you did manage to dismiss the whole incident lightheartedly. What I’m anxious to make clear to you is that’—he hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully—‘I don’t believe you were at all responsible for what happened.’

  She caught her breath.

  ‘I—wasn’t, as a matter of fact,’ she said, in a rather strangled voice. ‘But I wonder what made you say that.’

  He glanced at her sharply.

  They had reached the top of the rise by now, and, by common impulse, they stopped and turned to face each other.

  ‘And I wonder what made you say that,’ he returned.

  She took a deep breath. Here was her chance. Here was the unlooked-for opportunity of saying something to him about her discovery. She had not forced the issue. She owed nothing to Deborah. And, judging by his rather enigmatic words, he had some sort of suspicions himself. There was no reason at all why she should not speak.

  ‘After I left last night, I had a chance to—think things over.’ For the moment, she thought, it was better not to say that she had a chance to talk things over. ‘When my mind was clear, I recollected, beyond all doubt, putting the letter and its enclosures into the envelope and sticking the envelope down. There was no possibility of mistake. No other paper was on my desk. Then—I was called away. The fastened envelope was left for five or ten minutes. I’m sorry, but I can’t help knowing that someone who wished me ill deliberately abstracted the letter and put in blank paper instead.’

  ‘I see’—he nodded thoughtfully, making no attempt to exclaim or query her peculiar theory. ‘So that was how it was done.’

  ‘Yes. Then the whole incident appeared to fade out. No one expected it to be recalled, until you appeared yesterday with the information that you’ve discovered something further.’

  ‘Yes, I argued that bit out myself,’ he agreed. ‘And at that point, she panicked a little, and put the papers into the drawer.’

  Anne stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘You—know?’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘You know that—Deborah did it?’

  ‘Certainly I know,’ he replied coolly. ‘Why else do you suppose I insisted on your keeping silence?’

  For a moment it seemed to Anne that the world tipped away from reality, and then settled down again, with a shock which brought all her sense into focus at last.

  Of course! He had demanded silence in order to shield someone.

  But the someone was not herself. It was Deborah.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Somehow, I never thought of your—knowing about Deborah,’ she said, almost coldly. ‘I imagined you had some—some rather quixotic idea of shielding me from the consequences of my carelessness.’

  ‘Yes, I realised that was what you thought.’ He smiled slightly. ‘You should have remembered that I’m not given to quixotic impulses, and that that could hardly be the explanation.’

  ‘I shall remember in future,’ she said, trying to make her tone light and casual, instead of resentful. Then she turned and began to walk homeward.

  He caught up with her almost immediately, though her sudden move appeared to take him rather by surprise.

  ‘You realise that silence about this is still imperative?’ he said, quite curtly.

  She tho
ught ‘imperative’ was an arrogant choice of word, in the circumstances, and nearly said so. Why was it imperative that she should agree to shield Deborah? she wondered resentfully. Her fault had not even been one of mere carelessness. It had been a cruel and disgraceful act.

  It would have been more gracious of him, to say the least of it, if he had asked her to remain silent about Deborah’s behaviour.

  ‘You needn’t worry,’ she told him shortly. ‘I shan’t say anything to anyone.’

  ‘Good,’ was David’s comment.

  But he did not even add any thanks. And she thought the less of him for it.

  They walked in silence for some minutes. He, presumably, reviewing the situation, now that he had dealt with any danger points. And she reluctantly digesting the fact that, with full knowledge of Deborah’s perfidy, he still thought only of protecting her from the consequences of her action.

  To Anne, the realisation was both disappointing and disillusioning.

  That he should stand by his fiancée and believe in her as long as possible was only right and proper. But that he should accept this disgraceful behaviour almost as a matter of course, and have nothing to say to the victim of it but that she must remain silent, was quite another matter. It argued a very wrong sense of values.

  He must really love Deborah very much indeed, Anne thought wonderingly. But that was no excuse for his apparently expecting all standards of right and wrong to give way before the necessity of protecting her. There were certain things one really must not do, even for the sake of the people one loved.

  ‘I’m sorry you had that unpleasant shock last night. There wasn’t either time or opportunity to explain.’

  His voice broke in on her thoughts suddenly, and she realised that he was at any rate voicing some sort of regret at last. But even the form of that secretly annoyed her. For she thought it disingenuous of him to plead lack of time and opportunity. What had really dictated his attitude had been the fact that he thought she would refuse, on the spur of the moment, to keep silent on Deborah’s behalf.

  ‘It certainly was very unpleasant,’ she said dryly. And reflected, with dismay, that she was talking to David as though to a stranger.

  She struggled to bring something more friendly into her voice when, a little later, she asked:

  ‘How did you know? That it was Deborah, I mean.’

  He frowned slightly, and she gathered that he was not very anxious to discuss the matter. But he owed her that at least, she thought indignantly. And apparently, on reflection, he thought so too. At any rate, he said:

  ‘I had my suspicions even before I went to Firth & Farraday. As soon as I heard about the blank paper I knew that—unless I accepted the idea of your being either utterly foolish or utterly incompetent, and I accepted neither—someone must have made a deliberate substitution. The choice of suspect was a very narrow one. I decided to come here for the weekend, and see if the announcement of my discovery at Firth & Farraday’s would bring any results.’

  ‘And when Deborah suggested that I’d confused the papers, for a moment you thought that might be the explanation, didn’t you?’

  ‘For a moment,’ he agreed. ‘But when Deborah goaded you to go and look in the drawer, I felt almost sure that my original suspicions were correct. That’s why I followed you.’ Secretly, she marvelled that he could speak so coolly of Deborah’s behaviour.

  ‘And when I saw the papers, I knew I’d been right,’ he concluded, almost carelessly.

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because they were folded, you know. The crease marks were still perfectly plain. They had been folded and pressed flat, in order to insert them in an envelope. I knew then that any talk about your having made a muddle was so much camouflage. The papers had been in their envelope once. Someone must have taken them out deliberately. The circle of suspects inevitably narrowed down to the one who had made the suggestion about the drawer, and shown almost unnatural anxiety to have a search made.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  Anne almost added: ‘Are you still in love with her? Doesn’t this make any sort of difference to your feelings?’ But she had kept her dignity and temper so far, and they had almost reached the place where their ways parted. She would not spoil everything now by voicing her scorn and disapproval.

  She did, however, permit herself to ask:

  ‘And have you said nothing to her?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Well’—she made a little gesture of incomprehension—‘in a sense, I suppose it’s more your business than mine now.’

  ‘Yes, Anne,’ he said sombrely. ‘It is. But I’m going to ask you to do something to help me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  They had stopped again, for they had come to the point where she had to branch off towards the cottage, and she faced him gravely.

  ‘I want you to call in casually at Greenslade this afternoon. Come in to tea or—’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t! I’m sorry.’ The colour rushed into her face, with the intensity of her feelings. ‘I really couldn’t accept Deborah’s hospitality again. I—I don’t even want to have to sit in the same room with her.’

  David took her hand.

  ‘Believe me, I do understand your feelings,’ he said, extraordinarily gently for him. ‘But it’s very important.’

  ‘For you?’ she asked, rather sadly.

  ‘So important for me,’ he told her, with a slight smile, ‘that I couldn’t even begin to tell how much just now. Perhaps—another time.’

  She hated the very thought of crossing the threshold of Greenslade again. But he had never made a direct appeal to her before, and it was not in her to say ‘no’ to him this once.

  ‘All right.’ She spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘Good girl. Thank you,’ he said.

  Then he let go her hand, and they went their separate ways.

  The moment she left him, Anne wished she had not agreed to his request. No possible good could come of seeing Deborah again, and the very thought of having to be even reasonably polite to her was distasteful.

  Whatever David had in mind, she could not help feeling, judging from his attitude that morning, it could concern only Deborah’s interests. And to ask her to minister to those was verging on impertinence.

  If she had not already gone too far, Anne would have returned to tell him that, after all, she refused to spend an uncomfortable afternoon on Deborah’s behalf. But, when she looked back, he was already out of sight, hidden by a high hedge. And she could only continue on her way, despising herself for not having been able to say ‘no’ to the man she loved, even over so unreasonable a request as this.

  Anne arrived back at Mrs. Thurber’s in anything but a serene mood. But an excellent breakfast, and Mrs. Thurber’s soothing manner (perfected over the years with the difficult Mr. Thurber), soon restored her good humour. She still felt extremely vexed over the thought of her visit to Greenslade. But at the back of her mind there lingered a sort of melancholy—though quite unwarranted—pleasure in the thought that she would at least see David once more.

  ‘And after that,’ she told herself sternly, ‘you must simply put him out of your mind. He belongs to Deborah, however odious she may be, and he’s clearly demonstrated that he wants things that way.’

  She had hardly finished her breakfast before Robin arrived.

  It was an unexpected call, for his parting words the previous night had been that he would see her on Monday. But, as he explained, it was too nice a day to spend indoors, and he suggested that they should go for a drive round Windermere.

  ‘There’s a very nice old inn, not far from Newby Bridge,’ Robin said. ‘They do a good lunch there. We might stop, and then come home at our leisure in the afternoon.’

  The thought of spending the waiting hours in Robin’s easy, undemanding company was very acceptable, and Anne agreed with alacrity.

  ‘But I promised to look in for tea at Greenslade,’
she told him, ‘so we mustn’t be too late back.’

  ‘All right.’ He looked rather surprised. ‘Whom did you promise? Deborah?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ She spoke so emphatically that he looked amused, and she felt bound to add: ‘David asked me.’

  ‘I see,’ Robin said. And, at the time, he left it at that. Only later, when they were driving past the gleaming waters of Windermere, and she was completely absorbed in the beauties of Belle Isle, he said, without any preparation:

  ‘You’re very fond of David, aren’t you?’

  Immediately all her interest in mere scenery vanished. She turned to look at him, her expression both startled and protesting.

  ‘Robin, what an extraordinary thing to say! I like him very much as an employer, of course—’

  ‘I didn’t mean as an employer.’

  ‘But it isn’t really—your business to mean anything else, is it?’

  ‘No. Except in so far as I should like to make any interest of yours in another man my business.’

  ‘O-oh.’ Dismayed comprehension sounded in that, and for a moment they were both silent.

  Then, because she saw that she owed him some sort of explanation, she said, in a low voice:

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Robin, but you see—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted, ‘don’t say anything final yet. I’ve known, of course, for some time, that you and I haven’t been getting any closer—’

  ‘Robin, please don’t think I like you any less than I always did—which is a great deal!’

  ‘Thank you, dear. I think I knew that too. But the operative word is “like”, and I’m well aware of it. Without being a specially conceited sort of fellow, I can’t help knowing that, except for some sort of competition somewhere, I might very well have made the grade with you. You mustn’t mind that I guessed the rival competitor was David—’