Love Him or Leave Him

by Mary Burchell

  ‘But you said so!’ interrupted Anne reproachfully. ‘At least—no, you didn’t actually say so. But you ordered me to be silent about the whole affair. You said it was imperative that I should—’ Her voice trembled angrily on the offending word. ‘What were you doing then but looking after the interests of the girl you loved?’

  He listened to her outburst with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Yes, I was certainly doing that,’ he agreed, and a sudden flash of humour lit his dark face. ‘But that was not Deborah. When I said it was wiser—’

  ‘Imperative,’ she corrected firmly.

  ‘—Imperative—did I really use such an arrogant word? I’m sorry. When I said it was imperative that we remained silent about what had happened, I didn’t mean indefinitely, you goose. I meant that, if Deborah were put on her guard by any half-revelations beforehand, we couldn’t hope to startle her into giving herself away. And, until she gave herself away, I had no firm ground on which to accuse her. Nothing to justify my contention that I couldn’t any longer even think of marrying her.’

  There was such an odd note in his voice that Anne turned her head and looked at him.

  ‘You sound almost as though you—hate her,’ she said curiously.

  He bit his lip.

  ‘Anne dear, no man wants to ingratiate himself with one girl by running down another, particularly if he’s been engaged to the first one. But this I can say: if ever I really loved Deborah, which I rather doubt, I’d stopped doing so even before you came here. I think I was prepared to go on with what I’d undertaken, until that day you came to me when I was ill and offered to work for me—’

  ‘Wait a moment!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t remember Deborah doing anything special that day. Oh—except that she was angry about my working for you at all.’

  ‘It was nothing Deborah herself did,’ he told her dryly. ‘It was simply that I fell in love with you that day.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Anne cried incredulously.

  ‘You’re going to have to,’ he said, running an indulgent finger down her flushed cheek. ‘If you insist on giving me the reputation for ruthlessness, I’ll live up to it in this respect at least.’

  And, drawing her close against him suddenly, he kissed her full on her mouth, in a way that made Anne forget any light and casual kisses she had ever known before.

  ‘David!’ She was half enchanted, half shocked. But at least she kissed him back again before he released her. ‘I never imagined. But why didn’t you break it off with Deborah then?’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘That you—loved me.’

  ‘Do you think Deborah would have let that go uncontested?’ he asked dryly. ‘Or have hesitated to injure you in every way she could? Besides, for a while, I was almost sure that you were sweet on Robin.’

  ‘Oh, David!’ she protested. Then, remembering that this was not such an unreasonable supposition, after all, she added: ‘Of course I like Robin immensely. He’s so kind, easy and—’

  ‘Please don’t enlarge on his virtues any further, darling,’ David interrupted. ‘I’m a rather jealous man myself.’ But he smiled at her as he said that, and she marvelled at the way his firm, almost hard, mouth could soften.

  ‘Tell me’—and suddenly she drew against him, shyly but with a sort of eager confidence—‘did you guess, after a while, that I—loved you?’

  He put his arm round her.

  ‘My darling, for the first time in my life, I felt horribly diffident and unsure of myself—’

  ‘You didn’t behave that way a bit,’ she put in.

  ‘Well, I had to keep up some sort of appearance. Maybe I overdid things rather, in my anxiety,’ he conceded. ‘I was feeling a good deal of a skunk about Deborah at that time, remember. It was not her fault that I’d fallen out of love with her. And though I knew I could never bring myself to marry her, it wasn’t very nice trying to decide how I was going to break that to her. I knew by then that her actual feelings were not very deeply involved—’

  ‘Do you really think that?’ Anne glanced at him doubtfully. ‘I can’t help thinking that perhaps they were. And that was—well, not exactly an excuse, but a reason, for what she did.’

  He shook his head, and for a moment his mouth assumed that hard line which always slightly scared her.

  ‘There’s been some plain speaking since you left Greenslade this afternoon,’ he said grimly. ‘I don’t think it’s to the advantage of any of us to repeat or remember it, more than can be helped. But you may take it from me, my dear, that Deborah’s heart has not been broken. Only her pride and ambition have suffered.’

  Anne was silent for a few moments. Then she said:

  ‘I wish she didn’t hate me so much. It’s horrible to be hated like that, even by Deborah.’

  ‘She doesn’t actually hate you,’ he replied, almost carelessly. ‘It was merely that you stood in her way, and she used any weapon to her hand, in an attempt to remove you. Real hate argues real love. I doubt if Deborah is capable of either.’

  Anne gave an uncomfortable little laugh.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. She’s a strange girl.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about her any more?’ David asked, with a smile. And Anne laughed again—not uncomfortably that time—and said:

  ‘No, I suppose there are nicer subjects.’

  ‘For instance—when are you going to marry me?’

  ‘Oh!’ She looked at him. ‘I thought you wanted me to be your secretary.’

  ‘Not in the least! I have a highly efficient young woman, who’s rapidly training me to her satisfaction.’

  ‘But you asked me to be your secretary this afternoon.’

  ‘Darling, I’m asking you to be my wife this evening,’ he replied, with amused exasperation. ‘And the first request was made in order to provoke the scene I wanted, but the second request just means exactly what the words say. Anne, will you marry me?’

  He took hold of her gently and turned her to face him, and, though all the amusement had left his face and it was perfectly serious—even anxious—there was no hint of the hardness which had once seemed to her associated with him.

  ‘I love you, and I’ll be good to you, my darling. You said just now that I’m ruthless—’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it, really.’ Suddenly she flung her arms round his neck, and pressed her cheek against his. ‘At least, I know it isn’t true. Not where I am concerned, anyway. You’ve been so good to me, David, during the last few months—so kind and understanding. I just thought, this morning, that you were sweeping me aside for Deborah’s interests. But I see now that you weren’t thinking of anything but my happiness—’

  ‘And mine,’ he felt bound to add, perhaps a little uncomfortable beneath this unfamiliar halo. ‘But your happiness is mine, Anne dear. I found that out at last. I can’t be happy unless you are. I suppose that was why I was willing to let you go to Robin, if it was he you really wanted.’

  She tipped back her head, with her arms still round him, and gazed at him incredulously.

  ‘Would you really have let me go to Robin, if you thought that would make me happy?’

  He kissed her, and said:

  ‘Do I have to answer that one? I don’t honestly know. I thought I would. But, now I’ve held you in my arms, I’m not sure that anything would have made me let you go to someone else.’

  She laughed, and hid her face against his shoulder, satisfied by that.

  For a moment she was silent, sparing a momentary thought for Robin, hoping from the bottom of her heart that he had not loved her long enough to be permanently hurt by the loss of her, and that one day he would know something of the happiness which was hers now.

  ‘You haven’t answered me yet, you know,’ David said, with his lips close to her ear.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t need saying, does it? I love you and I’ll marry you any time you say.’

  ‘Forgetting that everyone fears and dislikes me,’ he quoted tea
singly, ‘and that I am—what was it?—unkind, arrogant and unreasonable.’

  ‘Oh, David! If you ever again repeat that ridiculous speech of mine, I’ll—I’ll begin to think there was some truth in it,’ Anne said.

  He was laughing and kissing her for that when they became aware of voices in the hall.

  ‘No,’ Mrs. Thurber was saying, in an agitated whisper, ‘I don’t think you should interrupt them just now. They seem to have a great deal to say to each other.’

  ‘I also have a great deal to say,’ Miss Haskin’s rich tones replied. ‘David Jerome is leaving here tonight. And before he goes, he must hear what I have to say.’

  The slight scuffle suggested that Mrs. Thurber was literally swept aside, and then came a tap on the door, reminiscent of a demand for entrance in the name of the Law.

  ‘Come in,’ Anne called. But Miss Haskin was already in the room, brought up short, however, by the sight of Anne and David Jerome sitting there with their arms round each other.

  ‘Oh—’ she said. ‘Oh—’ And, for once, she appeared to be entirely deprived of speech.

  ‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Miss Haskin?’ David released Anne and got to his feet.

  Miss Haskin rubbed the bridge of her nose with a reflective forefinger.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded reluctantly, ‘what I had to say has already been said. And more tellingly than I could have put it.’

  ‘That’s possible, of course.’ David smiled at her. ‘But there is something you can say, if you feel so inclined. And that is that you approve of Anne’s marrying me.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed I do!’ Miss Haskin wrung his hand, and Mrs. Thurber was called in to add her congratulations.

  She showed a disposition to weep enjoyably, which prompted Miss Haskin to observe sharply that this was an occasion for rejoicing, not mourning.

  But Anne kissed Mrs. Thurber understandingly, and submitted to a manly handshake from Miss Haskin, and good wishes floated about the parlour like butterflies on a summer afternoon.

  Miss Haskin would willingly have stayed and heard the whole story of Deborah’s discomfiture and Anne’s triumph. But, for once, Mrs. Thurber took the initiative and pulled at her sleeve, and whispered:

  ‘They have so little time. We must leave them.’

  Miss Haskin frowned, and said: Of course. I was just about to say so.’

  And, vying with each other in tact, both ladies withdrew, Mrs. Thurber remarking that they reminded her so exactly of herself and Mr. Thurber at that age, while Miss Haskin contributed a resounding murmur of: ‘Ah, youth, youth!’ as a sort of ground bass.

  ‘That’s the highest compliment dear little Mrs. Thurber could pay you,’ Anne told David. ‘She thinks you’re masterful and like her late husband.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ David said absently, taking her in his arms again.

  ‘He drank, and, I think, knocked her about,’ observed Anne demurely. At which David laughed and shook her.

  ‘No wonder, if Mrs. Thurber used to be as provoking as you,’ he retorted. ‘How soon can you follow me to London, darling?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it will be as soon as ever I can. Thank goodness this is only a temporary job.’ And she hugged him childishly.

  He glanced down at her with an indulgent smile.

  ‘Well, your next job is permanent, and don’t you forget it,’ he said, as he bent his head to kiss her.

  ‘I shan’t,’ Anne promised. And then, because there was still a good deal of spirit left in her, added: ‘And please to remember, Mr. Jerome, it was you who did the sacking before.’

  ‘And ever since I did, I’ve wanted you back,’ he admitted. ‘No man needs that warning twice.’