by Anne Weale
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CLARE sat on the edge of her bed and pressed the palms ; of her hands against her aching forehead. The first pale light of dawn was filtering through the window and the hands of the alarm clock showed a quarter-past six. All night she had lain sleepless, racked with misery and humiliation. Twice she had flung back the tumbled bedclothes with the intention of packing her things and leaving before the rest of the household was up, ,and then the remnants of common sense had told her that such an action would be foolishly impetuous, for the first bus did - not leave the village until ten o'clock and she could not walk the five miles to Greensfaithe Halt in pitch darkness with a heavy suitcase to carry. Now, shivering with fatigue, she pulled on slacks and a sweater and crept downstairs, feeling that if she had to stay in the bedroom for another hour she would go mad. Josh scrambled out of his basket as she entered the kitchen, and when she had unlocked the back door he pushed past her and bounded into the garden. The early morning air was blessedly cool and fresh, and as she went out by the little wicket-gate and began to walk along the towpath the ghastly feeling of suffocation dissipated By the time she had reached the dyke her headache had eased and she was able to think more clearly. One thing was certain. She would not stay at Creek House an hour longer than was necessary, for from now on there could be nothing but bitter animosity between herself and-David Lancaster. A wave of repugnance swept over her. What a fool she had been: what a blind fool to think herself in love with him. It had, been nothing more than a compelling physical attraction to which she had succumbed with a readiness which, now filled her with self-loathing. 155 As for David, he did not know the meaning of love. Reaching the bend in the dyke, she sat down on a boulder and gazed moodily across the deserted mudflats. Perhaps it was better this way. The denouement would have come sooner or later, and now she could leave and pick up the threads of her old life and try to forget the whole shaming interlude. He would scarcely have the face to quibble when she gave him immediate notice, and by this time next week she would be back in London with nothing tangible to remind her that, at twenty-six, she had lost her head like an infatuated schoolgirl. Something warm brushed her leg, and looking down she saw Josh sitting beside her, his doleful brown eyes fixed on her face as if he sensed that she was in trouble and was offering mute sympathy. She fondled his silky ears and he gave a little wheeze of pleasure and licked her wrist with his rough pink tongue. "Oh, Josh, it isn't true! None of it is true. I still love him dreadfully. I shall always love him. Oh, what am I to do?" With a despairing sob she slid down beside the old dog and buried her face in his neck. This was the very nadir of her degradation: that while her mind recoiled in disgust from the idea of loving where love was not wanted, in the innermost core of her heart the flame of love continued to bum. However much she might try to convince herself that love had turned to hate, a small voice inside her persisted that it was all a poor pretence, that love, once given, can never be retrieved. How can I go on loving him when all he feels for me is contempt and mistrust, she thought bitterly. Even now, if he came and asked my forgiveness I would give it to him. But he won't. He would never beg forgiveness of anyone. And he has never really loved me, for with love there is trust and he does not trust any woman. 156 Yet how could he think that I would go straight from his arms to Paul's? Oh, if only he had not promised to dance with that wretched woman none of this would have happened. Today would have been the happiest day of my life, and instead it is the most wretched. Oh, David, my darling, how can I put you out of my thoughts when every time I close my eyes I see your face and hear the echo of your voice and ache for the touch of your hand? How can I face the future knowing that I shall never see you again, and that every day will be a dreary void without purpose or meaning? The first gleam of sunlight was prickling through the early haze when at last she struggled to her feet and began to walk back to the house. Hilda was just coming downstairs as she went indoors, and with a muttered greeting dare hurried past her. She was making her bed when there was a tap at the door and Jenny appeared. "Well, was it lovely? Did you enjoy yourself? Did you have champagne? Who did you dance with?" she asked | excitedly. j^ dare was obliged to give an account of the ball, al^ thought she found it difficult to simulate the enthusiasm fe Jenny obviously expected. Most of the details seemed |||. to have been blotted out of her mind by that frightfuf g? scene in the rose-garden. yi^ She had forgotten that Tod and Annabel Harker were in the house, and breakfast was an ordeal, for the three ;?@ children were insatiable in their durst for a minute-by':"|@fe i minute description of the festivities. :^^ The one respite was that David did not appear at the r^; table. Hilda said he had left a note that he would be out -w'' on the marsh until midday. -e^. "Though what he's up to when he didn't get to bed ^ ;... until three is beyond me," she added in a mystified tone. ; t%; After breakfast Jenny accompanied the young Harkers :. back to the caravan and Clare went into the study. She 157 felt dog-fared and longed to go back to bed, but she knew that if she did so she would probably sleep the clock round, and that was impossible. She had to see David as soon as he returned. She was stanng dully at the typewriter keys when there was a sound by the window and looking up she saw JLO.UL They stared at each other for a moment, and then he dare"^ voice' "May 1 speak to you for a moment' Her instinctive reaction was to beg him to go away and leave her in peace, but something in his face checked her and she said listlessly, "Yes, of course." He swung himself over the window-sill, and she remembered how he had done the same thing on her first day , at Creek House. How long ago it seemed. _'I've come to apologise for last night," he said after a difficult pause. "I don't expect you to forgive me-I behaved hke a brute-but I want you to know that I am honestly sorry," lij1?3" nght' P3"1-,,1 know vou didn't mean to be hke that. Let's forget it," she said as casually as possible "I can't forget it," he said in a strained voice. "I haven t slept all night for thinking about it. Oh, I know its no excuse to say that I had had too much to drinkthere isn t any excuse for my behaviour@but I'm deeply ashamed; and if there was any way in which I could prove it. . . ." He broke off abruptly and then said "I'll @ go now. You must be very tired. I won't bother you again." ' "Paul. .. wait!" "Yes?" He looked at her enquiringly and she saw how haggard he was. There were dark shadows under hi^ eyes, and the angle of his jaw was badly bruised. _ "Don't go like that," she said quickly. "Of course I forgive you. It wasn't so terribly wicked. You were 158 a little gay ... and you kissed me. It isn't the end of the world.. Please don't feel so badly about it." He stared at her in genuine amazement. "You mean you don't hate me?" "Of course not. How could I? We've always been good friends. Come, let's forget it happened." She held out her hand to him. With a hesitance that was curiously moving, he took it in his. "You're an angel," he said huskily. "Any other girl@@" "You promised to forget it," she reminded him. @'It isn't easy to forget you've hurt someone whom . . . whom you love. No, don't draw back like that, my dearest. I must say this. I was tight last night, but not so tight that I didn't know what I was saying. I asked you to marry me, and I meant it. God knows I've no right to say this to you now, but I can't bottle it up any longer. For the first time in my life I've fallen in love@with you, dare. I didn't believe there was such a thing as love until you came here, and every time we met I felt something strange happening to me. I know I'm not much of a man, but with you to help me I could make something of my life even now. I'd look after you, Clare, I'd give you everything you wanted. We could be very happy together. Will you . . . think it over, my dear?" His sincerity was unmistakable, and the look in his eyes was very different from the old teasing admiration. How ironic, she thought. He is offering me all the things I long for@tenderness and comfort and love. But because he is the wrong man they are meaningless. "Paul ... I don't know how to answer you," she said uncertainly. "I'm very honoured that you should want to marry me, and I'm very fond of you, but@@" "But you don't love me?" he prompted gently. "I know that, dare. But I think in time you might come to 159 do so, and until then I wouldn't as
k anything that you were not ready to give." ..,@,-, @T@ "You don't understand," she said miserably. It wouldn't be fair to marry you on that basis, knowing that I could never give you more than affection." "Never?" he asked quietly. She shook her head. "No, never." He let go of her hand and turned away. "You're in love with David, aren't you?" She did not answer, and he swung round and took her gently by the shoulders. "Aren't you, Clare?" Her face contracted with pain and he held her against him, stroking her hair with infinite compassion. "My poor darling, I should have guessed it." "He doesn't love me," she said hollowly. "But how could I marry you when@@" She could not finish the sentence."You can't spend the rest of your life alone, he said softly. "We could go away on a long cruise. You've often said you would like to travel. In time you'd forget him. You trust me, don't you? You know I wouldn't force myself on you?""Oh, Paul, I'm so confused. So terribly muddled. Give me time to think. I'm so tired I hardly know what I'm saying," she begged. He dropped a light kiss on her hair. "I'm sorry, my sweet," he said contritely. "You must be worn out. I'll leave you in peace till tomorrow. Just remember that I love you very much, will you?"When he had gone she sank into the leather arm-chair and closed her eyes. What a hopeless tangle it was! That Paul, the supposedly incorrigible rake, should have fallen in love with her at the very time when she was breaking her heart over David was the finishing touch. Why did this thing called love have to make fools of everyone? Now Paul would suffer the tortures that she was already enduring. 160 He had said he did not expect her to love him, but could a marriage succeed without love? .Surely the tune would come when he would grow restive and dissatisfied. He had so much to offer and she so little. As his wife she would have everything a woman could want, and what could she give in return? Nothing but affectionate companionship, a poor substitute for the bright fire of love. In any case, marriage to Paul would mean living at the Hall, and in such a small community it would be impossible to avoid occasional meetings with David. She shrank from the thought. No, it was madness even to consider such a step. If she had not been so upset and weary she would have told him at once that she could never marry him instead of heartlessly raising his hopes by pleading for time to think it over. To what depths had she -sunk that she could be tempted by the prospect of material security? She must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes Penny Conyers was bending over her. "Hallo. I'm sorry if I startled you. I came through the kitchen, and Hilda asked me to bring in your elevenses." "Thank you." dare took the cup of coffee which Penny handed to her. "You look very wide awake," she said. "I can hardly keep my eyes open." "M'm, I felt a bit bleary-eyed earlier on, but it seems to have worn off. I shall probably have a rest this afternoon. Well, what did you think of the ball?" "It... was great fun," dare said carefully. "I didn't see much of you after the first hour or so. What time did you leave?" "Oh, about two o'clock." Clare shied from remembering the drive home, with Miss Lancaster chattering gaily and David and herself wrapped in dreadful silence. She had no clear recollection of what had happened between the scene in the rose-garden and their departure. She remembered danc ing with several people whose faces had appeared oddly blurred, but that was all. "Did you enjoy yourself?" she asked Penny. "Yes, it was wonderful," Penny said brightly, and then, to dare's horror, her face puckered up and she burst into tears. "Penny! What on earth is the matter?" dare cried, springing up and putting her arms round the younger girl. "Nothing. Nothing at all," Penny sobbed, fumbling for a handkerchief. "It's just me. I'm such an idiot." dare waited until her sobs had subsided a little and men she said gently, "Something has happened to upset you. Can't you tell me what it is?" Penny blew her nose and wiped her eyes. "I love him so much, dare. I have done for years ever since I was quite little. Last night I thought that it would all be different, that he'd notice me and treat me like a woman instead of a child. But it wasn't different at all. He hardly spoke to me." "Who, Penny? Who are you talking about?" "Why, Paul, of course." So she had been right. Penny was in love with Paul. dare's heart was wrung with pity for her. "Are you sure you love him?" she asked. "He's so much older than you are, dear." "I know," Penny said disconsolately. She had stopped crying, but her expression was infinitely forlorn. "I know it's absurd. We have nothing in common, and he will never look at me. But it doesn't stop me loving him. You can't stop loving people however hopeless it is." She sighed and straightened her drooping shoulders. "I'm sorry. I don't know what made me blurt it all out like that." A wry smile flickered across her mouth. "You know, when you first came here, I was terribly jealous. I knew that Paul was attracted to you, and I felt I couldn't bear to watch. Then I guessed that you were ., 162 in love with David, and I thought that perhaps there was still a faint chance for me. It was crazy of course, because Paul doesn't know I exist. How he'd laugh if he knew the way I feel." "What do you mean, you guessed that I was in love with David?" Clare asked quickly. "When you're m love yourself it makes you more sensitive to other people's feelings," Penny said gently. "It isn't going very well for you either, is it?" Clare bit her Up. "No." Penny sighed. "How much easier life would be if we didn't have hearts," she said sadly. "I suppose we had better drink the coffee or it will be cold." "How did you know that . . . that it wasn't going well for me?" Clare asked. "Because I've known David for so long. Loving him could never be easy. Ever since that girl jilted him@I expect you knew about that, didn't you?@he's walled himself up and never allowed anyone to get really close to him. I thought you might be the one to break down the barrier he puts round himself, but perhaps he's lost the capacity to love anyone again. Bitterness is a frightful thing. It eats into you, and I think that's what has happened to him." dare drank the tepid coffee. And now I, too, am in danger of growing bitter, she thought wretchedly. "I must go. Father wants his lunch early today," Penny said. "There's one advantage m being the Vicar's daughter. It doesn't leave one time to sit about brooding. Good-bye, Clare, forgive me for burdening you with my troubles." dare saw her to the door and then took the coffee cups to the kitchen. "Here comes Mr. David," Hilda said, glancing out of the window. "Now he'll want a hot drink, I suppose. Going without his breakfast after all those shenanigans up at the Hall last night! I never heard of such nonsense!" 163 dare braced herself. This is it, she thought. I must get it over. The longer I delay, the worse it will be. As she went into the hall, David came through the garden door. His hair was tousled and he had not shaved. "May I speak to you, please?" she said at once. His eyes were like blue flints, and for a moment she thought he was going to ignore her. Then he said curtly, "If you wish," and walked past her towards the study. Quaking with nerves, dare followed him. She knew that this was going to be the most unpleasant interview of her life, for he was obviously in one of his most unyielding moods. "Well, Miss Drake?" he said impatiently as she shut the door. dare lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes."I want to give notice," she said stiffly. "I see. When do you propose to leave?" "As soon as possible. I'm sorry if it interferes with your book but@@" "There is no need for apologies," he cut in. "You want to leave and that is all there is to it. You aren't under contract. May I know your reasons?" She was staggered. Surely he could not have imagined that she would stay after last night, "I should have thought they were obvious," she said coldly. "Indeed. In that case I must be singularly obtuse, for they are not obvious to me." She guessed that he was deliberately baiting her, and her temper rose. "I'm leaving because you've made it impossible for me to stay," she said bluntly. "Oh, and how have I done that?" "By your behaviour last night and on several other occasions. I should have left weeks ago." 164 "You mean you are annoyed because I knocked your friend Mallinson down. I've no doubt you can smooth his ruffled feathers." It was a long time since dare had lost her temper. The last occasion had been when she had seen a gang of louts jeering at a crippled boy. Then, as now, her rage matched her fiery hair. "How dare you stand there with that superior sneer as if you were on a higher plane than everyone else!" she cried furiously. "What right have you to judge Paul? Haven't you ever
lost control of yourself? But I suppose your lapses from grace don't count. You're so busy imputing unworthy motives for other people's action that it never occurs to you how intolerably egotistic and bigoted you are yourself!" She paused for breath and he said freezingly, "Is this extraordinary harangue a necessary feature of your departure, Miss Drake?" "Yes, I think it is," she retorted. "It's about time somebody told you the truth about yourself, Mr. Lancaster. You can't ride roughshod over everyone, you know, From the day I arrived here you suspected me of golddigging, when all I wanted was peace and quiet and a change from London. More than once you've accused me of setting my cap at Paul Mallinson when he has never been anything more than a good friend. Twice you've forced your kisses on me and then implied that I lured you into it, and last night you lost control again and not ten minutes later you knocked a man down for the very offence which you had just committed. I suppose I should be honoured by your attentions. Well, I'm not! Sincerity comes pretty high on my list of the virtues, Mr. Lancaster, and it seems to me that you are just about the worst hypocrite I've ever met. Simply because you've been jilted once, you've let it warp and embitter you until you see your own cynicism reflected in everyone else...." @ 165 She broke off, horrified at what she had said. To accuse him of being self-centred and hypocritical was justifiable, but to drag up the past and taunt him with it was a cruelty which appalled her.Pale and breathing hard, she waited for his retaliation. But he said nothing. @"I'm sorry," she said brokenly. "I had no right to speak to you like that. I'll leave at once." "On the contrary, you win leave at the end of the week Whatever my own feelings may be, I must insist that you do not upset my aunt," he said tonelessly. For that reason, I should be obliged if you would try to hide your animosity towards me for the rest of your stay here^ You can tell my aunt that you have been offered a good post in London, and that since my book is nearly completed I am releasing you almost immediately. 166
