Let love abide

by Norrey Ford

  She dared not make a sound, for Mr. Winn was close at hand and had sharp hearing. She fought the man frantically, sickened by physical repulsion so strong that she felt she would never be clean again from the touch of his broad, moist hands. She wrenched her arm free, but in doing so allowed him to get his other arm round her. He jerked back her chin and pressed hot, damp kisses on her lips. She slid both arms around his neck intending to sink her fingers in his hair and tug his head back, a trick Simon had taught her, when two voices rang out—loud, sharp, distressed.

  "Jeff! Sally!"

  "What the deuce goes on here?"

  Max released her instantly. Caro and Paul stood at the front door. Their father sat in his chair at the open door of his study.

  For a long moment no one spoke. Sally wished the floor would swallow her. She rubbed her mouth with a handkerchief.

  It was Mr. Winn who broke the silence. "I think my daughter is entitled to some explanation, Shand."

  Caro was crying quietly, leaning against Paul's shoulder, his arm protectively round her.

  Max shrugged. "I'm terribly sorry, Caro. Please think nothing of it. It was—a sort of accident."

  "A peculiar accident!" said Paul heavily.

  Mr. Winn swung his chair out into the hall. "Paul, were you aware that Miss March already knew Jeff as Max Shand? That there had been some sort of affair between them?" His voice was as cutting as the east wind.

  Paul exclaimed sharply, "Is this true, Sally? Is Jeff the Max you spoke off ?"

  She nodded. "Yes, he is."

  Now, at last, they would see how worthless Max was. Her heart ached for Caro's grief.

  Paul swung to Max. "Then I think perhaps we should all be given an explanation, Shand. When Caro introduced you two you gave no sign of recognition. To me, that seems odd, to say the least. And passing under two different names is not an idea which inspires confidence."

  "This is surely a matter for Caro and me to discuss privately."

  "Not at all," Mr. Winn said coldly. "It is a matter you must explain to Caro's father and brother."

  "Very well. I was merely trying to spare Miss March's feelings. Max is a name my business associates use. Jeff is the name used by my close family circle—and by the girl I hope to marry. I pretended not to know Sally in order to save embarrassment all round. Caro, I swear I intended to

  tell you about it later." The man had a pleasant air of frankness and was carrying off the situation coolly. "It is perfectly true I took Sally out once or twice. It was a passing affair." He smiled coaxingly. "Come, Caro. I told you there had been other girls. You said you didn't mind."

  "Had been," Caro said stonily. "I didn't know you had other girls now."

  "I haven't. My interest in Sally was very slight. I'm sorry to say she took it much more seriously than I did and apparently thought herself in love with me. When she begged me for a good-bye kiss just now, I was too soft-hearted to refuse."

  Sally was aghast. "Why, that isn't true," she exclaimed. "It's—it's just a plain, deliberate lie." Her gaze swung desperately from one to the other. "I never asked him for a kiss. He forced it on me. Paul!" she appealed, pleading, "you believe me?"

  Caro interposed. "You had both arms round his neck. I saw you."

  Paul met her eyes stonily. "You told me you were still deeply in love with him and would do anything in the world to get him back."

  "But that wasn't true! I said it because .. ." She checked herself sharply, remembering just why she had said it.

  "You admit you lied Men. How do we know you are not lying now?"

  Sally felt desperate. Her feet were caught in a net which was half her own making, half made up of Max's bland untruthfulness. She had never before in her short life encountered an unblushing liar, and could see no way of dealing with the situation.

  Caro twisted out of Paul's arms and faced Sally. Her face was pitifully white, her eyes dark. She spoke in a high-pitched voice unlike her own, and was obviously making a desperate effort to be calm.

  "I would never have believed it of you, Sally. You've known all the week how—how much"—her lips quivered—"Jeff means to me. Yet you tried

  to take him from me the moment my back was turned."

  Sally moved towards the wheelchair. "Mr. Winn, after what I told you a few moments ago in your study, do you think I am responsible for this?" As she spoke she knew she was making a useless appeal, for the man's face was like grey granite, his eyes pale, expressionless. Too late, she remembered Paul's words—he'd lean over backwards to see her married, in her own home. Lawyers, after all, were like other men where their personal affairs were concerned; they could be unjust, unreasonable, swayed by emotion and instinct rather than by reason.

  "May I suggest," said Max with modest diffidence, "that Miss March goes up to her room? Then perhaps I may make my peace with Caro and beg forgiveness?" He gave Caro a charming, suppliant smile, and held out both hands to her. "Come, darling. Say you forgive me."

  Slowly, Caro left the shelter of Paul's arm and moved towards him.

  Sally waited for someone to speak to her, to give some indication of having seen her point of view, but Max was whispering to Caro, and Paul, evidently satisfied that his sister was calm enough to be left, took his father's wheelchair back into the study, closing the door after him. She was left alone at the foot of the stairs.

  Sally went up. Her feet dragged, she felt as if she had no more life in her. As she reached the top step she took one unhappy glance at the scene below. Caro was in Max's arms, her head on his shoulder.

  In the morning Mrs. Fraser brought her breakfast. "Miss Caro is staying in bed this morning. She has a raging headache, poor wee lass. Mr. Paul has taken Mr. Jeff for a round of golf. He says your brother is fetching you this morning. I thought it was to be this afternoon."

  "We—we changed the arrangement." It was plain that the family intended to keep out of the

  way until she had gone. Paul had conveyed his wishes to her by Mrs. Fraser, who seemed, at any rate, unconscious of anything amiss. "All the same, I'd better telephone, if I may, to make sure he hasn't forgotten." She hoped Simon would be free this morning and would not mind the change of plan.

  As soon as Mrs. Fraser's back was turned, she got up and dressed. She could not eat breakfast—food choked her when she thought how happy she had been in this room, even in the wretched early days of her 'flu. Now she was to leave the kind, hospitable house under a cloud, and through no fault of her own.

  Luckily Simon was at the garage.

  "Simon, my pet, could you collect me this morning instead of this afternoon?" She knew he had been looking forward to meeting Caro again, and in the midst of her troubles she found time to be sorry for him. "You see, Caro's man friend has turned up, and I feel rather in the way."

  "Man friend?"

  "Well, yes. The man she's going to marry." There was a long pause at both ends of the telephone, then she added, "I'm terribly sorry, Simon—but that's how it is."

  He spoke with a little flippancy that hurt her. "What's a rival more or less? Plain £.s.d. is my trouble. But I can't fetch you now, Sally."

  She wailed, "Oh, Simon!"

  "I'm frightfully sorry, Sis, but it's utterly impossible before lunch. I have to deliver a car to a customer, and am giving an hour's driving lesson before that. What's the hurry?"

  She could not explain on the telephone. Indeed it would be difficult to explain to her family at all. She said, "It doesn't matter, Simon, thank you," and rang off. If she walked to the main road there was a bus service. She hurried upstairs again and packed her few possessions in a week-end case her mother had brought. She wondered whether to tip Mrs. Fraser, but decided to buy her a good present

  instead. For the kind plump housemaid she left a substantial tip after calculating the possible amount of the bus fare. Next came the most difficult task, of writing a note of explanation and thanks to the family.

  After long hesitation, she decided to address it
to her host, and to incorporate in it a message of thanks to Caro. She would say nothing, in this note, about Max. Nobody believed her and it was no use beating on a closed door. Some day the truth might come out, though at the moment nothing seemed less likely.

  The two miles to the main road seemed like ten; her light case weighed a ton. Sally had not realised how weak she was. More than once she had to sit down on the grass verge to gather enough strength to go on; then she coaxed herself forward yard by yard. "Two more field-gates and I'll sit down at the third."

  The sky was a high arch of summer blue; skylarks rose and fell like toys on an invisible string, singing their little hearts out; a horse looked wisely over a fence, and on its own side of the hedge walked along with her a piece, glad of human company. She could no doubt have thumbed a lift, but every time she heard a car she shrank into the foaming banks of cow-parsley, afraid the driver might be Max—or Paul.

  When at long last she clambered into the bus, the conductress gave her a sympathetic look. "Feeling okay, ducks? You don't half look white."

  "I've just had 'flu."

  "Ar, leaves yer weak, don't it? Oughtn't to be out alone, you oughtn't. Shut your eyes a bit, I'll tell you when to get off."

  The girl's gruff friendliness touched Sally. She closed her eyes and held her thoughts firmly away from Lawnside, projecting them forward into the haven of her own home, where, whatever happened, the family were always solidly on her side.

  Luckily her father and mother accepted her explanation at face value. "Caro's man-friend came, and I felt a bit de trop," she said simply. And as her parents were simple and kind themselves, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that Sally should not want to play gooseberry. It did not occur to them that in a house the size of Lawnside such a thing was practically impossible.

  Next day she went back to the office.

  "Well, well," said Mr. Ware. "Better, eh? Miss Downes has been doing Mr. Paul's work—let me see—er

  "Mr. Ware," Sally said suddenly, "oughtn't Miss Downes to continue with it? She is senior to me and —well, I made that awful mistake about Raybould."

  "Do you mean you don't want to do Mr. Paul's work?"

  "Not exactly. I like it and am grateful for having had the opportunity, but if you want to make a change now—or perhaps Mr. Paul wishes to make a change. . . ." She found herself stammering.

  "I never asked him. But I will, if you feel there's any doubt about it. Meantime, carry on as before."

  Next morning Paul rang for her as soon as he arrived.

  "Sure you feel fit enough for work?"

  "Yes, thank you, sir."

  He made no comment on her return to a formal relationship. "What's this about wanting to give up my work?"

  "I don't want to. I thought under the circumstances you'd prefer not to have me working for you."

  He frowned. "Under what circumstances?"

  Oh dear, he was making it difficult for her. "You were angry with me the last time we met," she pointed out. "You thought—you probably still think—I was trying to steal your sister's friend. SoIf

  He interrupted impatiently. "One of the reasons men think women are unsuited to business is that they cannot separate private from professional life.

  What happened at Lawnside or anywhere else outside this office has no bearing whatsoever on the situation. You do my work to my entire satisfaction and I wish you to remain. If I had any doubts, they have been dispelled by a few days of Miss Downes. That woman's mind runs on castors. Get your book, and let's forget this nonsense."

  Obediently, she collected notebook and fountain pen. Life in the office flowed on exactly as if she had never gone to Blay Manor with Paul; never stayed at Lawnside and shared the family life of the Winns. Paul was courteous, distant and exacting, just as he'd been before. But whereas he had occasionally shown flashes of humour, of jubilant boyishness or plain bad temper, he now maintained a steady level of non-committal politeness as chilling as a November drizzle.

  She did not know whether Max was still a welcome visitor to Lawnside and had no means of finding out. Simon was evasive on the subject.

  "Max? Never see him now, he's always in London. You were right, I'm sure, about his testing me. He leaves everything to me now, and he always seems satisfied with the turnover. At any rate, he never grumbles about my accounts. And you know that worry I had about the new cars? It's started to work in my favour now. Twice lately I've been asked to supply new cars to one of the other garages, and, of course, I get a spanking commission."

  "That's fine, Simon. You'll be making a fortune soon, and rejoicing the heart of your income-tax collector."

  Simon scowled. "The commission is--er—on the side. Max suggested I didn't enter it in my return." "Isn't that risky?"

  "It's always paid in cash. It couldn't be traced." "But such a thing is dishonest!"

  He laughed easily. "That's what I thought, too. So I entered the amounts just the same. Any man is a fool who tries to diddle the income-tax people. I haven't told Max. He was so careful to explain

  exactly how it could be worked, all for my benefit, of course, as it can't matter two hoots to him—he'd be quite hurt to think I was forking out to the Inland Revenue just on a matter of conscience. You and I were brought up to be honest, my poppet. So apparently we'll never be rich."

  "I wouldn't want to be rich that way."

  She had not told Simon that Max was his rival in Caro's affections. He knew Caro was in love and would probably announce her engagement on her twenty-first birthday. That bitter knowledge he had taken away to worry in solitude, like a dog with a sore paw. Sally felt it unnecessary to rub salt into his wounds by telling him the identity of Caro's suitor. But now she almost wished she had told him at once. Perhaps he would have been able to convince Paul that Max was as unsound as a frostbitten apple.

  She imagined the conversation. Paul would say, "What is your interest in this matter?"

  And Simon. "I'm in love with your sister." Then Paul's famous pause and pounce. "Tell me, are you not anxious to get rid of your rival by any means at all?"

  If only these Winns had not been lawyers, to whom facts were all-important and the feelings of the human heart seemed to count for so little!

  One morning Miss Downes, carefully filing her nails in the cloakroom said, "So our Mr. Paul's romance is on again! My friend on the Tidwell Observer says he and the beautiful Miss Worth are together at all the big functions, close as a pair of budgerigars. So that puts paid to your little caper, Miss March."

  Sally swallowed with an effort so great she thought they must see it. A stubborn anger gave her courage to see her through the moment. She had thought this news, long expected, would have no power to hurt her when it came. How wrong she had been!

  "I have no capers, Miss Downes, small or large, and I completely fail to see what Mr. Paul's private life has to do with me. Or you, for that matter."

  Miss Moffat supported her friend. "We all know you've been setting your cap at him. Being ill at his home; running after him, yes, Mr. Paul; no, Mr. Paul! You only got the job because of your pretty hair and languishing eyes, but you see you couldn't hold his interest. We never expected you to."

  "I got my job because I try to be efficient and use my common sense, Miss Moffat. If you're not satisfied about that, check up with Mr. Ware. He'll confirm it."

  The shot went home. Miss Downes' face turned a blotchy red, and Miss Moffat tossed her head.

  Sally went on smoothly, "The trouble with most women in business is that they can't separate private from professional life. I do my work to Mr. Paul's satisfaction, and what he does outside this office has no bearing whatever on the situation."

  She closed her powder compact with a definite click, and stalked furiously out of the cloak room. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, my girls, she thought savagely.

  "Well!" said Miss Moffat.

  Miss Downes said nothing. Her hands shook as she jerked the damp strip of roller-towe
lling round and round to find a dry place. Since Sally had returned and she had been evicted from the dim square box allocated to Mr. Paul's secretary, her jealousy of the younger girl was growing like a malignant cell in her mind. Hatred of Sally was becoming an obsession. Sally's declaration that she had won her promotion on merit was a declaration of war; the more so because Edie Downes knew it in her heart to be true. Mr. Paul's demands were too much for her; in long years of copy-typing her shorthand had rusted, her memory was poor. She was easily flustered by the rows of strange characters in the waiting-room, but even to herself she would not admit she was afraid, sure that all the men were

  cosh-boys or gunmen. This inadequacy she somehow managed to lay at Sally's door, and it became fuel for the fires of her jealousy. Now, hot anger shook her till she could scarcely control her hands or her quivering lips. "D-do you think Sally is r-really making a set at our Paul?"

  Miss Moffat patted her smooth iron-grey hair. Having a boy of her own, even though he was turned forty, she was not troubled by Mr. Paul's good looks or vibrant masculinity. Still less did she crave for promotion, as she'd be leaving to get married next year. But she did resent Sally's young skin, clear eyes and shining hair; her light quick step and the slender perfection of her figure. "Shouldn't be surprised, dear. A girl like that will run after anything in trousers. But she won't get him. He's crazy about Brenda Worth. Funny how men think a lovely face invariably indicates a lovely nature. You ought to hear my niece on the subject of Miss Worth."

  "Does she know her?"

  "She works at Tiling's, my dear! Sets Worth's hair for her regularly every week. She says women reveal more of their real nature at the hairdresser's than anywhere else. But men! the idiots! So long as the outside is all right, they're satisfied."

  "What's wrong with her, then?"

  Miss Moffat laughed. "She's selfish, bad-tempered and jealous, that's all."

  Miss Downes' eyes narrowed into slits. She said nothing, but filed the information in her mind for future reference. Maybe someday she'd be able to punish Mr. Paul for demoting her. The immediate problem was how to punish Sally March.