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Unwary Heart

Page 11

by Anne Hampson


  ‘But I couldn’t walk,’ Muriel protested hotly. ‘I was in awful pain.’

  ‘Then you should have told him, and given the reason, instead of making a martyr of yourself!’

  ‘I wasn’t! I couldn’t give the young men away; it just isn’t done.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ The old woman paused. ‘What time did you say you were meeting this other young man?’

  ‘Half-past seven ... but I can put it off. I think he’s on the phone, and as he lives in Barston he won’t have started out yet. If I hurry...’

  ‘Never mind; my train leaves Barston at eight o’clock. I didn’t intend staying long. Can we get a taxi?’

  Muriel blinked. Her aunt never took a taxi anywhere! ‘A taxi? We can just manage to catch the bus.’

  ‘If we rush out at once, yes. But what about the table, and the pots? Your mother’ll have plenty to say if you leave those. You’ve had enough upsets lately; you’re going to be ill if you’re not careful—What are you looking at me like that for? Thought I had no heart, eh? Well, I have ... as you shall see!’

  As the taxi slid to a standstill one glance towards the clustering lights of the Paramount cinema told Muriel that Peter was already there and waiting. She got out and held the door open.

  ‘Are you quite sure you want to go so early, Aunt Edith?’ she said anxiously, peering into the darkness of the taxi. ‘I can call the date off ... Peter will understand.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! You know very well I’ve no intention of allowing you to do so! Run along, and enjoy yourself.’ And waving her abruptly away, Aunt Edith told the driver to take her to the station.

  ‘Now, how much do I owe you?’ she asked, as he handed her out a few minutes later.

  ‘Thirty shillings.’

  ‘What...? You must have reckoned up wrongly!’ Digging into the massive black handbag, she produced a pound note and some silver. ‘Well?’

  ‘Thirty shillings, madam,’ he repeated, glancing contemptuously at the faded coat which hung limply from her narrow shoulders, at the formidable brown hat with its large-knobbed hatpins twinkling amongst the feathers, at the tiny, imperious face and the eyes that looked dark now and almost aggressive in the shadow of her hat. ‘I call that very reasonable.’

  A sigh escaping her, Aunt Edith counted out the exact amount and handed it to him. It was as well, she thought, walking slowly on to the platform, that she had decided against going on to Danemere Lodge...

  She felt sure she would see Andrew Burke at her sister’s party and she could say all she had to say then. But Muriel must be induced to go, too, and that was not going to be easy, for Muriel was also convinced that Andrew would be there.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll announce their engagement at the same time,’ Muriel had said, and the old lady had promptly replied with,

  ‘Bunk! His interest in Christine is merely to suit his own ends! That young man’s got all his chairs at home, as I suspected the first time I saw him. If you read your newspapers you’d know of the projected electrification of the Saudanian railways; your Uncle Herbert is one of the largest shareholders and Burke’s is one of four firms vying for the contract. When Andrew Burke has got what he wants it’s that to Christine!’

  ‘That,’ was a contemptuous snap of the fingers which had no effect whatever on Muriel. She seemed quite determined to go on torturing herself, refusing to be persuaded that there was nothing between Andrew and her cousin.

  Aunt Edith was nearly home before she hit upon a way of ensuring her niece’s presence at the party.

  ‘Yes,’ she chuckled, collecting up her gloves and her umbrella, ‘that should fetch her!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Miss Cook, will you have Miss Paterson sent over here at once, please?’ Entering the office, Andrew did not wait to take off his coat before giving the order. His secretary stared at him, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again instantly as his brows lifted in a frown of haughty inquiry.

  Muriel evinced no surprise as she entered; on the contrary, she walked straight to his desk and spoke first.

  ‘So it’s come out—she knows all about us? Well, it’s rather late to discuss it now, don’t you think?’ she said bitterly. ‘If it hadn’t been for your conceit I could have warned you. You’ll agree it would have been far more comfortable for us both had we agreed to be complete strangers?’ Muriel spread her hands helplessly. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now—unless ...?’ She tailed off, aware at last of his odd expression. ‘Did you tell her we had never met?’

  Andrew’s face was a complete blank.

  ‘Do you mind being a little more explicit?’ he asked at last.

  ‘But I am ... Oh, so you don’t know?’

  ‘Don’t know what?’ Andrew tried to remain patient.

  ‘That I’m Christine’s—’ She stopped, staring at him blankly. ‘Then why did you send for me?’

  ‘To find out what you wanted to see me about.’ Still he managed to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  ‘Oh, well—’ Now that she had to begin at the beginning she found it difficult. Yesterday it had seemed easy, but now she realized she would have to mention the letter, and she could not make him see anything clearly unless she told him what it contained. What a laugh he would have when he learnt that she had written to Christine telling her that she loved him! Nevertheless, it was better to appear a fool before Andrew than appear a fool before them both. ‘I’m Christine’s cousin,’ she said quietly. ‘I saw her on Saturday and she told me about your ... friendship; that’s why I tried to see you. Christine knows I met someone on the cruise—I wrote to her telling her I would be bringing you—this man—to see her. But I didn’t mention your name in the letter—’ This was awful!—much worse than anything she had ever imagined! Yet when she continued her voice was surprisingly steady. ‘I made a complete fool of myself in that letter; I told her I loved this man, and that he loved me. When I saw her on Saturday, and realized that you and she were almost en—That you were very friendly, you can imagine my feelings. I had to see you, to ask you to pretend we had never met. Will you do this?’ she added, an unconscious note of pleading in her voice. ‘I don’t want her to know it was you—and it will be much more comfortable for you, too, won’t it?’

  Andrew was leaning forward over his desk, watching her through narrowed eyes, and absorbing every word intently.

  ‘I presume you are speaking of Christine Ridley?’ His tones were cold and brittle, and there was a suggestion of a sneer about his lips.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did she give you to understand,’ he said in a very soft voice, ‘that she and I were practically engaged?’

  Muriel’s head jerked up; he spoke as though marriage with Christine was the last thing he would dream of!

  Yet Christine had been confident; she had said Muriel could be her bridesmaid...

  ‘Did she?’ Andrew’s voice held a sharp edge of command. ‘Answer me, Muriel!’

  ‘Not exactly, but—You’re very friendly with her! You were taking her to your home.’

  ‘Christine was one of eight young people invited to dinner on Saturday,’ he informed her quietly. ‘It was my younger sister’s birthday; Mother saw Christine in town a few days ago and invited her to come along. I picked her up in Barston for no other reason than that her father couldn’t let her have the car. She wasn’t supposed to come until much later.’ He paused, noticing that she was shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘Several things you’ve said have amazed me, Muriel, but this statement about Christine amazes me most of all. I’ve met her at parties; I’ve dined several times recently at her home, but my visits have been entirely concerned with business. Either you’ve misunderstood her, or she has taken a good deal too much for granted.’

  Muriel was reminded of her aunt’s words, and as she looked steadily into Andrew’s face she knew he was speaking the truth. Christine had taken too much for granted.

  But to go as far as mentioning bridesmaids
...

  Was she so very sure of her own charms, so confident that Andrew would not be able to resist her? Aunt Edith had called her conceited; she always spoke of her disparagingly—and so did Dil. Muriel thought her charming, but could she be wrong and her aunt and sister right? It appeared so, unless Andrew lied. Muriel looked at him again and was once more convinced that he spoke the truth.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ was all she could find to say.

  ‘I think I can,’ Andrew commented dryly after a pause, but did not go on to explain that he had heard all about Christine Ridley’s army of admirers. ‘I shall see that she doesn’t visit my house again.’

  Although well aware that it was unspeakably catty, Muriel could not help feeling a tinge of gladness that Christine was not going to marry Andrew.

  After all, she was only human.

  ‘But you will see her sometimes, and the cruise may be mentioned. It was embarrassing enough to have to tell her how—how everything ended, but it would be more embarrassing still if she knew who the man was. You won’t tell her we met ... please?’

  ‘I don’t think I could deny all knowledge of you, Muriel. It may come out, and then I would be in an embarrassing position. If the cruise is ever mentioned I shall say we met casually—’

  ‘No! She’ll guess—’

  ‘Nonsense! Why should she?’

  ‘Because I told her everything about you,’ Muriel answered desperately. ‘I described you in every detail—oh, I know she’ll guess!’

  ‘Why did you have to tell her everything? Surely it would have been simpler to have kept silent.’

  ‘I wrote her the letter—’

  ‘Ah, yes, the letter. What woman ever didn’t write a letter?’ He sounded impatient, she thought, but neither mocking nor contemptuous.

  ‘I wrote it after that day in Madeira...’ Her mouth trembled convulsively, and she half turned her head so that he should not see how the memory wounded her. Why had she said that? she wondered. It scarcely mattered when she wrote the letter. But her words had a queer effect on Andrew; his face went grey, and his voice became unsteady as he said, very slowly,

  ‘After that day in Madeira you wrote and told your cousin that you ... loved me?’

  ‘Oh, please ...!’ Muriel moved swiftly to the door. ‘I’ll go now. Tell Christine we met casually if you like—I can’t stop you—’

  She had the door open when Andrew caught her hand and pulled her back into the room. For a moment there was silence as both stood staring down at her hand in his.

  Andrew’s thoughts went back once more to a moment he knew he would never forget. It was then it had happened, he knew it now. And only four days after he had met her! Muriel, too, had fallen in love at the same time ... yes, he thought bitterly, even women of her type could love, apparently ... in their own shallow fashion.

  He realized suddenly that he had been in danger of forgetting what she was. He must not forget, not for a moment ... or he would be lost.

  Muriel made no attempt to withdraw her hand; she wanted to prolong this thrill of exquisite pain for ever. And she squirmed with inward shame at the knowledge.

  ‘Don’t go yet, Muriel.’ He deliberately played with fire, he knew, but as he led her unresistingly to a chair and put her into it a strange feeling came over him. He recalled that once before time had seemed to stand still; to stand still for him to think and to learn ... and again he experienced exactly the same thing! ‘There’s so much I don’t understand—Do you realize how different you are from the girl of the cruise!’ He had never meant to say anything like that; the words were uttered against his will.

  Muriel touched the hand he had held, a dazed expression on her face.

  ‘I had beautiful clothes then...’ A hot flush spread to her cheeks as she looked down at her overall. ‘They were Christine’s.’

  ‘Christine’s? Those clothes were Christine’s?’ He went pale. ‘Had you—had you none of your own?’

  ‘None suitable.’ Muriel tossed her head defiantly. ‘My people are very poor, Mr. Burke, and they couldn’t afford to buy me clothes for the cruise; that’s why I went to my cousin. She lent me everything—and gave me the evening dresses!—But you can’t be interested. May I go now?’

  ‘No.’ There was a harassed expression in his eyes as he stood looking down at her. She had been forced to go to her cousin for clothes ... But what of her personality? Did she change that, too, with the clothes? Andrew felt his temper rising. How could he ever have considered himself a competent judge of character when this slip of a girl had him beaten? All his doubts recurred, graver doubts by far than those he had felt on the night he had left her. Could he possibly have made a mistake? A good many of the women he knew had a decided dash of worldliness about them, but that did not necessarily brand them gold-diggers.

  All his life he had judged on first impressions, liking or disliking on sight. He had judged Muriel on his first meeting with her; one glance had told him what she was. Now, he felt he should have studied her more carefully as the days went by, for there must have been some reason for his continued doubts and puzzlement.

  Andrew turned and sat down at his desk again, a heavy frown crossing his brow. He was making excuses for her simply because she had been obliged to borrow her cousin’s clothes; he had remembered only the little traces of innocence, of shyness, and that she had fallen in love with him; he had forgotten those affected mannerisms for which there was no excuse, those over-painted lips and nails, the ostentatious behaviour, the coquetry. No, he had not made a mistake.

  ‘What do you want?’ Muriel was staring at him in bewilderment. ‘There’s no reason for my staying here any longer.’

  ‘You told me that you came here because your circumstances had changed,’ he said quietly. ‘If you needed work couldn’t your uncle have found you a job?’

  ‘I wrote and asked him; but, as I told you, I had no experience of anything. It wasn’t fair to ask him in the first place, but my mother thought I should.’

  ‘So he refused to do anything for you?’ Andrew’s face became grim; he knew Herbert Ridley for a hardheaded businessman, but he had not thought him as unfeeling as this. ‘What made it necessary for you to find work? You say your family have always been poor; surely you didn’t remain at home?’

  ‘I helped my father in his greengrocer’s shop.’

  ‘Your father had a shop?’

  ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that!’

  ‘I never suggested there was. Did he have to give it up?’

  ‘He ... died—’ The door opened; Miss Cook entered and said something quietly to Andrew.

  ‘I can’t see him now; make another appointment. And will you bring some tea, please.’ His lips compressed as he noticed the glance she threw at Muriel. ‘Don’t forget the sugar.’

  Muriel stared at him in astonishment; he did not take sugar ... but he remembered that she did!

  ‘I don’t want any tea.’ She rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I want to go.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear about your father, Muriel. I seem to remember that you spoke of him rather more than the rest of your family. You were very devoted to him, I believe?’

  ‘We were the best of pals.’ Her vision was blurred as she looked down at him, but she did not miss the change in his expression. A softness had entered his eyes so reminiscent of the man she had first known that it suddenly became imperative that she should leave. ‘My affairs can’t be of any interest to you—I don’t know why you’re asking me all this.’ She moved away as she spoke; Andrew said quietly,

  ‘Please sit down, Muriel; Miss Cook won’t be a minute.’

  ‘I don’t want any tea,’ she repeated childishly. ‘I—’

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I want to go.’ Her fists clenched convulsively and she spoke in nervous, high-pitched tones. ‘Why are you—?’ She tailed off as she caught his expression.

  ‘Muriel,’ he said softly, ‘I asked you to sit
down.’ His voice held no more than a hint of mild authority, but to Muriel’s overwrought imagination it was harsh and arbitrary. Her nerves had become tensed and strained during the conversation and this was the last straw. Her restraint broke and, putting her hands to her face, she sobbed bitterly into them.

  ‘Why don’t you let me go? Can’t you see you’re making my life a misery!’ The words came in a wild rush; she had no idea what she was saying, nor would she have cared very much if she had. ‘Even though you were only amusing yourself you did say we would part friends, but this isn’t being friendly—it isn’t even being human!’

  Andrew swallowed a terrible lump in his throat, and he realized he was having the greatest difficulty in remaining where he was.

  ‘I don’t think I’m being inhuman, Muriel—’

  ‘No, of course you don’t!’ she cried. ‘Because you’re so wicked and heartless! You accused me of coming here just to see you again—oh, yes, you did, so don’t trouble to deny it! And you think it’s clever to ridicule me, to invent atrocious lies about me and then laugh and joke with your friend about them. But I did not “swoon at your feet”—nor have I been reading eighteenth-century novels!’

  ‘You—’ Leaning back in his chair, Andrew eyed her narrowly. ‘You were listening?’

  ‘I made two attempts to see you yesterday, but one of them was not at lunch-time. I came after five, when Miss Cook had gone, and I couldn’t help overhearing. You were laughing at me; laughing at your own detestable lies, lies one would only associate with a person like you. I hope—I hope you’re pr-proud of y-yourself!’

 

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