“That’s all right, then.” Hester got to her feet with a satisfied air. “I think I’ve stopped every hole.” And she went away, leaving Rachel to finish her work.
This took her very little time. But even then there was not much chance to think about her own affairs, for she had to hurry over to the Nursing Home, where an extremely busy morning awaited her. Indeed, except for a brief pause for a sandwich and a cup of coffee, Rachel worked right through until four o’clock. Then, with everything finished at last, she returned home, eager yet dreading to try her luck once more with a telephone call to Nigel.
As she came into the house, everything seemed very quiet, which argued that Paula was probably not yet home, and so there would be no interruption. In addition, Rachel rather thought that Hester was out too. Her uncle, she knew, was still over at the Nursing Home, and it seemed that,, but for the servants, the house was hers.
Then, even as she stood there-by the hall table, a door upstairs opened and closed again and someone came running down the stairs. Rachel looked up quickly and, to her indescribable Joy, she saw that it was Nigel. “Nigel!” She started forward, everything else forgotten in the relief and happiness of seeing him at last. “I tried to get you on the phone this morning, but—”
“Did you?” He stopped a few steps above her, and looked down at her, unsmilingly, like a stranger. “Whatever for? You must have known I wouldn’t want to speak to you.”
“Oh—!” She put the back of her hand against her mouth, as though he had slapped her across the face. “Please don’t say that. I do understand about your being so angry with me. But I wanted to explain— Things are different—”
“Nothing is different, so far as I’m concerned,” he told her deliberately. “Aren’t you rather making a nuisance of yourself mow?”
“Nigel!” She fell back from him, and he took the opportunity to come down the few remaining stairs. “How can you speak to me so? You’ve always been so kind—so indulgent—”
“Rather a mug, you mean?” He gave a cold little smile which she did not know.
“I don't mean that! I mean—” she put out her hand on his arm. But, to her horror, he brushed off her fingers.
“Please don’t be so persistent,” he said. “Don’t you know when your winning little ways are palling?”
And, putting her aside out of his path, he crossed the hall, opened the front door and went out, slamming it after him.
“Nigel—” she whispered his name again, even though he had gone. “Nigel—”
Then, because she could no longer keep back the tears, she turned and rushed upstairs—up the two flights of stairs without a pause— until she reached the sanctuary of her own room. And here she flung herself full length on the bed and wept as she had never wept in her life before.
It was not possible that Nigel—that anyone—could look at her or speak to her like that. As though she were no more than an unwelcome blot on the landscape. It was infamous of him, however angry—however furiously hurt—he had been by anything she had said the previous evening.
What had she said, now that she came to think of it?
Rachel sat up and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, and
tried to recall every word of that unfortunate interview.
She had said she did not love him, of course. But, even if that had been true, it was not a crime or even an insult. She had told him he had no right to make love to her—that he was not a free agent and had no independence of his own. Well, that would have been true if, as she had supposed, he was engaged to Fiona. He should have given her time to explain that she had meant that in those special circumstances. He must have known that was the case.
Why should he want to pick this ghastly fresh quarrel with her now?—Unless, of course—she turned cold at the thought—he had indeed made things up with Fiona and knew he must erect an. impassable barrier against herself.
This theory seemed so likely that, for a long time, Rachel sat on the side of her bed, quite still, not even crying any more, just trying to adjust herself to a fresh acceptance of the fact that Fiona had won.
From time to time, she was aware of sounds from below— occasional comings and goings, and once the sound of Paula’s voice. But nothing made a complete impression upon her, and she simply could not bring herself to the point of washing her tear-stained face and going downstairs to tackle life again. In a minute perhaps —In five minutes—
Then, from far below, she heard the sound of the doorbell, and she was suddenly obsessed by the idea that Nigel had returned—penitent, eager for explanations.
She rushed to the wash-basin and splashed water on her face, ran a comb through her disordered hair, added a touch of lipstick to her pale lips, and hoped she looked less forlorn than her mirror suggested.
She had been as quick as she could, but even so, she felt that precious moments had been wasted, as she came out of her room and leaned over the banister to look into the staircase well below.
Two sets of footsteps were ascending the first flight of stairs—a man’s and the lighter step of Peggy, the parlourmaid, But from where she was standing, Rachel could not yet see who was there.
Then Peggy came Into view and paused at the drawingroom door to say, “This way, sir. ” She stood aside for someone to pass her, and, for the briefest of moments, Rachel saw the other person.
The visitor was not Nigel. It was Keith Elman.
CHAPTER IX
“Peggy! ” Rachel spoke in an urgent whisper, and she was down on the next floor almost before the drawingroom door had closed. “Peggy, who was that you showed in just now?”
“A visitor for Sir Everard, miss.”
“Yes, yes! But what was his name?” She had to make sure she had not been mistaken in that panic-stricken moment of observation.
“Mr. Elman, miss. ”
Rachel drew in her breath on a slight gasp and asked, “Is Lady Linding in?”
“No.” Peggy shook her head. “He asked first for my lady, and when he heard she was not at home, he asked to see Sir Everard.” “I see. Mr. Mayforth doesn’t happen to be in the house, does he?”
“No, miss.” By now Peggy was beginning to look faintly curious at this anxious inquisition.
“Very well,” said Rachel, trying to control her agitation, and she turned away and started to go upstairs again, as though returning to her own room.
But as soon as the sound of the maid’s footsteps died away downstairs, she leaned against the wall and shut her eyes, wondering what on earth she was to do. There was no one— literally no one—but herself to deal with the situation, and it was difficult to know if one would do more harm by interfering than by minding one’s own business.
And yet if Keith Elman had actually gone as far as to seek an interview with her uncle in his own house, he must be set on making as much mischief as he could. Which meant that someone—inevitably, Rachel—must do something to counteract the first impression, before Sir Everard could start brooding over whatever tale the wretched Keith chose to tell.
Rachel ran an agitated hand over her hair. Then, instinctively squaring her shoulders, she went downstairs, and into the drawing-room.
As she entered, it struck her that it was like walking on to the
stage in a domestic drama which was being not very well acted by amateurs; Her uncle was standing by the fireplace, his arm along the mantelpiece, looking slightly larger than life, somehow, and as handsome as any actor-manager of the nineties. His visitor, on the other hand, was sitting down, and his thin, nervy, feverish face was raised to Sir Everard’s, with an expression of half scared triumph.
“Hello, Uncle,” said Rachel, in her most matter-of-fact manner. And then—“Hello, Keith, what are you doing here?” And her tone conveyed that he was an intruder, and a not very highly rated one, at that.
“Rachel, my dear—” her uncle’s gesture would have been extremely telling on a stage but was, in fact, entirely, natural to him—“you
are interrupting a very private discussion.”
“Am I? I’m so sorry—” she made as though to go, while not really shifting her ground—“when I saw Keith, I thought perhaps he had come to tell you one of his lovelorn tales. We none of us set much real value on them, do we Keith? Not even you yourself, I think?” And she gave him a smile before which he actually blenched slightly.
“I don’t know what you mean—” he began angrily.
“Of course you do!” Rachel was almost offensively cheerful “Who is it you’re in love with now?—Hester—or me—or Paula?”
“Rachel—” her uncle straightened up, and she was sorry to see how pale he was—“do you know this young man well?”
“Well enough not to attach much importance to what he says," Rachel laughed slightly, and then added, more seriously, “What is it, Uncle? Are you upset about something?”
“Upset?” Poor Sir Everard passed his hand over his forehead with another of those telling gestures. "Upset? Of course I am upset! The most dreadful statements—accusations—have been made—”
“But, dear Uncle, you don’t have to take Keith seriously! He exaggerates madly. Hester will tell you—anyone will tell you—”
“And what,” interrupted Keith Elman’s high, strained voice, “will Hester tell him? That she’s cast me off now perhaps, but that at one time—”
“That will do!” thundered Sir Everard suddenly, and his hand closed on Rachel’s arm, as though he drew some sort of strength and resolution from the contact. “Get out of this room and house, and don’t ever come here again! How dare you make the monstrous suggestions you’ve made? If my wife were here—”
“If your wife were here,” retorted Keith Elman, speaking very rapidly, “she might have to tell you the truth about that motor accident. She wasn’t with her stick of a brother that night. She was with me. And if it was all so innocent and unimportant, why do you suppose they all banded together to deceive you into thinking she was with Nigel? There’s no smoke without fire, you know, and unless you choose to be blind—”
But suddenly the stream of sound ceased. For Sir Everard, who was a powerful man, had advanced and plucked his unwelcome guest from his chair and run him towards the door.
“Out!” he said, in a tone calculated to reach the last row of the gallery. “And don’t ever come back. If you try to see me or any of my family, or so much as speak a word to any of us, I shall give you in charge to the police.”
And he propelled the helpless Keith through the door and down the stairs at a speed which left him gasping and stumbling.
Rachel stood where she was, in the middle of the room, trembling. And when she heard the front door slam, and then the slow footsteps of her uncle coming back up the stairs, she gripped her hands together and prayed for inspiration. For this, she knew, was the dangerous moment, when any wrong word might spell disaster.
Her uncle came back into the room. But, instead of resuming his effective pose by the fireplace, he dropped into the chair Keith Elman had unwillingly vacated and raised heavy eyes to his niece’s face.
“Well, Rachel,” he said sombrely, "what was the real truth?” She thought of saying that he must ask Hester. But she knew that every moment he remained in doubt would deepen the suspicions now aroused. And so, standing before him with an air
of candour so natural to her that she carried conviction, she said, “Uncle, she was with Keith Elman when the car crashed, But that doesn’t mean anything that horrible young man pretended. She never took him at all seriously. She told me that herself. Of course she should have realised that, in spite of his boyish air, he is unstable and quite a dangerous person. But she didn’t. Underneath all that surface sophistication, Hester is rather naive, you know—”
She wondered desperately if this idealised version of her aunt jumped at all with her uncle’s view of her. And she was encouraged to hear him murmur, “I know—I know—” But he added, after a moment, “Only why should she leave you all and go driving with him alone, in the middle of a ball?”
“She was bored, I think, and the room was stuffy. It—it was only a short spin, Uncle. Then, when the accident happened, Keith was in a shattered, almost hysterical state, ready to make the most damaging statements, which Hester was in no condition to refute—”
“My poor girl,” Sir Everard interjected feelingly.
“Both Oliver and—and Nigel realised that, unless we were to have Keith making a major scandal, the incident simply must be explained away in some other manner. I think Nigel knew afterwards that he acted a bit too impulsively—but what else could we do? He put the fear of God into Keith, accepted the responsibility for the accident himself—which wasn’t difficult since it was his car that had been borrowed—and arranged for me and Oliver to back him up.”
“But what exaggerated precautions,” protested her uncle. '“Why not have told me the simple truth? Am I an unreasonable man?” Clearly he thought there was only one answer to this. “Am I a domestic tyrant that you should all be afraid to tell me of a most minor indiscretion? Such anxiety suggests that there was much more to the story. As that vile young man said—”
“Uncle,” interrupted Rachel reproachfully, “don’t quote Keith Elman. That’s what we were all really afraid of, you see. That what we could say would not carry as much weight as the clever, spiteful way he can put things. The truth is always so much duller than the colourful lie or implication.”
“That is true,” agreed her unde, with an air of doing strict justice.
“Looking back, I don’t think we behaved very wisely ” Rachel admitted. “But then we were dreadfully overstrained and frightened because of Hester’s accident. We took up an attitude which we couldn’t afterwards drop. And the stupidest thing of all, of course, was that we under-estimated your understanding and generosity.”
“My dear—” Sir Everard made a gesture disclaiming such praise, though not too emphatically—“I am not at all blameless. Particularly in the hasty way I judged Nigel.”
“Well, perhaps not. But we should have known you would realise immediately that Hester simply couldn’t be involved in anything discreditable.”
Rachel met her uncle’s glance unflinchingly as she said that. But then she saw, to her surprise, a glint of genuine amusement— was it knowledgeable amusement?—in his eyes.
“Perhaps, my dear,” he said gravely, “that is going a little too far. But let us say that I love her enough to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Oh, Uncle—” Rachel bent forward suddenly and kissed him—“you are a dear! And truly I believe there was no harm in Hester’s friendship with Keith. She may have been silly and encouraged him when she should have snubbed him. But there was nothing else. Of that I’m certain.”
“Then I must be certain too,” replied her uncle with a smile. “Only—” the smile went and he frowned—“what distresses and vexes me beyond measure is the thought that I should, have so deeply misjudged Nigel. You should have told me—really, you should have told me, at some later stage, rather than let me make such a grievous error.”
“I think we all hoped to, as Hester grew better. But if you’ll forgive my saying so, Uncle—” she put out her hand and patted his shoulder in a placatory way—“you took such a furious stand—forbidding him the house and everything—that it was difficult to start saying that he was innocent, after all.”
“You mean that I was myself to blame, in my intolerance and my excessive anger?” Sir Everard leaned his forehead on his hand in a really beautiful pose, and Rachel began to feel very sorry for him.
“You were no more to blame than anyone else, Uncle,” she assured him hastily. “And I’m certain Nigel will understand, when you tell him.”
“To be sure—to be sure. He is a generous fellow at heart.” Sir Everard sounded a little as though he were recommending Nigel for a scholarship. “But my regret remains. My really deep regret. It makes me wonder if I have misjudged Nigel in more ways than one.�
� He paused, and then said, as though astonished by his own admission—“Even perhaps in his work. ”
“Uncle, he really is terribly hard-working and absolutely dedicated to his own line of research,” Rachel exclaimed earnestly. “I’m not just saying that on my own—”
“No, no—I remember. The hall porter at the hospital thinks so too,” interrupted Sir Everard with some humour.
“Not only the hall porter,” Rachel corrected him rather crossly. “Why don’t you ask someone in authority there? One of the big men who visit there. Quite a number do. I looked it up and found out for myself. There’s Sir Miles Somebody-or-Other, for one.” “Sir Miles Clitheroe,” said her uncle, evidently deploring her way of referring to a distinguished colleague. “Does he know anything of Nigel’s work?”
“I think so. I have an idea he was the man Monsieur Florian asked about Nigel, because—”
“Florian?” Sir Everard looked astonished. “What has he to do with it?”
“He—he became interested in Nigel’s work,” explained Rachel, feeling that a certain telescoping of events was permissible here. “He—he understood that the McGrath offer was withdrawn—”
“Why?” asked Sir Everard quickly. “Did Martin McGrath feel, on reflection, that Nigel’s work was not worthy?”
“No,” said Rachel. “I think perhaps Nigel felt, on reflection, that the McGrath offer was not worthy. It would have meant—too
much interference in his private life.”
“I—see.” Sir Everard obviously did see, and Rachel was glad that she did not have to explain this delicate part of the story.
“And so,” Rachel went on, “Monsieur Florian decided that he might help—on certain conditions. He is prepared to put up five thousand pounds—”
“Extraordinarily generous!” interjected Sir Everard. “— provided Nigel can find someone else who believes in him to the same extent. Or it could be more than one person. Monsieur Florian is generous, but he is a good businessman, I suppose, and he says he never takes the sole risk in any enterprise concerned with someone other than himself.”
The Other Linding Girl Page 16
