Across the Counter

by Mary Burchell

  “Very, very interesting,” Mr. Arnoldson observed to Katherine. “I thought you carried your part well, Miss Renner, and you must forgive me if I say again how sorry I am that we shall be losing you.”

  “Mr. Arnoldson, you—may not.”

  “I beg your pardon!” The astonishment on his face was the measure of the sensation that her broken engagement would inevitably cause.

  “I said you—I may not be leaving, after all.” She wondered now why she had let the words slip out before she had even told Paul himself.

  “You mean...?” Mr. Arnoldson paused deliberately.

  “Yes, I do. But please don’t say anything to anyone yet, will you?”

  “Of course not, of course not. I’m indeed sorry.” And in tribute to the occasion he looked so solemn that Katherine felt they might almost have been standing at the graveside of a dear relative. “Permit me to say that I’m a good deal surprised as well as sorry,” Mr. Arnoldson went on. “When I observed a short while ago that you must be, er, proud of him, I thought you agreed with singular warmth.”

  “Oh, I am! At least, I mean that I admire him immensely. He’s a wonderful businessman, Mr. Arnoldson. Indeed, he’s a wonderful man,” she said more sadly than she knew. “But sometimes things don’t work out.”

  “True,” agreed Mr. Arnoldson, obviously making a gallant attempt to look less puzzled than he felt. “Well, I will only say, Miss Renner, that if you should not—” he cleared his throat “—settle your future as you had hoped, you will always be extremely welcome back at Bremmisons.”

  “Thank you,” said Katherine. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do.” And he turned away to speak to someone else while Katherine slipped away out of the room.

  She had not gone very far along the corridor, however, when Malcolm came after her.

  “Kate—” He caught up with her near one of the big embrasured windows that distinguished this much older part of the building.

  “What is it?” She turned to face him and then, almost instinctively, drew into the partial privacy of the window alcove.

  “I just wondered if ... anything had ... happened yet.”

  “What should have happened?” she asked coldly, because it both hurt and frightened her to think that she was rapidly being pushed further and further away from Paul.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean! Have you said anything to Paul yet?”

  “No, of course not. There hasn’t been time.”

  “No, I thought you probably hadn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so cocky at the meeting.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘cocky.’ ”

  “Of course you do.” He laughed. “He certainly threw his weight around, didn’t he?”

  “I didn’t notice it,” she said crisply. “I thought he spoke extraordinarily well. And what’s more, so did Mr. Arnoldson.”

  “Well, of course, this place is the passion of Paul’s life. That’s what really makes him glow. If he’s in love with anything, he’s in love with Kendales. Strange that anyone can feel that way about a store.”

  “I don’t think it’s strange at all,” retorted Katherine, partly in defense of Paul, and partly because she sensed the fascination behind a large and varied business concern. “There is a sort of romance about developing a great store. Like grooming someone to stardom. And if you have the genius for it that Paul has, it might well become the most important thing in life.”

  “Well, it certainly has with him,” Malcolm said carelessly. “There’s one thing, Kate. You won’t have difficulty with him on any romantic score when you call it a day. I don’t think that chap cares about any person. Only about Kendales. “

  She thought of the way Paul’s glance had rested on her for a moment, and how it had sent a strange, frightening and yet half-delicious flame running through her. And she turned on Malcolm with a vehemence that made him fall back literally.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sharply. “You’re too shallow and self-centered even to begin to understand Paul.”

  “Kate! What’s come over you?” he asked in astonishment.

  “I don’t know. I mean—nothing’s come over me. Only I won’t have you talk like that.”

  “Well, I don’t know what I’ve said that’s upset you so much.” He made a deprecating little movement with his hands. “All I wanted to make sure of was that you spoke to Paul as soon as possible, because—”

  “About what?” inquired another voice. And Katherine, who was leaning back by now against the side of the window, straightened up, startled, as Paul came into view.

  “What’s the discussion?” He was smiling very slightly as he looked from Malcolm to her, but there was nothing particularly indulgent about the smile. “What were you to tell me as soon as possible, Katherine?”

  “I—” She stopped.

  “Go on, Kate,” Malcolm urged her impatiently. “It doesn’t take much saying.”

  “But not—in front—of you,” said Katherine, catching her breath on a shocked little gasp.

  “Get out,” said Paul pleasantly to the other man.

  “But—”

  “Get out.”

  If Paul remembered that he was supposed to be speaking to his future brother-in-law, he showed no sign of the fact. He did not raise his voice, but something in his manner made it perfectly plain that he intended to get rid of Malcolm even if it meant dropping him out of the window.

  Malcolm went. And Paul turned back to Katherine. But what he said, with genuine curiosity, was, “Were you really in love with that chap once?”

  “Y-yes. Of course.”

  “The ‘of course’ escapes me,” he said, but quite good-humoredly. “Don’t look so scared, Katherine. It isn’t like you. You were splendid at the meeting. So calm and determined about what you wanted.”

  “Oh—” she smiled faintly “—I felt confident then. And you were absolutely wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” He laughed, but a little as though her praise pleased him.

  “You were so completely convincing and natural. Like a great actor with a role that brings out all that’s best in him. I think I understood just why you have such a ... a passion for Kendales. It’s your natural element. In a way, it’s you.”

  “It’s not, you know.” He smiled and shrugged. “Not yet. But it’s going to be.” And he set his mouth in a way that reminded her of the air with which he had carried everything before him at the boardroom table.

  That’s Paul as he should be, she thought. And then, with almost frightening clarity, that’s why I have to let him go.

  It was as simple as that. Malcolm’s pleas and arguments fell away. The question of whether or not he married Geraldine shrank to minor importance. What mattered was that Paul should one day be head of Kendales. And if, by remaining engaged to him, she jeopardized that destiny, it was for her to withdraw.

  The discovery so shook her that she was silent until he asked, “What was it you had to say to me, Katherine?” Here was the opening—presented to her without complication. For one dreadful, self-revealing moment she thought, but I don’t want to say it! 'Something has changed. I can’t say it!

  And then she heard her own voice, quiet and controlled, say, “It isn’t anything new, Paul. Only events have added some point and urgency to it. I don’t want to go on with our so-called engagement—that’s all. I want to break it now.”

  There was a short pause. She supposed a startled one. But she could not bring herself to look at him, so it was difficult to tell how he had taken her statement. Then he simply said, “Why, Katherine?”

  Until that moment she supposed she had intended to be quite frank with him. To tell him what she knew was involved, and to point out that her own position as his temporary fiancée was jeopardizing the happiness of two other people and his own security.

  But after the way he had looked at Malcolm and spoken of him she could not imagine that the first pa
rt of the argument would carry much weight.

  Hastily she' rearranged her ideas, and said, quickly and breathlessly, “I’ve been talking to ... to ... Mr. Arnoldson. He said how sorry he was that I wasn’t coming back to Bremmisons, because there was a big future for me there. He implied that if ... if I hadn’t been getting married, there was a good opening waiting now. My work here is really finished, Paul. I can’t expect that opening to wait for me indefinitely—can I?”

  “I see.” He took her hand almost absently in his, and she wondered if it were quite by chance that it was her left hand. “You very much want to accept, I take it?”

  “Why ... why, of course. These chances don’t come every day. And at the moment I should go in on the crest of a wave of approval.” She was astonished to discover how convincingly she was building her case.

  “That’s true. The timing is good.” He spoke almost academically, like any businessman considering the merits of a proposition.

  “I’ve done what I could for you, Paul.” She hadn’t really meant to urge her own assistance to him, but she was getting nervous now and not so sure of what she was saying. “There’s no possible point in prolonging this engagement. It’s ... it’s served its purpose.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said almost disagreeably. “It’s served its purpose.”

  And before she could realize what he was doing, he had slipped her magnificent ring from her finger.

  There was something almost brutally final about the gesture, and it was all she could do not to cry out in protest. Not that she had had any intention of keeping his ring. But he might—surely he might have left her to remove it and hand it to him.

  She felt shocked and hurt beyond any proportion to the event, and it was only with an effort that she kept tears back. And yet she knew she was being illogical. She had asked him to make it clear, as soon as possible, that their engagement was at an end. He could hardly have acted more promptly.

  Katherine glanced timidly at him, but it was difficult to tell much from his impassive expression.

  “I take it you’ll be going back to London almost immediately?”

  “Y-yes. I think so.”

  “Was that the advice Malcolm gave you?”

  “Malcolm?”

  “He was urging you to speak to me ‘as soon as possible,’ wasn’t he?” The touch of bitterness with which he said that showed how much he resented any sort of interference in his own affairs. “I suppose you’d been telling him about the London offer?”

  “Yes, I had,” Katherine declared, with resolution.

  “And he strongly advised you to accept? Disinterested fellow.” Paul gave a savage little laugh. “Well, Katherine, it’s been nice to know you.” And bending his head, he gave her the lightest kiss on her cheek before he turned and went on down the corridor.

  She stood there staring after him, unable to believe that it was over, and quite, quite unable to believe that he could close the whole incident in that careless, callous way.

  It was hard to say how she thought he should have ended things. The last thing she wanted was an emotional or harrowing scene. That would have been entirely out of keeping. But—this! This half-contemptuous brushing off was little less than an insult.

  She would have liked to run after him and tell him how abominably he was behaving to someone who had, at least, helped him out of a difficult situation without consideration of the personal embarrassment involved. But it would have been ridiculous and undignified to continue the scene.

  It was over. Those were the words that summed up the whole situation. And they struck upon Katherine’s heart with the inexplicable chill that terrified her.

  Since it was impossible to follow Paul, she had no choice but to retrace her steps toward the boardroom. The door was open, and she paused to glance, with some queer, perverse nostalgia, into the room where she had seen Paul triumphant.

  For a moment she thought it was empty. Then she saw that Mr. Arnoldson was sitting there at a side table, making some notes, and at the sound of her footsteps he glanced up.

  Perhaps there was something about her that was self-explanatory. At any rate, he said nothing as she came slowly into the room. It was she who spoke first, and what she said was, “Mr. Arnoldson, how soon could I come back to Bremmisons?”

  “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin perplexedly. “As far as we are concerned, tomorrow. But—”

  “Could we make it the next day?” She spoke coolly, and with great precision. “That would give me time to get back to London and put my apartment in order.”

  “We could, Miss Renner. If that’s what you really wish.”

  “That’s what I really wish.”

  There was a short pause. Then he said, “I’m sure you don’t want any unnecessary comment on your decision. I hope it hasn’t caused you too much unhappiness. But I shall be pleased to see you in my office on Wednesday morning at nine-thirty.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Arnoldson.”

  As she reached the door, he spoke again. “Are there any explanations that you want me to make to anyone about your—transfer?”

  “No.” She spoke without looking around. “The explanations have all been made.”

  That was true, she thought, as she went out of the room. She was answerable only to Paul while she was at Kendales. What he chose to pass on, by way of personal explanation to his family and associates, was entirely his own affair.

  In a way, it was terrifyingly simple to withdraw from the scene where she had played such a dramatic role.

  For herself there were only two scenes of explanation. One partial, and one unexpectedly complete.

  It had not been her intention to say anything to anyone in the department that she had made her own while she was in Morringham. But while she was putting her few things together in the office behind the Separates Department, Aileen Lester came unexpectedly into the room.

  She paused at the sight of Katherine, and a sullen look came over her face. But then she seemed to summon some sort of resolution, and she said with an offhand air that was not quite convincing, “You told me I was to think things over during the weekend and give you my decision today.”

  “Your decision?” Katherine looked at her in genuine surprise, for the morning’s events had made everything else seem small and out of date.

  “Yes. On whether I wanted to stay in this department or not.”

  “Oh, that.” Katherine recalled Saturday’s scene with difficulty and with slight distaste. “It isn’t my concern anymore. I’m leaving myself.”

  “You’re leaving?” Puzzlement and satisfaction struggled in Aileen’s face. “Leaving the department, do you mean?”

  “No. I’m leaving Morringham. I’m going back to London. They want me back at Bremmisons.”

  “They want—” Aileen stopped suddenly and stared at the hand with which Katherine had reached out to gather up some papers. “Where’s your ring?” she said abruptly. “You’re not wearing your engagement ring.”

  “No,” said Katherine coldly. “I’ve taken it off.” That was not strictly true, of course. It had been taken off for her, and the recollection of that made her want to cry even now.

  But Aileen Lester was unaware of any refinements of that sort. All she grasped was the salient fact.

  “Do you mean ... permanently?” she asked, and again that look of puzzlement and triumph crossed her face.

  “Yes, I do.” It was pointless to prevaricate, and the sooner this disagreeable conversation was over, the better. I’ve broken my engagement and I’m going back to London. But why and in what circumstances I’m not prepared to tell you. So please don’t ask any more questions.”

  “I don’t need to ask any more,” was the brutally candid reply. “I don’t care about the whys and wherefores. You’ve broken the engagement to Paul. That’s all that really matters.”

  And Aileen turned and went out of the room, leaving Katherine staring after her as half an hour ago she had stared aft
er Paul.

  The engagement to Paul was broken. That was all that really mattered.

  Aileen’s words but, incredibly, Katherine’s inmost thoughts. Hardly acknowledged, even to herself, imperfectly understood in all their implications—but inescapably and horribly true. The engagement to Paul was broken, and that was all that really mattered.

  She gathered the rest of her personal belongings together and went. Out of the department and out of Kendales—for the last time.

  It was early afternoon by now, and because she had had no lunch she stopped for coffee and a sandwich at the coffee bar where Paul had found her on that first evening.

  She even sat at the same table, but more by chance than by any nostalgic impulse. And as she sat there she tried to recall just how she had felt then.

  A little as she felt now, she supposed, in that she was slightly numb from a sense of crisis. But there had been more acute and understandable anguish then. And the cause of it—quite incredibly, as it seemed to her now—had been Malcolm.

  Deliberately she tried to recreate the spell that Malcolm had once cast around her. Not so that she could luxuriate in misery, but so that she could discover what extraordinary change had taken place in herself.

  But the effort was useless. She could neither thrill to the remembrance of his lovemaking nor agonize over the fact that he now loved Geraldine Kendale and hoped to marry her.

  One can’t forget so quickly, she told herself, a good deal shocked. But then one also could not go on adoring someone whom one very faintly despised. And if she did not exactly presume to despise Malcolm—for how could she blame him for his defection when her own cherished memories were fading so rapidly—at least she knew that he was no longer the wonderful being he had once seemed to her.