One Man's Heart

by Mary Burchell

  “Yes, that was how it struck me. Made me think that—it was time—” She hesitated diplomatically.

  “Time we said, ‘Addio, senza rancor’?” he suggest­ed.

  “Which means?”

  “More or less, ‘Good-bye, without any bad feeling on either side.’ But, used in its context—it’s from Bohème, you know—it rather implies, ‘Good-bye, while there’s still time to do it without regrets on either side.’ “

  “Very well expressed.” Hilma’s cool little laugh ap­plauded the sentiment even more than her comment did.

  “Shall we sit down here?” He spoke abruptly again, indicating a bench where sunshine and shadow cast a perpetually moving pattern.

  She agreed at once. She felt that the right atmo­sphere had certainly been achieved. Even quite a long conversation now would be harmless. It might even be amusing. For there was no question but that they did share the same sense of humour.

  “It’s nice here.” She carelessly pulled off her gloves, and immediately his attention was attracted by her engagement ring.

  “Hm-hm, very fine.” A little mockingly he took her hand in his and examined the ring.

  “Didn’t you see it the other night—at the ball?”

  “I was not looking at your hands then,” he said dryly.

  She had some difficulty in finding an immediate answer to that, and in the pause he observed with his eyes still on the ring:

  “A very handsome piece of evidence of a very satis­factory state of affairs.”

  “I think so, too,” she agreed coolly. “By the way, I thought—your Evelyn very charming when I identi­fied her the other evening.”

  “Oh, she is.”

  “Are you thinking of getting married pretty soon?” Her attention seemed at least half absorbed by an ad­venturous bird which was hopping nearer and nearer to where they were sitting.

  There was a queer little pause. Then he said:

  “Probably just after Christmas. Evelyn fancies a Riviera honeymoon, so we should probably combine it with an escape from the worst of a London winter.”

  “It’s a good idea.” Hilma agreed.

  “And you?”

  “Much about the same time, I think. My brother should be home by then. He’s in America on business at the moment. I should like him to be home for my wedding.”

  “Of course.” He was politely interested. “Your only brother?”

  “Hm-hm, we were always great friends as chil­dren.”

  He smiled at her then, quite deliberately.

  “What a nice child you must have been, Lieb­ling. Bright blue eyes and, I suppose, about half a yard of golden hair hanging down your back.”

  Hilma laughed.

  “I had long hair, certainly. I don’t know about be­ing a ‘nice child.’ I think Tony and I were exception­ally naughty in some things. That—penknife was his,” she added irrelevantly.

  “Which? Oh, the one you used for burgling my flat?”

  “If you must put it that way,” she smiled demurely, “yes.”

  “What a very shocking use for a memento of in­nocent childhood,” he remarked mockingly.

  “Tony wouldn’t have thought so,” she retorted quickly. “We used it for opening windows before now.”

  “Dear me! Did you make a joint concern of other burgling escapades?”

  “Oh, no. But when we stayed on my grandfather’s farm, we used to slip out at night by our window, slide down the roof of a shed, and go off to enjoy the moonlight. Then we had to get in again by the kitchen window and creep up the back stairs. We used the knife for opening the window.”

  “Hence the experienced touch with which you broke into my flat?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He looked at her—smilingly, reflectively, just a lit­tle too admiringly, considering the excellent remarks which had been made about saying good-bye.

  “It seems rather an incongruous beginning for the golden girl you were to become.”

  “I wonder,” Hilma said a little doubtfully, “in just what sense you mean that expression.”

  “‘Golden girl’? Every sense. It’s how I always think of you. Your wonderful hair, your expensive outlook, your exquisite air which always suggests that the best is only just good enough.”

  “Oh.” She was busy digesting this statement when a very fat little boy in a very tight suit approached them and said:

  “Please c’n you tell me the time?”

  “Nothing like tea-time yet.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Five past four. Is that any good to you?”

  The little boy shook his head.

  “Tea isn’t until five.”

  “Hard lines. What have you got tucked away there under your arm?”

  “My wagon. It’s broken. The wheel’s come off.” Life was altogether a stale and profitless business, it seemed.

  “Give it here to me. I’ll see if I can mend it.”

  Hilma was a good deal amused at her companion’s sure handling of the situation. Neither he nor the little boy took much notice of her in this man-to-man dis­cussion. They both bent over the broken wagon.

  “Can you do it?” the little boy enquired anxious­ly.

  “I think so, if you don’t breathe all over it like that.”

  The child straightened up.

  “I’m very tired,” he said pointedly. “I’ve been walking miles.”

  “Pioneer, eh? You’d better sit down.”

  The little boy made a not very successful attempt to scramble on to the rather high seat and then Hilma was still further amused to see the expert way his plump little figure was lifted on to the seat between.

  “There you are. Now you sit very quiet while I finish this.”

  The child slowly rubbed his hands over his knees. Then he looked at Hilma, apparently noticing her for the first time, and enquired sociably: “Is he your husband?”

  “No.”

  The knees were rubbed a bit more.

  “He’s very clever, isn’t he?”

  Hilma laughed.

  “She can’t tell you, old chap. She doesn’t know me well enough. And I haven’t mended any of her toys.”

  The little boy thought that funny and laughed. Then he leant over to see how the wagon was getting on.

  “Is it nearly finished?” He leant confidingly against the arm next to him.

  “Very nearly.”

  “I think you’re very clever, even if she doesn’t.”

  “Thanks, I’m flattered. There you are.” The wagon was set on the ground, pushed backwards and for­wards once or twice and pronounced satisfactory by its critical owner.

  “I s’pose I’ve got to go now.”

  “Well, we don’t insist, do we, Lieb­ling?”

  Hilma shook her head.

  “What’s her name?” The little boy seemed sur­prised at the form of address.

  “Lieb­ling,” was the grave reply, though the dark eyes sparkled amusedly.

  The little boy shook his head slowly.

  “It’s a funny name,” he remarked.

  “Think so? I rather thought it suited her.”

  Hilma moved slightly, perhaps in protest. But the child was not specially interested in that aspect of things. He said firmly:

  “My name’s Richard.”

  “A very excellent and romantic-sounding name.”

  “What’s romantic?”

  “Ah! Now you’re posing one of those questions that people find exceedingly difficult to answer. What is ‘romantic,’ Lieb­ling?” Those laughing eyes were turned on her now, though he went on almost imme­diately: “I suppose one might call it the gilt on the gingerbread, Richard, or the glitter that makes one think things are gold when they are not.”

  “It sounds silly,” remarked the puzzled Richard somewhat crushingly, whereat Hilma gave a short laugh, and her companion said:

  “Do you know, I’m very much afraid you’ve said the last—and wisest—word on the
subject. It is silly. Or rather, it belongs to those charming, foolish things for which there is no room at all in everyday life. Isn’t that right, Lieb­ling?”

  “Perfectly right,” Hilma agreed coolly. “I think one could hardly put it better.”

  “Is it nearly tea-time now?” The little boy found this conversation dull—not to say foolish—and his thoughts turned to more congenial subjects once more.

  Hilma glanced at her watch this time, laughed sym­pathetically, and said, “I’m afraid not”

  But her companion had better ideas. Putting his hand into his pocket, he produced some coins, which he studied thoughtfully.

  “I think, though, it might be time for lemonade,” he remarked reflectively.

  “From the man with the sweet stall?” Richard found this much more interesting and to the point than a discussion on romance.

  “Yes, from the man with the sweet stall. That is, if he sells it?”

  “Oh, yes. In big jars with a lemon stuck on top.” Richard seemed an authority on the subject.

  “I know. Bright yellow stuff. Extremely unwhole­some, no doubt, but very palatable when one is under seven. Well, here you are.” Money was handed over and eagerly clutched in a fat, hot hand. “Run along and have your lemonade. And then by the time you’ve dragged your wagon home, it will probably be tea-time.”

  The little boy seemed to think so, too. He viewed the whole transaction with marked approval and then scrambled down with a breathless “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye,” He shook hands politely with his benefactor. “Thank you for mending my wagon. Good-bye, Leebing.” He shook hands too with Hilma, who smiled and expressed the hope that he would enjoy his lemonade.

  “Oh, yes, I shall,” he assured her as he trundled off with his wagon. “I’m so glad I met you.”

  When he had gone, Hilma turned to her companion with a laugh.

  “He was rather sweet, wasn’t he?”

  “Very.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about children.”

  “Oh—no.” He looked surprised. “Do I? Why?”

  “Well, you handled him in a very expert way, and were not at all self-conscious. Most unmarried men are a bit—unless they happen to know a good deal about children.”

  “I’m not sure that I know much about them.” He smiled slightly. “But I like children very much.”

  “Do you?”

  “Does that surprise you so much?”

  “We-ell, a little, I think. It doesn’t somehow fit in with the rest of you.”

  “Not part of the make-up of a second-rate charac­ter?” he suggested.

  Hilma laughed.

  “Something like that, I suppose. Still”—she gave a rather mocking little inclination of her head—“it’s nice to know you’ll make a good husband and fa­ther.”

  “Eh?” He looked faintly startled. “Oh, yes—of course. Didn’t you say once that something like that was part of your attraction for Roger? That you would make a good wife and mother, I mean?”

  “Did I? Yes, I daresay.” She looked reflective. “Funny, isn’t it, that you and I, of all people, are going to have thrust upon us the rôle of very solid, worthwhile people. All the standard virtues, I mean, and none of the pleasant, inconsequential frivolities which really come more naturally to us.”

  He looked at her very thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I know what you mean.” Then, after a slight pause: “Do you object to the rôle very much?”

  “Excellent wife and mother? It isn’t much good objecting, is it?”

  “I didn’t ask you that.” He was serious and there was a touch of something like obstinacy about him. “I asked how you would like it.”

  Her rather easy smile faded curiously.

  “We’re being quite serious now?”

  “Quite serious.”

  “Well—I think—yes. I should like to have children. One child, anyway.”

  “Roger’s child.” He didn’t look at her that time, and there was a queer moment of silence.

  Then, when she answered, her voice was cool and toneless.

  “Circumstances being what they are—Roger’s, nat­urally.”

  There was a slight pause again. Then she said more lightly:

  “And you? How will you fancy the rôle of parent?”

  He looked away across the Park, smiling slightly.

  “I should like to have something rather like our little fat friend of the wagon.”

  Hilma laughed, though, for some unknown reason, she was rather touched by the way he said that.

  “Well, I daresay you will.”

  He shook his head.

  “Not?” She was surprised. “But surely—do you mean that Evelyn doesn’t want—” Hilma stopped. “Oh, really, I’m sorry. It’s hardly my business, of course.”

  He shrugged, and again there was that faint smile.

  “It doesn’t matter. We haven’t observed so many restrictions in our previous conversations, you and I, that we need begin now. Anyway, I didn’t mean that. I think Evelyn is quite—keen on children. At least—shall I say?—she counts them in the scheme of things.”

  “Then what—did you mean quite by saying you were not likely to have any—any nice fat little boys like that one?”

  He didn’t answer that directly.

  “Did you notice,” he said, “that he had very fair hair and blue eyes?”

  “Why, yes, I think I did. Yes, of course I did.” A faint uneasiness stirred in her heart—a sort of antici­pation of something that might hurt.

  “Well, if romantic fancy were to be indulged—that is how I would like any child of mine to be. Fair hair and blue eyes.”

  There was a profound silence. Then, with an effort, Hilma laughed.

  “Too bad! Evelyn is as dark as you are, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, anyway, it’s only—only romantic fancy, as you say. I thought you meant something serious.”

  For a moment she saw his nostrils distend slightly. Then quite deliberately he matched his mood with hers.

  “Oh, forgive me for giving the wrong impression, Lieb­ling.” He laughed in his turn. “We never mean anything quite seriously, you and I, do we? How fool­ish of me to put it so gravely. All romantic fancy—nothing else. It’s just human nature to hanker after what one can’t have.”

  Hilma nodded and answered quite gaily.

  “True enough! As things are, it’s I who will proba­bly have the blue-eyed little blondes, while all the time, now I come to think of it, I’m perverse enough to feel that I’d much prefer a little boy with big dark eyes and solemn ways and—” But she could not complete it after all. To her own utter astonishment, she quite suddenly put her face in her hands.

  “Don’t, Lieb­ling.”

  The tone was soft but urgent. She thought perhaps he too could not have borne to have that sentence gaily completed.

  She hardly knew what she expected him to do next. How could she, when she could not even account for her own action? Incoherently she kept on repeating to herself: “It’s absurd. I don’t even know his name.”

  Then one of her hands was taken away from her face, and held very tightly in his. Still he said nothing, and when she looked up determinedly a moment later, he was very pale and a trifle grim. She felt she must be looking white, too, and certainly his expression softened as his eyes rested on her.

  “I am sorry, Lieb­ling. We should never have started the subject. It was my fault.”

  “No,” She gave a shaky little laugh “Shall we say it was Richard’s fault? He—he rather made one’s thoughts—Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’ve said a great deal too much already, haven’t we? In­dulging our—our romantic fancy, or whatever it is.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re right, of course. Rotten world, isn’t it, Lieb­ling?”

  “Or else we’re rather rotten people?”

  “Wanting to eat our cake and have it, you mean? Yes,
I suppose that’s it. What a pity we aren’t heroic and determined and the possessors of lots of stern character.” He was half laughing again.

  “Or else that we didn’t know just how ghastly life can be without the particular things we want.” She said that almost crisply. Perhaps because something still hurt. Perhaps because she was realising just how far they had come from the excellent common-sense basis they had established at the beginning of their conversation.

  “It isn’t only moonlight and the late hours that can be dangerous,” Hilma told herself grimly. “Sunshine and Richmond Park can be just as bad.” And then, with a coolness which she knew was her best defence, she said:

  “Even if you’re not going to that cocktail party, I’m afraid I have to go. I—didn’t mean to stay so late, in any case.”

  For a moment she saw startled protest in his eyes. Then he too became cool and matter-of-fact.

  “Very well. Can I run you back to Town?” He got up and stood there looking down at her—calm, polite, imperturbable.

  “No, really, thanks, but there’s no need.”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  “A pleasure,” Hilma said deliberately, “in which it would be much wiser not to indulge.”

  Again there was that expression of startled pro­test—to be replaced almost immediately by a cool acceptance of facts.

  “As you like, of course.” He bowed slightly to her.

  She wanted to say angrily that it was not at all as she liked, and that he knew it, and that she didn’t suppose it was as he liked either, only what could one do?

  But naturally she said none of these things. They would only have led to stormy discussion that would have ended in—Heaven knew what. The one essential of the moment was that they should remain calm and collected, free from any sort of heat or emotion, satis­fied to accept the inescapable fact that, in this world, one cannot have everything. Only one must know what one wanted, and hold to that in the face of any sort of romantic temptation to make a fool of one­self.

  “I think”—she looked up at him determinedly—”I’ll say good-bye to you now, and I’ll stay here a little longer while—while you go.”

  “But you forget”—he smiled at her very gently, perhaps because he admired her courage—”that it was you who had to go. I’m in no hurry. Let’s say good-bye here, as you suggest but you will go and I shall stay here.”