Virginia felt as if a stone that had been dropped into a pool of water had hit bottom.
How often had Charles told her that she was sweet? ... “You’re so sweet, Virginia! ... You’re many, many times sweeter than Iris! ... Oh, Virginia, you’re so sweet!...”
And how far, she asked herself, did sweetness get one?
That afternoon an unexpected visitor turned up at the flat. It was Annette le Clair. Virginia was alone, as not infrequently happened nowadays, and once again she was repairing the ravages to Iris’s wardrobe when the front-door bell pealed.
At first, when she heard the peal of that bell, a kind of panic took possession of her; she was afraid it was Charles. But, when she glanced out of the window to look for his car, it was not standing where she felt almost certain she would see it, but a long, chauffeur-driven Bentley was. She recognised the Bentley, and the chauffeur, and knew who her visitor was.
Annette was smiling as usual when Virginia opened the door. It was a smile that seemed to be painted on her delicate lips, and revealed all her perfect little pearly teeth.
“Am I intruding?” she asked. “It is not that I wish to take up your time, but if you could perhaps spare me—just a very little while?”
“Of course, Miss le Clair,” Virginia answered, and stood aside for her to enter.
The visitor looked about her with interest as she did so.
“I see that you keep Charles’s flat in very good—how is it you would say?—shape for him! Everything so tidy, and everything in its place! And yet you have not even the maidservant, I believe?”
“No, I have not a maidservant,” Virginia answered.
Annette accepted a seat gracefully.
“It is so good to be back here again! I love Charles’s flat—”
“Would you like some tea?” Virginia asked.
“No, thank you.” The pearly teeth were fully and charmingly revealed again. “I do not often drink tea in the afternoon—it is the English habit, is it not? In France, we are very much addicted to coffee.”
“Then, shall I make you some coffee?” Virginia offered.
“Would you?” The golden eyes beamed gratefully. “That would be very kind.”
When she returned Annette was trying the piano softly. Her fingers were running caressingly up and down the keyboard.
“Charles’s piano!” she exclaimed, with a dreamy look in her eyes, looking upwards at Virginia. “Everything in this flat breathes Charles, doesn’t it? His books and his pictures—the way he likes his furniture arranged! The absence of any feminine touches!” She struck a chord delicately, and it rippled round the room. “Charles needs a wife to soften things just a little.”
“With sugar, Miss le Clair?” Virginia inquired, pausing with the sugar-tongs partly raised.
Annette looked through her dreamily.
“Thank you, yes. Did you know, Miss Summers, that the reason why Charles so unfortunately met with his accident was because he was straining every nerve to get to me?” She deserted the piano and returned to her chair, crossing long, slim legs gracefully, and clasping her white hands over them. Her eyes were almost blank as they stared through Virginia. “He asked me to marry him when we were in Paris, but I refused. However, I wrote to him from London and told him that it was possible—just possible—that if he came quickly see me, and consented to get to work on the music for Martin’s new show, I might change' my mind! In fact, I hinted that I was almost certain to change my mind!”
“Oh, yes?” Virginia said, her voice sounding strangely cool and quiet, while her quiet eyes dwelt on her visitor. A lavender silk suit to-day, she noted—forcing herself to do so—and a little cap of white feathers that sat on the back of com-silk hair as if it loved it. And a very wide bracelet, inset with stones like amethysts, enclosing one of the slender wrists. “Oh, yes?” she repeated, politely.
Annette smiled meltingly.
“And the poor darling, rushing to get to me—hoping against hope that I would change my mind!—smashes himself up on your doorstep, Miss Summers! Can you imagine, I wonder”—rolling her great eyes slightly—“what a relief it was to me to learn that his injuries were not worse, and that he would get better. For otherwise I should have felt”—she spread her hands slightly—“Well, you understand, I am sure?”
“You mean that you would have felt that it was through you that he—well, if he had been killed it would have been your fault!”
“Exactly!”
Virginia poured her another cup of coffee.
“But have you come here this afternoon for the purpose of telling me about this, Miss le Clair?” she asked.
Annette looked at her with sweet apology.
“It occurred to me that perhaps you should know,” she explained. “Me—I know Charles, I have known him for some little while, but to people who do not know him—it could be dangerous!” she emphasized softly. “And you have done so much for him, been so extremely obliging as to turn out of your house... It would be base ingratitude if you were led to think...”
“What would I be likely to think, Miss le Clair?” Virginia asked.
Annette made a very French gesture with her shoulders.
“Charles is so adorable—but he is heartless, you understand? That is to' say, making light love to attractive women is a kind of habit with him, and it most certainly would not occur to him that when he passed on he might leave a great deal of unhappiness behind. You, I feel sure, he would not willingly injure for the world, but you are attractive, Miss Summers—and therein lies the danger!”
“I see,” Virginia said, wrapping her own arms about her knees and studying her visitor with unwavering coolness. “It is kind of you to warn me, Miss le Clair, but if you are to marry him it must go a little against the grain, and I can’t quite see why you should put yourself to the trouble. For you, at least, are quite safe!” Miss le Clair flushed delicately, but her eyes were suddenly cold.
“I have not said that I am going to marry him! I keep him, as I think you would say, on a string.”
“Really?” Virginia elevated her eyebrows. “Is that,” she questioned, “quite wise?”
But this time Annette’s eyes flashed sparks at her. “Wise or not,” she answered, “I have no need to rush my fences, Miss Summers. Charles and I understand one another—I shall give him my answer soon.” She stood up. “And as he risked so much for me I feel fairly certain that you will hear of our marriage before long, Miss Summers.”
“Then, although it is a little early, you must permit me to congratulate you,” Virginia returned smoothly.
Annette looked at her for a moment as if she did not', quite understand her, and then fumbled in her handbag and produced a couple of theatre tickets.
“You have, I believe, a sister, Miss Summers. Perhaps the two of you would care to make use of these.”
When she had gone, Virginia ignored the tickets, but she sat down again in her chair and stared at her lap.
Charles himself had told her that there had only been one occasion in his life when he had proposed marriage to a woman—or that was what he had plainly meant when he said that he had contemplated taking on a few responsibilities—and it was obviously to Annette that he had proposed. She had always known that Annette had some very strong hold over him, and now it was clearly explained Annette was the woman he was willing to give up his freedom for, live a life that was not the life of a carefree bachelor ... a life that was not entirely self-centred, without the irksomeness of ties and responsibilities.
As Virginia stared at her lap she felt, not for the first time, bitterly envious of Annette, but she was glad now that at least she knew the truth—the whole truth! There were no longer any illusions for her to cherish.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Two nights later, in most unexpected surroundings, Martin Sutherland asked Virginia to marry him.
They had had dinner together, and as it was a fine evening—a warm, starlit September evening—he suggested
a drive.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “It’ll take us an hour to get there, but do you mind?”
Virginia assured him that she didn’t mind. The dinner had been perfect, as it always was when Martin made himself responsible for her evening’s entertainment, and although she had had very little appetite, she had felt relaxed and at peace in the surroundings he chose for her. They were surroundings in which she could not somehow imagine Annette feeling entirely content, as if they represented her right background. A little austere for Annette, rather lush, with a faintly Victorian lushness, as silent as a pool, because there was no orchestra dispensing dance music, and no sudden bursts of laughter or gaiety. The waiters were soft-footed and extremely attentive, the fighting discreet, but nothing scintillated.
Annette was the type who would always wish to scintillate against a scintillating background—of that Virginia felt quite sure. Hence the after-the-concert party given for Charles Wickham.
Lulled, therefore, by the soothing qualities of the place where they had dined, Virginia was quite content to be tucked into Martin’s car, and to know that he was beside her at the wheel as they moved away into the star-pricked, neon-lighted gloom of the night Martin’s car was even more expensive and superbly-sprung than Charles’s, and Martin was certainly a more thoughtful driver. He refrained from indulging in sudden bursts of speed when his passenger might have preferred a more leisurely mode of progress—a weakness of Charles’s—and at the wheel he talked little, although his silence was always companionable.
Virginia was able to take advantage of the opportunity to fie back and feel that nothing very much was expected of her, so long as she enjoyed the drive. And she did enjoy it, with the breeze coming in at the open window beside her, and the soft purring noise of the car sounding very pleasantly in her ears. When they got out into the open country the breeze carried the scent of cornfields recently denuded of their glory, and with the rich harvest standing stocked beneath the stars. There were lights in cottage windows and village inns as they swept past, and tall hedgerows rose against the stars and blotted them out altogether when trees met overhead and formed dark tunnels of inky gloom pierced by the brilliance of their headlights.
Virginia had the feeling that it would be pleasant to go on and on like this, without pause or thought for anything that was strictly reality. The thought of Charles was always with her—he was like a perfume that clung to her these days, an insistent perfume that invaded the secret recesses of her mind, and dwelt there whether she would or not. But when her mind was rendered torpid by smooth and constant movement, her perceptions comfortably dulled by that soothing note of the engine, and by the unreal shapes that came and went as the road unfolded before them, and went on winding into unreal blackness, she was like a prisoner temporarily released, and able to enjoy immunity from a burden that pressed on her.
“Not much farther now,” Martin said, a short while before they swept between open, wrought-iron gates on to a narrow, winding drive that terminated in a semi-circular sweep before a dark and silent house. It was a large house, slightly forbidding under such conditions, but Martin reassured her quickly. “The place is empty at the moment, but not deserted, and the caretaker lives in the lodge.”
He opened the front door with his key, and Virginia followed him into a beautifully furnished hall, gracious and vaulted, with a fan-shaped staircase curling upwards into unseen regions above. As soon as Martin’s hand depressed the electric-light switch neutral-tinted carpet was bathed in a flood of mellow radiance, and an exquisite bronze figure upholding a lantern at the foot of the stairs gleamed as if it was made of gold.
Virginia noted a grandfather-clock in a polished rosewood case, and even as they entered it chimed the hour and distilled sweet music throughout the house. She caught a faint perfume like the perfume of potpourri, and saw that an enormous Satsuma bowl was filled with fallen rose petals. If the caretaker came in daily the rose petals had been allowed, for some reason, to lie there.
“Come in here,” Martin said, and opened the door of a huge room that was obviously the drawing-room. It had a white fireplace and an Adam ceiling, and a lovely Aubusson carpet.
Virginia looked about her in unconcealed delight. She loved old houses and period pieces, and this place was filled with them. It must have cost a fortune to equip it as it was equipped, and the taste displayed made her want to exclaim aloud in pleasure.
Martin drew forward a Louis Quinze chair for her, and switched on an electric fire, because the house had the faint chill of unoccupied houses. She was wearing a little black net dress she had bought recently, and with her bright head and her silver-shod feet she looked somehow very right in the chair. At any rate, Martin must have thought so, for he leant against the white marble mantelpiece and looked at her with a good deal of his heart in his quiet grey eyes.
“I’ve been wanting to bring you here for days,” he told her. “Do you like my house?”
“Then it is your house?” She looked up at him rather shyly—perhaps because of that look in his eyes. “I think it’s absolutely perfect!”
He sighed, as if with relief.
“I had a feeling you might think so. After seeing the Meadow House, and realising that you had a ‘thing’ about antiquity, I ventured to hope you would approve of this place.”
“But you don’t live here, do you?” she asked.
“No; at the moment I’m still completing the furnishing—some of the upstairs rooms are not quite ready—but, when they are, do you think you could bear to live here, Virginia?”
“L-live here?”
He went and sat beside her, in another of the elegant chairs, and now she could have no reasonable excuse for not understanding what was coming. His manner was a little diffident, but the feel of his hand as he reached for hers was strong and possessive.
“Yes; live here, Virginia! I want to marry you—that is to say, I want to beg you to marry me!” His smile, that she found so attractive, was a shade quizzical, but there was a hint of anxiety behind it. “You must have known I wanted to marry you almost from the beginning! You’re so different—so entirely different from any other woman I’ve ever met before! When I walked with you in your herb garden that day I visited Charles when he was recovering from his accident I was almost overwhelmed by the difference, and I couldn’t help comparing you in my mind with so many of the lovelies—the young women with the obvious attractions I’ve seen captivate so many audiences! There’s nothing obvious about you, Virginia, and you’re as rare as some of the herbs in that herb garden of yours nowadays. So will you please say you’ll be my wife?”
“Oh!” Virginia exclaimed, and for the moment she could say nothing more. She had sensed his admiration for some time, but she had been quite unprepared for a proposal of marriage.
Martin’s expression grew a little more whimsical.
“And what does ‘Oh!’ mean?” he demanded. “Have you really been quite unaware how I felt about you, or haven’t you ever thought about me in any other way but as a casual acquaintance?”
“I—don’t know...” Virginia answered, rather haltingly. “That is to say, I—”
“Yes?” caressing the small hand he held.
Virginia shook her head.
“You’ve taken me by surprise. Whatever I thought you thought about me, I never expected—”
“Listen!” he said, before she could go on. He captured her other hand, and held them both tightly. “I told you I’m going to the Bahamas in a few weeks’ time, didn’t I? Well, we could make that a honeymoon, and when we return to England we could get on with the furnishing of this place. You might think up all sorts of ideas of your own, and we could carry them out in a way that would please you, and when you would be free to superintend operations. And if you’re thinking of Midge and Iris—well, you don’t have to worry about them! We’ll send Midge off to a first-class school—it’s a bad thing to have a boy of his age clinging to the ski
rts of a devoted aunt!—and Iris, of course, can live with us for as long as she wants to. Everything can be fitted in nicely and neatly, and you won’t have a thing to trouble your head about. In the past, I’m sure, that adorable small head of yours has been troubled far too much—”
“Oh, please!” Virginia begged, looking suddenly distressed. “Oh, please, Martin—”
“What is it, my darling?” he asked gently. “Have you any doubts about how much I love you?”
Once again she shook her head, only this time it was an even more helpless shake.
“No, but I—I’m not sure—I mean I don’t—”
“Don’t say you don’t love me, because that isn’t necessary.” He smiled rather sadly. “I’ve known for some time how you feel about Charles, but I’m determined to get you over that, Virginia—and Charles has had his chance and omitted to take hold of it! In any case, I doubt very much whether any woman—certainly not one as hyper-sensitive as you, my sweet—would be happy with a man like Charles! He’d give you as much as he could, but that wouldn’t be enough—not for you, Virginia. You’d not only have to share him with his music—there’d be other things...”
“I know,” she interrupted him quickly, her face suddenly burning. “But there’s no question of my sharing Charles with anything or anyone.”
“How do you know?” He looked at her shrewdly. “You’re not basing any conviction you’ve arrived at on his association with Annette, are you?”
A Nightingale in the Sycamore Page 14
