"Why of course, you don't know, do you?" the girl exclaimed. "It was someone called Brett Halliday—your host at the party, I guess. Gee, not every girl is lucky enough to be rescued by such a handsome knight-errant!"
So Brett had rescued her—dear Brett had risked his own life to save hers! Weak tears ran down Loris's cheeks, and the nurse looked at her in concern.
"Don't cry, my dear. You're safe and sound and well on the way to recovery. Wipe your eyes and try to get some sleep or I'll get into trouble."
The door swung behind her and Loris lay back, overcome with emotion.
During the following days she was not allowed any visitors, for the doctor was dissatisfied with her general condition. In spite of the fact that her burns were healing, she was still painfully thin and nervous, and although this could be attributed partly to shock, he felt there was more behind it. That there was something between her and the man who had rescued her he did not doubt, for Brett's every gesture and expression as he had waited for news had bespoken a man in love.
For the first couple of days he had haunted the waiting-room of the hospital in the hope of seeing Loris, and seemed abnormally disappointed when he had not been allowed to do so. But three days ago the doctor had been able to give him encouraging news of her condition, and had promised that if things went as he expected, Brett might be allowed to see her before the end of the week.
"That won't do me much good, I'm afraid," the man had replied. "I've been called to New York on urgent business, and I've got to fly out to the East Coast tonight. I expect to be away at least a couple of weeks."
"Well, never mind. By that time Miss Cameron will probably be out of here and then you won't have to bother about hospital regulations before you can see her."
Although Brett smiled politely, the doctor sensed his distress. But the love affairs of his patients were no concern of his, and he shrugged it out of his mind.
Brett was determined not to leave for New York until he had told Elaine he wanted to break their engagement, and after his final visit to the hospital he went straight over to do so.
Parking his car outside the Loftus house, he strode up the steps, not feeling as nonchalant or casual as he looked. As usual, Elaine kept him waiting some time before she appeared, and when at last she came into the room, looking poised and assured in a green trouser suit, he was assailed by a qualm of uneasiness. What if she refused to set him free; if she cared more for her future position as his wife than for his happiness?
But if Elaine sensed his nervousness she gave no sign of it, and helped herself to a cigarette before offering him one. Seating herself on the arm of the couch, she swung one leg gracefully backwards and forwards, puffing competent smoke rings into the air, while Brett moved round the room restlessly.
"Well, Brett?" Elaine's voice was faintly mocking. "You've something to say to me, haven't you? Better get it over. I won't bite, you know."
When he had telephoned and asked to see her alone, she had sensed what was in his mind. Ever since the night of the fire she had realized that not even a feeling of obligation would keep him tied to her much longer; one look at his ravaged face as he had waited in the hospital for news of Loris had told her so much that she had debated ever since whether to be the one to break off the engagement.
Brett came to a standstill and stood looking down into her face, thinking not for the first time how attractive she was. But he was quite unmoved by her beauty, conscious only of a faint feeling of—dislike? Revulsion? But that was ridiculous. She had never done anything to harm him. He was the one to blame for their engagement.
"You're right, Elaine. There is something I want to say, something that's going to be difficult. But it must be said, for our future happiness depends on it. I know—"
She interrupted him. "You want to break off our engagement, don't you? Isn't that what you're trying to say?"
He stared at her. "How did you know?"
She gave a short laugh. "I'm not bund, my dear. It's been apparent ever since the fire. It was obvious then that you weren't in love with me."
Now she had decided to take the initiative she was conscious of a vicious stab of anger against the girl who was the innocent cause of their engagement coming to an end. But Elaine had always been the sort of woman to face facts. Never one to blind herself to realities, she was clever enough to prefer to give in gracefully rather than fight a losing battle. Better to let Brett think she had also decided their engagement had been a mistake, for she was more anxious at this moment to save her face than to try and keep him.
"Don't look so surprised," she went on. "After all, one doesn't have to be very discerning to realize you. don't love me any more. In fact," she shrugged with assumed indifference, "it was foolish of me to take you seriously when you asked me to marry you. Perhaps, like you, I was carried away by the night and the moon and the music. Anyway, it was nice while it lasted." She took off her emerald ring and handed it to him. "Thank you for a lovely engagement, Brett."
Brett looked down at the ring in his hand and then up at her. There was a hard gleam in her eyes and a cool smile played about the corners of her beautifully painted mouth, and for a moment he felt she was laughing at him, as if she were enjoying a joke at his expense.
"Thank you for taking it so well, Elaine," he began awkwardly. "I can only apologize if I've hurt you. I assure you I never meant…"
She laughed harshly. "Oh, Brett, don't be so solemn!" Irritation that he should think he could cause her unhappiness made her want to belittle him. It was true he would have been an ideal husband—wealthy, handsome, amusing—but there were other wealthy men, and she was glad that, if their engagement had to end, it had done so without her lies and concealments coming to light.
With a sigh of relief Brett stubbed out his cigarette. "I have to go to New York on business tomorrow, so I won't be here to embarrass you. When I come back I shall do my best to see we don't meet too often."
"You don't have to be so conventional, my dear! Those ideas went out with the Ark. Lots of my friends have broken off their engagements and quite a lot of them still meet their ex-husbands, so why should we be embarrassed?" She gave a wicked smile. "You know, Brett, I'm beginning to think you're old-fashioned!"
"Perhaps I am."
"That's something no one would think of attributing to you, with your reputation as a cynic and breaker of hearts."
He lifted an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I'm overrated. If I used to be a woman-chaser it was only because I was looking for—something I could never find."
"That's what they all say." But although she smiled, a little spark of venom flamed in her. "How will you know when you do find the right woman, though? You're very wealthy, Brett. Most girls would marry you for that alone."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"Oh, well,"—shrugging—"you'll find out for yourself!"
He looked down at the ring lying in his palm. "I'd like you to keep this as a souvenir of our friendship." Instinctive cupidity conflicted with her pride, and seeing the look of indecision pass across her face, Brett urged: "Please accept it. It's so very much your stone."
"Very well." She took it and put it on her right hand.
"Thank you, Brett"—touching him lightly on the cheek. "Now I won't keep you, because you must have a million things to do. Good-bye, my dear."
A fixed smile still on her face, she walked out of the room, and in her bedroom a few minutes later heard his car start up in the drive.
Mrs. Loftus came into the room as Elaine was finishing packing. "Why, Elaine, where are you going?"
"To Washington," Elaine said briefly.
"Washington? Whatever for?"
"To stay with the Forrests. I've hardly seen anything of Douglas's family since he was killed and it'll be gay there just now—the season's just starting and I could do with some amusement. This house has been like a morgue since the fire, Mother, and when Loris gets back it'll be worse, with everyone clucking over her."<
br />
Mrs. Loftus was shocked at the venom in her tone. "But what about Brett? What's he got to say about your going?"
"Nothing." Without looking up Elaine continued flinging clothes into her case. "We've broken our engagement."
"Broken your engagement?" Mrs. Loftus echoed.
"Must you repeat me like a parrot, Mother?" Elaine shut the case with a vicious snap. "We've broken our engagement. And if it hadn't been for that pious English girl it might never have happened! She would go and focus the limelight on herself at a time like this."
"Elaine, you don't realize what you're saying. You're upset, dear—"
Elaine gave a brittle laugh. "That's what you think. After all I've done, to be baulked at the last moment like this! But what the hell! They're welcome to each other and they can sort out the mess themselves—if they can. I must fly now, Mother. I managed to get a last-minute cancellation on a plane, so I'll have lunch at the airport."
Too astonished at the news of the broken engagement to take in all she had just heard, Mrs. Loftus followed her daughter downstairs. Elaine drove off with a casual wave of her hand and a "Say good-bye to Dad and the kids for me," and her mother stood looking after her with perplexed eyes. Then with a sigh she turned and went back into the house.
Loris had been in hospital for nearly three weeks before she was allowed any visitors, and the first person to see her was Melanie. There were still thick bandages around Loris's arms and hands, and her hair, which had been badly burned, was dragged away from her face in two unbecoming pigtails, which stuck out on either side and made her look like a rakish schoolgirl. But it was her face which shocked Melanie most, for it had grown so thin that the cheekbones stuck out gauntly beneath the parchment-coloured skin.
Melanie fell on her knees beside the bed. "Oh, darling, it's wonderful to see you again! But how thin you are, Loris—are you sure they're giving you enough to, eat?"
"If you saw all the things they tempt me with, you wouldn't ask." Even her voice was different—thin and tremulous—although it still had the same clear tone. "But how are you, Melanie? What's been happening since I've been here? It seems ages ago since the night of the party."
"A lot has happened. Elaine isn't—" Melanie broke off and put her hand over her mouth guiltily. "But I promised the doctor not to excite you."
"Now you've got so far, you may as well tell me the rest—otherwise I'll only work myself up into a fever imagining what it might be."
"Bully. I came here all prepared to boss you for a change, and here you are telling me what to do already! Well, the great news—I think it's great, anyway—is that Brett and Elaine have broken their engagement."
Loris closed her eyes for an instant and was silent, then: "When was that?"
"About ten days ago—the day Brett went off to New York on business. Then Elaine suddenly decided to go and visit her in-laws in Washington. I don't know whether she went to be near 'him in the hope of patching things up, but knowing Brett I shouldn't think she'd have a chance."
"So there's just you and Dickson in the house now, apart from Mr. and Mrs. Loftus?" Loris asked casually.
"Yes. And the children, of course—Elaine left them behind. Trust her."
"Who's looking after them?"
"Mother Loftus is, for the time being, although I think she finds them a bit of a handful. Incidentally, they sent their love and there's a letter from Timothy."
She took a grubby envelope from her bag, opened it and extracted a single sheet of paper covered with a sprawling, childish hand. "Dere Loris," she read, "Im so glad you are beter. We want to com and see you, but the dokter wont let us. Hope you com home soon. Love from Timothy."
Beneath this there was a line of indecipherable scribble, with a footnote: "This is not me. It's from Gillian. She says it means she sends her love, too."
Tears rose in Loris's eyes, but she blinked them back. "I'm longing to see the children again."
"And we're longing to have you home. Dickson sent his love, too."
"How have things been between you?" Loris asked.
"Quite good on the whole. I spend most of my time with him and feel I'm beginning to understand him at last. And oh, Loris, I do love him so! I must have been mad to behave as I did at first. I'd give anything if I could wipe it all out and begin again."
"But, darling, it's not important now. You've found out in time, and that's all that matters."
"That's what you think." Melanie's voice was bitter. "You don't know Dickson. It seems as if he can't forget. Just when I feel I'm getting near him he withdraws and becomes unapproachable, and you know he was never like that before. There's obviously something on his mind and whatever it is it's coming between us, although I try to pretend it isn't."
"I'm so sorry, darling," Loris said gently. "But try not to worry about it too much. He was probably very hurt with you and you must give him time to get over it. Being ill has made him more sensitive, that's all."
"I suppose you're right." Melanie glanced at her watch. "Good heavens, I've overstayed my time by ten minutes already! I promised Nurse not to, and here I am bothering you with my troubles into the bargain."
"You're not bothering me, Melanie, I only wish I could help you. It's been wonderful seeing you, and don't forget to come again soon."
Melanie bent and kissed her. "Mr. and Mrs. Loftus want to come tomorrow, and I'll see you the day after, if they'll let me. Bye-bye, darling, and don't think of anything except getting better."
Walking down the corridor, Melanie was so immersed in her thoughts that she almost bumped into an orderly. "Sorry, did I hurt you?"
"Not at all. Anyway, it was my own fault. I can hardly see over the top of these flowers." Indeed, the bouquet the girl was carrying was so large that it was all she could do to balance it.
Melanie looked down into the mass of blooms. "Aren't they lovely!" she exclaimed.
"They certainly are. They're for Loris Cameron, that girl who got burnt in the fire."
"Oh, really?" Melanie asked in surprise. "Who are they from?"
The orderly glanced down at the card. "Someone called Brett Halliday. She gets a bouquet like this from him every day. Gee, it must cost him a packet!"
With a cheerful grin she moved away, and Melanie continued on her way even more thoughtfully.
Mrs. Loftus had taken the children down to the beach for the afternoon, and knowing Dickson was alone, Melanie was eager to get home. Although she could drive, she disliked the thought of sitting at the wheel of the long, low car, and gratefully relaxed as the chauffeur manoeuvred it through the busy streets. Melanie marvelled when she saw girls as young as herself driving enormous coupes, although when she had refused Mr. Loftus's offer to allow her to drive he had merely laughed and said she would soon come begging him to let her take the car out on her own.
She leant back, and as the warm breeze from the window blew through her hair and cooled her hot cheeks she thought of Dickson and the weeks since the fire, wishing with all her heart that those months after her arrival had never been.
Back at home, she went straight out into the garden, and Was surprised to find Dickson was not in his usual place on the lawn. "Dickson!" she called. There was no answer, and she walked into the house again. The lounge and dining-room were empty, but when she went into the library she found him lying on the couch, a book in his hands.
"What are you doing in here, darling?" she asked gaily. "Didn't you hear me call?"
"Yes, but I was reading."
"Oh." She was chastened, but sat down beside him, realizing he was in one of his difficult moods—moods which had become so frequent of late that there was scarcely a time when he was his normal self. Briefly she told him of her visit to Loris, and the only time he showed interest was when she mentioned that Brett was sending flowers every day.
"Perhaps something'll come of it after all," he remarked.
"Oh, I hope so. If anyone deserves to be happy, Loris does."
"People
don't always get what they deserve. You should know that."
Melanie's lips trembled at his tone, but she changed the subject. "Would you like me to read to you?"
"No, thank you, I can read quite well myself. Why don't you take a magazine and sit down quietly?"
Melanie did as she was told, and for the next few minutes the only sound was the rustling of paper. Dickson glanced at her covertly, tenderness in his eyes. His poor little darling! Why was he tormenting her? Ever since he had discovered he could walk, keeping it a secret had made him irritable and nervous. Purposely he had been showing himself at his worst—made her run errands for him and be at his beck and call, shouted at her and found fault with whatever she did for him, until he had seen her eyes fill with tears and her lips—the lips he longed to kiss—quiver at his harshness.
Suddenly he knew he could not go on any longer in this way—that the position between them would have to be thrashed out once and for all, and that he must be courageous to put her love to the test and find out whether, still imagining him to be an invalid, she would agree to their marriage.
"Melanie, there's something I think we should talk about. Put down your book a minute."
Again she did as she was told, and sat with her hands on her lap, looking so like a little girl expecting a treat that it was all he could do not to walk over and take her in his arms.
"I want to talk about our future."
"Our future?"
"Yes. You came out here to marry a healthy young man, and instead found a cripple. I can't help thinking this must have made some difference to your love for me."
"Oh no, Dickson."
He went on as if she had not spoken. "We're dealing with facts now, Melanie—plain, cold facts. And I think that now, if never before, there should be complete honesty between us. When you first came here, you were very quickly bored. I don't blame you for that—you were young and impressionable and very spoilt, and I was a helpless log." Tears were making Melanie's eyes starry, but Dickson hardened his heart and went on: "Since the fire—in fact, since a few days before, if my memory serves me—you seem to have been making an effort to change. You've spent more time with me and you've stopped going out with my friends—or so-called friends. In fact, one might say you've been acting the part of a dutiful fiancée. All that remains to be seen is whether you'd act well in the role of my wife."
The Widening Stream Page 14
