Roone was amused and enjoyably scandalised. He knew Katherine would have branded her once and for all as an outsider for asking such a question, but somehow it was quite inoffensive the way this girl said it.
He laughed a little. “Well—yes, I suppose we are. My father is the head of Roone & Salusbury, the big iron people, you know.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said gravely.
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps we’re not as important as we sometimes think we are,” he admitted with an easy grin that would, he knew, have intensely annoyed his family. “Anyway, he’s an M.P. and all that sort of thing, too. He’s the man who made all that dust about the copper shares scandal last December. He’s frightfully upright and decent himself, you know, and just the right man to show up any sharp practice like that. I expect you will remember. It made quite a stir at the time.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t know much about it.”
“Don’t know anything much, do you?” he smiled teasingly.
“No, I’m really ignorant,” she said humbly.
“Oh, my dear girl,” he exclaimed, in distress, “I didn’t mean that literally, I was just—well—teasing you.” He anxiously gathered up one slack, cold little hand in his. “Still a bit cold, aren’t you?” and he slipped her hand inside his dressing-gown, chafing it gently, and feeling more ridiculously protective than he had ever felt about anyone.
She seemed to like his doing that, and presently she asked interestedly, “Are you an M.P., too?”
“Oh no! Do I look like one?”
“I don’t know,” she began again, and then checked herself. “I’ve never seen one,” she added, as though they were museum pieces.
He laughed at that. “I’m what’s called ‘something in the City,’ ” he told her. “My father wanted me to go into the business, of course, but I didn’t see the fun of going into something ready-made. It’s the only time we had a real row. Anyway I had my own way in the end, and now you see me—a fairly successful stockbroker. Do I look right for that part?”
She considered him very gravely and said: “I think you look like a prince.”
“What!” He flushed up boyishly and gave an exceedingly gratified little laugh. “You silly—little—thing,” he said tenderly. “I’m not in the least like a prince. But you are rather like a princess in a fairy-tale. Like a princess who is under a spell.”
“I’m not under a spell,” she said solemnly.
“Well then, perhaps you work spells instead.” He smiled down into her serious face. “Like the princess who used to touch the hearts of men, and then, ever afterwards, she had only to close her hand in order to make their hearts ache for her, because once she had put her hand against a man’s heart he was hers till the end of time. Is that it?”
She shook her head slightly and was silent.
But in that moment, to his incredulous astonishment, he felt the thin hand inside his dressing-gown slide slowly downwards until it rested lightly and gently against his heart.
And, as though in helpless response, his heart leapt into frantic life under the touch of her fingers. He was suddenly acutely aware of her slim figure so close against him—of the warm honey-gold of her skin, the soft scarlet sweetness of her mouth. Reluctantly his eyes travelled up to meet those long, secret hazel eyes of hers—and then his breath, which had been held pent with excitement, was freed in a little gasp of astonishment, for those eyes were closing in irresistible, childlike weariness, and, even as he watched her, he knew she was asleep.
Roone found that he was trembling and that his heart had settled down into slow, heavy thuds. In all his life he had never been so moved. Twelve hours ago he hadn’t known that this waif existed. Now she was lying close against him—with her hand on his agitated heart.
Was that extraordinary little movement a gesture of girlish bravado?—an insinuation that she could put her hand on his heart and he would be hers? Or had it just been that, as she fell asleep, her hand quite naturally slid downwards?
He realised suddenly that it had become of tremendous importance to him that he should know. Was she as innocent as she seemed, or was she a little village intriguer, deliberately exploiting her amazing physical attraction?
He knew that if her eyes had not closed so finally he would have been kissing her by now, regardless of any circumstances. He had spoken about enchantment, and as he realised that his forehead was slightly damp he told himself that the right word had been used.
And then he remembered her with those big, quiet tears creeping down her cheeks; and, with a little sigh, he drew her close, and lay there watching her sleeping face in the firelight until his own heavy eyelids closed.
CHAPTER TWO
It was still dark when Roone woke, but the clanking of a can on the path outside told him that “the boy with the milk” had come and that therefore it must be about six. Gently transferring the still sleeping Anna to the sofa, he got up stiffly and went to the door. A loutish-looking boy outside stared at him in completely disconcerting silence. Even while Roone explained that there had been some sort of accident last night, and that a doctor was needed, not a word was uttered by his stolid audience.
“Well,” Roone finished impatiently, “will you take a message?”
“I’ve got me round,” was all the proposed Mercury said.
“But don’t you understand this is urgent?” Roone felt and looked profoundly irritated.
“Is Mrs. Rainer ill?” asked the boy, scuffling his foot backwards and forwards in the snow.
“She’s dead,” said Roone curtly, aware that only something drastic would move the fellow.
There were certainly gleams of intelligence then.
“Did he kill her?” The boy looked almost amiable in his curiosity.
“No. He’s not here.” Roone controlled his temper with difficulty. “She’s had a heart attack.”
“And what about the girl?”
“Look here,” exclaimed Roone angrily, “never you mind about Miss—Miss Rainer.” (Hang it, of course that wouldn’t be her name, but, in any case, he was not going to discuss Anna with what appeared to be the village idiot.) “All I want you to do is to fetch a doctor,” he exclaimed again impatiently.
“I’ve got me round,” was the stolid reply, as they got back to the salient point.
“Well, damn your round! How long does it take you?” snapped Roone.
“I’ll be at the doctor’s about nine,” the boy said, with unexpected alacrity. “I’ll send him up.”
“All right.” Roone was rather annoyed to find he had let himself get so hot about it.
For a moment the boy didn’t move, and as he stood there his eyes slid slowly down over Roone, taking in the details of his pyjamas and dressing-gown. Then, with a grin of sly stupidity, he turned away, leaving Roone feeling quite astonishingly uncomfortable.
He went back into the house wondering if the message would really be delivered.
However, apparently it was, because about half past nine, just as a few gleams of pale sunshine were breaking through the heavy clouds and sparkling on the snow, up drove a rather ancient two-seater.
By this time Roone was shaved and dressed, and had managed to get together some sort of breakfast for the girl and himself. She was almost wordless again this morning, and had submitted in complete silence when he had insisted on her having something to eat. It made him half wonder if he had dreamed that strange, intimate little scene last night.
The doctor proved to be a busy, pleasant, hard-headed man. He expressed no surprise about the dead woman, and Roone gathered that he had attended her before and had almost expected something like this to happen eventually.
After he had done what he could for the girl he came into the kitchen, where Roone was standing, his hands thrust into his pockets, staring rather moodily out of the window.
“Do you mind telling me just what happened?” the doctor said, sitting down and beginning to write something.
Roone explained as briefly as possible.
The doctor tapped his fountain pen thoughtfully on the table. “Um, I see. Oh well, I suppose Tom Beal made up the rest.” And he went on writing.
“Eh?” Roone flushed annoyedly. “What do you mean? And who is Tom Beal? That nitwit this morning?”
The doctor nodded.
“Look here, Dr.—”
“Irwin,” supplied the doctor, without looking up.
“Dr. Irwin. What did the fool say?”
“Not much. He’s very economical with words,” said the doctor dryly. “But I gathered Mrs. Rainer had interrupted some guilty scene between you and the girl and that there’d been a row, which resulted in a fatal heart attack for her.”
“Damn it all—” began Roone furiously.
“That’s all right,” interrupted Dr. Irwin calmly. “I see he was wrong. I shouldn’t get agitated if I were you.”
“But I suppose he’s busy spreading this tale all over the village by now?” demanded Roone.
“Yes, yes, I dare say.” The doctor didn’t seem specially perturbed. “You mustn’t grudge them their village gossip, you know. It’s the only real entertainment they have, except for television.”
“It’s all very well for you!” Roone felt quite unable to emulate the doctor’s calm. “But I don’t want to figure as chief actor in their confounded stories.”
The doctor shrugged. “You’ll go away from here and never see the place again. Why worry? And as for Anna, I think they’ve already decided that she’s a bad lot, so I don’t suppose one story more or less will matter.”
Roone was arrested by that sentence, and for a second he remembered the feel of a thin hand resting lightly against his heart.
“What do you mean?” he asked slowly. “You don’t think she’s that sort?”
The doctor shook his head. “I really have no idea. I’ve never thought about it.”
Roone was conscious of extreme indignation. “I should have thought it was the business of the few intelligent people like yourself to put a stop to this sort of scandalmongering!”
The doctor leaned back in his chair and looked at Roone with some amusement. “My dear fellow,” he said, with a laugh, “if I were to make it my business to defend all the tarnished reputations in the district I should have no time left to look after my large and very scattered practice. I have my work cut out to look after their bodies. They must scrape along themselves so far as their morals and reputations are concerned.”
Roone supposed reluctantly that there was something in this, but still put out at the doctor’s impersonal view of the matter.
“In any case, there’ll have to be an inquest,” the doctor pointed out, “and then you will be more or less cleared, even in the eyes of the village.”
“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” Roone said, in a troubled voice, and the doctor suddenly decided he liked him very much.
“Well, it’s a rotten business all round,” he admitted, “I don’t know very much about these people myself. They’ve been here about a year, I think, and the man has been the scandal of every public-house for miles around, which naturally prejudices people. The woman seemed inoffensive enough, a poor little soul, and the girl’s always been quite civil to me in a sulky way.” For a second Roone almost smiled at the familiar picture of Anna.
“I think she tried going to one or two of the village dances when they first came here,” the doctor went on. “But there was trouble over some of the other girl’s beaux. I don’t know whether she really chased the young men, but anyway, that—combined with Rainer’s drinking—made things very unpleasant, and I think the other girls froze her out.”
Roone felt he could see the scene very well—Anna lovely and sullen, and the other girls flushed and indignant and furiously jealous.
“I’m afraid there probably was some encouragement on Miss Anna’s part,” said the doctor reflectively, “because she isn’t exactly attractive in the ordinary way, is she? I mean, she’s not specially pretty.”
“Not pretty!” exclaimed Roone. “Why, she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” And then he slowly turned crimson under the doctor’s amused stare.
Taking pity on his annoyed confusion, the doctor changed the subject and said: “Well, the point is that all this makes it very difficult to find anyone to put up the girl while she’s getting over this. I suppose she’ll have to go to the Y.W.C.A.”
“The what? She’ll do nothing of the sort,” exclaimed Roone.
“Well,” the doctor shrugged, “what else do you suggest? I don’t think you’ll find anyone about here to take her in. They’re mostly poor people and, as I’ve said, they neither like nor approve of her.”
“She must have people of her own,” said Roone, who had a large supply of relatives himself—all of them approving.
“No. She tells me she has no one,” answered the doctor.
For a wild moment Roone thought of calling off his visit to Coryton and taking her to his own home. But one second’s thought of trying to explain to Katherine and his aunt settled that suggestion.
“Well”—Roone was beginning to feel desperate—“what about the clergyman of the parish? Isn’t he supposed to take an interest in cases like this?”
The doctor looked thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, the vicar is an awfully nice fellow, and his wife is a good sort too.”
“Well then,” began Roone.
“On the other hand,” pursued the doctor, “they’re anything but rich people, and have countless calls already on their time and purse. I hardly feel it’s fair to ask them to shoulder the burden of this girl’s convalescence for six or eight weeks. For that’s what it will mean. She’s in a very low state of health.”
“Oh, but if it’s only a case of money...” began Roone, suddenly overwhelmingly glad that he was rich. He had never thought about it before—the money had always been just there—but now he was actively thankful for it. “Can’t I arrange something with them? I feel terrible responsible about this girl, somehow.”
“Well,” the doctor got up, “I’ll see Mr. Orpington myself right away, and find out if anything can be done. Meantime, can you stay here an hour or two longer? I really don’t see what else we can do.”
“I suppose so. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sending a wire for me? I have friends who have been expecting me since yesterday evening.”
The doctor nodded, and Roone hastily scribbled:
“Unavoidably delayed. Hope to arrive today. Roone.” Unavoidably delayed. He smiled rather grimly as he went back into the house after seeing off the doctor. In a way that did describe the situation, he supposed.
He went into the room where Anna was. The doctor had given her a sedative and she was lying deeply asleep. For several minutes Roone hung over her, anxious but intensely interested.
So they thought her “a bad lot” in the village, did they? He wondered how much there was in that besides local spite.
Roone had innumerable casual friends among the girls and women in his family’s large social circle. He had even supposed sometimes lately that it was time he got thoroughly romantic about one of them, and eventually married and settled down.
But not one had ever affected him in the same way as this inexplicable witch of a girl. He found that he liked just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her breathing; that he wanted to touch her thin cheek and the soft curve of her neck. Not at all familiarly—in fact, he felt a little awe-stricken—but just to touch her and discover afresh how warm and silky soft her skin was.
The very fact that he couldn’t possibly have explained the sensation to anyone he knew made it all the more strangely sweet and exciting.
He was still watching her when the Orpingtons arrived.
Roone liked them at once. They were kindly, eminently practical people, who accepted the situation as he described it, without question. They agreed, with a mixture of dignity and common sense which profoundly relieved hi
m, to allow Roone to take full financial responsibility.
He was so well impressed with them himself that he was astonished and distressed to find that Anna didn’t apparently share his feelings. She would only shrink back among the cushions and murmur: “I don’t want to go away from here.”
Finding that all her reasoning failed, Mrs. Orpington said with some distress to Roone: “Perhaps you can persuade her.”
Roone, feeling oddly flattered at the implication, came over at once and took her thin, resisting figure in his arms.
“Anna,” he said gently, “I want you to listen to me for a moment.”
The stiffness and resentment relaxed slightly. She didn’t look at him. She stared sulkily at a button on his coat, which she began to twist nervously backwards and forwards.
“I know you must feel sad and frightened at having to leave your home, but it’s the only thing we can possibly do for you at present.” Roone hoped he didn’t sound too smug and pompous. “Mr. and Mrs. Orpington don’t want to be anything but kind to you, and they’re going to look after you until you are well again. Then we’ll have to see what—well, what will be best for you.”
“Do you want me to go?” was all she said, still without looking at him.
“Why, yes, Anna,” he said. “I’m really very worried about you, and I should feel much less anxious if I knew you were being kindly looked after.”
He looked down at her little, meddling hand, and had a great desire to take it and kiss it.
“Here, you know, you’ll have that button off,” he said, smiling as he covered her hand with his.
There was a second’s silence, and then she said briefly, “I’ll go.”
“Good child,” said Roone. “If you will tell Mrs. Orpington just what you want to take, I’m sure she will be kind enough to collect things for you.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Orpington was all kindly efficiency, and Roone felt it was really tiresome of Anna to look so hostile. Katherine would have said exactly the few graceful words necessary at once.
Anna just muttered quietly, “I haven’t got much.” And Roone, who knew nothing whatever about the sensitiveness of poverty, went out to get his car, quite uncomprehending.
Call and I'll Come Page 3
