Such is love

by Burchell, Mary

  "I think he's a pet," Paula said. "He's killing when he calls you "Van"."

  "I dare say. But we must put a stop to that, I'm afraid."

  "Yes, I suppose so. But "Mr. Onslie" sounds ridiculous from that scrap. You could make it "Uncle Van"."

  "We could, of course. Van's tone didn't really invite further discussion, but Paula hardly noticed that.

  "On the other hand, if he stayed with you always, I suppose you'd want him to regard you more or less as parents.**

  There was a moment of startled silence. Van looked across at his wife, to find her watching him with half-scared eagerness.

  "I suppose," he said slowly, "we should.** And he saw her lashes come down and her mouth tremble slightly.

  "Really?" Terry looked surprised and interested again. "Were you seriously thinking of adopting him?"

  Van frowned very slightly. He seemed to find Terry's interest just a little too personal.

  "Well, of course, we hadn't come to any real decision about it.'* He got up from his seat and strolled over to light a cigarette. When he sat down again it was on the arm of his wife's chair. "At the same time, I think both of us are going to find it hard to part with him. Don't you agree, Gwyn?**

  Gwyneth nodded. She was quite unable to speak. And wh^i she felt Van unobtrusively take her hand in his and clasp her fingers warmly, she knew he was aware of how moved and happy he had made her. It made up a little for the last dreadful hour or two.

  "I think it's very courageous of you.** Terry's voice held just the right note of admiring interest. "Adopting a child is always something of a risk—particularly if you know nothing at all of the child's antecedents. And I suppose you don't, in this case?"

  "Nothing at all," agreed Van coldly and smoothly.

  At the question, Gwyneth had thought that she must faint. But when Van took away all necessity for her tO; answer—and took it away so coolly and positively—^she-^ regained her composure again.

  What would she do without him? Even without remotely guessing at her agitation of mind, he seemed by instinct to say the very things that would help her in her predicament.

  It was that, and that alone, which sustained her for the rest of that dreadful evening.

  When at last they were going, Paula drew Van aside to ' give him some message from her father in connection with his business, and for a few minutes, Terry and Gw>'neth were practically alone together.

  "I have to thank you for a very pleasant evening, Mrs. Onslie." His dark blue eyes full of amusement and that suggestion of insolence. "I hope, through Paula, to see a good deal of you and your husband."

  "That's very kind of you." No effort could make her voice anything but very cold. "But we don't go out a great deal. My husband is such a very busy man, you know."

  "Of course. And no doubt you will be very busy, too, if you take on this little boy permanently."

  She met his eyes squarely, but she supposed he saw her swallow nervously.

  The next moment he had taken her hand, whether she hked it or not, and kissed it lightly. As he straightened up again his eyes met hers once more and he said very quietly:

  "I think we may both feel proud of him. He is a delightful child."

  Then he turned away.

  "Ready, Paula? Let me give you a lift. I have my car outside."

  She had to say good-bye to Paula then, and to try to return her friendly hug with a reassuring one which should convey: "All right. We're still friends, of course."

  Van went with them into the hall. There were a few final remarks exchanged, while Gwyneth, alone in the room, tried to rub some colour into her cold cheeks. Then the door closed and Van came back.

  She was sitting by the fire by then, holding out her hands to the warmth, so that she could keep her face turned away for a few moments longer.

  Her conventional: "How much colder it has grown," sounded steady, so steady that it helped to bolster up her failing courage. And gradually it was borne in on her that she could not have looked and sounded as awful as she felt, because he evidently didn't know that anything was wrong.

  "How did you like him?" Van asked casually as he reached for a cigarette.

  "What, Terry—Muirkirk?" She added the second name just in time.

  "Yes."

  With some half formed idea of doing something even now, she turned to face her husband.

  *To be perfectly frank, I didn't like him at all, I think he's detestable."

  "Do you really?" Van looked genuinely surprised. "But why, quite? Apart from a certain amount of curiousity about Toby—and I suppose that was natural—he made himself very pleasant, I thought."

  "I think he's a rotter—and I wouldn't trust him an inch."

  Van leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and looked down at her.

  "But you still don't say why, my dear."

  "It's—it's an instinctive dislike and mistrust. I—can't explain it. Women do have these "hunches" more often than men, I think."

  Her husband shrugged slightly.

  "Perhaps you're a little prejudiced by the way he met Paula."

  "No, I'm not. Really, I'm not, Van. But I'm terribly distressed to think of her having anything to do with him. I'm sure he won't be any good to her. She's rather an artless girl, in spite of all her superficial confidence. And she's no judge of people at all. With a clever scoundrel she'd be all at sea."

  "I think you're letting your anxiety run away with you, Gwyn." Van spoke quite kindly, but a little as though he thought her unreasonable. "Muirkirk hasn't done anything at all to suggest that he's a scoundrel—clever or stupid, come to that. And I think, when a man's only too eager to meet a girl's relations and make himself agreeable, there isn't much wrong."

  "That might just be his cleverness."

  Van laughed at that and came and put his arm round her.

  "You're nervous because we've more or less condoned this secret friendship and made ourselves responsible for introducing him into Paula's home, aren't you? But I really don't think you need worry. As I told you before, Paula is very well able to look after herself and, speaking objectively, I should say Muirkirk is a nice enough fellow."

  He didn't know, of course. He couldn't know. It made her sick to think how helpless she was.

  "I don't know that Muirkirk matters very greatly to us,

  in any case," Van said after a moment. "There was something else mentioned this evening that is far more interesting to us personally."

  "Oh"—she looked up at him—"you mean Toby?"

  He nodded, his smiling eyes on her face.

  "Van, would you really like us to keep him always?— actually adopt him."

  "Yes," her husband said slowly, "I can honestly say I should. In theory, of course, I never thought of our doing such a thing. But he is so dear and affectionate. One couldn't do anything but—love him." He brought the word out with the faintest embarrassed hesitation. "Besides, it would make you so happy, wouldn't it?"

  "Oh, so happy, Van— so happy!"

  "Would it take away that sad, anxious look from your eyes?"

  "Van! Do I really look sad and anxious?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I'm ashamed of myself," she exclaimed. "When I have the best husband in the world and—and everything to make me happy, how awful that I still contrive to look a misery!"

  He laughed and kissed her.

  "You're not a misery, darling. But when you want a thing very much, it is difficult not io give the fact away to someone who loves you."

  She didn't know whether that comforted or frightened her. It was sweet of him to anticipate her every want—but what more might one perhaps 'give away' to someone who loved one?

  "You're so good to me, Van. Much too good, I think sometimes."

  "Then that's very silly of you," he said gently. "Don't you know what pleasure it is for me to be able to give you anything you want?"

  She thought how indescribably different he was from Terry. But then, of course, he thought he
r perfect. Whereas Terry—base creature that he was himself—knew also the depths to which she had sunk. No wonder he secretly despised her and thought her of not very much worth.

  "Then it's settled?" Van's voice said quietly.

  "Oh, Van, just as simply as that?"

  "Well, do you want to give more thought to it?"

  "Not—really." But that was not entirely true, because she knew she ought to give more thought to it—ought tc try to work out the tangle of how this would affect Terr;^ —how Terry, with his latest dangerous discovery, Woulc decide to act—^whether it simplified or complicated things

  But she couldn't work it out. And she couldn't hesitate any more, either.

  "It's wonderful, Van dear. You think of everything ant you do it in the nicest possible way."

  He laughed, but she knew how pleased he was. '

  "Nothing else in the world to worry about?" he wanteu to know.

  "Nothing," Gwyneth said firmly as she kissed him.

  Afterwards, when she was lying awake in bed, thinking over the events of the evening, she half convinced herself that there was not so much to worry about as she had supposed.

  Perhaps one grew almost used to living on the edge of a volcano, or, perhaps, it was just that the immediate terrible crisis was past and there was bound to be a sense of relief But—^whatever the reason—as she lay there listening to Van's quiet, even breathing, she felt her nervous tension^ relaxing, and very timidly her mind began to explore the^ less terrible possibilities in the present situation.

  At least Toby was to be safely hers. Van wished it—for] her sake and also because, as she had hoped, the child had] made his own appeal.

  To be sure, Terry had guessed Toby's real identity, ai nothing she could say now would shake his belief in tha^ She clenched her hands again nervously at the thought: But, on the other hand, he stood to gain nothing and lose everything if he disclosed what he knew. The possibility his betraying her had been a powerful threat in his hand^ —but only to be used in revenge, if she were responsible for spoiling his own plans.

  And it seemed she could not be responsible. Paula simply would not listen to what she had said.

  She had done her best, she assured herself. She had honestly done her best. Short of telling Paula the absolute truth and ruining the lives of Van and herself and Toby; there was nothing more that she could do. Paula must find

  out for herself now. All that Gwyneth could do was to keep in close touch with her and try to anticipate any specially foolish step that she might take.

  Gwyneth thought of what Terry had said about marrying Paula. At the time she had paid it no more than a contemptuous moment of notice, but now she recalled it more seriously.

  He had said the dreadful woman who had been his wife was dead. With a shiver, Gwyneth wondered in what dreary, loveless, sordid surroundings she had met her end. Terry would not be much comfort to one at a time like that.

  But now he was free, and the brutal truth was that not only his inclinations but also his material interests would be served by marrying Paula. Gwyneth knew that would make a great difference in Terry's behaviour. It was not impossible that, while conscience would never regulate his conduct, self-interest might.

  She could not think without a shudder of Paula really married to Terry, and yet he would not be the first scoundrel to become a fairly honest man simply because honesty paid best. Paula would find out in time, of course, that he was not all she thought, but she might never have reason to find out his worst depths.

  The qualities which fascinated her now might really continue to do so if Terry never had reason to tear the veil from her eyes himself.

  "I'm trying to make it all sound sugary and touched with the happy-ever-after wand," thought Gwyneth guiltily. "But it could be something like that. It could be. God grant it is!"

  She fell asleep at last, worn out with the strain of all that she had passed through, and yet comforted by the thought—illogical but persistent—that the worst was over.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Oddly enough, at breakfast the next morning Toby looked up suddenly and said:

  "When do I have to go?"

  "Go where, dear?" She was putting milk on his porridge and Van was absorbed in his morning post.

  "Away from here. Back—there."

  She thought how sad it was that he had never learned to use the word 'home'. And then she remembered—in future he would leam the word and it would mean her home.

  "How would you like to stay here for a very long time?"

  "With you?"

  "Yes."

  "And Mr. Van?"

  Gwyneth laughed. "Yes."

  Toby stared hard at his porridge, and she watched him rather anxiously. Presently, to her astonishment and dismay, she saw two tears begin to roll down his cheeks. She had never seen Toby cry before, not even when he had been frightened by the fire, and the sight moved her deeply.

  "Darling, what is it?" She put her arms round him.

  "I don't want to go at all," Toby sobbed. "I don't want to have white soap and no chocolate biscuits and not see you and Mr. Van any more."

  "Oh, Toby dear!" She was terribly touched, not any the less because she came third on the list. "You shan't ever go away. I promise you shan't. We'll keep you always and always."

  "Will you?"

  "Of course. We want you."

  He looked round her at Van, who had put down the letter he had been reading and was watching this scene with a complicated expression.

  Toby scrambled down off his chair suddenly and ran to Van. It was odd how he always seemed to sense that, in some way, the last word lay with Van.

  ^'Do you want me always, too?" he asked anxiously. And Van caught h»m up and kissed him as affectionately as Gwyneth had done.

  "I wouldn't part with you," he said, "for all the green soap and chocolate biscuits in the world."

  It didn't seem that there would be any great complications in the matter of making Toby theirs for ever. Van offered to go down to Greystones and see Dr. Kellaby himself, but Gwyneth said:

  "I think I'd like to come with you. Mrs. Kellaby was so very kind to me. I should like her to knojw how happily it has all turned out"

  So they both went down to Greystones, and though it was a very cold day—much, much colder than either of the days when she had made the journey before, Gwyneth felt warm all through. And the warmth had little to do with the fur coat she was wearing.

  "I thought it would turn out like that," Mrs. Kellaby declared. "If we hadn't got something like ninety-five others left, I don't think I could bear to part with Toby, myself."

  "He is a dear child," Dr. Kellaby said, "and a good child. On one side, at least, he comes from excellent people. That I do know. The mother was a girl of very good family."

  "Was she?'* Van looked only slightly interested.

  "Was she?" Gwyneth repeated, and felt herself go cold all over.

  "Yes. I didn't know the full circumstances of the story, but I think it must have been the old story of a rather innocent sort of girl being led away by a bounder. She was very young, I understand. The girl's mother brought Toby here. A most unusual type of woman. A great deal of surface charm, I remember, and yet somehow unlikeable. A very cold-hearted woman, I should say."

  Gwyneth sat there dumb. It was impossible either to stop the story being told or to make any suitable comments. And then, as though it were a horrid dream in which she could only watch helplessly, unable to wake, she heard Dr. Kellaby say:

  "The records are very meagre, I'm afraid. It was quite a mysterious case, but I expect, since you are taking Toby permanently, you would like to see what information we have got."

  He had already risen and begun to unlock the safe in his study when Van spoke again.

  "Do you know, Kellaby, I almost think I prefer not to

  see anything there is. I don't know how my wife feels

  about it, but personally, I feel that the less we associate

&
nbsp; ' Toby with any other actual people, the more he will seem

  like our own. What do you think, Gwyn?"

  With a tremendous effort, Gv^neth snatched at this extraordinary, last-minute reprieve.

  "I agree entirely," she said with perhaps a little more

  fervour than was strictly necessary. "I—I feel Toby is ours. I don't want to think of him as—as having any people except us. We shall be bringing him up as our own child. In fact, I want him to regard us as his father and mother. Don't you, Van?"

  She was speaking rather too quickly and breathlessly, she knew, but Van didn't seem to notice that.

  "Yes," he agreed, "that's exactly how I feel. I think we can leave it at that."

  "It's unusual for adopters to feel as you do," Dr. Kella-by said with a smile, "but I've known it happen before. And, as a matter of fact, I'm not at all sure that it isn't the wisest way in the end."

  "I'm certain of it," Van said firmly. And, scarcely able to believe her good fortune, Gwyneth realized she was safely past what was probably the last dreadful danger point.

  Even when they were alone again in the car oa the way home. Van didn't seem inclined to speak of Toby's meagre past history. It was Gwyneth herself, unable to feel that the whole question was so simply closed, who referred to it.

  "I think it is really the best way to let Toby come to us as quite a little unknown. I shouldn't have thought of being so strong-minded as to refuse to see the records, but since you did it, I am very glad to have it so."

  "He feels more like our own child that way," Van said.

  "Ye-es." Something in the way he said that reminded her very strongly of their conversation on this same road months ago, when he had refused to consider the idea of their interesting themselves in Toby.

  "Van " He glanced at her and smiled, so that she

  instinctively moved a little closer to him. "I don't know whether there is any need for me to put this into words, but—please don't ever fed that Toby is instead of a child of our own. I should love it if one day we did have one. I—I'm so afraid you'll feel that in a way I've cheated you."