by Betty Neels
She turned away from this sombre outlook in time to see the doctor walk in once more.
"Elisabeth gone?" he wanted to know idly.
"Yes, to do some shopping. Ria's gone with her."
He went to the bookshelves and began to search for what he required. "They're devoted to each other," he observed, "and Elisabeth knows how to handle her."
Olympia had picked up her knitting again, now she cast it down in a muddled heap on the floor and got to her feet. Something inside her had snapped, freeing her so carefully squashed doubts and unhappiness; overriding her love.
"It is a great pity," she observed in a clear voice, "that you didn't marry Elisabeth. Even if you don't love her, she loves you, and it seems to me that it would have been absolutely super for all three of you."
She started for the door, caught her knitting with a foot, kicked it viciously aside with disastrous results, and stalked past the silent doctor, shutting the door with emphasis behind her.
Perhaps if she had had the leisure to think about, she might have felt compelled to go back at once and apologize for her outburst, but Mijnheer Blom, arriving at that very moment for her extra lesson, made that impossible. She greeted him with quite insincere warmth and whisked him off to the small sitting room, where for the next hour or so she sat attentively throughout his painstaking lecture on Dutch grammar. She heard not a word of it, and while she stared down at the rows of verbs he was explaining so carefully, she saw none of them, only Waldo's face. She would apologize; she had been spiteful about Elisabeth, who had shown her nothing but kindness since she had arrived in Middelburg and had never once given her cause to worry. Even if the poor girl was in love with Waldo, she behaved as an old friend and nothing else, and he-he had never given her cause to worry either-not with Elisabeth at any rate. She was ungrateful as well as spiteful, she told herself, her eyes fixed in grave attention on her teacher's face; he had given her so much, this man whom she had married.
She went to the door with Mijnheer Blom and saw him safely away and then crossed the hall to the sitting-room. Outside its door she paused, drew a deep breath and went in, the speech she had been rehearsing between bouts of verbs ready on her tongue. Only Waldo wasn't there, and when she inquired of Joanna, it was to discover that he had gone out and would probably not be back until after dinner.
Olympia, still in an uplifted mood, went to retrieve her knitting, and over a soothing cup of tea began the difficult task of disentangling it. She had expected Ria home by now, but probably Elisabeth had taken her back to have tea with her and would bring her presently. The knitting took a long time. She became so absorbed in it that by the time it was finally dealt with, she was shocked to see how late it was. Ria should have been back by now; it was almost her supper time. Olympia waited another uneasy half an hour, and then, rather worried, telephoned Elisabeth's home. But it wasn't Elisabeth who answered, but her mother. Her daughter wasn't there, she told her in some surprise; she had taken Ria home at least two hours previously, had returned to collect her case and driven herself off to stay with friends in Belgium.
Olympia felt small icy fingers crawl up her spine; perhaps Mevrouw de Val hadn't understood her very well; she tried again. "But wasn't Ria with her when she returned?" she asked carefully.
The voice at the other end of the wire sounded faintly impatient.
"Elisabeth brought Ria back here for tea and drove her home before returning here to pick up her things. I daresay Ria is hiding somewhere in the house-a joke-you know what children are."
Olympia thanked her and rang off; possibly the little girl was hiding, it was the kind of prank that small children loved to get up to, but why hadn't Elisabeth come to see her? Or had she been in such a hurry that she hadn't waited but given Ria a message? She fought back a nasty feeling of panic. Of course the child was hiding somewhere, that was the only answer. She began to search the house, going from room to room, missing no possible spot where Ria might be. When she had finished the house, she tackled the garden, the garage and the little potting shed behind it. Then, just to be quite sure, she climbed the stairs once more, right to the top of the house, and went through the attics once again, this time with a fine tooth comb.
Back in the kitchen, she asked Emma and old Mevrouw Holst, who came in to clean the silver, if they had seen anything of the little girl, although she knew what their answer would be before she had spoken. She left them getting Ria's supper, fetched her coat and went out into the street. Here she drew a blank, as she did in the Abbey courtyard; all the same she searched thoroughly. It was dusk by now and she was becoming really frightened; Ria was such a little girl, easily frightened too, and quickly tired even though she had recovered from her operation. Olympia hurried back to the house to fetch a torch and make certain at the same time that Ria hadn't returned home. It was chilly as well as almost dark by now, but she had to search once more. If only she knew where Waldo was! She had telephoned the hospital, but they had no idea, nor had his secretary at the surgery; Olympia hurried downstairs, left careful instructions with Emma, and ran to the door.
Waldo let himself in as she reached it and put out a steadying hand to slow her down.
"In a hurry?" he asked coolly. "Never running away?"
"No, I'm not-I'm going out to look for Ria, she hasn't come home. I've been out once-I thought she would be back at teatime…' the story came tumbling out, she had quite forgotten that they had parted on bad terms only a few hours earlier; all she knew was that here was Waldo, looking safe and solid and able to reduce everything to normality again. "I've hunted high and low and I telephoned the hospital. Oh, Waldo, do you suppose something has happened to her?"
He had put his bag down on the console table, now he opened the door again. "I have no idea," he said bleakly. "Stay here-I'll take the car."
"Let me come with you," begged Olympia, and was shocked to silence by his icy: "Better not, I don't think you would be of much help. A pity you didn't do something about it sooner."
She forgave him this unfair remark even while it hurt so bitterly-it was the kind of remark she would have made herself in like circumstances, even though it was so cruelly unjust. The door shut quietly behind him and she heard the car's powerful purr recede into the distance. Its last echo had barely died when she went out of the door herself. She had no idea where to go, but her feet took her automatically through the archway into the Abbey close. It appeared to be empty, but in the gathering gloom one couldn't be too sure. She walked round its perimeter, and satisfied that there was no small figure lurking in its shadows, walked on, out of the opposite gateway, more slowly now, peering on each side of thee narrow cobbled lane as she went.
She crossed Lange Delft and turned into the Herenstraat, towards the canal. There were few people about; everyone would be indoors having their evening meal. Her way led her along Turf Kaai and towards the Vlissingen road and the light had almost gone. She thrust her hand into her pocket and touched her small torch, and her fingers closed around it thankfully. Clutching it like a talisman, she suddenly knew why her feet had led her this way, towards the main road; Ria had told her-she couldn't remember exactly when; she had been naughty-that one day she would run away to England and live with Aunt Betsy, and when Olympia had inquired if she knew how to get to England she had replied that yes, she had only to go to Vlissingen and get on a boat. If the child had run away there was a good chance that she was carrying out her childish threat.
Olympia quickened her pace; the whys and wherefores she could think about later on, now it was vital to find Ria. She passed the row of small houses lining the main road; they were small and flat-faced with tiny front gardens, very neatly kept, and presently they gave way to solitary brick-built villas, each standing in its own small piece of ground, and then finally to allotments, dotted with small wooden sheds. Here she slowed down; if she were a very small girl, running away from home, those huts would represent cosy security to someone who had missed her supper and w
hose short legs would be tired after the long walk from home. Olympia turned in at the first open gate and began a laborious search, trying the door of each hut in turn and when she found one open, peering inside by the light of her torch. Probably she was trespassing, undoubtedly if someone saw her she would have a hard time explaining her actions, but she was past caring about such things by now.
She had made her way across half of the allotments when she noticed a shed standing a little back from the path, and its door was ajar. Ria was inside, curled up on a sack of potatoes and fast asleep, her small face tear-stained and grubby where she had wiped the tears away. Olympia's heart turned over with relief and pity at the sight of the forlorn little creature; she arranged the light of the torch so that its narrow beam shone away from them both and then got on the sack too, taking Ria gently in her arms as she did so, and talking gently the while, so that when the child woke she wouldn't be frightened. But Ria woke with no trace of fear and said at once, to break the hard core of tears in Olympia's breast, "I'm so glad to see you, you came to find me like a mama would, didn't you?" She dug her head into Olympia's shoulder and submitted to some fierce hugging, while Olympia, almost speechless with relief and happiness, marshalled her Dutch. "Papa is looking for you," she managed. "He is very unhappy."
The small face, soggy from too much crying, stared at her through the almost dark. "He is not my papa."
Olympia caught her breath. "Did he tell you that?"
Ria shook her head.
"Then who did, little one?"
"I'm hungry…'
"So am 1, we'll have a huge supper presently. Who told you?"
"Elisabeth. This afternoon when we had done the shopping-when we were going home." Ria began to cry again, and Olympia hushed her gently while she translated laboriously to herself. So it had been Elisabeth at the door. Elisabeth, the quiet, gentle family friend. She said slowly in ramshackle Dutch, "Your papa loves you, Ria." She got off the sack and took off her coat and wrapped the child in it. "We're going home now-Papa will be so happy to see you again." She kept her arms round the child. "Is that why you ran away?" she asked, making her voice matter-of-fact.
"Elisabeth said I wasn't anyone's little girl, she said I had best leave home because now you were there no one would love me." Ria drew a tearful breath. "She said that before you came with Papa."
"That you must leave home because of me?" Olympia's Dutch was hopelessly mangled by now, but the child seemed to understand.
"No, not then. She said you wouldn't like me, so I wasn't to like you." She leaned her small person against Olympia. "I'm tired."
"Then I shall carry you. Here we go-cops-adaisy!"
Ria flung an arm round her neck and giggled sleepily. "Oops-a-daisy," she essayed, and giggled again, then burst into fresh tears. Olympia sat down again and held her close-a good cry would do the moppet good. It would do her good too, she thought wryly, but surely Waldo would be so overjoyed that his small daughter-no, not his daughter, but certainly as well loved as any daughter of his would behad been found, that he would forgive and forget-they might even begin again… She stifled her straying thoughts and said in English: "There, there, darling, all better now."
She was kissed damply. "I'll be your little girl," Ria told her between sniffs, "if you will be my mama." Even in half-understood Dutch this was wonderful news indeed. Lighter of heart than she had been for some time, Olympia picked up her small burden and began to make her careful way back to the road.
It wasn't a great distance back to Middelburg, a mile perhaps, and Ria was quite heavy, but she didn't notice the weight. She had gone almost a third of the way when she heard a car coming towards them. The Rolls; she knew the sound of its engine, a fine silky hum, rushing in their direction. She went to the side of the road and stood quite still, waiting for its powerful headlights to catch them in their beam. The car swept past, slowed, turned and purred powerfully back to them. It was quite dark by now; she couldn't see Waldo's face as he got out of the car, but she heard him saying something quick and fierce in his own language as he bent to take the now sleeping child from her arms. He said quietly: "Get in, Olympia," and she did as she was told, her joy at seeing him slowly congealing under the anger she could sense but not understand.
He settled Ria on to her knee and closed the car door on her before going round and getting into his own seat. As the car slid forward he said in a tight voice: "I told you to stay at home."
So that was the cause of his anger. "I know," she spoke eagerly. "I'm sorry, but after you had gone I remembered Ria telling me about going to England from Vlissingen, and I felt certain that's what she was doing-it was a lucky guess."
She received no reply and after a minute, unable to keep it to herself any longer, she told him in a happy little voice:
"Ria's going to call me Mama, Waldo. Isn't it marvellous, and she says she'll be my little girl."
Still silence. Quite deflated, she sat beside him, silent for the rest of the short journey. Perhaps he was too upset to speak; he must have been very shaken. She didn't know much about men and their feelings, she reminded herself. Come to that, she didn't know much about men-Waldo especially.
Emma was waiting for them in the hall as Waldo carried Ria in and straight upstairs to her room, where he laid her on her small bed and left Olympia and the housekeeper to undress her and tuck her up. She hardly wakened as she was undressed and given a warm drink, but when these small chores had been done and Olympia bent to kiss her, she opened her eyes and said sleepily, "Now I will kiss you too," and did so, wreathing her arms round her neck in a tight hug.
As Olympia straightened up she saw Waldo standing there, watching, and because he looked so remote, her smile was uncertain as she went away to her own room. He would want to talk to Ria, to wish her good night and tell her how glad he was to have her home again. She went downstairs half an hour later, her face and hair carefully done and wearing a blue pinafore dress with a paler blue blouse beneath it-Waldo had said once that he liked her in blue.
She found him in the sitting-room, writing at the small secretaire by one of the windows, but he got up as she went in, and she, still buoyed up by Ria's capitulation, didn't notice the sternness of his expression. She hurried across the room to him, exclaiming as she went:
"Oh, Waldo, I believe it's going to be all right, after all! Ria does like me, she may even begin to love me in a little while-like her own mother." She came to a halt before him, her face alight with happiness. "How lucky it was that I found her."
"A triumph for you, Olympia," his voice was silky, "at the expense of a small child's fright and unhappiness, so that she felt forced to run away from her home, and all this so that you might play the heroine and rescue her, to find your way into her trusting little heart."
He hadn't raised his voice at all, but its silkiness made her shiver. "I believed that you loved her and I trusted you."
"I-I don't understand," she looked at him in bewilderment; surely he wasn't angry because she had found Ria.
The blue eyes which met hers were icy. "No? Did you believe that no harm would be done if you told Ria that I was not her father-that she had no father or mother?"
She was speechless, and after a pause he went on slowly, "I didn't believe Elisabeth, not at first…'
Elisabeth, that snake in the grass, thought Olympia, and all this while I've been taken inwe all have. She wanted Waldo and this was her way of turning him against me. And he had believed her; reluctantly, but none the less, he had listened to that soft voice. She said suddenly in a firm voice, "Please telephone Elisabeth and ask her to come here, now."
The doctor's eyebrows lifted. "My dear girl, you cannot hope to gull me into thinking that you didn't know that she was going to Antwerp." His voice changed suddenly. "Olympia, did you know?" And when she nodded, his eyes grew hard again. "So that you knew her to be safely out of the way."
She was making no impression at all. Her heart sank, but all the same she tr
ied again. "You believed her?"
"Not at first, I . ." He paused and then went on in a smooth, cold voice. "Eventually, I had no other choice. Elisabeth is an old friend, I have known her for many years…'
"And you don't know me at all…' She was trying to keep calm, but her voice had risen.
He ignored her interruption. "Elisabeth is devoted to Ria, she would hardly invent such a cruel tale, nor would she cause the child any distress. How could you be so cruel, Olympia, to tell Ria something which she need never have known, and to break your word to me. Thank God Elisabeth was there to comfort the child, though she had no idea that Ria was so heartbroken and that she would run away from us all."
Olympia choked back her rage; if she lost her temper now she might say the wrong thing. She could explain and Ria would bear her out, but she would have to wait until the morning. She would ask Ria who had told her and she would do it with Waldo there. All the same, she tried just once more. "Look," she said in a carefully controlled voice, "please let me tell you…'
His "No' was firm and determined. "I don't want to know, Olympia. Probably you did it for reasons of your own, but I don't wish to know them. And please give me your promise that you will say nothing-nothing to Ria, no questions, no hints, no breath of the whole miserable affair. I will talk to her tomorrow and explain all she needs to know, and then the entire matter is to be forgotten."
She doubted if she would ever forget it, and even if Waldo did, it would remain between them for the rest of their lives and nothing she could do would destroy it, and now he had taken her chance of explaining from her. "I promise," she told him.
He nodded and then, true to his edict, asked her in a perfectly normal voice if she would care for a drink before dinner. The forgetting was to take place as from now. She swallowed an hysterical giggle and was horrified to discover that tears prevented her from speaking. She made short work of her sherry under his surprised eye, and muttering something about Emma and the kitchen, escaped.
