‘No, no, no letter; I just have a curious request,’ said Mr Stebbings, looking past her. ‘A very curious and yet a very natural request. An old client of mine…his secretary has a sore throat or something. He wanted to know if you’d go round after dinner and take a few letters.’
‘Why certainly, Mr Stebbings,’ she said, surprised that he should be so apologetic.
‘He is not a client of mine now, as I think I’ve told you before,’ the stout Mr Stebbings went on, addressing the chandelier. ‘And I don’t know that I should wish for him to be a client either. Only—’
‘Mr Harlow?’ she gasped, and he brought his gaze down to her level.
‘Yes, Mr Harlow, 704 Park Lane. Do you mind?’
She shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. She had a struggle before she could agree. ‘Why, of course I’ll go. At what time?’
‘He suggested nine. I said that was rather late, but he told me that he had a dinner engagement. He was most anxious,’ said Mr Stebbings, his eyes returning to the Adam ceiling, ‘that this matter should be kept as quiet as possible.’
‘What matter?’ she asked wonderingly.
‘I don’t know’—Mr Stebbings could be exasperatingly vague—‘I rather fancy it may have been the contents of the letter; or, on the other hand, it may have been that he did not wish anybody to know that he had a letter of such importance as would justify the calling in of a special stenographer to deal with it. Naturally I told him he might rely on your discretion…thank you, that is all.’
She went back to her little room with the disquieting thought that she was committed to spend an hour alone with a man who on his last appearance had filled her with terror. She wondered whether she ought to tell Jim Carlton, and then she saw the absurdity of notifying to him every petty circumstance of her life, every coming and going. She knew he did not like Harlow; that he even suspected that splendid man of being responsible for the attack which had been made upon him in Long Acre; and she was the last to feed his prejudices. There were times when she allowed herself the disloyalty of thinking that Jim leaned a little towards sensationalism.
So she sent him no message, and at nine o’clock was ringing at the door of Mr Harlow’s house.
She had not seen him since he came to the flat. Once he had passed her in his car, but only Jim had recognised him.
Aileen was curious to discover whether she would recover that impression of power he had conveyed on the night of his call; whether the same thrill of fear would set her pulses beating faster-or whether on second view he would shrink to the proportions of someone who was just removed from the commonplace.
She had not anticipated that it would be Harlow himself who would open the door to her. He wore a dinner jacket, a pleated silk shirt and round the waist of his well cut trousers a cummerbund of oriental brocade. He looked superb. But the old thrill?…
Without realising her action she shook her head slowly.
His was a tremendous personality, dominating, masterful, sublimely confident. But he was not godlike. Almost she felt disappointed. Yet if he had been the Harlow of her mind it is doubtful whether she would have entered the house.
‘Most good of you!’ He helped her to struggle other heavy coat. ‘And very good of Stebbings! The truth is that my secretary is down with ‘flu and I hate employing people from agencies.’
He opened the door of the library and, entering, stood waiting with the edge of the door in his hand. As she stepped into the library, her foot slipped from under her on the highly-polished floor, and she would have fallen, but he caught her in a grip that was surprisingly fierce. As she recovered, she was facing him, and she saw something like horror in his eyes—just a glimpse, swift to come and go.
‘This floor is dreadful,’ he said jerkily. ‘The men from Herrans should have been here to lay the carpet.’
She uttered an incoherent apology for her clumsiness, but he would not listen.
‘No, no—unless you are used to the trick of walking on it—’
His concern was genuine, but he made a characteristic recovery.
‘I have a very important letter to write—a most important letter. And I am the worst of writers. Dictation is a cruel habit to acquire—the dictator becomes the slave of his typist!’
His attitude might be described as being generally off-handed. It struck Aileen that he was not at all anxious to impress her. She missed the smirk and the touch of ingratiating pomposity with which the middle-aged business man seeks to establish an impression upon a new and pretty stenographer. In a sense he was brusque, though he was always pleasant. She had the feeling of being put in her place—but it was an exact grading—she was in the place she belonged, no higher, no lower.
‘You have a notebook? Good! Will you sit at my table? I belong to the peripatetic school of dictators. Comfortable? Now—’
He gave a name and an address, spelling them carefully.
The letter was to a Colonel Harry Mayburgh of 9003 Wall Street.
‘My dear Harry’, he began. The dictation went smoothly from hereon. Harlow’s diction was a little slow but distinct.
He was never once at a loss for a word, nor did he flounder in the morass of parentheses. Towards the end of the letter:
‘…the European situation remains settled and there is every promise of a revival in trade during the next few months. I, for one, will never believe that so unimportant a matter as the Bonn affair will cause the slightest friction between ourselves and the French.’
She remembered now reading of the incident. A quarrel between a sous-officier of the French army and a peppery British colonel who had gone to Bonn.
So unimportant was the incident that when a question had been raised in the House of Commons by an inquisitive member, he had been greeted by jeering laughter. It seemed surprising that a man of Harlow’s standing should think it worth while to make any reference to the incident.
He stopped here, pinching his chin and gazing down at her abstractedly. She met the pale eyes—was conscious that in some ineffable manner his appearance had undergone a change. The pale eyes were deeper set; they seemed to have receded, leaving two little wrinkles of flesh to spoil the unmarked smoothness of skin. Perhaps she was mistaken and was seeing now, in a leisurely survey, characteristics which had been overlooked in the shock of meeting him at Fotheringay Mansions…
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, answering, as it were, a question he had put to himself. ‘I think I might say that. Will you read back?’
She read the letter from her shorthand and when she had finished he smiled.
‘Splendid!’ he said quietly. ‘I envy Mr Stebbings so efficient a young lady.’
He walked to the side-table, lifted a typewriter and carried it to the desk.
‘You will find paper and carbons in the top right hand drawer,’ he said. ‘Would you mind waiting for me after you have finished? I shall not be more than twenty minutes.’
She had made the required copies of the letter within a few minutes of his departure. There were certain matters to be considered; she sat back, her hands folded lightly on her lap, her eyes roving the room.
Mr Harlow’s splendour showed inoffensively in the decorations of the room. The furniture, even the bookcases which covered the walls, were in Empire style. There was a pervading sense of richness in the room and yet it might not in truth be called over-ornate, despite the gold and crystal of the candelabras, the luxury of heavy carpets and silken damask.
So roving her eyes came to the fireplace where the red coals were dying. On the white-tiled hearth immediately before the fire a little screw of paper had been thrown which, under the influence of the heat, had opened into a crumpled ball. She saw a pencilled scrawl.
‘Marling.’
She spelt the word—thought at first it was ‘making.’ And then she did something which shocked her even in the act—she stooped and picked up the paper, smoothed it out and read quickly, as though she must satisfy he
r curiosity before S, her outraged sense of propriety intervened.
The handle of the door turned; she slipped the creased paper into her bag, which was open on the table, and closed it as the stony-faced Mrs Edwins came into the room.
She came to the desk where the girl sat, her big, gaunt hands folded, her disparagement conveyed rather than expressed.
‘You’re the young woman,’ she stated.
‘I’m the young woman,’ smiled Aileen, who had a soft spot for age. She grew a little uncomfortable under the silent scrutiny that followed.
‘You’re a typewriter?’
‘A typist—yes. I am Mr Stebbings’s secretary.’
‘Stebbings!’
Mrs Edwins’ voice was surprisingly harsh and loud. The sudden change which came to her face was remarkable.
Eyes and thin lips opened together in startled surprise.
‘Stebbings? The lawyer? You’ve come here from him?’
For a second the girl was too startled to reply. ‘Yes…Mr Harlow asked that I be sent; his secretary was ill—’
‘Oh—that’s it!’ Relief unmistakable.
And here it flashed on the girl that this must be Mrs Edwins—that L. Edwins to whom reference had been made in the will of the late Miss Mercy Harlow. Perhaps, her nerves on edge, the woman received the thought, for she said quickly:
‘I am Mrs Lucy Edwins—Mr Harlow’s housekeeper.’
Aileen murmured some polite commonplace and wondered what was coming next. Nothing apparently, for, with a quick glance round the room, the woman sailed out, her hands still clasped before her, leaving the girl to her penitence and self-reproach. And these distresses were inevitable. A prying maid (she told herself) who read her mistress’s letters and poked into the mysteries of locked drawers was a pattern of decorum compared with a secretary who yet must inspect the waste-paper of a chance employer. She was of a mind to throw the paper into the fire, but it was natural that she should find excuses for her conduct. And her excuse (stoutly offered and defended to herself) was Jim Carlton and the vague familiarity of ‘Marling’.
Ten minutes passed and then Mr Harlow came slowly into the room. The door closed with a click behind him and he stood before her on the very spot where Mrs Edwins had conducted her cold survey.
‘My housekeeper came in, didn’t she?’
‘Yes’. She wondered what was coming next.
‘My housekeeper’—he spoke slowly—‘is the most unbalanced female I have ever known! She is the most suspicious woman I have ever known; and the most annoying woman I am ever likely to know.’ His eyes did not leave her face. ‘I wonder if you know why I sent for you?’
The question took her aback for the moment.
‘Don’t say to write a letter,’ he smiled. ‘I really wanted no letter written! It was an excuse to get you here alone for a little talk. And the fact that you have not gone pale and that you display no visible evidence of agitation is very pleasing to me. If you had, I should have opened the door to you and bid you a polite good night.’ He waited for her to speak.
‘I don’t quite understand what you want, Mr Harlow.’
‘Really? I was afraid that you would—and understand wrongly!’
He strode up and down the library, his hands under his coat tails, his head lifted so that he seemed immediately interested in the cornice.
‘I want a view—an angle. I can’t get that from any commonplace person. You arc not commonplace. You’re not brilliant either—forgive my frankness. You’re a woman, perhaps in love—perhaps not. I don’t know, but a normal soul. You have no interest to serve.’
He stopped abruptly, looked at her, pointing to the door. ‘That door is locked,’ he said. ‘There is nobody in the house but myself and my housekeeper. The telephone near your right hand is disconnected. I am very fond of you!’
He paused and then nodded approvingly.
‘A little colour—that is annoyance. No trembling—that may come later. Will you be so good as to press the bell—you will find it…yes, that is it.’
Mechanically she had obeyed, and almost immediately the door opened and a tall manservant came in.
‘I want you to wait in the servants’ hall until this young lady has gone, Thomas—I have a letter I wish posted.’
The man bowed and went out. Mr Harlow smiled.
‘That disproves two statements I made to you—that the door was locked and that we were alone in the house. Now I think I know you! I wasn’t certain before. And of course I’m not fond of you—I like you though. If you feel inclined to call up James Carlton, the telephone is through to the exchange.’
‘Will you please tell me,’ she said quietly, ‘what all this means?’
He stood by the desk now, his white fingers beating a noiseless tattoo.
‘I know you, that is the point,’ he said. ‘I can now speak to you very plainly. Would you, for a very large financial consideration, marry a man in whom I am greatly interested?’
She shook her head and he approved even of the refusal.
‘That is splendid! You did not say I was insulting you, or that you could not marry a man for money—none of the cliches of the film or the novelette! You would have disappointed me if you had.’
Aileen made a discovery that left her doubting her own sanity. She liked this man. She believed in his sincerity. A crooked dealer he might be, but upon a plane which was beyond her comprehension. In the less lofty regions in the levels of human intercourse he was beyond suspicion. She felt curiously safe with him and was worried, as one who was in the process of changing a settled opinion in the face of a prejudiced habit of thought.
He had the face of a materialist—the blue of his eyes was (Jim had told her) common to great generals and great murderers. The thick lips and fleshy nose were repellent, Yet she lived consciously in a world of men and women—she did not look for god or hero in any man. None was wholly good; none was wholly bad, except in the most artificial of dramas.
‘I wonder if I know what you are thinking about?’
She mistrusted him now, having a sense of his uncanny power of mind-reading.
‘You are saying “I wonder if he is as great a scoundrel as people like Carlton say?” How shall you measure me? It is very difficult, not because I represent greatness, but because the canvas on which I work is immense. Miss Rivers, I hoped that you were heart-free.’
‘I think I am,’ she said.
‘Which means that you are not. I wanted you to marry somebody I love; the sweetest nature in the world. Something I have created out of confusion and chaos and shining lights and mysterious sounds. I talk like a divinity, but it is true. For years I have been looking for a wife.’ He leaned forward over the desk and his voice sank. ‘Shall I tell you something?’
And though she made no sign, he read her interest aright.
‘If you had said “yes”, my day would have been done. I am selfishly relieved that you declined. But if it had been “yes”, all this would have crumbled into dust-all the splendours of the Splendid Harlow! Dust and memories and failure!’
For a moment she thought he had been drinking and that she had not detected his condition before. But he was sober enough and very, very sane.
‘Strange, isn’t it? I like you. I like Carlton—unscrupulous but a nice man. He is waiting outside this house for you. Also a fellow-lodger of yours, a Mr Brown, who followed you here.’
She gasped at this.
‘He is a detective. Carlton is scared for you—he suspects me of harbouring the most sinister plans.’ His chuckle had a rich music in it. ‘Maybe I can help you some time. I’d love to give you a million and see what you would do with it.’
He held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation.
‘You haven’t told me whom I was to marry?’
‘A man with a golden beard,’ he laughed. ‘Forgive my little joke!’
She went out of the house bewildered and stopped on the step with a cry of wonder.
Jim Carlton was standing on the sidewalk; and with him was Mr Brown, her fellow-boarder.
Mr Harlow waited until the door had closed upon his visitor and was stepping into the lift when his yellow-faced housekeeper appeared noiselessly from the direction of the servants’ hall.
‘What did that girl want?’ she asked.
‘Liberty of action,’ he replied.
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about half the time,’ she complained. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t a spy.’
‘Nothing would surprise you, my dear woman,’ he said, his hand on the grille of the elevator.
‘I don’t like the look of her.’
‘I, on the contrary, like the look of her very much.’ He was resigned to the conversation. ‘I asked her to marry.’
‘You!’ she almost screamed.
‘No.’ He jerked his head to the ceiling and broke in upon her violent comment. ‘I’m not mad. I am very clever. I can face truth—that is the cleverest thing any man can do. I’m going up to Saul Marling.’
Her shrill voice followed him up the elevator shaft.
‘Fantastical nonsense…wasting your time!’
He closed the door of Marling’s apartment behind him and sank into a deep chair with a groan of relief. The bearded man, his face shadowed by a reading shade, looked round, chin on palm.
‘She has a tantrum today,’ he said, nodding his head wisely. ‘She was quite rude when I complained about the fish.’
‘The devil she was!’ Harlow sat upright, was on the point of rising but thought better of it. ‘You must have what you wish, my dear Saul. I will raise Cain if you don’t. What are you reading?’
Marling turned over the book to assure himself of the title.
‘The Interpretation of Dreams,’ he read.
‘Freud! Chuck it in the waste-paper basket,’ scoffed Harlow.
‘I don’t understand it very well,’ admitted his companion.
‘The man who can interpret other people’s dreams can interpret other people’s thought,’ said Harlow. ‘I have been dreaming for you, Saul Marling. I dreamt a wife for you, but she would have none of it.’
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