Mine for a Day

by Mary Burchell

  “Good lord!” Simon said, and laughed, which was not quite the reaction Leila had expected. “Which room has she given us?”

  “The big one at the back—where I was looking out of the window.”

  “I know. With the dressing-room attached.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think—”

  “All right. Don’t worry,” He was still smiling, but he put his arm round her, with a half-protective air which had nothing to do with his pretending to be her husband. “I’ll look after your reputation better than that. I wasn’t going to suggest any dressing-room compromises in any sense of the term. Leave it to me. I do know how to look after you properly, you know, even though I am supposed to have married you only this afternoon.” She made some slight, rather inarticulate sound, which she hoped might pass for an intelligent reply. But she felt as though her very heart sang within her. For, for the first time he was aware of her as herself. A glow of happiness out of all proportion to Simon’s action pervaded Leila, and it was only with difficulty that she maintained a smiling air of composure, while she groped for something light and casual to say.

  Perhaps it was as well that there was a diversion just then. The sound of a car drawing up at the front of the house caught their attention, and Simon exclaimed:

  “That will be the doctor. Let’s go in.”

  She was sorry that her moment had to be over so soon, but at least it had given her some courage for her encounter with the doctor. And as they crossed the hall together, she caught Simon’s hand in hers and swung it lightly, so that they made a very pleasant and convincing picture of an affectionate young couple when Frances opened the door.

  “Evening, Miss Morley.” Leila heard the doctor’s deep, slow, rather solemn voice before she even saw him. “I’ve brought my brother along with me this evening. Staying with us for a couple of days. I’ve told him you’ll let him have a sight of the best show of chrysanthemums in the county, bar none.”

  “How nice!” Frances sounded cordial, and was already leaning forward to shake hands with someone who blocked out as much of the light from the doorway as the massive doctor did. “My brother, too, arrived only an hour or so ago with his wife. Do come in.” Simon came forward to greet the visitors in his turn, and so did Leila, with as friendly and unperturbed an air as she could manage. But, as her gaze travelled beyond the doctor to his brother, she caught her breath on an almost audible gasp of dismay. The man accompanying Dr. Brogner was her own solemn, rather pompous employer.

  For one who had never had to deal with dramatic crises, Leila did rather well in that moment. She shook the astonished Mr. Brogner’s hand with great cordiality and said:

  “I thought it must be you, when I heard the name, Mr. Brogner. I think I am the one who should be allowed to show you the chrysanthemums and—and—explain things to you, at the same time.”

  “Bless my soul, Miss Lorne!” Her employer actually took out his spectacles and popped them on his nose, the better to confirm that one of his secretarial staff had indeed materialized in this astonishing manner. “Where did you spring from? And did I understand Miss Morley to say you are her brother’s wife?”

  Before Leila could either confirm or deny this rather biblical description of herself, Frances chimed in once more.

  “They were just married today,” she explained, glancing curiously from Mr. Brogner’s solemn red face to Leila’s determinedly smiling, pale one.

  “We had to postpone our honeymoon on account of my mother’s illness,” Simon put in, evidently sensing that it was time he came to the rescue with something. “Suppose you take Mr. Brogner and show him the garden, darling. And Frances and I can have a—family chat with the doctor.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  In her eagerness to get him away, Leila almost took Mr. Brogner by the arm. But a certain growing reserve, and air of suspended disapproval, about her employer warned her not to indulge in any unusual familiarities. As it was, he was slightly annoyed to find himself hustled off into the garden without having his own preferences consulted.

  “Well, Miss Lorne, this is an extraordinary business,” he began, in anything but a congratulatory tone. “We do expect a certain amount of”—he cleared his throat—“preliminary notice when our staff get married, you know. We are not in favour of employing married women.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m awfully sorry. But I really must explain. It isn’t at all—as it seems—”

  She hesitated, but Mr. Brogner looked as though she had not improved the situation.

  “What does that mean exactly?” he enquired. “Are you trying to tell me that you are not married to Mr. Morley, in actual fact?”

  “Yes,” said Leila, looking into the future and seeing it was going to be impossible to keep up this masquerade much longer—certainly it was impossible to keep it up so far as her employer was concerned. “I mean—yes, I am trying to tell you that I’m not married to him.”

  “But you are passing yourself off as his wife.” Mr. Brogner’s tone made that a statement, rather than a question, and his expression added that it was a most discreditable state of affairs.

  “It was a desperate expedient—so that Mrs. Morley shouldn’t be upset and shocked, just at a time when it was essential that she should be quiet and unworried.”

  “Miss Lorne,” retorted Mr. Brogner, who was not without a reputation for sarcastic repartee, “you have a strange idea of the best methods of obviating shock and distress. I must say that your story appears more—curious to me every minute.”

  “I haven’t told you the actual story yet,” Leila replied rather crossly, because she saw that when he said “curious” he meant either “incredible” or “disgraceful” or both. And then she determinedly launched into the best description she could achieve of the tangle in which she had involved herself during the last thirty-six hours.

  Mr. Brogner listened with an air of increasing gravity which was not encouraging, and which tended to make Leila—in spite of all her efforts to the contrary—adopt an increasingly defensive tone.

  “And, of course, as soon as ever possible, we shall explain the real situation to Mrs. Morley,” she finished earnestly, when she felt she had put Mr. Brogner in possession of as much of the story as Simon would approve.

  “At that point, I should imagine Mrs. Morley will receive a much greater shock than anything which the real facts could give her,” Mr. Brogner commented severely.

  “She will be in a better condition to sustain any shock by then,” Leila retorted rather curtly. “If,” she added rather sadly, “she recovers at all.”

  “It is never wise to gamble on the possible decease of another person, Miss Lorne,” Mr. Brogner stated heavily.

  “We weren’t gambling on any such thing!” cried Leila angrily. “We only hope and pray that she recovers. But, don’t you see that if—if she isn’t going to recover, it’s so much better that her last days should be happy and free from anxiety?”

  Mr. Brogner thrust out a doubtful under-lip and shook his head. “I am old-fashioned enough to think, Miss Lorne, that truth is the best policy at all times, and that deception, however well meant, is a most undesirable thing. It is not my business, of course, to advise you on the conduct of your private affairs. But you seem to me to have acted in a most irresponsible manner, and to have succeeded in placing yourself in a highly invidious position. I am willing, of course, to accept your own explanation of the position myself. But uncharitable people would not do the same. Any young woman who leaves her home to pose as the wife of, and live under the same roof as, a man friend must not be surprised if a rather—peculiar interpretation is put upon her actions.”

  Mr. Brogner cleared his throat loudly, to give point to what he had said.

  During the first half of his address, Leila had found herself uncomfortable in sympathy with what he said about the desirability of truth at all times. But—though she was by nature a reasonably gentle and peaceable creature—her nerves and her tem
per had been rather sorely tried during the last few weeks. And when he reached the bit about any young woman posing as the wife of a man friend, she felt anger and indignation well up.

  “You have no right to speak to me like that,” she cried. “I have told you the exact truth because—because—”

  “Because you really had no choice, Miss Lorne, since to remain silent would have made your position even more questionable than if you explained,” Mr. Brogner put in dryly.

  “It wasn’t that,” declared Leila, uncomfortably aware that it probably was. “But, in any case, I have told you—I have been quite frank with you, and now perhaps the subject can be closed. As you yourself said, my private affairs are not really your business.”

  Mr. Brogner took off his spectacles, polished them carefully, and put them back again.

  “That was not exactly what I said, Miss Lorne,” he corrected, not unkindly but rather weightily. “What I said was that it was not my business to advise you on the conduct of your private affairs. Strictly speaking, of course, your private affairs are not my business. Unless, that is to say, they seem likely to affect your position as an employee of our firm.”

  “But—all this can’t possibly affect my usefulness, or otherwise, in the office,” protested Leila, astonished, indignant, and just a little frightened.

  Mr. Brogner looked at her as though he thought her slow in grasping the obvious.

  “My dear Miss Lorne, you know as well as I do that we are a long-established, highly-respected, perhaps old-fashioned firm. We deal with a very special type of client, and we take considerable pains to preserve a very particular kind of reputation. I am not going to suggest, for one moment, that the private affairs of our typing staff”—she noted, in passing, that he had already reduced her office status in his own mind—“would affect the—ah—standing of the firm. But I am not at all sure that we should wish to have in our employ someone whose conduct outside the office was of a highly questionable character.”

  Leila felt herself flush angrily again.

  “My conduct has never been questionable, Mr. Brogner, and I very much resent the suggestion,” she said shortly.

  He seemed unmoved by this.

  “Posing as a man’s wife is usually regarded as highly questionable.”

  “But in the special circumstances—”

  “My dear child,” interrupted Mr. Brogner, from the depths of his rather disillusioning experience, “there are always special circumstances. In this case, I feel sure, you acted from kind, though extremely misguided, motives. But the net result is that you have landed yourself in a position which is unpleasant for you and most undesirable from our point of view. In this world, people are apt to pronounce first and enquire—if they enquire at all—afterwards. No young woman of good sense and discretion, therefore, puts herself in a position where she can seem to have acted discreditably, any more than she puts herself in a position where she has acted discreditably. And in our firm, Miss Lorne, we require young women of good sense and discretion.”

  Leila bit her lip.

  “Are you trying to tell me”—she employed Mr. Brogner’s own phrase, but with less effect—“that you wish me to leave the firm?” she asked coldly.

  “No.” With a movement of his large hand, Mr. Brogner indicated that he didn’t wish to be hurried in his decisions. “I am only showing you how your behaviour must necessarily appear to me, and considering whether, in the circumstances, we can ignore your regrettable foolishness—or not. If this silly business can be quietly shelved—”

  He stopped, and following his glance Leila saw Frances standing in the doorway and beckoning to them.

  “There’s a long-distance call for you, dear. Your mother wants to speak to you.”

  “My mother—” began Leila, in stupefaction. Then, as she remembered her supposed identity, her heart almost stopped beating. “But—”

  “She hasn’t got used to thinking of you as Mrs. Morley yet,” Frances added, with a laugh. “She said it was Mrs. Lorne speaking, and was Miss Lorne there? That’s the telephone over there, by the front door.”

  Slowly, and with indescribable reluctance, Leila crossed the hall and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello—” she said, in a voice not much like her own.

  “Hello, hello!” replied Aunt Hester’s voice, sharpened by anxiety and prolonged waiting. “What on earth has happened? Who is that speaking? Leila, is it you—or Rosemary?”

  CHAPTER IV

  LEILA had a wild impulse to hang up the telephone receiver without replying. But she retained enough common sense to realize that this would only postpone, not save her from, explanations. And after a second or two of heavy silence, she said a little huskily: “It’s—it’s Leila, Aunt Hester.”

  At the same moment, Frances and Mr. Brogner exhausted the topic which they were politely pursuing, and Leila’s sensational statement—though quietly uttered—dropped into a perfect well of silence. She almost heard it “plop.”

  Frances actually started forward a couple of steps, and Leila thought there was a slight exclamation from her. But all other sounds were drowned out by the spate of words which now issued from the telephone.

  “What has happened? What on earth are you doing? Miss Parker said—But I couldn’t possibly believe her. What are you and Simon doing together—meeting secretly, and he carrying your case as though—Has Rosemary’s running away something to do with all this? Did my poor girl run away because you and Simon—”

  “Aunt Hester,” Leila interrupted at last, clearly and firmly. “Rosemary’s running away was an accomplished fact before I even thought of coming with Simon. I’m here because Simon was at his wit’s end over the likely effect of all this on his mother, who is dangerously ill, as you know. I’m doing my best to substitute for Rosemary at the moment—”

  “Oh!” The one outraged syllable behind her made Leila falter, and Aunt Hester seized the opportunity of thrusting in another angry, bewildered question or two.

  “But why didn’t you tell us? Why all this ridiculous deceit? What am I to say to Miss Parker? She—”

  “I don’t care what you say to Miss Parker,” Leila interrupted coldly and distinctly. “It isn’t her business.”

  “Of course it isn’t! That’s why she’s passionately interested,” cried poor Aunt Hester, with unconscious cynicism. “But the whole thing looks so extraordinary. Why didn’t you tell me Leila? Whose idea was this ridiculous deception? Simon’s? I can’t believe it.”

  “The idea was mine,” stated Leila curtly and categorically, for now she was past considering the probable effect of her words on the two listeners in the hall. It was asking too much of anyone to have to bear two entirely different audiences in mind. Besides, Aunt Hester—usually so stolid and well-balanced—actually sounded as though she were growing hysterical. “It was my idea—and he accepted it with relief.”

  “You wicked girl!”

  She was startled out of all awareness of Aunt Hester’s reply, by the furious, whispered ejaculation behind her. And, in spite of all the complications of her talk with her aunt, Leila’s overwhelming reaction was one of sheer astonishment that Frances should take the revelation like this.

  Surprised she might well be, annoyed perhaps. But this fury of reproach and indignation was out of all proportion.

  Leila began to wonder if she were in some dreadful and ridiculous dream when, to her immeasurable relief, the operator’s voice said brightly: “Time’s up, I’m afraid.” And Aunt Hester faded out, and was a hundred miles away again, and Leila was free to replace the receiver and turn to tackle the other half of the problem.

  Frances was standing there, flushed, with tears in her eyes.

  “How wicked of you!” she exclaimed. “How could you deceive my poor mother like that?”

  “My dear girl—”

  “I’m not your dear girl!” Frances spoke more like an outraged child than a reasonable young woman. “I’m just one of the other p
oor fools you thought you could trick.”

  And to Leila’s incredulous dismay and disgust she burst into tears and rushed sobbing into a nearby room.

  Leila passed a bewildered hand over her hair, and for a moment could do nothing but stare after her. Then Mr. Brogner coughed, and Leila was most unwillingly recalled to the realization that this scene could hardly have had a reassuring effect on him.

  “If this silly business can be quietly shelved—” he had said. And from that moment the silly business had developed with most unwelcome drama and sensationalism, right in front of his eyes. Shelving it seemed out of the question.

  “A very painful and foolish scene,” Mr. Brogner observed austerely.

  “I had no idea she would take it like that,” Leila began wearily.

  “And I had no idea that you were foolishly trying to carry out this ill-advised deception without even informing Mrs. Morley’s family,” he replied severely. “Really, Miss Lorne, words fail me, when I contemplate your behaviour.”

  She had a silly and hysterical desire to say: “Don’t contemplate it then.” But she retained her presence of mind sufficiently, to say instead:

  “It seemed best to us to have as few people as possible in the secret.”

  “The number appears to have been regrettably increased during the last quarter of an hour,” remarked Mr. Brogner, gesturing distastefully towards the telephone.

  “Oh—” Leila bit her lip. “That was my aunt.”

  And then a door upstairs was opened, and a moment later Simon and the doctor descended the stairs together.

  Seeing her and Mr. Brogner standing rather aimlessly in the hall, Simon said absently: “Hello, darling. Where’s Frances?”

  “In there, crying her eyes out because I’m not Rosemary,” replied Leila, indicating the room into which Frances had disappeared.