by Sara Seale
He lay back in the heather regarding her curiously.
"Well, that's perfectly natural. You didn't love him, he must have been prepared for a certain amount of aversion."
"I don't know," she said. "I've never known what goes on in Nicholas' mind about such things. I only know that now he expects nothing and demands nothing, and that, somehow, hurts me."
He knew one of those foolhardy impulses which had overtaken him before at such moments.
"Leave him, Shelley," he said recklessly. "You're young, lovely - why should he make you into his own sterile pattern? Come away with me ... I'd never meant to say this - I've no money and very few prospects, but we'd manage ... Jake could fit you into the company somewhere... even if you can't act, you would look lovely ... come out of your fairy-tale and live the life of mortals for a change..."
She gave him a long, strange look.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
"Yes - I don't know," he replied. "I only know you're wasting yourself, and if wanting you is loving you, well, then, yes, I do."
Her smile was touched with a new, wise sadness.
"No," she said, "I don't think you love me, and even if you did ... well, I couldn't leave Nicholas. I couldn't run away from him, too."
Already he was relieved and a little alarmed at his own rashness. His suggestion had been madness. He could not marry her, even supposing Penryn divorced her; he had only what he earned, and no real wish to take a wife as yet.
"Then take what the gods offer," he said. "Even Persephone, carried off by Pluto, lived six months on Olympus, and
six months in Hades. Time is short, my darling. Let me teach you how to find yourself."
"I think I know," she said, and smiled, the tears still wet on her lashes.
"Do you, Shelley?" he asked, curious and a little piqued.
"Yes, you've shown me - at least you've shown me what I've wanted - what I've missed."
"Don't tell me I've simply paved the way for Pluto," he said, and she smiled again.
"Perhaps. Shall we go home?"
He got to his feet without replying, and they walked back to Garazion in comparative silence. At the gates he said:
"Do you want me to keep away after this?"
"Yes," she said, slowly. "I think so. Dear Colin, I've so much enjoyed our friendship."
"That's how you've always thought of me, isn't it?"
"Martin said you were a magic. I think it was -"
"And the magic's ceased to work?"
"No ... no ..." she said. "But it's worked a different way. Good-bye, Colin." Now that it was over, he was reluctant to let her go. "When does Penryn return?" he asked. "In three days. Why?"
"Then will you meet me once more, in the summer-house, say, the day after tomorrow - just to say good-bye?"
Her thoughts were not really with him.
"Of course," she said at once. "What time?"
"Five o'clock? We'll make it brief."
"All right, I'll be there. Good-bye, and - thank you."
He watched her slip through the gate and run along the paths back to the house. The end of an episode, he thought; perhaps. But he would much like to know how greatly his own part in the affair would affect the relationship of Shelley and the dark Penryn.
It rained the day she was to meet him for the last time. She slipped out after tea to the summer-house, a handkerchief tied hastily over her hair, and ran along the wet paths, over the soaking grass, and through the tamarisks and rhododendrons to the plantation. The conifers and young larches were already
blotting out the remaining daylight, and she thought of Lydia and Justin, and shivered, glad that it was the last time she would go to the summer-house.
Colin was waiting for her, his face a vague blur in the dimness. She said quickly: "I mustn't stay."
"I was probably foolish to come," he said. "But I wanted to see you once again, if it's really good-bye. Is it good-bye, Shelley?"
"Yes, Colin - at least to meetings like this. When Nicholas comes back, we would both be glad to welcome you to the house, if you would care to come?"
"No, I don't think I should. Well, my sweet, I didn't expect you to turn conventional on me. Our little meetings were very harmless after all - hardly even clandestine."
"That was then," she said obscurely. "But this is now."
"Because I made you realize you're a woman?"
"Yes - and other things."
She shivered and he touched her hands.
"You're cold."
"I don't like this place," she said. "It has ghosts."
"The runaway lovers? Well, they say history repeats itself."
"No," she said violently. "I would never do that to Nicholas. Even if I loved you, Colin, I would never do that to Nicholas, after what happened before."
"I think," he said with unexpected gentleness, "you're half in love with him. How do you imagine the marriage of yours is going to work out as things are?"
She was silent for a moment, then she said:
"I don't know, but I think it's up to me. I think it's been up to me all along only I didn't realize it. I think I may have mistaken chivalry for indifference. Nick is a strange person."
"Very strange," Colin said a little shortly. "Well, it was nice while it lasted. Shelley - " He paused, and found to his own surprise that the parting really hurt him. "I want to say this, and, oddly enough, I mean it. If things don't work out - if you should ever need a friend - well, remember me. Here's an address that will always find me. You're different
from the others, you strange, extremely trusting child. I'm very fond of you, Shelley."
She took the piece of folded paper he offered her, and put it in her pocket without looking at it.
"Thank you," she said gravely. "And I'll always be fond of you, too, Colin - my first friend. Good-bye."
She lifted her face with child-like simplicity, and he kissed her gently and was gone.
She remained in the summer-house for a time, watching the dusk descend and the rain-drops dripping off the conifers. How strange it was, she thought, that, by sheer chance, one man could waken desire for another. She knew now that what she had sought in Colin had been only the gay companionship which she had never known, the laughter, the understanding which was not to be found at Garazion by simply expecting it.
She remembered that hot evening at Gull Cottage when Nicholas had come for his answer. It had not in the end been her father who had persuaded her, but something in Nicholas himself, for she had meant to refuse him. Even then she had been swayed by that compelling quality which she had not recognized as attraction, and, in expecting so little of her, he had denied her so much.
A small gust of wind blew through the plantation, and she realized it was nearly dark. She made her way back to the house, thinking with pleasure of Nicholas' return on the morrow. The front door shut with a little slam behind her, and, as she crossed the hall, she saw Nicholas standing in the doorway of his study, watching her.
"Nick!" she cried. She was startled, glad, and profoundly shy at seeing him so unexpectedly. "I didn't expect you till tomorrow."
"I know you didn't," he said.
"Did you get through your business sooner than you thought? Why didn't you let me know?"
"Would it have made any difference if I had?"
She did not understand his manner. There was something cold and remotely hostile about him, and he made no move to come and greet her.
"Well, I would have been here, waiting for you, if I'd
known," she said a little blankly, and he replied with sardonic courtesy:
"I'm sure you would have, Shelley."
She took an uncertain step towards him.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
He watched her gravely.
"What should be the matter?"
"I don't know, but you seem different."
"I'm no different," he said.
She searched in her mind for something to s
ay to him, but could only remark that she had better tell Baines about dinner.
"I've already given orders," he replied, and she said rather helplessly that she would go upstairs and have her bath and change. He made no effort to keep her but returned to his study and shut the door.
She took time over her dressing, wondering what had upset Nicholas. She was accustomed to accepting him in all his moods without question, and thought only that some business problem was worrying him, but her first spontaneous pleasure at his unexpected return had given place to a chill of disquiet. Not thus had she wanted to greet him, not thus, with her inexperienced hands, try to break down his resistance.
She put on the black velvet dinner gown because he had always liked it, and went downstairs.
At dinner, she was reminded of the strain of that first evening at Garazion. He sat at the head of the table, grave and a little sardonic, as she first remembered him, making polite conversation, and the candlelight spilled on his steady hands, those firm, beautiful hands which more than once had brought her comfort. She felt nervous, and when, the meal over at last, they sat together in his study, her nervousness increased, and she said a little desperately:
"Is anything wrong, Nicholas?"
He looked across at her, observing with an impersonal eye the whiteness of her skin against the black velvet, the soft, shining fall of her hair.
"Yes, I think there is," he said, quite gently.
"Something I've done?"
Her voice was a little bewildered and his mouth hardened. "You do it very well," he said. "What, Nicholas?"
"The innocence. All right, let's have it. Who's this man you've been meeting behind my back?"
Her hands, which she had been twisting in her lap, relaxed with relief.
"Oh, you mean Colin."
"Do I? And what's Colin to you?"
When she did not immediately answer, he repeated his question, adding, "I'd rather you didn't lie to me." The quick colour stained her cheeks. "I don't lie, Nicholas," she said.
"Yes, I used to think you didn't, either. But deceiving, acting a he, is just as bad you know."
Her hands began twisting nervously again.
"There was nothing wrong in my friendship with Colin," she said, and he gave her his old penetrating glance.
"If there was nothing wrong in it," he said with sudden harshness, "why didn't you mention the fact that you knew him? Why didn't you have him to the house in the normal way?"
All at once she perceived the difficulty of explaining to Nicholas those innocent meetings which must, in his eyes, look so furtive. How explain, that Colin had at first been just a childish secret between herself and Martin, just as when children are little they cherish a hiding-place discovered only by themselves?
"I don't know why I didn't tell you," she said, searching for the right words, and finding only foolish-sounding excuses. "It began with the carol-singing - you remember I told you."
"You didn't even tell me that, if I remember. Baines did. Well, it began with the carol-singing."
"You were away, and he and Martin and I used to play in the snow. Martin liked him. He was good with children - " His mouth tightened and she said quickly, "I mean, he's young, you see, and played with Martin - " She was blundering.
"And did you tell Martin not to mention this young man, either? Did you teach the boy to lie?"
"Of course not, but he thought of Colin as a sort of secret - we both did. It must sound silly to you."
"It does," said Nicholas grimly. "It sounds so damn silly that I'm afraid I don't believe a word of it."
Her flush deepened.
"How can I try and explain if you won't believe me?" she asked.
He looked at her ironically.
"Very well. Tell your story your own way, only don't take me for a complete fool. The young man went away, you were saying. But I think you met him only this afternoon."
"He came back when you were in the north. He's staying at Polzeal for a month - acting at the theatre."
"Oh? And when is your next assignation, if it wouldn't be tactless to ask?"
"Oh, Nicholas," she pleaded wretchedly, "please don't be sarcastic about it. We - we've said good-bye. I'd decided not to see him again."
"Until my next business trip, I suppose. I understand now why you were reluctant to come away with me this time. Where used you to meet?"
"On the moor, sometimes in the summer-house."
"The summer-house!"
All at once Nicholas' patience broke. The summer-house where Lydia and Justin had first betrayed him. He got to his feet and towered over her, dark, bitter, and icily angry.
"The least you could have done for me, Shelley, was to conduct your affair away from my house and my servants."
She began to tremble.
"You can't think," she said, "that I was having an - affair with Colin."
"Do you take me for a fool? What else would you call it? The man was, presumably, your lover." "Oh, no!"
He was too angry, too bitterly hurt, to heed the pain in her voice.
"Don't go on lying to me," he said with acute distaste. "I realize perfectly well that I've brought this situation on myself
by my very misguided forbearance, but I would at least appreciate the rather poor compliment of the truth."
She got up and faced him. The black velvet of the dress he had particularly liked accentuated her extreme pallor. The flush had faded, and even her lips were white.
"I'm telling you the truth, Nicholas," she said. "Colin and I were never lovers. I -I wouldn't have done that to you."
"You wouldn't deny that he made love to you?"
"No, I suppose he did."
He looked at her as if she were a stranger to him, and the scar showed lividly on his cheek, drawing lip and eyebrow into ugly distortion.
"You've inherited your father's gift for making a lie sound sincere," he said bitingly.
"My father is not a liar."
"Oh, yes he is, my dear. He's one of the biggest liars - or shall we say, twisters of the truth - it's ever been my fortune to meet. But in this case, for once he was speaking the truth."
Her eyes were wide and strained.
"In this case?" she repeated. "You mean Father told you about Colin?"
"I mean just that. You shouldn't have confided your shoddy little secret to someone who uses everything for his own ends."
She was winding a long strand of the fine, silky hair round and round her finger with nervous concentration.
"But if Father told you he would have made you understand there was nothing wrong in it," she said.
He remembered Lucius' derisive voice, the malicious pleasure in his face as he had retaliated to Nicholas' refusal to lend him more money, letting drop those little barbs of poison, delighted that his own daughter was making a fool of him.
"Your father didn't give me that impression at all," he said suavely. "In fact, he took care to draw a very comprehensive picture of what was going on in my absence."
Tears stung her eyelids and she turned away. Not Lucius ... not her own father twisting her foolish confidences into a false, mischievous pattern in order to hurt a man he disliked.
"I don't know why Father should have done this to me," she said wearily. "I think you must have misunderstood him. I think you very easily think ill of us both."
"I've never thought ill of you, Shelley, until this moment," he said evenly. "You had for me a quality of innocence and truth all the more remarkable since your father was a charlatan and a trickster."
She wheeled round on him and the colour was back in her cheeks.
"Whatever you think of me, you've no right to call my father that," she said. "Because he owed you money, it doesn't give you the right to call him dishonest."
For a moment he could almost believe in her, and because he was angry with himself as well as with her, because, after twelve years, the old treachery was again being enacted at Garazion, he spoke bitterly and irrevoc
ably.
"I have every right to call Lucius dishonest," he said harshly. "He lived by his wits, often criminally, battening on the misfortunes and sympathies of others. It wasn't because he owed me money that your father agreed to your marriage with me. It was because, if I had chosen, I could have brought a prosecution against him."
"You don't know what you're saying," she whispered.
He had no pity for her.
"I know only too well what I'm saying, and I think it's time you learnt the truth, my dear. Your father first came to me with a pathetic story of a crippled daughter who, for lack of money, would never walk again - you, Shelley. He played delicately on my own handicap in life, and almost I was deceived. I came to see for myself, and found you, charming, apparently innocent, and anything but crippled. That, Shelley, is known as obtaining money under false pretences, and is punishable by law."
She was as white as paper again.
"Father did that?" she said.
"He'd been doing it for years, trading on infirmities, and disfigurements such as mine. We struck a bargain that evening, your father and I. In exchange for you I agreed to bring no action, and further than that, I settled an income on him for
life. Now you know why he was so anxious to get you married to me."
"My own father was willing to - to sell me?"
"Oh, yes. He was quite prepared to let you go cheap, too. He didn't demand marriage for you. Not very pretty, is it? I told you once before that there's very little in human relationships worth remembering."
She put her hands over her ears in an unconscious, desperate little movement.
"Oh, stop, stop!" she cried. "What were you trying to do to me, both of you? What were you trying to do?"
For a moment his face softened, and even then, in the midst of his own bitter disillusionment, he could have taken her in his arms and comforted her.
"Shelley - " he said, but she turned from him and made a quick movement towards the door.
"You don't have to say any more." Her voice was high and unsteady, choked with the storm of tears which would not be denied much longer. "I understand just how you must feel, how things must look. I - I'll go away. I'll go away tomorrow..."
