After that they had tea and Mrs. Tamberly, rather amazingly, directed the conversation into pleasant, trivial channels, so that no one had any opportunity for even mentioning the momentous and disturbing changes which had taken place.
‘Not that I should discuss them in front of the children, of course,’ thought Hope. ‘But it’s extra-ordinary how she can make essentials seem like details, and details like essentials. If she doesn’t like a thing she just ignores it. I wonder if she expects us to do the same.’
Once or twice, as the conversation flowed amiably round her, Hope wondered if she had imagined the disclosure about the lost money. No one seemed to be agitated or excited or worried. The children, insensibly influenced by the calm, matter-of-fact atmosphere which Mrs. Tamberly created around her, behaved as they might if they had really been in their own home. They had accepted the change, and, for the moment at any rate, were perfectly contented with the arrangements made. Mrs. Tamberly herself not only gave the impression of being entirely remote from crisis, but somehow gave one the feeling that crisis simply did not exist except in one’s fevered imagination.
Only when she looked at Errol Tamberly did Hope remember every word of their conversation so clearly that she knew imagination had nothing to do with it. There he sat, not taking much part in the conversation, the very embodiment of fact as opposed to fancy—and rather grim fact, at that.
She was sorry now that she had even mentioned Richard to him. Not that she was the least disquieted by his tasteless and ill-judged criticism. Only she wished that she had not even given him the satisfaction of an opportunity for making it.
After tea they were shown round the garden and small grounds, with which the children declared themselves enchanted. Still there was no opportunity for what Hope called “real talk,” and, while her mind was full of tormenting doubts and anxieties for the future, she found herself chatting pleasantly with Mrs. Tamberly on the cultivation of herbaceous borders.
‘It’s like trying to box with a feather bed,’ thought Hope. ‘But there are things which must be discussed. I suppose Doctor Tamberly will deign to say something else to me later.’
She was right. Dr. Tamberly did. But that was when the children were in bed, and Mrs. Tamberly sat stitching at an elaborate piece of tapestry work, with an air of languid detachment which precluded any possibility of drawing her into the conversation.
In contrast to his mother’s persistent air of vagueness—or perhaps because of it—Errol Tamberly was wont to clothe his thoughts and intentions in short, blunt sentences. And he outlined his arrangements—Hope hardly felt they could be called suggestions—for the children in the fewest possible words.
They were to remain at their present schools and he would take over the whole question of fees and maintenance. During the holidays they were to come here, and might regard it in every way as their home. Hope would be welcome to visit them, but as her London flat was small—he paused, but made no reference to her proposed marriage—they would be better here in the country than staying with her, except for an odd night from time to time. That being so, it would be simplest for them to stay on here for their present holidays and not return to town with her.
It was all perfectly common sense and reasonable. There was nothing to object to in it, but Hope wished it didn’t make her feel as though she were being politely but finally excluded. She had nothing to do but say “Yes” to everything, and certainly she was not expected to make any sort of protest.
Well, there was no denying that it was in the best interests of the children—in her best interests too, considering her engagement. And, at the thought of that, Hope suddenly knew that what she wanted more than anything else was to get back to London as soon as possible, tell Richard what had happened and receive his laughing, loving assurance that everything was all right.
She could leave the children here with a perfectly clear conscience. In fact—with a grimace she admitted the fact—she had no choice in the matter. But she herself could go back to London tomorrow—she had told Richard she hoped to get back by Sunday evening—and in less than twenty-four hours from now her anxieties would be at an end, the little tormenting fear would be stilled, and she and Richard would be discussing the plans for their marriage, on a reduced scale perhaps, but who cared about that?
Looking up, she found Errol watching her once more in that disturbing way which suggested that he could make a good guess at her thoughts.
“I agree with everything you say about the children. In fact, you’re being extraordinarily good and generous.”
“Did it hurt to say that?” he enquired with a grim smile.
She ignored the question and went on as steadily as she could.
“As they seem to be so well settled, I think I’ll return to Town early tomorrow evening. I can send down the rest of their things or—or perhaps they’ll come up for the day and see me sometime soon. But I’d rather like to get back tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he agreed dryly, before she could say anything casual about not wanting to have to make the journey on Monday morning, and she had the horrid impression that he knew exactly why she wanted to get back to London, even down to the fact that there was cold fear at the back of her eagerness.
Miraculously, as though she sensed the necessity for trivialities once more, Mrs. Tamberly entered the conversation at this point, and nothing else of importance was said before it was time to go to bed.
The next day Mrs. Tamberly contrived to maintain the same atmosphere of pleasant uneventfulness, and this time Hope was almost glad of it. She wanted no drama or crisis here—she wanted to get back to London with as little fuss and delay as possible, and assure herself that there was no drama or crisis there either. If she could just be assured that none of the events of the last few weeks would affect her future with Richard, then she would do without excitement for the rest of her life.
The children were a little surprised, but not dismayed, by the information that Hope was returning to Town that day, while they would remain there for their holidays. They had already accepted the arrangement in principle, and the promise that they should go to London and spend a day with her soon quite satisfied them.
Bridget looked rather solemn when she kissed them good-bye, but they were used to seeing her only at weekends during their holidays, and there was nothing uncomfortably novel about bidding her good-bye for a week or ten days.
Dr. Tamberly drove her to the station, with little comment passing between them. She wondered if he would have the effrontery to refer to Richard again. He was so much in her own mind that she felt her companion must surely sense the fact and make some observation about it. But Errol Tamberly for once showed a disposition to mind his own business.
During the few minutes that they waited for the train he made only one observation of importance.
“I don’t know if mother made it clear—but please regard this as your home as well as the twins’ for as long as you want it. At the risk of sounding once more like the heavy guardian, I must repeat that your father asked me to look after—all of you.”
“It’s very kind of you,” Hope said, but, remembering his remarks about Richard, she could not, by any effort, make her voice sound anything but cold. Nor could she bring herself to utter the polite lie that she would be glad to avail herself of the invitation.
She was glad—and she supposed he was too—that the train came in very soon after that. At any rate he looked gloomy and not very good-tempered as he bade her goodbye.
It was an unspeakable relief to lean back in her corner seat and reflect that, as she had got away even earlier than she had hoped, there would almost certainly be time to see Richard, as well as telephone him, that evening.
At Charing Cross she thankfully hailed a taxi, and not until she was sitting in it did she reflect guiltily, ‘I ought to think in terms of buses, not taxis now.”
But it was too late to bother about that now—and, anyway, this was a specia
l occasion.
She was trembling by the time she reached her flat, and she ran up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift, because anything but personal action had suddenly become impossible. Her hand shook so much that it was difficult to fit her key into the lock. But, once she had opened the door and shut it again behind her, she felt as though she had woken from a feverish dream to a world of blessed reality. Less than thirty-six hours ago she had left this place, knowing that, whatever else happened, she and Richard would soon be happily married. Now, as she stood looking round on every familiar object—even the chair in which Richard had sat the day before yesterday—all her confidence returned, and she knew that nothing Errol Tamberly had said altered—or could alter—the situation between herself and Richard.
Without even waiting to take off her hat and coat, Hope picked up the telephone and dialled Richard’s number, and not until she heard the call signal at the other end of the line did she reach for a chair and bother to sit down. “Hello.”
“Richard!” She hailed his familiar voice with something like a cry of relief. “I’m so glad you’re in!”
“Hope, darling—” Strangely enough, Richard sounded hardly less relieved than she. “Is that really you home already? I didn’t dare to expect you. I thought you and the children—”
“I’ve left the children down there—Oh, there’s such a lot to explain! When can I see you?”
“Now. May I come round at once? I must come and see you, Hope. Something’s happened and—”
“What has happened?” Unaccountably all her apprehensions flared into life again. “Nothing to—to spoil things?”
“Of course not. I can’t explain on the ‘phone, but—”
“You still love me as much as ever?”
She heard him laugh.
“No.—More than ever.”
“And, whatever happens, we can be married soon?”
“Tomorrow, if it rests with me.”
Her heart gave a great throb of thankfulness.
“Then nothing else matters.”
“Not anything?”
“No. Not anything in the world.”
“Thank God you say that,” came the reply with unexpected fervor. “That’s how I feel too. Married, we can face any difficulty together.”
“Oh, Richard, yes! There’s a lot to explain about the visit to Orterville—not all of it nice—but none of it matters if we have each other.”
“No, darling. May I come round right away? There’s something I must ask you.”
“Of course. I want to explain too—”
“I’ll be round in less than half an hour.”
She started to say she would have something ready for them to eat, but he had already rung off, evidently eager to be with her at the first possible moment.
How small and silly Errol Tamberley’s sneers seemed now! Hope thought triumphantly, as she hurried into the kitchen to make coffee and cut some sandwiches.
She wondered what it was that Richard had to tell her. Something which worried him, evidently, and which he seemed to imagine might chill or annoy her. Otherwise, why should he have sounded so relieved when she said nothing mattered if they had each other?
Well, whatever it was, she would soon reassure him. In a queer way, she was even a little glad that he needed some reassurance. That helped to balance the fact that he was going to have to assure her that the loss of her father’s money didn’t matter.
By the time she heard his ring at the bell, she had the fire lit and the thick curtains drawn across the window, shutting out the cold, windy April night. And as she opened the door to him and drew him into the brightness and comfort of the flat, she felt that her happiness was really as safe and secure as it had ever been.
Perhaps he felt something of that too, because, when he had kissed her, he looked round with a sort of eager relief, and she realized then that his face was paler and more strained than she had ever seen it.
“Come and sit down, darling, and have some coffee, and tell me what’s wrong.” Insensibly she had fallen into the role of comforter instead of that of one who needed comfort, and he accepted that position immediately—dropping into the chair opposite her, and smiling slightly at her through his obvious anxiety.
“Don’t look so worried, Richard.” She poured out his coffee and smiled back at him with compelling confidence. “Very few things can matter more than you will let them.” She had suddenly discovered that fact, because she saw that the loss of her father’s money need not matter at all if they refused to allow it to do so, and she wanted to pass on the reassurance to Richard.
“All right.” His smile grew a degree less worried as he took his cup from her. “But I’m going to have to ask you something—oh, humiliating and—and unworthy. I hate myself for it, and I’m so afraid you may hate me too.”
“Don’t be absurd!” She actually laughed in spite of the gravity of the occasion. “As though anything could make me hate you! And, as for being humiliated by having to ask me anything—I don’t see how you can be. You know I’d be only too happy to do anything for you that I possibly could.”
“Anything?”
“Why, of course, Richard—anything.”
“Well, then”—he put down his coffee, untasted—“well, then, perhaps it doesn’t matter so much as I thought. Hope darling, I’m in a horrible jam, and you’re the only person I can come to. I know it’s frightful to talk of borrowing money from the girl you’re going to marry, but you’ve made it as easy as any girl could, bless you. I’ve got to have five hundred pounds, darling, and I’ve got to have it within the next couple of weeks. Perhaps it doesn’t sound very much to you, but—whether it does or not—will you let me have it, Hope?”
CHAPTER THREE
“FIVE—hundred—pounds!” Hope repeated in a thin strained little voice which sounded quite unlike her own.
“Yes.” Richard got up restlessly, as though he could no longer sit there and discuss the matter with any degree of calm. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked up and down the room. “I know it’s a large sum, and I know, as I’ve said, that it’s terrible to ask for money from the girl one loves, but I—need it pretty badly, Hope.”
“Of course. I—I quite understand that.” She passed a hand over her face, which had suddenly begun to feel stiff and cold. “But I haven’t got it, Richard.”
He stopped abruptly in his walk and looked quickly over at her.
“Not in actual cash, I daresay. Naturally—you wouldn’t. But there must be a lot of money coming to you, Hope. There are ways of realizing on expectations. I mean—Oh, God, how sordid this all sounds! Believe me, darling”—he was kneeling beside her suddenly, his arms round her—“I wouldn’t be saying all this to you for the world, only—I must have the money. Don’t look so unspeakably dismayed. Have I shocked you terribly? But I had no one else to go to, Hope.”
“No, I know. That part’s all right.” She nervously patted his shoulder as though he were a little boy. “You don’t have to apologize or—or feel ashamed about asking. You should have the money if I’d got it. But I haven’t. I mean, there are not—not even any expectations of it. Daddy left practically nothing. That—that was what I was going to tell you.”
She stared at him with wide, scared grey eyes, and one part of her mind registered extreme astonishment that he could go so white that the tan on his face almost seemed to stand away from his skin.
“Oh, Richard, don’t look like that! Do you need it so badly, dear? What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
“It’s all right.” He leant his forehead against her. “It’s just rather a shock—when I thought everything would be all right, once I’d asked you.”
His faith in her brought the tears to her eyes, but she forced them back.
“Listen, Richard—we’ll think of something. There must be things one could sell. Has it got to be five hundred all at once? What happened? Why do you need it?”
He gave a li
ttle groan.
“I didn’t want to have to tell you that. You’ll hate me.”
“I’ve told you before that nothing would make me hate you. And you’d have had to tell me anyway, even if I’d got the money. I shouldn’t have given even you five hundred pounds without wanting to know what it was for,” Hope told him with affectionate candor.
He smiled very faintly at that and kissed her.
“Quite right too, my sensible darling. What I meant was that I shouldn’t have felt such a cad to you if the loan wouldn’t have represented much sacrifice. Now—Oh, well”—he ran his fingers through his hair, then, sitting down on the rug at her feet, he leant his arm on her knee—“I’ve got to explain, of course. But—but please listen with tolerant ears, Hope dear.”
“I shall—of course.” She gently smoothed his ruffled hair.
“Well, then, it began because I wanted to be able to offer you much more when I married you. I know I joked a lot about marrying a rich girl, and how convenient it would be. But that wasn’t really a bit how I felt, darling. I wanted to offer you everything in the world, and—short of that”—he smiled again slightly—“at least as much as you’d been used to.”
“But it didn’t matter, Richard dear. I didn’t mind—Well, never mind—go on.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have minded either, quite so much, if I hadn’t known once what it was to be very comfortably off,” he admitted. “But I was doing darned well before I started on my own, you know. And of course I lost everything in the crash.”
“I know, dear,” Hope said gently. That was the one reason why she had always felt it would be little less than poetic justice that his marriage should make him better, and not worse, off. Richard had been a very successful young architect with a large firm a few years earlier. Then he had given up his job and sunk all his capital in his own business, taken on a partner, and worked up a promising connection. But the partner had embezzled most of the funds and then left the country, leaving Richard bankrupt. He had had to start at the bottom again in the office of a big architectural firm and one of the hopes which she had entertained was that, after their marriage, he would be able to start again on his own.
Away Went Love Page 4
