“He’s had no communication with me at all. He gave his word and he kept it. And please believe one thing, Richard, Errol has nothing whatever to do with my decision not to marry you. Only you affected that. If Errol had never existed, I should still be saying the same thing to you now. And that is—No!”
There must have been something in her voice, quiet though it remained, which carried absolute conviction. For a moment Richard looked as though he would argue further, and then suddenly a rather blank and angry look came over his face.
“That’s absolutely your last word?”
She nodded, because she could see that he, as well as she, realized that no more words were necessary.
“Very well.”
And then he turned on his heel and left her. She watched him go through the garden, something conventional at the back of her mind struggling with the idea that she ought to say they could always be friends and would he stay to tea?
One didn’t associate hunger with a broken heart, of course, but she had a vague feeling that Richard would need his tea, even though she had just refused to marry him. Then she remembered that he must have come by car—indeed, she could hear him starting it up now—and it would not take him long to reach the nearest town, where he would be able to seek whatever form of consolation seemed most suitable to him at the moment.
The sound of the car was dying away in the distance now. Richard was going out of her life, and however much she might tell herself that he could always be a friend, she knew that he was going for good.
The hum of the distant car merged into the humming of a large bee close at hand, and for a few minutes Hope stood there idly, watching the bee thrust its fat, velvety body in and out of flower-cups. She seemed to be paying it the closest attention, but she was really thinking:
‘I’ve sent Richard away. In a queer way, I’m free. But it’s true what I told him—I’m not going to marry Errol either. At least, I’m not going to rush into marrying Errol. I’m not even used to being without Richard yet. I can think a little longer. The situation is much simpler now—and anyway, Errol will wait as long as I like.’
Hope, who was a kind-hearted creature, didn’t even recognize the element of cruelty in that.
With an oddly lightened heart she went back to the house. And, as she did so, the postman came up the sloping front path.
He paused to pass the time of day with Hope, admire the growth of some promising young beans, comment on the weather and give her the latest news about his family. Then, just as he was going, he remembered the errand on which he had come, and handed her a letter.
Hope glanced at it as she strolled into the house, and recognized the round, rather painstaking handwriting of Bridget, to whom, under the seal of strict secrecy, she had given her address.
With a sensation of distinct pleasure, Hope slit open the envelope. Bridget always wrote very newsy letters for a child of her age, and although she was bade at school, there was sure to be some mention of Errol. And though that was not really of importance now—
Bridget did mention Errol. In the very first sentence. In fact, her letter began:
Dear Hope,—
I wish you’d go home and see about Uncle Errol. He’s had a bad accident. Lucifer threw him, and even Mrs. Tamberly seems worried. She came to see me at school yesterday. Uncle Errol had been coming to take me out for the day, only he couldn’t come and made her come instead.
And she told me all about it. At least, as much as she ever tells one about anything. But do go home, Hope, and see what’s wrong. Why do you want to stay away in this funny secret way, anyway? Mrs. Tamberly said she wanted to let you know about Uncle Errol, but he was very angry and wouldn’t let her, and anyway she didn’t know where to write, and when she said I’d know, he just said, “She’s not to be bothered.” But it doesn’t bother you to know about it, does it, Hope? Because now you can go and see what’s happened and perhaps make him better. Do look after him. I don’t know what Tony and I would do without him. I don’t really think there’s anything else to tell you, except that I’m a bit short of pocket money because Maisie Farley had a birthday and as I thought Uncle Errol would be coming yesterday, I spent nearly all mine on a present for her and then Mrs. Tamberly came instead and she didn’t think of giving me some.
Love and kisses,
Bridget.
“Aunt Lena!” Hope, who had stood stock-still in the tiny passage until she had read every word of the letter, now ran through to the little sitting-room where Aunt Lena sat placidly sewing. “Aunt Lena, I must go back to London at once. I’ve had a letter from my sister and—”
“The child’s not ill, is she?” Aunt Lena took off her spectacles and regarded Hope with kindly concern.
“No, no, but Errol is. The children’s guardian—my fiancé—at least, he is in a way.”
“In a way?” Aunt Lena looked justifiably astonished. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“No, nor did I until just now. At least—anyway, I must go. I really must. He’s had an accident. Oh dear, will there be a train at this time in the day?”
“There’s the express from the Junction at a quarter-past five, but that wouldn’t give you time for any real tea and—”
“I’ll catch that. Oh, please, darling Aunt Lena, do understand. I must catch it.”
Darling Aunt Lena appeared to understand at once. Perhaps she even understood why Hope had been so absent and restless when she first came down here, and why that nice-looking young man who had so obviously come specially all the way from London to see her, had only stayed twenty minutes and then gone straight away again in his rakish scarlet car.
Hope dashed upstairs to throw a few things into a suitcase, while Aunt Lena trotted across the road to ask Mr. Matters to get out what the village called, by courtesy, the taxi, to take Hope to the Junction. She also contrived to have tea ready so quickly that Hope even had time to eat one of the much-discussed eggs before she left.
Then, on the principle that the young and foolish require more sustenance than the old and wise, Aunt Lena supplied her with sandwiches and a thermos for the journey, kissed her and saw her into the “taxi” which was already giving forth premonitory rattles and explosions in preparation for its erratic gallop to the station.
“Come back when you can,” Aunt Lena cried. “You’ll always be welcome, either alone or on your honeymoon.”
But the car leapt away just then amid so much noise that it was doubtful if Hope even heard the last few words.
Fortunately the “taxi,” temperamental creature though it was, arrived at the Junction in time for Hope to cram into the express, which already seemed to contain half the population of the West of England. And then at last she had time to sit down on her case in the corridor—since there was nowhere else to sit—and take out Bridget’s letter and read it all over again.
So he was ill—Errol was ill. Sufficiently so to alarm—even Mrs. Tamberly. Did that mean dangerously ill?
Hope sought anxiously for real news in the schoolgirlish lines of Bridget’s letter, but came again and again to the same conclusion—that Bridget didn’t really know herself, and could only ask her sister to find out. But there was anxiety there too. Loving anxiety. And the simple rather pathetic truth in, ‘I don’t know what Tony and I would do without him.’ And then: ‘Do look after him.’
If anything happened to him, she would feel she had somehow let down the children too. Not that anything would happen, of course. Only—oh, why hadn’t he sent for her? He surely knew she would come.
But then he had given his word not to see her or write to her. That quite simply and finally precluded him from letting her know about the accident.
For an impatient and half-scornful moment she found herself thinking how Richard would have made capital out of a situation like that. But not Errol.
That was the nicest thing about him. One of the nicest. There were other things too, of course.
She thought of
him that day she went out to meet him and he rode up on that wicked black horse which had now thrown him. He had looked a bit arrogant, no doubt, but terribly attractive, and he hadn’t been arrogant when he produced that ring—her ring. He had been almost diffident. Funny that one could even think of Errol as diffident. But he could be sometimes. Like someone who was very sure of all the everyday things, but, when it came down to his own happiness, was not quite sure what to do.
A fat man, breathing heavily, pushed past at that moment, remarking that people should not be allowed to sit in the corridor.
Absently, and without rancor, Hope watched him make his way back to a corner seat in a first class compartment
He didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered. She just wanted to make sure that Errol was not dangerously ill. Just to reassure Bridget—and herself.
On the train dashed, through the gathering twilight, swaying from side to side in a way that made it rather difficult to maintain any sort of comfortable balance on one’s suit-case. But Hope scarcely noticed anything like physical discomfort. If only her mind had been quiet—
There were other people in the corridor, and next to her a young couple squatted in cheerful discomfort on their luggage. Presently they took out some sandwiches, and that reminded Hope of those which Aunt Lena had so kindly supplied, and she opened her parcel and rather listlessly ate a sandwich too.
The girl grinned at her and said:
‘Travelling’s no picnic these days, except in the sense of food, is it?”
Hope smiled and shook her head. But almost immediately she sighed quickly and added:
“But sometimes one has to.”
“Oh, yes. And sometimes it’s worthwhile.” The girl didn’t seem able to stop smiling, as though she had a secret store of pleasure and gaiety which she could contemplate at will.
Hope looked at her in some surprise. And at that moment the girl opened her handbag and, clinging to the side of the frame, was a crushed bit of confetti.
“Are you going on your honeymoon?”
Hope lowered her voice, but she had asked the question before she could stop herself.
“Coming back, worse luck!” the girl said, still with that smile. “He’s a bit self-conscious about it”—she affectionately indicated her companion who was now talking football earnestly with an enthusiastic middle-aged gentleman with a huge moustache—“wishes people would take us for an old-established married couple. But I tell him it’s written all over us, anyway, so why worry?—How did you guess?”
Hope laughed and pointed to the scrap of confetti.
“There! And I thought I’d got rid of it all. But it sticks like anything and turns up in the oddest places. Though I don’t really mind,” the girl added candidly.
“You mean, you’ve had such a lovely time that there’s no reason why people shouldn’t see it for themselves?” Hope said with a smile.
“Something like that. And everything to do with it is so nice that I—oh, well, I suppose everyone’s a bit silly like that over their honeymoon.”
“No,” Hope said, “not everyone. But it must be lovely if it’s that way.”
The girl looked slightly startled, and glanced at her hand.
“You’re not—married, are you?”
“No.” Hope shook her head. “No, I’m on my way to see my fiancé now. But he’s had an accident, and I don’t know how badly he’s been hurt.”
“I say, that’s tough.”
The girl patted her arm kindly, and Hope was silent, wondering vaguely how it was that twice in a few hours she had called Errol her fiancé, when of course really—
Oh, well, he had been her fiancé until very recently. That was what made her speak of him like that.
“Car accident?” the voice beside her enquired sympathetically.
“No. His horse threw him.”
“Oh. It may only be fairly slight concussion. I wouldn’t start thinking frightening things until it’s necessary.”
No, Hope thought, she was the kind of girl who would always look on the bright side until it was hopeless. Well, she had been that way until fairly recently. There hadn’t been any reason to be anything else. Only, just recently, fate had hit her in the wind rather badly, and that made one apprehensive.
Still, the girl’s kindly, hopeful words made her feel better, and for the rest of the journey she managed to tell herself that Bridget had probably exaggerated things in her usual rather dramatic way.
It was practically dark by the time they reached Waterloo, and Hope made a dash for the Tube, obstinately determined to reach Charing Cross in time to catch the last train to Orterville.
Against all probability, she just managed it, and thankfully jumped into the train as it was moving out from the platform.
“Near thing,” remarked a severe old gentleman in the opposite corner.
Hope said, “Yes,” and wondered superstitiously if that could apply to anything other than just catching the train.
And suddenly all her fears were back upon her, and the sensible, comforting remarks of the girl in the other train seemed to have no significance any longer.
Now that she was so near home—well, in a way, one regarded it as home—the anxiety to get there at all began to give way to increase anxiety about what she might find when she got there. It was silly to frighten herself, but just suppose anything—
It was a slow train, stopping at every station, and Hope had time to indulge all her fears over again, and even to add some fresh ones.
But Orterville was reached at last and, as she stepped out of the train, Hope realized, to her relief, that it was bright moonlight. She had never done the journey to and from the station on foot before, but she felt confident of being able to find her way with the moon to guide her.
It was a longer distance than she had imagined however, and as she turned at last into the familiar drive, midnight struck from the tower of the distant village church.
Then, and only then, did Hope realize what a ridiculous thing she was doing. No one had sent for her. According to the information she had, it was really not a matter of life and death. And yet here she was—turning up without so much as a warning telephone call, late at night, quite possibly after everyone was in bed.
Feeling not a little foolish, she timidly rang the bell.
She heard it sound somewhere in the back of the house. Then there was silence. A cool little wind blew and Hope shivered slightly while the silence lengthened.
Then in desperation she rang again.
This time someone must have heard, for there was the sound of a door opening upstairs, and then footsteps came down the stairs.
Frantically Hope tried to think of some reasonable explanation to give to what would certainly be an irritable servant. Or perhaps, even worse, a cool, surprised Mrs. Tamberly was answering the knock herself.
Hope’s teeth chattered a little from chill and nervousness as the footsteps drew nearer. Then the door was abruptly opened and there stood Errol.
Errol in a dressing-gown, with his right arm in a sling and the dressing-gown just drawn round his shoulder. But certainly not an Errol who was anywhere near death.
“Why—Hope!”
The incredulous astonishment in his tone was somehow the hardest thing of all to bear, and she suddenly found her breath coming quickly and her throat aching absurdly.
“Why, child, come in.” He put out his left hand and drew her into the hall. “What on earth has happened?”
“N-nothing’s happened,” Hope stammered. “Only Bridget wrote and said you were ill—I only got the letter this afternoon—and—and I thought—”
She was not quite sure now what she had thought. She only knew that the relief of finding him like this was unbearable. And suddenly, for what must have seemed to him no reason at all, she began to cry.
“Darling!” His arm was round her immediately, and he was leading her to a chair by the dying fire. “Don’t cry—oh, you mustn’t cry now y
ou’re safely here. Whatever sort of journey have you had, rushing off like that?—And was it simply because you thought I was ill?” He was kneeling beside her, his arm still round her, and he was half laughing at her for her absurdity, but wholly tender.
“I thought—you might want me. And you wouldn’t ask me—You kept your word—Not like Richard. I wanted to come and tell you—I wanted to tell you—”
“What did you want to tell me, dearest?” he said gently.
And suddenly she knew just exactly why she had come, and why she had cried with relief, and what it was she wanted to tell him. With a movement of ineffable relief and satisfaction she turned and buried her face against his shoulder.
“I wanted to tell you that it’s you I love. I know it’s a ridiculous time of night to knock anyone up to say that, but—”
“It’s a heavenly time of night!” She felt his lips against her hair and her cheek. Then he turned up her face and kissed her lips. “It was the best time in the world to come, because it was the very first moment you knew, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, smiling and blinking her wet lashes.
“It was even before I knew,” she confessed, and wondered why he laughed so understandingly. “I didn’t really know until I saw you this minute—Oh, Errol, have you been very ill, and ought you to be out of bed like this?”
“I’m all right. A broken arm and a few knocks aren’t much to set against what you’ve just said to me.” He smiled into her eyes, and she put out her hand and smoothed his thick dark hair, as though she had been used to do that all her life.
“You didn’t have concussion or anything?”
“Only very slight, and it’s over now—unless of course this is delirium and you’re not really here at all.” He laughed and kissed her again. “I imagined it so often—” He broke off, and she said quickly:
“Did you want me very much?”
“Of course. Every minute of the day and night.”
“Oh, Errol! But you wouldn’t let them send for me.”
“Well, hardly.” He smiled at her. “It was a bargain, wasn’t it? That I shouldn’t have any communication with you, I mean.”
Away Went Love Page 16
