The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell

by Burchell, Mary

  "But—but what about your own people?*'

  "They had to accept the version that I was having an affair with her,'' he said dryly.

  "Lucas, that wasn't fair to them—to anyone like your mother!"

  "No, of course it wasn't. But I thought that, having agreed to the conditions, I must abide by them with some sort of loyalty. I often tried, in those early days, to persuade Sophie to let me tell mother, at least, but she always refused. That's one reason why I feel I can never quite make it up sufficiently to poor mother. She's known for many years now, of course, but in those early years I'm afraid she must have suffered a great deal in both her pride and her affections."

  Leoni thought that indeed she must. And she also thought how completely this explained both Julia's garbled ideas on her cousin's general character and Norman's quite honest belief that he was not the right choice of companion for an inexperienced young girl.

  "1 can't imagine how you . . . you kept from saying something. Living at home and—"

  "Oh, but I wasn't living at home. At first I was finishing my time up at the university—I was as young as that," he added with a smile of something like self-contempt. "And afterward I had my own flat in town. The one I still nave."

  "Oh, I... I see."

  They both walked on in silence for_a_moment, and then she said, "How did it all come out, in the end? Was there a sort of showdown? Or did you just get so sick of the whole thing that you told your mother?' *

  "Neither, Leoni. At least, I was unspeakably, damnably sick of it, of course, after the first year or two. But, if I'd kept quiet in the early days for my own pleasure, I could hardly be such a skunk as to break the silence simply because I didn't much like keeping it any longer. I thought—and I always have thought—that Sophie put an exaggerated value on the importance of her being known as unmarried. But, after all, it was for her to decide, and I'd accepted her conditions. You can't just keep your word as long as you want to and then break it."

  "No," Leoni agreed. "No, of course you can't. What happened then?"

  "Nothing very dramatic, Leoni. After we'd been married some years, she gradually modified her views about the absolute necessity of secrecy. Perhaps she, too, grew sick of all the rigid precautions—I don't know. Perhaps she relaxed them in the hope of keeping me," he said, as though speaking to himself

  "Oh! Leoni seized on that quickly. "You mean she was still—fond of you after you were—I mean, after—"

  "Well—" He looked rather taken aback, and Leoni realized that he had not quite meant to say as much as he had. Then he said, "I don't think fond was exactly the word, but I'm afraid I can't discuss Sophie's feelings even with you, Leoni."

  ' "No, no, of course not," Leoni hastily agffeed, unspeakably gratified by the implication of "even with you." "I only meant—"

  "Yes, I know what you meant. Was there a point when I would gladly have had a divorce but she refused? Well, yes, there was. I can't tell you exactly why. There was more talk about how bad a divorce would be for her career and so on. But sometimes—" again he spoke as though he were thinking aloud "—sometimes I've thought all that sounded rather synthetic. At any rate, she was terribly against a divorce, and I had no tremendous urge to insist on one."

  "You mean there—there wasn't anyone else?"

  "Exactly, Leoni. I suppose if there had been, I should

  have been more insistent. As it was, I simply didn't care enough. I saw increasingly little of her. We remained what I believe Hollywood usually calls good friends. That is to say, we reserved the right to dislike each other from a distance, but if we did meet we were perfectly polite and affable."

  "And she still has a handsome allowance from you?*' suggested Leoni with quite unwonted shrewdness.

  "Oh yes. She still has a handsome allowance,*' he admitted indifferently.

  There was silence for a moment or two. Then Leoni suddenly burst out, "It*s the most awful thing I ever heard!*'

  "Oh, my darling child!*' He actually laughed. "That's only because you don't know much about the world. There are many situations ten times worse than this one, I assure you. In fact, I have a suspicion that I am arousing far more sympathy than I'm entitled to. It's not exactly an active tragedy, you know."

  "No. But it*s a passive waste,** retorted Leoni with a perspicacity that slightly surprised herself "Why, Lucas, you *re such a tremendously vital, living personality, really. I know you are. I can't tell you quite how I know. Just from little things and from what I remember of that time years ago, I suppose. It's appalling that you should be just drifting along in this state of cynical indifference, not even caring enough to get away and—"

  "Be quiet!'* He gripped her arm rather painfully tight. "It isn*t that I don*t care. It's that I've got to make myself not care. When you've made the sort of mess that I have— and nobody but yourself to thank for it—you*ve got to put up with it with the best grace you can and not drag everyone connected with you into further complications and misery."

  He spoke so vehemently that for a minute or two she was silenced. Of course, it was not for anyone so inexperienced as herself to offer advice. But Leoni had a streak of practical energy in her makeup that made acceptance of an unhappy situation simply preposterous. Besides, it was Lucas *s happiness that was in the balance.

  After a while she broke the silence with the one cautious query, "Would it... would it cause so much complication and misery if you tried to get a divorce?**

  "Everyone concerned, including myself, would simply hate it,'' he replied curtly.

  "Would you? At least, I mean... well, who is everyone?'*

  "My mother would simply loathe it, for one thing. And, considering all that I've already put on her, I'm not especially anxious to disturb what tranquillity she's now achieved."

  Leoni thought of Mrs. Morrion babbling happily about her home and her wardrobe, and could not help wondering how deep were the feelings involved. Diplomatically, however, she only said, "Yes. Well, who else is there to consider?"

  "Sophie."

  "Sophie!" She was a good deal startled. "But I tliought you didn't like—well, I didn't know that her feelings were of particular concern to you.''

  "They aren't. As feelings. To be quite frank, I hate her," Lucas stated without emotion.

  "Well, then-"

  "But there's always the fact that I persuaded her into this business. Oh, I know it's years ago now and that I was a young fool and all that sort of thing, but I did the persuading. I can't get away from that. However hellishly sick of the arrangement I may be now—or, rather, what is left of the arrangement—I can't insist on getting out of it by a process which she apparently would hate."

  Leoni's usually innocent face looked extraordinarily skeptical at that moment.

  You don't mean she's a sort of sensitive plant that would shrink from the thought of divorce?" she said, with a dryness that surprised herself.

  He laughed shortly.

  "No. Hardly that. But she has her own reasons for not wanting it and—"

  "Purely material and selfish reasons."

  "I don t know about that, Leoni. She—"

  "Don't be silly,'' Leoni cut in with a ruthlessness that was more reminiscent of Julia than herself. "It's perfectly obvious that she didn't very much want to marry you, but couldn't resist the offer when she knew you'd inherited a fortune. By now she's extracted all the fun and advantage

  she could from it, but it doesn't especially suit her to have the thing publicly dissolved. She doesn't stand to lose anything by letting things drift on as they are and she certainly isn't going to have any alteration unless it suits her. Why, Lucas, she's really very clever. If one can be both cynical and quixotic, then you are, and she plays very ably on both sides of you."

  "Why, Leoni!" He gave an astonished little laugh. **I didn't know you could argue with such passion and determination."

  "Well—" She was faintly ashamed of her candor. "It... it makes me furious to see you accepting a ho
rrible situation, just because two women—very different ones, I admit—wouldn't like—"

  "Listen, dear." He interrupted her again, but more gently this time. "It isn't only because of my mother and my wife—" she found suddenly how much she disliked to hear him refer to Sophie as that" —it's because of my own purely selfish feelings, too. I don't think I could go through with the whole filthy, sordid business of a manufactured divorce. I won't say I haven't thought of it, often enough, but—when you come down to the rotten practical details—" He stopped, and then said, "Of course I shouldn't be talking like this to you. It could hardly be a more unsuitable conversation. And, anyway, didn't I bring you out here to show you the view along the river bank?"

  Rather wonderingly, Leoni looked around her, and realized that, for the last ten minutes at least, she had been entirely indifferent to her surroundings.

  "Never mind about the scenery, just for a minute," she begged. "And please don't say things about this being an unsuitable conversation. It makes me sound like a child and-"

  "But you are a child," he said gently. "Or nearly so."

  "I'm not, Lucas. I'm eighteen. Nearly—well, fairly nearly nineteen."

  "Not a great age, Leoni." His smile was very brilliant and affectionate. "Besides, for me, there's always a bit of the little girl at the gate in you."

  She bit her lip, because she was unexpectedly moved.

  "Well, I... I wouldn't have it any other way, I suppose. At least, I like you to remember me a little bit like that. But

  I'm grown up now, Lucas. Believe me, you grow up fairly quickly in many ways if you have no people to depend on."

  "And in other ways you remain rather unworldly," he countered, but not as though he really wanted to discomfit her. "You're bound to, Leoni, dear. In the orphanage you were literally rather shut away from the world. '

  "I wasn't always in the orphanage. I went to school, and I knew the Vandeems and—and now I'm earning my own living. You . .. you don't mean I'm different from other people, do you? Silly and—"

  Perhaps it was the slight quiver in her voice that moved him, or perhaps it was just that he was anxious to take back anything that had hurt her. Anyway, he took his arm away and put It around her, drawing her close in a clasp that was unbelievably comforting and dear.

  "Darling, of course you're different from other people! But not in the way you mean. There's not another soul in the world that I'd have said all this to. I don't know how much is your unusual upbringing and how much your own dear nature, but you make the most perfect and comforting little confidante any man could imagine. That's why I tell you more than I should—All right, I won't say it again. Perhaps you've got a sort of innocent wisdom of your own, anyway, and that's why I like to have your comments and advice." She was almost sure he dropped a light kiss on her bent head.

  "Was it—was it good advice?" She didn't look up, and she hardly raised her voice above a whisper.

  There was silence for a moment. Tnen he said rather coolly and crisply, "Put bluntly, your advice is that I should get a divorce from Sophie—and hang all the consequences."

  Immediately Leoni became aware of the most crushing sense of responsibility. Had she really presumed to give advice that would affect so many people s lives? Not in so many words, of course, but in implication? And, if so, could she possibly allow it to be crystallized in a sentence of such brutal literalness?

  She was silent so long, struggling to find ^n answer that he said gently, "Well, Leoni?'^

  From the depths of her confusion and anxiety rose one salient, inescapable fact.

  "I think that, as things are, you're dying a sort of spiritual

  Take Me With You

  death—slowly, but quite surely. I ... I don't know that it isn't partly your own fault. I only know that anything— anything in the world—is better than that it should eo on.

  She stopped speaking, with a little gasp at her own daring, and it was he who was silent then. The silence was so complete that the cold, sleepy twitter of a bird sounded phenomenally loud in the clear, winter air.

  Then, after what seemed to her a long while, he said, **Perhaps we ought to go back now.*' And, turning, they strolled rather slowly homeward along the river bank.

  They were actually in sight of the house once more before he spoke again. And then he said, quite deliberately, "I take back what I said about your being unworldly."

  *'0h, Lucas!" She gave a half-protesting little laugh. "I expert I am really."

  *'Well, then, you've got what I said. A sort of innocent wisdom."

  She glanced at him almost timidly, but his thoughtful face told her nothing. Only it struck her that somehow a little of the cold, almost steely composure was gone. It was hard to say what had taken its place. Certainly nothing that one could call agitation. Just something that brought a warm, thoughtful glow to his eyes and softened the usually grim line of mouth and chin.

  / know, thought Leoni wonderingly. It's rather like seeing the warm blood beginning to flow again through someone who's been frozen.

  She wanted to ask if he had come to any sort of decision, but something told her not to pursue the matter further.

  Then, just as they were going into the house again, he looked down at her and said, "Funny I should have spent years and years unable to make up my mind, and then have you come along out of the past and make it up for me."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  If Lucas's statement required any reply there was no opportunity to make one for, as soon as Leoni stepped into the house again, Julia bore down upon her, making sympathetic noises because of the cold, which she seemed to thmk must have reduced her friend to virtual insensibility.

  "Darling, I don't wonder you 're wordless," she cried, not giving Leoni any opportunity to utter more than two words. "I didn't imagine Lucas was going to take you farther than to the bottom of the garden and back. Why, Lucas, she must be frozen! Of all the weird ideas of entertainment!"

  *'Are you cold, Leoni?" he said quietly beside her.

  "No." She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and smiled up at him radiantly. "No, I'm as warm as toast. Warm right through."

  "Well, then, you must have developed pneumonia and be running a temperature," declared Julia amiably.

  But Lucas expressed no contrition, only watched with smiling eyes as the girls went upstairs together.

  There was no opportunity to talk with him alone after that. But she hardly knew that she wanted to. In any case, there would be the long drive back with him that evening. And until then she could willingly give all her attention to Julia.

  There was even a certain piquant enjoyment about chattering away with Julia on unimportant topics while all the time, in the back of her consciousness, was the feeling that some tremendous step forward had been taken that afternoon.

  At least she felt that she had long, long passed the stage when she might have to pretend to him that she didn't want

  to go out with him, or try by clumsy and painful inventions to create a rift between them. Perhaps that was why she felt so happy—because they had established a frankness and understanding between them that precluded anything like the misery of the last week.

  For misery it had been. Leoni admitted the fact now. And then she had to come back from her reflections to the realization that Mrs. Vandeem was talking about her.

  "So, as I told the child, Lucas can drive her back tonight. Then we don't have to bother about train times or anything."

  "Why not stay the night, and ^o up to town with Lucas in the morning?" asked Nlrs. Mornon.

  "Why, yes. Perhaps that's better still, if you can put the child up, Muriel."

  But Leoni couldn't see herself arriving at the office in company with Lucas.

  "No, no. Really I couldn't do that. It's very kind of you, but—but they'd be terribly worried at home, you know. They're expecting me back tonight, and—"

  " We could phone," Julia pointed out.

  But Leoni sno
ok her head firmly.

  "No. Lcouldn't do things that way. I feel a bit guilty about being out so much, in any case. And Mrs. Dagram is so good to me. I wouldn't like to—to take advantage of her in any way."

  "Phoning isn't taking advantage," Julia said obstinately, because she always had a great affection for any plan made by herself.

  "But it is taking advantage if one goes off without any hint of staying out for the night and then just phones to say one is doing it, after all. I'd want to get permission first. Really, really, I'd rather not."

  "Mrs. Dagram sounds a dragon to me," declared Julia good-temperedly.

  "She's nothing of the sort!" Leoni was indignant. "It's just because she^ such a darling that I wouldn't do anything she might dislike."

  "Quite right, pet. I wish Julia were half as considerate to her poor parents," declared Mrs. Vandeem in an indulgent tone, which was a direct invitation for Julia to impose still further.

  "Nonsense, mamma. You wouldn't know what to do with me if I were,** repUed Julia briskly. "And of course if Leoni wants to be an example to the young, she's very welcome to. And I daresay it will do Lucas's figure good to have to turn out just as soon as he's settled down comfortably after dinner."

  "Thanks, Julia. I didn't know you had all that regard for my figure,"remarked Lucas.

  At the same moment Leoni exclaimed, "Oh, but you mustn't come on purpose for me! I didn't know ... I thought you were going back tonight, anyway. I can go by train quite easily."

  "I was going back tonight in any case," he told her with a smile. And though Leoni rather doubted the strict truth of that, she was only too happy to accept his assurance.

  "Mustn't be too late starting then," was Mr. Morrion's sole contribution to this discussion. "We've had some thick mists come up over the river in the last week or two. You don't want to get caught in one of those."