The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell

by Burchell, Mary

  Not by any means sharing this optimistic view, but seeing no other course at the moment, Mr. Thorburn had addressed an explanatory letter to Miss Marven, suggesting that her young cousin should come to London to her until something else could be arranged. To this Thea had added her own contribution in the shape of a much more informal letter than Mr. Thorburn's.

  But so far—and greatly to Mr. Thorburn's disquieted annoyance—no reply had been received.

  Now the situation had become more urgent owing to Mrs. Roberts having received intimation from her sister that she must "come now or not at all, it being between

  seasons and the room vacant, but no knowing when it might betaken."

  Urged by Mrs. Roberts's kind but obviously mendacious assurances that there was still "no hurry," Thea had announced quite positively that she would leave three days from then, on tne following Thursday. And with her boats burning slowly but surely behind her, she returned from her interview with Mr. Thorburn to address a final note to Cousin Geraldine.

  There was no doubt, whatever, that the present silence could be accounted for in a dozen ways: Geraldine Marven must be a very busy woman; she might have been out of town; the address that they had might be out of date; or her reply might even now be in the mail. But in any case, it was necessary to see her. And to do that Thea must go to London.

  In her second letter Thea recapitulated most of the circumstances that dictated this appeal, in case her first letter had gone astray. Then she explained about the impossibility of remaining any longer with Mrs. Roberts, and added:

  So, you see, I have no choice but to worry you, and I am coming to London next Thursday by the train that gets into Huston at six-thirty. I don't know London at all, but expect I can find my way—that is, if I really have your right address. But in case you come to meet me, or send your maid or anyone. Id better explain that I'll be wearine a navy coat and a little navy hat with a light blue turned-back brim. And I 'm medium height and have sort of yellowish gold hair. I'll stop at the barrier for a minute or two, just in case there's anyone to meet me.

  That, thought Thea, as she thoughtfully licked the envelope flap, about covered everything. And certainly Cousin Geraldine would do something about it.

  For greater safety, she addressed the letter to the theater where she understood her cousin was playing. And then she set to work to wind up the few odd ends of her life in Westermoore.

  Thea was not of a worrying disposition, but once or twice during her last few days in Westermoore, she experienced a

  chill wave of nervousness and a strange little fluttering in her chest and throat that she wonderingly identified as panic.

  Suppose that when she arrived in London there was no one to meet her, and that somehow she failed to find her cousin? Suppose that she found herself miles and miles away from even the cool familiarity of Westermoore and utterly alone in a great unknown city? Would she be frantic with terror and bewilderment? Would she be able to think of something sensible and normal to do? Would there be anyone to help her or give her advice?

  She knew that her usual air of happy anticipation, and her irrepressible interest in everything, had rather given Mr. Thorburn the impression that she was well able to look after herself

  Well, she was able to look after herself, of course. Only she hoped desperately that her capacity for doing so would not be put to too severe a test.

  During the last day she waited and hoped—and even prayed a little reproachfully—for an answer from Cousin Geraldine. When the mailman came with the afternoon delivery, she even ran out to the front door to take the letters before Mrs. Roberts could.

  But there was only a circular and a picture postcard for Mrs. Roberts. Cousin Geraldine evidently was not one to commit herself to paper for anything but a most pressing reason. Unless a letter came the next morning before she left....

  But no letter came the next morning before Thea left.

  On the other hand, the sun shone so brilliantly, and the frost, outlining every twig and branch, glittered so beautifully, and the bright, clear air was so exhilarating that it was impossible not to feel hopeful and even excited.

  All this was quite enough to make Thea's spirits rise, and she bade goodbye to Mrs. Roberts, took her suitcase and the package of sandwiches that was her landlady's last kind attention, and departed for the station with by no means the orthodox feelings of the friendless orphan setting out into the world.

  From the corner seat of the third-class compartment, Thea watched the sparkling, frosty splendor of the fleeing countryside, and in her interest forgot her anxieties. A while

  later, however, as she watched the dull light of the winter afternoon fading from the landscape, she felt the small, cold fingers of fear and anxiety stretching to the farthest corners of her consciousness and imagination.

  At the last stop before London a great many people boarded the train, and her compartment was crowded. But the number of people gave Thea no sense of companionship. In some queer way they only emphasized her isolation ana made her feel lonelier than she had felt since the night her mother died.

  They all seemed to have their plans so satisfyingly cut-and-dried. None of them were in any doubt as to where they were going and what they were doing when they reached the end of the journey.

  Thea sat there dumb in the midst of all this confident chatting and secure planning. Of them all, only she had no idea what her next step would be once the crowded train had disgorged her into the crowded city.

  She stared out at the now darkened countryside and saw nothing but her own pale, anxious reflection in the dark glass of the window.

  At last, amid the puffing and whistling of engines, the clatter of milk cans, the shouting of porters and the rumble of luggage trucks, the train drew into Euston station, wound slowly the length of the long platform and came to a standstill.

  For a few moments Thea just stood there clutching her case and feeling stunned. Somehow, she had never imagined it would be like this. Not this milling, roaring confusion, in which one could pick out no individual and hardly even tell in which direction to move.

  Then she remembered that in her letter she had said she would wait by the barrier in case someone had come to meet her. Oh, surely, surely someone would have come! She realized now that she had never really accepted the fact that there might be no one.

  But there would be someone. Her cousin would know-better than she herself—the bewildering confusion of arriving at a big London terminal. Even if she could not be there herself, she would have sent her maid, or her dresser, or one of her servants. She would never leave her wretched little

  country cousin, however tiresome, to cope with a great, strange, dark, crowded London on her own.

  Slowly, because of the crowd, Thea moved toward the barrier, telling herself at every step that her troubles were nearly over, because she could not allow herself to think that the worst of them might be only just beginning.

  She surrendered her ticket and then moved to the side of the barrier, anxiously studying the faces around her, trying to identify one of them as belonging to a successful actress or, failing that, to a quiet, reliable woman who might well be a confidential maid.

  Surely, surely among all this crowd there must be someone for her.

  But no successful actress or quiet, reliable maid materialized. A thousand people greeted a thousand other people, but no one greeted Thea. Once or twice she was pushed back against the railings by the crowd of people, but she clung desperately to her position because this was the only place where she could be identified, and even now, any minute. Cousin Geraldine might come.

  Anything might nave delayed her—a busy, popular woman like that. Or her car might have broken down. Or she might not have been able to get a taxi. Even now Thea had only waited a few minutes, though it seemed like hours.

  If would be ridiculous—unthinkable—to start crying like some silly, frightened baby, in a ereat, crowded station. Once she had convinced her
self that no one was really coming, she would have to take a grip on herself and think of what she was going to do. She would wait ten minutes more—well, perhaps quarter of an hour. Though, now that the crowds were thinning, it seemed less and less likely that-

  "Pardon me," a deep, pleasant voice said beside her. "Are you Miss Pendray?'*

  "Oh, I am!" Thea turned with a great gasp of relief to face—not a successful-looking actress or even a quiet, reliable maid—but a tall, slightly raffish, extremely good-looking man, rather past his first youth. "But how did you know? ' she asked the next moment, suspicion prompted by the anxieties through which she had just passed. "Did my cousin send you?"

  "Well—not exactly. I came as a result of your letter to her.

  however, and I thought I recognized—" his glance traveled over her with amused appreciation "—the little navy hat with the light blue turned-back brim. Also the hair.*' Then he added thoughtfully, "So that's what is meant by 'a sort of yellowish gold.'It'svery beautiful."

  Thea was so much astonished that she even forgot to ask what he meant by saying that her cousin had not sent him, but that he had come as a result of the letter. Suspicion and relief struggled together in her mind, but just then he produced her own letter from the pocket of his extremely expensive-looking overcoat, and at this reassuring piece of evidence, relief surged uppermost for the moment.

  "Is this all your luggage?" He took her case from her.

  "Yes. I thought I could have my trunk sent on later if— that is-"

  "Yes, of course," he agreed, without putting her to the necessity of explaining the unexplainable. "Come along, this way. I have my car waiting."

  "Have you? But. .. but where are you taking me? And who are you? I don't even know your name, you know," Thea pointed out anxiously, as she followed his tall, imposing figure, and marveled at the speed with which he seemed able to make his way through the crowd.

  That made him stop so abruptly that Thea found herself almost against his arm before she could resist the pressure of other people from behind.

  "No, of course you don't. I'm so sorry—I don't know why I assumed you should know me. I'm Lindsay Varlon."

  "Are you?'' Thea said politely, and waited.

  That slight cynical smile, which hardly ever seemed to leave his lips spread suddenly to his eyes.

  "That doesn't convey anything to you?" he suggested.

  "I'm-afraid not. Should it?"

  "No. Not necessarily. I'm producing the play in which your cousin is acting at the moment.''

  "Oh, I see! Then you're taking me to her apartment?"

  "Certainly." He regarded her still with that not unkind amusement. "I'm really not an agent for the white slave traffic, though I see you are still wondering a little whether I am."

  Thea blushed.

  "I... I didn't really. Only mummie always said—"

  "That Was very sensible of mummie," he assured her gravely. "A lovely child like you shouldn't be left standing around in a crowded railway station. Come along.'*

  She followed him then without any further protest to the long, low, shining car that was drawn up along with others in the waiting-car stand.

  ^'Are you coming in front with me?" He deposited her case in the back of the car.

  "Yes, please, if I may."

  "You may," he assured her, and having settled her in the front seat with him, he reached over into the back of the car for a very magnificent fur rug. "You'd better have this. You must have got cold waiting."

  "Oh, thank you." She spread it over her knees with a naive enjoyment in the sense of luxury that it gave her. "It's a beauty, isn't it?"

  He looked faintly surprised, but agreed after a moment that it was.

  "You've got a lovely car, too," Thea added, with all the appreciation of one who never stinted praise where praise was due. "What make is it?"

  This time he was really surprised.

  "Oh, a Rolls," he said, as though he hardly knew other makes existed.

  "I say, how thrilling! I've never been in a Rolls-Royce before."

  "Haven't you?" Again he gave her an amused glance as they slid out of the station and turned westward. "You seem to have a lively appreciation of small pleasures, Miss Pendray."

  "I don't call a Rolls-Royce a small pleasure," Thea said. Then she lapsed into silence for a few minutes and surreptitiously studied her companion.

  In the light from the passing street lamps she had a very clear impression of his strong, sharply cut profile, and although his whole air was faintly lazy, there was a suggestion of considerable strength in his big figure.

  It's an obstinate chin, thought Thea. But his mouth isn't. She studied his mouth with its slightly full, well-shaped lips, but lacked the experience to recognize that it was self-indulgent. She liked the way his eyes were set, she decided.

  and they were dark and intelligent and saw most things, unless she was much mistaken.

  Then she realized with a start that there were a dozen things she wanted to ask about her own affairs and here she was spending the time in watching this man and speculating about him. It was something ofa tribute to his personality that he could command her full attention at such a time.

  *'Mr. Varlon ..." she began.

  "Yes?"

  "You said just now that my cousin hadn't sent you, but that you came because of my letter. How did you know about my letter?"

  "Your cousin showed it to me."

  "But without any suggestion that you—that anyone-should meet me?"

  "Yes." He seemed disinclined to give any information other than the bare replies to her questions.

  "Then—doesn't she know that you came?"

  "No."

  "What did she propose to do about me?"

  "Nothing."

  Thea digested that in startled silence.

  "You mean—"

  "Look here, child, this is an extremely embarrassing conversation." He didn't look in the least embarrassed. "You don't know your cousin at all, do you?"

  "No."

  "Well, I think I ought to warn you that there will not be the warmest of welcomes waiting for you."

  "I ... I was beginning to think that,"Thea admitted in a low, troubled voice. "But then—why are you taking me to her?"

  He shot a quizzical look at her.

  "I can hardly take you to my own apartment."

  "No, of course not!" Thea was shocked.

  "You mean—why don't I take you to some kind woman friend of mine?"

  "Well... well, could you?"

  "I haven't any kind women friends. I'm not that sort of man," he told her dryly.

  "Oh." Thea wondered irresistibly what sort of man he was, but didn 't see how she could ask.

  "I could see nothing for it but to collect you from Euston and take you to Geraldine," he admitted. "Once presented with the/a/r accompli, she can probably be persuaded to do something about it."

  "But she*11 be very angry, won*t she?'*

  "Oh, yes—very, he agreed with what Thea could not help thinking was a certam amount of enjoyment. "But at least there wfll be an opportunity for us to talk things over.'*

  "Us?" Thea said thoughtfully. "But you're not really in this, are you?"

  She was faintly amused at the obstinate thrust of his lower lip, which rather transformed his mouth.

  "I seem to be," he said dryly.

  There was a short pause while Thea considered this. Then she said, "You must be a very nice, understanding sort of person."

  "I'm not in the least a nice, understanding sort of person," he retorted, mimicking her tone rather cruelly. I'm a particularly hardheaded sort of person, one who is usually described as having 'no flies on me.' "

  "On," said Thea and laughed.

  She had an extraordinarily pretty and infectious laugh, and it seemed to cause a good deal of astonishment to the man with her.

  "I think I missed that joke," he remarked dryly.

  "Oh—it was just—well, I wondered why you
bothered to come to the station. It seems a bit inconsistent," Thea explained, with an enjoyment that made him glance at her.

  I've told you. You're much too lovely a child to be left standing about in a crowded railway station," he said shortly.

  "But you didn't know I was lovely, did you—that is, if I really am. I might have had a snub nose and adenoids."

  "God forbid! Even the hair wouldn't have rescued you from that." He smiled slightly.

  "Well, then-"

  "We're almost there," he interrupted her firmly. "You had better save your breath for discussion with Geraldine. You'11 need it."

  "Very well," Thea said, considerably subdued by the prospect. "You . .. you will come in with me, won't you?" He suddenly appeared to her to be the only friend she had.

  "Oh, yes. I'll come in with you,** he agreed as he drew the car to a standstill in front of an imposing block of apartments.

  Even Thea*s small experience told her that this was life on a very luxurious scale indeed, as she followed Lindsay Varlon across the softly carpeted spaces of the entry hall and into the silent, delicately paneled elevator.

  As they moved upward to the top floor, she glanced at her companion again to see if she could read anything hopeful from his expression. But though the slight touch of amusement was still there, she thought she saw grimness too. Which rather suggested that he was anticipating some sort of"scene,"Thea couldn't help fearing.

  The door of the elevator slid back to disclose a small square hall, also carpeted with incredibly luxurious thickness. Opposite was a door inlaid in a simple but extraordinarily pleasing design in black and some very pale colored wood. On this door Lindsay Varlon knocked with the little black onyx knocker.

  Thea found that her heart was beating very fast by now, and her breath coming with unfamiliar difficulty. But the maid who opened the door was reassuringly calm and courteous. Not a young woman, but with a pleasant smile and a very deferential air the moment she saw Lindsay Varlon.

  "Is Miss Marvin in, Denham?*' he inquired as he stood aside for Thea to go in.