The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell

by Burchell, Mary

  She wasn't really crying and she wanted to tell him so, but the words wouldn't come, because she could only catch her breath by sobbing. She wondered what she could do about it. And then, while she was wondering, the black blanket came down over her again, and there was another long blank.

  But presently a voice-not a voice she knew, but still a very kind voice-said, '*You mustn't cry now. You're going to be all right, and you're safe and comfortable in bed. There isn 't anything to worry about."

  "All right," Thea said very meekly to the slim, pretty nurse who was, rather miraculously she thought, suddenly standing by her bed.

  Then she had something to drink, and after that she went

  to sleep. Not the queer smothered unconsciousness in which she had been before, but real, ordinary sleep.

  Thea awoke to morning light, the soft sound of falling rain, and a complete realization at last of what had happened to her. Now she distinctly remembered the last few moments before the car crash, and she was filled with anxiety to know what had happened to Lindsay Varlon.

  Evidently she herself had oeen rescued, not too badly hurt, if her feelings were any reliable indication, and brought to a hospital or nursing home. But what had happened to him?

  She raised her head from the pillow—with rather more effort than she had thought would be necessary—and looked around to see if there were a bell to ring. There was: a neat little brass bell, standing beside her on a table.

  And as she put out her hand to ring it, she suddenly became acutely conscious of her other hand—her left hand. It was lying on the bed beside her, very heavy and still and very much bandaged. Rather, thought Thea, as though it hadf become in some way disconnected from her.

  She looked at it with apprehension and a certain amount of distaste, but because the anxiety about Lindsay still remained uppermost in her mind, she rang her bell determinedly, and when the nurse appeared—which she did almost immediately—all Thea said was, "Where is Mr. Varlon?''

  "He*s coming back later this morning," the nurse told her. *' How are you feeling?''

  In the enormous relief of knowing that he was capable of "coming back'* anywhere, Thea forgot for a moment about anything else, and the nurse repeated her question before Thea said, "Oh, I'm quite comfortable, thank you. I don't feel very ill. Am I?"

  The nurse laughed and said, "Oh, no," but with a brightness that suggested this was a standard reply rather than a piece of strict veracity.

  "Was Mr. Varlon hurt at all?"

  "Nothing to worry about. Only bruises and a small cut or two. He was able to go home later. We thought his arm was broken at first—the one he put up to save your face—but it was only rather badly knoclced about. You were both very lucky people, and there is nothing for you to worry about."

  "Did anythins happen to my face?'* She put up an exploratory hand to her face, but not until it reached her head did she feel any bandages.

  '*No. Your beauty isn't spoiled."The nurse smiled at her.

  " My head's bandaged."

  "Yes. You got a bit of a knock that put you out for a while. You Ml do all right, now."

  It all sounded wonderfully satisfactory, Thea thought. Then she looked again at her left hand.

  "What about-that?" Again she felt it didn't belong to her, particularly as when she tried to lift it there appeared to be no response.

  "Your hand? Oh, that will have to be in plaster for a little while," the nurse said, as though more people than not had one hand or the other in plaster. "But now you've talked Quite enough. I'm going to bring you some breakfast, and then I daresay you '11 want to go to sleep again.''

  With quite unreasonable resentment, Thea wanted to say that she had no intention whatever of going to sleep again, and that she meant to stay awake until Lindsay Varlon came. But perhaps the nurse was right about her having talked enough.

  When the door swung open she looked eagerly to see if it were Lmdsay, but it was only a rather cocksure but kindly young man whom she guessed to be the resident physician, accompanied by her nurse.

  He asked a few questions of the nurse, rather as though Thea was still unconscious and could give no account of herself, but just before he went out again he smiled at her and said, "Feeling better now, aren't you?"

  It was more a statement than a question, and Thea's impression that these people knew much more about her than she did herself was considerably increased.

  "Yes, thank you, I feel nearly all right."

  "Oh?" He laughed. "Well, you can't go home just yet. But I see you're on the mend."

  And then he went off again, leaving Thea to some rather agitated thinking. His remark about her not being able to so home just yet had suddenly presented to her the picture of her going home-to Geraldine, of whom she had not thoupht until this moment. Geraldine, who must now know , all about her having gone out for the day with Lindsay i

  and—still worse—that she had resorted to a certain amount of concealment about it.

  Then there was the question of going back to Geraldine as a convalescent instead of a busy stuclent who was hardly «ver in the apartment. Geraldine would not like that at all.

  In fact, she would hate it. She might even refuse to submit to it. Once having got Thea out of the apartment, she would probably not be very enthusiastic about having her back, and there would be trouble—oh, lots of trouble! And Thea began to feel hot and feverish at the very idea.

  She had just reached the point of composing placatory speeches to an angry Geraldme when the aoor swung open again and the nurse, smiling even more fetchingly tnan before, showed in Lindsay Varlon.

  *'0h, Mr. Varlon!" Thea gave a great gasp of relief, and if her left hand had not been weighted down so thoroughly she would probably have held out her arms to him.

  He came across the room to her without a word and picked her right up in his arms, so that it was just the same as if she had held out her arms to him. He looked very much his aee and strangely gray and anxious, she thought, and he didn t seem to take very much notice when the nurse said brightly, "Not too much talking, mind, and you mustn't stay longer than half an hour."

  "You can stay as long as you like,*' Thea whispered resentfully. "She doesn't know what's good for me."

  And at that he smiled for the first time and, quite unexpectedly, he kissed her cheek and said, "How are you now, child?"

  "Oh, I'm all right. You don't need to look anxious like that. Or is it iust the shock of the accident that makes you look so terribly grave and—and worried?"

  "No, I've got over any shock, I expect. I'm just so thankful to see you conscious again and talking like yourself."

  "Oh, it wasn't so serious, really," Thea explained airily, because she felt somehow that everything was all right now that he was here.

  "Perhaps not. But until we got you to hospital I didn't know that I hadn't killed you,' he said, and something of the grimness of his previous fears showed in his face for a moment.

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  ''You didn't do it. It was the truck driver's fault," Thea said indignantly.

  He shook his head impatiently.

  ''I wish I felt as sure about that. But never mmd now. You're not supposed to talk much, and if I encourage you to do so they '11 send me away.''

  "Oh." She was silent for perhaps two minutes. Then she said, "Can I ask one question?"

  "Well?" He smiled down at her and looked much more like himself

  "Does Geraldine know about the accident?"

  "Oh, yes, of course. I telephoned her last night before I left here."

  "Was she-" Thea looked faintly embarrassed "—was she very cross? "

  "Cross, Thea? With you? Why should she be? No, I expect she was sorry and upset yhen she heard. I didn't speak to her myself She was out. But I explained fully to Ijenham, and I don't doubt Geraldine will come down here some time today."

  "Oh." Thea tried to sound as though the prospect gave her at any rate a decent amount of pleasure. "Are we far
from town here?"

  " No, dear, not very. It's quite an easy drive.''

  Then Geraldine probably would come, Thea thought. Oh, well, it might be best to get any unpleasantness over with, and perhaps she wouldn't be cross, anyway, or only so little that her sympathy over the accident would outweigh it.

  "Are you feelmg all right?" she asked him presently. "The nurse said you were rather badly bruised—oh, am I leaning on your hurt arm?"

  "No." He smiled down at her. "It's nothing very much, anyway. I'm quite all right."

  "The nurse said they thought your arm was broken at first." She very gently ran her hand down his free arm.

  He watched her finders and said, "They strapped it up for me. It will be all right m a day or two."

  "You put it up to-to shield my face, didn't you?"

  "Never mind about that now." He stroked her hair, or as much of it as showed above the bandage, because he must have noticed the tremor in her voice.

  "Do you know what's happened to my hand?"

  ''No. Does it hurt you?'*

  "A bit. Not much. It's all in plaster and feels funny and heavy."

  *'It's bound to do that while the plaster is on, you know."

  "Yes, of course. I hope it's not much hurt." She frowned. It's going to be a bother with typing if it takes a long time to heal. Oh, dear! I did so want to be quick with my traming."

  ''Don't worry about that. The great thing is to keep cheerful and get well soon," he told her, with the faintly helpless air of a very fit man confronted with illness for the first time.

  "Yes, of course." She smiled at him. "And don't you worry, either. And don't go thinking it was your fault, because I'm sure it wasn't. And anyway—it was a lovely day,'' she finished, with defiant cheefulness.

  He laughed slightly and said, "You dear child." And after that she didn't bother to talk anymore, because it was nicer just to lie there against his arm and not worry about anything.

  She was not quite sure when he went because she must have fallen asleep. And in the end, the rest of the day passed without Geraldine putting in an appearance. So either she didn't bother to come, and contented herself with telephoning, or else "they" decided that Thea had had enough visiting for the day.

  Some days—Thea hardly knew how many—drifted past in very much the same way. Lindsay came in most days to see her, and was unfailingly kind to her.

  Except for him, she had no visitors, and the only other events to mark her placid routine were mealtimes and the visits of the doctor. And even these seemed to follow each other with rather astonishing rapidity, because she so often fell asleep in between and then was not quite sure where the time haa gone.

  "Did you ever have anyone else sleep like this?" she asked her nurse interestedly. "It's just as though I mean to sleep away the time until I'm better."

  '*The best thing possible," her nurse told her amusedly. "It will probably put ten years onto your life, being able to sleep like that."

  Tnea was feeling quite cheerful enough to welcome the , idea of an extra ten years by now and said as much.

  "But I wish someone would tell me a bit more about my hand, "she added.

  *'Well, there isn't much to say until the plaster comes off," the nurse explained. "Several of the fingers were broken and—"

  "Several?" Thea was a good deal shocked.

  "Oh, yes. But there's no reason why they shouldn't mend . very well."

  "I see. Was there anything else the matter with it?"

  "You had a nasty gash across it."

  "But nothing that won't mend quite quickly?" Thea tried not to make that sound anxious, because she was afraid she would be given only hollow reassurances if she sounded especially agitated.

  "Well, it will be weak for a while, of course. You can't go doing things like that to your hand and expect it to like it. Do you play the piano or—" the nurse hesitated and looked faintly anxious "—the violin? "

  "No. At least, I can strum on the piano, but it's not vital. Only-"

  "That's all right then." The nurse seemed relieved, Thea couldn 't help thinking. Or perhaps that was just her own anxious imagination.

  "But I have to type in my work," she said firmly. "At least, I'm learning to type, for the kind of work I'm going to do."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Might it affect that very much?" .

  "We-ell, it's difficult to say until the plaster comes off. Anyway, I wouldn 't worry."

  Yes, you would, thought Thea. And so would anyone. But it's no good making oneself miserable. I'll just have to wait and be patient.

  And that afternoon Geraldine came.

  Lindsay had already told Thea that he would not be able to get down to see her that day, so that when she heard her nurse talking in what she secretly called her "distinguished visitors" voice, she guessed, with a nasty little leap of heart, that it was Geraldine.

  However, nothing could have been sweeter than the smile that Geraldine was wearing as she entered the room. She was the absolute picture of the famous actress visiting a sick

  relative and bringing sunshine with her, Thea couldn't help thinking a little cynically. But it was a welcome change to have Geraldine actually kiss her and say, "Why you poor little thing, what have you been doing to yourself?*' And then, as Thea murmured something rather embarrassed and unintelligible, "Or, rather, what has Lin been doing to you?"

  "Oh, Geraldine, it wasn't his fault," Thea cried eagerly, as the nurse went out, closing the door behind her. "Don't suggest anything like that to him, even in jest. He's very much upset about it as it is."

  "I should think so." Geraldine—radiant in a cherry-red suit that accentuated her brilliant fairness, and a pearl-gray fox fur, which was already being described down to the last hair by Thea's nurse to her colleagues—smiled in a slightly overcharming way at Thea. "I expect Lin to take better care of any relation of mine when he takes her out. Particularly if he takes her out without even mentioning the fact to me."

  "Oh, Geraldine, that—that was my fault."

  "What was, dear?"

  Geraldine had never called her "dear" before, and it frightened her quite a lot.

  "I just—just didn't happen to mention it to you that I was going with Lin—with Mr. Varlon. No doubt he—thought I had. But he asked me quite—quite casually, the last evening I was out with Stephen and Mrs. Dorley, and then, somehow, I just didn't think to mention it."

  Until that moment, Thea had never known what a bad liar she was, and under Geraldine's half-amused stare she felt herself go a deep pink.

  "I see," Geraldine said. And Thea was perfectly sure that she did. However, she only added, "Now tell me how you are. Do they look after you properly here? By the way, I brought some fruit for you. I gave it to your nurse."

  "Oh, did you, Geraldine?" Thea was touched and gratified and relieved. "How very kind of you. I'm really getting on splendidly. Yes, they're most awfully kind and look after me splendidly."

  ' Just then the nurse came back, bringing tea, and Geraldine said in a tone of charming appreciative protest, "Oh, nurse, you shouldn't have bothered. How kind of you. My

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  little cousin tells me you*re very good to her, and that there's not a thins she wants/'

  The nurse blushed with pleasure and evidently registered for future broadcasting the pleasing fact that Geraldine Marven was at least as charming off the stage as on.

  She said warmly that Thea was a very good patient, and that once the plaster was off her hand, she would very likely be able to think about going home.

  Geraldine didn't pick up .the question of going home, Thea noticed. Instead, she said, "Poor child, is the hand very badly hurt?"

  "Oh, it's not too bad," Thea said hastily. "It hurts a bit sometimes, but I don't mind about that, as long as it gets strong again quickly, and I can go back to my classes."

  "Yes, of course." Geraldine sounded pleasantly vague, and she poured out tea for them both, and stayed long enoug
h to drink a cup of it.

  But all the time, Geraldine talked pleasantly about nothing and never touched on the one or two subjects that were worrying Thea so profoundly: her having to stay much longer in the apartment now, and her having to be there during her convalescent stage because there would be simply nowhere else to go.

  And certainly there was no further mention whatever of her having gone out for the day with Lindsay Varlon without saying anything about it.

  .And then, just as Geraldine was going—as she had even risen to take her leave, in fact—she said quite casually, "I have Kay Pelham staying with me just now. You remember, she plays the ingenue with me at the Crescent. But Denham packed up all your things very carefully. You'll find them quite easy to move when the time comes. *'

  "When the-when the time comes," stammered Thea, knowing now that she was face to face with the Geraldine she had been fearing ever since she woke up in hospital. "But, Geraldine, I m-am I not coming back to the apartment?"

  "Oh, my dear child, there's no knowing when you will be leaving here. I can't exactly keep all my arrangements waiting on yours, you know.'

  "No-of course not. But I was to be there for some time longer anyway, wasn't I? I mean if this hadn't happened-"

  "But it has,** Geraldine interrupted crisply. "Tm sorry, Thea, but with one hand useless, there's no knowing how long you may be before you're able to do anything for yourself. It's really too much of a proposition for me to take on.**

  "But what am I to do?'* Thea said rather faintly.

  "I don't really know. But no doubt Lin will have some ideas,'* Geraldine replied, and there was so much cool malice in her tone that if Thea had had no suspicions before of the reason for this move, the whole matter would have beenperfectly clear to her then.

  "Geraldine—** she began rather desperately. But Geraldine, it seemed, had really no more time to waste on her young cousin.