"I don't think so very much of your word just now," Thea said deliberately, and she walked past him and out of the room.
When she reached her own room she found that she was trembling violently. Until then she had remained quite calm, because surprise and disgust had outweighed nervous reaction. But now it was all she could do to keep her hands from shaking or the tears from falling.
Opening drawers and cupboards, she began to pull out things in a haphazard manner and throw them on the bed, ready for packing.
It's like some silly situation in a domestic drama, she
thought bitterly. A conjugal scene, and then the disillusioned wife begins to pack.
Only she didn't feel like a disillusioned wife. She had never been his wife in any real sense of the word, in any case. She just felt like Althea Pendray, who had been agonizingly let down by someone she loved and trusted.
Because I did love him, in a way, she told herself wretchedly, wiping the back of her hand childishly across her eyes before she proceeded to stuff things into her suitcase in no special order and with uncharacteristic lack of care. I really loved him when—
But she saw that it was silly to allow herself to recall the times when Lin had seemed dear and nice and understanding. If she did she would just have to sit down on the bed and cry. And then she would never finish her packing or get away from the flat in time to rejoin Emma at a reasonable hour.
How she was to explain herself when she turned up for the second time in one day, she didn't know. But that seemed the least of her problems and she would deal with it as the occasion arose.
At last she was ready. Or as near ready as it was possible to feel when one couldn't really take in that one was going, or decide whether or not it really mattered what one took.
Only when she went to pick up her case did she remember how handicapped she was by the weakness of one hand, and how impossible it would be to walk a couple of miles from the station at the other end of her journey, carrying her luggage.
Oh, well, she didn't care. She would leave her case at the station for the night. Probably it could be sent over to the house the next day. She thrust a toothbrush and a wisp of a nightdress into her large handbag. And then, picking up her case again, she went out into the hall.
For a moment she wondered helplessly what the right technique for a departing wife might be.
Ought she to go in and say goodbye to Lin, or march out of the apartment without a word? At any rate, thank heaven, it was not necessary to resort to the melodramatic note of explanation pinned to the pincushion.
But before she could malce any decision, he came out of
his room, crossed the hall and took the case from her, whether she liked it or not.
"You can't carry that thing. And what are you going to do at the other end?"
"I'll manage somehow," she said obstinately.
"Nonsense. It's at least two miles from the station. You'd better let me drive you down there."
"Drive me down! You! It's quite impossible. Surely you can see that."
She thought this was the last horrible touch of cynicism that he should obligingly assist her to run away from him.
"It seems to me the most practical arrangement."
His cool tone infuriated her.
"I'd rather walk all the way from the station, carrying the case in my left hand,'' she told him.
"Quite unnecessary and very foolish," was his comment.
"Then I'll leave my case at the station for the night, and it can be brought over to the house tomorrow. They must have a porter or someone who does these things."
She thought for a moment that he was going to argue that point, too. But he said, "All right. I'll bring this down for you and get you a taxi."
"Can't Donkins do it?" she asked coldly.
"I prefer to do it myself," he said shortly, and she saw that for some reason or other, she had got him on the raw.
Perhaps he just couldn't bear the affront to his pride when someone he had hoped to enslave showed suddenly how little she thought of him.
When they reached the hall and just before they went out into the street, Thea stopped.
"Oh, there's something else I'd forgotten."
She took off her gloves and began to tug impatiently at her rings.
"No," he said sharply. "You promised you'd keep that."
"I did? When?"
"When I gave it to you."
"Oh, the—engagement ring, you mean."
"Yes."
"But that was in quite different circumstances."
"You promised, he repeated, and for a moment h< sounded as obstinate as she had.
"It can't—matter to you. Why tag some silly bit of
sentiment onto this hateful business?*' Thea said, but she had left both rings on her finger.
"It's not sentiment. Call it a whim if you like. And you'd better keep the wedding ring, too, for the moment at any rate. You re still Mrs. Lindsay Varlon, however little you like it." He smiled grimly. *'Take it off when the divorce has gone through if you want to, but leave it for the moment. It saves complications."
She wanted to say that the avoidance of complications didn't arise in the case of her engagement ring. But somehow she was reluctant to prolong the discussion. And as he said she had promised.
'*A11 right. I will keep them both—for the moment."
He nodded curtly, as though that was the only possible decision. And then he went out into the evening sunlight and hailed a passing taxi for her.
Even in so small a matter as this, there were appearances I to be kept up. One didn't want the taxi driver—though one would never see him again—to realize that a marriage was being broken up before his eyes.
"Goodbye, Lin," she said quite agreeably, as she stood with one foot on the step. "I'll get a porter at Waterloo, and I'm sure I can arrange aoout my case at the other end."
"Very well. I hope you find everything all right and that Emma will make you comfortable."
She might be any young wife going off for a few days' visit in the country, while her husband was detained by his work in town.
Only, in those circumstances she would kiss him, of course. Did appearances demand that she kiss Lin? Would he understand if she did? No. Better that the taxi driver—if he really mattered at all—should think—
And at that moment Lin kissed her. For the sake of appearances, of course. For appearances only.
But it was a cool, firm kiss, as though he meant it. And suddenly her lips were trembling as she returned the kiss.
Then she got into the taxi rather hastily, and was glad that it was Lin who said "Waterloo" to the driver. She was not quite sure that she could have found sufficient voice to do so.
She didn't look back. Where would have been the point
in doing so? But she carried with her the inescapable impression that he stood looking after the taxi.
At Waterloo she was lucky. A train was going in less than ten minutes, and an elderly and garrulous porter carried the disputed suitcase for her and installed her in a corner seat.
Just before the whistle blew the ridiculous thought came to her. There's time to go back, even now. But common sense reminded her that there was no reason in the world for her to go back. And almost immediately the whistle sounded and the train was sliding out of the station—across the river, away from London and away from her life with Lin.
She never had a very clear recollection of the journey. Not that she spent the time tormenting herself with doubts and questions. There was really nothing to doubt or to question herself about. She had been wrong in her estimate of Lin, and now she had done the only thing possible—made a clean break. There had been only the one course open. Even he himself had said that. "It's quite understandable," Lin had said when she declared she would leave his apartment.
The same porter collected her ticket but showed no astonishment over her second arrival in one day. No more astonishment, that is, than he did over an
y passenger who presumed to interrupt his leisurely existence. With a rather curt "good night,'* she left the station and started on her; walk across the fields for the third time that day.
It was very nearly dark by the time Thea reached the end of her journey, and as she stood in the porch, waiting for Emma to answer her knock, she felt that she would cry with weariness and depression if she had to enter into long explanations.
But Emma's exclamation when she opened the door held so much unfeigned pleasure as well as surprise that Thea felt cheered in spite of herself
"Oh, Emma, it must seem ridiculous to have me turning up again today, but—"
"Nothing ridiculous about it, Miss Thea. It's just plain good luck. You come in, and I'll get you a nice warm, supper." Emma was one who believed implicitly in the comforting qualities of good food and drink. "Have you walked all across those fields alone tonight? What's that
husband of yours thinking about, to let you do such things?"
Fortunately the last question was purely rhetorical, and Thea could comfortably ignore it. Emma never minded much about explanations or the lack of them. Conversation for her consisted of good-natured exclamations, offers to do someone a service, and occasional anecdotes about the people of whom she was fond.
Sne fussed kindly around Thea, bringing her supper, going out into the darkened garden to pick her some raspberries, asking her if she were sure she wouldn't like just a small fire now that the evening had turned cool—with half a dozen other indications of her pleasure in Thea's arrival.
Not until her supper was finished did Thea have a chance of saying timidly, I've come to stay with you for a while if I may, Emma."
'*That you may, my dear. I'll be glad of the company," Emma assured her.
And Thea saw that it was quite unnecessary for her to go into further explanations. Later, at some appropriate time, she would have to mention the minor matter of not going back to her husband. But for the moment here she was, and here she might stay, without question or comment.
"You shall have Mr. Stephen's room. You'll be comfortable there," Emma decidei "And he'd be pleased that you were making use of his things."
Dear Stephen! That was probably no less than the truth. It would be just like him to want to have some part in comforting her and restoring her to quietness of mind.
Thea thought she would very much like to sleep in the room that haS been Stephen's smce he was a good-natured, happy schoolboy. There was something nice and sane and real about that, in contrast to the happenings of this disastrous day.
The room itself proved to be a comfortable, unpretentious place, with a first-class divan bed, two or three roomy, well-sprung chairs, shelves of books that indicated an extremely catholic taste, and a deep bay window that, Thea felt sure, gave a wonderful view over the Surrey hills by day.
"Oh, it's nice, Emma!" she exclaimed, with pleasure and a sort of relief in her tone.
*'Mr. Stephen always said it was the best room in the house, so long as I wasn't allowed to keep it too tidy,*' Emma said with a chuckle. "But there you are, my dear. Make yourself comfortable, and you'll have your breakfast in bed in the morning. There are plenty of books for you to read, and if you want to look at pictures—" she spoke as though Thea were about five "—there are several albums^of Mr. Stephen's snapshots on the table there. Some taken by him ana some taken of him."
"Thank you, Emma. I'm going to be very happy here." And as Thea said that, she almost believed it. Sne went to bed immediately. But though it was lovely to lie there relaxed and comfortable, Thea found that sleep was very far away. If she shut her eyes the events of the afternoon and evening began to slide past her inner vision like a film.
Geraldine sitting opposite her and asking acid questions; herself walking across the park with her faith in Lin returning; Lin himself talking to her in his study—from the moment of his first inquiry to his final, odious admission; the scene in the hall when he protested about her going alone; and finally, the moment when he kissed her before she stepped into the taxi.
The last thing Thea wanted was to go over and over this melancholy and unprofitable sequence of scenes. She sat up and switched on the light once more. But of all the variety of books presented for her choice, she saw none that she felt would catch and hold her attention.
Emma was right. Her tired mind had reached the stage of "looking at pictures," and reaching over, she took one of the albums from the table beside her bed.
In a moment her amused attention was captured.
Here were mostly snapshots of people, with one or two views of the house and garden taken when Stephen had been new to the job, Thea thought. At any rate they represented sections of the house and odd perspectives that one felt could hardly have been intended.
But there were several excellent photographs of Stephen himself, beginning with one when he was about fifteen, and Thea found herself laughing softly and affectionately as they brought back one recollection after another of the Stephen she knew.
It was such an open, reliable face. Even when he was
laughing—and in most of them he was at least smiling—one felt, "There's a nice, decent boy. You could rely on him.'*
There was one of Mrs. Dorley holding what was obviously Darry as a kitten, with less dignity and more mischief in his face than he showed nowadays. And there was a full-dress one of Darry in his prime, sitting on a table and looking majestic but benevolent, and well aware that he was the center of interest.
Others of Stephen followed—in shorts, in a tennis outfit, even an impromptu one of him in his dressing gown. Evidently someone—probably Mrs. Dorley—was an indefatigable amateur photographer.
On the last page but one there was an enlarged snapshot of him exactly as Thea knew him. Smiling, confident, imperturbably good-tempered. She felt when she looked at it tnat she had K)rgotten just exactly what he was like. Time and distance always blurred the absolute sharpness and faithfulness of memory, even where the dearest and most familiar face was concerned. You thought you remembered someone exactly as they were, but when you saw them there was something added, which your own memory had been unable to present to you.
Here it was in this photograph of Stephen. He might almost be on the verge of speaking.
Thea leaned back against the pillows, still looking at the photograph and experiencing a warm sensation of comfort and hope. Stephen would be coming back—fairly soon now. They would take up their happy association where it had left off. She was not tied to Lin now by any obligation for kindnesses received. Only by the most slender link of outward ceremony.
She could be frank to Stephen. He would understand. And she would not even allow herself to fear that, in so short a time, he might have substituted someone else for her in his affections.
It was a hateful bit of her life that she was passing through just now. But one had these bad experiences. Perhaps they helped to build one's character and to give one a sharper appreciation of the good times.
Anyway, the worst was over now. She smiled back almost sleepily at Stephen. She would have to set to work to forget about Lin. He was not the only person in the world. Even
now, she felt sufficiently soothed to think about putting out the light and going to sleep. She would think about Stephen and forget about Lin.
She turned the last page, and Lin smiled at her—vivid, teasing, unfairly good-looking—as though he challenged her to forget him.
With a slight exclamation Thea closed the book, put out the Hght and lay down.
Deliberately she tried to recall, line by line, Stephen's face in that excellent photograph. She had seen it so recently that it should be easy.
But the face that kept coming onto her mental screen was the face of Lin. Not only as he had been in that final photograph, but as she had seen him that afternoon and evening.
It was a long time after this that Thea slept. And when she did, it was of Lin that she dreamed. But it was the Lin she had loved and believed in, and she wa
s quite happy in her dreams.
Thea woke to the lovely day she had prophesied to herself as she walked through the fields, and Emma came in with a breakfast tray that gave forth those matchless twin odors of coffee and crisply fried bacon.
As she bathed and dressed, Thea told herself that here was at least a temporary solution to most of her troubles.
She had Mrs. Dorley's full permission to stay in this delightful, "homey" house, ana she could probably make herself useful to Emma in a good many ways. Nothing, she felt, would be more soothing and healing at the moment than a quiet, busy life in these circumstances.
The long, sunny days were filled with miijor, but nonetheless pleasant, activities and no one presented her with emotional problems or made her feel that life was quite unmanageable.
She had been there a week before she recalled that in her last interview with Geraldine, she had undertaken to remove her luggage—and, incidentally, the last signs of her unwanted occupation—from her cousin's apartment. She had no wish to impose on Geraldine, and it seemed that the time had certainly come for her to make good her promise.
Thea felt a great reluctance to go to London at all. Certainly it was big enough for her to be able to avoid the
two people she least wanted to see. But in leaving her
f)resent nappy home, Thea felt exactly as though she were eaving safety for a series of unknown risks.
However, it was no good allowing oneself to play the role of the happy hermit at twenty, so Thea deciaed to go to London and call at Geraldine's.
The journey to town was uneventful. And when she arrived at her cousin's apartment, the tone in which Den-ham expressed surprise and pleasure at her appearance was sufficient indication that Geraldine was indeed out.
"Miss Marven is not in, Denham?*' Thea said, with well-feigned surprise.
**No, Miss Thea—Mrs. Varlon, that is—it's her dress rehearsal today."
"Why, yes, I remember. Well, it doesn't matter. It was you I really wanted to see, Denham. And I came to arrange about collecting my luggage.
The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell Page 58