But Not For Me

by Mary Burchell

  With a horrified exclamation, Ariane bent over him. Her first thought was to get him out of the middle of the road, for if a car came round that corner as unexpectedly as she herself had—

  Putting her hands under his arms, she exerted all her strength to drag him to the side of the road. Until that moment, she had never realized what a big man he was—nor what a dead weight a completely unconscious person could be. Her rather slight strength seemed just nothing at that moment.

  And then, at her second attempt, there was a convulsive movement from him, a quick upward flick of those sullen eyelids and a furious:

  “Damn it, you fool, mind my shoulder! It’s broken.”

  Very frightened, Ariane abandoned her attempt to drag him, and sat down in the road beside him, with her arms still round him.

  He stared at her for a moment before a faint, grim smile flickered over his face.

  “Good God, it’s you again,” he muttered. “There’s really no getting rid of you.”

  Then abruptly his teeth clamped down on his lower lip, the whiteness of his face became almost grey, and, with a peculiar little gesture of angry helplessness, he drooped his head against her and lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Wordlessly, Ariane gazed down at him, and sudden tears forced their way into her eyes. Not because he had been rude to her again. Not even because the situation was beyond her management, but because of the wordless appeal of that tumbled head against her breast. An appeal that he would have died rather than make if he had been fully conscious.

  Evening was closing in now. Already down here in the lane it was darkening rapidly, and still she had not decided what to do.

  She could not move him. That she had already established, especially since his broken shoulder prevented her from taking full hold of him. Yet she dared not leave him and go for help. Only an occasional car came this way, but she would have to go dangerously far to fetch help, and anything might happen while she was away.

  It was bitterly cold, and the pressure of his dead weight on her arms was beginning to numb them. But she could not put him down. Only if she held him in this way could she protect him at all from the biting cold, and from the thin icy rain which was beginning to fall. She fumbled with the fastening of her coat and managed to open it. Then she drew the coat round him as well as herself, and holding him close, in a proximity that was frightening yet strangely moving, she did her best to keep some warmth in his still, silent figure.

  She was so terribly cold, and her eyelids felt indescribably heavy. Only the growing pain in her cramped arms held her to consciousness, and she thought that now she could not have moved them, even if someone had taken this terrible weight away.

  Time had long ago ceased to exist, and she had no idea how long she had been crouching there in the dark, when the sound of an approaching car pierced her failing consciousness.

  And then there was a grinding of brakes, the sound of a car-door flung back. The next moment someone was bending over her and she realized that it was Frank.

  “Great heavens, Father! It’s Ariane,” he exclaimed, and she dimly took in that there was another man there. A very big man, whose figure mercifully blotted out a good deal of the glare of the headlights. A deep, abrupt voice like Harvey’s said:

  “What! Dobson’s girl?”

  She didn’t hear what Frank replied. She only knew that the weight of that inert figure in her arms had been taken from her. She tried to move then, but began to cry quietly instead because of the pain in her cramped arms and legs.

  And then Frank was back beside her, lifting her bodily from the ground, and carrying her very tenderly towards the big car.

  “We’ll take her home with us,” the big man said. “It’s nearest, and we can’t let her mother see her like that.”

  Ariane wanted to say that—no, they must take her to her own home, that she couldn’t possibly cope with the whole dreadful family of Muldanes just then.

  But the words refused to come. Even a movement of protest was impossible. She was dimly aware of the blessed warmth of the car as Frank lifted her in. And then even that seemed unimportant in the deep, deep space through which she was falling.

  CHAPTER III

  When Ariane returned to consciousness she was in bed in an entirely strange room.

  Firelight was flickering pleasantly over dark, polished furniture, and the whole scene was so different from the big, bright, chintz-curtained room at home that at first she was vaguely frightened.

  At the back of her mind was a confused impression of anxiety and danger very narrowly escaped, and when someone near her moved slightly she started violently.

  But there was nothing alarming about the other occupant of the room, after all. Just a quiet, grey-haired woman who sat knitting in the firelight.

  Gradually memory became clearer. Ariane recalled, with a shiver, that strange and terrifying vigil in the dark, when she thought she must die of cramp and cold, and yet her tired mind held on to the one fact that she could not abandon Harvey Muldane.

  His name brought her a step further on the road of memory. Of course, she must be in the Muldanes’ house now. That was the only explanation.

  And this, she supposed, must be Mrs. Muldane, Harvey’s mother. Then she reminded herself that to her it was rather more important that it was Frank’s mother.

  Ariane sighed a little. She was fully conscious now, and all the old troubles were there again.

  At the sigh, the woman glanced up and, seeing that Ariane’s eyes were open, she came over at once.

  “Are you feeling better now?” She smiled quite kindly.

  “Yes, thank you.” Ariane was surprised at the feebleness of her own voice. And then, because she could not help it: “Are you Mrs. Muldane?”

  “Oh no. There isn’t a Mrs. Muldane, you know. She died years ago. I’m Mrs. Jarvis, the housekeeper.”

  “So Harvey hasn’t got a mother,” Ariane thought. And this time she didn’t even remember to add that nor, of course, had Frank.

  “I think—I must—go home,” die said in a troubled little voice. But Mrs. Jarvis was quite firm about that.

  “No, no, there’s no question of that. The doctor says you are to be kept warm and quiet, and that you must sleep as much as possible.”

  “But Mother—” Ariane looked distressed.

  “We telephoned to your home, of course,” Mrs. Jarvis said. “I think Mrs. Dobson will be coming over as soon as possible, but she’s not very well herself, is she?”

  “No, that’s true. She oughtn’t to bother,” muttered Ariane. She moved her head restlessly, another confused train of thought starting. “What about Mr. Muldane? Is he all right?”

  “Well”—the housekeeper hesitated, “I don’t think there’s any immediate danger. He has a broken arm and a nasty head injury, as well as a good deal of bad bruising from being dragged.”

  Ariane privately thought that sounded enough to keep even Harvey Muldane quiet for a bit.

  And then she lapsed again into something like a stupor, until the anxious voice of her mother roused her.

  “Oh, Mother!” she exclaimed, and immediately burst into tears.

  Mrs. Dobson petted and soothed her, and asked questions of Mrs. Jarvis, in a tone of dignified severity which suggested that full blame lay with the Muldane family.

  “It wasn’t their fault, dear,” Ariane whispered. “It was really mine. But I couldn’t leave him.”

  “No, no, I see that,” her mother agreed soothingly. “Especially as he is a friend of yours. ”

  “Harvey Muldane isn’t a friend, exactly,” Ariane felt bound to protest in a whisper still.

  “Harvey Muldane? I didn’t understand.” Her mother looked bewildered. “I thought it was the other one—Frank.”

  “Oh no.”

  Mrs. Dobson’s expression was extremely complicated.

  “You mean you made yourself ill for—Well, really, Ariane dear—He was so terribly rude to your father once.”
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  “And to your daughter too, lots of times,” Ariane murmured with a rueful smile.

  “Really?”

  It was evident that only the presence of Mrs. Jarvis restrained further questions. But in any case, Ariane felt glad she had no need to answer them, and after a while she fell into a much more natural sleep.

  Rather to her surprise, it took her nearly a week to get over the shock and exposure, and during all that time she was most carefully and kindly looked after in the Muldanes’ house.

  The first day she was up in her room, Frank—rather awed and terribly concerned about her—was allowed to come and see her. It was only then that Ariane realized what a heroine she was supposed to be.

  “To think of your staying there all that time,” he said earnestly. “Risking your life to protect that ungrateful hound from the cold and rain.”

  Ariane felt bound to point out that this was an overstatement of the case.

  “I wasn’t in any immediate danger,” she said mildly.

  “You might have died of pneumonia.”

  “But I didn’t,” Ariane reminded him soothingly.

  “No, but you might have. And what should I have done then?”

  “Sent a handsome wreath, I hope.”

  “Don’t joke about it, Ariane dear. It might have been so terribly serious.”

  “But since it wasn’t, how about forgetting it?” she suggested.

  “You don’t expect us to forget a thing like that,” Frank said. “I can assure you, my father is terribly impressed and—”

  “And your brother?” Ariane could not resist, and she cocked a rather quizzical eyebrow at him.

  He flushed unexpectedly.

  “Oh, Harvey! Harvey makes me sick.”

  “By which I suppose you mean he’s very much annoyed at my interfering at all? Why didn’t I leave him to die in decent solitude, so to speak?”

  Frank laughed vexedly.

  “Something like that.”

  “What did he say?” Ariane asked with irresistible curiosity.

  “Well, scarcely anything, to tell you the truth,” Frank confessed. “I explained about how we’d found you, you know, and what a wonderful girl we thought you, and so on—”

  “Yes?”

  “And he just said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake get out!’ ”

  Ariane began to laugh, partly at the disgust on Frank’s face. “Really, Ariane—” he too smiled a little then. “You’re the most sweet-tempered and forgiving person I know. Most girls would be livid at such ingratitude.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” Ariane assured him. “And anyway, I don’t expect he is ungrateful, exactly. I believe I’m beginning to understand your brother a tiny bit,” she added thoughtfully.

  “He always was the difficult one, you know,” he volunteered. “Was he?”

  “Um-hm. Rows with Father, and wanting to do weird things that neither Maurice nor I ever thought of doing.”

  “Maurice is your other brother?”

  “Yes. He comes between Harvey and me. He’s married, you know.”

  Ariane was silent for a moment.

  “What sort of weird things do you mean?”

  “Oh, well Frank seemed a bit vague. “Well, running around after this actress, for one thing. I—I suppose you’ve heard about it, from what Julie said.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about it. But—” Ariane hesitated because it seemed funny to be defending Harvey. “But lots of men think themselves in love with Marta Roma.”

  “But he has some idea of marrying her, Ariane. It’s so—so unsophisticated in a man like Harvey. The Marta Romas really aren’t the kind who are invited home to meet the family and asked to name the day. I think Father would go straight up in smoke if he knew.”

  “Harvey wouldn’t really bring her down here, would he?”

  Frank shrugged.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  There was silence. Then:

  “I think it’s rather sweet of him,” Ariane said obstinately.

  “I don’t. I think it just shows a lack of common gumption.” Frank was uncompromising. “And if you ask me, I should think the person who is most amused is Marta Roma herself.”

  “Oh,”—Ariane frowned quickly—“oh, Frank, it’s rather dreadful. I think Harvey is the kind to be terribly hurt if anyone laughed at his real feelings.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t make such a fool of himself, should he?”

  “But perhaps he—can’t help it.”

  That view didn’t seem to appeal to Frank.

  “He should never have got so far. He ought to have known the type at once. I mean—well, have you seen her?”

  Ariane shook her head.

  “Only photographs.”

  “Oh.” Frank frowned in an effort to describe her. “Well, she’s a most strange creature, of course. The kind that is born to have men yammering inanely at her from the side boxes. No one would dream of asking how she came by her pearls because any fool would know. And you’d no more think of making her a proposal of marriage than of asking her to take the chair at a church conference. No one would.”

  “Except Harvey,” said Ariane thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. Except Harvey. That’s what I mean when I say he does things no one else would dream of doing.”

  “He’s a bit of an idealist, in fact?”

  “Well, no,” Frank said. “He’s a bit of a fool, candidly speaking. And it’s quite incongruous in anyone of Harvey’s type.”

  “On anyone so hard, you mean?”

  “Yes. And so ill-mannered and conceited and insufferable,” grinned Frank, in sudden reminder of her own description.

  Ariane flushed. “I’m sorry. I was really in a temper when I said that. I take it back.”

  “I shouldn’t, if I were you,” Frank laughed. “He’ll probably only hasten to give you further proof of it.”

  Ariane was silent, remembering then, with some astonishment at her own change of front, that, far from having done anything to warrant her withdrawing the charge, he had merely added further proof.

  When Frank had finally taken himself off, she went back to bed, to lie there in a state of not unpleasant lassitude, wondering about Harvey and the legendary Marta Roma.

  It was no concern of hers, of course, but—Well, one could not help wondering.

  Two days later, the doctor pronounced her well enough to be taken home. But, before she left, she was honoured with another visitor in the shape of the head of the house of Muldane.

  That was exactly how he seemed to Ariane when he entered in answer to her “Come in.”

  He was tremendously tall, even more overpowering than his eldest son, and with “hard business man” written all over him. To Ariane, however, he made a considerable effort to be gracious. He was obviously slightly ill at ease with his business rival’s daughter, but at the same time, duty and decency demanded some expression of thanks, and an expression of thanks she should have.

  It came in the form of a short speech, rather as though he were addressing a board meeting.

  “Miss Dobson, I can’t let you leave my house without telling you,”—he cleared his throat slightly—“without expressing to you my gratitude for your having possibly saved my son’s life—certainly for having saved him from a much more serious illness. You showed extraordinary courage and—well, I should like to thank you.”

  Impulsively she held out her hand.

  “Thank you very much for saying that, Mr. Muldane. And please don’t make too much of what I did. It was simply that I felt I couldn’t leave Har—him until help came. And so I just stayed.”

  Mr. Muldane took her hand slowly, crushing it in a grasp that made her want to cry out, and said:

  “It was very brave, all the same. And—my son would like to see you before you go.”

  “Yes, of course.” Ariane looked perfectly calm, although her heart really gave an odd little lurch.

  So—Frank expressed his thanks and admiration wi
th boyish emotion, Mr. Muldane made her a formal speech, and now, it seemed, it was Harvey’s turn.

  Ariane could not seriously imagine Harvey saying “thank you” to her for anything, and as she went into the room indicated by Mr. Muldane she was conscious of clenching her hands with illogical nervousness.

  There was a very curt “Come in” in answer to her knock, and Ariane entered a large pleasant room, where the deep bay windows gave on to a wonderful view of the hills beyond the town.

  She closed the door behind her and stood for a moment just inside the room. He was lying slightly propped up in bed and somehow looked much more actually ill than she had expected.

  The tan stood out on his cheeks in an odd way that emphasized the pallor underneath, the dark hair seemed slightly damp where it tumbled untidily over his forehead, and the eyes that looked a little resentfully across at her had a feverish brightness about them.

  “Why, you have been ill,” she said rather gently and, coming over to the bed, she stood looking down at him.

  He didn’t answer that at once, but slowly held out his left hand to her. She saw then that the other arm was in a sling.

  “You don’t have to shake hands, you know,” she told him. “Especially if it hurts as much as all that.”

  To her surprise, he flushed deeply.

  “I—understand I have to thank you for—saving my life,” he said stiffly.

  “It isn’t compulsory,” Ariane assured him, “and, anyway, I didn’t save your life.”

  “Pardon me, I have been assured of the fact by at least four people,” he retorted dryly.

  “You must have hated that.”

  “I did.”

  There was a silence. Then Ariane said in a voice that shook a little: “Was that all you wanted to say?”

  He looked slightly taken aback, perhaps because he was realizing just how ungracious he was being.

  “Well, I—just want to say thank you.”

  “Very well. Now that horrid necessity is over, you needn’t think any more about it. Good-bye.” And Ariane turned away quickly, because, quite inexplicably, she suddenly felt near tears. She had reached the door before he said rather urgently:

  “Ariane—”