Some day, perhaps, she would be able to forget Rosemary Barton. But not yet.
She deliberately sent her mind back to those November days.
Sitting looking at the telephone—feeling hatred surge up in her heart…
Giving Rosemary’s message to George in her pleasant controlled voice. Suggesting that she herself should not come so as to leave the number even. George had quickly over-ridden that!
Coming in to report next morning on the sailing of the San Cristobal. George’s relief and gratitude.
‘So he’s sailed on her all right?’
‘Yes. I handed him the money just before the gang-way was taken up.’ She hesitated and said, ‘He waved his hand as the boat backed away from the quay and called out “Love and kisses to George and tell him I’ll drink his health tonight.”’
‘Impudence!’ said George. He asked curiously, ‘What did you think of him, Ruth?’
Her voice was deliberately colourless as she replied:
‘Oh—much as I expected. A weak type.’
And George saw nothing, noticed nothing! She felt like crying out: ‘Why did you send me to see him? Didn’t you know what he might do to me? Don’t you realize that I’m a different person since yesterday? Can’t you see that I’m dangerous? That there’s no knowing what I may do?’
Instead she said in her businesslike voice, ‘About that San Paulo letter—’
She was the competent efficient secretary…
Five more days.
Rosemary’s birthday.
A quiet day at the office—a visit to the hairdresser—the putting on of a new black frock, a touch of make-up skilfully applied. A face looking at her in the glass that was not quite her own face. A pale, determined, bitter face.
It was true what Victor Drake had said. There was no pity in her.
Later, when she was staring across the table at Rosemary Barton’s blue convulsed face, she still felt no pity.
Now, eleven months later, thinking of Rosemary Barton, she felt suddenly afraid…
Chapter 3
Anthony Browne
Anthony Browne was frowning into the middle distance as he thought about Rosemary Barton.
A damned fool he had been ever to get mixed up with her. Though a man might be excused for that! Certainly she was easy upon the eyes. That evening at the Dorchester he’d been able to look at nothing else. As beautiful as a houri—and probably just about as intelligent!
Still he’d fallen for her rather badly. Used up a lot of energy trying to find someone who would introduce him. Quite unforgivable really when he ought to have been attending strictly to business. After all, he wasn’t idling his days away at Claridge’s for pleasure.
But Rosemary Barton was lovely enough in all conscience to excuse any momentary lapse from duty. All very well to kick himself now and wonder why he’d been such a fool. Fortunately there was nothing to regret. Almost as soon as he spoke to her the charm had faded a little. Things resumed their normal proportions. This wasn’t love—nor yet infatuation. A good time was to be had by all, no more, no less.
Well, he’d enjoyed it. And Rosemary had enjoyed it too. She danced like an angel and wherever he took her men turned round to stare at her. It gave a fellow a pleasant feeling. So long as you didn’t expect her to talk. He thanked his stars he wasn’t married to her. Once you got used to all that perfection of face and form where would you be? She couldn’t even listen intelligently. The sort of girl who would expect you to tell her every morning at the breakfast table that you loved her passionately!
Oh, all very well to think those things now.
He’d fallen for her all right, hadn’t he?
Danced attendance on her. Rung her up, taken her out, danced with her, kissed her in the taxi. Been in a fair way to making rather a fool of himself over her until that startling, that incredible day.
He could remember just how she had looked, the piece of chestnut hair that had fallen loose over one ear, the lowered lashes and the gleam of her dark blue eyes through them. The pout of the soft red lips.
‘Anthony Browne. It’s a nice name!’
He said lightly:
‘Eminently well established and respectable. There was a chamberlain to Henry the Eighth called Anthony Browne.’
‘An ancestor, I suppose?’
‘I wouldn’t swear to that.’
‘You’d better not!’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m the Colonial branch.’
‘Not the Italian one?’
‘Oh,’ he laughed. ‘My olive complexion? I had a Spanish mother.’
‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘A great deal, Mr Anthony Browne.’
‘You’re very fond of my name.’
‘I said so. It’s a nice name.’
And then quickly like a bolt from the blue: ‘Nicer than Tony Morelli.’
For a moment he could hardly believe his ears! It was incredible! Impossible!
He caught her by the arm. In the harshness of his grip she winced away.
‘Oh, you’re hurting me!’
‘Where did you get hold of that name?’
His voice was harsh, menacing.
She laughed, delighted with the effect she had produced. The incredible little fool!
‘Who told you?’
‘Someone who recognized you.’
‘Who was it? This is serious, Rosemary. I’ve got to know.’
She shot a sideways glance at him.
‘A disreputable cousin of mine, Victor Drake.’
‘I’ve never met anyone of that name.’
‘I imagine he wasn’t using that name at the time you knew him. Saving the family feelings.’
Anthony said slowly. ‘I see. It was—in prison?’
‘Yes. I was reading Victor the riot act—telling him he was a disgrace to us all. He didn’t care, of course. Then he grinned and said, “You aren’t always so particular yourself, sweetheart. I saw you the other night dancing with an ex-gaol-bird—one of your best boy friends, in fact. Calls himself Anthony Browne, I hear, but in stir he was Tony Morelli.”’
Anthony said in a light voice:
‘I must renew my acquaintance with this friend of my youth. We old prison ties must stick together.’
Rosemary shook her head. ‘Too late. He’s been shipped off to South America. He sailed yesterday.’
‘I see.’ Anthony drew a deep breath. ‘So you’re the only person who knows my guilty secret?’
She nodded. ‘I won’t tell on you.’
‘You’d better not.’ His voice grew stern. ‘Look here, Rosemary, this is dangerous. You don’t want your lovely face carved up, do you? There are people who don’t stick at a little thing like ruining a girl’s beauty. And there’s such a thing as being bumped off. It doesn’t only happen in books and films. It happens in real life, too.’
‘Are you threatening me, Tony?’
‘Warning you.’
Would she take the warning? Did she realize that he was in deadly earnest? Silly little fool. No sense in that lovely empty head. You couldn’t rely on her to keep her mouth shut. All the same he’d have to try and ram his meaning home.
‘Forget you’ve ever heard the name of Tony Morelli, do you understand?’
‘But I don’t mind a bit, Tony. I’m quite broad-minded. It’s quite a thrill for me to meet a criminal. You needn’t feel ashamed of it.’
The absurd little idiot. He looked at her coldly. He wondered in that moment how he could ever have fancied he cared. He’d never been able to suffer fools gladly—not even fools with pretty faces.
‘Forget about Tony Morelli,’ he said grimly. ‘I mean it. Never mention that name again.’
He’d have to get out. That was the only thing to do. There was no relying on this girl’s silence. She’d talk whenever she felt inclined.
She was smiling at him—an enchanting smile, but it left him unmoved.
‘Don’t be so fierce. Take me to the Jarrows’ dance next week.’
‘I shan’t be here. I’m going away.’
‘Not before my birthday party. You can’t let me down. I’m counting on you. Now don’t say no. I’ve been miserably ill with that horrid ’flu and I’m still feeling terribly weak. I musn’t be crossed. You’ve got to come.’
He might have stood firm. He might have chucked it all—gone right away.
Instead, through an open door, he saw Iris coming down the stairs. Iris, very straight and slim, with her pale face and black hair and grey eyes. Iris with much less than Rosemary’s beauty and with all the character that Rosemary would never have.
In that moment he hated himself for having fallen a victim, in however small a degree, to Rosemary’s facile charm. He felt as Romeo felt remembering Rosaline when he had first seen Juliet.
Anthony Browne changed his mind.
In the flash of a second he committed himself to a totally different course of action.
Chapter 4
Stephen Farraday
Stephen Farraday was thinking of Rosemary—thinking of her with that incredulous amazement that her image always aroused in him. Usually he banished all thoughts of her from his mind as promptly as they arose—but there were times when, persistent in death as she had been in life, she refused to be thus arbitrarily dismissed.
His first reaction was always the same, a quick irresponsible shudder as he remembered the scene in the restaurant. At least he need not think again of that. His thoughts turned further back, to Rosemary alive, Rosemary smiling, breathing, gazing into his eyes…
What a fool—what an incredible fool he had been!
And amazement held him, sheer bewildered amazement. How had it all come about? He simply could not understand it. It was as though his life were divided into two parts, one, the larger part, a sane well-balanced orderly progression, the other a brief uncharacteristic madness. The two parts simply did not fit.
For with all his ability and his clever, shrewd intellect, Stephen had not the inner perception to see that actually they fitted only too well.
Sometimes he looked back over his life, appraising it coldly and without undue emotion, but with a certain priggish self-congratulation. From a very early age he had been determined to succeed in life, and in spite of difficulties and certain initial disadvantages he had succeeded.
He had always had a certain simplicity of belief and outlook. He believed in the Will. What a man willed, that he could do!
Little Stephen Farraday had steadfastly cultivated his Will. He could look for little help in life save that which he got by his own efforts. A small pale boy of seven, with a good forehead and a determined chin, he meant to rise—and rise high. His parents, he already knew, would be of no use to him. His mother had married beneath her station in life—and regretted it. His father, a small builder, shrewd, cunning and cheese-paring, was despised by his wife and also by his son…For his mother, vague, aimless, and given to extraordinary variations of mood, Stephen felt only a puzzled incomprehension until the day he found her slumped down on the corner of a table with an empty eau-de-Cologne bottle fallen from her hand. He had never thought of drink as an explanation of his mother’s moods. She never drank spirits or beer, and he had never realized that her passion for eau-de-Cologne had had any other origin than her vague explanation of headaches.
He realized in that moment that he had little affection for his parents. He suspected shrewdly that they had not much for him. He was small for his age, quiet, with a tendency to stammer. Namby-pamby his father called him. A well-behaved child, little trouble in the house. His father would have preferred a more rum-bustious type. ‘Always getting into mischief I was, at his age.’ Sometimes, looking at Stephen, he felt uneasily his own social inferiority to his wife. Stephen took after her folk.
Quietly, with growing determination, Stephen mapped out his own life. He was going to succeed. As a first test of will, he determined to master his stammer. He practised speaking slowly, with a slight hesitation between every word. And in time his efforts were crowned with success. He no longer stammered. In school he applied himself to his lessons. He intended to have education. Education got you somewhere. Soon his teachers became interested, encouraged him. He won a scholarship. His parents were approached by the educational authorities—the boy had promise. Mr Farraday, doing well out of a row of jerry-built houses, was persuaded to invest money in his son’s education.
At twenty-two Stephen came down from Oxford with a good degree, a reputation as a good and witty speaker, and a knack of writing articles. He had also made some useful friends. Politics were what attracted him. He had learnt to overcome his natural shyness and to cultivate an admirable social manner—modest, friendly, and with that touch of brilliance that led people to say, ‘That young man will go far.’ Though by predilection a Liberal, Stephen realized that for the moment, at least, the Liberal Party was dead. He joined the ranks of the Labour Party. His name soon became known as that of a ‘coming’ young man. But the Labour Party did not satisfy Stephen. He found it less open to new ideas, more hidebound by tradition than its great and powerful rival. The Conservatives, on the other hand, were on the look-out for promising young talent.
They approved of Stephen Farraday—he was just the type they wanted. He contested a fairly solid Labour constituency and won it by a very narrow majority. It was with a feeling of triumph that Stephen took his seat in the House of Commons. His career had begun and this was the right career he had chosen. Into this he could put all his ability, all his ambition. He felt in him the ability to govern, and to govern well. He had a talent for handling people, for knowing when to flatter and when to oppose. One day, he swore it, he would be in the Cabinet.
Nevertheless, once the excitement of actually being in the House had subsided, he experienced swift disillusionment. The hardly fought election had put him in the limelight, now he was down in the rut, a mere insignificant unit of the rank and file, subservient to the party whips, and kept in his place. It was not easy here to rise out of obscurity. Youth here was looked upon with suspicion. One needed something above ability. One needed influence.
There were certain interests. Certain families. You had to be sponsored.
He considered marriage. Up to now he had thought very little about the subject. He had a dim picture in the back of his mind of some handsome creature who would stand hand in hand with him sharing his life and his ambitions; who would give him children and to whom he could unburden his thoughts and perplexities. Some woman who felt as he did and who would be eager for his success and proud of him when he achieved it.
Then one day he went to one of the big receptions at Kidderminster House. The Kidderminster connection was the most powerful in England. They were, and always had been, a great political family. Lord Kidderminster, with his little Imperial, his tall, distinguished figure, was known by sight everywhere. Lady Kidderminster’s large rocking-horse face was familiar on public platforms and on committees all over England. They had five daughters, three of them beautiful, and one son still at Eton.
The Kidderminsters made a point of encouraging likely young members of the Party. Hence Farraday’s invitation.
He did not know many people there and he was standing alone near a window about twenty minutes after his arrival. The crowd by the tea table was thinning out and passing into the other rooms when Stephen noticed a tall girl in black standing alone by the table looking for a moment slightly at a loss.
Stephen Farraday had a very good eye for faces. He had picked up that very morning in the Tube a ‘Home Gossip’ discarded by a woman traveller and glanced over it with slight amusement. There had been a rather smudgy reproduction of Lady Alexandra Hayle, third daughter of the Earl of Kidderminster, and below a gossipy little extract about her—‘…always been of a shy and retiring disposition—devoted to animals—Lady Alexandra has taken a course in Domestic Science as Lady Kiddermin
ster believes in her daughters being thoroughly grounded in all domestic subjects.’
That was Lady Alexandra Hayle standing there, and with the unerring perception of a shy person, Stephen knew that she, too, was shy. The plainest of the five daughters, Alexandra had always suffered under a sense of inferiority. Given the same education and upbringing as her sisters, she had never quite attained their savoir faire, which annoyed her mother considerably. Sandra must make an effort—it was absurd to appear so awkward, so gauche.
Stephen did not know that, but he knew that the girl was ill at ease and unhappy. And suddenly a rush of conviction came to him. This was his chance! ‘Take it, you fool, take it! It’s now or never!’
He crossed the room to the long buffet. Standing beside the girl he picked up a sandwich. Then, turning, and speaking nervously and with an effort (no acting, that—he was nervous!) he said:
‘I say, do you mind if I speak to you? I don’t know many people here and I can see you don’t either. Don’t snub me. As a matter of fact I’m awfully s-s-shy’ (his stammer of years ago came back at a most opportune moment) ‘and—and I think you’re s-s-shy too, aren’t you?’
The girl flushed—her mouth opened. But as he had guessed, she could not say it. Too difficult to find words to say ‘I’m the daughter of the house.’ Instead she admitted quietly:
‘As a matter of fact, I—I am shy. I always have been.’
Stephen went on quickly:
‘It’s a horrible feeling. I don’t know whether one ever gets over it. Sometimes I feel absolutely tongue-tied.’
‘So do I.’
He went on—talking rather quickly, stammering a little—his manner was boyish, appealing. It was a manner that had been natural to him a few years ago and which was now consciously retained and cultivated. It was young, naïve, disarming.
He led the conversation soon to the subject of plays, mentioned one that was running which had attracted a good deal of interest. Sandra had seen it. They discussed it. It had dealt with some point of the social services and they were soon deep in a discussion of these measures.
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