Love Him or Leave Him

by Mary Burchell

  Although it was still early, she dressed rapidly, determined not to lose one half-hour of this beautiful day, and ran quietly downstairs.

  A friendly maid, who was polishing the floor in the entrance hall, smiled at her and asked if she wanted early breakfast, or if she were going for a walk first.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk first,’ Anne said, already tingling to be out of doors. ‘Which is the nicest way?’

  The girl laughed, and said ‘all ways were nice hereabouts’.

  ‘But, if you just want a short stroll, you can go along on the level towards Grasmere,’ she suggested. ‘Or if you want something real pretty, why don’t you go round the end of the water’—she came to the door to point out the way to Anne—‘and then go up towards Loughrigg Fell?’

  ‘Oh, yes! That looks heavenly,’ Anne said.

  ‘If you want a cup of coffee before you go, you’ll find a vacuum jug of coffee, all ready on the sideboard in that room on the left,’ the girl told her. ‘Just help yourself.’

  So Anne went and helped herself to a cup of hot, fragrant coffee, and then went out into the early morning sunshine, feeling that the world was a very good place indeed.

  Every step of the way revealed new beauties. And presently Anne stood high enough to see over to Grasmere, lying like a polished sapphire in a setting of jade and onyx, and—intoxicated by the search for ever further vistas—she set to work to scramble up a short, very steep path which would take her to even higher ground.

  It was slippery from the rain of the night before, but presently she gained her objective. And here she experienced the heady sensation of looking down upon a beautiful world which seemed to have spread out for her special enjoyment. She stood there for minutes on end, the light wind whipping her skirts around her, breathing deeply of the fresh mountain air, and looking her fill on the beauty below.

  Then, at last, a very healthy and unmistakable sensation of hunger began to replace the more sublime feelings that had possessed her until now. And, guessing that it was nearing breakfast-time by any reckoning, Anne turned to make the descent.

  This, however, proved to be a very much more difficult business even than the ascent. Every time she tried to plant her foot securely on the slope, it threatened to slide from under her. And only by grasping at every bush and shrub—however prickly and uninviting—did she manage to make her way half-way down the steep incline.

  At this point—with the soles of her shoes polished to glass-like smoothness by the west grass she had trodden—Anne found herself unable to go forward or back, unless she was prepared to slide all the way and risk a very nasty fall.

  It was a ridiculous position, balanced there on the hill side, grasping at an inhospitable bush and wondering what on earth to do next.

  Why had she not worn rubber-soled shoes? Why had she not brought a good stout stick with her? Why, above all, had she not realised that any path which was so difficult to ascend would be almost impossible to descend?

  The situation had not the dignity of actual danger. Only the extreme discomfort of unpleasantness. And, when Anne heard footsteps approaching on the path below, she was not quite sure whether she was relieved at the thought of possible rescue or chagrined that anyone should see her in this silly position.

  When, however, the owner of the footsteps came into view round the bend in the path and she recognised him as Mr. Jerome, she was in no doubt at all how she felt. She would rather have been marooned all day on the hillside than discovered by him in this plight, and she fervently hoped that he would pass without noticing her.

  Mr. Jerome, however, was not the kind of man who failed to notice the things one hoped he would overlook.

  He glanced upward, saw Anne, and paused on the path just below her.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’ he called, with a certain lack of tact.

  ‘Trying to decide how to get down, of course,’ retorted Anne crisply.

  ‘What’s the matter? Have you lost your nerve?’

  ‘No. I just—can’t help slipping, every step I take.’

  ‘Well, leave go of that bush. You can’t take it with you. And do it all in one slither. It’s hopeless to try a slippery slope by degrees.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ll fall,’ Anne said.

  ‘Nonsense. I’ll catch you. Come along,’ Mr. Jerome said. And so authoritative was his tone that astonishingly enough, Anne relinquished her hold on the bush, slid and slithered down the slope, and ended up more or less in Mr. Jerome’s arms.

  ‘There you are,’ he said coolly, steadying Anne on the path beside him. ‘It’s quite easy, if you keep your head.’

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ Anne replied, a good deal nettled. ‘If there hadn’t been someone to catch me, I couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Oh, no—certainly,’ Mr. Jerome agreed, and appeared to derive a certain amount of private amusement from that. ‘You’re going back to Rydal, I suppose, now?’

  Anne wished most earnestly that she could say she was going in the opposite direction, for it had not escaped her notice that, when she first saw him, he too was returning to Rydal. But her appetite was sharp and insistent now, and she was not prepared to forgo her breakfast, even to escape Mr. Jerome’s company.

  So she said that she was going back to Rydal, and he fell into step beside her.

  All the peaceful, tranquil sentiments which had soothed Anne on her walk out were missing now. She was terribly, overwhelmingly aware of the tall, dark figure beside her. And more and more she began to feel that she must manage some sort of conversation, unless he were to think her gauche and sulky.

  But, strive as she would to think of some brilliant, provocative opening, all that she achieved when she opened her rather dry lips was:

  ‘Did you tell them the truth about me?’

  He appeared to examine this foolish and undefined little query. Then he inquired dryly and unhelpfully:

  ‘Did I tell whom—what about you?’

  ‘You know what I mean!’ Her voice remained low, but a note of anger crept into it. ‘Did you tell Mr.—I mean Miss Eskin and her cousin that I’m really your shorthand-typist?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even tell them that you were once a shorthand-typist in my office,’ he added, rather unkindly correcting the inaccuracies in her query.

  ‘Oh.’ She digested that. ‘Are you going to tell them?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’ In her effort to exclude relief from her tone, she somehow made that sound a little truculent.

  ‘I don’t think it’s of very great interest,’ he said coolly.

  With the perversity of human nature, Anne immediately felt it was hateful of him not to think the matter of sufficient interest to tell Robin and Deborah, even though the last thing she wanted was that Robin and Deborah should be told.

  ‘I—haven’t any wish to—sail under any false colours,’ she said, and immediately felt that she was attaching ridiculous importance to the whole incident.

  He seemed to feel so too, because he merely remarked:

  ‘I really don’t think that enters into it.’

  They walked on in silence. And presently she began to wonder if he were expecting her to apologise for the way she had described him to Robin.

  Even if he were, she thought, setting her mouth firmly, no apology was going to be offered. She was sorry that Robin had paraphrased her remarks quite so brutally, and she certainly had not wished Mr. Jerome to have such revealing statements thrown carelessly at him. But, though last night’s incident might be classed as ‘unfortunate’, she was certainly not going to abase herself for her part in it.

  She had just reached this firm decision in her own mind when Mr. Jerome took over the direction of the conversation.

  ‘When you told me, the other day, that everyone feared and disliked me,’ he said, in a tone of academic interest, ‘whom did you mean by “everyone”, exactly?’

  Anne caught her bre
ath on a dismayed gasp, and felt herself blushing. Not just a nice, delicate pinkening of her cheeks. But the kind of deep, hot blush that starts at the base of one’s neck and spreads pitilessly to one’s hairline.

  ‘I—I—Did I say that?’ she asked, in cowardly prevarication.

  ‘You certainly did. You were quite categorical about it, Miss Hemming, adding—if I remember correctly—that I was unkind, arrogant and unreasonable. That, of course, would supply excellent reason for the general dislike. But I wondered to whom you were referring, when you spoke of “everyone”.’

  ‘Oh, n-no one special,’ Anne murmured, feeling this was feeble in the extreme.

  ‘No one?’ he repeated, in a tone of mild astonishment.

  ‘It—it was just a generalisation. I was feeling pretty—mad with you.’

  ‘I see. I suppose I might have been described as feeling pretty mad with you,’ he said reflectively. ‘You cost me something like six hundred pounds on that particular little slip, you know.’

  ‘No!’ gasped Anne, in genuine horror. ‘I didn’t, really, did I?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry.’ She had not meant to apologise for anything, but this was rather different, and the words burst impulsively from her.

  He accepted this in silence. And presently she added, rather timidly:

  ‘I really am, you know.’

  ‘Are you? I thought perhaps you regarded it just as one of those things sent to try the patience of an unkind and arrogant employer,’ he said gravely.

  Once more she was unreasonably startled to discover that Mr. Jerome had a sense of humour. It made her feel dreadfully uncertain of herself and the justice of her case. If she were not very careful, she would be apologising for the things she had called him, in a minute.

  ‘Mr. Jerome, please don’t think I regard mistakes lightly,’ she said at last. ‘I—I really am a very careful worker, in the ordinary way. It was your assumption that this particular mistake was—was just one of many which made me so—’

  ‘Mad,’ he suggested, helpfully supplying the missing word.

  ‘All right, then.’ She flushed again. ‘I was mad. Just plain furious.’

  ‘I noticed that,’ he said mildly. And they walked on again in silence.

  Anne felt as though that silence lengthened unbearably.

  Became accusing, expectant—contemptuous.

  ‘I suppose,’ she burst out at last, ‘you’re expecting me to apologise for what I said that—that morning. To say it wasn’t true, after all.’

  ‘Dear me, no, Miss Hemming. Never withdraw a statement unless you consider it was unjustified. That is axiomatic in any exchange of opinion, you know,’ he told her gravely.

  She bit her lip, feeling somehow trapped. Then, glancing round, she realised, to her tremendous relief, that they were nearing the end of their walk. For the last quarter of an hour she had been so absorbed in the uncomfortable necessity of conducting this conversation with Mr. Jerome that she had not noticed how quickly they had covered the ground.

  Now they had practically reached the stile which gave on to the main road. After that, they had only to cross the road and go the short way up the hill to Merring Towers. It was possible, even, that their roads divided here, and that he would leave her.

  He swung himself over the stile, then turned to give her his hand, to help her over. For a moment she was poised just above him, and, in that moment, he looked up at her and smiled.

  Anne was not quite sure whether it was relief at the thought of near escape, or surprise at the discovery that there was actually a sparkle of genuine amusement in Mr. Jerome’s eyes. But she suddenly found herself, saying, in a small voice:

  ‘It wasn’t entirely justified. At least, the—the exact wording wasn’t.’

  To her slight surprise, he laughed at that. And, to her immeasurable surprise, he lifted her down from the stile, and set her lightly on her feet again.

  ‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’ he inquired.

  Which was very unfair of him, because, if he were such a clever man as he was supposed to be, the meaning must have been perfectly clear to him.

  ‘I mean,’ Anne said firmly, because unconditional surrender was by no means in her mind, ‘that you thoroughly deserved to be—to be reprimanded for your unfairness and unkindness. But, in doing so, I—perhaps I went a little far in what I said.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied gravely—so gravely that she was pretty sure he was laughing at her still—‘for that somewhat qualified expression of regret. Now I leave you here. You know your way back up the hill, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She was already regretting some of the concessions she had made, and sounded a trifle ungracious. ‘Goodbye, then.’

  He smiled and turned away. And it was not until she was half-way up the hill to Merring Towers again that she realised vexedly that every bit of the apologising had been on her side.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dear Angela,

  I have been here a week now, and it’s time I gave you ail some account of my holiday. This is the most heavenly place you can possibly imagine, with the scenery all—and more than all—that people always represent it to be. I know mountains and lakes are not much in your line, so I won’t enlarge on them too much. But I must just say that there is beauty of every degree here. From the endearing sweetness of Grasmere and Rydal Water (quite close at hand) to the impressive loveliness of Thirlmere and Windermere and the terrifying splendour of Wastwater.

  From this you will see that I have been getting around a good deal! I have met several nice people at the Towers, but mostly I go with Robin Eskin, who lives less than half a mile away, with his aunt and cousin Deborah. He is an architect, but seems to have a good deal of spare time. And, since he also has a little car, we have done several expeditions—sometimes joining up with others from the hotel, and sometimes just on our own.

  Mrs. Eskin has been very kind to me, in a sort of remote way (she really does ‘commune with nature’, if you like! and is a bit intense about it), but I don’t think Deborah likes me much. I don’t mean that she dislikes me exactly. She’s just blank about me—as she might be about the neighbour’s cat, you know, or anything else that dropped in occasionally without her specific invitation.

  However, I don’t pretend to understand her, or to share her tastes. Particularly not the latter, for—what do you think of this for a grisly coincidence?—she is engaged to Mr. Jerome! Yes—my Mr. Jerome. And he turned up, the very first evening, as large as life and twice as unwelcome—and I had to submit to being introduced to him by Robin Eskin.

  If I hadn’t been wearing your lovely blue dress and deriving much moral support therefrom, I think I should have gone straight through the floor and stayed there. As it was—with what I shamelessly claim as superb presence of mind—I just said hadn’t we met somewhere before? and, much to my surprise, he agreed to play ball, and said he believed we had. He even added a really rather subtle crack about believing that I had been speaking on the relationship between employer and employee, when last we met. I didn’t think he had it in him!

  Since then we have met once or twice, but only quite passingly—except for an encounter we had when I was out walking, early on my first morning here. We had a slight exchange of courtesies (and discourtesies) on office affairs then, but I gather that he does not intend to say anything about the circumstances in which we did meet before. That being so, I haven’t said anything to the Eskins either. One of these days, I shall choose a good opportunity to tell Robin and make him laugh about it. But I’m not grovelling around Deborah Eskin in the character of the sacked typist. Why should I?

  Mr. Jerome is staying only a day or two longer, I believe, and I may not even see him again. I can bear that, however. And I’m jolly glad it is he and not I who will be pressing a reluctant nose to the office grindstone this time next week. This is the life for me! Better be a sacked typist than a busy b
oss, in these circumstances. I feel I could stay here for ever—

  Anne paused in her writing, which had been going on steadily for the last half-hour, and stared thoughtfully out of the window. She felt she had never been happier or more contented. And she was honest enough to admit to herself that this had quite a good deal to do with the fact that Robin would be arriving, any minute now, to take her out on one of their day-long trips in the car.

  She hastily finished off her letter to Angela, sealed it, and posted it in the letter-box in the hall.

  Then she ran upstairs to get ready. And, when Robin arrived ten minutes later, she was already waiting for him—in the blue trouser suit and a wine-red angora sweater.

  ‘What a pretty colour scheme,’ was Robin’s frank comment as she got into the car beside him, for now he considered that they did know each other well enough for him to remark on her appearance.

  ‘Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it? I think gratefully of Miss Stebbings every time I put it on.’

  ‘Miss Stebbings?’ he said vaguely.

  ‘The old lady who left me the legacy,’ Anne reminded him reproachfully. ‘If it hadn’t been for her, I shouldn’t be here and I certainly shouldn’t be sporting this darling suit.’

  ‘Oh, of course—of course! Blessings on Miss Stebbings, indeed,’ agreed Robin heartily, ‘since she is responsible for your presence here. She and your odious boss,’ he added, with a sudden chuckle. ‘Don’t forget you owe part of this to him. The free time, for instance.’ And he laughed outright.

  Anne didn’t laugh. She smiled, a little doubtfully, and suddenly decided that this was a good moment to tell Robin.