by Norrey Ford
"How uncivilised we are," said Sally, "just underneath the surface. Simon, is there any water?"
"There's a wash-place." He hauled Max to his feet. "Come on, you can clean yourself up out there."
"Assault!" said Max thickly, between swollen lips. "I'll sue you for assault."
"I think not," said Paul smoothly. Sally put a beaker of hot coffee into his hand, and their eyes met over it, smiling.
"Uncivilised yourself!" he told her. "I distinctly heard you cheering."
"I wasn't!" she began indignantly, but, catching his eye again, broke down into healthy, refreshing laughter.
"That's better. You sound more like yourself. Drink up your coffee, you need it. Then you must go home to bed. You're a very valuable witness. We must take care of you."
"Will Simon be all right now? Max did practically admit he'd been responsible and was pushing the blame on Simon. And he tried to bribe you to keep out of it—with a mink coat for Caro! If you could have seen your face!"
"What troubles me is that a bench of magistrates have to see my face to-morrow—or to-day, I should say. And one of my cases is a drunk-and-disorderly!"
He returned the beaker and their hands touched. She thought, the case is as good as finished now; Max has cleared Simon and I needn't keep Paul at arm's length any more. The shadow was lifted! If he really loves me. .. .
Paul turned away and took his coat from a hook behind the door. "This was a good suit, I liked it. But I'm afraid it will never be the same again."
"No," she agreed flatly.
Simon came in. "I dumped Max in his car. I think he'll be all right to drive now, but you certainly spoilt his looks."
"Good," said Paul, with grim satisfaction.
"I wish you'd left a bit for me to do," Simon said
ruefully. "The best part was over when I arrived." "Beast !" said Sally, rolling her eyes. "You crazy
mixed-up kid, you!"
"He tried to get Sally," Paul explained, in response to Simon's puzzled look. "We played a horrible hide-and-seek round those ghastly cars—until I stumbled across him unexpectedly. I don't know which of us was the more surprised."
Sally smiled. "I thought someone had stepped on a landmine! You should have heard them yelling like savages."
"I did! But how did it all happen?"
Sally looked at Paul. "You told him you were expecting him. Was that true—or pure bluff ?"
. "Mostly bluff. But as soon as I realised he'd sneaked here in the middle of the night, I knew what he was after. He was afraid you, Simon, might have left stuff incriminating him in your files. He was shaken when he knew all the stuff had been taken away for examination, and practically admitted everything. Sally heard him."
"He tried to bribe Paul to keep out of the case. Simon, you should have seen our eminent lawyer's face when told there were advantages in having a rich sister!"
"The swine! No wonder you socked him, sir. Does this mean I'm in the clear?"
"To all intents and purposes. The Inland Revenue may withdraw the case against you and proceed against Shand. Or they may ask for an adjournment of your case until after Shand's has been heard. It depends on their solicitors. But you may take it your brief career as a criminal is at an end. Nothing serious will happen to you."
"I can't believe it. I've been living in the shadow of the prison wall. I simply can't thank you enough."
"Don't try." Paul studied his bruised knuckles. "How are the mighty fallen! I meant to pull you out of this by some really brilliant brain-work, and instead I seem to have settled the case by brute force. As a lawyer, I'm bitterly ashamed."
"As a man?" Sally asked mischievously.
He grinned at her so far as his bruised lip would allow. "Don't ask, you little monkey!"
She made a comical grimace at him. "Now I know you are entirely human. The first time I saw you in Court, I thought you couldn't possibly be. Oh dear—shall I have to be a witness at Max's trial? I can't bear to think of helping to shut any human creature up, away from the sun and green growing things."
"He is responsible for that, not any of us. He knew the risk and was prepared to take it. Besides,
he'd have put Simon away without compunction."
"I suppose so. All the same, it feels horrid."
A little silence fell. Simon looked from one to the other, and said, with heavy tact, "I think I'll see about driving Max home. He looked a bit peaked, and we haven't heard his car start, have we?"
"Come to think of it, we haven't. I'll take him home, Simon. You look as if you've had more than enough, and Sally here is asleep on her feet." Paul dropped a friendly hand on Simon's shoulder. "Relax, boy. It's all over."
Unexpectedly, Simon sat down as if his legs had failed under him. He leaned over the table, his face in his hands. Paul and Sally looked at each other significantly.
"He'll be all right in a minute," Paul said confidently. "He's had a bit of a facer, you know."
Simon looked up, embarrassed. "Sorry. I do feel a fool. I'm practically crying. Comic, isn't it? But it's not for myself, it's for her. If she loves him PP
Sally threw a comforting arm round his shoulder. "No decent woman could really love a man like Max, duckie. Caroline is infatuated with him, just as I was. He has glamour, good looks, and a way of flattering a woman till she doesn't know whether she is on her head or her heels. But take away the dazzle and what's left? Just—nothing, an emptiness. Not the qualities a girl looks for in the man she hopes to marry. Caro will be hurt on the surface and a lot in her pride, no more. It won't be a mortal wound, I promise you."
"Are you sure?"
"Certain. You see, a woman must trust her man; she wants to feel firm ground under her feet, not shifting sand. She must respect him, look up to him. I think"—she hesitated, feeling her way—"the first minute you stop respecting a man, you begin to stop loving him. And somehow he must be" —she made a vague little gesture with her slim hands—"bigger than you are." In spite of the fine-drawn lines of weariness and strain, her face shone
with the power of her conviction. "So that she can slip into his personality and be absorbed, like " She searched with a faint frown for the word she wanted.
Paul said, " 'Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake.' Is that what you mean?"
"Exactly," said Sally, feeling she would like very much to cry for no particular reason except that she hadn't known Paul knew Tennyson, though as he was a reasonably well-read person there seemed no reason why he shouldn't. " 'And slips into the bosom of the lake.' No one could possibly feel like that about Max. He's what I used to call a soft-centre man. Like chocolates. Your teeth go right through a soft centre, which may taste delicious for the moment and splendid if one has a whole box full; but if one has to choose only one, and make it last, the wise child picks a hard centre."
Simon grinned up at her affectionately. "I guess I'm a jelly centre."
"No. I'd pick you to last, because I know you so well. You may have taken a tumble over Max, but you're all right, really."
"If you're sure you are all right to drive Sally, I'll get away with Max now," Paul said. "I suppose he's at the White Hart—I seem to remember Caro saying he usually stayed there when in this district."
"That's right. The night porter will know him, even if he hasn't actually booked a room. He may have intended this as a flying visit."
Paul laughed. "Very flying, indeed. I believe he was making straight for the Continent. However, I'll dump him at the White Hart, and in the morning I'll see the Chief Constable."
Sally pointed to the door. The sky was breaking into the first pearly light. "It's morning now."
Paul took her hand, a rather grimy paw by this time.
"So it is. Goodbye, small Sally. I'm glad everything worked out so well. There was never a dull moment with you around. I'm going to miss you."
For a moment she did not grasp his meaning. Then she said, with a little gasp, "You mean—we s
han't meet again?"
He said, with a faint smile, "Certainly we shall. At Max's trial. You'll be called as a witness, but I promise it won't be too awful." His smile broadened. "Goodness, don't look so scared."
She was shaking, almost unable to control her hands. "I'm not scared, only a bit cold." The dawn wind was fingering dust and torn newspapers in the yard, but she did not really notice it. The chill came from her own heart, for Paul was saying goodbye, politely and with awful finality. They would meet again at Max's trial, but that wouldn't count. That wasn't the kind of meeting one wanted, when one was in love. If he went away like this, he would take a part of her heart away with him; a vital part, and she would bleed inwardly of the wound forever. It was true that she had pushed him away from her, only a short time ago—but that was for his own good and no longer necessary, now that Simon wasn't a criminal anymore. Not that he had been, of course, in any true sense of the word. Any reasonable man would surely see that the position was different now, and if Paul didn't see, she wasn't going to tell him, because it simply meant he didn't love her at all.
She went white, then red, and summoning all her courage, she said, in what she hoped was a normal voice, "Goodbye till the trial, then. And thank you for slaying so many dragons."
He bowed slightly. "A pleasure, Princess. Any time you need rescuing, dial my number." But the voice he used came to her ears coldly and remotely, and she could not know how exactly it echoed the tones of her own.
Suddenly he thrust her, almost roughly, into Simon's arms. "Take your sister home. Can't you
see she's out on her feet!" He hurried from the hut, and they heard his feet pound across the asphalt. Going out of my life, thought Sally.
"I hope he gets home safely," said Simon. "They both look the worse for wear. If a copper picks them up for any reason he'll be entitled to the gravest suspicions. I say, you look white. A sort of dirty white, if I may say so. Did Max hurt you?"
"You'd be dirty, chasing all over the yard and crawling on hands and knees. I've ruined my nylons, and I'm cold and tired. Take me home."
Simon tucked an arm cosily under hers, and half carried her to the gate. "Look, Paul has taken Max's car, and left his for us. Oh well, I suppose he'll stay at the White Hart, too, for what's left of the night. I'll take his car round for him in the morning."
So once again Sally rode in Paul's car—for the last time, she thought sleepily. She touched the slightly worn leather affectionately.
Sally awoke to find her mother peering at her. "Hello, pet! You've had a long sleep. I hope I didn't wake you."
"I was waking anyway. What time is it?"
"After lunch. I'll bring your breakfast up. Would you prefer bacon and eggs or mutton chops with caper sauce?"
"Toast and coffee, please. We didn't get in till after four. Have you seen Simon?"
"He was too excited to go to bed, so he cleaned Paul's car quite beautifully and took it round to the White Hart, guessing Paul would be there."
"And was he?"
"Yes. So Simon drove him to his home, to get a change of clothes, and then they both went to see the police. Simon told me Paul and Max fought, and that Max admitted enough to incriminate himself. Is that true?"
"What a lot I've been missing. Yes, Paul says Simon is in the clear. I heard everything so I'm a
witness. Paul said " She stopped abruptly, star-
ing at her mother with wide, frightened eyes. In her white nightdress, with her hair brushed back and no make-up on her soft pink lips, she looked exactly like the child Sally waking from a nightmare.
Her mother prompted gently. "Paul said ?"
"He said goodbye. He meant it."
Hearing the authentic note of despair in her daughter's voice, Mrs. March said, very sensibly, "Tell me about it."
Sally told her. "And at the end, he shook my hand politely and said goodbye, see you at the trial. Just like that! And I thought he loved me!"
"Do you love him?"
"You know I do."
"Look at it from his point of view. You've been doing your best to convince him you didn't want him. How is the poor man to know it was only because of Simon? He can't read your mind. You've sent him away—and if you want him back you must do something about it."
"I couldn't. It would seem like running after him."
"Isn't he worth fighting for?"
"He would be—if I had enough confidence in myself. If I believed he loved me. You see, Mummy, the Prince didn't marry every maiden he rescued from a dragon, because it was his job in life to rescue maidens, and there'd have been so many. In the end he went home and married his own Princess. It must have been hard on the maidens, after the excitement of the rescuing, the fight, the armour clanging away bim, barn! like Simon's old cars—and the poor girl being galloped away on the Prince's horse with his arm round her. You could hardly blame her for being a bit in love with the Prince. Especially if he gave her a kiss or two in the excitement of the moment—as I believe they mostly did, just in a comforting sort of way."
"Has Paul rescued a lot of maidens?"
"He could have. He's the rescuing type."
"In that case, you'll have to be up and doing before any of the others get him. You told him a lot of tarradiddles, and you'll have to untell them."
"I'd feel so ashamed."
Her mother shrugged. "Oh—ashamed! As if that mattered. Can you bear to live all your life without him?"
Slowly, Sally shook her head. "I don't believe I can. But I guess I'll have to. The main point is, Mummy, we are rescued. Simon may still have to appear in Court, but nothing can be pinned on him. Isn't that wonderful?"
Mrs. March's eyes brimmed with quick tears, and she turned away, straightening Sally's collection of little white china horses with careful fingers.
"More than wonderful. Did you say toast and coffee?"
Sally knew how near her mother was to tears, and knew, too, that she would not cry, because somehow, miraculously, one's mother never did. "Lots of toast, and I'll get up for it. I haven't ever been in bed in the middle of the afternoon without being ill."
"Nor have I, except when I went on a school trip to the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley. We arrived home at six a.m., and I told my mother I'd seen the Prince of Wales and his horse carved in butter, life-size. Then I fell asleep without a bit of breakfast. We wore green djibbahs and long black stockings in some stuff called sea-island cotton. They always wrinkled round the ankles. How hideous we looked when we were flappers."
Sally was amused. "What on earth were flappers?"
"Teen-agers, female. Present-day fashions are much prettier and more feminine. In my day, one hadn't a chance unless one had naturally curly hair and a lovely complexion. But I left school quite soon after that, and was promoted to art silk stockings, which still wrinkled round the ankles, and real silk for best. They laddered terribly. I'll go and start the toast."
"And I'll have my bath. Oh—Mummy?"
Mrs. March waited, hand on door, smiling again. "Well?"
"What should I say to him? Paul, I mean. About—you know."
"Leave it to the inspiration of the moment." "You've talked me into forgetting there won't be any moment."
Mrs. March smiled more broadly. "Nonsense, child. He's calling for you at four. That's what I came up to say. I've pressed your best blouse."
Sally leapt out of bed. "And I've been lying here listening to nonsense about flappers! Out of my way, darling! I've work to do."
"The water is lovely and hot," Mrs. March called as Sally flashed past her to the bathroom.
CHAPTER TEN
PAUL arrived wearing a dark suit, formal and correct; he looked very legal indeed, except for the trace of a black eye and a spreading bruise on his jaw. Sally found herself shy.
"You look fresh as a snowdrop," he told her. "I hate to spoil your beauty sleep, but I'd like you to make a statement to the police to-day, if you don't mind."
"Whatever you think necessary.
What must I say?"
"Say what you heard with your own ears; no hearsay, mind. Answer their questions briefly, and don't embroider. Mostly they want a plain yes or no, but few people can resist adding unnecessary fancy work."
She smiled frankly, her shyness evaporating suddenly. "You mean don't tell them about your fight unless they ask. I can manage—most of the talk was before you started it."
"I started it?" Catching her eye, he chuckled. "All right—but under provocation."
"I admit provocation. How is Caro?"
He grimaced. "Oddly enough, she's blazingly angry with everybody, including herself." He rubbed the back of his neck in a familiar gesture. "It makes life at home uncomfortable, but I'd rather have her in a spitting rage than heartbroken. It's healthier than bottling up grief."
"Is she angry with me?"
"She was—for not warning her. I pointed out the difficulties of your position, and told her how you'd tried to warn me--and how I wouldn't listen. She understood, and feels she treated you badly. Poor Sally—we all did."
"My fault. I should have shouted very loud and clear, and not minded what you thought. I'm glad she's angry more than sad."
"I suspect she'd glimpsed the feet of clay and wouldn't admit it even to herself. I may say she is terribly sorry for Simon. She liked him, you know."
"I am relieved. Caro is unspoilt, so—so innocent, like a white tulip, cool and poised and untouched. I hated the thought of Max's touching her, spoiling that loveliness."
"What a kind heart you have, small Sally! You've worried as much for Caro as you have for Simon, in a different way. Now, shall we go? You're not scared?"
"Not a bit. The worst of the nightmare is over, and I'm not scared of anything now. You've been so kind to us, Paul."
He held her coat, politely, distantly. He fought down an impulse to crush her in his arms, to bruise her soft lips with kisses, to be anything but kind to her. The delicate flower-scent she used was in his nostrils; her warm, red mouth was close to his, her soft hair brushed his cheek.
Sally was happy because Paul had come to fetch her, because last night's—or this morning's—goodbye had not been the last word after all. Her happiness bubbled into soft laughter, but when she looked up into his face, she saw with dismay that it was set sternly.