At first he did not seem in a hurry to get on to the subject of his novel—indeed he seemed to shy away from it, and Fay knew intuitively that he was afraid that she was going to hurt him. She felt very sorry for Geoff—sorry that he should have centred his love on her, for she knew that she could never return it in the measure he wanted to give. But she had a great tenderness, even a deep affection for him.
"Do I have to go on calling you 'Sister?' " he asked as the meal progressed.
"No, of course you don't. My name's Fay."
"I know," he nodded, "and it suits you perfectly."
It did just cross her mind to wonder how he had known, for at St. Edith's she was naturally called nothing but Gabriel, but she preferred to think that his next question was a non sequitur.
"Are you and Mr. Osborne related in some way?" he asked. She disclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh no, not at all. But his grandmother was my mother's godmother."
"I see," he nodded thoughtfully. "But you'd met him before you came to the hospital, hadn't you?"
Fay strove to sound casual and natural. "Oh yes. I spent last Christmas with Mrs. Travers—that's his grandmother—and Mr. Osborne was one of the house party."
After that they got on to the book. "How do you think it's going?" he asked a little hesitantly.
"Splendidly!" she told him with an enthusiasm that was not simulated. "I think there isn't the slightest shadow of doubt that you'll find a publisher if you keep on as you're going at present."
"I did just wonder if I was being too devious," he confided. "You know—going into too many sort of, well, sidetracks—"
"I'm afraid they're called 'abortions' in the trade," she told him. "But don't worry about them—the more the better! It keeps the reader on his toes—guessing until the last chapter. The course of true love never did run smooth," she finished with a smile.
"So long as it triumphs in the end?" he asked with a bright smile.
"We-e-ll, the public do like a happy ending in the main," she confessed, and then added, "but you could turn it into a very readable novel even without the conventional ending. They say," she went on quickly to mitigate those words, "they say that every great writer must suffer a little. Which reminds me—what happened to that girl of yours—your fiancée, was she?"
"Jocelyn? Oh no, there was never anything serious between us. Besides being a ballet dancer she's mad keen on every
form of sport, and when it became obvious that though I'm going to be all right for most things I wasn't going to be able to keep up with her in sporting activities, she gave me the brush-off."
"I'm sorry," Fay murmured.
"It didn't hurt at all," he told her. "I wish it had, then perhaps I could hope to escape in future."
His eyes were searching her face and she knew that he was trying to read her mind behind it. She wanted to give him what he was asking—happiness, not pain, but she dared not commit herself—not yet. She dared not give him too much hope—although her own hopes had died long ago.
"You may be lucky," she told him with an attempt at lightness.
"Then I can go on hoping?" he asked eagerly, and her heart sank, for it was evident in spite of her efforts that their conversation had gone far deeper than the superficial level at which she had been trying to keep it.
"We all hope not to get hurt," she told him a little bleakly from her own experience, "but life is not always kind." And when they parted she kissed him at his request. It was a cool, sisterly salute on the cheek. It seemed the best way of preventing his hopes from rising too high without killing them altogether.
As Fay was passing through the porter's lodge at the main gates of the hospital that evening a small disreputable car drew up alongside with a great deal of noise. One glance was sufficient to tell her that it was Shorty. She did not feel in the mood just then for Shorty, and she frowned slightly as he hailed her.
"Where've you been?" he demanded.
"Out," she replied laconically. "It's my day off."
Shorty grinned. "Like that, is it? Well, His Lordship's been doing his nut trying to find you."
"Who?" Fay asked, startled.
"The boss. Osborne."
"What did he want?" Fay was frowning even more now. "Surely Miles could do anything he wanted."
"Oh, maybe. But this was private and personal."
"Don't act the fool, Shorty—"
"No—straight!" he stopped her. "I think it's some family trouble. His grandmother—yes, that's it."
"What's the matter with her?" Fay caught her breath.
"Had a stroke or something—wants to see you. But don't ask me why. Anyway, there's a note waiting for you over in your room."
"Then why didn't you tell me so at once instead of blethering?"
" 'S'not often I get a look in these days," Shorty grinned again somewhat ruefully, then added, "How's young Wentworth?"
Fay was startled. She had not told anyone, not even Mr. Oliver, that she was seeing Geoff today.
"Why ask me?" she said shortly.
"Well, that's where you've been, isn't it? Seeing Geoff. That's what His Lordship seemed to think, anyway."
"Damn!" Fay muttered under her breath, and to Shorty, "I'd better get over and see what's in that letter. Thanks for the message."
The note was brief and hastily scrawled on a sheet of hospital paper. It was dated but had no address. "Have just had a message from Beechcroft. Toni has had another stroke. Her doctor doesn't expect her to last more than forty-eight hours. She's asking to see you, but I've been unable to locate you and can wait no longer. Please come down by the eight-forty-five from Baker Street. Will meet you at the junction. Mark Osborne. P.S. Have arranged with Matron for you to be free tomorrow."
Of course she would go to Toni without the slightest hesitation, but Mark's peremptory assumption that she would sent a little niggle of anger through her. At the same time she had to commend his forethought, for it would have been too late now to contact Matron and arrange the necessary alterations to the duty roster.
When she was in the train bound north-westward from London it seemed to Fay that it had been only yesterday or the day before that when she had come out to see Toni. Actually it was six weeks, but the countryside had not lost its freshness in spite of the spell of warm sunshine. Then she had
been reading Geoff's manuscript, and today the problem was just the same. She had almost convinced herself that to Geoff half a loaf would be preferable to no bread at all—that he would be content with what she had to give him. She felt sure she could make him happy and be at least not unhappy herself. He was not the sort of man to demand that she should give up her career entirely. She would still be able to do part-time nursing and look after Geoff as well. Unless, of course, he wanted children— Always at that point Fay's thoughts switched to some entirely different subject. She did not realise that it was deliberate on her part—she did not recognise that she was evading the realities.
Mark was on the platform at the junction. "You made it, then?" was all the greeting he vouchsafed.
"How is she?" Fay asked.
"She's sinking—but things are much as Dr. Nichols said. She may last one, two days perhaps—or she may go quite quickly. She's holding on to see you, though. Seems to have something on her mind she wants to say to you."
"She can still speak, then?"
"Yes—but I should warn you that she has lapsed back entirely to her native tongue. Do you speak Italian at all?" "No, not a word."
"Never mind—I'll be there to translate—or the au pair girl. Toni will understand if you speak to her in English, but she can't seem to get her tongue round it."
Soon they were speeding through the country lanes. Fay stole an occasional glance at Mark's profile as he drove, all his attention seeming to be on the road.
"What's the matter?" he asked at length, and without need of an explanation Fay realised that he had been aware of her scrutiny.
"I thought you looked tired," she sai
d. "Have you been up all night?"
"Yes," he confessed. "But I did shave."
They did not speak again, and soon Mark was swinging the big car through the gates of Beechcroft. This time there was no Toni on the terrace and the french doors to her room were closed. Mark stopped the car at the steps and took Fay in through the front door.
On her last visit she had not passed through the hall at all, and for a brief instant she almost expected it to look the same as the last time she had seen it, with all the Christmas trimmings Her eyes flew to the chandelier from which the mistletoe had hung. There was none there now.
It would have been startling if it had been there at the beginning of July, but not so startling as to hear Mark saying, "It looks different now, doesn't it?" just as though he had read her every thought. "Have you still got your fairy doll?" He turned to her with a little smile, and when she nodded he went on, "Let's see, what was it Toni said it would bring you? Your heart's desire?"
Fay wondered if he were being deliberately cruel—or whether he did not know how much memory could hurt. He gave no clue, but said instead, "Do you want a wash, or will you come straight in?"
"I'll go straight to Toni, please."
The nurse and the au pair girl were both in Toni's room—the nurse with a suitably subdued professional expression, but the young girl with red-rimmed eyes. Mark sent them both away and went up to the bedside.
"Toni—Toni," he said, trying to catch her attention. "I've brought your angel child to see you."
Fay approached the bed on the other side, and it seemed to her that the only thing alive in it was Toni's lustrous dark eyes. Neither age nor the seizures had dimmed them, nor altered their expressiveness. Plainly she was delighted to see Fay, though the few words she whispered were so low that even Mark could not make out what she said.
Fay bent and kissed the waxen cheek. "Hullo, Toni dear," she said. "I'm sorry to find you so poorly. I hope you haven't got any pain?"
Mark bent low to catch what she said, and translated, "She says no pain and that she's so pleased you have come."
Fay smiled by way of reply and took one of Toni's hands in hers. There was a slight pressure in response.
They remained like that for some time, with each of Toni's hands in one of theirs. Then she seemed to try to rouse herself a little. Her eyes sought Mark's face and she whispered a few halting words, then looked at Fay.
"Say yes, you promise," Mark translated urgently.
Obediently Fay spoke the words, "Yes, I promise, Toni," and smiled into those bright eyes. There was an answering gleam in them for a moment—and it was all over.
It had been Fay's lot in her career to witness many deaths and remain unmoved, but now she wanted to cry—but did not dare.
The quietness in the room seemed to have grown heavy as they stood there motionless. At last Mark moved, and released Fay's hand from Toni's fingers. "She was a great person," he said quietly, "and a very wise woman."
Fay nodded. "I wish I'd met her earlier. Yet in some ways I'd known her all my life. Mother used to talk of her so often."
Mark led her to the door. "Send the nurse in, will you? I won't be long."
Fay found the others in the kitchen with Mrs. Horsfall and when she had given her message she stayed for a moment or two with the housekeeper.
"I'm glad you came that last time—back in May," the housekeeper told her. "Mrs. Travers did enjoy it so much—she often spoke of it. But time didn't mean anything to her—she always thought that it was just yesterday that you had come and that you'd be down again tomorrow. We used to let her think that, because she was a bit worried because there were something she had meant to say to you before you left that day, but she couldn't remember what it was. She never did remember, bless her heart, but you may be sure it was some kindly thought. D'you know I don't think I ever heard Mrs. Travers say anything unkind about anyone—though there was plenty of occasion for it, even among members of her own family."
That had been true enough, Fay thought, remembering the Christmas house party. Toni had indeed been very tolerant.
Fay wandered back into the hall just as Mark came out of Toni's room. He came towards her, but stopped in a pool of sunlight which fell through the tall window on the spot where the firelight had glowed on her last visit and they had all gathered round with noise and laughter.
"You'll miss her," Fay said quietly.
"Yes," Mark agreed. "There has always been Toni. As long as I can remember anything it has been Toni and this house."
"Will you keep the house?" Fay found herself asking in the way one does when words and thoughts come with difficulty.
"Oh yes," Mark answered without hesitation. "She would have wanted that."
Toni's wishes reminded Fay, and she asked, "What was it I promised her to do?"
For a moment Mark looked at her in silence. Then an expression strangely at variance with his weariness crept into his eyes. It surprised Fay and she could not read it aright. It was almost of amusement—or mischief?
"You promised to be my wife and the mother of my children," he told her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ANGER, white-hot and searing, flared through Fay and left her icy cold. Not knowing that she was speaking, she heard a voice, her voice, dropping words like chiselled pieces of stone into the pool of silence. "You despicable, lying cheat!"
She saw Mark's eyes widen for a moment, almost as though he was surprised. She saw his lips open as though he was going to speak, but she did not give him time.
"I suppose you think it clever to keep your marriage a secret from Toni—because she didn't approve of early marriage. Because she might have disinherited you if she had known. All right, lie away—that's your own affair. But to trick me into making that promise—how dare you involve me in your deceit !"
Mark spoke then, and his voice was so low and quiet that Fay had the feeling that her own voice had been raised, and to add to her anger she felt she had put herself at a disadvantage.
"At least it made Toni happy at the last," he said, "and the fact that you didn't know what you were promising surely absolves you from fulfilling it."
Brown eyes met blue, and neither wavered in their glance.
Then Fay spoke again with chilly distinctness. "Toni wouldn't thank you for happiness based on a lie—and that's what you've made me do. A promise to me is something to be kept—something sacred. And you've turned it into a lie."
"Then we shall have to see what we can do to make it possible for you to keep your promise, shan't we?" Now there
was a distinct and hideous glint of amusement in Mark's eyes which drove Fay's anger to white heat again.
"Never in a thousand years—" she began, and then had to break off as the door from the kitchen quarters opened and Mrs. Horsfall came through.
"The coffee won't be a moment," she said to Fay. "I expect you could do with a cup after your early start." And then turning to Mark, she went on, "Have you drafted the telegrams, Mark? If you'll do that then I can phone them through for you on the other phone while you get on to the solicitors and suchlike."
"All right, Horsey, I'll go and do that right away—if you'll excuse me?" The last words were addressed to Fay, but she did not reply.
"Did she speak to you, Miss Gabriel?" the housekeeper asked in a rather unsteady voice. "She did so want to see you again."
"Yes." Fay felt suddenly drained of her anger and of everything else except sorrow. "Yes, she spoke to me, but unfortunately I can't understand Italian."
"Did she remember what it was she wanted to ask you?"
Fay felt Mrs. Horsfall's eyes on her. She had a feeling that the housekeeper knew what that something was, and her reply was guarded.
"I don't know. Yes, I think perhaps I did—"
"And were you able to put things right for her?"
"I think I gave her the assurance she wanted." Fay knew she was being stilted, but not now or ever would she confide to anyone the impass
e into which Mark's perfidy had led her. And in truth in those first moments she hardly knew herself what was involved.
The au pair girl brought a tray of coffee cups and Fay sipped the hot liquid. It seemed that it was what she had needed, for suddenly she knew what she had to do now.
"What's the number of the local garage?" she asked. "I had to get special leave from the hospital and I should get back there as soon as possible. There's nothing I can do here now, is there?"
"No," Mrs. Horsfall agreed, "but won't you wait for Mark
—he's sure to be going back later on. And you should have some lunch before you go."
"Thank you very much—but I really ought to catch the first available train," Fay insisted
As the train, gathering speed, lengthened the miles between her and Beechcroft Fay felt her anger dying. She fought to keep it alive because she knew that once it was gone she would feel shrivelled and empty.
Anger, however, was something at which Fay was not very adept. Reason cancelled it out. Reason and understanding—perhaps most of all understanding. She could understand although she deplored the motive which had activated Toni to want her grandson to stay unmarried until his career was firmly established. She could understand that Mark, out of love for his grandmother, would not want to go against her wishes. But she could understand—oh, how she could understand !—that stronger love which had come to him, making likes and deceit a small price to pay in exchange for it. Yes, she could understand that out of her own experience. But he should not have tricked her into giving that impossible promise.
That was cruel—he should not have made her give Toni that unequivocal "Yes." He should have found some way, some lie that would have made Toni happy yet not have · placed the burden on her. Yet even with the thought there sprang up an excuse for him. He had not realised just how much that promise would cost her. She was only gradually becoming aware of the total cost herself.
Back at the hospital she went straight to Matron's office before going to her own quarters. "Come in," answered her tap at the door, and Matron looked up and nodded to her. She was on the telephone and it was only a second before Fay knew to whom she was talking.
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