CHAPTER III
“I wish I’d never gone to that wretched ball—or danced with Oliver Mayforth—or, most of all, let him pretend to make love to me! ” muttered Rachel savagely, as she pounded away at her typewriter that afternoon.
It was the most infuriating thing! She had had to pretend, in the end, to be amused, for both Oliver himself and Dr. Denbey would have thought it odd if she had made too heavy weather of it. But she was not really amused at all. For what girl wants to be photographed—much less have that photograph reprinted a hundred thousand times—smiling tenderly at the wrong man?
Not that the term “wrong man” was quite applicable, she reminded herself. For there was no “right man”, as it happened, in her case. But one didn’t want even casual acquaintances to see a photograph like that. What would Sir Everard think?—if anything other than Hester could interest him at the moment. Or her family?—except that no London evening paper was likely to find its way to Loriville. Or Nigel Seton?
She paused an unnecessarily long time over the possibility of Nigel’s reactions. Until it came to her that he would probably hardly be interested. And that it was quite immaterial to her whether he was or not
Rachel was alone in the office now and very nearly at the end of her work The assistant surgeon had told her that he would not be back that afternoon, and a message had also been sent that Sir Everard would not require her either, as he hoped to get some rest, after his broken night and strenuous morning.
“Once you’ve finished that report, you can go and amuse yourself,” Oliver Mayforth had told her, before he went off. And she had an uneasy feeling that the slight touch of indulgence in his manner was his reaction to the unlucky photograph rather than any tribute to the excellence of her work The prospect of being out on her own in London, however, was so attractive that she stifled her uneasy annoyance, finished her work at top speed, and tidied her desk for the day. It was still only three o’clock—and the rest of the afternoon was hers.
As she went out of the Nursing Home, she paused to ask for the latest report on Hester, and as this was satisfactory, she was able to start off on her afternoon’s exploring with a quiet mind.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly she had come to identify herself with the fortunes of her uncle and his family. This time yesterday she had not met any of them Now it was desperately important to her that Hester should recover, that her uncle should not have his domestic happiness ruined, that Nigel should somehow be cleared of a guilt which was not his.
She was very much reminded of him as she walked now along the same street they had traversed together in the early hours of the morning. Now it was quite busy and it was difficult to credit that it had looked deserted and faintly mysterious in the cold light of the waning moon.
“But that was what accounted for my absurd behaviour, of course,” she told herself. “That and the fact that I was dead tired. But fancy crying about it! What a fool he must have thought me. Only he didn’t seem to. He said he understood. I suppose he did And I suppose that was why he kissed me.”
Though why she had kissed him in return she simply could not imagine now. This was the moment when it seemed such an extraordinary thing to have done, and it became impossible to recapture that fugitive mood in which it had seemed quite natural.
“We were none of us quite normal, after the shock of the accident,” Rachel assured herself. And then she came to one of the main shopping streets, and forgot all about her personal affairs ia the delights displayed there.
One is either a window-shopper or one is not. To some people nothing is specially interesting or lovely unless they can themselves hope to possess it. For them there will never be the joyous experience of dawdling along, gazing into this window and that window, revelling ia the beauty and strangeness of merchandise for which they will never have any use.
But Rachel—as she discovered that afternoon—was a window-shopper of passionate intensity. Hardly bothering to notice where she was going, she followed the magic trail along Wigmore Street, across Oxford Street and finally down Bond Street. And it was while she was gazing, entranced, into an antique shop that a voice said amusedly beside her,
“Which are you taking—the samovar or the Chelsea figures?”
“Nigel!” Her delight was instantaneous and unconcealed. “Where did you spring from?”
“A nearby taxi, if you mean that literally, I happened to catch sight of you, and decided to get out here.”
“Oh, then you’re on your way somewhere?”
“Not so urgently that I can’t give you tea first. Unless you’ve already had it?”
“No, I haven’t. I hadn’t even noticed the time.” Rachel glanced vaguely at her watch. “But, now you mention it, I’d love, some tea.”
“Come along, then—” he took her lightly by the arm—“and well find somewhere.”
She could not possibly, have said why, but all at once the whole atmosphere of the afternoon appeared to have changed. It was not that the sun was any brighter, or the air any clearer. It was just that everything seemed to be charged with an added degree of tingling excitement and significance. Perhaps that was the effect that Nigel Seton had upon one. Or perhaps it was simply that even window-shopping—and certainly tea—is more attractive in company than alone.
They found an agreeably secluded corner table in a pleasant tea-room. And, once they had given their orders he said,
“I hear that Hester is going on well?”
“Oh, you do know that?”
‘Yes, indeed. Telephoning is permitted, you know.” He grinned at her across the table, but she could not find that funny, and, when he saw her suddenly sobered expression, he patted her hand as it lay on the table and exclaimed, “Don’t distress yourself again.”
“I’m not going to.” She managed to smile. “At least, you needn’t be afraid I’ll start crying again. I’m sorry about being such an idiot last night— this morning, I mean. But I was overtired and—”
“Don’t apologise. It was the one nice thing in an otherwise appalling evening,” he declared. “But tell me—what have you been doing with yourself this morning?” ‘This morning? I was working. That’s what I came for.”
“Of course, my real and earnest one. I’d forgotten. Honest toil and regular hours. That’s your recipe for life, isn’t it?” He looked faintly mocking.
“It has its place,” Rachel retorted a trifle drily. “We can’t all be erratic geniuses. Which brings us to—what did you do this morning?”
“I confess with shame that I slept late,” he said, without any clear signs of shame in his manner, however. “And then I lunched importantly.”
“How do you mean—‘you lunched importantly’? Another erratic genius?” Rachel enquired.
“No, no. A possible wealthy backer. Someone who might make a very substantial grant towards my line of research.”
“Oh? But are you dependent on that sort of thing?” She looked rather shocked. “I mean, don’t you and your team—for I suppose you have a team ofworkers—get any sort of grant?”
“I have a team of workers, and we get a very meagre grant,” he replied, categorically but without any rancor. “But most of the money we have to find ourselves.”
“But isn't that rather a shame?”
“As you care to look at it. Research requires an act of faith every day, and acts of faith aren’t very popular with committees and government departments. Few men put money into something they’re not sure of. Even someone else’s money,” he added cynically.
“So you’re largely dependent on private backers?”
‘Perhaps the word ‘patron’ or ‘benefactor’ would be more graceful.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it would,” Rachel laughed. “And so you lunched with—a possibility?”
“Very well put. I lunched with a possibility.” He laughed too then, and Rachel found herself wondering if one should be quite so gay, and almost flippant, over a very serious su
bject. But then she looked across at Nigel Seton, and somehow it was not possible to be grave, and she found herself hoping that he really was a worthwhile person with a gay exterior, and not—as her uncle so obviously thought—a lightweight person with a good line of talk.
She wanted so much to be able to like him—even to approve of him Almost more than she had ever wanted anything in her life before. And if all this talk meant very little—
At that points, Rachel made a discovery of profound significance. And that was that there was no question of being able or not able to like him. She just did like him, and that was all there was to it. Whether she had overestimated his worth or under-estimated his faults did not enter into it. She liked him.
And at that moment he said, “Well, what’s the verdict?”
“The—the verdict?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me that all the time you were looking at me with those grave blue eyes you were simply thinking of that large cream bun you’ve been consuming.”
“Oh—” she coloured slightly. “Was I looking at you?”
“Unless you were looking through me,” he said gravely.
“Oh, I wasn’t doing that!” Rachel hesitated a moment, then she said, “I suppose I was thinking how well one can come to know someone in little more than twenty-four hours.”
“Me, for instance?”
“All of you. This time yesterday, I was only just arriving in London. And now I’m deeply involved with my uncle—and Hester—and even a little with you, I suppose.”
“I forgive you that ‘little,’ though with difficulty,” he told her. ‘Particularly as I realise that all of us must take a back place in favour of the one person you have significantly left out. What about Oliver Mayforth, and your deep involvement with him?” And his laughing eyes took on a very mocking glint.
“Oh!” She flushed deeply then. “You mean that idiotic photograph!”
“It was a very good photograph,” he said judicially. “Unmistakable of you both, and extraordinarily revealing.”
“It’s not revealing! I wasn’t looking like that at all.”
“Oh, my dear Rachel! The camera cannot lie.” He was enjoying himself quite unfairly.
“Well, I wasn’t feeling like that, then,” she said crossly. He merely leant back in bis chair and smiled at her.
“I wasn’t—really.” She longed to tell him about her silly agreement with Oliver Mayforth. But the secret was not really hers, and to give it away would have been mean. Besides, her own behaviour now seemed to her so foolish and forward that she was not anxious to discuss it. Instead, with a great effort, she said calmly,
“It’s not important, anyway. Let’s talk about something else. You haven’t really told me how your luncheon appointment went. Do you think he was pretty well impressed, your possible—benefactor?”
“Difficult to say, Rachel.” He sat forward then, with his aims on the table in front of him, and his manner more serious. “You never can tell, with these pedantic, rather humourless men. I was lucky to get the introduction to him, and I hope I told my tale well. But it remains to be seen.”
“Then he wasn’t willing to give an immediate decision?”
“He can’t He’s one member of a big discretionary Trust, left by his father for charitable purposes. Strictly speaking, my work doesn’t come under the heading of charity. But if McGrath—that’s his name—and his sister, who exercises equal powers on the Trust, decided in my favour, the rest would be plain sailing.”
“Couldn’t you perhaps—interest the sister?” suggested Rachel, feeling that an elderly lady given to good works might surely find Nigel more compelling than her pedantic, humourless brother.
“That is my next concern.” Nigel smiled in a way that should do him some good in the sister’s direction, Rachel could not help thinking. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
It was evident that he intended to use his charm to the uttermost, and Rachel supposed, that was all right in such a very good cause. But she thought uncomfortably how outraged her uncle would have been, and she changed the subject.
They lingered for nearly half an hour longer. And, when they left, he accompanied her almost to the doorstep of what he cheerfully designated “the forbidden territory”. He said nothing about seeing her again, and so she could not either. And as Rachel went into her uncle's house once more, the magic of the afternoon seemed to have faded.
The rest of that day and several days which followed were quiet, uneventful and marked only by the bulletins on Hester's progress. Rachel continued to work regularly for Oliver Mayforth, who was an exacting but even-tempered employer. Fools were not suffered gladly, she gathered, by the assistant surgeon. But he had a real appreciation of good work, and a certain air of indulgence towards herself which she had not expected when she first met him.
Of her uncle she saw little, and she guessed that most of his correspondence and office work was dealt with by Oliver Mayforth.
She spent a good deal of her spare time with Paula, who seemed to have taken her mother’s illness with singular calm. But she cried unexpectedly one evening when Rachel went to say good-night to her and, though she refused to say why, the reason seemed so obvious that Rachd did not press her. She merely comforted her as best she could, and said something about, the good time they would have together when Hester returned from the Nursing Home.
“Mummy doesn’t care for the sort of good time you mean,” stated Paula, with uncomfortable acumen. And then, before Rachel could take that up, she said forlornly, “Isn’t it funny that Uncle Nigel hasn’t been here for days? Not since Mummy was ill.”
“I expect he’s busy,” Rachel replied, as naturally as she could.
“But he was never too busy to come in and see me two or three times a week before. And—I miss him.”
There was a slight break in her voice, and at that point it dawned on Rachel that Paula was missing her uncle more than her mother. In an inexplicable way, this so jumped with her own feelings that she felt a perfect fraud as she said—as, indeed, she had to say,
‘I’m sure he’ll be along soon, Paula.”
“I asked Daddy about him,” went on Paula, exactly as though Rachel had not voiced any reassurance.
“Did you?” Rachel strove, not quite successfully, to keep the eager note out of her voice. “And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Run away now, and don’t bother me with silly questions,’ which is what he always says if he doesn’t want to answer,” replied Paula, with rather terrifying daughterly judgment. “And so I think there’s something wrong, and I think Daddy has something to do with it.” Things could not go on like this, Rachel decided. And, since there seemed no one else to handle the situation, she said, with some resolution,
“ tell you what I’ll do, Paula I’ll speak to Uncle Everard myself, and see if he really does know anything. Or can put things right,” she added, setting her chin obstinately. “Will that do?”
“Oh, yes! It will do splendidly!” Paula’s little face brightened out of all knowledge. “I’m so glad you came here to live, Rachel. You make such a difference to everything.”
“Why, thank you, darling.” Greatly touched, Rachel kissed her and tucked her into bed. Then she went downstairs with a warm feeling at her heart. Partly, of course, because of Paula’s uninhibited expressions of approval, but partly because she suddenly found herself able to do battle for Nigel on legitimate grounds. The discovery seemed extraordinarily important.
The glow of satisfaction faded slightly, and was replaced by a slight chill of nervousness, when she came into the drawing-room to find her uncle sitting in a chair by the fire, his cheek leaning on his very beautiful hand, in a picturesque attitude entirely natural to him.
He looked up as Rachel entered and held out his hand to her.
“Ah, my dear, come here. It does me good to see your bright face in these dark days.”
Rachel came across at once and put her hand into his. The
re was really nothing else to do. But it is extraordinarily difficult to go on holding someone’s hand for no special reason. At the same time, it is hard to disengage oneself without appearing to break the line of sympathy. Sir Everard was much given to these gestures, intrinsically telling, but difficult either to maintain or terminate with graciousness. So, feeling at a disadvantage right away, Rachel stood there holding his hand and said resolutely,
'‘Uncle, I want to talk to you about something—”
“My dear, you have an excellent opportunity.” Sir Everard solved her immediate difficulty at this, by releasing her hand of his own free will and indicating the chair opposite. “Tell me all about it,” he said in his mellow voice, as Rachel sat down, feeling rather like a valued patient about to enumerate her symptoms.
‘It’s about Nigel,” she heard herself say, with a bluntness in distressing contrast to her uncle’s well-considered periods and fine gestures.
“Nigel?” Sir Everard frowned, and for a moment she was afraid he was actually going to say that the name was never to be mentioned in his house again. Instead he enquired, with indignant protectiveness, “How has he been troubling you?”
“He hasn’t been troubling me at all,” stated Rachel, in her most matter-of-fact tone. “But his absence is troubling Paula, and I feel I must speak to you about it.”
‘Paula? Paula’s only a child! It’s no business of hers who comes to this house or does not come,” stated Paula’s father somewhat unrealistically.
“I’m afraid it is,” replied Rachel, almost as surprised as Sir Everard to find herself contradicting him flatly. “Paula is an affectionate, intelligent child, with few companions. She is deeply devoted to those she has, and among them Nigel is a favourite. Whether you like it or not,” she added, as her uncle made a gesture of protest
“I do not like it,” Sir Everard stated. “Anyway, I have forbidden Nigel my house, for good and sufficient reasons.”
Rachel controlled her rising temper with difficulty. “They may seem good and sufficient reasons to you, Uncle. But to Paula the whole thing is simply a mystery—and a very distressing one. How is one to explain to her that, quite suddenly, she simply doesn’t see her uncle anymore?”
The Other Linding Girl Page 6