The Other Linding Girl

by Mary Burchell

  “I’m sorry, beloved—for everything.”

  ‘You don’t have to be. I see now why you couldn’t understand my—my rejection of you, and why you were furious. Only, Nigel, couldn’t you guess, from the way I spoke, that I didn’t know the situation? I don’t remember what I said, but surely—”

  “I remember.” And even then his lips tightened slightly at the recollection. ‘You said I had no right to kiss you—that it was an insult, because I wasn’t even a free agent—just a man with no independence.”

  “I said all that?” she sounded slightly shocked. “I’m terribly sorry! But it was true, you see, as far as I knew. And surely you should have guessed then that I didn’t know the real situation.”

  “How could I? It all flared up so suddenly. There wasn’t much time to exercise reasonable judgment.”

  “No, I—I know that.” She ran her hand up and down his arm in a gesture of remorse. “But what did you think I meant when I said you weren’t a free agent—had no independence?”

  “I thought you meant the thing of which I was horribly, guiltily conscious—that I hadn’t really got anything decent to offer a girl in your position. I didn’t really mean to start making love to you like that. Only—” he made a helpless little movement of his hand—“you looked so lovely, I couldn’t help it.”

  “You had every right to do it!” she exclaimed emphatically. “No, darling. And I’ve no right to do it now.” But he smiled and kissed her. “I’m just a pretty rottenly paid research worker. And now we’ve said good-bye to the McGrath money, there isn’t going to be much change in the daily grind, so that—”

  “Are you sure, then,” she interrupted him, with a secret litde smile, “that you aren’t making a mistake in rejecting the McGrath money?”

  “Quite sure,” he said curtly.

  “You thought it over very carefully?”

  “Day and night.”

  “And finally rejected the claim of those who might benefit from your extended research?”

  She had to ask him that, even though she knew, from the quick intake of his breath, that it hurt,

  “Rachel, I didn’t overlook that aspect,” he said earnestly. “For a while I even thought perhaps I should put that consideration before all others, even though it meant eliminating you from the picture. Can you forgive that?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him mischievously, for, knowing the wonderful alternative, she could take all this less seriously than he did. “So you eliminated me from the picture—theoretically speaking. And what did you find?” He pinched the tip of her ear hard for that.

  “I let things ride for a while, trying to decide how life would be if I—accepted. I don’t have to tell you what it would have involved. You—know.”

  “That Fiona meant you to marry her? Yes, I know that, of course.” “At least she would have reserved the right to direct my—”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. She meant to marry you, and you don’t have to lean over backwards in a courtly effort to pretend otherwise. You’re not telling me something confidential that I didn’t know already. It was a foregone conclusion.”

  “All right.” He looked a trifle grim. “It was a foregone conclusion. That was what made it impossible. I realised that if I married her, I should not only be a paid dependent which— heaven knows—would have been bad enough. I should have become an entirely different person.”

  “Ah,” said Rachel softly. “Then Florian was right.”

  “Florian?” He looked annoyed. “What has he to do with it?” "Never mind. I’ll tell you afterwards. You knew that marrying Fiona would have made you—”

  “A creature without a soul,” he finished sombrely. “It’s a horrible thing to say, but she has to possess anyone and anything, in the fullest sense of the term. I shouldn’t have been a man any more. I should have been of no use to anyone—myself or anyone else.”

  “All the money in the world,” Rachel said, half to herself, “and the inspiration dead.”

  “Why, yes.” He looked at her in some surprise. ‘That was how I felt. How well you understand!”

  “Completely,” agreed Rachel, with silent acknowledgments to Florian. “Only it was a decision you simply had to take yourself, Nigel—with no prompting from me or anyone else.”

  “Rachel—” he turned her to look at him—“you’re not only my love. You are a girl in a million. I’ve never done a thing to deserve you, I’ve confoundedly little to offer you. And yet—”

  “And yet I can’t wait to have you offer it,” she told him, with a smile. At which he took her in his arms once more and for a while even discussion was not necessary.

  It was she who finally said, “We must go and join the others, I suppose. They’ll be wondering what on earth has happened to us. ”

  “Let them wonder” he replied callously. But, as though to reprove this indifference to the world, the telephone bell rang at this moment, with a shrill suddenness which made them both jump.

  Immediately, Rachel was her uncle’s efficient secretary, though Nigel spoiled the impression slightly by delaying her with a kiss as she leaned over to pick up the receiver.

  “Can Sir Everard Linding take a call from Paris?” enquired an impersonal voice. And Rachel cried, “Oh, yes, indeed!” on such a note of rapturous excitement that there was an astonished pause. Then the same voice enquired, “Is Sir Everard Linding there?”

  “No. I’ll get him,” Rachel promised. And, putting down the receiver, she exclaimed, “It’s a call from Paris, for Uncle Everard. Could you tell him, please, Nigel?’ Nigel went off, with a reasonably good grace, and she heard him go upstairs two steps at a time.

  For a few blissful seconds she sat there, staring into space, telling herself that the caller could only be Florian who, with perfection of timing, was choosing this evening, of all evenings, to complete his arrangements with her uncle for their joint offer to Nigel.

  Then she heard her uncle’s voice speak on the upstairs extension and, at almost the same moment, Nigel came back into the room.

  “He’s taking the call upstairs,” Nigel explained, and his face wore a slightly puzzled expression. “And he said something so odd to me. Like someone offering a kid a treat, he said, ‘You’d better listen in on the extension. You might hear something to your advantage.’ What do you suppose—”

  “Oh, the darling! How clever of him! Quick—don’t miss anything—” and Rachel thrust the receiver towards him.

  “What’s going on here?” began Nigel. But she refused to let him waste more time. She clapped the receiver to his ear, and then sat there, watching the changing expressions follow each other across his beloved face.

  It was, she thought, the most fascinating thing she had ever seen, as puzzlement gave way to sudden rigid attention. Then bewilderment was followed by incredulous hope and, finally, by the most shining joy she had ever seen on anyone’s countenance.

  “May I—may I say a word?” she heard him stammer. “I don’t know quite what has hit me—only I can’t let you go on without finding some word of thanks. But it’s difficult—I’m nearly punch-drunk with joy—because, you see, Rachel’s just agreed to marry me, too—”

  Whatever one or other of them said to that made him laugh, though shakily, and his voice was still unsteady as he tried to express his thanks. Then at last he slowly replaced the receiver and looked across at Rachel.

  “Do you know what they were talking about?” he said, passing a bewildered hand over his hair.

  “I can guess.”

  “They want to—to back me, to support my work. Both of them, Rachel. Not only Everard—though God knows that’s astonishing enough—but Florian too. I don’t understand. How does it happen? Has it something to do with you?”

  “A little—” she began. At which he snatched her into his arms and demanded a full explanation.

  She gave it to him—as best she could for his loving, incredulous interruptions. And when she came to the conversation
between herself and her uncle after the involuntary departure of Keith Elman, he shook his head incredulously and said,

  “I told you that you were a girl in a million. I was wrong, of course. It’s ten million.”

  “But what about him?” Rachel countered quickly. “Don’t you think it was simply wonderful of Uncle—not only to take the business about Hester so well, but actually to feel that he owed you something, literally, for the injustice he had done you?”

  “Yes,” Nigel agreed very seriously. “It was wonderful of him, as you say. I only hope I can prove myself worthy of so much generosity and trust—from them both.”

  “Of course you can,” Rachel cried, in the fullness of her confidence and joy. “Everything is possible, now that we have each other.”

  “Oh, darling—” he laughed, but his eyes shone— “that’s the answer, of course. Everything is possible, now that we have each other. You are my inspiration and my delight. Let’s go upstairs and tell the others our news, and I’ll try to find the words to explain to Everard how I feel about his trust in me.”

  So, hand in hand, they mounted the stairs to the first floor again. But, as soon as they re-entered the drawing room, it was obvious that Sir Everard had been unable to resist the temptation to be first with the news.

  Everyone turned a smiling face upon them. Even Oliver Mayforth, Rachel noticed. But, before she could register surprise at this, she was hit by the much greater astonishment of seeing her sister, unusually flushed and bright-eyed, share a glance of intimate amusement and understanding with the assistant surgeon.

  “Surely,” thought Rachel, “it can’t be that Elizabeth—” But then she was engulfed by congratulations and good wishes, and everyone talked at once.

  It was not until some time later that she managed to come and sit quietly beside her father and whisper,

  “Are you—satisfied, Father?”

  “If you are, my dear—” Dr. Linding looked at his second daughter with a sort of humorous tenderness—“then I am delighted. One thing is certain. In your Nigel’s eyes, you will never be ‘the other Linding girl’.”

  “Oh, no!” Rachel laughed, for it seemed that a lifetime separated her now from her Loriville identity. “That was the very beginning of it, in a way, wasn’t it? My feeling that I had to get away on my own, and then Uncle’s offer to have me as his secretary. Dear Uncle Everard! How much we owe him. How shall Nigel and I ever be able to repay him?—or Monsieur Florian either?”

  “You won’t,” replied Dr. Linding. “That’s life.”

  “But shouldn’t one do something about it—out of the great riches of one’s own happiness?” exclaimed Rachel.

  “Of course,” her father said. “And the discovery of that truth is the beginning of maturity. As you go through life, my dear, many people will do you a kindness. You will very seldom be able to return it to the same person, but you must return it to someone. Remember that.”

  “I’ll remember,” Rachel promised softly. And, as she saw Nigel coming across the room towards her, she whispered to herself, “So much to return! So much! ”

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