One Man's Heart

by Mary Burchell

  “But—don’t you think—at least one has good spi­rits and resilience then?” There was a strange, almost pleading note in Hilma’s voice when she said that. Almost as though she begged her mother to confirm some struggling little theory that was trying to find place in her own mind.

  But Mrs. Arnall shook her head again—much more emphatically this time.

  “No, I can’t imagine anything more dreadful, Hil­ma, than to be young and gay, with a great capacity for enjoying oneself—and nothing whatever to enjoy. That’s why I’m so thankful you’re marrying a rich man. Someone who can give you your right setting. You’ll be able to have lovely clothes while you’re still young enough and pretty enough to set them off. You’ll be able to travel at a time when enjoyment means more than comfort and so you will feel the novelty and adventure of it all, instead of sitting about on decks or on hotel verandas watching others do the interesting things, as one does when one is older. You’ll be able to plan out the best kind of education for your children without counting up how much it costs. And—and—oh, everything,” finished Mrs. Arnall, vaguely but comprehensively.

  Hilma looked sombrely at her mother. She knew the force of all those arguments. In speaking, her mother might put clothes first and the children’s education last but she didn’t mean it too literally that way. She was arguing the case for the desirability of money—for its solid advantages as well as its frivo­lous pleasures.

  Well, of course, there was nothing in all this that she had not told herself long ago. If one loved the good things of life—and Hilma admitted grimly that she did—it was pretty bitter to have to do without them consistently. As her mother said, perhaps it was easier never to have known them. Once one had known them—well, one recognised the wisdom of making sure of them for the future.

  “…So, you see, dear”—her mother had been deve­loping her theme at some length, unknowing that Hil­ma was not following her—”that was why I was so delighted when I realised you were making up your mind to accept Roger. That and the fact that he’s so extremely nice, of course,” she added hastily.

  “Yes, he’s—an awfully good sort, you know, Mother.” Then she realised suddenly that she was quoting someone else, and that that was not quite the kind of thing one said of one’s fiancé, in any case. “He is a dear,” she added conscientiously, and her mother earnestly agreed.

  “Well, I suppose we ought to go to bed now.” Hil­ma smiled at her mother. “It must be very late.”

  “Yes, of course we must. Did you meet anyone interesting there?”

  Hilma had half turned away to the bed already, so that her mother could not have seen how her eyes widened and a faintly rigid look came round her mouth.

  “There were one or two new friends of Bar­bara’s—no one very special. Oh, Roger met Evelyn Moorhouse, the daughter of the banker. I wasn’t there when be was introduced. He said she seemed very charming.”

  “Evelyn Moorhouse? Dear, dear, she must be worth a good deal. Old Owen Moorhouse left enough, goodness knows, and I think she was the only daugh­ter.”

  “Maybe.” For the life of her, Hilma could not in­fuse any warmth into her tone. And seeing at last that Hilma was determined to go to bed, Mrs. Arnall said good-night and left her.

  Hilma got into bed, switched off the light, and lay there looking into the darkness.

  “You know, Lieb­ling.” he had said, “the trouble with you and me is that we are not complete world­lings ... We have a sad streak of romanticism in us, which is continually betraying us.”

  She sighed and turned over restlessly.

  But then they had both agreed that, once they were married, they would have little opportunity to develop that romanticism.

  Perhaps it was all right, after all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the middle of the next afternoon Barbara appeared, very pretty and smart in a maroon-coloured trouser suit.

  “Hello! I’ve come to talk over the evening.” This was one of Barbara’s specialities, she loved to hold cheerful inquests on anything she had particularly enjoyed. “Wasn’t it fun, Hilma? Aunt Cecily, you can’t imagine how marvellous it was. Aren’t you glad I made you make Roger bring you?”

  She turned from one to the other, asking questions and making comments, but very seldom waiting for the replies.

  “I thought Hilma looked lovely, Aunt Cecily. So sort of remote and exquisite. You did, Hilma. It was such a lovely dress. I hope there wasn’t any per­manent damage done, was there?”

  “Why, was your dress hurt, Hilma?” Mrs. Arnall looked distressed. Hilma had never looked nicer in anything and it would be impossible to replace.

  “No, Mother, nothing to speak of.”

  “There, I suppose I’ve put my foot in it,” Bar­bara remarked with cheerful contrition. “She probably didn’t mean to tell you anything about it, Aunt Cecily. I forgot. Of course, one doesn’t tell mothers that sort of thing. However sweet they are—and you are sweet, Aunt Cecily—they feel it’s their duty to be shocked. I shouldn’t have told Mother, now I come to think of it. But when you’re married it’s different. You’ll find it is, Hilma. If you harm your things then—well, you’ve only got yourself to moan to. And anyway, you’ll be all right with Roger. He’s the kind who’ll quite enjoy buying you new things. Start training him as you mean to go on. I did with Jim. And now he’s just as interested as I am in what his wife looks like.” And Barbara laughed contentedly.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t much hurt Hilma?” en­quired poor Mrs. Arnall, who could not bring herself to dismiss it all so gaily as this. “Was it torn? Or was something upset on it?”

  “It was torn. Only a little—nothing that mat­tered.”

  “Where was it torn?”

  “On—just at the—at the waistline where the gathers come. The attendant in the cloakroom stitched it back perfectly. There’s nothing to worry about” Hilma ex­plained hastily. She found she very much disliked in­venting like this to her mother.

  “Well, if you’re sure?”

  “Yes, quite sure.”

  “There were some awfully interesting people there,” struck in Barbara again, apparently under the impres­sion that Hilma’s damaged dress had already occu­pied its fair share of the conversation. “The new Earl and Countess of Carbough, and Julie Fox. Marvel­lous! She’s gone blonde again. And Edward Maine. They say the camera can’t lie, but I must say he looks ten years older off the screen than on. Then there was Sir Miles and his wife. She’s a bit intense and scraggy now, but you can still see she’s been a beauty. Oh, and Evelyn Moorhouse—the Moorhouse heiress, you know. We and Roger were introduced, as a matter of fact. Let me see—why weren’t you introduced, too, Hilma? Oh, of course. It was when you were having your dress put right. Pity. She’s quite attractive. Didn’t she get engaged some time ago? I’ve forgotten who the man was. No one important, if I remember rightly. Ah, well. I suppose if you’re an heiress, you can marry for love.”

  “Come, Barbara, you aren’t going to pretend that you did anything else, are you?” Hilma spoke smoothly and her smile held just the right degree of teasing amusement.

  “Oh, well—no. Though I always tell Jim that if he’d been a thousand a year poorer he would just have missed the boat. After all, one must fix a limit.”

  “My dear! But one doesn’t say so in so many words.” protested her aunt with some delicacy—and some ingenuousness, Hilma thought.

  “I do,” Barbara said cheerfully, And Mrs. Arnall withdrew, faintly ruffled, from the argument.

  “Can you come over on Sunday, Hilma? In the afternoon. There are quite a crowd of us going on afterwards to a cocktail party at the Burnthorpes. We’d like it if you’d come.”

  Barbara meant it. She was a generous-hearted young creature, and it gave her real pleasure to be able to include her cousin as much as possible in anything they were doing. She knew how circumstances had changed for the Arnalls, and she was among the few who had not cooled off just a little in conse
quence.

  But this time Hilma shook her head.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I can’t on Sunday.”

  “Oh, were you going somewhere with Roger? You could bring him along, too, if you liked.”

  “No, I’m not going with Roger.”

  “Oh?” Barbara looked at her with frank inquisitiveness. She never demanded any privacy about her own actions, and was quite incapable of understand­ing why anyone else should wish for such a thing. The glance drew no information, however, and after a moment she said, “Well, never mind. Still, I’m sorry. The Moorhouse girl and her fiancé were coming. It would have given you a chance to meet her.”

  “Coming to your place, do you mean?” Hilma could not keep the astonished interest out of her voice.

  “Oh, no, to the Burnthorpes’ cocktail party after­wards.”

  “I see,” Hilma said. But she was really thinking: “He can’t be going to this wretched cocktail party if he’s spending the afternoon with me at Richmond. Well, of course, he’s not staying long. That’s the ex­planation. He isn’t ‘spending the afternoon with me.’ Just having a word or two. Much more sensible. It was silly of me to suggest anywhere so far out. That means he can’t stay long, if he’s to get back to Town, collect Evelyn and take her on to the cocktail party.”

  She found, to her surprise, that she was becoming quite accomplished at pursuing her own line of thought and yet managing to hold her place in a con­versation. All the time Barbara’s stream of chatter was running on she contrived to say just enough to keep it going, and yet was able to work out to herself just what would—or might—happen on Sunday.

  When Barbara had gone, Mrs Arnall said, quite innocently:

  “Where are you going on Sunday, dear?”

  It was unusual for her to make any enquiries about Hilma’s activities, perhaps because she usually ac­cepted the idea that Hilma was out with Roger. But in this case Hilma had owned quite specifically that she was not going with Roger, and, although Mrs. Arnall entertained no sort of suspicion, she did enquire quite casually where she was goings.

  Just for a second Hilma hesitated. Then she ex­plained quite calmly and circumstantially that she was going to tea with some friend of hers of whom her mother knew, but with whom she was not actually acquainted.

  Mrs. Arnall was perfectly satisfied, displayed no further curiosity, and the incident passed off. But Hil­ma hated the whole business suddenly.

  One could not go on making appointments where one had to lie and deceive in order to keep them! That had never been in her scheme of things, and it made her feel strange and unhappy to be doing it now.

  Not that there was any question of “going on mak­ing” such appointments. He must know that as well as she.

  They had both enjoyed their unconventional little flutter of romance—had been prepared to end it with that single meeting. But for the dark background of the murder, the whole incident had been light, amus­ing, entirely insubstantial. To this day they were even ignorant of each other’s names.

  It had been really a little unfortunate that they should have met again—it gave a certain significance to the whole thing which neither of them would have been prepared to accord it. They were commonsense—even slightly cynical—people, who knew their world very well. They both had very definite schemes for their future, and neither of them was likely to confuse the substance with the shadow.

  Hilma felt better when she had worked all that out to herself. For five minutes she even convinced herself that it would be better not to keep the Sunday ap­pointment, but simply to let the whole incident slip away into oblivion.

  There was something a little cheap and foolish, however, in making an appointment and not keeping it. If she had had time to think, she would never have made it, of course, and no doubt he was reflecting on much the same lines by now. Still, the appointment had been made, and politeness and a certain cool common sense demanded that it should be kept. To break it ostentatiously would imply, for one thing, that it was a great deal more important than it was.

  After all, presumably anyone could meet anyone in Richmond Park and go for a stroll on a Sunday after­noon. No one could pretend there was anything spe­cially significant in that.

  When Hilma reached the Robin Hood Gate on that Sunday afternoon, it seemed as though quite a num­ber of people shared this view. Certainly there were plenty of them strolling about in the autumn sunshine. Children, couples, family parties—meeting, parting, talking, playing, flirting.

  At first she thought: “Oh, dear. I hadn’t realised there would be so many people! Then she reminded herself that solitude was hardly necessary for any in­terview they might have. Besides, further inside the Park one could find quiet and unfrequented ways.

  She was a little early, the bus having taken less time than she had expected, but she had only been strolling up and down for a few minutes when she saw him coming.

  He walked with a long, swinging, easy stride which she felt was characteristic, and she noticed that his slight, unselfconscious air of distinction made more than one person glance at him as he passed. He was entirely unaware of it, she saw, and the first time the settled gravity of his expression lifted was when his eyes lighted on her.

  He smiled and came forward, raising his hat. And then she realised what it was that was faintly incon­gruous about this meeting. They were seeing each other by daylight for the first time. It gave a prosaic touch which had been lacking in their previous en­counters, and she wondered a little how it would af­fect their attitude to each other.

  He held her hand perhaps a fraction longer than was necessary as he greeted her. Then he said abruptly:

  “I parked the car. I thought you would rather walk. But if you prefer driving, I can fetch it again in a few minutes.”

  “No, thank you, I’d rather walk,” she told him. And then, a little curiously, she added, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

  “Oh, yes.” He had fallen into step beside her, and by common consent they turned down the path which offered most likelihood of solitude.

  “What kind?” She was making polite conversation, still very much aware of the bright October sunshine and the open air and the complete lack of fantasy about this meeting.

  “E-type Jag.”

  “Oh, how nice.” That was still polite conversation, but this time she thought: “Expensive tastes. Yes, he was right about having those. And there’s nothing mass-production about that suit either.”

  Indeed she felt fairly certain that the light grey suit he was wearing had not been made more than half a mile from Savile Row.

  “It was nice of you to come,” he said suddenly. She noticed he no longer used the term “Lieb­ling.” Per­haps he, too, was aware that a sunny afternoon was not in keeping with the light, rather frothy little scenes which had taken place before.

  “Well, it could hardly be a nicer afternoon for a walk, could it?” she smiled agreeably.

  “No, it could hardly be a nicer afternoon,” he agreed. “I suppose autumn and spring are your favou­rite times of the year?”

  “Why?” She looked slightly surprised.

  “Because they have that quality of faint melancholy which we once discussed, and which I think you said gave one a feeling of added tenderness towards things.”

  “Oh! Like Viennese—beauty,” she said slowly.

  “Yes, Lieb­ling, like Viennese beauty.”

  He had said it! Quite simply. Quite naturally. And, strangely enough, it fitted the mood of the afternoon after all.

  She thought deliberately: “We’ll keep things on a prosaic level, though. As long as we keep the situation well in hand, we can say good-bye this afternoon without any unnecessary regrets.”

  Aloud, she said: “Do you know that you and I nearly met at a cocktail party this afternoon?”

  “No, did we? How was that?”

  “Well, you’re going on to a cocktail party later, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he sa
id, “I’m not.”

  “Oh!” Hilma was faintly put out. “But I thought it was arranged. Weren’t you going to the Burnthorpes’ place?”

  “No.” He smiled slightly. “This arrangement was made first. By the time I heard of the other, my time was not free. I refused the invitation.”

  Hilma wondered a little how Evelyn took refusals of this sort. Somehow, although she had not seen much of the fiancée, she had an idea that she was not a girl who took “No” with a very good grace.

  “You—could have fitted in both, I suppose.” Hil­ma’s tone was casual.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said, and his tone was curt. She had the distinct impression that there had been just a little unpleasantness about the discussion with Evelyn. In a way, that was all to the good. It would mean that he was beginning to realise, as well as she herself, that this friendship of theirs was ill-judged—impossible to pursue beyond the very restricted limits it had already reached.

  It was not that it was dangerous. “Dangerous” was too big a word with which to dignify it. It was ill-judged. That was the exact expression. It cut across their other, and really important, concerns, and, as such, must be dismissed. They would part quite good friends, of course—smilingly, a little regretfully. But there it was.

  She was pretty sure, from his abstracted air, that he had worked things out to much the same conclusion.

  “So you know the Burnthorpes, too?” He spoke at last, breaking quite a long silence.

  “Well, no, as a matter of fact, I don’t know them. They’re friends of a cousin of mine. My cousin want­ed me and—and Roger to go there this afternoon, and then accompany her and her husband to the cocktail party.”

  “All without masks this time, eh?” He looked reflectively ahead, and his smile was a little compli­cated. “That would have been rather a tangling of the threads, wouldn’t it?”