One Man's Heart

by Mary Burchell

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hilma woke slowly and reluctantly the next morning—with that slightly cold, shrinking feeling which is one’s instinctive effort to escape from a half-remembered disaster.

  As she rose to complete consciousness again, she glanced quickly at the clock.

  Her first thought was: “What time would Roger go to see Buck?” Her next: “How had Buck employed the intervening hours? Had he really managed to think up a good story to cover the wretched facts?”

  It was no good worrying. She tried to convince herself that the whole thing was out of her hands now, that she could only wait. But it was anything but easy to present a smiling, unruffled appearance to her mother and father. And when Mrs. Arnall happened to mention something about her wedding dress, Hilma felt it was singularly inappropriate to the moment.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mother. We’ll see about that later.” she said hastily in answer to some enquiry.

  “Well, we haven’t all the time in the world left, you know, dear,” her mother assured her complacently. While Hilma thought grimly:

  “Perhaps there won’t be any need for a wedding dress at all.”

  Then she wondered why on earth she had not made an attempt to get in touch with Buck early in the morning. She could surely have made some sort of excuse to go out and telephone from a call-box. Now it was too late. If she telephoned, Roger might already be there. On the other hand, he might delay going until the afternoon and she would be in this miserable state of indecision all day.

  When her mother suggested that they should go out shopping all the morning, she accepted at first with alacrity, thankful for something to take her thoughts off things. Then, as soon as they were outside in the street, she wondered if Buck might telephone on some urgent point and be appalled to find her away from home.

  However, she was committed to the shopping now, and for what seemed like hours she accompanied her mother in and out of shops, earnestly discussing a trousseau which might never be needed.

  “We might just as well stay out to lunch, dear Mrs. Arnall was really enjoying herself. “I don’t see any sense in going back to cold meat.”

  Hilma would far rather have gone home and made some attempt to find out what had happened, but apart from being unable to find an excuse for doing so, she had not the heart to interrupt her mother’s intense and almost childlike pleasure in their day together.

  Besides, what did it matter? Hilma had now reached a state of fatalistic certainty that everything had gone wrong. What on earth could Buck think of to cover the facts? The only important thing was make sure that he was not himself involved in the mess.

  With this certainty that her engagement to Roger was as good as broken, it seemed almost sinful to allow her mother to spend a happy afternoon inspecting and discussing the display of very exclusive household linen in a big West End store.

  “Not, of course, that there won’t probably be nearly everything you want already in Roger’s house,” she observed with great satisfaction to Hilma. “But you’re sure to want to make some additions. And I know from the way Roger has spoken to me that he means to be very indulgent about anything new you want in the house.”

  “Yes, he’s awfully kind over anything like that,” agreed Hilma, in what she feared was a rather flat tone.

  She succeeded in luring her mother away from the linen department at last, and had just reached the stage of watching her linger lovingly over sundry side-attractions on the way out, when a voice spoke behind her:

  “Why, hello, Miss Arnall! It is Miss Arnall, isn’t it?” And, turning sharply, she found herself face to face with Buck. A Buck whose dancing eyes and very roguish smile had no suggestion of failure about them.

  “Why, Bu—Mr. Vane! Mother, I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Vane, have you?”

  The introduction was effected, and Mrs. Arnall made pleasant conversation, while Hilma tried to read from Buck’s expression just how things had gone. But she could read nothing there except a charming attention and concern for what her mother was saying.

  “I expect you know my daughter is getting married very soon,” Mrs. Arnall was saying. “Such a lot of shopping—but women always enjoy that, don’t they?”

  “So I understand from my fiancée.” He smiled down at Hilma’s mother with exactly the same interest he would have shown to someone half her age.

  “Oh, you’re getting married, too? Oh, well then, you know all about it.”

  “Not really. I suppose a mere male stands outside the final thrills of shopping,” Buck declared. “But I receive detailed reports from time to time.”

  “Mr. Vane is marrying Evelyn Moorhouse, you know,” Hilma explained. “You’ve heard Barbara speak of her.”

  “Of course. Oh—excuse me just one moment.” Mrs. Arnall turned away to hear the report of a shop assistant who had been making some enquiry for her.

  “Well?” Hilma spoke softly but urgently.

  “All right, Lieb­ling, go ahead with the trousseau.”

  “You mean the explanation was satisfactory?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, Buck! How did you do it?”

  “Hilma dear, what do you think about this?” Mrs. Arnall, completely unaware of any drama in the low-toned conversation being carried on a few feet away from her, summoned her daughter to a matter of real importance. “Now don’t you think the white is just a little too hard? That off-white shade is so much more becoming—Yes—would you please hold it up a little more so that my daughter can see how the light falls on it. There, you see what I mean?”

  Hilma didn’t see at all. She hardly took in what her mother was talking about. She only wanted to get back to Buck and hear what story had been made—what attitude she was to take up when she saw Roger.

  “It’s lovely, Mother,” she agreed enthusiastically.

  “The off-white, you mean?”

  Either of them,” Hilma said injudiciously.

  “Oh, no, my dear! There really isn’t any comparison to my way of thinking. You must remember it will be in daylight. That always gives a harder effect. Really, Hilma. I do think the off-white—”

  “Yes, of course, you’re quite right.” Hilma hardly knew if it was a wedding-dress or a tablecloth that they were discussing. But, with quite brilliant salesmanship, the assistant blessedly recalled the fact that there was yet another shade to be considered—”a very rich cream, madam”—and while he and Mrs. Arnall discussed that, Hilma escaped again for a moment.

  “Buck, what attitude am I to take up?”

  “Wear a halo as becomingly as you can. You’re a wonderful girl. Saved my young cousin from the blackmailing attentions of our friend upstairs—”

  “Buck!” She laughed at the sheer effrontery of that, until she was afraid her mother would notice and wonder what was happening.

  “Returned the letters to me in person—having melted his heart. Hence the property left in my flat. Say as little as you can until we’ve had time to talk things over properly.”

  “But where? And when? I can’t—”

  “Ah, that’s best of all. Hilma dear, there’s a beautiful shade for you.”

  With an exemplary show of interest Hilma returned to her mother’s side.

  “Yes, beautiful, Mother.” She really must try to find out for what this was intended. “I think that is best of the three.”

  “So do I. If you did decide on satin, you could have nothing lovelier than that. It would look rich and soft in the daylight outside the church, and still not be insipid inside.”

  With a slight shock, Hilma realised that they were discussing the material for her wedding dress.

  It was a matter of such exquisite moment that Mrs. Arnall drew even her new acquaintance into the discussion.

  “Come and give us the opinion of a mere man, Mr. Vane.” She smiled at Buck, who drew nearer at once. “What do you think of that for a wedding dress?”

  There was a queer little pause. Then he said with
a whimsical little smile:

  “Am I really being asked to advise Miss Arnall on the choice of her wedding dress?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Arnall laughed, “if you’re soon going to be a bridegroom yourself, you ought to have some ideas on the subject”

  “Then I think she would look exquisite,” he said slowly. “But have the slightest touch of blue on it somewhere—the same blue as her eyes.”

  “Why, Mr. Vane; you’re quite a dress artist,” Mrs. Arnall declared with a smile. “I think that’s quite good advice.”

  Buck bowed to her with a smile in his turn and then it seemed fairly obvious that he could hardly prolong a chance meeting much further. He shook hands with her and left her to the happy problem of the rival satins, contriving, however, to draw Hilma a little way off with him for a few moments.

  “Lieb­ling, can you meet me to-morrow?”

  “It hardly seems—”

  “Yes, it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t possibly ex­plain here or tell you all the things you’re supposed to know. Have you got to see Roger to-night?”

  “No. I could have a headache and just phone.”

  “Good, then do that. And meet me to-morrow afternoon.”

  “Where? Quick! Mother is going to call me again.

  “The same place as before. Just outside the gate. I’ll have the car, and we’ll drive out a little way. It’s nicer than any other way.”

  “All right, three o’clock. No—say half-past two. It gets dark so early now.”

  “I’ll be there. And—Lieb­ling.”

  “Yes?”

  “The cousin you rescued is called Leni.”

  “A smile flickered over Hilma’s face.

  “Does she really exist?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “But inherits the name from the Austrian part of the family?”

  “Correct.”

  “I think, said Hilma, “you lie with the most superb effrontery I have ever seen in anyone.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “The adventurer to the last.” And, raising his hat with a brilliant smile, he turned away and left her.

  Hilma went back to make the final decision about her wedding dress. It seemed to her to take more time and thought than the matter warranted. But perhaps that was because she was already a little tired of her day’s shopping.

  Afterwards, when they were going home, her moth­er said to her, “What an extraordinarily charming man, Hilma. So he’s marrying the Moorhouse heiress?”

  “Yes. They make a very nice couple,” Hilma told her gravely. “Evelyn Moorhouse is good-looking, too, you know.”

  “And is he as rich as she is?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I suppose one couldn’t have everything.” Mrs. Arnall admitted reasonably. “When a man’s as good-looking and charming as that, it’s asking too much of the gods to make him wealthy, too. Besides, she has enough for both, if all they say is true.”

  “Yes,” Hilma agreed. “She has enough for both.”

  “That was really very penetrating of him about your needing a touch of blue on your wedding dress.” Mrs. Arnall looked thoughtful. “Not many men bother to notice details like that—at least, not for absolutely casual acquaintances.”

  “I suppose not,” Hilma agreed. She was glad there was not much need for her to do anything but agree in slightly varying phraseology to her mother’s comments. It meant that she was free to think about the meeting to-morrow. Or rather—for she must remember that this came first—of what she was going to say when she spoke to Roger on the telephone.

  She had only a fairly meagre supply of information really, and she would have to go carefully in order not to give herself away. One thing was fairly straightforward—she could easily make the long day’s shopping a reason for feeling too tired and having too much of a headache to want to see anyone that evening.

  “Poor child!” her mother exclaimed sympathetically, when she pleaded the headache. “Really, I believe I stand up to this sort of thing better than you do. But then, of course, it’s all rather more worrying for you. I only do the advising. It’s you who have to do the final choosing. But really, Hilma dear, I think you’ve made a very wise choice for your wedding dress.”

  Hilma smiled and agreed, while she secretly wondered rather guiltily if all girls grew as sick of the mention of their wedding dresses as she was at that moment of hers.

  “I think I’ll ring Roger, just in case he was thinking of coming round to-night,” she said. “I’d rather not have anyone here this evening.”

  “I should, dear. He’ll quite understand, after the late night you had yesterday. Better go to bed early,” her mother declared, and tactfully went out of the room while Hilma put through her call to Roger.

  As Hilma sat there, idly waiting for her call to come through, she tried to recapture some of the anxiety which she had felt last night at the idea of her marriage plans going awry. If she could have been so agitated about that, then it must mean that she valued her marriage very highly.

  Well, she did, of course. She only had to recall the kind of life she had seen mirrored in the Eltons’ home to realise how much all this planning and safeguarding meant to her. She wondered if Buck thought about his country home in the way she pictured her kind of life. She supposed he must. After all, if he was prepared—

  “Hilma, my dear! Is that you?” From Roger’s tone she realised at once that he was prepared almost to abase himself for the unjust suspicions he had entertained against her. It made her profoundly uncomfortable—not only because she didn’t like Roger doing that sort of thing, anyway, but also because she felt she was remarkably little deserving of the opinion he now had of her.

  “Yes. I just rang up to ask if you—”

  “Yes, my dear, indeed I did. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am for anything I implied last night. Really, Hilma, I’m afraid it was late and I was tired and quite ridiculously suspicious—”

  “No, it wasn’t ridiculous of you,” Hilma told him firmly. “I don’t know what else you could have thought, Roger. Please don’t blame yourself.”

  “Oh, but I do—I most certainly do.” She had a faint suspicion that Roger was almost enjoying blaming himself. He felt it was so right. “Of course, Vane explained the whole thing to me—said he couldn’t possibly have you under a cloud because of your ge­nerosity. But, my dear, I’m really horrified when I think of your approaching that scoundrel by yourself.”

  For a moment she thought he meant Buck. Then she realised that the conversation had passed over to references to Charles Martin.

  “Oh, well, there didn’t seem anything else to do.” She hoped that was right.

  “Extraordinarily brave of you, Hilma. Poor misguided girl!”

  This must be the non-existent Leni, and not herself she supposed, and suddenly, with an enjoyment which she felt only Buck would have appreciated, she added a few artistic details:

  “Well, she was very young, Roger, and a nice kid, really. It would have been awful to let her mess up her whole life for lack of a little courage.”

  She had a funny feeling, as she said that, that she was speaking, not of the fictitious Leni, but of the impulsive, incautious girl that she herself had been at twenty.

  “Very generous of you, my dear, and most under­standing.” Roger sounded slightly sententious, as he always did when he used such expressions.

  “Oh, no. Anyway, it’s all over and done with now. Of course, you’ll never say a word about it, will you?”

  “My dear Hilma! As though I should!” This, she felt, was perfectly sincere. Roger had a horror of concerning himself with other people’s affairs, and was the last man on earth to let slip some indiscreet remark about any confidence that had been made to him.

  She gave a little sigh of thankfulness, and, as she pushed back her hair with her disengaged hand, she realized that she genuinely had a headache after all the strain and worry.

  “Roger,
I don’t know if you meant to come round to-night—”

  “Indeed I did. I feel I owe you my apologies in person.” Even over the telephone Roger’s voice sounded grave and weighty. She felt glad that she had an excuse for escaping from yet more apologies.

  “Well, please don’t bother, dear.”

  “Hilma, it’s no bother. I hope I know when I am in the wrong.”

  Hilma wished impatiently that he didn’t know it in quite so much detail. But her voice was perfectly calm and quiet as she said:

  “No, dear, I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t want you to blame yourself any more, as a matter of fact. But what I really wanted to say was that I’m very tired and have a headache. Make it to-morrow instead of to-night. I’d much rather go to bed early to-night.”

  “Well, of course—if that’s how you feel.” Roger was a little reluctant really to give up his state apology.

  “I do,” Hilma insisted firmly.

  “Then of course we’ll do as you say. To-morrow afternoon, then? We could—”

  “No, evening, Roger.”

  “I thought we might drive out into the country if it’s as fine as to-day.”

  Hilma wanted to scream, but managed to control herself.

  “I’m awfully sorry, I can’t manage the afternoon, Roger. But I’ll be home by six, anyway.”

  “Very well. And you really feel quite all right about—about this little trouble?” It was not within Roger’s capacity to ask if he were forgiven. That was much too emotional a word.

  “Quite all right,” Hilma assured him. “Only promise me not to worry about it any more.”

  With a certain amount of pleasurable reluctance, Roger promised not to worry any more, and Hilma was at last free to ring off and indulge in a perfectly genuine headache.

  As she passed through the hall on her way upstairs, her mother came out from another room and said:

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “Oh, he apolo—” Hilma stopped suddenly, remembering that her mother knew nothing whatever about this business. “About what, Mother?” She looked a little vague.

  “Why about the material for the wedding dress, of course, child! Whatever else could you have been talking about all this while?”