Harlequin Omnibus: Take Me with You, Choose What You Will, Meant for Each Other

by Mary Burchell

  "I understand," Harriet said, more gently than she had ever expected to speak to Dilys Penrose. "Go on."

  "Well, as soon as I was able to earn my own living, I joined Brent in London. He was as pleased as I was. That's one of the really nice things about him, Harriet. If he has money, he'll spend it on me, just as lavishly as on himself. Any really worthless brother—and quite a lot of worthy ones, too—would have preferred to let a sisterly liability limp along on her own. He wasn't like that a bit. He insisted on my joining forces with him in the very lovely apartment he had by then acquired—"

  "How?" inquired Harriet with irresistible curiosity.

  "How? Oh, I don't know," Dilys replied rather impatiently. "Brent always did acquire nice things easily. He's

  the kind of man who always can get plenty of credit, and to whom people naturally give expensive presents, and most of his jobs seem to have desirable perquisites attached to them. I've some talent for that sort of thing myself, but with Brent it amounts to a fine art. Is all this shocking you very much?" "A little," Harriet admitted with a smile. "It's so far removed from my own scheme of humdrum pay-as-you-

  go.

  "I tell you—you have self-respect. We haven't," Dilys stated, with breathtaking candor. "I admire you, but your sort is dying out, you know. Ours is on the increase. Brent and I are simply the virtuoso examples of the people who think they should have something for nothing. At one end of the scale are the people who don't mind taking—who indeed are pressed to take—money earned by other people, so lone as it's passed through a government department and called 'state' something. Brent and I are the fine flower of that school of thought. We take anything that's going, without bothering to have it passed through a government department. So long as it's on the right side of the law, of course."

  "Are you quite sure of that last proviso?" Harriet asked softly. "Are you certain that Brent nas always remained on the right side of the law?"

  There was a short silence, while Dilys's color slowly faded under the golden tan.

  "No," she said slowly, at last. "No, I'm not absolutely certain. That's—it."

  "That's what, Dilys?"

  Dilys threw away her stubbed-out cigarette end and stared somberly away from Harriet.

  "If I don't marry Lin and buttress our financial position, once and for all, I'm not sure—I'm not absolutely sure—that Brent won't find himself in the kind of jam that might end in a prison sentence. That's why I can't take the risk. '

  "But good heavens! Ask him outright. Insist on a frank explanation of the position."

  Dilys laughed rather drearily. "Brent," she said, from the depths of bitter, yet still loving knowledge, "is incapable of a frank explanation of anything. Most of the time he is gay and optimistic and reassuring. But he keeps oh dinning into me that it's in my own best interests to marry Lin. And he

  was horrified—just plain, wordlessly horrified—when I first told him that I loved Roddy and meant to relinquish Lin and his money."

  "He would probably have been horrified, in any case, at the idea of your casting away what he undoubtedly regarded as gilt-edged security," Harriet pointed out dryly.

  "Yes. He would probably have been horrified, anyway. But I never can get rid of the impression that there was fear in his reaction, Harriet. Real fear. Brent isn *t often afraid, you know.*'

  Harriet was silent. She found it impossible to work up any heart throbbing sympathy on Brent's behalf But she saw that to his sister he was the gay, loved, generous-hearted brother, who needed her cooperation just as he had always given her his. He was identified in this touching role in Dilys's mind just as inexorably as he was "a lovely man" in Priscilla 's.

  It was difficult to argue and, for the moment, Harriet did not attempt to. She simply said rather tonelessly, "So you are quite determined to go on with your marriage to Lindsay?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Even though you don't love him?"

  "I like him. I'm even very fond of him."

  "You mean that you'11 give him a decent deal?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "But It's Roddy you love?"

  Dilys was not the kind of girl to bury her face in her hands. She merely looked bleak, and as though the warmth died out of her.

  "Dilys! "exclaimed Harriet with energy, "it's ridiculous! Do you realize that you propose to sacrifice Roddy's happiness and your own—and quite possibly Lin's, too, to your vaguely defined fear that Brent s faults may catch up with him at last? It's wrong! It's wrong!"

  She spoke almost with passion, although, in that moment, she had forgotten her own share in this, or the way in which her own fortunes might be affected. What moved her was the sheer injustice of it alt.

  Dilys moved uneasily. She must have heard the same sort of protests again and again from Roddy, but he was too personally concerned for his arguments to carry much

  weight. Harriet must appear to her as a completely disinterested party, and the emphasis with which she spoke could not fail to have some effect.

  "It isn't as simple as that,'* Dilys said, with a quick sigh.

  "But it is! You're just drifting on a sea of false arguments put up by Brent," Harriet told her. "If you don't yourself mind facing comparative poverty—or, at any rate, less prosperity—with Roddy, it's simply crazy of you to sacrifice yourself for this sort of brother worship." She nearly added, "And such a brother!" but wisely refrained.

  "It's not brother worship," Dilys said impatiently. "I don't worship Brent. I've really no illusions about him. Only we've been through good and bad times together, and he's always shared anything good he has had with me."

  "Which doesn't prevent his being willing now to sacrifice your happiness to his—his convenience," Harriet retorted impatiently.

  "He doesn't see it like that. Arid it isn't quite like that. Oh, I'm heartsick about Roddy, of course, when he's there and so unhappy and so dear. But I've had to get over other bad times and bad losses in my life, Harriet, and one does get over them. I know I'm being weak and drifting a little, as you say. But every step of the way would be difficult if I gave up Lin now. To begin with, he'd be desperately unhappy. He—he's terribly fond of me, you know."

  "Oh, you do really care a bit about his feelings, too?" Harriet said, rather bitterly.

  And for the first time, Dilys looked at her as though she really saw her.

  "It's true, then—what Brent said!" she exclaimed. "You love Lin yourself He is the one you're really worrying about Your voice was quite different when you spoke of him."

  "No—" began Harriet. And then she stopped.

  Why should she not be frank, too? Dilys had been completely—indeed, rather appallingly—revealing about her feelings and reactions. In a sense, she was almost entitled to equal frankness in return. Besides, half-truths and concealment had already caused enough trouble.

  "Very well," she said slowly. "I do love him."

  And she experienced the most delicious sensation of

  mingled alarm and relief now that she had put it into words at last.

  There was a long silence—longer than any that had gone before. And, at last, Harriet gave a nervous little laugh and said, "Not that it really makes any difference, of course.*'

  "But I'm not so sure," Dilys said slowly. "I'm not sure at all. Perhaps—it does."

  Harriet felt her breath coming unnaturally fast.

  "What do you mean?" She spoke almost m a whisper.

  Dilys frowned, fumbled for a second cigarette and then closed her case again without having taken one, after all.

  "I never thought of it that way before," she said, as though speaking more than half to herself. "I always shrank so from taking even the very first step—having to hurt Lin dreadfully by telling him that I didn't love him. Even the first step was so difficult. I just couldn't face the others, which were even worse. But now—"

  "What do you mean—now? There ... there isn't any difference, just because I love him. The real position—/owr position�
��isn 't altered."

  Dilys didn't answer that. She said abruptly and almost brutally, "Is Lin fond of you?"

  "No! I mean ... he's engaged to you and—"

  "And therefore wouldn't be thinking of any other girl in those terms," amplified Dilys impatiently. "Yes, I know that. But suppose I were not there. Suppose he felt lonely and let down and in need of some sort of consolation. Wouldn't he turn, quite naturally, to you?"

  Dilys's words so exactly expressed her own undefined hope—th^ thing she had never (fared to put into words, even to nerself—that Harriet felt a peculiar little shiver of something almost like guilty fear run down her spine.

  "How ... should I... know?"she stammered.

  "Of course you know!" cried Dilys sharply. "You must know. So much depends on it. Is he quite indifferent to you or—or—" She stopped, as though unable herself to express the exact degree offeeling that she almost hoped existed in Lin.

  The temptation, in that moment, was so tremendous that Harriet was never afterward able to say, even to herself, what finally prompted her reply. Did she answer what she truthfully believed—or what she thought would make Dilys

  act in her own best interests? Or did she simply snatch at the incredible, breathtaking chance of happiness that seemed to dangle before her for a few confused moments?

  Perhaps it was something of all of these. Perhaps one never acts from one simple, unadulterated motive. At any rate, when she spoke, she spoke in a clear, steady voice, which brought conviction even to herself.

  "If you were not there, Dilys, I think he would love me. '*

  In that moment she believed it. It had to bc^ true, for she wanted it so much. But, almost as soon as she had said the words, the fearful responsibility of their implication began to weigh on her.

  She started to sa)^: "At least—'* with the idea of some feeble qualification in her mind. But Dilys cut across her words, speaking for the first time with firmness and decision.

  "Then I think I know what to do," she said. And started the car again.

  " What are you going to do?'' exclaimed Harriet, almost fearfully. "You mustn't attach too much importance to what I said. It's only that—"

  "I'm not quite certain yet." Dilys seemed unable to let her finish anything before she cut in with her own impulsive thoughts and decision. "I'll have to think it over from quite a different angle. You were right, when you said I was just drifting on a sea of false arguments. I'm glad we had this talk, Harriet."

  Harriet felt cold with apprehension and hot with a sort of heady excitement. At one moment she was glad that someone—if only herself—had been able to oppose by a few simple and fair arguments the selfish half-truths with which Brent had been filling his sister's mind. At the next, she was horrified to think that she had deliberately interfered in Lin's affairs—an interference that might cost him the fiancee to whom he was undoubtedly devoted.

  If she had not known all the characters in the drama—if they had simply been A, B and C—it would have been so easy to consider it with academic interest and say, quite positively, what course would make for the most hqjpmess all around. But, when one knew the people, how different it was! The interfering friend was the curse of almost any emotional problem. Even the most disinterested advice

  could cause the most dreadful trouble. And hers had been anything but disinterested.

  She began to wonder now on what possible grounds she could have claimed that Lin might love her if Dilys were not by. And she shuddered to think how pitifully thin was the evidence to support such a claim.

  She began to remind herself that there had been some solid truth and good sense in Dilys's original arguments. That, once she had given up Roddy, she might well have made a reasonable success of marriage with Lin.

  A dozen times during the remaining ten minutes of their drive, Harriet was on the point of reopening the argument But what could she say?

  Should she entirely withdraw her claim to being able to rouse Lin's ardent interest in her and admit that she was building simply on irrepressible hopes and a knowledge that he found her a pleasant influence in his home? To do so would be to tip Dilys's wavering mind almost certainly in the opposite direction. And then they would be exactly where they had been, with no satisfactory solution for anyone. Except, of course. Brent.

  No. That she would not do.

  But what point was there in raising any other question? Since she had taken up that positive stand, she could reopen the argument only either to strengthen it or to repudiate it Anything else would just be talking around in circles. And of that Dilys had evidently had enough.

  She had said—Harriet glanced at her surreptitiously—that she must think things over once more in the light of their conversation. She certainly looked just now as though her thoughts absorbed her.

  Perhaps that was the only thing to do. To let her think things out for herself once more, without any further interference, either helpful or harmful.

  Their arrival in Barndale prevented Harriet following any other course, for the present at any rate. But she quieted her anxieties by promising herself that, on the way home, there would be another chance for discussion and, by then, Dilys would probably have reviewed the situation and come to some sort of decision.

  However, she was mistaken. Even this chance of retriev-

  ing the situation—if, indeed, it required retrieving—was denied her.

  When Harriet arrived, laden with shopping, at the agreed meeting place, Dilys and the car were there, to be sure, but, sitting beside her, was another slim, smart, elegant girl, very much her own type, and they were both smoking and talking and laughing as though neither of them had a care in the world.

  Dilys hardly looked the same creature as the pale, unsmiling, almost grim girl who had poured out such candid revelations to Harriet less than a couple of hours ago.

  She introduced her friend as a Mrs. Corrie who, it seemed, was an acquaintance of hers staying in the district. They had met quite unexpectedly in the main street, and now Dilys insisted on her coming home to see Brent.

  Both of them were charming and friendly to Harriet, and helped her to stow herself and her parcels in the backseat of the car. But any further confidences or private talks were out of the question.

  Harriet sat silently in the back of the car, except when a

  ?iuestion or remark addressed to her by either of the two in ront necessitated an answer. Her mood of chilled fright at what she had done was beginning to subside. Instead, she was beginning to wonder bitterly if she had said enough.

  Looking now at Dilys, as she chatted and laughed with her friencf, she felt it was ridiculous to suppose that any of her words could have had much effect. Certainly not enough effect to make her take a tremendous decision contrary to everything to which she had clung so far.

  Harriet felt depressed and relieved at the same time. It was somethmg to be able to believe that, after all, one had not precipitated a crisis. On the other hand, for some dazzling moments, she had been able to gaze on radiant, undreamed-of possibilities. Now, the descent to drab reality was not exhilarating.

  She was not sure which she regretted more—her outburst of angry eloquence to Dilys, or her inability to amplify it further.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next few days were worse than anything else that Harriet had experienced. When Lindsay returned from London, and she had to meet him and talk to him face to face once more, she felt the most utter traitor.

  In addition she suffered an anguish of self-consciousness far worse than anything she had felt on account of not admitting her identity when she first arrived. It seemed to her that, having once given voice to her inmost thoughts-even though only to Dilys—she must have exposed them in some way, so that Lin himself would have little difficulty in guessing them.

  Only her innate self-possession and discipline enabled her to behave in a normal manner. And, even so, there must have been some sort of reserve—some instinctive avoidance of him, beca
use, when she was setting the table one evening, he came in and, finding her alone, challenged her half-seriously with having something against him.

  "Harriet, am I in your bad books about anything?" he wanted to know.

  He was standing by the fire, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, in a characteristic attitude, and he studied her with a sort of amused concern as she moved around the table, laying silver and glass.

  "No, of course not.*' Harriet pretended to count spoons. "Why on earth should you think so?"

  "For one thing, because you treat me like a distant and not very welcome acquaintance," he told her, teasingly, "and for another, because whenever I come into a room, you seem to have an excellent reason for going out of it."

  "Nonsense!** She managed to laugh quite convincingly. "You'rejust imagining things."

  "Am I? I'd like to be able to think so, and of course it's all right if you say so." He evidently had no intention of making an issue of it. "I suppose I had a faintly guilty conscience and that was why I felt uneasy."

  " You had?" She stopped what she was doing and stared at him in her astonishment. "You had no reason, that I know of"

  "No? That's all right then." He laughed and flushed slightly, an unusual thmg with him. "It struck me, after I'd spoken to you about Brent following—going with you to the mailbox, that I must have sounded extraordinarily officious and peremptory. I suppose you showed some considerable forbearance in not telling me to mind my own business."