"No?" He seemed surprised by her vehemence. And she thought miserably that well he might be.
"I couldn't snub him just at the moment," Harrriet said, with inspiration. "I think, in spite of his manner, that he is feeling Dilys 's desertion rather deeply."
Lin curled his lip slightly.
"I think you do nis depths of feeling too much credit," he said dryly. But just as you like, of course."
Once more, it was not a bit as she liked. But she had to leave it at that.
The next day, it was rather difficult to keep up an air of cheerful normality. Mrs. Mayhew was genuinely depressed, in spite of her daughter's approaching visit, and Priscilla— who seemed to have absorbed the news through the pores of her skin, or, more probably, by way of smiling indiscretions on Brent's part—went about as though there were a corpse in the house.
Finally Harriet, who very seldom lost patience with their willing handmaiden, asked sharply, "Why do you feel it's necessary to go about on tiptoe, Priscilla?"
"Oh, It's not exactly that, miss. But one likes to show one's respect," Priscilla explained, somewhat ambiguously.
"To whom?"
If Harriet had felt less nervy and irritated, she would not have prolonged the discussion.
"Well, really, to everyone, miss," Priscilla said comprehensively. "I'm so sorry for Mrs. Mayhew. And I'm sure Mr. Lindsay looked at breakfast as though he hadn't slept a wink."
Harriet knew this was merely how Priscilla thought Mr.
Lindsay ought to look, but she feh anxious and worried all the same. She was not in the least deceived by his having said almost lightly that he didn't intend to be a recluse just because he had been jilted. She knew that both his affections and his pride had received a cruel blow, and that, though he appeared to have taken it very well, he was still absolutely stunned by the suddenness of this undeserved disaster. Above all, he would be quite unable to understand how anyone could even >yish to be so secret and underhand about it. To him, it was axiomatic that one stood up courageously for one's beliefs and actions. To slip away, causing someone else the sharpest distress and humiliation just because one could not be frank, was beyond his comprehension.
Just as my behavior would be beyond him, thought Harriet sadly.
It was, undoubtedly, fortunate for all of them that Betty Faraday and her three children should be arriving the next day.
Betty Mayhew, as she still quite often thought of herself, was one of those completely uncomplicated and charming creatures who cause no one any trouble from the moment they open pleased eyes on the world, until they die—usually in their sleep—with as little fuss as possible.
She had been a healthy, uninhibited child who was not afraid to go to sleep without a night-light, maintained a good average position throughout her school days, was reasonably naughty, intelligent and affectionate, and made other parents wonder why their children couldn't be the same.
At nineteen she had married a chartered accountant, fifteen years older than herself, who thought the light shone out of her and was possibly right. She adored him, developed immediately into an excellent housewife, and was not even mildly put out when her first baby turned out to be twins.
"They will amuse each other, when they are older," she said, under the impression that this was an original remark. "And, meanwhile, they amuse me. Anyway, they're so sweet that I can't possibly imagine being without either of them and, as there is one of each kind, they are the perfect ready-made answer to * Did you want a girl or boy?' '
The twins, now nine, had a small brother of three, called Roderick—after the younger uncle—but usually referred to as "Rick," partly to avoid confusion, and partly, as the twins said, because it rhymed with "sick" ana "thick" and "quick" and lots of other useful words when you were making up poems about the family. Which the twins were constantly doing.
Most of this Mrs. Mayhew explained to Harriet while they were awaiting the arrival of the Faraday family, and, in so doing, she found her spirits insensibly rising, because it was ^uite impossible even to think about Betty and remain miserable.
And when she finally heard the sound of the car she was so pleased and excited that she actually reached for her sticK, and came out with Harriet onto the front steps to witness the arrival of her daughter.
"Hello, darling! "cried Betty, before the car had stopped.
And "Hello, gran!" shrieked two trebles and one bass-baritone, because Rick had an abnormally gruff voice.
The car, which was an open one and appeared to be of ancient vintage, stopped, and out tumbled the three children immediately, Delia waiting just two seconds to help out the baby. Then they charged up the steps in close formation but, with extraordinary care and forethought on the part of the twins, stopped just short of their grandmother so as not to jostle her. The baby—not so well balanced—stumbled against Harriet and affectionately embraced her legs.
It was a very pleasant homecoming. And as Betty came up the steps behind them to kiss her mother and shake hands with Harriet, she completed a very charming family group.
She was not at all like her brothers, being rather small and quick and vivacious. Her short fair hair curled crisply over her admirably shaped head, and her blue eyes—the only feature she had in common with them—were neither melancholy like Roddy's, nor keen and penetrating like Lin *s. They were large and clear and innocent and smiled whenever the corners of her mouth turaed upward—which they did frequently.
* It's frightful that poor dear Henry couldn't come, too," Betty said, without any visible signs of distress as they went
into the hall. *'He says he doesn*t know what he*ll do without me. But I know quite well what he'll do. He will rather enjoy himself at the club, and have a wonderful time being the poor neglected husband to his devoted secretary. No, Rick, you mustn't touch that. It isn't meant for you." Rick desisted immediately, and his mother said pensively, "I can't imagine why all the books on child psychology say you mustn 't say no to children. Whatever else do you say? They make idiotic suggestions about diverting the childf's attention elsewhere, but none of them ever say how you divert its attention if it's pulling over a jug of boiling water onto itself, so I always feel the whole idea is a bit bogus. Oh, it's lovely to be home."
"When we all arrived at Fourways, grandma met us in the doorways," remarked Gerald, with •an air of satisfaction.
"There was only one doorway," Delia pointed out with ruthless accuracy.
"Poetic license," retorted Gerald unmoved. And then, to Harriet: "What did you say your name was, please?"
"MissDenby."
Gerald and Delia exchanged a thoughtful glance and shook their heads.
"Difficult," Gerald commented.
"Nothing rhymes with that," Delia amplified. "Do you mind telling us your other name?"
"Harriet,"said Harriet, a good deal amused.
"Chariot! "cried the twins simultaneously and with great satisfaction. And Harriet had the pleasing sensation that she had been accepted into the family.
Although origmal and rather independent, they were extremely manageable children, Harriet discovered—possibly because their seemingly vague and sweet-tempered mother could be extraordinarily strict with them over what she considered essentials.
"I love them dearly," she told Harriet, with great frankness that very first afternoon, "but I see no reason why the world should be adapted to suit their needs. It won't be when they are older. And the sooner they find out that they themselves have to do the adapting, the sooner they will become likable and competent people. Please don't let them make themselves a nuisance to you. They have plenty of
ways of amusing themselves, without making wretched, defenseless grown-ups wish they were lost in the Sahara. *'
Harriet laughed. "I don't think Tm going to find them nuisances at all,*' she said. "I like having them here. We've all been looking forward to their coming." • "Urn—" Betty gazed thoughtfully out of the window at her offspring, who were cavorting happ
ily in the garden **— I suppose something of a diversion is rather welcome, at the moment."
Harriet glanced at her. She guessed that, in the long chat she had had with her mother after lunch, Betty had heard the full story of the last few days. "Yes. You could hardly have chosen a better time to come," she agreed.
Betty seemed to accept without question the fact that Harriet knew all about this chapter of her family's intimate affairs. "I'm dreadfully sorry for Lin, of course," she said sincerely. "But, if Dilys is really the sort of girl to do that sort of thing, then she's much better suited to Roddy than to Lin."
Harriet carefully disentangled this rather involved statement. "Yes, I see what you mean. You think that, even if Dilys had married Lin, she would have let him down in some other way?"
"Even more—that if her method of doing things is to go around them rather than straight at them, Lin wouldn't, eventually, have been happy sharing his life with her. He is almost fantastically straight and honest, you know. Full of old-fashioned integrity and that sort of thing. Though why," Betty added thoughtfully, "one should think it old-fashioned to have more than a meager supply of the less dashing virtues, I don't know. Rather disturbing, when you come to think of it—as though we naturally accept the fact that each generation considers itself too advanced to be as stodgily decent as the last."
Harriet didn't take up this generalization. She was thinking too much of the particular case of Lin. "Does he ... I mean, I suppose he greatly despises people who prevaritate and ... tamper with the truth?"
Betty shrugged. "Oh, I don't know about that. Lin isn't particularly censorious and he isn't smug in the least. He just feels the way he does about his own standards, and
doesn't very much understand the motives of people who have different ones."
"But he ... would be distressed and disgusted, if someone he was fond of behaved that way? "
"I suppose so,*' Betty agreed. **In fact—yes, of course. That's probably why he feels badly about Difys and Roddy. If the situation had been reversed, you know, and he had fallen for Roddy's girl, he would either have gone off and left the coast clear, or had the thing out with Roddy then and there."
"But then—" Harriet sighed slightly "—he's not really much afraid of things, is he?"
"Of painful scenes, you mean?" Betty considered that. "No. Harriet—may I call you Harriet?"
"Please do."
"I don't think Lin is easily afraid. That is to say, he doesn't harrow himself beforehand by wondering if he'll be able to bear this or tackle that. But then I suppose that if you have terribly strong feelings about what is right and wrong, that, in itself, buttresses your courage a good bit. I mean, if your natural habit of thought is, *I know I shouldn't do that, but I simply can't help it, life must be a lot harder than if you naturally start by thinking, * That's something which one simply does not do.' All of which is a very roundabout way of saying that Lin's self-discipline is good. Good old Lin! I'm longing to see him," finished Betty, with an outburst of unself-conscious affection for which Harriet quite loved her.
And when Lin came in later it was obvious that the affection was by no means on one side. He kissed his sister and ruffled her hair, and looked happier than he had since he first heard the news about Dilys.
The children, too, were evidently on excellent terms with him. Though Delia did ask rather wistfully, "Where is Uncle Roddy?"
"In London, I'm afraid," Lin said, in a self-possessed tone. "But we'll try to have him here next time you come."
Ahd with this Delia appeared to be satisfied.
Betty and her children, without being demanding, contrived to diffuse their own atmosphere around them in a very complete manner. So that, almost immediately, instead of being a quiet house with a suggestion of unhappy drama
about it, Fourways became a bright, cheerful family abode, full of unimportant but very satisfying activity.
Harriet loved it. She enjoyed breakfast with Betty and the children before Mrs. Mayhew had come downstairs and she was secretly flattered that the twins almost immediately took to callmg her "Aunt Harriet,*' and Rick, the nearest to it that he could manage.
He had bright blue eyes, like his mother's side of the family, and he used to gaze at Harriet over the rim of his mug at breakfast, while he drank milk with a concentration that left him breathless.
"You ought to come up for air much sooner. Rick," his brother told him. But though Rick smiled and said, "Yes," with characteristic docility, he always forgot again and drank to exhaustion point before he could tear himself away from his mug.
Though Lin treated all the children impartially, with a certain amount of avuncular indulgence, Harriet secretly thought that Rick was his favorite. Certainly he always took great pains to interpret the rather incoherent utterances that Rjck made in his curiously gruff little voice, and she noticed that they were inclined to have long confabulations, which appeared to be very satisfying to both of them.
Everything to do with Betty and her family was so normal and pleasant that Harriet could almost have persuaded herself that the temporary crisis, which had shaken her, was completely over.
Almost—except for the fact that she was going out with Brent that Saturday evening.
Mrs. Mayhew—as she had anticipated—made no objection to the arrangement. Indeed, she was even glad that Harriet should take the opportunity to have some relaxation while Betty was there. And if she agreed with her son that Brent was not an ideal escort at least she said, very justly, "I believe he is supposed to be the best dancer in the district. I hope you will have a very lovely time, dear."
On the Saturday evening, just before seven, Harriet came down dressed for the dance. And as she descended the stairs Lin, who had been standing in the hall, came to the foot of the flight and looked up smilingly at her.
"H'm, yes. I seem to remember that dress and coat," he
said rather teasingly. "Weren't you wearing those the first time I saw you?*'
"I was, as a matter of fact. But that was merely a rather clever guess on your part," Harriet challenged him. "You don't really remember a thing about me except that I was dark and aggressive."
"No, nor' He laughed protestingly. "If I can't talk my way out of that unfortunate misstatement, at least I insist that, seeing you in the same outfit, I remember now that I thought—though rather annoyedly—how quite astonishingly becoming that peculiar shade of green was on you."
She stood there, a couple of steps above him, smiling down into his upturned face, and thinking how she wished that it were he who was taking her out tonight. I
Something like the same thought must have been going ' through his mind, because he said with smiling deliberation, "I never really liked Brent. But tonight I dislike him j with quite astonishing heartiness. *' 1
"Nonsense."She laughed."You have no need to."
"Is that a promise? I have your word that you will let me have my turn' at taking you out soon?"
"Of course." She knew that everyone bantered like this, with a half;«erious air about things that didn't really matter. *' I think I hear Brent's car.''
She spoke eagerly because she suddenjy^wanted to break up this scene before her imagination could play her tricks and make her think that he was peculiarly in earnest
He stood aside at once, but he looked slightly taken aback, as though her words had given him a rather unwel-icome surprise.
She supposed vexedly that she must have sounded as though she awaited Brent's arrival with real pleasure. But because he must not, for one moment, guess that there was any compulsion about this for her, she could think of nothing to remove that impression without arousing suspicion. So she passed him, without saying anything more, and went to open the door to Brent.
He was already at the top of the steps, and, as the hall light streamed out from behind her, he stood there, smiling confidently, and said, "Hello, beautiful. Don't forget your key. We shan't be home before lockup time, you know.'
If Harriet
had been a free agent she would, even at this
point, either have reconsidered her decision to go, or administered a snub that would have chastened even Brent. She knew that Lin—standing silent behind her in the hall-must have heard and be waiting to hear her pulverize her self-selected escort.
But it was Brent who held all the cards at the moment. She simply could not afford to anger or humiliate him. All she could do was to answer, rather curtly,
"I have my key. Come on—let's go.''
But, as she started down the steps toward the car, she knew, as surely as though she had eyes in the back of her head, that Lin*s astonished gaze followed her in annoyed bewilderment.
CHAPTER NINE
Once they had started on the drive into Barndale, Brent seemed in no hurry to open the conversation. He hummed contentedly to himself, as though to emphasize the fact that the present situation pleased him. Nothing in his manner suggested that he knew—as indeed he must know—that Harriet would not have been there at all, if there had not been a question of a vital discussion.
On her side, Harriet knew that to be the first to begin the subject would argue anxiety on her part, and she was desperately eager not to weaken her position by seeming frightened.
However, neither did she intend to waste their best opportunity of a private conversation. And presently, choosing the lesser of two evils, she asked abruptly, "Did you bring Dilys's letter with you?"
"A copy of it."
The implication of his reply both chilled and insulted her.
"What did you say?"
"I said I brought a copy of it. No one, you know—" he turned his head to flash a smile at her "—ever shows valuable originals around.' *
She pressed her lips together until she had her temper under control. Then she asked coldly, "Do you intend to let me see the copy?"
For answer, he put one hand into his pocket and, producing a folded, typewritten sheet, tossed it into her lap.
It was with an effort that Harriet made herself take it up and unfold it. Until now she had managed to hope that Brent was bluffing—at any rate to a certain extent—and that
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