by Neels, Betty
‘I don’t care,’ said Sophy. ‘There’s something I must say to you before I leave.’
The mask cracked into a mocking smile. ‘Something else? I can assure you that you overlooked nothing in the catalogue of my sins and vices.’ He picked up his pen. ‘Miss Greenslade, you and I have nothing more to say to each other.’ There was finality in his voice; he drew some papers towards him and started to write.
Painful colour crept into Sophy’s white face. She paused long enough to choke back the sobs crowding into her throat, and said doggedly, ‘Please listen; I’m sorry I said those dreadful things to you on Sunday. None of them was true—at least, you are arrogant sometimes, but only when you want your own way—’
Max had put down his pen and was sitting back in his chair, looking down so that she could not see his face; the small sound which escaped his lips was, she supposed, one of disgust.
She sniffed inelegantly to hold back the tears which, Luke had been at pains to tell her from their earliest quarrels, were unsporting. Her pleasant voice was rigidly controlled as she went on, ‘I apologise for calling you a playboy and for vilifying your good name. I suppose if I had been a man, you would have knocked me down...’
Max lifted his head and looked at her searchingly through narrowed lids. ‘Er—yes, I imagine I should have done so. I had to be content with denying you your tea.’
He sounded as though he was laughing. It made it very difficult, but she had to finish, now she had started, and time was running out. ‘I’m not making excuses, they wouldn’t make any difference, would they? You’ll not forgive me, and I don’t blame you, but I must tell you the truth before I go. I...owe it to you. I lied when I told you that I hated you. I’ve always loved you, Max, since we met, and I still do...’
There was the sound of a chair scraping along the floor outside; the next patient was on her way. Sophy said in quiet despair, ‘Goodbye, Max,’ and slipped past the woman who had opened the door behind her. The nurse was talking to the old man; they both looked up as Sophy went blindly past them and out through the door into the corridor. There was no one to see her turn down the bleak door-lined passage leading to the side entrance. She hurried down it, taking small sobbing breaths, not bothering to mop her streaming eyes—she could do that presently in the taxi.
She was level with the last door when it was opened without haste and an arm, immaculate in its finely tailored cloth, shot out and Max’s large hand clamped down on her shoulder, bringing her to a sudden awkward halt. She stood looking up at him through a blur of tears, and then, because she couldn’t see him clearly; angrily dashed a hand across her eyes, leaving a wet, faintly grubby smear. Her ordinary face looked quite plain, and any dignity she might have had left was dispelled by the prodigious sniff she gave.
‘Go away,’ said Sophy, and gave an experimental wriggle.
The grip on her shoulder tightened. Max said softly, ‘Shall we finish our conversation? If I remember, it was becoming most interesting when you saw fit to leave.’
She found her voice. ‘Please let me go—you said we hadn’t any more to say to each other.’ She added desperately, ‘I shall miss my plane.’
‘So you will.’ He pulled her, not gently, into the room. It was used for board meetings, or some such thing, and had a long heavy table at its centre and chairs arranged stiffly against the walls. Sophy retreated until she felt the hard rim of the table at her back, and watched fascinated as Max shut and locked the door, then took the key out and strode over to the table and laid it on the table, close to her.
‘You can open the door and go when you want to,’ he said equably. He picked up her hands in turn and drew off her gloves, then unbuttoned her coat. Sophy hardly noticed what he was doing and when she did, her protest died on her lips under his level gaze. It was Professor Jonkheer Maximilian van Oosterwelde standing in front of her—not Max. He addressed her now in a cool professional voice.
‘Why did you wait until you were leaving?’ he asked.
Sophy didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. ‘I didn’t—not deliberately. Tineke came to see me this afternoon. I tried to write to you afterwards, but it wouldn’t...I couldn’t...’ She paused. ‘So I came to see you, otherwise I should have been a coward. I know you won’t believe me ever again, but you must see that I had to tell you.’ She started to button up her coat. ‘I’m going now, whatever you say.’ Her throat ached with the effort to speak in a normal voice.
She didn’t look at him, although she longed most desperately to do so, but when he said, ‘Look at me, Sophia,’ in a compelling tone, she raised her head to meet his gaze and was breathless at its enchantment.
‘It wasn’t my secret to tell, Sophia,’ he said. He had made no effort to touch her, yet it was as though his arms were already around her. ‘Not until last night—and you had gone.’ He smiled at her and Sophy felt her heart leap at the tenderness of it. He took her hand, still clutching at a coat button, and said on a laugh, ‘Do you suppose I can propose to you in five minutes, for that is all the time I have, my darling.’
He walked over to the telephone in the far corner of the room, and Sophy listened while he told the nurse crisply that he was delayed for five minutes, and then he got through to Hans and instructed him about the taxi and her luggage. He was still smiling as he came back to her, and this time his arms really were around her; they felt like all the love and security and comfort that the world could hold. She stood in the magic circle he had created for her, and when he kissed her with a fierce tenderness that took her breath she knew that her dreams of happiness were no longer dreams but reality. When he let her go, she whispered, ‘Max—oh, Max,’ and smiled her beautiful smile so that he kissed her again, gently this time.
‘Sophia, I love you—have loved you since the moment I first saw you coming down the road towards me.’ His blue eyes were very bright, searching hers. ‘Marry me, my dearest girl. We’ll go to England— it’s quicker there, and we’ve wasted so much time already.’
Sophy stood on tip-toe and kissed him. ‘I’ll marry you as soon as you like, Max,’ she hesitated, ‘darling,’ she said shyly, and was kissed breathless for her pains.
‘Will you wait here, sweetheart? I shall be fifteen— perhaps twenty minutes.’
He cupped her face in his hands, so that she could see deep into his eyes and know for always how much he loved her. After a long moment he straightened up and walked quickly away and through the door at the far end of the room, leaving her to stand and dream. She was aroused from this delightful occupation by a tap on the door. The key was still on the table; she picked it up, wondering who it could be. It was Hans, looking like a conspiratorial uncle and bearing a tea tray.
‘Professor van Oosterwelde telephoned that I was to bring you an English tea.’
He smiled at her all over his kind face, put the tray on the table, accepted her thanks with dignity and disappeared. Sophy realised all at once that tea and toast were the two things she most longed for—breakfast had been hours ago; she’d had no lunch. She drank the tea and consumed the toast—somehow Max’s thoughtfulness augured well for their future. Much refreshed, she went to work on her face, managing as best she might with the tiny mirror in her bag. She had taken the pins out of her mousy tresses and was combing them smooth when Max came back into the room, wearing a top coat and carrying a bulky briefcase. He put the case on the table and went and stood close to her. ‘I have often wondered what your hair would look like hanging down your back—the temptation to remove the pins was sometimes very great’
Sophy was twisting the thick coil neatly, pushing in pins with lightning precision. ‘I meant to be ready for you, Max, but the tea was so delicious. Thank you for thinking about it.’
He had gone over to the chair where her coat was. ‘I shall spend the rest of my life thinking of things to make you happy, my dearest.’
They smiled at each other across the room. ‘So shall I, dear Max.’
She stood up. �
�Max? I don’t even know where I’m going...’
He helped her into her coat and turned her round to face him and started to do up the buttons. ‘You’re going home, darling, to Huys Oosterwelde. Grandmother will play propriety for us until I can arrange for us to go to England.’
They walked through the hospital, to the front door, where Hans appeared like a benevolent genie and wished them a sly good evening. It had just turned four o’clock and the afternoon was darkening, the sky crowded with heavy clouds sailing ponderously before a biting wind. Max walked Sophy briskly to the Rolls, and when she got in, leaned down and kissed her, his mouth hard against hers, before he shut the door.
The roads were almost empty; it was hardly the day for a pleasure drive, and it was still too early for the hordes of home-going cars. Max drove slowly along the road by the river. The water looked like pale steel under the lowering sky, the houses bordering it remote against their wintry background, their carefully-tended trees blowing to and fro and the water breaking into uneasy ripples before the wind. The short journey seemed even shorter by reason of the amount they had to say to each other, but when they reached the tall wrought iron gates, they fell silent as Max turned the car into the short drive. Huys Oosterwelde lay before them; its grey stone merging into the greyness of the day. Its windows glowed with light—they could see Goeden waiting for them, standing in the radiance streaming from the open door. Max stopped.
‘Home, sweetheart,’ he said, and put an arm around Sophy. They sat in silence, sharing happiness. Presently she stirred against his shoulder.
‘Who built this house, Max?’
He quoted. ‘Maximilian, born 1569, married Juliana...’
‘And loved her dearly,’ added Sophy. ‘How many children did they have?’
She felt his hold tighten.
‘Five—no, six. Three of each.’
‘I hope history repeats itself,’ said Sophy.